There is nothing you can do except try to write it the way that it was. so you must write each day better than you possibly can and use the sorrow that you have now to make you know how the early sorrow came. and you must always remember the things you believed because if you know them they will be there in the writing and you won’t betray them. the writing is the only progress you make.
I am a technophile, so there is no such thing as a first draft. the first draft plunges on, and about a quarter of the way through it i realise i'm doing things wrong, so i start rewriting it. what you call the first draft becomes rather like a caterpillar; it is progressing fairly slowly, but there is movement up and down its whole length, the whole story is being changed. i call this draft zero, telling myself how the story is supposed to go.
I just stood there, looking at her. My head was spinning, my mouth dry, and all i could think about was that i wanted to go someplace safe, someplace i could be alone and okay, and that this was impossible. My old life had changed and my new one was still in progress, altering by the second. There was nothing, nothing to depend on. And why was i surprised?