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When I was growing up in the swamps of Louisiana, there wasn't much to watch on TV during a heat drenched Saturday afternoon. Mostly just old John Wayne movies involving a lot of dust, some Indians, and quite a few gun fights. The KILLING wasn't real and the good guys always won.

Except for one Saturday afternoon when a KILLING happened right in front of me and for a moment in time one little girl changed how others saw the world.

Another cowboy was riding the range and another Indian was planning another attack when I hear a strange sound close to where I lay sprawled on the floor in front of our old TV.

My brother heard it too and before I could stop him, a lifeless cricket lay crushed at my feet.

I was inconsolable.

Fortunately for me, my mother loved nature as much as I do and when I decided to have a service for that little cricket, Mother found a matchbox casket for its final resting place and even made my siblings attend the funeral out in our front yard.

One little girl changed how others saw the value in the living.


The life of a story isn't very different from that poor cricket.

We breathe life into our dreams and put words on paper in the hope others will see the same value in them as we do. But sometimes as writers we have to KILL our own darlings and say a few words over a lifeless manuscript before we can move forward on that path to publication.

But even if we are the ones doing the KILLING, we remember the value of the dream...and continue to dream on... Labels: DCSPeeps, KILLING, writing