Burn, baby. Burn.

I'm sort of writing again. "Sort of" because I'm doing what I should've done a long time ago. I'm editing.

It's really difficult for me to edit. I feel bad for the little piece or phrase that doesn't fit exactly right and gets cut. It feels like the wordy equivalent of picking kickball teams in third grade.

"Alright, it's really nice that you're focusing on the green grass below you, little sentence, but you just don't fit with the "obsessed with the skies" team over there. You're cut."

Ouch. And "Looking very much like Central Park" felt so right when I wrote it.

I was thinking about my cemetery of sentences (and all the graves I'm filling during my nightly massacres) when I stumbled across these thoughts by one Mr. Wendell Berry in his book, A Part.

An Autumn Burning

In my line of paperwork
I have words to burn: leaves
of fallen information, wasted
words of my own. I know a light
that hastens on the dark
some work deserves - which God forgive
as we must hope. I start the blaze
and observe the fire's superlative
hunger for literature. It touches pages
like a connoisseur, turns them.
None can endure. After the passing
of that light, there is sunlight
on the ash, in the distance singing
of crickets and birds. I turn,
unburdened, to life beyond words.

As usual, he says it better. But then again, I'm sure he edited the heck out of it.