I wrote a little piece today that I felt fantastically proud of. The words sang to me from the paper like a beautiful song. I showed it to my boyfriend intending to witness his awestruck reaction. Instead he began breaking each sentence down into it’s components. Focusing on sentence structure and design. Seeing as how the last time he offered assistance it was met with a tidal wave of emotion, I decided to embrace his help. We sat at the table picking apart each line. It felt invigorating to improve upon these three little blocks of text. We changed words. We added punctuation. Together we molded the piece into something new. Twelve new print outs and thirty-six changes later I had a beautiful piece. He made another suggestion. I had already been so caught up in our rhythm that I started to make the adjustment, but his assistance stopped. He fell flat right here. He didn’t have a word to replace the one he said didn’t work and neither did I. He had lost interest in this editing fiasco. I was left with my work only to realize that it appeared to be bleeding. Riddled with slashes my text sat before me. I scrambled to patch the holes and restore the beauty I remembered. Sadly I am not a heart-renderer. I could not cause it’s flesh to seamlessly mend itself before my eyes. I could only stare at it’s mutilated and lifeless body.

Looking back at this I feel differently. I believe the editing duo felt so invigorating because it was a duo. Emotions feed like a fire. Passionate writing can create excitement that burns. Throw in a little more enthusiasm from someone you love and it’s just like throwing fresh timber on a bonfire. I don’t feel that the changes were the problem. Or that there even was a problem. I just haven’t learned how to control my fire solo yet.

 

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