The Bird's Nest

In my living room, I have a bay window . . . a picture window. And in front of it grows a maple tree. This spring, a robin decided to build a nest in it.

The nest is a haphazard affair. I can actually see strands of yarn that the robin must have plucked from my garbage cans (I knit, and I recognize some loose strands from old yarn--this white chenille). There's a silver ribbon from a Christmas present. The nest is in a place where we can see it from the chair in the window . . . and it's near Demon Baby's bird feeder. Demon Baby loves his bird feeder, which he fills with sunflower seeds. And he "defends" it with a passion from his mortal enemies, the squirrels. He defends it with a glow-in-the-dark plastic Star Wars light sabre. And he, like all Jedi, is fearless. He hates the squirrels like they are an incarnation of Darth Vader, and he is willing to fight them to the death.

We've had some hellacious weather here lately, and very often, Demon Baby sits in the chair by the window when it is raining and sobs. "PLEASE can we bring the nest inside. PLEASE can we bring the eggs inside." He is absolutely distraught--his face wet with real Demon tears.

It breaks my heart to tell dear Demon Baby that no, the nest must weather the elements.

So it is with writing. We build it, strand by strand, adding shiny Christmas ribbons and bits of yarn we've collected. We build it word by word, strand of plot by strand of plot. And some day . . . we lay the proverbial egg. A finished book. Then we sit on it . . . we sit on it and nurture it and hope an agent likes it . . . and then it hatches and a tiny bird, a hatchling, leaves the nest--sometimes it's even PUSHED from the nest. And we hope it flies.

But the other part of it, of course, is the rain and the windstorms. We can't protect our work forever. It has to survive the elements. If we're lucky, our agent and writers' group and critique partners will be like Demon Baby, defending our work with a plastic light sabre. The super-cool glow-in-the-dark one. But in the end, it has to weather the storm. Alone.

And if we're lucky, our baby birds will soar.

In the next two weeks, two hatchling manuscripts will be leaving my nest. I am sad to see them go. But they're ready to fly. Shiny ribbons and all.

Thoughts?