Two weeks ago, I’d hit a landmark that I was really quite happy with. But since then the pages have dwindled to a frustratingly suffocated trickle. It’s the way of things, it seems, that nothing is ever easy, and if it is easy, it isn’t easy for long. Writing shouldn’t be easy though, I don’t think. The harder you have to work for something, the better and more rewarding the results tend to be. At least in my limited experience.
I’m still relatively new to this, so don’t mistake this for the wisened verbage of some old future-teller. Over and over again, I have seen little tidbits from practiced and established authors saying that no matter what, don’t stop trying and never give up. I can’t imagine the sheer volume of people out there who had a story to tell but found writing too hard, or the workload too much to maintain or found some other reason for quitting. More than once, and I do mean a whole lot more than once, I’ve thought about hanging up the proverbial pen and paper, because I was writing fast and blind into a thick wall that just won’t budge. Much like, I imagine, the runner’s wall. It just seems like there’s no way around it.
Here, there’re two options; keep going and hope you can somehow crash through that wall, or retreat and re-evaluate and find a way around. I prefer the latter. In the past I have noticed after breaking skin and bloodying knuckles that the results of crashing through the wall are too often sloppy, bruised and squished in such a way that you can tell a square peg was just forced through a round hole.
Go around, if you ask me. Besides, a little bit of extra walking isn’t going to kill anybody.