My garden finally looks like Eden. The lilies are just about to pop open in various shades of color, everything from orange to black. Wildflowers I allowed to grow in the crevices of my rocky path grew tall and sparkling white. Those weeds sneaking up through the gravel I poured, get a chance to bloom. There’s a time limit. If they don’t dazzle me I’m going to yank them up by the roots, spray them with Roundup then toss them in a trash bag. The vegetables look respectable, orderly and hold the promise of bountiful meals of my favorite summer delights. When I post pictures my friends just marvel at the beauty, the entangled colors not normally paired. Somehow it just works. They think it is so easy.
I write like I garden. I enlist colorful characters that in real life might not be a good match for each other. Sometimes they’re like weeds that need to be yanked out of my story and destroyed. You do what you can to spread a little fertilizer on them to make them grow, be something other than a seed of an idea. If you wait, keep writing, hope that nature will take its course, sometimes an amazing thing happens. You create a story, a novel or manuscript of incredible beauty and self-satisfaction. Characters become so delicious in your imagination that a sequel demands to be written. This happens to me all the time.
With every season the garden changes, giving me an opportunity to envision another scenario, Spring – young love, Summer – spring into action Autumn – A conclusion to what you’ve grown over thousands of words Winter – The End. It’s time to drag out the seed catalogs and search for that next story.
When all else fails me at my desk, I have but to stroll through the garden and rest my eyes. The peace sways me into emptying my cluttered thoughts so that I can keep writing.