Date Sent: 19 July 2025
Origin: Forward Observation Post / Reality Line B
Urgency Level: Moderate
“Some truths don’t need decoding—they just need courage.”
Let’s be honest, this week was a bit of a wreck.
Smoke rolled back in. Again. Some U.S. governors are panicking about air quality while we’re just over here living inside a slow burn. The rain finally came, but not soon enough to stop the haze, or my editing spiral.
I hit the halfway mark on Pejorative and circled back to Chapter One. The layout was technically finished (well, half way at least.) Most chapters locked in. But something about that first chapter nagged at me. I read it once. Then again. Tried to put on my reader hat. And it just didn’t land. Too many flashbacks. Not enough anchor. The rest of the book has memory fragments, sure, but this wasn’t leading anyone in, it was pushing them out.
The urge to cut it came fast. I waited a day. Then deleted the whole thing.
I started over. Not out of panic, out of clarity. I knew what it needed to be, an opening that feels like we’re stepping into a moment near the end, that asks the reader, “How the hell did we get here?” Now it does that. Same tone, but now it commits. It leads. I’ll give you a little sample of the rewrite.
Old Version (False Dawn):
The footage was surreal, children waving dual flags, synthetic applause rising and falling like waves beneath the voiceover… A sticker was pressed over a burning maple leaf, its embers flickering under the glossy sheen of a brand-new unity flag.
Someone watching beside me said, ‘Guess that’s that.’ I didn’t respond. I was still holding my rifle. But I felt unarmed.
New Version (False Dawn):
A civilian woman appeared next, standing on Parliament’s marble steps… The camera zoomed in on a sticker covering a charred maple leaf, the flames digitally scrubbed beneath a perfect layer of plastic sheen.
“One of the guys beside me whispered, ‘It’s like burying someone alive.’ No one laughed. Not even the corporal with the loud jokes. He was staring at his boots, fingers curled tight around the sling of his C8.
Everything since then, rewriting, formatting hell, knee woes, Reedsy behaving like a moody cat (giving Atticus a go), has felt lighter. Still annoying, sure. But better.
In other news, Strathcona’s Guard showed up in full scarlet and gold in London, reminding the world Canada still rides tall. Meanwhile I’m here grinding through footnotes and fixes like I’m editing a field report from a lost history.
This is the writing season I’m in, tired, stubborn, and quietly resolved. I drink coffee like it means something. Maybe it does.
If you’re in a similar place, rewriting late, doubting often, grinding forward anyway, you’re not alone. Chapter One might need to go. Or maybe it just needs you to look harder.
Pejorative: Echoes of a Nation is still on track. And now, it’s stronger.
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