What does the blog's title mean?

I was thinking the other day about what it feels like inside my head when a story is being developed. While there have been all kinds of metaphors used in the past by poets, I found mine in the realm of science--in particular, chemistry.

When you add something like sugar to water, it disappears, its crystal structure separated while its molecules disappear between those of the water. Even though you add more and more sugar to the solution, the water stays clear--even if you pour in more than is theoretically allowable to be dissolved. This is called supersaturating the solution.

If you seal the glass carefully with plastic wrap, the sugar water will stay like that forever--the sweetness locked out of our reach, its promise denied.

If you, however, take a single grain of sugar and drop it into the glass, something that seems magical happens. From that single grain, tendrils grow rapidly, site upon site serving as a place for creation, until, at last, the entire glass is full of one solid piece of rock candy.

That's what it's like inside my head when a story is coming to me. The ideas will swirl--"How about a Deal with the Devil story?" "Can I write something about the lengths a wife will go to protect her husband and family?" "Doesn't this summer thunderstorm remind me of a girl I loved and lost so long ago?"

The subject can lie buried for days, weeks, even months in some cases. Then, out of nowhere, someone will say or sing something that would mean nothing in another context. "That girl's ass is so small, I have no idea how anything could get into it." "Who could find a virtuous woman, for her price is greater than rubies?" "She was a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes and points of her own sitting way up firm and high."

And the crystal hits the solution...

When this happens, the results can blossom so fast that people around me become frightened at my agitation. I got the entire plot (and most of the good lines) of Lost Calico in less than ten minutes just before ordering at a Ruby Tuesday's restaurant. I spoke gibberish to my family for the rest of the meal and the ride home. My job, after the initial rush, is getting the scenes that precipitate out of my brain and onto a page, whether it is paper or virtual.

When I do a first draft and the magic is happening, I write between 1500 and 2000 words per hour. I can only keep this up for two hours maximum, usually, before my fingers ache and my eyes fuzz. (There have been exceptions--I had a seven hour marathon session when I did the first draft of Ed Morgan's Ride, but that was because I was in the throes of extreme passion.)

And, of course, once the first draft is done, the real work begins--the writing, rewriting, revising, marking up, editors, and trying to sell the goddamn thing. (I'll talk about all these things later on in future articles as well as telling you about what I'm doing at any given moment.)

In its ideal form, writing is an attempt at telepathy where I take a scene within my mind and attempt to, using electrons and ink, transfer it into yours. When it succeeds, it is a miracle beyond compare and, for just a moment, we're in sync and more than our two separate bits of humanity. The ability to write, for me, is one of the greatest gifts that I've ever received.

Thank you.