First Draft

The first draft is a hollow thing, thin of detail and light, full of desperation. You rip it from yourself without pause, only barely breathing.

It’s fear that provides momentum. And you hate it. Look at what you’ve done, the amateur quality of the things, the offensively ordinariness of it all … the words. They aren’t the right ones, but you’re never really sure which are, given the moment.

Dare, but do not dare to stop. But too late.

As it slows, the panic doesn’t so much creep in as kick down the door with thick black boots, knock you out of your chair, and sit on your chest. Its red eye bore into your soul, skeletal hand (because you did not give it flesh) extending from a dark nothing, opening, grabbing, empty.