Writing a novel and birthing a child. It’s an old comparison. Trite, yet still true. So when my Mom sent me this video, I immediately connected with it.

Birthing a rough draft is harder than it looks. It’s uncomfortable, slow, and a little nerve-wracking. Every day it emerges, bit by painful bit. People check in about how it’s going and wonder how much longer it’s going to take. You question, often, if it will be born at all. Until one day . . . splat. It arrives, legs akimbo. Awkward, ugly, and messy—yet full of potential.

At first it’s hard to tell if it’s alive or DOA. It just lies there quivering. But then, with a little encouragement and a lot of effort, it struggles to its feet. It gains strength and starts to take shape. Eventually you look at it and realize it’s become a vital thing, with personality and a will of its own. Through a mysterious—dare I say magical?—process, a novel is born. Or a giraffe.

The sequel to The Scourge is well underway. Awkward, ugly, and messy. But growing.