Writing is like searching for Petoskey stones.

A Petoskey stone looks like a grey lump of limestone until you get it wet, then the coral pattern pops out, geometric and unreal, life made into stone.  Hunting them involves a lot of stooping and sorting through rocks.  You can do it higher on the beach, lugging water around to splash on likely suspects.  Or you can wade in if it's not too murky, feet sliding over algae as chilly waves soak your pantlegs no matter how high you roll them up.  The stones you find quickly dry into unassuming chunks of rock again, waiting for that layer of glisten that allows you to see the ancient sea structure waiting inside.

Sometimes, you find one that's been pre-polished by the glaciers and the waves, so that the little corals ghost out at you from the dry rock, a glimpse of the magic.

Tentatively, I think I may be starting to find a few of these chunks in the novel, scenes where there's something discernible under the surface.  I dunno what it is yet, but it's something.

( she actually uses a scissors, but that comes later )