So I’m writing this almost-climactic scene, and I pull up this image, half-metaphor, half-literal for what my characters are seeing and what’s happening at this particular moment in the story. And then …
… I realize the image comes from a half-finished poem I wrote 15 or 20 years ago, and have been keeping in my idea box all this time, because I loved it too much to let it go and because I always meant someday, somehow to do something more with it.
And suddenly I’m writing this entire book toward (maybe writing this entire book toward) that almost-two-decade-old image, though that could just be a distortion of this particular moment in the writing process.
And I find myself going, “Oh. Oh. That’s what this book is about (one of the things this book is about).”
Writing is so gloriously strange a process sometimes.