Last week I worked on my outline. By laying out a sequence of cards, and forcing myself to work all the way through to the end, I was able to see where the weakest part of my story was. It was a little disheartening, because the spot I struggled with was the part I’ve always wrestled with and I felt like I’d made no progress at all.
Gritting my teeth I jumped back into my rewrite. The problem in the outline was with the resolution, and I desperately hoped I’d figure it out before I got there (and that when I did figure it out, I wouldn’t have to rewrite the first 200 pages – AGAIN).
Later in the week, I was tucking my daughter into bed. She looked up at me with those perfect blue eyes and said “don’t go, mommy.” So I sat with her while she fell asleep, with thoughts of my story bouncing around and around my in my head. That trouble spot felt like a hangnail. I physically felt uncomfortable. I put my head down on my girl’s bedside and gave up – and that’s when it came to me.
That’s what I love about writing. I never know when or where the answer will come, but it always seems to. I’m starting to trust it, and the more I trust it, the easier it comes. I’m sure there’s some deep philosophical or Buddhist precept here. Perhaps I have an emotionally damaged muse who only wants me when I don’t want her, who knows. I’m going to release it from my literary mind this once and not name it. Just let it be.
I think this is part of learning to be a writer.
Every day feels like an adventure.
Leave a Reply