The rain starts slow at first. A few big drops pit the dry dust, followed by more until the ground and the grass glisten wet in the light. Puddles begin to form, first a spoonful, then big as a dinner plate, swelling, merging until they’re too wide to step across. The shower evolves into a downpour, steady and hard. The puddles overflow, water commences coursing downhill, like a brook, wandering over the face of the mountain looking for a river to join.
That’s how a story grows. A drop here and there, gathering toward a flow that takes you someplace you never knew before was there, waiting for you to fall into it. That’s why you write, if you’re a real writer, not to be read, not to sell a book, but just for the feeling of being carried away beyond the boundaries of your own familiar self.