Writing a novel feels like this:

You’re the sole survivor of a ship that’s sunk on the open sea. It’s gone miles beneath the surface, irretrievable, and you’re the only one who remembers it. You try to build a raft out of scraps that float to the surface, but not nearly enough scraps come up, and they’re too spread out, and there’s no way to fit them back together. But you keep trying. And to fill the gaps, you grab whatever floats by, blubber, kelp, plastic duckie toys, and stuff them together, and finally you make something you can get on top of. It’s not the ship, but it has some parts of the ship, and it floats.

And when you press your palms over your eyes, in that heart’s darkness, you can see the ship beneath you.

And know you must keep working.

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