You could knit your way to a revision, making a book new with a set of needles and a skein of yarn. If only it were that easy, and life gave you this:
instead of this:
I’ve been struggling hard with the first 20 pages of this book, trying in this draft to get the rhythm, voice, cadence and timing right to these characters and story. It’s a bitch. I’ve been in these pages again and again, and yet the stitches remain so tangled, it feels like I’ll be ripping back forever. I sit at my desk, I sit at the dining room table, I lie on the couch. I read novel openings from all the books on my shelf. I am so close, I can feel the paragraphs and pages on my tongue and my finger tips. I long to see the words line up the way they should. I keep knitting, keep ripping back.
Some day, eventually, I’ll stroll off in these:
Until then, there is just this, the reminder of where I’ve been: