I recently went whale watching with family off the coast of Santa Barbara, where I live, and had an epiphany. It struck me after several close encounters with humpbacks—one so close its exhale misted us like an enthusiastic carwash—and only later, when a few modest Minke whales finally zipped past our boat like plus-sized dolphins on a schedule. The epiphany was this: whales are a lot like writing a novel. Both are massive, mysterious undertakings that make you feel tiny and awestruck in equal measure. Both demand patience, humility, and a tolerance for long stretches of nothing much happening—until, suddenly, something breathtaking does.

There’s nothing like staring into the small, dark eye of a humpback as it surfaces beside your boat to remind you that you, the novelist, are not in charge of much. The whale decides when to appear, how long to linger, and when to vanish again into the deep. You can clap, gasp, point all you want—she’s operating on whale time. Writing a novel is like that. You spend long, hopeful hours watching an empty horizon, wondering if that first great breach of inspiration will ever come, and when it finally does, you’re so stunned you nearly drop your camera phone overboard.

At first, whale watching looks deceptively simple: buy a ticket, board a boat, scan the sea. Likewise, writing a novel begins with equal naïveté: open laptop, pour coffee, write “Chapter One.” How hard could it be? Then the water stretches out before you—vast, inscrutable, blue-gray—and you realize you might be here a while. That’s when you start thinking dangerous thoughts like, “Maybe I should’ve brought snacks,” or “Maybe I should’ve written haiku instead.”

And then—just when you’re sure you’ve made a terrible mistake—a humpback appears. She exhales a misty plume, and your heart does the same. The first sentence, the first chapter, the first something rises up out of nowhere, full of promise and life. It’s magnificent. It’s also gone again in seconds. The rest of the novel will now consist of waiting for that creature to resurface in some recognizable form.

Only later do the Minke whales show up—your draft chapters you’d rather not talk about. They’re smaller, quicker, and, if we’re being honest, a little less dramatic than their humpback cousins. They pop up, make a modest showing, then disappear before anyone’s ready with the camera. You respect them for showing up at all, but no one gasps when they do. They’re necessary, though—the practice whales. They keep the ecosystem alive between the great breaches. Every writer has their Minke moments: the serviceable scenes, the decent dialogue, the words that simply get you to the next sighting. Without them, you’d lose heart waiting for the humpbacks to return.

Whales don’t move fast. Neither do novels. Both take time—months, years, epochs—to migrate from one idea to another. They travel great distances through invisible depths, surfacing just often enough to remind you they’re still there. That’s what writing feels like on a good day: a slow, muscular progress through something larger than you can comprehend. You’re always slightly humbled by the scale of it. The ocean doesn’t care if you’re seasick, sunburned, or short on adjectives. It has its own schedule. So does your story.

And then there’s the teamwork aspect. On the boat, you’re surrounded by other passengers—each convinced they’re the one who spotted the whale first. In writing, everyone’s got advice: editors, beta readers, your friend who’s “always wanted to write a book.” You nod politely while keeping your eyes on the horizon. Because deep down you know that when the next whale surfaces—when that chapter finally sings—you’ll be the only one who can say what it means.

Whales are also masters of sound. They sing across oceans, communicating with voices that travel for miles through dark water. Writing, too, is an act of unseen resonance. You send your sentences into the void, hoping some distant reader will feel them vibrate. You may never meet the person who hears your song, but if you do it right, they’ll know it came from the deep.

Of course, there’s always the possibility that the whales won’t show up at all. Every captain admits it’s a risk. “They were here yesterday,” someone will say, scanning the waves. “You just missed them.” Writers know that feeling too—the long, empty days when the story’s gone missing, and all you can do is keep scanning the page. But the only thing worse than not seeing whales is giving up and going back to shore.

Eventually, if you’re patient, something astonishing happens. The humpback breaches, exploding out of the sea in a roar of water and sunlight. The crowd erupts. Every camera clicks. You know you’ve witnessed something beyond explanation—a creature so immense it makes you feel both small and connected, fleeting and eternal. That’s the moment you chase as a writer: when all your waiting, your false starts, your Minke-sized drafts culminate in a single, undeniable act of creation.

Then it’s gone again. The ocean closes. The whale leaves you drenched, exhilarated, and slightly dazed. You review the photos and realize they don’t capture it—the grandeur, the mystery, the sheer presence. You have to go back out tomorrow and try again. Because that’s what writers—and whale watchers—do.

We keep showing up for the miracle.