Kill Your Darlings: The Love-Hate Ritual Every Writer Needs

Look, I get it—you’ve just penned a line so breathtakingly vivid it makes you want to stand on your desk and shout, “Behold my genius!” (I’ve been there—late nights, half a dozen empty mugs scattered around me, feeling like Wordsworth reincarnated.) And then someone—probably your well-meaning crit partner—utters the dreaded command: Kill your darlings. Cue existential panic.

But here’s the secret no one tells you in workshops: it isn’t about erasing your voice, it’s about sparing your story.

Every writer—novice or Nobel laureate—hangs on to lines, scenes, or characters they adore, even when those “darlings” sabotage their story. You know the type: that gorgeous metaphor you slooowly crafted, that flash‑back you clung to, that quirky side‑character who never quite fits. It feels like betrayal to axe them, but the brutal truth is simple: if it doesn’t serve the plot, deepen your characters, or raise tension, it’s dead weight.

That's why Kill Your Darlings is one of the most repeated pieces of writing advice in the English-speaking world: it gets tossed at workshops, tattooed in metaphorical ink across MFA syllabi, and whispered like gospel in the editing stages—usually by someone who doesn’t really explain what it means.

Trying to decide what deserves the axe? Use Sudowrite to test tone, clarity, and rhythm. It’ll hurt less, I promise.

What Counts as a “Darling”?

A darling is any piece of writing—sentence, paragraph, scene, maybe even a character—that you’re disproportionately attached to, usually because it:

• Sounds clever
• Took forever to write
• Is based on your actual life (but doesn’t serve the story)
• Makes you feel like a genius when you reread it

Darlings often stand out stylistically from the rest of the manuscript. They break tone. They slow pacing. They draw attention to the writer instead of the story. They’re the bits that shimmer with ego—and ruin cohesion.

Example: That ten-line metaphor you wrote comparing grief to a pocket watch. It’s gorgeous. But your protagonist is 12 years old, and this is a fast-paced scene about a lost dog. The sentence might be good. But is it true to the moment?

The phrase "Kill Your Darlings" probably wasn’t originally coined by Faulkner (as often claimed), but by British writer Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, who said:

“Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—wholeheartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press.”

In other words, the problem isn’t loving your writing. It’s loving it too much to see that it doesn’t belong.

Sometimes it's best to see things with a wide lens, so I introduce a specific side-by-side comparison: the original version of this section (below) was too fancy and showy. I liked it a lot. I think it's good writing. But I had to choose. It pains me to hide all that fun fancy writing, because I want to share it with you... but the version above is far more simple, clear and useful.

It's more valuable because of it's clarity. It will more effectively get you to understand why this is a problem and how to fix it: which is the goal of this article. It's not about me. Each genre, subject and topic will have its own audience and they will appreciate different things depending on what they are after.

In most commercial genres, readers want a good story. And you can definitely have fancy fun beautiful writing, just not all the time or for every scene. Figure out what you're trying to achieve and ask, why is this necessary?

Here's my alternative "Darling" version I should have cut, but decided to let you see. There's nothing wrong with it. It might be good. It's probably not bad. It's not untrue. Whether it's better or worse, that's a tricky conversation.

Your darling is that one sentence, paragraph, or entire subplot you love more than your first-born—solely because it sings in your mind’s ear, not because it lifts the story. It might be:

• A seven‑line metaphor about moonlight that feels like poetry but lands like a soggy baguette in your thriller.
• A backstory-laden flashback that took you three Tuesdays to nail but stalls every scene.
• A wink‑at‑the‑reader aside that makes you grin…but yanks us out of the protagonist’s panic.

Darlings shimmer with writerly pride. They’re technically gorgeous. They hum. They—as T.S. Eliot might have warned—should have been killed.

Truth by told, I'm still experimenting with an ideal writing style that's impressive enough for writers to resonate with, but clear enough that they learn something.

Want to see how this advice plays out across genres? Read our deep dive on how to revise without losing your voice.

Why It Hurts to Let Go

Admitting that your favorite bit doesn’t belong? That stings more than a lovelorn breakup. You poured hours—maybe days—into sculpting that sentence. You’re emotionally invested (no, obsessed). And deep down, you’re terrified that once it’s gone, you won’t survive…or at least, your ego won’t.

But newsflash: painful cuts are how stories thrive. That glittering paragraph might read like champagne, but if it slows your page‑turning heist, it’s just empty bubbles.

Need an outside eye without calling your critique partner at 2am? Sudowrite’s feedback engine can call out what’s actually working—for your story, not just your ego.

