Like shoveling mulch, that’s what drafting a book often feels like. Never-ceasing labor with no end in sight. Keep at it, though, and buffeting shards of illuminating light flood your mind. That’s what it means or that’s how to do it or that’s what truth looks like or . . .
I’ve been slow at drafting and even when I’ve sped up, I’ve still been too tardy. But the cycle seems to be accelerating. Surely, if I keep plunging my spade into the mulch, surely those lights will come faster and faster, until words pour out of me.