In the town I live in there is a river. I often walk it in the mornings, and sit on a rock beside a beaver pond. The bank on the other side has a very steep grade leading up a small mountain. Between the two shores, and downstream a little is an island that blocks my view of a part of the opposite bank. Yesterday I saw a reflection of something moving along the shore across the river, the part of the opposite shore that I could not see for the island. A deer, I thought. All I could see was a reflection of legs. Then the animal moved and stopped and I saw a little more of its legs. And then it moved again, and stopped and I saw its entire reflection. It was a coyote.
It must have sensed me, because it would take a few steps and then stop and sniff the air. I sat very still and watched its rippling upside-down reflection in the water as it stepped and stopped, stepped and stopped. Finally the coyote itself came into view, still stopping and starting, and then ambling up the steep hill, coming in and going out of view as it slipped in and out of vegetation.
This is like writing. This is how a story is revealed to its author. First a movement. Then a hint of a little more. A reflection at first. Rippling and upside down. And then a wild animal, shy and uncertain about its ability to trust you.
Trust is key. In watching wildlife it means to let the wild thing be, to stay still and not interfere. Storytelling also requires stillness, listening, and allowing the story to be what it wants to be, to let it reveal itself to you, to trust that you are an author who can be trusted, who will not impose her will on the story, but will listen for what the story wants to be. A story is always a wild thing. You can set a trap for it, and capture it wounded and suffering. Or you can show up respectfully, and let it reveal itself to you.