The writer hits his stride,

he knows just what to say.

Every page will count,

and readers yearn to pay.

But then reality hits him

between the eyes with a shovel.

He re-reads the first chapter,

and it is all snide drivel

How could yesterdays insights

suddenly seem so banal?

What he once viewed as pearls

now appear as a sewage canal.

So he murders his darlings

polishes each paragraph.

Then a reviewer states,

she much preferred the first draft.

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