The rain came down like hail. Hard. Cats and dogs hard. Fog. Wind. Rain. A semi zips past, a mere red glow in the mist. The day is one in late June. The hour is well past dawn, but the rain made it dark as dusk. I am in my car, on my way to meet with four who will edit my work. My tale. My baby.
On the road, the roar of the gale hits my ears. My eyes hurt from the blur of rain. Fear fills me, yet I push on with the help of a pep talk: Stay calm. Stay in your lane. Keep your eye on the fog line. You got this.
At half past noon, I take my seat. The four read my work. I pour out my life on the page. They pour out tips. Trim the fat. Cut the flab. Pump up the zing. This word is no good. This word is too weak. This word has no use. All I hear is: Clip. Cut. Lop. Plan. Pace. Plot.
Fear fills me, yet I push on with the help of a pep talk: Stay calm. Stay in your chair. Keep your eye on the work. You got this.
On the way back home, the rain is gone. The sun is out in a pale blue sky. My mind is on my work. My tale. My baby.
Clip. Cut. Lop.
Plan. Pace. Plot.
I got this.

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