Sometimes, when I think of all that’s stored in my brain, I imagine this intricate organ resembling a keepsake box, filled with personal artifacts; experiences fraught with memories, with no pattern nor order at all.

If you were to sit down with me someday, I could explain the significance of each of these seemingly insignificant treasures: the extra-sharp hair cutting scissors my mother used to my trim my hair; my father’s old, whale-boned. short-handled shaving razor; a pin for perfect attendance at Sunday School; a pink plastic baby that slept in my dollhouse; a green duck barrette often worn by my daughter, Britt; or a tiny jade rabbit pendant, a gift from my daughter, Erin, that she bought in South Korea.

When I’ve spoken with school children about the writing process, I’ve explained, “You write about what you know … but also, about what you don’t know you know.”

The best writing often bubbles up from a mysterious, invisible layer of the brain called the subconscious—and when this happens while I’m writing, creative sparks fly. For example, today, for some unknown reason, I started singing to myself “Some Enchanted Evening” while I was free-writing. This song, from the musical South Pacific shed a revelatory light on the trials and travails of a Midwestern rabbit named Nettie. Stay tuned. When I figure out what a song from a well-known musical, one that I used to play on the piano when I was eleven years old, means to my story—or not—I’ll let you know.

Day 20 of National Novel Writing Month. I’m at the two-thirds mark. Ten days to go. 1553 words, a few of which were lyrics sung by a cottontail rabbit who thinks she’s in love for the very first time.

#NaNoWriMo18