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I find that writing can be a messy business. It is for me anyway.

First there are the endless notes to myself: half cryptic tiny letters scrunched on the page with arrows and doodles and grocery lists and coffee rings.  Some of it invariably lost to the abyss of illegible handwriting.

Next, there’ll be about a hundred and a half Word documents. Written, rewritten, copied, pasted, arranged, rearranged, scrapped, revived, and drafted.

Then come the revisions – this is the truly messy bit.  I print out my draft and wreak a terrible havoc upon it.  Crossing out, adding in.  Cutting pages apart, stapling sections together like a paper Frankenstein’s monster.  The notes come back out to join the party, and eventually the floor of my apartment is covered in sheets and sheets of a single draft.

And I sit atop the spread of papers like an un-housebroken puppy wondering how to put it all back together again.

It’s a messy business.

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