Writing a novel is like witnessing growth of a tree.
An idea comes to mind, just a spark.
The seed is planted.
Will this seed grow to become a giant?
We’ll never know unless we nourish it, and have unrelenting patience to find out.
Then the comes the sprout: a sentence.
Aha, who is this new character who speaks from unknown lands?
Let’s find out.
It grows into a page.
How large will the tree be?
Pages, pages, pages go by….
The trunk begins to branch out, here and there, along with surprising new ones everywhere.
Months, months, months go by….
A story is clearly reaching for the sky.
From that tiny seed we see, a giant being borne, in the form of a tree.
It may take years to grow, years of watering and feed.
Impatience does not make it grow faster, we see.
But after all that time of caring, we sit on the bench that hangs dangling from a massive branch, of the tree that helped us be, knowing it has given us pages, this tree.
And we smile, thinking:
“I have done it. I am a creator. And I will forever have this tree, because it is me.”