When I re-write I can brutally remove what I don't like.
I can cut. I can paste. I can re-arrange a hundred times---if I feel like it.
And I can refuse to publish, or I can annoy my friends with my drafts.
In life I enjoy no such freedom:
Who I am and what I am,
where I am,
and what I have become,
all sit there staring at me,
like an ill-formed chunk of granite,
and I haven't got the tools the stone requires.
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