"Of course it is," Clara said with a small smile. "It's a first draft. It’s the skeleton, the bare bones. All that matters right now is that you’re getting it down, getting it out of your head. You can't fix a blank page, Elias. You can only fix what’s already there."
The coffee in the chipped mug had gone cold, a stagnant dark pool mirroring the dull grey of the morning sky outside. Elias sat at the small kitchen table, his fingers hovering over the keys of an old typewriter he’d found in a thrift store years ago. Beside him lay a scattered pile of papers—the first draft of a story he had been trying to write for what felt like a lifetime.
Elias sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "I’m trying to write something that matters, Clara. But it’s all just... garbage. No one will ever want to read this." You Are All That Matters
He looked at the title he’d scrawled at the top of the first page: “All That Matters.”
He looked at the papers again. "I want it to. But look at it. It's full of holes. The characters are flat. The dialogue is stiff." "Of course it is," Clara said with a small smile
"Still at it, Elias?" she asked, stepping into the room. She glanced at the mess of papers. "It looks like a battlefield in here."
Clara sat down opposite him, her expression softening. "Do you believe it matters, Elias?" All that matters right now is that you’re
A soft knock at the door startled him. It was Clara, his neighbor, a woman who always seemed to have a kind word and a plate of warm cookies.
