It has occurred to me (she pontificated) that the "motion," "act," "process" of writing involves a lot of physics. There's inertia: the tendency of an object in motion to remain in motion, or when at rest to remain at rest. Well, I've certainly experienced that moment when first sitting down to write, the moment of stillness. The moment of, "Where am I in this process? Where am I going? How do I do this? Am I crazy?" Sometimes, that "writing inertia" lasts a whole lot longer than a moment, even as I engage in a bit of mental chaos/random walk action as I, instead of writing, fold laundry, eat cookies, brew coffee, pay bills, and otherwise avoid the process of putting my rear in the chair and writing.
And who hasn't experienced the flip side of inertia? That wonderful process when the writing flows almost faster than one can type and, indeed, accelerates from mind to fingers to page, and all else disappears except the world one is creating.
But then, in the real world, there is always friction—the force that resists motion when the surfaces of two objects come into contact. Friction acting against the writing process can be that enormous pile of dirty clothes that have to be washed (else no one will have clean socks), the kids throwing blocks at each other in the family room, the dentist appointment that you must go to. Even more serious forces can come into play to work against writing: Loss of a job. The death of a loved one. Serious illness. . . . You get the picture.
Well, I won't get into quantum mechanics this time around, but will save that for another post.
I'll just finish by saying that when things are working well in the writing world, it can feel somewhat like hydrodynamics (the study of fluids in motion): At first it can seem uncertain and random, but given time, it develops, a structure or pattern grows, and it all begins to make sense in a most complex, magnificent dance.
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