After celebrating the finish of the novel’s first pass revision, I celebrated the end of 2011 and the birth of 2012. There was Baby Duck champagne, there was a live feed playing on the television, and Christmas crackers were passed out.
The ball dropped, we wooped, we pulled the crackers apart with a satisfying bang and a whiff of silver fulminate, and out popped the favor. Mine was a pocket pen.
Brought it home. Tried it out on a piece of paper, but nothing came out. I ran the ball point round and round, pressing circles into the paper.
Not very auspicious, I thought.
But I kept at it. Surely it couldn’t be dead, right? Round and round and round, and I was just about to give up and count it as a loss.
And then finally — sputter, ink, and long, black loops start to flow smoothy.
The naturally occurring metaphor. Not so rare after all.