Four thousand, eight hundred, twenty-four pages. I counted every one myself. Twice.
I shouldn’t have needed to. After all, I wrote each page by hand with a pen carved of bone and ink made of blood and ashes and tears. Figuratively, of course.
Of course. Of course figuratively. Ha!
At least I’m done. I’ve lost count of the years since I wrote the first line. That perfect first line. It just popped into my head from…where? Was it always there?
First line to second to third. Line upon line. How many years? Twenty? Forty?
It weighs on my desk. I can see the surface sag under it. How is that possible? My desk is brushed aluminum. I bought it for the sleek shine and unyielding strength. Paid quite a lot for it. More than I should have, given my bank account and my prospects.
The manuscript demanded it, though. Sleek and strong for a soul’s full work.
But it’s written. Every page. What a majestic tale! It is all of my dreams and hopes. Everything I did not know I wanted. Every desire. It has taken them all, taken *me* all.
I let it, of course. I allowed it. Welcomed it!
How could I do less? If the manuscript burns, I burn. If it succeeds, I succeed. I have written what I know and what I know is me.
Me, me, always me. I am it and it is me.
Now I must revise myself.
I’ve been thinking a lot about writing, as is my wont for I am a writer. I wonder why there aren’t more stories about writers going bugnuts insane, writing their entire lives into a story, then believing the story is now their life? Too close perhaps? Too much perhaps?
The revisions would not be a pleasurable experience, I’d imagine. Or not. Honestly, I don’t want to imagine that too much.
Though, given how this story ends, you may want to do just that.
Do the prompt yourself right here.
(Photo Credit: JerzyGorecki on Pixabay)