If that were true, then only dead men could write obituaries.
I gave up on heavy editing half a page into reading my manuscript (working title: The Monster Squad). There will be other reads - a helluva lotta them - and god knows, I'll be sick of it by the time I'm anywhere near close to sending it out into the world.
Because I now write "first draft" (more like a really long, really detailed outline) longhand, I put the words down and then forget them. I don't look back as I read. I write, I remember the most recent events, and I keep going. The characters come to life more and more in my head, and I don't have to remember what they're like; I love them like people, fully formed and very real inside my head.
It's making me laugh, and almost cry, and by god, if I can do that to myself with my own words, with work, it'll be phenomenal. Can I do the work? Maybe. But I have hope.
I am not a magical being; I do not live in this world; I don't have the mind of a predator, or ex-military. I don't need these things. I have research, and some spark of creation, and it's worked. The overall draft is fucked up in a lot of ways, but that's what editing's for.
I've captured humor, and horror, and sorrow, and something extra special that I can't define, and I am eager to get back to reading, and to making these words shine to others like they shine in my own head.
That's all I can ask of my work - and more than anyone can ever hope to successfully bring to the table...and yet, it happens. I think it's happened to me. And that's why I can't be anything more or less than what I've been since I was 10: A goddamn writer.