The seed is planted with inspiration. The story begins to unfold in the quietness of my mind. It grows in seclusion. I keep the ideas from everyone. I work over the words, I type, I plan. I don't tell anyone about the process for a while. I tell only a few that I'm even aspiring to write a story, let alone what it is about. I ask for prayers that I will be steady and bring it to birth. And like a pregnancy, the story has growth spurts and then it is hard to conceal it anymore and a few more people notice. I talk about it a little more, but still wary that it make not to light. Even when the story is finished, I need to mold it some more. It is not ready for the world or even a friend to see.
Three paper copies sit on my dining room table to take to the nannies, governesses to proofread, edit some more. They are in a box, just waiting for the light of day. They are still in the gestation period, not ready for scrutiny. Not ready for day care, preschool or kindergarten. Or is it the momma that's not ready?
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