Craft tip #5: How to Kill Your Darlings like a Manic Serial Killer:

PART ONE: THE OLD FASHIONED WAY

How to Kill Your Darlings Like a Serial Killer (But With a Delete Key)

I grew up watching what kids would call cringe 1980s horror movies. I love B-movies. I have—somewhere, probably at my parents’ house—a copy of Night of the Living Dead on DVD and an old VHS tape of Friday the 13th: Jason Lives. And while I laughed at every campy horror binge, binge-watched every episode of The X-Files, and played Maniac Mansion for MS-DOS like it was a religious obligation, I figured it was only appropriate to name this craft article like a Stephen King novel.

As always: thank you to the subscribers who keep this newsletter alive and legally classified as “community service.” Special shout-out to Trashlett for suggesting this topic and Strawberry Girl for recommending matcha tea. As you may recall, I stated—clearly, publicly, and with prejudice—that I dislike matcha in craft tip #2. But I will suffer, because all writers suffer when it comes time to edit their first draft. Then I will take your suggestion under advisement and immediately go get Thai iced tea, one of my favorites. There used to be a Thai place near me that served Thai tea alongside your meal like a blessing from the gods, and I try my best to support local businesses.

Enough tangents. Let’s go on a murder spree.

But, you know. With a delete key.

So: How to Kill Your Darlings Like a Serial Killer.

Metaphorically. With a delete key. Nobody call the police.

Because Stephen King—patron saint of “write the scary thing anyway”—doesn’t just allow you to cut your favorite lines. He demands it. “Kill your darlings… even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart.”

And if King is telling you to take the axe to your prettiest sentence? You don’t argue. You sharpen the blade and open a fresh document titled:

DARLING GRAVEYARD

Because no writing is ever deleted. It gets recycled. It gets re-homed. It gets handed a new identity and a fake mustache and sent to live quietly in a different book.

That subplot about putting a hamster in a microwave in your romansty set in a Roman Empire? Don’t worry. That deep-cut Maniac Mansion reference? Safe. We are not destroying art. We are merely… relocating evidence.

Step 1: Tag the Darlings (They Always Return to the Scene)

A “darling” is any line you love more than the story needs.

Common disguises include:

• the clever joke that derails tension
• the gorgeous metaphor that pauses the scene for applause
• the backstory paragraph that exists because you like it
• the “I’m smart” sentence that doesn’t change anything

The Interrogation (three questions, no lawyer present)

Ask your favorite line:

• If I delete this, does the plot still function?
• Does the scene move faster without it?
• Is this here for the reader… or for my ego?
• Does the hamster need to blow up in Act Two? (That one was for me and my pop-culture LucasArts references.)

If it’s ego, it goes in the trunk.

(The document trunk. Relax.)

Step 2: Use King’s “Puffy” Test (And Commit to the 10% Cut)

King talks about getting an editorial note that basically said: Not bad… but puffy. The fix?

2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%

You don’t have to obey the math like it’s scripture. The power is what it forces you to do: cut what isn’t story.

Here’s where your easiest 10% is hiding:

• repeated info (“in case you missed it” paragraphs)
• scene throat-clearing (“It was then that…” / “In order to…”)
• explanations after the reader already got it
• “walking from room to room” logistics
• any paragraph that exists mainly to show off research

Serial killer trick that saves your sanity

Don’t delete. Quarantine.

Cut it, paste it into DARLING GRAVEYARD, and move on. Your brain stops screaming because nothing is “gone.” It’s just… relocated. Like a witness who suddenly moved to “Florida.”

Step 3: Set a Trap for Adverbs (They Breed Overnight)

King’s adverb take is famously unhinged in the best way: he compares them to weeds and implies they’ll take over the lawn if you let one survive.

Here’s the sane version:

When an adverb is a crutch, swap the verb

• walked slowly → trudged / crept / shuffled
• looked carefully → studied / scanned / inspected
• laughed nervously → cracked a thin laugh / snorted / choked
• said angrily → snapped / spat / bit off

When an adverb can stay (on parole)

Keep it when it changes meaning, not volume:

• almost, barely, deliberately, accidentally, immediately

Example: I deliberately wrote this sentence.

