Almost 500 words excruciatingly extracted on Friday. It was not fun. I reminded myself of a small, stupid bird tricked by a clear pane of glass. No, Sheila, you cannot get through that way. No wonder my head hurt the whole time.
I’ve been here before, and by “here” I mean at this point in the story. Every time I approach it, I flinch and I know why. I need to write some painful, difficult stuff and I don’t want to. I’m squinching my eyes shut and stuffing fingers in my ears. La la la.
I’m remembering now a craft essay I read with my students, in which the writer said that in her first draft (of a short story), she allows herself to make insane, illogical leaps in time or plot or whathaveyou as a means of propelling forward. Then she’ll go back and make sense/refine in the next draft and the next. This seems like a brilliant approach to me in a certain way–a real tool I feel like I can use–but I also worry that if I allow myself to leap past this spot, it will be even harder for me to go back.