If you are digging a hole in the wrong place, it doesn't help any to dig any deeper.
I have to change how I do this blog thing. Nineteen posts in and I notice something. It is not so helpful to me to spend so much time on process. This is writing practice so it has to be helpful to me. Its harmful to anylize this so much. I love it so I will not stop altogether. But for this to be helpful. To be my writing practice, I should be doing my own writing exercises and publishing them--the good, the bad and the ugly ones. Let's try that for awhile.
Here's what I fear:
--I fear that I will give up on my project if I don't push myself at it exceedingly hard.
--I fear that to get a novel right you have to have already written several bad ones. (I have no doubt that my novel is good, but I fear that I will ruin it with my inexpert approach.)
--I fear myself--my tendencies.
--I fear that by writing this down in black and white, I have somehow cemented it and possibly have made my fears into truths.
You know much more than I. I trust you. I submit my frustrating self as your vessel. You bare your teeth and growl now, but sometimes, inexplicably, you will wag your tail and sit in front of me with your eyes on my face, accepting it all. This letter is a bloody piece of steak, and I get near and throw it at you very afraid that you will come for me next. I can never truly tame you. It doesn't matter. I may not really want that. I pledge to offer something more precious next time . A severed limb. An ear. A piece of my heart. One of my beloved characters. And from there we shall see where it goes. We shall see what you offer me. When you tear me apart with your teeth, I am grateful for your urging. I will take a deep breath and do what is required.
Get in touch with your muse. Does it want blood (or not so much)? How much are they responsible?