There’s almost always a sadness when I read things such as this. There’s the blank staring into the screen, the rush of emotions about what things could have been, missed chances, bad decisions big and small, the people you wish you could have loved and felt loved by.
And then you remember you’re looking backward, not forward. You’re reading a novel, not writing one, and that gets to the point of what you’ve just read, what you just so obviously misread.
Stop reading your first drafts and start writing a new drafts, now, this instant, or right after the pizza place opens across the street and you get lunch. Okay, you say, not out loud, but only where you can hear, can cogito the hell out of it, before it slips back into the ether.
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