Writing can be painful; it can be exciting. I pass through the
gamut of emotion, from frustration to elation. At times I want to give up and find a new
outlet for my creativity. Maybe oil painting or playing the piano. Or I can
give up all together and watch mindless TV.
My latest project starts out great. The words pour out. The scenes
develop. I throw out some chapters to my writer friends and get lots of praise.
Then comes the wall. I know where I want to go, but getting
there becomes a struggle. Every word I write comes with heartache and disappointment.
Sentences form between long bouts of inactivity. I feel like I’m building a
railroad from ten different directions, and the tracks don’t come anywhere
close to meeting in the middle.
When I finally get through the first draft, the thing looks like
Swiss cheese. I’ve created many holes and don’t know how to fill them.
Everything comes up short of where I want to be. Maybe pottery can be
fulfilling. I’ll make ashtrays for Christmas presents.
Then something clicks. A new idea occurs. Missing scenes come to me. The words pour out faster than I can type.
The muse has returned, and I know I’ll complete another novel.
I guess making origami birds will have to wait.
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