You sit down and start to write a short story. Or a novel. Or a movie script. You slave over the keyboard. You bleed all over your computer screen. You litter the keyboard with cake crumbs and spill coffee . . . or bourbon . . . or Coke . . . everywhere.
It's a fraken war. It's like dragging a nine hundred pound gorilla through the front door of a baby's doll house.
Okay, Pookie. Time's up. Time to throw that piece of shit out and start over.
No--I'm not kidding. It's time to go.
Let's face it, the real artist in you isn't too thrilled about what you're writing. In fact it thinks it's . . . well . . . . literately a piece of shit. So why fight it? The real artist in you knows what's good for you.
The real artist is the subconscious. Your subconscious. That strange old man who lives in the basement and is never seen when the sun's out. Day in/day out he's down there pounding away on the keys writing something. And you--the fresh faced, pimple-assed young kid living up on the top floor (the conscious, bucko!) damn well better listen to the Ole' Man. And nine times out of ten you do and don't even know it. When the story flows like the biblical Honey of Plenty, when your fingers fly over the keys and the story just rolls out, that's when you and the Ole' Man are on the same page.
But when the story declares war on you and won't take any prisoners--nor expect to be taken prisoner-- well then, Pookie; you know now what to do. It's the Ole' Man is talking to you.
Want my advice?
Listen to the Ole' Man. He'll save you hours upon hours of useless rewrites. And a few gray hairs.