Sometimes when you write, do you sense the words “fighting” you? The story gets bogged down and so do you, and there it sits, unresolved. Some call it writer’s block, but I think certain stories just naturally run out of gas before we’re done with them. Yet, we refuse to release them and let them die a natural death.
I bet most writers have stashed away piles of started, half-finished and “simmering” manuscripts we intended to get back to but never did. We fall in love with our own prose too easily. The thought of tossing words out is too painful to bear. We swear we can salvage and can use these orphaned words someday, somewhere. We are the ultimate narcissists and the true hoarders.
We carry old words fondly clutched to our hearts like wilting, long-stemmed roses. I envision a bride holding a rose at the altar, waiting for the return of a beau who never truly existed.