Smuggling Darlings Out—Gently

Before you reach for the delete key in a caffeine‑fueled fury, try this:

1. Archive Your Precious
   Create a “Darling Stash” document. Move that line, scene, or character sketch there. Out of sight, out of mind—and you can always rescue it later (maybe in your next novel about time‑traveling velociraptors).
2. Re‑Purpose, Don’t Paralyze
   Ask yourself: Does this moment propel the plot, deepen the character, or spike the tension? If not, consider borrowing its core emotion elsewhere. That lush grief‑as‑clockwork metaphor might bloom in your final chapter, after a harrowing loss, rather than mid‑chase.
3. Play Editor, Not Author
   Read the scene as if someone else wrote it—yes, I know that feels ridiculous. But you’ll spot what’s show‑offy versus what’s story‑worthy. (Hint: if you’re giggling at your own quip, it’s probably a darling in disguise.)
4. Welcome the Blockers
   Hand it to a trusted beta reader and brace yourself when they circle it in red. Resist the urge to argue. Instead, scribble “Hmm…” and revisit it with fresh eyes later.

When Your Darling Earns a Reprieve

Not all beautiful language is treasonous. Sometimes, a story craves that flourish—the narrative equivalent of Mozart in the middle of a punk rock anthem.

• Lolita’s opening line (“Lolita, light of my life…”) could have been axed by a less‑bold editor. Instead, it slashes like a scalpel—perfectly pitched for Humbert’s obsessive voice.
• Infinite Jest’s footnotes might read like indulgent detours, yet they mirror the novel’s fractured, hyperactive psyche. Lose them, and the whole architecture collapses.
• Absalom, Absalom!’s marathon sentence in the plantation’s twilight ride feels exhausting—yet that very breathlessness is Faulkner’s point: history literally suffocates its narrators.

If a darling deepens the reader’s experience—if it haunts the page long after it’s read—by all means, let it live.

1. Identify Your Darlings: A Checklist Approach

Too often, we only notice darlings when they scream “Hey, look at me!” The trick is to hunt them down proactively. Go through your draft with this checklist:

1. Stylistic Mismatch
   • Does this paragraph read like a different writer?
   • Example: A sudden, ornate monologue in a fast‑paced thriller (“Her thoughts unfurled like filigreed lace…”) is a red flag.
2. Plot Irrelevance
   • If you removed this scene, would the main plot still click forward?
   • Example: A three‑page dream sequence in which your hero recalls childhood summers—but nothing in it informs their current quest.
3. Character Distraction
   • Does it pull focus from the protagonist’s goal or internal conflict?
   • Example: Introducing a witty best friend with five pages of backstory who never returns after Chapter 3.
4. Pacing Killer
   • Does the scene stall momentum? Are you tempted to skim?
   • Example: Info‑dump paragraph explaining the magical system in the middle of a car chase.
5. Ego Trip
   • Do you re‑read this and think “Wow, I’m so clever”? Or “Wow, my readers are going to love this”?
   • If your inner monologue cheers, that’s often your ego talking, not the story.

Mark any sections that tick two or more boxes. Those are your prime candidates for trimming—or total removal.

Highlight them in your draft, then let Sudowrite’s line-by-line review offer a second opinion.

2. Evaluate Function vs. Beauty

Some sentences sing; some simply stall. Your editor’s mantra: “Does it earn its keep?” To test, ask:

• Plot: Does it introduce, escalate, or resolve conflict?
• Character: Does it reveal a new layer of psyche, motivation, or transformation?
• Theme/Tone: Does it reinforce your story’s core idea or emotional arc?

Case Study: The Martian vs. A Literary Novel

• Good Darling: In The Martian, Mark Watney’s engineering log (“I’ll have to jury‑rig a dirigible drone with solar arrays…”). It’s flashy tech‑talk, but it directly advances the plot: solving the habitat’s power crisis.
• Bad Darling: In a literary novel, the same style might derail emotional intimacy if the book is about grief or identity.

Rule of thumb: In high‑stakes scenes, prioritize stakes and emotion over elegance. Let beauty bloom in quieter moments.

3. Techniques to Offload Darlings—Without Wounds

A. The “Parking Lot” File

• How: Create a separate “Darling Stash” document.
• Why: You get emotional distance. If you delete permanently, you’ll panic. Parking lot means “not lost forever.”

B. Scene‑Purpose Swap

• How: For each darling scene, write down its intended purpose—e.g., “show betrayal,” “reveal magical rules,” “bond hero with sidekick.”
• Why: If the scene fails its purpose, scrap or rework it. If the purpose is vital, but the scene doesn’t deliver, rewrite from scratch.

C. Cut‑and‑Grow

• How: Trim 50% of the darling. Ban yourself from restoring exact phrasing.
• Why: Brevity forces you to focus on the essence. Often, you discover a sharper, more potent version.

