One of the things I miss most about keeping a writing blog is the constant assessment of process. Because I was always writing about writing, I was more aware of my writing. More aware of what worked and what didn’t, why I did or did not do certain things. 

Of course, the reason I stopped writing about writing was because I tend to want to use my writing time, you know, writing, and the more I indulged in the writing (as opposed to the writing about writing), the more I realized I didn’t know shit about writing, and maybe I just needed to shut up.

But I seem to be learning the same things over and over again, and every time it happens, I’m like, “Oh, yeah, I remember that now. Wonder why that didn’t stick.”

The most recent of these moments is happening now, and it has to do with first drafting.

Or more specifically, that first drafts are shockingly shit, and the best way to combat the shit-shock is to always be drafting something.

I learned this in 2010, and then again in 2012, and then a year later in 2013, and then in July 2014. 

And now I’m learning it again in April 2015. 

It’s surprising how quickly one forgets just how incredibly hard it is to draft a book. To put words on the page even though you know they are the wrong words. Even though you know the words are absolute shit. 

When I finished my last book, I promptly started another. Because I hadn’t yet forgotten that the secret to drafting is to never stop drafting. 

But then there were holidays and revisions and setbacks at work. There was stress and anxiety and sick cats and stomach bugs. 

In the end, the book I had been working on got scrapped, needed to be entirely redrafted with a different focus. I took some time off. Finished revisions. Did a lot of not writing. 

And now I’m back, with a new book, and I’m sick with just how badly it sucks. Physically ill. I’m losing brain cells writing it. 

Thing is, this is normal. 

This is how it’s supposed to be. 

For me, at least.

This is how I feel with every book I’ve ever written--a truth to which three years of writing-blogging can attest. 

Memory is a funny, fickle little monster. I say this because I remember the books I’ve written, but I don’t really remember writing them. 

Even the last book, which I turned in not even a month ago, is a blur. A scroll through my text messages show that not thirty-six hours before I sent the book back to my agent, I was texting my friend Liz, telling her all about how I could not fix my book because it was an unfixable mess, and did she know how to break the news to the agent and editor waiting for me to figure my shit out?

From unfixable mess to polished and turned in. In a day in a half. And hell if I know how that happened. 

So realistically, based on past experience, I should not be sick over a shitty first draft. I should look at it as part of the process, and trust that no matter how shitty it is now, in a month, it will be less shitty. And in three, it probably won’t be shitty at all.

And instead of dreading the imperfect pages, I should embrace them, close my eyes and dive in, make as many mistakes as I can, while I can. Because if ever there was a time to make them, this is it.

This is my challenge for April. This is my challenge for always. 

Do the work. Trust the process. Let go of imperfection. 

Zayn bows as he slides the door to let him enter and he ducks his head, smiling softly, feeling the usual buzz from coming into Zayn's room prickle under his skin.

He sits on the bed, watches, rapt, as Zayn rummages through his things, and it's a shame the wheater's gotten so cold, 'cause he should wear black tops and boxers all the time, drive everyone on campus wild with his olive skin litttered in ink.

"I'm feeling lazy today," he composes himself mentally but it doesn't stop the itching under his fingertips. "Don't think I'll even get undressed."

Zayn chuckles and comes sit next to him on the bed, rolling up  square piece of brown paper Niall has become familiar with. "It's okay, babe," he smiles and finishes rolling up the joint with quick, precise movements. "I'll be more than glad to do it for you."

He's whispering against the skin of Niall's neck now, teeth nibbling somewhere around Niall's left earlobe.

"Want some?" Zayn asks, arched eyebrow and the perfect picture for temptation and sin.

Niall gives him a duh face and takes the offered stick, dragging a couple of inhales. Zayn's teeth are on his shoulder now, alternating between bites and kisses, with one hand sneaking under his white shirt to play with his nipples.

He moans, bucking his hips up and nearly dropping the object in his hand.

Zayn continues to torture him with deft fingers that strip him out of his clothing and suddenly he's on his back, shining sunlight from outside blocked by Zayn's form draped over his body.

The black clothing on Zayn looked good earlier but right now it's fucking offensive. He whines and tugs at it, dragging his nails around Zayn's ribs, moaning in relief when Zayn takes the hint and gets the awful barrier off, giving Niall enough room to go nuts.

His brain doesn't go fuzzy until some time and a few drags later, just after a shotgun move turned make out and grind session. Suddenly he's too light for his own skin, feeling as if he's gonna start floating any second, and then Zayn's mouth is travelling down his navel, finally settling on his dick.

He archs his back, fingers landing on soft hair that's now long enough for him to tug so he does just that, groaning along Zayn when he does.

Too soon fire spreads through his limbs, tingling all the way down to the tip of his toes. Moans rip themselves from his throat, and their neighbors must hate them, Niall muses, and then giggles at the ridiculous image of the hipster-looking dude from next door frowning at all the noise they make whenever they have sex.

Zayn pulls out then, looking so beautiful with red lips and blown pupils, and Niall doesn't realize he's said that out loud until Zayn is ducking his head, smiling flustered before taking him back into his mouth and making the world spin around Niall until he's coming with a loud groan, feeling Zayn's throat work to swallow it all.

He's definitely floating now, feeling out of his body and lighter than air, kissing Zayn when he budges under his whines and comes within reach.

His hand sneaks down to Zayn's dick instinctively, but Zayn's got other plans, moving away and Niall doesn't know why until a second later there's a dick in front of his face, shiny bead of precome hanging at the tip that he wipes away with the pad of his thumb, putting it into his mouth a second later.

Zayn whines and Niall takes his cue, cursing his gag reflex as he takes him all the way in but not budging up. When his stomach gets complaining he pulls back, using his hand as leverage and working his tongue around the head.

"Fuck, Ni, your mouth."

Zayn sounds absolutely wrecked, thighs quivering from wher he's trying so hard not to come yet.

Niall whimpers and works in earnest, sucking and licking and pulling back at the last second, feeling Zayn's come hit him in the chin, lips and nose. He groans and works him through it with his hand, whimpering and licking whatever's still coming out.

Zayn's kiss is more of a playful lick on his tongue and lower lip than anything. He chases after he pulls back and smiles when Zayn laughs quietly, struggling to catch the towel sent his way so he can clean his face properly.

Come shots on the face are awesome, he decides, turning onto his stomach. The towel hits something on its landing, Niall doesn't feel like moving to see what it was.

Something warm covers his body, trail of kisses running down the back of his neck.

"You have class in less than an hour," Zayn murmurs against the dip on his lower back.

"I know," he whispers, surprised (but not really) at how wrecked his voice sounds. "Trying to get rid of me, Malik?"

Zayn's mouth is back on his neck, and yes, Niall wants to keep it that way, not move for the rest of the day. Fuck Advanced Music Production Analysis.

"Not trying to get rid of you, babe," and fuck, his voice is rough too, Niall wants to fuck his throat and see how much more hoarse it can get. "Don't be like that."

Niall laughs quietly but doesn't say anything else, just enjoys Zayn's nose playing with the hairs on his nape and whines when Zayn tells him it's time to go if he wants to make it on time.

Leaving the warmth of Zayn's bed and body is bad, but having to dress himself to do so is even worse. That's why he prefers arrival time, where he can just lie in bed or pretend to be lazy and Zayn will undress him, every single time. He glares at all his clothes as he puts them on, hearing Zayn laughing behind his back, lying spread naked on his own bed, lit cigarette in his mouth.

Niall glares at him too.