Today I was shelling my hardboiled eggs for my usual breakfast of sliced eggs on toast.
One of ’em shelled very easily, the shell and membrane coming off in big elegant arcs, leaving pristine egg below. The other was belligerent—a membrane that didn’t want to let go of either egg or shell, so it was a matter of picking at it and hurting my thumbs and the shell coming off fragment by tiny fragment, bringing chunks of egg with it here and there.
I couldn’t help but think, as I picked away, that stories are like this too. Sometime they’re easy to shape, and sometimes you have to chip away painfully and you end up with something pitted and ugly.
And in the end, none of that has any effect on how they taste.
And upon thinking that, my response was: “Get me the fuck out of this metaphor, I just want this damn egg peeled!”
Which is often how I feel while working on a story, but never mind.