Lately I’ve been apologizing to people in the midst of a story I’m telling, as I’m suddenly aware I’m going on for far too long. This does not mean long, over-embellished stories are a new life pattern—it’s an old habit. I just didn’t notice or admit it before. My friends and family have been patient with me, but I finally get it that this is controlling behavior. Argghhh. Here’s yet another one of my blind spots becoming apparent to me only after decades of people changing the subject or maybe rolling their eyes behind my back.
Like a bad alcoholic who hasn’t noticed he’s drinking too much.
My story-telling gets way too long verbally. Also in my writing. Recently I remarked to a friend that the novel I wrote is still too “puffy”, even after losing the 60 pages I edited out before I published it in 2024. It could still lose another 50 pages and be a better book, but it’s not at the top of my priority list just now.
“Pardon me for writing such a long letter—I didn’t have time to write a short one”.
I don’t know the origin of that quote, but I’m getting the message.
Editing myself requires me to “kill my darlings” (another quote attributed to several long-dead writers). My words are too “darling” to me—written or spoken, I cherish my creations beyond their true value. Editing improves the message!
Like rose bushes need pruning in order to bloom more prolifically. Like the tree in my backyard needed its branches pruned to prevent them destroying the shingles on my roof. Like a loving parent who sets limits and consequences to her child’s “wrong” behaviors. “Discipline your children, or the world will discipline them. And the world won’t love them the way you do”. Ouch! The world can be a mean place to people who never learned limits. A good parent will help the child learn to edit their themselves. Which I’m still working on.
I need to invest in editing to change my pattern of saying more than is required, more than my share. No shame is required at discovering and acknowledging another character defect. This is surrendering to right-sizing. I’m only admitting I’m human, making human mistakes.
It’s a mistake to believe that today’s words represent my very last hope to be heard and acknowledged.
This old pattern is my response to experiencing being ignored and dismissed in my formative years. I yearned to be heard, so my “solution” was to flood the world with my words—trying to ensure that someone would hear me at last. But too much only prompts an effect opposite to what was hoped for.
I’m working on editing my verbal stories. Listening more, leaving more room for other people’s contributions. I need to pare away extraneous words in my writing. I need to alleviate my overstuffed closet of belongings long past any real use to me. I need to let go of old resentments and expectations. I need to unburden my body from carrying around many pounds of stored energy that short-circuits the vibrant life I want to lead.
It’s a work-in-progress, becoming a better human. And maybe a better writer.
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