Saved on the phone, some weeks ago.

Saved drafts. A hundred time rewriting the same scene, the same line. Like if I get the words out just right, this time, it’ll amount to something worth someone’s time.

Read through it once, twice, thrice.
Did you have a good time? Was it heavy-handed, over-played, full of tripe metaphors you’ve heard before? Did I use “they” too much or over-use someone’s name? Did I repeat a word repeatedly?

Collision between fiction and the real side of things is making me feel insecurely curious. Am I a narrow-minded patholigically insanse, self-absorbed character? Am I a projection of all the fears I refuse to face? Do I have a fascination with other people’s pain? Am I corrupted by my self-inflicted isolated solitude?

Does that make me a “bad person” if the answer is yes? If any number of those are true?

Dioesn’t matter what you feel or think in the first draft. The characters always evolve, morph, grow with you. The final cut is where their responses count. No-one need know what else you ever wrote.

The little snippy snarks that never should have happened. The freak-outs that were unnecessary. The pain that no-one understood. Images less useful than obscurred.

See, here you can burn up the past if you must. Shed its skin from your eyes. Keep the memories, but don’t forget that the first go — you will redo. Every time.

That is the purpose of a rough draft.
To make mistakes.
To be okay with that.
And to chuck it and start over. The same thoughts but better words. Same sitautions but better plot. Same people but better dialogue.

It’s the writer’s way, the creator’s life. And that’s just fine.

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