It starts with an idea, then it gestates seemingly forever.  When the fruit is full, juicy and ripe, it gently and easily falls from the briar.  The bush has thorns, trying to keep all grabbers from the fruit.  The twisted brambles want it for more progeny rather than share it with eaters.

I claim conception.  I allow myself to indulge in months of internal nourishment, along with tortured doubts, confused future, uncertain birth.