Change Your “Furniture;” Change Your Story — A Rave

This is my new office.

In fact, there’s nothing new about it. The desk was my dad’s, newly acquired and repaired by my husband. The chair came from a library auction, as did the table, and the tall bookcase was my Mom’s, built for her by my stepdad. That big lime green sphere you see is my exercise ball being “repurposed” in the hope that it will see more action as a seat. (It’s functioning as a footstool at the moment.)

It took most of the day to reach the tidy state you see here. (I won’t take any bets on how long it will last.)  But after trudging up and down the steps, arms laden with books and furniture, I was gratified to have transformed a previously unused room into an office/library.

Writers do this all the time, except we use everyday words and phrases to create something fresh. We shift those words and phrases — sometimes even  paragraphs and scenes — from one part of our book to another, until we find their proper setting where they can shine.

Occasionally,  we’re dismayed to discover no such setting exists. We realize that a particular piece of writing serves no purpose, even if we think (probably wrongly) that analogy or description or bit of dialogue is excruciatingly, mind-stoppingly, jaw-droppingly brilliant.

It has to go.

I  hate it when that happens. It’s like bringing home that piece of furniture you had to have, and discovering it doesn’t match anything in your house.

Of course, writing is never truly wasted because even the parts we cut provide background in our mind for the story.

As for that mismatched piece of furniture — well, isn’t that what spare rooms and garage sales are for?

garage sale (Photo credit: magnusdigity)

Addendum: For those of you who remember my post about the word “really,” I’d like you to know that I only had to edit out two occurrences in this post. Maybe I’m improving.