First there is the crowning flush, after hours of painful inaction. A sign of life, there is SOMETHING here! It takes hours of agony, pained gasping breaths. Inch by painstaking inch she* emerges. Towards the end we are both confused and teary, just wanting it to end. And end it does, in a long endless sigh of relief. It is done.
Out in plain sight, confused and babbling, limbs askew and a shrieking head. Now, I rub my hands in glee. Now it begins.
Chop this end and place it there, the other one goes here and twist that around a bit. All that effort to come up with a mangled jigsaw puzzle. But wait, this piece goes here, doesn't it? And that, surely, is the corner piece that holds it all together!
When words are stuck and deadlines loom, this is my mantra- This is just a draft. Not a first-born miracle on the planet, nor a literary masterpiece. It frees me from the responsibility of the mother-instinct and the pressures that weigh down the masters of the craft. No need to guard these words, they aren't perfect. No need for these words to be perfect, this is just a draft.
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* My stories are 'she'. Simply because they are always as uncomfortably self-aware and confused as any adolescent girl I have ever known or been.
3 comments:
Nice one. I like the comparison to a confused girl.
I must have read through this post about ten times to finally realize you were talking about writing :). Lovely metaphors :).I tell myself - Everything is just a draft, and stop going near them after a point ;)
Rafiki-- thank you :)
Nee -- Guess that emphasizes the 'draft' part nicely, if the point of it was that well hidden ;)
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