Having faith in the writing process

During my student holidays I drove a van for an office supplies firm. One hot summer's day, to the sound of Paul Simon's Graceland, I drove my white transit around Hull. I drove it round and round and round and round and round, trying to get out of what seemed to be an endless one way system set within a cascade of stark office blocks and grimy shop-fronted buildings. Round and round I went. Every time I thought I'd escaped, I was thwarted - back in the loop. I could feel panic rising up inside me like bubbles from a recently dropped fizzy drinks can. Would my lid pop?

I had a girlfriend with strawberry blonde hair and freckles on her cute nose. I had a life of carefree abandon to lead with her and my mates and endless pubs and music. I had plans. It was the afternoon and I'd finished my deliveries. I had to get the van back over the river. Over the Humber Bridge. Back to Brigg.

And here I was, not in the tenth circle of hell, but in the clockwise circle of Hull.

It's a skill to be able to drive and quickly flip your head to see if there's a slip road or junction you can use next time you come round, one that will take you to freedom.

I was perfecting this skill, then.

I must have managed it because I'm not in Hull any longer, I'm here writing this. But jeez, it was a close call.

In an alternate universe, I'm still there, with an audience at each set of traffic lights. I wind the window down and well-wishers throw snacks into my cab.

The reason I relate this story is because my creative process is similar. It relies upon my going over mental ground. Over and over. Like a creative simulation. When I write, I loop though a scene or situation in my head (I presume that's where it happens). I press my mental accelerator and keep the wheel steady. Incrementally, details take on greater form. The loop moves forward. Parts are scooped up and set in words, then my cutting line of thought and simulation works forward in story time, and I guess, real time, carving more potential, which then becomes the new territory of the loop.

When I'm in the zone, or what psychologists would deem flow, it's a natural, easy affair. Falling off a log would be hard work in comparison. But, as most writers will know, it's not always like this. In fact it's frequently not like this. Mostly not like this. It's more like being stuck in Hull, going round and round.

The exit is the creative idea that is going to take you onto a different, yet familiar part of the loop. And it's frightening. Will the exit (idea) be a big one which swings you round in your seat - thrilling though this is - and pitch you into a fertile new area in the hinterlands, previously unexplored, but which might be worth the ride? Remember, when the journey is complete and the piece is finished, those words will be the recreation in precis of your mental simulation.

A few weeks or months or even years later, when you read those first draft words back, you'll be on the journey, this time as a reader, but the landmarks won't be the same as you recollect. Some parts will be sharper and others more muted.

But just like when I was in Hull, the important thing is to have faith in the process. You will escape. You will get new ideas. People talk about the blank page. In truth, a writer is very rarely confronted with a fresh tabula rasa. After all, the impetus to write is an inner necessity, an inherent systemic property of being a writer. That well-spring, that germ of an idea propels one to write - it has an energy and a dynamic - like a starter motor which gets you in your seat and propels you on your journey.

No, it's whilst you're in the loop, you need nerves of steel andfaith. It will come right.

To use a different metaphor; you bang your head against the wall. But that's all you've got, and no matter how much it hurts at times, your head in the loop is hard - way, way hard - it's a perfect tool. And often, when you rest it against the wall and let the two surfaces oppose each other, resting, your unconscious mind will let you break through that wall.

For there are forces at work within a writer that are magical and mysterious. Their alchemy can sometimes be traced, but often not.

Have faith that they'll guide you.

Beware of sat navs.