This entry is an attempt to understand and share what writing a book is for me. I apologize if I mix or overuse metaphors but here goes. A book begins with the seed of an idea which comes in many different packages; a dream, a newscast, a conversation. You root in the soil of your imagination to plant that seed. The idea takes root, grows, changes and sends out tendrils. You are constantly surprised by its growth and the path it takes you down. You have moments of doubt, of indecision and confusion. And you have moments of clarity and vision as the idea expands. Suddenly you sense the beauty, the emotion and the truth of the story that is unfolding. But even when you feel the power of the story it dribbles out one word, one sentence, one scene at a time like drips from a leaky faucet. But gradually the cistern is full or overflowing. The author’s thirst is quenched. You offer it up to the reader hoping they come with spoons, cups or buckets and that whatever they take away somehow reaches a portion of their parched soul.
One Drop at a Time
