I’ve got boxes, files, and notebooks filled with writing scraps. Some of these scraps consist of a couple lines that I liked the sound of together, only I couldn’t make them work in a larger piece. I’ve heard these gems referred to as ‘little darlings.’ You have a fondness for them and don’t have the heart to chuck them, but at some point, you acknowledge that their presence is ruining the rest of the piece, and, like a crying baby in a movie theatre, must be removed for the good of the whole.
What I’ve been doing lately with my little darlings in couplet form is separating the lines, and then incorporating each line into its own piece. It feels awkward at first, probably like twins going off to separate colleges. The new poems don’t seem to have the same charm of the original darling, but at least this way, the lines can live in the world, feel sunshine on their skin, hold the door open for strangers, hear the trill of the red-winged blackbird. Otherwise, they’d be banished to a cardboard box or file folder forever.
Hunting through some of my old poems to find an example to illustrate this exercise, I picked out a couple halves, but didn’t notice either of their twins. So, either I haven’t used their other halves yet, or the other halves were so integrated into their new lives that I didn’t recognize them anymore. That’s a good sign. The original lines don’t need to be attached in order to have purpose.
If you have unfinished chunks of writing, or old work that you’d never want people to see, try breaking it apart and using the shards separately. It feels good to set them free. Might as well let all of your work sashay through the world in some form or another.