I write in my head. That’s probably true for most writers. You start with an idea: a tiny, fragile egg to be protected and nurtured.
While my body is working out, washing dishes and folding clothes, my mind is elsewhere. I’m building a nest for my egg, picking up and discarding twigs, bending and shaping them to my purpose. Thinking.
I warm and nurture the idea as it matures. I think aloud, often in my car, and the first, tiny cracks appear, signaling the time is ripe for my idea to hatch.
This is the dangerous part. The fledgling idea is vulnerable; it will be a while before it is strong enough to be on its own.
Many are lost before they ever see the light of day. A good, stiff cross-breeze can shake the branches of my brain, and just like that, Splat! The idea plummets to the ground and is forgotten.
A torrential downpour of daily obligations may drown my fragile idea.
Or it can be snatched away by my pets, Laziness and Apathy. They are always on the prowl about the house.
I cannot breathe easy until my little idea has been safely typed into the fortified nest of Word and strengthened with offsite backup. Now I can concentrate on fattening it up, feeding it a special diet of regurgitated adjectives, adverbs and prepositional phrases.
At last the big day arrives. My little idea has grown plump and strong, and is ready to try its wings. I kick it out of the nest.
Fly free, little blog post!
Soar above the turkeys.