Corlyenne reluctantly moved her homework onto her desk, and instantly regretted it.
Now, she understood what the hard lump by Waggie’s favorite fire hydrant was, and what Peter and Macy had used as a makeshift napkin on their greasy picnic. It also didn’t help that Fergie had drooled all over Waggie’s food bowl, causing Waggie to pack it down into Corlyenne’s homework folder in a vague attempt to get rid of it, and that Miss. Carligan “luckily” spotted it as she was looking for a temporary paint palette with [egg-made] tempera paints. As Corlyenne could now see very clearly, THAT was the “itch thing” stuck in Ronny’s diaper when he had an “accident” at the swimming pool yesterday.
“Oh, no,” Corlyenne thought, as Mrs. Handle came over to inspect her work. “I’m doomed! At the least, I’ll have to rewrite ‘I will do my homework correctly’ a thousand times!!! At the most…!”
Corlyenne shuddered as Mrs. Handle drew imminently nearer.
Mrs. Handle simply looked over Corlyenne’s work. She marked a 55/55 on her scoresheet, and handed the homework back to her.
“What?” Corlyenne thought wildly.
“Great work, Corlyenne,” Mrs. Handle said proudly. She moved away.
“Oh,” Corlyene thought, as she realized, “this IS my modern art class…”
“Is it hard to live with yourself?” she asked. “Your job is to mess with people’s lives. You write the future. Hell, for all I know you rewrite the past.”
He shook his head. “What’s done is written. There is no redo. There is only adapting and moving forward. That’s all we ever do, is keep going. And no, it’s not hard to live with myself. The line is a fine one, I’ll grant you that. But I don’t make people do anything. I’ll nudge them. When you can see it, there’s a clear sense of what’s better for them and for the world. The rest is all them.”
It’s been said that the real writing comes with the rewrite, and I have to agree it’s true. That’s where you have to make sure you’ve got real ground underneath all those characters.
I took the pen, wet the tip in my mouth. I knew I would only get one chance at this. Some things, you can’t rewrite. The past, for example, is set in stone once it occurs. There’s no going back. Every decison, every mistake, is yours forever once it’s been made.
I always believed that the rewrite was the hardest part of the literary adventure. Not only do you have to revisit everything you touched upon in the first draft, but you have to read the piece in its entirety to make sure that it makes sense.
Doug
Rands rib is sluggy orb.
Bra brag the rag:
Bare garb
Enrages bit to heed the pip
Of every patch
Placked out in envy.
Cane rushes knobs from galls:
Dio-tone and Dido-motion –
Huff carved on wax tracks justly.
It would be swell if I could delete a few things about me, if only to conform to what society – and my family, especially – wants to see in me. But to hell with that, I guess. All I really want right now is to rewrite the past and prevent myself from consuming too many fatty foods. Ten pounds in two years isn’t a joke, people.
in an era of smash and dash writing, the rewrite has become currency. Consider me this? Why then are we only given a minute to consider this word? Is it for our torture? Or is it to experience stress on this paradoxical limit.
Jamie
I don’t know how many times I have started my novel and found a passage that I need to rewrite. I suppose that’s what it’s all about though.
I will need to rewrite the passages that I recently loss due to glitches with this website. It is very disappointing, considering I was quite happy with some of those passages which are now lost. But, what is — is. Such is life.
It was in the re-write that Jill remembered that she had forgotten everything. The dentist appointment yesterday, her anniversary two days before that… possibly most meals… But the first draft was done. She put it down, called her boyfriend, and took them out to Cafe Cher.
hummus! Its a lot like the chickpea gooey thing that we eat with pita. Everytime an attempt to create something good, rewrite appears. It makes no sense at times, just hummus does not. Wondering what’s the connection, well, I will tell you the moment I discover it. A connection that just does not materialize in one word.
rewrite repeat fix it again
all the time fixing changes
always improving or disproving
is it ever perfect
is it me
is it you
we are different
do we need to rewrite
history, essays, our lives?
missingtrees
I rewrite everything. No atter how I try it goes bad, awry, puss, pufft. Holy moly, you would think rewriting was easy. That easy? Nopes. It is easy in bits and pieces, but if you ever tried writing large pieces and then rewrite it is aweful.
