Laboring
throughout the night, the spider spins the sticky strands of her new web from
one dark corner to another, connecting points that would otherwise never
intersect. When one strand fails to meet
her merit, she backtracks and lets it fall and starts again. She meticulously finds the perfect spot for
each end and glues them together, never once stopping for a break.
Only when she is
finished does she rest, gazing at the sunrise from the top corner of her
masterpiece, waiting for new inspiration.
It comes, just before noon, blindly falling into the trap. She hurriedly snatches it within her grasp
and, like a drug, gives her the renewed vigor she needs to go on.
As the writer, you
weave words together, connecting unlikely ideas to tell a story. Sometimes you find strands that stick to your
tiny legs and won’t let go; you must find the right spot for them or let them
fall. Otherwise, the entire web
collapses. In the morning, you find yourself with an intricate result from your
midnight toiling: a mesh of silky strands joined to create the foundation of
your story.
Then, rest.
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