Writing is a craft. Writing is like bricklaying. You have your load of bricks and you take each one in hand and slather it with cement and lay it on the wall you are growing. It is methodical and one merely needs patience, discipline and care to erect a perfect wall.

Bullshit.

I’ve been wrangling and banging my head against this one scene now for days. Days that have stretched out like eons. I’ll come to my laptop, sit down, open up the file, scan through the section, frown, gaze off at nothing in particular, and then hop online. Fifteen minutes later, having checked my favorite blogs, the news, my email and the weather, I’ll turn back to the scene. Frown at it. Write a tentative sentence… and then delete it angrily. No good. I’ll crack my knuckles, frown again, and then open up Notepad. Write a paragraph in an angry burst, like a tempestuous wind banging in through the back door, and then pause, hang suspended on some agonizing apex, and crash back and down and delete it once more.

At times, writing is nothing like a craft. It’s more like flying a kite. You need that breath of air, that thrill of wind, something to course through you and catch the kite which you’ve been tossing up and tossing up for hours. Until it does, your kite will come jarring back down to the ground, but when it catches, when it lifts–ah!

There’s been no wind of late. I’ve been sitting down to write. I’ve been reading good books to get my gears turning. I’ve been thinking the scene through, attacking it from different angles, trying to find some aspect to excite me and get me going. Nothing. Should I drink strong wine and play loud music? Go out dancing, only to tear myself away from the music just as I’m really going, and tear home to throw myself before my laptop? Cut the scene? I don’t know.

But it’s times like these that writing seems awful mysterious and talk of muses begins to make sense. Maybe I should look into appeasing mine, or finding out how I’ve affronted her.