I rewrote Pink Milk, a classic gay ghost story of mine, for the first time. Draft two choked up hard over a cold keyboard. I was discussing this with my cousin and it took us both a second to realize when I said “I rewrote my story,” she heard, “I did the funnest thing just ever,” when really I said, “I puked up the next trash version of trash and I feel bad now.”

When we realized the difference we both laughed. And it occurred to me that while she had some time on me she was still published and I was not, so it was clear which one was better. She seemed to sense my thoughts and said, “I have an observation that I just hope won’t be totally personally devastating to you,”

“Jeez,” I said, “Ok?”

“You really like beginnings. Like your mother. Your mother really liked beginnings. The beginning of the garden season… you understand.”

My brain frankly exploded, “Yes,” I said, acutely grateful all of a sudden for her and her strange bubbly bluntness. “I totally do.”

Because I do like beginnings.

Writing Pink Milk was less like constipated regurgitation and more like singing. Then, there it sat, sang out in a mess of disorganized lyrics and untouchable for at least a year. Now I’m here again, chewing it up, trying to shape it nice.

I hate it.

There is nothing uglier to me than chewing on what’s already been chewed.

That’s the ticket though, isn’t it? Chewing once is not enough.

Eventually it’ll taste better if I just keep it up. Much better.