Yesterday, in the Eastern Orthodox Church, was the "Sunday of the Paralytic," the Gospel reading of the man, paralyzed for thirty-eight years, who lies besides a pool, known for its miraculous healing...if you're the lucky first fellow in after an angel rippled the water. The problem was that this man had no one to place him into that water.
I think writers, so often, are like that paralyzed man. Our brains flood with ideas, but we wait for the right circumstances to begin writing (or for taking that good, hard look at our bad writing and start the process of self-editing and rewriting) and languish beside the pool of creativity.
However, when Jesus came along, he informed the paralytic that true healing came elsewhere. It's the same when facing a blank page. If we wait until we're bathed in muse, we'll probably have a long wait. The real business of writing comes from picking up our mats of excuses and getting some words on paper.
Like any journey, we'll take some wrong turns. Like the paralytic, we'll stumble at times, but that's common to anyone who decides to get up and walk. But if we just lie staring at our reflection, we'll never know the sweetness of the path.
I think writers, so often, are like that paralyzed man. Our brains flood with ideas, but we wait for the right circumstances to begin writing (or for taking that good, hard look at our bad writing and start the process of self-editing and rewriting) and languish beside the pool of creativity.
However, when Jesus came along, he informed the paralytic that true healing came elsewhere. It's the same when facing a blank page. If we wait until we're bathed in muse, we'll probably have a long wait. The real business of writing comes from picking up our mats of excuses and getting some words on paper.
Like any journey, we'll take some wrong turns. Like the paralytic, we'll stumble at times, but that's common to anyone who decides to get up and walk. But if we just lie staring at our reflection, we'll never know the sweetness of the path.
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