There are days when the words just flow off my fingertips and onto the screen—when I can’t type quickly enough to get down what I need to (and subsequently skip multiple necessary words in the process). There are days when, like the machinations of a well-planned A-Team operation, everything just falls into place.
I’ve had a couple of days like this of late, and it’s kind of a gift. Getting not just words but whole pages of them out at one time; having a piece of story (even entire chapters) pop out in one fell swoop. When this happens, I have a true Hannibal Smith moment, and treasure how much I love it when a plan comes together.
Then there are other days when I pity the fool (in this case, sadly, me) who attempts to write anything at all. These are the days when this whole endeavor feels like an exercise in frustration—one that will add nothing to my life in general but gray hair and a whole lot of eyestrain.
It isn’t just the golden days of flowing words that keep me going on this path. It’s the sweet spot that lies in between the gold and the despair—the days when I think it’s a lost cause and then realize something important about the story I’m writing, or the one I’m attempting to revise—that make up my writing life.
Sometimes, even when you least expect it, a plan does come together. B. A. Baracus can get on that airplane after all. Face uses his charm to turn a seemingly hopeless situation around. Even Murdoch’s craziness comes in handy at just the right moment.
And a little puzzle piece of your work falls into place, right where it should be.