I awoke early this morning, or never made it to bed. I had been writing. I will let you read it one day. I left the house for work, thinking of what I had written.
How clever had I been with my soaring sentences, slick characterisation, twisted call-backs. In my mind I refined the start, tightened the middle, polished the end.
But it only made it worse.
I saw the holes in the story, the ridiculous protagonist, the clichéd antagonist.
The long-winded prose wound its way unchecked to the horizon, an ink-black river across the pure-white landscape, meandering unchecked, creating oxbow after oxbow, with no source and no delta – and with no reason for this metaphor.
Then my mind became detached, and tumbled towards the storm drain. I watched my confidence slip between the thick metal fingers, lost to darkness once more.
Maybe I will not let you read it after all.