Minnie Gupta
They told me to rewrite the script. It was full of tired cliches, bad puns. That only works in long standing satirical dramas, apparently. Six months of work, trying to get this thing done. It made me miserable, it always did. Writing should be an act of joy.
You pull out the page, scribbling, redoing. Distracting from the path. Threads tangle that need to be untangled. Edges to be neatened. So caught up in the details you miss what you intended to do. Write more freely, my friend.
Imogen
Writing is a pleasure that I will last forever. I would write and rewrite just to satisfy myself that I have fulfilled my purpose of utilizing the talent that god has given me.
Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, the English professor said. Twenty, thirty times. And that’s what Jane had been doing, each time the story coming out a different branch in that many-worlds universe. None of them felt right. She wanted to escape the tyranny of rewriting, and then she thought: if I can’t write a story the right way after so many tries, does that mean I live my life right, even if I had twenty tries?
His pen scratched out his last paragraph of spidery, erratic writing. Great. All he had been doing was repeating himself. He chewed on the end of his pen in thought, yet nothing came to him. How on earth was he supposed to rewrite the assignment by tomorrow if he didn’t have a single idea where to start?
I was on my fifth rewrite and the script hadn’t gotten any better. I switched adjectives, perfected nouns, and rid 600 pages of the words “was” and “has,” and yet it still wasn’t good enough for him. It still needed something. What that something was, I couldn’t say.
every day is always new
always different than the day before
a new one of a kind bosck of time
and only today’s time can own the next 24 hours
its own fresh delivery of newly arrived sunlight…
the end of every day always happens overnight
days may seem to stay the same
but every day is always different from any other of your yesterdays
new day time light,air – concepts without physical mass, never in each other’s way
intangible, infinite, unstoppable time
(this just begged for one little rhyme)
i negotiate my way out of slumber every morning
my sights avoid the vivid shock of that first glare of blinding atomic white light
each day begins with first programming your yesterday’s 24 hours
encrypted data uploads into your brain
everything your yesterday captured and contained
it will process this into the programs
everyday can be a rewrite
it’s one of life’s great caveats
right a wrong
write a song
sing along
bang a gong
smoke a bong
every day i reach into a goldmine of infinite potential and limitless opportunities
blew that job interview? it’s done. try a different idea tomorrow
had a bad date? so has everyone. ask out someone else different than last time
screwed up your job? relationship? fsiled a class? everybody has stories of their miserable humiliating stupid mistakes.
any day you feel less than satisfied with
simply sleep it off and
start again tomorrow
think of what you will do differently today
reinvent yourself as often as you need improvement
it will keep you out of rut
probably get you off your butt
grab hold of each and every next 24 hours and just rewrite it
rewrite it everyday for as long as it takes for you to get it right
Then frame those red letter days in your memory like you’re unvelieing it at the Met
I had an assignment which was required to be rewritten due to the mistakes that i did in school. rewriting anything is a pain even thought i have written it previously. It is always hard to writi
Madhukar
She was rewriting her life. She had uprooted and moved herself halfway across the country; to the godforsaken state of Oregon from the thriving and vivid Colorado. She was going to start over. First she needed an apartment. And a job. And some quick and easy way to erase twenty two years of memories.
cut. cut. scrape. push away. you will scratch and scratch.
until the letters have become meaningless marks on meaningless
paper. you will grip your pencil like a lifeline. try to choke
words out of your throat. write. write.
The rewrite on the play was coming along just – treacherously. She was doing her best to please the original author, the director, and the producer. A near impossible feat in her opinion.
Each of them wanted something different. She didn’t blame the original author for wanting to keep in as much of his work as possible. However, he had to understand that everything couldn’t (and shouldn’t) be included.
The producer was easy enough to please – but the director wanted more explosions and less dialog. Which was never in the story. In fact the only bit of violence in the book was typical pigtail pulling.
The next time any of them complained to her about the other, she would go to the prop department, borrow a bow and a few arrows and shoot all three men in the ass!
