I'm editing again. The last resort of a blocked writer. My manuscript sits in a large, purple binder. The binder still looks new, though I bought it six or so months ago. It should be battered, corners bent, scratched and smudged. Dented, even. Falling to pieces perhaps.
The pages are battered. Though dusty, and unread for far too long.
I have a red pen. I stole it from work. Already there are new marks on new drafts. Drafts I planned to send to agents, drafts meant to be perfect.
They're not. Yet.