I went to sleep last night in one country. I woke in an entirely different one. A country I don’t particularly like:
Inevitable that I should find myself here, being so close to then end of the book. Not such an unfamiliar place—but not a pleasant one.
The landscape here is ragged and forlorn. And always changing. The inner scenery that was so beautiful yesterday is a little like Death Valley without the charm. The story I loved flaps in the wind, here, like dingy sheets hung to dry outside a battered double-wide.
Where the hell am I? And how did I get here?
This is more like a kidnapping than the place the hard-won days of writing should have brought me. And I don’t know who the perps are. Is it self-doubt or better judgment that grabbed me up in my comfortable home as I slept and threw me into the trunk of my head? Overnight, I am paralyzed with fear. I am holding my own cherished work for ransom. Why?
The last time this happened, the remedy was as simple as going back to the page; to passages that jumped up and proudly called themselves mine. I haven’t done that yet. I’d better do that soon, before Stockholm Syndrome for Writers sets in and I begin to be seduced by my captors.
What I do know of my unexpected circumstances is this: The keys to the door out of here are jingling in my own pocket, even if the pocket is hidden from me right now. The secret to changing my captive’s view is in my own thoughts…even if I don’t know how to accomplish it yet.
But in the meantime, I can’t help but ask myself, What did I do to deserve this, anyway? And after the lovely day yesterday?
Come on, brain: Play fair….