Some
nearly imperceptible shift took place on December 24th.
My husband and I had guarded the secret of our baby’s gender
since before Thanksgiving, careful to say “it” and never
“she” – not even to each other, lest we slip. We would break
the news as a Christmas gift to our parents, complete with a
3D ultrasound movie. When we went in for the ultrasound, we
were giddily pleased with ourselves and our surprise. But as
we peered at the screen before us, there was no mistake: our
“it” became a reality – and took on a life of her own.
I didn’t notice the shift at first, though looking back, I
can see all the signposts clearly. No longer was I
obsessively reading about my body’s changes or worrying
about whether my feet would grow. I suddenly found myself
preoccupied (often in the middle of the night) with what
name to give her, where she would sleep, and how many
onesies she might need before she grows into a whole new
size. I still wonder if she will ever fully know how much we
love her, even before we’ve laid eyes on her. Or if we can
ever love her enough.
At the same time my baby has been forming and growing,
another “baby” of mine has been doing the same. Once no more
than a speck, my idea has been developing into a
full-fledged novel. I’ve spent much time learning about the
nutrients I must put in to make it flourish – realistic
characters, a solid plot, words that sing. I’ve worried
about whether my middle will sag. Worse, I’ve wondered if I
truly possess the mettle to make my character come alive.
As it turns out, she came alive all by herself during one of
my brisk morning waddles. As I mulled over the images in my
head, a soft voice rose above the clutter and worry. It was
as clear as if someone had settled on my shoulder and spoken
into my ear. My focus on myself as writer peeled away. What
was left was something beyond myself, in need of nurturing.
It was my character, ready to breathe her first real breath.
Why hadn’t I heard her from the very beginning? Perhaps for
the same reason that our baby needs 40 weeks to form. I must
experience my own gestation – to nurture myself before I
could give life to someone else. In the process, almost
imperceptibly, my eyes learned how to see. My ears learned
how to hear.
Perhaps for you, it will be something different – a final
plot point locking into place, a sudden realization of your
central theme, or the emotional crescendo of your character
rising to face challenge. Don’t be discouraged if it doesn’t
happen right away. Instead, focus on honing your craft and
allowing your ideas to take shape. Your baby will come alive
when she’s ready. When she does, she’ll need the nurturing
only you can give.
