Sometimes work is collecting ideas, bringing dissonant and disparate thoughts together, arranging the fractures of different scenes into a somewhat orderly format.
That’s OK. That’s the craft sometimes.
See, there’s an element to writing that relies on the idea taking you and shaking you and then you taking it in turn and shaking it, squeezing it, wringing it out, getting every last drop from it. in times like that you’ve got to seize it and hold on for dear life, because that part doesn’t come around as often as you’d think but it can be in those moments where you fly down the page, and even after you’ve done you’ve set the pages ahead in your mind, marked them with a faint path and direction of where to go.
But then there’s the other side to writing that is less glamorous, more of a grind, and more important.
It’s the part where you have to put in the time to allow yourself to get good at it, to churn out crap and drivel and unreadable muck, and use that to figure out what works and what doesn’t, and employ those tactics the next time to bring a bit more quality each time you take up the pen or take out the keyboard, and sharpen the point a bit more where it has blunted.
And then when the blade has been sharpened it’s the tool you can use to cut a clean path through the swathe of muddy branches and vines before you when the fires of inspiration that had helped blaze a trail so far have gone out, and it will take skill and craftsmanship to fashion a path that you can walk on, and that others can follow and tread. And then eventually when the thunder roars and lightning strikes the ground, sending the debris before you bursting into flames and burning off the detritus, you are in a position to find the path again and use it to carry you on, and when the fire goes out again it matters less this time.
You grow to appreciate the craft of sharpening the blade and the mastery and using it to make the right cut to forge that path again.
So enjoy the fun of when no clear path is showing, because then craft can be honed.