While I grumped in Nayna's room this morning just after 6 AM, fixing the bed I had put together just this weekend, I realized the whole process was a lot like writing.
Having put the bed together all by myself, I was pretty proud of the results. Once we got the bed skirt and bright red sheets on, it looked pretty dang cute. Her room was clean, the bed was nice to look at, and I was happy. Everything seemed great.
Until you put weight on it. And then it was, as much as I tried to deny it, wobbly. Very wobbly. "It'll be fine," I thought, having already spent so much time putting the bed together that I didn't want to figure out what was wrong with it.
And then yesterday when Dojo enthusiastically climbed on it, the matress fell off the frame. Annoyed, I did a quick fix, pulling it back up and jamming everything into place. "That should do it," I thought.
Served me right that when I went to collapse on it in the pre-dawn light, hoping my kids would just play and let me doze, it fell apart yet again. This time there was no denying it. While it looked good and had the potential to be a very nice bed, I hadn't spent the time I needed to in making sure that the little pieces--the nuts and bolts--were as tight and well-built as they needed to be. I had to spend my morning moving aside the big parts so that I could tweak and tighten the little ones. It was annoying and I was very grouchy, but now Nayna has a bed that looks good AND holds up under pressure.
I'm sure you've all figured out my point by now: My writing metaphors are very, very boring.