Write and rewrite. That’s the thing about words… when they’re spoken they only come once. But if you write them you can change them, mold them– perfect them. And there’s something remarkable about both sides of this. Communication is a remarkable thing.
prettykickass
I can’t do this. I honestly can’t. Every time i write something down its never good enough. I can’t keep writing these things only to rewrite it and rewrite it until all life an meaning are sucked out of it.
m
Revisions
Useless
First thoughts are best thoughts
Rewriting isn’t for me
Sixty seconds is a long time
To consider revisions
Go with the flow
Just write
Worry about rewriting later.
Rewrite, write, rewrite. Whatever you scribble on that lined paper, speed type into your processor sounds inspired upon first reading. The more your eyes gloss over it, though, the minuscule errors pop out, building upon each other until you realize what you’re written is garbage. How many more times do you do this until you decide it’s at the very least good enough?
To rewrite is to write again. I do many things again. I usually brush my teeth twice, once in the morning and once and night. I also sing the same songs quite often. Here lately, I’m not sure if I can even write the first time, much less the second. It’s quite annoying. I don’t seem to have inspiration, my muses seem to have left me.
Star
here i am, writing and rewriting. how many times have i written this? a plethora of times, i tell you. for the past five years i’ve been trying to rewrite my entire life. but it’s impossible. what happens, happens. that’s the end of it. so no rewritten endings for me.
Sad
Write it again.
Do it.
Write what you feel, put it on paper, in ink, red ink.
Red like the blood that pumps through your body.
It makes you alive, breathing, feeling.
Now rewrite it, and don’t stop until you know it by heart.
Corlyenne reluctantly moved her homework onto her desk, and instantly regretted it.
Now, she understood what the hard lump by Waggie’s favorite fire hydrant was, and what Peter and Macy had used as a makeshift napkin on their greasy picnic. It also didn’t help that Fergie had drooled all over Waggie’s food bowl, causing Waggie to pack it down into Corlyenne’s homework folder in a vague attempt to get rid of it, and that Miss. Carligan “luckily” spotted it as she was looking for a temporary paint palette with [egg-made] tempera paints. As Corlyenne could now see very clearly, THAT was the “itch thing” stuck in Ronny’s diaper when he had an “accident” at the swimming pool yesterday.
“Oh, no,” Corlyenne thought, as Mrs. Handle came over to inspect her work. “I’m doomed! At the least, I’ll have to rewrite ‘I will do my homework correctly’ a thousand times!!! At the most…!”
Corlyenne shuddered as Mrs. Handle drew imminently nearer.
Mrs. Handle simply looked over Corlyenne’s work. She marked a 55/55 on her scoresheet, and handed the homework back to her.
“What?” Corlyenne thought wildly.
“Great work, Corlyenne,” Mrs. Handle said proudly. She moved away.
“Oh,” Corlyene thought, as she realized, “this IS my modern art class…”
“Is it hard to live with yourself?” she asked. “Your job is to mess with people’s lives. You write the future. Hell, for all I know you rewrite the past.”
He shook his head. “What’s done is written. There is no redo. There is only adapting and moving forward. That’s all we ever do, is keep going. And no, it’s not hard to live with myself. The line is a fine one, I’ll grant you that. But I don’t make people do anything. I’ll nudge them. When you can see it, there’s a clear sense of what’s better for them and for the world. The rest is all them.”
It’s been said that the real writing comes with the rewrite, and I have to agree it’s true. That’s where you have to make sure you’ve got real ground underneath all those characters.
I took the pen, wet the tip in my mouth. I knew I would only get one chance at this. Some things, you can’t rewrite. The past, for example, is set in stone once it occurs. There’s no going back. Every decison, every mistake, is yours forever once it’s been made.
I always believed that the rewrite was the hardest part of the literary adventure. Not only do you have to revisit everything you touched upon in the first draft, but you have to read the piece in its entirety to make sure that it makes sense.
Rands rib is sluggy orb.
Bra brag the rag:
Bare garb
Enrages bit to heed the pip
Of every patch
Placked out in envy.
