Some people say I write fast. I suppose I do, but sometimes…sometimes I write slow. The words eke out, slower than molasses poured from a jar.
On those days, I’m tempted to question my abilities as a writer. I often do. Where is the speed? For that matter, where are the words?
They seem to have drifted somewhere I can’t reach. Ether? Ether. I dig deep, but the words still come slow. I pull them forth, barely holding onto them, one by one. Few, if any, are good words. They’re “good enough” words.
The dissatisfaction rises and burns my throat. Bile. It threatens to subsume everything. Swallow. This, this comes fast. The perfectionism. Uncertainty and fear. Frustration. The worry that my ability has gone on a permanent vacation.
Anger. I want to hit something. No, I want to hit myself. Slap myself so hard that I awaken from the stupor. Shake myself free from the perfectionism that entangles and pulls me down, down, down.
No. No! I will not be drowned. I will not stay here. I strike hard, fast. One word. Another. Another. Fine. Let the words come slow. Let them be molasses. I can work with that. I will.
Image: Marshall (Creative Commons)
[…] days the words come slow. The brain struggles to develop compelling strategies. On those days, I still do the work. I slog […]