Have you ever felt like you're slogging though quicksand as you write? Every word is extracted from your brain like an impacted wisdom tooth, grinding, tugging, yanking, and jerking its way onto the page. That's when I think that perhaps now is time for a break, be it a hike or a trip to the dollar store or even a mindless foray into TV Land.
Then the guilt slithers in on greasy ooze. "You procrastinator! Sleezeball! You need to get this manuscript finished! How dare you allow yourself to be distracted by John Barrowman and Torchwood!"
So I return to slog through another four or five pages of uninspired wordage, hoping that when I finish and go back over it, new insight will spark and revise it into masterful prose.
Garbage. I seem to be spewing garbage onto the page. But I know that eventually, I'll run out of crap and something decent will emerge. But the discipline to keep plodding on is elusive. I think I'll just go to bed and hope sleep will recharge the batteries for my muse.
Or do I simply need to repeatedly sing Oscar's theme song, "I Love Trash?"