Cane rushes knobs from galls:
Dio-tone and Dido-motion –
Huff carved on wax tracks justly.
It would be swell if I could delete a few things about me, if only to conform to what society – and my family, especially – wants to see in me. But to hell with that, I guess. All I really want right now is to rewrite the past and prevent myself from consuming too many fatty foods. Ten pounds in two years isn’t a joke, people.
Pooh!
The rites of the tires –
To cover and argue
The loud cloud
of them and the others
To cross and be eaten by weaves
In the twist.
in an era of smash and dash writing, the rewrite has become currency. Consider me this? Why then are we only given a minute to consider this word? Is it for our torture? Or is it to experience stress on this paradoxical limit.
I don’t know how many times I have started my novel and found a passage that I need to rewrite. I suppose that’s what it’s all about though.
again, again, again, again, again! Trim, trim, trim, trim, trim. Condense, condense, condense, condense. new font, brighter language, more concise, clearer, too many words!
I will need to rewrite the passages that I recently loss due to glitches with this website. It is very disappointing, considering I was quite happy with some of those passages which are now lost. But, what is — is. Such is life.
It was in the re-write that Jill remembered that she had forgotten everything. The dentist appointment yesterday, her anniversary two days before that… possibly most meals… But the first draft was done. She put it down, called her boyfriend, and took them out to Cafe Cher.
Reescrever
hummus! Its a lot like the chickpea gooey thing that we eat with pita. Everytime an attempt to create something good, rewrite appears. It makes no sense at times, just hummus does not. Wondering what’s the connection, well, I will tell you the moment I discover it. A connection that just does not materialize in one word.
rewrite repeat fix it again
all the time fixing changes
always improving or disproving
is it ever perfect
is it me
is it you
we are different
do we need to rewrite
history, essays, our lives?
I rewrite everything. No atter how I try it goes bad, awry, puss, pufft. Holy moly, you would think rewriting was easy. That easy? Nopes. It is easy in bits and pieces, but if you ever tried writing large pieces and then rewrite it is aweful.
They told me to rewrite the script. It was full of tired cliches, bad puns. That only works in long standing satirical dramas, apparently. Six months of work, trying to get this thing done. It made me miserable, it always did. Writing should be an act of joy.
You pull out the page, scribbling, redoing. Distracting from the path. Threads tangle that need to be untangled. Edges to be neatened. So caught up in the details you miss what you intended to do. Write more freely, my friend.
Writing is a pleasure that I will last forever. I would write and rewrite just to satisfy myself that I have fulfilled my purpose of utilizing the talent that god has given me.
Now, there are too many great minds who think alike. All that is left is to have ideas rewritten.
And rewritten. And rewritten.
re do re work
life is a do over
a re-working of one’s heart, mind and beliefs
if only i could see
what would happen to me
i’d change the way things are
and be who i’d want to be
but alas, life isn’t like that
life is never even fair
so thus i cannot rewrite
i’ll live my life in despair.
I love you, he wrote on the sand.
A wave washed it away.
He rewrote it.
And she sighed happily.
Rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, the English professor said. Twenty, thirty times. And that’s what Jane had been doing, each time the story coming out a different branch in that many-worlds universe. None of them felt right. She wanted to escape the tyranny of rewriting, and then she thought: if I can’t write a story the right way after so many tries, does that mean I live my life right, even if I had twenty tries?
His pen scratched out his last paragraph of spidery, erratic writing. Great. All he had been doing was repeating himself. He chewed on the end of his pen in thought, yet nothing came to him. How on earth was he supposed to rewrite the assignment by tomorrow if he didn’t have a single idea where to start?
