Today I murdered, but nobody died.

Today I gagged people, but they were free to speak.

Today I rearranged the landscape, the houses and the furniture, but nobody would know the difference.

Today I put people in their place, and they were better for it.

Today I brutally carved away identities, destoryed meaning and upended situations, and yet it was as if I never touched a thing.

How? why?

I am revising my novel.

And I tell you people, now that I'm past the pride, the fear, the anxiety, I am having a great time.

Revising, after all, is the real writing.

But oh what it takes to get here!