Between the lines, there are ideas I've yet to capture. Like running through a dark forest, shining a light on the ground, getting off the path and following the trails deep inside, I pick and pluck the foliage out of the ground and run with it.
That's writing on a good day.
But when the batteries die in the flashlight, I'm left standing, turning, lost and confused about which way to go and what to pick. Should I randomly grasp what I cannot see in the darkness, I'm liable to find a pretty poison that could destroy my novel, the characters, the plots and subplots.
Right now I feel like that...I'm wandering through a pitch black forest, hands outstretched, feeling around for familiar surroundings to guide my way through the brambles, trying not to trip over fallen limbs and dead ideas. I know there's a beacon of light around here somewhere, but I've yet to see it to help lead me through and find my way to the end of this jungle of stalled inspiration.
I feel like I have idle time on my hands, the panic of not knowing how long it will take to find my way through this mess. It's hard to lead with my heart at the moment when my writing heart, the soul of where my stories come from, has gone into hibernation. Perhaps it has crawled off to sleep and rest. Or maybe it's fearful of something that has already changed the story in a way that doesn't work.
I'm still searching, exploring the forest without a light to lead the way. I'm retracing my steps, over and over in my mind, wondering if I took a wrong turn somewhere on this journey. I know I'm close to the edge of the woods, but the sun has not come up, so I will continue to turn over stones and stumble along until the night ends and brings with it the shining rays of a break through.