If it’s just “more intense,” it’s probably padding.

Here are examples of Adverbs:

Adverbs list 1

adverbs list 2

Step 4: Execute the Filler Words (The Ones That Whisper “I Don’t Trust This Sentence”)

Filler words are the editorial equivalent of bubble wrap. They make the sentence feel safer. They also make it weaker.

Do a Find/Replace sweep for these criminals:

• CMD + F on a Mac
• CTRL + F on Windows
• anything else, you’re on your own and I wish you luck in the wasteland

Put these on a watchlist

• very, really, just, actually, basically, kind of, sort of, maybe, quite, rather
• started to / began to
• seemed to / felt like

The test

Delete the filler. If nothing breaks, it was dead weight.

• “She was really furious.” → “She was furious.” (or better: show it)
• “He just wanted to leave.” → “He wanted to leave.”
• “It was very cold.” → “It was cold.” (or better: “The air burned his lungs.”)

Replace “very” with specificity (or behavior)

• very tired → wrecked / bone-tired / running on fumes
• very scared → rattled / panicked / frozen
• very happy → giddy / buzzing / relieved

Step 5: Stop Leaning on Weak Verbs (Make the Sentence Stand Up)

Not all “weak words” are evil. But some are overworked.

Audit these:

• was / were
• got
• went
• did
• felt
• looked

You don’t need to purge them. You just need to notice when they’re propping up a limp sentence.

Examples:

• “The room was silent.” → “The room fell silent.”
• “He was nervous.” → “His knee bounced under the table.”
• “She felt angry.” → “Heat climbed her throat.”

This isn’t about sounding fancy. It’s about making the prose move.

Sometimes the simple verb is perfectly fine

• “The meeting was at noon.” (clear, factual)
• “She went home after work.” (nothing important about how)
• “He did the dishes.” (the action is the point)
• “She looked at the map.” (neutral observation)
• “I felt tired after the trip.” (direct and natural)

The goal isn’t to ban these words. It’s to notice when a sentence could be more vivid—and when the simplest verb already does the job.

Step 6: Do Your Killing in Private, Then Let the Reader In

King’s process note is the most emotionally correct thing in craft advice:

Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.

Draft one is you telling yourself the story.

Draft two is you removing everything that blocks the reader from experiencing it.

Which means: yes, you can be indulgent while drafting. You’re allowed.

But revision is where you stop being precious.

The Serial Killer Edit Pass (A Practical Ritual)

Run this on any chapter:

1. Highlight your favorite lines (yes, do it)
2. Read the scene and ask: does this line serve the moment, or steal it?
3. Cut the thieves first
4. Paste them into DARLING GRAVEYARD
5. Do one sweep for:
   • adverbs
   • filler words (very/really/just)
   • repeated explanations
6. Read it out loud. If it’s faster and sharper, you’re done.

Your darlings will survive. They’ll show up later in a better book, in a better scene, wearing a better outfit.

*Footnote, because I’m classy: what I do is I have my Mac read the chapter in accessibility mode using Daniel (a British voice), then I ask myself if it sounds okay or if something feels off. Personally, I think Apple should hire Matt Berry for accessibility voices because it’s Matt Berry, and the world deserves that level of dramatic menace while I’m hunting adverbs.

(Also: if you ever catch me whispering “very” to myself, please stage an intervention.)

Before you go (and before your darlings call their lawyer)

If you enjoyed this craft-tip crime scene, subscribe below so you don’t miss the next one. I promise more practical editing advice, more questionable metaphors, and at least one beverage recommendation I will immediately contradict in a later post.

And if you want to see what happens when I apply this exact energy to an actual novel—cosmic disasters, bureaucratic nightmares, villainesses with retirement plans, and a universe that desperately needs an intervention— preorder Starforge Legacy here: Preorder here

Restack/share if you know a writer who’s currently clutching a “very, really, actually” paragraph like it’s a beloved pet.

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Now go forth. Be ruthless. Be kind.

And may your DARLING GRAVEYARD document remain spacious and well-organized.