It's like trying to squeeze juice out of a not-very-juicy lemon. A few drops dribble out. Stingy. Dry. Reluctant. But nothing like one of those juicy, succulent lemons that you squeeze in your tea.
I thought my article was really a good idea. It was about coming to Bodega Bay for a study break, to write an upcoming study course. But the idea was stillborn.
It stared at me from the paper. It teased and taunted, but it would not cooperate with me. I'd write a few sentences then delete them. Write a few more. Delete them. The imaginary piece of paper I was typing on was as white as a clean table cloth. No words to spoil its sheen.
I wasted a good bit of time trying to write the article. I'd go down one road and hit a dead end. Another road would look good, but it would veer off in the wrong direction. I felt like someone trying to find an address without any map.
Writing is an act of faith. Not faith in God, necessarily, but faith that your efforts will be rewarded. That when some time has passed good words will fill the page and you will be satisfied with your efforts. But it's not always that way. Sometimes the page mocks you. It looks back and says, "This is going nowhere," or "You don't know what you're doing."
At other times it's like my article. Resistant. Uncooperative. The words won't come. Or you hate the things you've written. Unfortunately there is no delete key for life. The end of the day comes and the page is blank or full of mess. You feel like you've wasted 24 hours. Like you've just spent too much time driving in circles getting no closer to your destination.
It's a good thing to see the pile of paper near the trash can. It's my little reminder that I'm not as good as I think I am. I need Someone to help me with the words.