If you want to be a better writer, learn to use a scalpel. See your words with the distance, the objectiveness, of the surgeon’s eye. Examine the work for nicked arteries. They reveal themselves quickly—the words spurt blood and reek of melodrama and overwrought characters.
Look for gangrenous, going-gray-and-sloughing skin, too. Twirl the scalpel and prepare for the cut. The plot is dying. All the characters hold the same motivation: lust, revenge, kingship. The details add nothing to the story arc and are eating away at what remains. Cut the extraneous away until you get to something worth saving.
Also beware the hitched breath and waterlogged lungs. Your patient, your work, is suffocating. Find the cause and root it, root it out. The plot has gotten too complex, and a single story can’t support it. Rework the plot. Spread it across a few books. It may be good, but it needs room to breathe. Give it a breath. Give yourself a breath so that you can decide on the next move.
After applying the scalpel, give the work some time to heal. Visit it. Change its prescriptions. Eventually, create an action plan. Set to work again, you and the words, until you witness a vibrant, healthy patient.
You can do it. You, after all, are a better writer, and you aren’t afraid to use a scalpel.
Image: Double-M (Creative Commons)