For some time now I've had this vision of writing my book in a cottage retreat with no distractions, open windows, a creaky wooden table, and a pipe.
That's stupid.
The idea just confronted me — just sneered and splashed water in my face to wake me from that years-long dream. Of course that's not how this is going to go. Of course I can't write like that — not the first book, at least. Maybe the 40th. No, this birth is going to be bloody and frustrating and unpleasant. It's going to be scary and it's going to stop and start so often that I'll be convinced several times that it will never come. That's how this will come, or it won't come at all. It will be gritty or it will be stillborn.
Lord, I pray for a healthy child.
