Mysteries

I've had it in the last few days. My true voice, I mean. The one that speaks in the rhythms of my head and heart, the one that isn't concerned with impressing people or making them think I'm smarter than I am. The story I've been writing may or may not be good yet--it's a first draft after all--but the voice, that voice is the one I've been trying to uncover for a long time.

It went dormant in the night.

Writing this morning, I find myself typing convinced when sure would be the natural choice, describing what happened rather than living it out on the page. My sentences would totally please Grammatica, but they don't please me. They have such good posture, sit up so straight in their chairs.

What now, damn it?

The other day I read that real writers are the ones who keep writing even when they don't feel like it. The ones who plod on and trust in revision. They don't wait for inspiration. They don't believe in magic. They do believe in hard work.

I believe in hard work. I really do. So, this morning I've plodded on. But I'm writing dreck. Stilted, formal, city-girl dreck, a faded gray photocopy of the story inside my heart.

Maybe what I need is to get away from it for a few hours. Think I'll go ride my bike on a tan dirt road this afternoon. There's one not far from my house that runs parallel to a spring-fed creek. Maybe eating a little dust and watching the water run is what exactly I need. Cause more of this certainly sure isn't the answer.