4. Don’t Overdo It: Recognizing Darlings That Deserve Sanctuary

Not every lush line is evil. Some “darlings” are the beating heart of your novel and deserve to stay. Here are fresh examples where flair and excess underpin the core narrative:

• Toni Morrison’s Beloved: The novel’s haunting refrain—“124 was spiteful”—is part mantra, part chorus. It conjures Sethe’s trauma at every turn; strip it out, and you lose the story’s emotional rhythm.
• Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude: That three-year insomnia plague sequence feels like an indulgent detour, but it crystallizes Macondo’s magical realism and the Buendía family’s generational curse. Its fevered tempo is essential to the novel’s mythic pulse.
• Zadie Smith’s White Teeth: Her vivid historical asides on immigrant identity read like mini-essays, yet they’re vital to the novel’s satirical bite. Without those tangents, the characters’ dilemmas drift without context.

In each case, the prose may shimmer, but it also carries thematic weight—your signal to let your darlings thrive.

Criteria for reprieve:

1. Integral Voice: If the sentence is the character’s voice, and no leaner phrasing can capture it.
2. Structural Necessity: If removing it collapses your narrative architecture—footnotes, nested stories, experimental chronology.
3. Emotional Climax: If it lands in the most charged moment (your final scene, major twist) and ripping it out would hollow the payoff.

If none of these apply, it’s back to the parking lot.

5. Practical Examples & Before/After Revisions

Example 1: The Overstuffed Metaphor

Original:

“The old manor house loomed like a baroque cathedral of sorrow, its stained-glass windows weeping kaleidoscopes of regret that dripped like molasses onto the cracked marble floors.”

Problem: Beautiful—but distracts from the detective’s urgent investigation.

Revision:

“The manor’s windows stained the marble in moody colors. Inside, the air felt heavy—too heavy for a quick murder inquiry.”

What Changed: Tone remains atmospheric, but pace resumes.

Example 2: The Gratuitous Flashback

Original Scene: Five pages of the hero’s childhood at summer camp, explaining how they learned archery.

Problem: Hero’s archery skill is never used. Flashback has zero payoff.

Revision Options:

• Remove Entirely: If archery never matters, scrap.
• Trim to a Paragraph: If a childhood fear is relevant to current courage, show just that flash of memory—two sentences max.

After:

“A memory flickered—sunlight on the target’s bullseye, arrow thudding home. I hadn’t shot a bow since camp, but right now, I needed that steadiness.”

6. A Step‑By‑Step Editing Workflow

1. Macro Pass: Read each chapter for plot, character, and tension. Mark any scenes that don’t serve.
2. Micro Pass: Within each scene, highlight sentences that feel “extra.” Use the checklist from Section 1.
3. Stash & Evaluate: Move highlights into “Darling Stash.” For each, write a one‑sentence justification or refutation.
4. Collaborative Audit: Give your trimmed draft to a beta reader or critique partner, specifically asking, “Which parts drag?”

Time Budget: Spend no more than 30% of your total edit time on darlings. Move on once you clear the backlog—don’t get stuck in an endless prune cycle.

Want a tool that helps you rewrite like that? Sudowrite makes it easy to test both versions and see which hits harder.

7. Mindset Shifts: From “My Precious” to “My Story”

• Replace: “I wrote this to show how smart I am” with “I wrote this to serve the reader’s journey.”
• Remember: Deleting a darling isn’t failure—it’s an act of generosity towards your reader.
• Practice: In every new draft, slaughter at least one darling. Build a habit so it hurts less each time.

8. When to Ignore the Advice Entirely

Yes, yes—there are times when keeping the weird, the ornate, the indulgent is exactly the point:

• Experimental Fiction: If your goal is to challenge form—interior monologues, stream of consciousness, fractured syntax—embrace the chaos.
• Character Studies: A novel solely exploring a single psyche (e.g., Mrs. Dalloway) often thrives on digressions and lush asides.
• Genre Tropes: Poetic world‑building in high fantasy (e.g., The Name of the Wind) can get lavish because readers expect it.

If your voice is lyrical. If your style is ornate. If your whole point is to blend beauty and chaos, and your darlings are the architecture of your tone—keep them. But make sure they’re not the literary equivalent of sugar in a salad.

Great writing isn’t minimalism. It’s intentionalism. Every word earns its place. If your darling belongs, keep it. But if you’re holding on out of vanity or fear?

Let it go.

If you’re in the same boat, this post on crafting your author voice might help you find clarity without compromising flair.

Final Note: Mercy for the Manuscript

Killing your darlings isn’t a merciless bloodbath. It’s selective surgery—precise, painful, but ultimately life‑saving. Think of it as editing with compassion: for your story, your reader, and yes, even your own battered ego.

Next time you’re tempted to cling to that one “perfect” line, remember: great writing isn’t about never cutting—it’s about cutting with purpose. The best way to kill your darlings isn’t rage. It’s distance. And when that Darling has earned its keep, it will survive, whether buried deep in your novel or shining bright in the manuscript of your next masterpiece.

Now go forth—slay wisely. And may your stories be stronger for every sacrifice.

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Need character names that don’t feel like darlings you’ll regret later? Try the Ultimate Character Name Generators →