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A special form of hell

Occasionally, I meet authors who say they love re-writing. I hate them. First, I assume they're lying. If I can tell by their eyes they're serious, I think they must be simple. Or maybe they drink box wine and snort prescription pills before they work. I love writing first drafts. They're a conjuring, a summoning forth of unseen worlds. I feel brilliant putting those new words on paper. Then, I come back and find I've written dross. There may be glimmers of something great, but that greatness is ...

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