Where did the words go?

I took that picture at the James Joyce museum in Dublin. I knew it would be a prod to my writer spirit, but today it’s a skewer!

Some days I write 5000 words with barely a coffee break needed. The focus, the intent, everything is in the right cosmic alignment and it pours out of me like rainwater washing streets clean. When I wrap up those sessions I feel lighter than air, as if the words leaving my brain actually took a few ounces with them.

Then there are days like the last few. Where every word feels like a struggle. When I write 500 words, reread them and delete half saying all the while, “you were thinking what exactly when you wrote that steamy pile of crap?”

I try very hard to be kinder to myself than I was when I was younger, but it’s a struggle not to feel like I’m failing on those days. I know at this phase I need nothing more than word-vomit and I’ll worry about polishing things in draft revisions. But I just can’t get past the inner critic who demands the plot and language come out facile and smart and perfect. Which, of course, it never does. Who is that harpy anyway? How does she always get invited to the party?!

OMG, she’s Agnes van Rhijn from The Gilded Age. That means she’s better dressed than I am now or ever will be, and probably a good deal smarter. But she’s also a good woman at heart, so I’ll try give her grace as well.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ll keep reminding myself of that until it sticks. It didn’t today, but perhaps next time.