Some days are just powered by something different. Writing is different. Reading is different. On these days my brain does not slowly creak to life like an old Volvo as it normally does. It hops out of bed feeling springy and expansive, more like a Mini Cooper painted in Tiffany blue. Knotty plot glitches melt and the obvious path presents itself complete with signposts and balloons. Icky, unwieldy, placeholder sentences get replaced by brightly efficient new ones and writing is so much fun.
I have no idea what it is about those days. (This is not one of them by the way.) I do know it is the same unseen power at work that makes clothes fit better, hair do that weird wonderful flippy thing that is impossible to recreate later, shoes not hurt, parties easy and fun, movie theatres seats comfy, dogs less drooly, hats look good, keys work in locks, old friends phone and money turn up in the pocket of jeans.
It is great. Writing feels stretchy, available, pliable, patient. Other days, sentences must be worked, tinkered, picked up, puzzled, moved and refitted--constantly. And that is fun. That is a worked, wrought kind of fun. This is a sugared, clean, snap into place sort of fun. Both are valuable. I have to write every day, not just on those days. But sometimes, when the writing feels oddly cornered, and the puzzle pieces want to cook a bit more before they are willing to fit, you really wish the day were painted in Tiffany blue.