I found an old file last week. Something I wrote six months ago and was proud of at the time.
I closed it two paragraphs in,
“The waiting room chairs were the kind of blue that hospitals think is calming, and I sat there for 40 minutes thinking about all the versions of bad news I might be about to hear, rehearsing my face for each one.”
Six months ago I read that sentence and felt something close to satisfaction. Now I see the seam. A colour doing atmosphere, a clause explaining the dread instead of showing it.
I cut it down.
“The chairs were the blue hospitals think is calming. I sat there 40 minutes, rehearsing my face.”
Nothing about dread is said out loud in the second version. The reader gets there on their own, they always do once you stop explaining and start reporting.
The file didn’t change. I did.
The piece I’m proud of tonight has the same seams. I just can’t see them yet. Give it six months and I’ll open tonight’s file the way I opened this one, and close it just as fast.
I used to take that as failure.
Now I think it’s the opposite. If I open a file from six months ago and still love it, I’ve stopped moving. The file’s fine. It just stayed exactly where I left it.