Watching My Garden Grow—or Not
I think my patch of dill is three inches high today, my tomato plant and two bean vines about mid calf and mid thigh respectively.
Well, I was slow to get the seeds in the ground, so what could I expect?
I also forget to water, until my scrawny little plants are banging their leafy fists on the ground and saying accusingly, “What kind of gardener are you?”
This is a blog about writing, and I’m writing about not writing. My pen, when I can find it, could say the same thing to me: “You never call, you never write . . .”
I admire Heidi and Karen and Eleanor for undertaking the writing of a novel—and following it through, untangling the snarls in the plots, deepening their characters with each rewrite, filling in the holes with some excellent writing.
I look at the characters in my pre-written stories, and they just glare back at me, accusingly. “Well, we’re not going anywhere while you just sit there and doodle in the margins!” Maybe I should just take up cartooning.
My live-and-let-live approach to gardening and writing hasn’t worked well (except for the weeds). Participating in the blog has been helping me get over my block—I’m writing and stretching that mental muscle that I’ve let atrophy for too long.