Oh, you hard-shelled crab.

This twelve books, twelve first drafts in twelve months thing that I’ve been posting about?  That?  Well, it’s not panning out.  I suppose it could happen.  I could get a strong drive to punch out the next nine in short order, fueled by fear and coffee and angst and hunger for the end in sight on the Zodiac Procession.

The Ram passed, as did The Bull.  The Twins gave me some grief, but hardly any sleep lost.

Then came The Crab.  And it’s a tough mother.  Carapace of stone, apparently.  No keratin in this one.  Just unbreakable, unyielding hardness.  It made a home in me, that crab, definitely hermit variety.  And it’s been nestled in ever since. Except it doesn’t want to pull its claws out from under my sternum or my sinus cavities to see daylight or taste new air.  It just hunkers down and hermits like it’s wont to do.

I watched it hunker, that little friend inside me, and let it be for months.  I watched the weather change from the baking-heat of summer to the transitioning leaves and this is when I began to panic.  The Crab needed to come out.  Why wouldn’t it play?  Perhaps if I built it a sand castle to call home, one with a moat of grey water and three damp, earthen gatehouses?  Because apparently it didn’t feel safe to exist outside of me. Perhaps it needed fortifications.  Perhaps I could write those?

Part of this process, of this challenge to myself as a writer to produce twelve books in the course of a year extends to lessons in patience, acceptance and inspiration.  It also pertains to work.  But I felt that if I tried to pry the little thing out of me, I would end up with very pinched, bruised fingers from those tiny, powerful claws.

So I waited him out.  And then there came a day where that good time synchronicity popped up and I was seeing crabs all about me: ads, signs, Facebook pictures, keychains.  And then the next morning, I woke and my main characters, Riley Wanner and Peach Barrow were at the forefront of my mind.  I could see his body, hear her voice.  They were beckoning.  So I did the opposite of what the hermit crab had been doing.

I emerged.

The Crab is now outlined.  Take that you hard-shelled crab mofo!  Tomorrow, the writing starts.  And like that, I’m back in the procession and the year ain’t over yet.