Naturally this put me in mind of writing.* My first drafts are foggy. They're like a mass of unconnected hovering light balls surrounded by the hidden and the unclear. I can barely see the outlying form, the big picture. Somehow I need to bring it all into focus in future drafts. I have to burn through the mist and the murk, sharpening all the story's edges. I need other people, those driving without fog lamps, to show me all the places where it hasn't burnt off.**
And some days, I like the fog, both outside my window and in my stories. It wraps like a blanket, insulating. Today, my kids and I can stay here, protected by the walls of our home. And my story, buffered from all the critical eyes out there, can remain wrapped in its little cocoon until it grows enough to emerge, be tested, strengthen, and take off.
**Yesterday in my talk with Mrs. Hall's 4th grade class, I decided "review group" is a better name than "critique group"