There is something about writing that can be blissful. When the music's playing (and there is almost always music playing when I write) and you're in the zone and things are flowing. Magic. You wake up three hours later and you've written three thousand words. And you don't want to stop.
But when you're stuck. Chihuahua. Aaargh. Urgh. The feelings of dread. The worries that you'll never get it quite right. The longing for the magic to just come back again.
You know what needs to be done. You need to step away from the laptop. You need to quit trying to spit more words out. You might need to architect, define, analyze, pinpoint, brainstorm, close your eyes and just imagine a little bit, go outside and observe the world, listen to real people talking. Why is this so hard to do?
Today it's what needs to be done. I'm at a rather stuckish point when my novel just won't behave. No matter which way I try to lick it and brush it the cowlick stands right back up again.
Here I am in the final stretch of my first draft. Yip, yip, yippee. Here I am at the height of my impatience. My fingers refuse to leave the keyboard, even though they are typing out drivel.
Something must be done. I must pause and slow down to move ahead. Now, to muster up the courage to do it.