A single straw in a field.

It has life. It feels the breezes. It drinks rain. It senses its roots in the ground. Does it expect to be an entire field, of itself?

Thoughts about the new book are like the single straw, now. Not much to be said for any particular one of them. A promising description. An insight. A hint of an emotional development. The suggestion of an arc. Bits of a story, separate, isolated, without a bigger picture to bind them in meaning.

The straw does not know that it’s a field, any more than standing in the middle of the field permits one to envision the boundaries of the landscape. Trying to imagine those boundaries is unsettling. And frustrating.

Settle, I tell myself. Be patient and think. Be patient and feel. Be patient and let be. One straw and another and another. One by one, a bail is made. A haystack. A prairie. One straw at a time. One by one, a book is made.