The psychology of writing would
have made an interesting doctoral thesis. I read of writer's frustration,
writer's block and writer's angst. And writers subject themselves to this
daily, yearly…willingly. All for that illusive moment of euphoria, when they
know they've chosen the perfect words and wrapped them around an engaging plot.
But it is a rare moment, and it is fleeting. It is followed closely by worry
about the next words or, worse, doubt about those words that only days ago
seemed like gems. Anxiety leads to rearrangement of those perfect words like
they were flowers in a vase that just might look a little more balanced if the
gerbera were shifted a little here or the baby's breath there.
I confess to being guilty of all
of the above. It feels quite inexplicable at times. I mean, I don't have to
write. I certainly get to choose what
I write. So, why subject myself to the internal anguish? I have no answer to
that except that "I must" and that feeling is as baffling as the
subjugation to the pleasure/pain process.
This week I have been working on
Mags' story, a character I met in Lizzy's world. I started with enthusiasm and
then stalled. I have written the first two chapters and several scenes that
occur further on. But, as I stare at the computer, I find myself looking for
something else to write, something else to do. Scenes for other stories I am
writing infiltrate and I grab onto them, getting them down, patting myself on
the back because, hey, I'm writing, right?
Finally, I realized what was
happening. I like Mags—a lot. She's already had a hard go of it and deserves a
little happiness. However, that's not what's coming. I know this. I see this.
And, I hurt for her before her pain even begins. As long as I don't write, she
stays in a pseudo-happy limbo land. The moment I begin, there is no turning
back. She will never again be the same sweet Mags I met in Lizzy's story.
On the other hand, nobody is
truly happy living in limbo, including an author. So, I pushed through the
reticence and wielded my pen, metaphorically slaying a seventeen year old.
Undoing her world. Burying her deep enough in the ugly hole that life can be
sometimes, that it will take her the whole novel to dig her way out…if she can.
I don't know. I can't see that yet. Perhaps, if I could, I wouldn't have been
so hung up on flinging her into it in the first place.