Learn to let your writing grow organically they say, do not try to build it. Let it come from that molten space within you from where flows the magic of creation, do not analyze or rationalize in any way, put pen to paper, or in this case, put finger upon keyboard and let the dance begin. Let the rhythm decide the movements, not conscious thought. Let your heart and your senses guide you, don’t let your mind mess with it.
But what happens when that molten space closes upon itself like a crystal egg, shiny, tempting, but impenetrable? What happens then? What if each word that comes on to the screen or the paper has to be pulled out by force like a broken cork stuck in a wine bottle, with no guarantee that the cork will not be broken in the process, nor the bottle broken?
On days like this, what happens on such days?
Time– when pursued like a bandit–will behave like one; always remaining one county or one room ahead of you, changing its name and hair color to elude you, slipping out the back door of the motel just as you’re banging through the lobby with your newest search warrant, leaving only a burning cigarette in the ashtray to taunt you. At some point you have to stop because it won’t. You have to admit that you can’t catch it. At some point as Richard keeps telling me, you gotta let go and sit still and allow contentment to come to you.
While I love the passage here for its literary merit, I think I can also draw a parallel to writing, or to the writing muse, if you will.
The more you chase after her, the more she shies away, hiding herself out of reach. When you give up, and are not even thinking about her, perhaps running at the gym, driving out of town or taking a shower, she would come to you, prodding, teasing, compelling, just when it is the most inconvenient.
I need to discipline this lady, make her visit me at least some of the time at my bidding, and not purely according to her sweet will. But I guess that is what writing practice is for. Time to haul ass and start writing.