a rough draft
is a private affair,
one notch above a speed-typing exercise.
alone in my room,
I’ll pore over the manuscript,
grimacing at my incoherent narrative structure
and inept word choices,
pruning my flabby prose.
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
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.
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?