NO, not that one, I try to scream.
But I can’t scream.
I understand her frustration. I’ve chewed up draft after draft of that dang story she’s writing.
Early on in her story attempt, I want to tell her that she should change from 3rd person to 1st.
Would she listen to me if I had a voice? Who knows? On Draft 5, though, she figures it out herself.
Then I want to suggest that she get rid of half the adverbs she uses.
DELETE, I’d shout, if I could shout.
But miraculously, those adverbs and ten more are gone in Draft 8.
By Draft 10, I begin to pay attention.
This story is good. Fast-paced, intense, yet full of light, if you know what I mean.
But her moans are deep and loud. In a high pitch she declares that she is going to “quit writing,” that her “muse has left her,” that she’ll leave her passion and go back to “just” being a 9 to 5 er.
So I do the best thing I can.
I turn myself off.
She unplugs me and replugs me. “Reboot,” she mutters over and over.
But I am undeterred. She cannot destroy what might become her magnum opus.
Ohhh, I’m feeling sleepy. Sleepy. . . sleepy.