Not just one baby, but two.
Not twins. There’s only one tiny human growing inside of me, now the size of a lemon, now able to make faces, now growing hair, now one third finished.
But a different baby. Another novel.
I’ve been poking around this one for years, writing a few pages of it, then forgetting about it, abandoning it, knowing it wasn’t quite sure where to go. Picking it up again a few seasons later, trying it on the way you try on the dress you find at the back of your closet, and knowing that “not just yet…”
But reading an excerpt of someone else’s novel cracked open this little idea, and suddenly it’s three-dimensional. Suddenly I’m seeing connections and links and metaphors and plot lines. Suddenly I have a to-read list a mile long, literature that I just haven’t gotten to yet and scientific research and field guides. Note cards collecting on my desk with facts and references.
It’s not quite ready to be written yet. It’s gestating, incubating, invisibly forming parts all on its own while I continue to feed and protect it, trusting that when it does come into the world, whenever that may be, it’ll have the backbone it needs so that I can take full responsibility in bringing it to maturity. I’m excited and nervous and hopeful and hesitant and curious.