The battlefield is blank, radiating untouched beauty. It has been blessed by nature, and not even the ferocity of the Earth’s wrath has marred it. The soldiers are in formation, ready to put their lives on the line. The commander stands ready, pencil in hand, poised to strike. The order is given: “Begin!” The soldiers charge, letters of all shapes and sizes trample this perfect landscape. Ideas are formed, words are created, and soldiers fall to the almighty power of the eraser. The commander sweats; his brow drips with anxiety. His pencil moves, twitching wildly across the page as he leads his troops. Reinforcements arrive; the thesis rises from the ashes of fallen letters. The first part of the battle has ended. The introduction has been forged from the ruins of the fight. But it is only the beginning.

Without rest, the soldiers return to battle, wrestling with ideas and forcing themselves to create longer, more complex words. Still more fall; ideas are destroyed, words crumble and sentences are broken. The commander fights against time; his troops need him now. A small relief is found; the first paragraph is over.

Then it starts again. There truly is no rest for the weary. The soldiers press on, working their way across the now pockmarked and ruined battlefield, laying down thoughts and forming prose as their comrades fall to the enemy. Faster they charge, the commander following closely behind, his mighty pencil reduced to a dull stub. They pass the mark for the second paragraph, but their work is far from over.

They cross into the territory of the third paragraph, meticulously laying down links to the thesis as they wage their brutal war. Artillery is launched, forming devastatingly intricate quotes around a valiant brigade of letters. The soldiers fight on, clambering over the ruin and destruction, dodging the cruel hand of revision as they near the end. A final leap is made; the third has been completed.

The commander stops, surveys the land, and draws in a breath as he prepares for the final push. With a flick of his wrist, what is left of his once proud army charges once more towards their goal. His pencil flies across the battlefield, creating thoughts and ideas, leading soldiers into words and forming sentences the likes of which have never been seen before. There is no turning back now; this is their final assault. The loyal soldiers push ever onwards, restating the thesis and slowly becoming broader, separating themselves from their comrades. The commander yells one final command, his pencil dashing furiously as he pushes his troops to victory. They clamber up the final hill, clawing at the ground as they climb. Then, the commander sets foot on the hill, his loyal troops crowding around him in joy. He has done it. They have won.

He turns to face the ruin behind him; the once perfect land has become destruction incarnate. His fallen soldiers lay scattered on the battlefield; their hardly noticeable remains sitting under proud words and powerful ideas. The essay has been finished; the commander has won. Reinforcements arrive; fresh troops shift around him and mutter praise for his victory under their breath. His brow furrows, he grits his teeth. Slowly, meticulously, he sharpens his pencil in preparation. The editing has begun.