I’m gestating. Obviously at 58, I’m not pregnant in the usual way, but something living grows within me. An idea, conceived as a five-page essay in a senior writing class, has taken on a life of its own. Since that writing class, the idea has developed into a 200-page (and growing) story that fills my waking hours and comes to bed with me at night. It moves. It kicks. It goads me. It invigorates and exhausts me. I cannot escape it. Nor do I want to.