So after shoveling for what may be the tenth time in a month, I’ve decided that writing is like shoveling snow.
Sometimes, the snow is fluffy, light – it sparkles like fairy dust. The bright sun kisses your face as you inhale clean, crisp air, your body moves with ease and grace as you lift the snow from one spot to another, going about your work with purpose. Other times, it’s soggy, heavy, messy, and each move you make is a major chore. Every time you lift the shovel, the snow feels like you are moving a mountain one rock at a time.
Over the years, I’ve found my writing can follow much the same pattern. There are days when I can write for hours, the words pour out of me like music flowing from a secret symphony only writers can hear, but few understand. My mind, my heart, my body soar in unison as I attempt to bring my characters and my story to life. I can write chapters at a time, thousands and thousands of words.
And then, there is that other kind of day. I struggle with every word, the page before me taunting me. Hours go by and I manage only to string a page or two of words together and I’m not happy with any of them. Again, the pages mock me; remind me of all the other things I should be doing other than writing; all my insecurities churning inside me, chipping away at my resolve to continue.
But…then I remind myself. If I write a paragraph, a page, a chapter or a whole manuscript, I’m writing. And, as all writers know that’s the whole point. Whether it’s fifteen minutes a day, two hours a night after all the chores are done, or a glorious all day writing extravaganza, writing feeds my soul, writing is an essential part of who I am, so any writing is meaningful writing.
No one said it would be easy. In fact, if it was so easy everyone would do it. Simply put, it’s the difficulties and disappointments we go through as we move along this writing journey that make the special moments so poignant and the successes so joyous. So pick up your pen or start typing at your keyboard….and write.