When I was composing my post last week on the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's Christmas Eve and Other Stories, my intention was to discuss the popularity of the CD versus critical incomprehension of that popularity, with a sidebar of what the CD means to me. It's not unusual for me to do a rough draft and several revisions; you know, like a real writer.
This time, I could not find the words to coherently express my ideas. It felt stifling, an aphasia of the page. It's usually enough to leave the draft for a couple of hours, maybe overnight, and the words I need will come to me. My subconscious mind seems to be a competent prosesmith, if no one's poet. That's fine with me, since I strive for clarity, not allusion.
This time, the clarity for the extended essay I had in mind never materialized. I was left with a quote and quip, grasping for an emotional shading. Did I succeed? I'm satisfied with the effort, but the success really depends on whether I intrigued anyone else into listening to the music.