Tonight, I finally broke through a logjam and figured out a story arc, imagined how some scenes would work, where they would hang along the chain to make up this project I’ve been mulling for a long time. I sketched out some ideas, and even started having some “lines” pour out onto the page.
The page in question? A notebook for my sort-of-statistics class. We hadn’t really gotten started yet. It figures that after weeks of attempts, this would happen literally the moment I reenter school-land and lose some time I could be using to work on this thing.
The real conundrum: I had thought until quite recently that part of what was stopping this story was worrying about what other people thought. It wasn’t; that is a problem easily managed, frankly. It was about what I thought, and what I might say. Whatever notions I do have about how slippery the real, full scope of “the truth” is, part of it always comes back to that personal challenge: can you be brave enough to work into what scares you? Those really are the moments when creative work can leap, but going into those places and letting yourself open up is the hardest thing.
Besides, realizing that you can’t get anything else done because you have to write what is sitting in front of you, quietly demanding to be told, becomes reason enough to at least write the blasted thing. What happens to it afterwards could well just be “filing it in your drawer” and taking it out again someday, later.