I’m working on rewriting an old novel right now and it’s just like trying to patch up a desperately wounded creature that is constantly trying to crawl away.
My Old Novel is a Wounded Creature
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I’m working on rewriting an old novel right now and it’s just like trying to patch up a desperately wounded creature that is constantly trying to crawl away.
I don’t want to write safe.
I want to stretch out and
bleed across every damn page
and when it’s finished
I want to feel that I have
truly left something
that was a part of me
behind
as harrowing as the process
might be to myself
because why else
would I really bother
picking up a pen
unless it was to dig it
deep into my chest
and let it just bleed
freely and openly
across every
damn
page.