I had a splinter in my thumb this morning. A yucky one, a thick black chunk of wood. It hurt when I touched anything.
As I was the only adult in the house, I had to take it out myself or the stupid thing would be in there all day. Tweezers didn't work--couldn't grab it--so I sat on the bathroom floor, grabbed a needle, and dug.
I do not like doing this. I had to stop a few times to make faces and whine that it hurt, but no one was listening. So I kept poking and prodding my poor skin until I could grab it, and it was gone. I was triumphant. I had vanquished the splinter and I was FREEEEEE!!!
And then I actually sat there, tweezers in my hand, and thought, "Wow, this could be a metaphor for writing! I could blog about it: you have to dig and dig through the pain and the trouble, and then in the end it's out of you and you're done!" Since I just "finished" Salvaged again yesterday, it seemed apt. (I'm always thinking of you guys, you know!)
Except I realized two seconds later that it isn't a good metaphor at all. A splinter isn't like a book. It's just something that gets in your way. It's useless. And prying the thing out gives no joy at all. There's nothing to show at the end but a lack of pain.
Writing can be like a sickness, yes. The past week or so I have been pounding away on the book every minute I could, thinking of it constantly, trying to pry all those words out of my brain in the right order. But I loved it. I've been on such a high for the past few days, living in my book. Writing scenes that I loved, shaping the story so it made sense, so I could finally see that it was getting close to what I wanted it to be.
And in the end, I've got an actual book, a story that hopefully will take life and touch other people.
Nothing like a splinter at all. (Sorry, Potential Metaphor. You lose. Book, You Win.)