I was on my fifth rewrite and the script hadn’t gotten any better. I switched adjectives, perfected nouns, and rid 600 pages of the words “was” and “has,” and yet it still wasn’t good enough for him. It still needed something. What that something was, I couldn’t say.
every day is always new
always different than the day before
a new one of a kind bosck of time
and only today’s time can own the next 24 hours
its own fresh delivery of newly arrived sunlight…
the end of every day always happens overnight
days may seem to stay the same
but every day is always different from any other of your yesterdays
new day time light,air – concepts without physical mass, never in each other’s way
intangible, infinite, unstoppable time
(this just begged for one little rhyme)
i negotiate my way out of slumber every morning
my sights avoid the vivid shock of that first glare of blinding atomic white light
each day begins with first programming your yesterday’s 24 hours
encrypted data uploads into your brain
everything your yesterday captured and contained
it will process this into the programs
everyday can be a rewrite
it’s one of life’s great caveats
right a wrong
write a song
sing along
bang a gong
smoke a bong
every day i reach into a goldmine of infinite potential and limitless opportunities
blew that job interview? it’s done. try a different idea tomorrow
had a bad date? so has everyone. ask out someone else different than last time
screwed up your job? relationship? fsiled a class? everybody has stories of their miserable humiliating stupid mistakes.
any day you feel less than satisfied with
simply sleep it off and
start again tomorrow
think of what you will do differently today
reinvent yourself as often as you need improvement
it will keep you out of rut
probably get you off your butt
grab hold of each and every next 24 hours and just rewrite it
rewrite it everyday for as long as it takes for you to get it right
Then frame those red letter days in your memory like you’re unvelieing it at the Met
is the magic of the 24-hour” (re)cycle
a do-over
revisions
edits
Recursive editing with a firm termination date: that’s how it’s done.
I had an assignment which was required to be rewritten due to the mistakes that i did in school. rewriting anything is a pain even thought i have written it previously. It is always hard to writi
She was rewriting her life. She had uprooted and moved herself halfway across the country; to the godforsaken state of Oregon from the thriving and vivid Colorado. She was going to start over. First she needed an apartment. And a job. And some quick and easy way to erase twenty two years of memories.
cut. cut. scrape. push away. you will scratch and scratch.
until the letters have become meaningless marks on meaningless
paper. you will grip your pencil like a lifeline. try to choke
words out of your throat. write. write.
The rewrite on the play was coming along just – treacherously. She was doing her best to please the original author, the director, and the producer. A near impossible feat in her opinion.
Each of them wanted something different. She didn’t blame the original author for wanting to keep in as much of his work as possible. However, he had to understand that everything couldn’t (and shouldn’t) be included.
The producer was easy enough to please – but the director wanted more explosions and less dialog. Which was never in the story. In fact the only bit of violence in the book was typical pigtail pulling.
The next time any of them complained to her about the other, she would go to the prop department, borrow a bow and a few arrows and shoot all three men in the ass!
Write and rewrite. That’s the thing about words… when they’re spoken they only come once. But if you write them you can change them, mold them– perfect them. And there’s something remarkable about both sides of this. Communication is a remarkable thing.
I can’t do this. I honestly can’t. Every time i write something down its never good enough. I can’t keep writing these things only to rewrite it and rewrite it until all life an meaning are sucked out of it.
Revisions
Useless
First thoughts are best thoughts
Rewriting isn’t for me
Sixty seconds is a long time
To consider revisions
Go with the flow
Just write
Worry about rewriting later.
Rewrite, write, rewrite. Whatever you scribble on that lined paper, speed type into your processor sounds inspired upon first reading. The more your eyes gloss over it, though, the minuscule errors pop out, building upon each other until you realize what you’re written is garbage. How many more times do you do this until you decide it’s at the very least good enough?
To rewrite is to write again. I do many things again. I usually brush my teeth twice, once in the morning and once and night. I also sing the same songs quite often. Here lately, I’m not sure if I can even write the first time, much less the second. It’s quite annoying. I don’t seem to have inspiration, my muses seem to have left me.
here i am, writing and rewriting. how many times have i written this? a plethora of times, i tell you. for the past five years i’ve been trying to rewrite my entire life. but it’s impossible. what happens, happens. that’s the end of it. so no rewritten endings for me.
Write it again.
Do it.
Write what you feel, put it on paper, in ink, red ink.
Red like the blood that pumps through your body.
It makes you alive, breathing, feeling.
Now rewrite it, and don’t stop until you know it by heart.