I’ve only just now finished a short story I’ve been working on since late August. I’ve written it, re-written it, restructured it. There have been so many abandoned reconstructions of it the files would’ve filled a small thumb drive. I can’t think of another story that took me this long to finish, at least one that wasn’t novel-length. This story, all nineteen pages of it, fought me with bared teeth every word of the way.
As satisfying as it is to have something pour out of you, for me it’s even more satisfying when I finally wrestle down a piece that seemingly had no end. There were a few months when I was sure that this story just couldn’t work, that even I didn’t know what I was trying to say with it. The genre is irrelevant; there are just stories, some true, some fictional, that won’t be told until they can be told right.
It might be emotional masochism, but I like to believe the enjoyment comes from the impression of accomplishment that comes when a piece finally seems to work. Typing and deleting and rephrasing words calls to my mind the image of a lost hiker, hacking through brush as he tries to find his way to saner land.
There’s always relief when you get to where you’re going.