I wrote 35 000 thousand words in nine days over the course of the past two weeks and now I am painstakingly sorting through the mess of it and rewriting page after page, puzzle-piecing my thoughts into a way that hopefully makes sense.
It is exhausting and long in a way I don’t really comprehend; I just show up and sit tight and do what I can. If this has taught me anything so far, it is to sit down and do the work, no matter how uncomfortable. Perseverance and grit are strange, wonderful things.
I have no words left, though. Nothing to spare for this blog, for the short stories I am terrified will slip away if I do not get them down on paper fast enough. It is consuming, is what I tell the people who ask. The brain space it occupies is large and seeping and doesn’t relent, even when I am not writing. When I am not writing the words quiet down and rest.
It is almost done, though. It will take longer than I reckon, because it always does, but it is so damn close that I would taste it if I could. It will be anticlimactic and glorious in its own way and I cannot wait. Give it a couple of more days. To think that two weeks ago I had scraps of paper and highlighted books and a half-winged introduction and not much else.
I look forward to coming back to the real words, to the ones that matter. I look forward to writing stories.