Words Get in the Way

When I’m writing, which is the same as saying —when I’m not sleeping, I often find that words get in the way.  Under the guise of a clever - or dare I say poetic, turn of phrase, I slug my poor reader in the eyes.  Case in point:

“The tears drizzled down her soil soaked cheeks like dirty water balloons dropped from an east side apartment complex.”

My pitiable reader has visions of dingy water balloons flung from rickety balconies when all I really wanted to do is to let them know she’s crying.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s something about that sentence I love, it fills my need to be unique, to be a bold writer that presents words in an order as yet unseen by even the most prolific reader. But that’s not my goal, my goal as a writer, is to tell a story. Nothing is more important than the story — especially my ego. I fight my demons with every sentence I write. I sacrifice my most beloved children at the altar of story. It’s a wholesale slaughter as my ink-soaked fingers sputter over the delete key. A good writer is a surgeon who slices away hunks of fat and carves the vestigial words to blend into the story. 

As you can see, I fail more times than I succeed, but I battle on.