I love that moment, when you find out you're actually going somewhere.
I used a grant deadline earlier in the month to spur me into 4,000 solid, polished words on the opening of my new novel. All that blind exploration had to be turned into something readable. I doubted the wisdom, at first, of forcing myself to get analytical at this early stage, to trade my creating hat for my editing hat, but in the end it was really helpful to show myself that what I've been working on in my rambling notebook is indeed a novel. I sent those 4,000 words to my trusted first reader, and I read her response over and over with a dreamy smile. She used the words engaging, gripping, and marvelous. She is the person I write to, the only person I could, my ideal reader who is the only person I allow myself to think about as I write, if I think about anyone at all. I'm writing these pages just for her, she's waiting for the next installment, and I'm going along crafting it solely for her enjoyment.
(And then I went and sent it to a grant jury but, you know, I'm hiding that bit of intelligence from my creating self.)
But now, it is back to discovery draft on the remaining 86,000 or so words in this baby book. I'm showing up every morning, sometimes only for 15 minutes because it's all I've got, and it's been circuitous and dead-endy this last week or so, until yesterday when, bam, I've stumbled out of the brambles into the clearing.
I love that moment. I love when I remember why I'm showing up. When something bigger than myself rises up to meet me. I'm still showing up when it doesn't, but god, when it does, that's golden.