First Drafts
Did I ever say how much I hate rewrites?
I get the first draft all finished–all 98 pages of it. Then, in the middle of the night, a Magpie demon sneaks in and steals all of the good parts.
This morning I opened up the first draft of “Elf Call” to discover piles of brittle, dry leaves where once fountains of imagination danced and sparkled in the sun. I’m going to have to set a ring of moustraps around my desk. A guillotine. That’s what I need. Or maybe a glue trap to catch the buggger, so I can ask it where it’s hidden the wonderful, special parts of this story it stole. And what about all my other stories that it’s ruined?