During the warm months, I swim laps at a local pool. To take my mind off the pain while doing so last summer, I started batting around an idea for a novel. The idea was exciting. Each time I swam, I put my mind to the idea, like dialing in to a staticy radio station that occasionally plays great songs. Damp and chlorinated, I made notes in the changing room or sitting in the empty parking lot. The notes became pages of bullet points and arrows, smudged and dappled with drips.
Today, I began it in earnest.
Terrifying and thrilling, the start of a novel is the high dive for writers--I feel the chilly breeze of anticipation as I grip the cold rungs of the ladder leading upward, knowing that at the top, only my balance and will can bring me into the air.