I’ve become lost in this story so many times.
Stricken in the moment, uncertain of what comes next; if this is right, if it’s enough. It doesn’t matter how many drafts I write, the feeling never entirely goes away.
As each new version of the story unfolds, it brings new questions, new concerns.
With each reader comes a new critique, something else to improve, to change.
I’m buried beneath the weight of all these words, of this story I’m trying to tell.
I don’t know if it will be enough.
The spark draws me so far, this longing to go on, to make it all mean something.
I’ll follow it as far as I have to, despite my doubts. I’ll follow it wherever it goes. I’ll make my darlings bleed.
This is right, somehow. I can sense it.
Tearing down the walls I’ve built so painstakingly is terrifying before it becomes liberating. I have to trust that instinct, that sense of story.
I have to keep going, because there is no way to stop.