I like being driven and all, but really? What’s the point if it’s not fun?
Somewhere in between planning/plotting and pantsing, between word count and editing/refining as I go, there is a sweet spot, a place where I’m telling a story because it’s downright fun, pleasurable, exciting, rewarding.
Maybe I need to trust myself that the skills will come, that the ability to produce is there, just ahead, but not within reach because I haven’t yet put in the time it takes to develop it.
Remember, Jude, the process of learning to play the piano. Years of stumbling, struggling, clawing through exercises and scales; the time it took to conquer each piece was glacial at first.
Remember the same process when you began to compose music, wandering in the wilderness of notes and chords and rhythms, leaving a trail of half-formed melodies broken against the rocks of trial and error.
And where are you now?
Learning a new piece of music takes only a few minutes. You can sight read, you can get it under your fingers almost effortlessly. Yes, it takes time to polish, but the basic ability to do it—it’s there, it’s here, it’s at your disposal whenever you feel moved to sit down and play.
Surely writing fiction must be like that.
So, it's time to remind myself that I don’t have a golden pen; I haven’t yet paid all my dues.
What I do have is passion, the passion for telling stories that thrill and inspire me.
And sharing them is what I want to do.
So, “write like the wind.”
Yes, I think I will one day.
But I cannot let that be my goal. Not yet, not yet.
Today, I’ll write for the pure, unadulterated joy of telling a story, this story, my story.
I think I’ll write like the blazing sun.