Days, weeks, and sometimes months pass, and I feel like I am going nowhere. My feet are heavy, and I struggle to extract my boot from the mire. The mud releases it with a sucking pop. Poised, my foot dangles in midair, and I squelch the urge to run, knowing that desire will not yield the results I want. I fling it forward, transferring my weight as I drag my opposite leg to join its companion. I sink, settling into the muddy mess that marks my path. A misty rain falls, an annoyance that is not strong enough to turn the quagmire into a rushing river and whisk me away. The constant drizzle only serves to hinder my progress.
I don’t possess enough courage to stop the guts to admit defeat or the backbone to beg for someone to rescue me. There is no shortcut here, only a dogged determination to keep working, keep trying, keep moving. This is where I do the work, write the stories, allow brilliant ideas to germinate, and I make plans. Everything looks dormant and dead. It is an illusion. I happily spend time here because this is where I create possibilities and earn promises of glorious rewards. A golden fist will knock on my door, and I intend to answer.
How do you get through your mucky middles?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer