I don't find myself as attached to particular words, sentences, or even stories as I once was. This helps when I'm faced with the undesirable task of cutting chunks of flesh from tales which just aren't "getting the job done".
I finished drafting three stories in the past week (2,700 words, 900 words, and 1,500 words), and each needs a fair bit of trimming. An older piece has also staggered from the grave, begging for a new coat of paint.
I'm going to prune a bit today, and then move on to my first round revisions for The Sons of Chaos and the Desert of the Dead.
And from that story which wouldn't stay dead:
Her stare rested on the blade, watching it glimmer as the sun caught its edge.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
She sniffled, but sucked in a deep breath, pushing out her chin in mock courage. “I ain’t too afraid of dying, mister. I buried two brothers already. Earl Ray was only two weeks old when the fever got him. Dean got kicked in the head by a horse at five.”
Watcher held the knife to her skin, but his eyes were locked with her face.
“Figure I’ll see them soon enough.”