For me, writing is kind of like digging for dinosaur bones inside my brain. I know the stories are in there, and sometimes I’ll spend days or weeks digging holes in the dirt and finding nothing. Or, more often, finding garbage that I think might be something but isn’t. Sometimes I’ll dig around a big something that might be a dinosaur, and I’ll keep chipping away at the edges and maybe it’s something and maybe it’s nothing.

Sometimes I know exactly where the dinosaur is, and I know roughly what kind of dinosaur it is and what it’s supposed to look like, but it’s in an awkward place, and requires months (or even years) of careful, delicate digging to get it out. Even then, I have to clean it off and put it together and stand it up and try and make sense of it. Then, hopefully, I end up with a nice, solid dinosaur skeleton, looking fierce. Or I end up with a big pile of mismatched bones that I don’t know what to do with.

Or, there’s times like right now, where I stick my shovel in the dirt and right away a big, grinning T-Rex skull is looking up at me like “Hey dude, let’s do this shit” and I barely have to do anything at all. I just keep sweeping away dirt and this almost perfectly formed, totally bad ass dinosaur is just sitting under the surface, waiting for me to find him. He was there the whole time, and I’d dug little holes all around him and never knew he was there.

I’m still digging and I’m not even entirely sure what this thing looks like or how much of it is intact, but it’s definitely big and it’s definitely cool. I’m excited.