I know just how he feels.
The bull, not the runner. The runner I can’t relate to. He got in the way of a bull all for the chance to say “I ran in front of a bull.”
The bull. I relate to the bull because I’m now about a thousand words away from finishing my current work-in-progress. I relate to the bull because this effort has been terrifying, full of obstacles (both in my head and on the page), and in the end, after all my running, I’ll probably be killed when all is said and done. That’s not to say it’s been nothing but work. It’s mostly work, mostly effort with little idea if it’s a success for this novel or only a success because of the effort itself. Yet it’s also had moments of joy – I’ve surprised myself with moments of what feels like truly good writing, images I’ve enjoyed, phrases and paragraphs that capture exactly what I’ve been looking for… well, almost exactly. I’ve never gotten the words in 100% the right order. Still, I have had those moments, and I’ve enjoyed them, and they make me feel the way I imagine the bull feels at that moment when its horn catches just enough of a runner to say “Okay… if we’re going to play this game, at least I got that much.”