dissatisfied—a picture of me, editing me

When people tell me that I write fast, that book making must be so very easy for me, that I must just plow through my stories, that I'm so lucky, I'm tempted to show them my desk.  First, all the handwritten pages, discarded.  Then all the typed pages, printed, edited, discarded.  Then another typed page—because I thought I was done—which is printed, scribbled over, and discarded.

This, above, is how it really is for me.

Very little satisfies.