I was sitting at my desk writing a story. As I was writing this story a lamp flickered on in the house. Why did the lamp flickered on? Why, because I flickered the switch on. It lit the whole room with a deep yellow, a very soothing color. As I began to conform to the feeling in the room, so did my writing.
My writing became comforting, allowing its arms wide open to the pen making marks over the paper. Soon pages upon pages emerged creating an unique story of laughter and happiness. As the night grew deeper, the laughter turned into yelling and the happiness turned into anger. The pen abused the paper, scratching out bad words and sentence that don’t belong. Harsh things were said, and no forgiveness was wanted.
Finally the sun rose and the ink dried. The damage that was done is permanently stained. Soon the ink owned up for its mistake, and maked up for the wrong things said last night. A clean slate was made and was printed out.
The story was mistake free as if it were perfect from the beginning. Deep in the corner though there was the draft hidden away in the corner of the room, where no light shined. There, the memories of problems that prevented the story from great things laid, remembering what to prevent in the future.