Ideally
a rough draft
is a private affair,
one notch above a speed-typing exercise.
Later,
alone in my room,
I’ll pore over the manuscript,
grimacing at my incoherent narrative structure
and inept word choices,
pruning my flabby prose.
I am,
preposterously,
flagrantly,
composing my new story in public.
My Colorado Chronicles:
the stumbling misadventures of an unmarried man
(yet another random guy who doesn’t play the saxophone)
In this very rough draft
I write myself into ludicrous situations,
tortured storylines that
(left unedited)
would incite Gentle Reader
to fling the book across the room.
But this is no private manuscript, alas:
my Grimacing Edit Face is on full public display.
Sometimes
this is writing so bad
it demands a laugh track,
which I thoughtfully provide,
cackling at my own pages.
The undo button can only do so much.
Let’s acknowledge the good:
This draft is capturing a certain chaotic energy
that is most certainly true to the story.
But I think it’s also clear
that I have no fucking idea what I’m doing,
and I’m going to have to workshop the crap
out of this thing.
I can also say,
in all sincerity,
that more often than not
I think to myself:
Maybe this isn’t terrible?
