It began as a dream, a picture I painted in my mind during that grey time between wakefulness and sleep. In the ashen hours I began to weave a story, adding colour and character to bring the dull hours to life.
Soon it became a chore, putting words to the page and grinding away to finish the story. Of course, the pages came together and the journey drew gradually towards the shining beacon at the end of the dark tunnel. But every word pressed into the page drew something out of me. I sapped my imagination until my mind was dry and raw.
Then it was complete, a rough structure like a misshapen urn, the clay still wet around its edges. Now to smooth out the ridges and fill in the cracks, making it whole. And this is the hardest part.
Pouring over those crisp white pages with each black letter standing out as a stark accusation. Wrong, incorrect, uninspired. Dragging myself through these words I wrote and feeling them prick against my skin, so much needing to be changed, so much to be improved.
Eating my own words until I am full, bloated by what I have written until it makes me sick. All that remains when it is finished, when the sides are sleek and each word crisp and new, is to set it down on the counter. If someone does eat it, I can only hope they do not choke.