Have you ever gone apple picking? Or picked blueberries, or strawberries, or peaches? Out in the orchard the sun drapes your shoulders like new skin, the air smells of sweet ripeness, the choices are seemingly infinite, occasionally one juicy berry lands right in your mouth, the warm, exquisite wonder of it exploding across your tongue. And then you pass tree after tree, or row after row and you can’t find one piece of fruit that pleases you. But you keep searching and before long you again find the most perfectly round, ripe, sugar-swollen berries and before you know it your pail is filled to the brim. That’s what it’s like writing a book.