I’m sitting in front of my computer studying a picture of a caterpillar and staring at it as intently as the character in the piece I’m writing is. It’s the fisrt page of a novel, and it sucks for a first page but it doesn’t matter because it’s a first draft, I’ve got no idea where I’m going with it, and edits are magic.
The caterpillar is a sort of acrylic yellow and black with thin white stripes and weird knobby feet. It’s on a leaf or something and its head is bent down, it’s antennae curling towards the ground. I’ve omitted the white stripes and given it fuzz to make it more interesting. I figure all carepillars should have fuzz.
I’m going to include a picture of the caterpillar(it was the first result on Google Images or else it would’ve been green) and then you’ll get a special glance at the vulnerability of a first draft(well, a paragraph from it).
“Different things make us happy, Mira,” he said, and lifted his book to his face again. I crawled back to the caterpillar and stared at it again, this time staring at it to remember it instead of staring at it to see it. It was black and yellow like a bumblebee and covered in a sort of prickly fuzz all over. Each of its little feet were delicate and strong, its body thick and twisting. It was beautiful how it was, strong and independent, self-satisfactory and self-sufficient I couldn’t imagine it as a graceful, beautiful butterfly. I couldn’t imagine its metamorphosis into something it wasn’t now because those things simply can’t be fathomed. It is what it is what it is until it isn’t.
And there you have it. You’ve got no idea what’s going on because it’s in the middle of the first page, but there you go. Aren’t you just so LUCKY?
Sarcasm. What bliss.