Gut wrenching or easy going? Sit down at the computer, fingers flitting two and fro, effortless in their pursuit of the next line? Or growling at the clock, wishing the second hand would move faster so you can log in your thirty minutes, knowing the only thing you've written was borrowed from a Gothic horror story: "It was a dark and stormy night".
I think we all experience both from time to time. I have had days when I woke up with a story in my bones, just aching to get out and dance across my notebook. Unfortunately, those days aren't the norm. I'm more of the drag myself to the table, coffee in one hand, reading glasses in the other. The words have to be pried from the crevices of my brain, my trusty crowbar jabbing and prodding as they scurry to darker corners. Then, when I do grasp them, they refuse to cooperate, smudging my paper, scampering from one corner to the next. Sometimes, out of sheer frustration, I swat at them, squashing them, smearing adjectives and adverbs unnecessarily between nouns and verbs. Jeez, what a mess.
I don't think writing comes easily for anyone all the time. Nor do I think it should. Writing is a hard business. I know many who would argue. So do you. Especially if you write for children or young adults. "I could write a children's book! No big deal." Grrr...don't even get me started with that one...
Personality quirks, bad hair days, the waxing and waning of the moon all affect us in varying ways. Some days I can wake up and be on top of the world. The very next, it's as if Pippin dropped a rock down the well and the Balrog awoke to storm the mines. On these days, my husband bravely plays the roll of Gandalf and I crack my fiery whip until I can no longer roar. If only every day could be fairies and unicorns and the goblins and trolls could stay under the bridges.
But would we grow if all were sunshine and daffodils? Would we learn more about our writing selves? Would we fully be able to grasp the depth and breadth of what we do if it were not for the dark places? I don't think so. As much as I love romping through the Elvin woods, there's something to be said for braving "the long dark of Moria".
All that matters is that we show up. Consistently. Faithfully. Whether we want to or not. Whether the Muse is sitting there, waiting for us, hot chocolate in hand or the demon sits on our chest and hisses all the reasons we should just stay in bed. We may pound out a sentence. We may produce a masterpiece. We may eek out a few feeble words or simply type over and over again, "I have nothing to say!!!" Regardless, get the words out. On the page. Be it computer or ball point pen, clacking old typewriter or a feather quill you carved yourself. It matters not how we feel. It matters not how the words come. What matters is that we're there to receive them when they do, come they by casual unveiling or ripping from the gut.
*image found here