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.