So, it's raining on the Prairie. My binoculars are pointed down into the alligator nesting place, and I twirl the focus knob to search for last year's babies - a frog-sized head, the curve of tail, the movement of yellow stripes. I listen for the gulping grunts they make, but all I hear is the vinyl hood of the poncho rubbing against my head. My friend taps my shoulder and points the twenty feet across the trail to where brush moves in huge waves. I don't see anything. My eyes are still looking for small, hidden things. A rank smell floats through the rain. The brush heaves again, and this time, within it, I see the two thousand pound bison.
Each day I scribble scenes on page after page of a yellow pad - the moment after a car wreck, awkward sex with an ex, the explosion of a family secret, two lines of dialogue. Who knows if any of these have anything to do with what will become the novel, but the writing of them is my way of searching. That bison and I might have passed each other without me noticing. Each day I flip to a blank page and, once again, look for my novel.