It begins with hope, as most things do. You dig out the foundation with care and toil, because you know it is the support system for everything that will sit on it. You level it out and make it sound, you remove all debris, and you put in effort day after day to add layer upon layer, the ground floor the most difficult to put down because you’re still learning.
Eventually you get to the first floor, then the second, maybe even a third. Walls and columns and beams and ceilings. Sheet glass windows are a nice touch. Tiled flooring or carpet? You fill in the holes of your love with cement, hardening with time until nothing palpitates anymore. Over time, you see change and progress and satisfaction and disillusionment and emptiness and shock and heartbreak. Here is the building in all its unfinishedness. You see it as a task you can’t handle anymore because you will never be satisfied and it will never be complete. Your heart isn’t in it anymore and it is now worthless to you.
You call me and you go to sleep and I take over. You watch as I run everything into the ground, as your hard work slowly crumbles and burns. The foundation of the building caving in to flood and rot. Weeds grow out of the ashes, greedily consuming any nourishment that might have been the seed for rejuvenation. The ground is dry and barren. Everything is dead and will remain so for a while.
And that’s how I feel about writing a book.