Dear Work-In-Progress

I am not going to leave you unfinished.  It’s just that every time I see you–all those tracked changes, in blue and red and green–I feel like I’m walking across the country without shoes and in climates that shift from sunny to frosty and back again.  My feet itch and sweat and fall into that stupid numbness.  They tell my legs to stop all that walking.

I look at you and I want you to be better.  Not perfect.  Just better.  I want the words to be right, the sentences to sing.  I want the story to work, the plot points to combine into some seamless experience I remember someone calling the fictional dream.  But I feel like an insomniac and not a dreamer.  So I close the document that teases me.  I open you back up when I feel the promise emerging again.  I start, get going, and I stop again.  But I’m not done with you.  You’re not done with me.  One of these days we’ll make each other happy or we’ll make each other crazy.

See you later.

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