Writing is a bit like spelunking. And also a bit like paleontology, or perhaps grave-robbing.

Ideas are bones, the writer fleshes them out, and hopefully the Frankenstein-spark flashes through the flesh and makes the story come alive.

I was overcome with melancholy last night… and also a healthy surge of amazed optimism… when I uncovered yet another interesting and important subplot in my novel. It was like suddenly finding wing-bones near the spine of a long-buried dinosaur and realizing that dragons were actually REAL.

Sometimes I feel like I will never be done. Sometimes I feel like I don’t want to be.

I will keep digging, dusting with my gritty toothbrush, and throwing the switches in hopes of even one electric twitch of life. Writing is dirty work.