Writing sometimes feels a lot like wandering:
Which way is it again to a two-book deal? Stephen King said left. Jane Friedman said right.
How can I finally get up to that Platform? Where are the steps?
It can feel like our eyes are fooling us, and we’re not getting anywhere.
***
A fog from the sea settles in over the road. My sulky inner critic sighs, What now? I knew this would happen.
To see my next step, I must strain to find my footing.
The fear rises like a small gourd in my throat and blocks my breath. Panic blinds me, and my foot finds no step up, only air to tumble in the murkiness.
***
At the bottom of my life, when I was knee deep in the failure and plagued with dark doubt, when my nose was pressed up against grass, a small light shone. It was like a fairy light flitting from surface to surface, inviting me to look with fresh eyes at each place it landed.
That pixie was Poetry. I followed it wherever it went, as it dotted down the path.
The sulky companion was captivated. What was this strange, wondrous thing that lit up my world? Where did it come from? Where will we go?
The pixie didn’t answer. It laughed and kept going.
Writing can look a lot like wondering.
***
At the bottom of the Writing Mountain, you may be startled by how sharp and steep the path winds. You are keenly aware of your surroundings; they are harsh, angular, unforgiving. You want to look away, close into a crumple of paper and throw yourself in the waste basket.
But, on our better days, we remember we are not our my writing mistakes. We’re not to be thrown away like paper, but unfolded, smoothed out over time, worked with, not against. In a journey of discovery, slowly uncurling, much like a path.
***
You might wander.
But it must be remembered that sure-footed writing cannot be without Wonder, a glorious pixie lighting up the path each step into the fog.
***
Thank you for reading!
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