It drifted, waiting.  For what it was waiting, its purpose for being, it didn’t know.  It knew only two things: that it existed, and that it would know when the time came for its wait to be over.

It viewed its surroundings impassively, seeing without understanding what it saw, studying the sparkling points of lights, the thick pulsating cable that vanished into the vague darkness above it, and the glowering crimson-hued disc of churning vapors that floated beneath.  Occasionally, a larger, brighter light would flash before it, momentarily startling it from its state of quiet waiting.  It always returned to this state, content to merely abide for now.

It had no sense of the passage of time; all it knew was the wait, but after a while, gradually, it became aware of a difference, of a disturbance, a ripple of subtle change in its environment.

Its anticipation rose.  It knew its birth was imminent.  The time was nearing for its wait to be over.  Soon it would know for what it had waited, the why of its being, its reason for existing.

More points of light flickered into being around it, pulsing with colors, growing brighter and brighter, filling its entire space with brilliance.  And suddenly, it knew its purpose and that its wait was, at last, coming to an end, and it was filled with delight for its purpose was truly wondrous.

It was born with a suddenness that elicited a cry of surprise, relief, and joy from its parent.  It burst forth with a dazzling flash and was quickly written into a manuscript, becoming the story that was the result of the idea, the brainchild that had incubated and waited in the recesses of the mind of the writer.