I just started reading Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer.

A paragraph:

"It was only this morning that I became conscious again of this physical Paris of which I have been unaware for weeks. Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am carrying it around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with child and the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me their seats. Nobody pushes me rudely any more. I am pregnant. I waddle awkwardly; my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world"

I love this metaphor for having some idea for a book or a story and carrying it around with you like a fetus. Wonderful.

Have either of you read Henry Miller? He's a vulgar guy apparently, but after having a love affair with Bukowski's work for a few months I'm desensitized in a fantastic way.