Once upon a time, an author had to make some tougher choices. He wanted to keep his creation as is. He was sentimental, and a little too proud of his creation. He showed it off from time to time. It wasn’t perfect, but it was completed. That in itself was an accomplishment.
The feedback wasn’t brutal, but done out of genuine observation skills. Still the accomplishment burned bright in the artist, and what was once a goal turned to hubris.
His defense of the material was too strong, too inflexible. Those with keen insight tried to tell him, but upon this throne he sat with stubborn glee. “I made it work,” he said. “Beginning, middle, and end. I cannot change what is perfect.”
However the writer knew, as it gnawed on his hubris that the material was not perfect. It is more than possible to cut from the material. Make the story less pages and more refined, diverse words. So the writer threw off his hubris. It held him back. Kept him from revising his project. All knew the story had its legs. It simply didn’t have its day under a blue pen.