It’s a quandary to me–and likely to most writers–how one story can flow from your brain and through your fingers to the keyboard with hardly any effort at all, while others are like the largest breech-birth on record.
Sometimes it’s a question of finding your voice. I experienced that while writing THE MAN WHO LOVED ELEPHANTS. For the longest time, it felt as though I was dryly reporting events to the reader rather than showing them as they occurred. Once I found my voice–or, rather, Roger’s voice–the story came together with astonishing speed and ease.
Conversely, I’m working on something now–might wind up as a short story; possibly a novella–that’s been plaguing me for ages. I’m making progress, but it’s in inches rather than leaps and bounds. That’s okay, because at least progress is being made. Writing always feels like work–it should, because it is–but this feels like WORK. Once it’s finished, though, what a sense of accomplishment there’ll be.