Yesterday in church after the children's sermon, a three-year-old got lost on her way from the altar back to where she'd been sitting. Immediately, without consulting each other—or even glancing at each other—, her grandfather and her father jumped to their feet. One went up the left aisle; the other went up the right.
She was rescued before she realized she'd been headed in the wrong direction.
When my writing goes bad, I call it "hitting the wall". Sometimes it's because of something I can't control—in which case I don't worry about it too much. After all, editors change houses, lines are shut down, and sometimes industry professional just plain don't like something.
But most of the time when I have hit a wall, it's because I don't know where to go next. It gives me great comfort to know I have a whole pew full of people there for me. When I say, "I've hit a wall," some of them go up the left aisle, some of them go up the right. Pretty soon, I'm right where I need to be.
I hope I return the favor to those people. I try.
What do you do when you hit a wall?