I'm taking a break from the heartless work of slashing out the parts of my novel that don't offer sufficient bang for the buck. I knew it had to be done, but man. Ouch. Every time I start to chicken out I consult the notes left on copies of the first chapter by Octavia Butler, Andy Duncan, and Michael Swanwick. Tiny little versions of them are all sitting on my shoulder chanting like a Greek chorus who accidentally wandered into a Lord of the Flies writing workshop ("Kill the darlings! Cut their prose!").

Okay, time to get back to work. Grabs exposition by the neck, takes out knife. "Quit squirming, you!"