I don’t think other writers have this problem.

I don’t think Moby Dick hung off a pier near Melville’s house, bubbling dejectedly. And I’m sure Mr. Darcy didn’t rap on Jane Austen’s door, grousing, “Damme, but are you through yet?”

But me, I’ve got crows. Been working most evenings on knocking off a chapter or two of Indigo, my aerial version of Watership Down. The book is done but there are a number of things I’d like to do before putting it back before the agents (who were warm to it, so there is a shot). I need to read and clean it (and force the spell checker through it one more time). And I need to create a map (I’ll hand-draw it myself, just to an idea of what I envision). And there is my working chapter analysis where I note down what each chapter covers (out loud, symbolically, and otherwise) just so I can pare the story down if needed. So much to do, which I can’t when my writing lunches are interrupted by work-pals and team outings. So it’s slow slogging.

But the nagging!

When I ride my bike, there is generally a schwarm of crows hanging around on the perchlines above 17-92 and Fairbanks, watching me roll past, cawing their harassment. And there was a group of four this weekend who batted around the grandfather pine behind our house. First the four cast down insults. Then two orbited the block while the others held fast. I actually kept tabs on them as I painted the windowsills, my computer cold in the corner, its files untouched.

And I could imagine it easily…

“I’m sure this is the place,” Weed piped, looking down over a specific hive, the one that specific tallpink lived in.

“Are you sure?” Tuft snapped, visions of Cirrus haunting his thoughts. “I can’t get plot resolution until it gets its story accepted by an agent.”

“This is the one, all right.”

“Well then, let’s voice our displeasure! We’re crows! We don’t wait!” And so they screamed, hurtling insults down upon the roof like darters would acorns.

I’m working on it, alright?

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