What kind of head fuck is editing?
Nothing makes me question why I write more.
It’s like the death at the end of the soliloquy,
The silent note at the end of the score.
It’s the nagging voice that says, ‘I am unfinished.’
The stain on the blushing bride’s train.
It is something in which Hope is diminished.
Self belief comes under great strain.
It’s the questioning of questions and questions.
The cutting of the granite and clay.
The forced turning of creativity’s windmill,
On a breezeless day.
It is divorced from glee and celebration.
It is a hike through a wordy morass.
It’s like running for the fun train at the station,
Then watching it sail past.
Editing is the extra shift on all Fridays
That furrows the lines in the frown.
It’s the purgatory at the end of all my days.
But at least I’ve written it down.