Did I think I was immune? Did I fool myself into thinking everything was perfect? Am I finished? Far from it. I look at my stories, they stare back, their arms crossed in defiance,
We are fine the way we are, they say. Leave us alone.
They look inflated, yellow, flabby; they take the elevator instead of the stairs. They are sweaty and out of breathe. They are puffed up. They are vain. They aren’t trying hard enough. I want stories that zip and flit; compact, sleek, memorable. I have stories that sit on my tongue like starchy potatoes; predictable and cold. So the rewrites, I shouldn’t mind them, right? But I do.