I've been reading author Michael Cunningham's memoir Unsayable - A Life in Writing, and I can recommend it. So much of what he said resonated with me, especially his early years when he was trying to write what he felt he should write (and I hope I have interpreted that correctly!) i.e. a literary novel, one that would blow people's socks off and catapult him to authorly stardom.
I had similar aspirations around the same age (mid-20s, thereabouts), starting what I thought was a real rip snorter only to have it fizzle on the page ... but then, hooray! Another idea would bounce in ... only to meet the same fate a few months later.
I was living in the USA by this time, in Atlanta. So hamstrung was I by this torture that I enrolled in a night class of fiction writing at the Callanwolde Fine Arts Centre just down the road from where I lived in Little Five Points, thinking it might clarify my writerly intentions and set me on a productive path .
The class was taken by a very talented writer and teacher named Carol Lee Lorenzo. Under her guidance we worked on short fiction. I met some other writers, getting together with one or two for writing sessions at our homes on weekends so that we could maintain momentum with our work.
Interestingly, my stories always migrated back to scenes from New Zealand, and one evening Carol asked me where my stories were set as she was puzzled by my descriptions of black sand beaches, native birds like tuis and fantails, and trees that she'd never encountered. Where was this place? 'New Zealand,' I replied. 'I grew up there.' She said, 'You are homesick, and this emotion is inspiring your writing.' She was right.
I completed the class, my writing took on some energy again but deflated after a while as daily life took over, as it does: full time job, not alot of money, rent to pay, parties to go to, and then I decided, rather like Michael did, to just stop writing. I didn't write anything for about six years apart from my journal, in which I bemoaned the fact that I wasn't writing, beating and berating myself something awful until even that subsided into a low grumble.
I had tried so hard to write, maybe too hard, or perhaps I hadn't acquired enough technical experience to see a project through, or my ability was outstripped by a magical belief in my fabulous talent as a literary icon. Or, as a young person, I was just too busy living.
In Michael's story, there appeared to be a period in his life when it was the right time and he began writing and, fortunately for us who enjoy his books, finishing his projects. It was much the same for me (not books like Michael's, but the timing ...).
Whether the stars and planets align, or you are simply in a place where age, talent, life wisdom, technical expertise, and the routine of days all find their groove, writing happens in the way you had hoped for all those years ago and tried so hard to make happen. I cannot say it feels effortless (although it can, at times), but it feels right, and it happens, and because the time is right, your work goes from strength to strength and you begin to really learn by doing.
Perhaps that youthful period of trying and, despite your best efforts to wrestle something, anything, out of this gift you have, not meeting your aspirations, is all part of finding, nurturing, and developing your talent, wherever it may lie (writing, painting, poetry, sculpting ...). It's a trial by fire we go through.
Mystery often lies at the heart of creativity. We don't know where it comes from, only that we have it and, as with many precious gifts, it can take a while for us to learn how best we can use it.