Sometimes I’m digging for meaning in my novel, and all I am finding is dirt, pebbles and lumps of clay. Sure I could take the clay, wash it, add a bunch together with a bit of water, and create a “David” statue replica. But that would be a side-route, a false meaning. My book doesn’t have anything to do with the statue of David. Of course, I am a writer and not a sculptpr, so my play with clay resembles a ball. Sculptures are pretty, but I want to pin some meaning on the tail of my plotkey. HeeHaw.
At times I get so enamored with the hole I am digging, and the straight and smooth sides, that I forget I am actually looking for something in the hole. But, those sides are pretty awesome, right? This hole is ready for a citrus tree. Hey let’s plant a citrus tree. I want some citrus, citrus, oh crap I live in the northwest. Wait, I was digging this hole for some other reason…what…oh yeah, GOLD.
There’s GOLD in them thar hole. Somewhere. Hmm I just hit something hard with the tip o’ my shovel. Rock, Root, Robot, Rabbit? Nope, there it is, I finally get it some wonderful treasure box, box, box, that’s um, empty. Good thing I didn’t open this on live TV.
But, seriously. I have a meaning in my back pocket, other one, that needs to be put in this treasure box. Maybe a moral? Something that makes riding the plotkey, Hee Haw, worth the bumps, the smell, the noise. I think. Get yer shovel.