Your writing is like you: wild. It has to be tamed.
It’s no easy feat. Wild things don’t usually respond to treats and caresses. They have to be broken. You clamp the bit in place and throw yourself onto the mustang. You hold on as it bucks and careens and rolls.
You’re thrown off. Deep breath. Deep breath. The world’s ablaze with stars. Every bone in your body hurts. Every muscle aches. A stitch in your side. You taste iron, dirt. Sweat stings your eyes.
You approach the mustang again. It darts away, eyes rolling white. You take your time, measure the distance. You limp around the field for a few minutes, practice indifference.
You attack and grab the reins. You’re back on top. You press yourself close to the mustang’s heaving body. Flecks of foam spatter your skin. No matter. You’re holding on tight. You aren’t about to let go.
The mustang quiets. You pat his neck, murmur in his ear. You know this time won’t last long, but, here, now, you enjoy the moment. You’re one with your mustang. Give and take. You drink in the calm after the breaking. Submission, rest.
When your writing turns wild, here’s what you do: you get back on it. Ride it, break it, break yourself, again and again and again. Learn the beauty found in brokenness, submission, and rest.
Image: Ken Lund (Creative Commons)