Lupe Farkas

Is the first draft of a book always the most emotional?

I did not expect printing the manuscript to feel like this.

On a screen, it never seemed entirely real. It was something contained, something that could still be altered, reduced, or erased without consequence.

In paper form, it became something else.

It had weight.

It occupied space beside me.

I held it for a long time without reading it. Just looking at it, as if confirming its existence required no further action.

Did I really write this?

I asked the question more than once, without expecting an answer.

It was past 1 a.m. The house was quiet. I should have been asleep. Instead, I remained there, unable to separate myself from it.

There is a moment when something stops belonging only to the person who created it.

This was that moment.