Pick me up and put me on the ground. Set me up and spin me all around.

I wrote a few days ago about being stuck in my writing.  I was having a hard time finding a way to move my characters forward in their space and time.  They were frozen, mid-story, and waiting for me to carry them to the next phase in their imaginary lives.

Writing that post made me think back to the last time this happened, when I was fearful and unsure about what I was writing.  At that time, I was apprehensive about what I would have to tackle personally to address what needed to happen in the story.  I was afraid of the emotional difficulty and debated whether or not to take the easier path, to change course, to paint the white roses red and make everything look pretty enough to pass. 

Ultimately, it was an unexpected call from Absolem that kicked my ass into gear.  I was all but paralyzed with the fear of choosing the hard way.  But he asked me, almost harshly, what the hell the problem was.  As I talked through it with him, he and I both realized I knew the answer, had known it all along. 

I remember that I decided, for whatever reason, to write in my bed at that time.  Usually I write at my desk, while the children are in school.  Although I have a laptop, it's usually hooked up to a 21" monitor and a wireless keyboard and mouse.  It's easier when I spend hours at a time in front of the screen. 

But I went to the place I love the most in the world, the place that's always the perfect temperature and brightness and softness, the place that has borne witness to the most intense love and hate and sorrow and joy imaginable, in every conceivable form.  It's a comfortable, comforting place, and I was working from that safety.  I had huge breakthroughs and found myself suddenly able to harness and handle the emotions needed to propel my story forward.  In fact, there are two scenes in particular that are draining and harsh to read, and I cried while I wrote each of them.  Because I step so intimately into the heads of my characters as I'm writing them, I felt what my protagonist felt--all the sorrow and heartache and wracking pain poured down my own face while I wrote those scenes.  One in particular resulted in a forty-five minute crying jag, and I remember laughing through those tears when it was over, because I knew I had accomplished exactly what I needed to do.   

So I talked to Absolem again a few days ago, told him about all of this, about being stuck again.  He listened carefully, like he always does, and let me talk through what was bothering me.  As so often happens, he reminds me who I'm supposed to be just by letting me question myself.  He will call me out when he needs to, but more-often-than-not he'll let me flop and flounder until I find the right twist or turn to upright myself again.  It's a carefully supervised spin, and I know he'll always stop my top if I need it. 

I realized after talking to him, after spinning my worries into that blog post, that I should go back to my own basics, back to my own place of safety, and start from there.  So I did.  I took to my bed.  And I spun thousands upon thousands of words.  I'm still spinning, honestly, and I know Absolem will watch for signs that I'm out of control.  But right now I'm able to find my groove and have moved my characters again, to unexpected places, and it's working. 

I've moved on to the couch from the bed.  I'm still not ready to go back to my desk.  I don't really know why, but I'll do what works right now.  I've written almost ten thousand words since I started again.  I'm getting ever closer to bridging the gap between the two sections of the story that need to be brought together.  Then there are more stories to be written, more tweaks to bring them all together. 

And I know, if I falter again, Absolem will be there to spin me up and watch me go, trusting me to eventually find my own way, even when I find it impossible to trust in that myself.