When a writer writes, she sometimes starts with an idea. It might be vague, ill-formed, and entirely out of focus, but she has one. She follows its trail until it becomes clear.
Sometimes, that means she arrives at a conclusion. All the pieces work together. They’re coherent, cohesive. She has a complete story. She can publish it.
Other times, she follows the idea’s trail and discovers a new scent. Her head turns. She wonders if she should continue with her trail, which seems to be growing colder by the minute, or if she should pay attention to the new scent drifting on the wind.
She’s at a sort of crossroads. She shuffles her feet, kicks a few leaves. The scent wafts stronger, and her head lifts. She knows what she has to do. She has to follow the new scent. She has to be a bloodhound.
She’s on the trail of a new story, and she won’t stop hunting it until she finds something authentic, something true. She wades through thickets and stumbles through brambles all in pursuit of one thing: the real story.
She knows it’s out there. She can smell it in every breath she takes, even the ones that pinch and hurt her ribs. She can feel it in her scratched palms and tangled hair. Her waterlogged boots urge her forward. They tell her this is the way. She should walk in it.
The scent’s stronger now, and she becomes more dogged in her chase. She’s on the trail of something good, something better than her original idea. She won’t stop until she finds it. She’s a bloodhound on the scent, and, because she wants to be a better writer, she follows it.
Image: SuperFantastic (Creative Commons)