Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain

I was no longer scared of the box - I was the master of the box, and as such I opened it whenever I pleased and took papers out and wrote on them and put them back in and sighed Happy Writer sighs.

But there was still something missing. If someone had asked me what the book was about, I'd have umm'd and ahh'd a lot, and it would have come out all fuzzy and the someone who'd asked would have left the room, probably, and it would only have made sense to me. And that's not good enough. 

Then there was an almighty rain shower, and I had to go out in it to fetch The Girl from nursery so I quickly stuffed the box full again and plonked The Boy in the Phil n Teds and hurried out to brave the elements. And then it happened - striding into the driving rain, that moment every writer dreams of; the moment when it all comes together, every plot strand, every vague notion suddenly makes sense as a whole story. Eureka! as Archimedes exclaimed when he stepped into the bath and saw the water level rise - whatever, Archimedes, I've just discovered something much better than that! I love my book again!