This is a strand of ivy climbing a power junction box outside my school. It has been cut back many times before, leaving echoes of it’s former efforts. In my mind, this is a perfect visual for the writing process.
Currently I am on the third rewrite of an 80 page short story. My initial draft seemed so vibrant as it flowed through my fingers, but so deficient upon first read. Now my writing folder echoes with many aborted efforts, ghosts of inspired lines and neon characters faded into melancholic gray.
I’m tempted to give up. Entirely new inspirations clamor in my ear for their time on the page, but I cannot ignore one important dictum about writing, a nettlesome little thought, really, which denies me the solace of new beginnings. Much like this strand of lone ivy sliding upward in defiance of outside forces, I write. And writers don’t quit because they lose inspiration. They quit, my friends, because they lose belief.