Sometimes it’s so slow. Exhausting. You want to resist it. But you can’t because there’s something about the idea and you won’t let go. Compulsion. Obsession, even. Edits become hours and days and years. Like four years. Like tens of thousands of words chopped and then rewritten. And then again. Finally too dusty, damaged, deformed. So you left it all in a disgusted sigh in the hat box you bought after you printed out the very first draft. Even the hat box won’t close now, warped with all that’s happened over the last years. You’ve even bruised your leg on it. Tripped over it. But you refused to throw it away.
Sometimes it’s impulsive. Sharp and toxic. Shards of bitter, stinging, ugly. The words must be floating nearby. You’ve always told yourself that. There are infinite words to grab. At your disposal. INFINITE. Alas, they eluded your grasp – taunting and spiteful – and when you finally reached the end of that thin line of sanity the laptop slammed shut so hard that the cold coffee (mostly untouched because it was the morning’s fifth) bled out onto the steel table. And then, ashamed, those words were hidden. Buried in the unnamed folder with draft emails you never sent and that photo on the beach you always hated.
Out of the blue. Beautiful.
New collaboration. Ideas.
New brains & heart.
Brilliance and sparks.
Suddenly it’s fresh and exciting and something works that never ever did before. And then you feel so very grateful for the death. Because without it, this new thing could not have been born at all.