The First Time They Met is inching along. I’ve had a lot of upheavals the last few months, which have completely blocked my ability to enter the world of the story (or any other). It’s frustrating, but it doesn’t stop me writing. It’s just that much harder, like climbing a cliff face instead of walking in a forest.

In a strange, somewhat masochistic way, I wonder if this is more like ‘real’ writing. Is this what they mean by the effort, by every page being written in blood?

I’m reassured that when I look back over my years of writing, I can’t tell what hit the page in a fountain of creativity and what was dragged along kicking and pinned down with immense effort. So maybe I shouldn’t worry. But there’s that Calvinist feeling that effort makes things better, while the free-wheeling creatives make me feel that hard work kills the spark.

Whoever has the right of it, for now it doesn’t matter. I plug along because, as in so many other ways, what other choice is there?

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