Yesterday evening I took a break from the long narrative work, which will be consuming all of my days and nights for the foreseeable future, to see how spring has advanced on Mt. Doug. I have no idea when I last hiked. (I sound like I never get out and that isn’t entirely true.)
The last time I was in the mountain, though, the trees had just begun to bud–that was about three chapters ago. As I looked around at all the trees in full leaf now, it struck me that words are like leaves, revealing themselves in their own time.
I want the words, and this long narrative, to bloom easily and quickly. The forest teaches me to be patient with my writing. A novel unfolds a word at a time. There can be no rushing of words, just as there is no rushing of the forest to full bloom.
My narrative will never be as beautiful as the forest is at this my favorite time of year, but I receive equal amounts of joy in discovering every word and each new leaf.