I worked my compost pile yesterday…it is dark and rich and ready for autumn spreading in my beds. As I imagine the veggie peels, egg shells, and citrus that make up that beautiful loam, transformation from many separate seemingly useless parts, to an indistinguishable work of art thrills me.
Since the novel I am working on is called Gracie’s Garden, I will work that compost metaphor awhile. I hate to call my work a steaming heap of compost, but today it feels that way. When I look at the pages in front of me, I see raggedy chapters, drifting titles, and peeling, incomplete sentences spilling over into crappy paragraphs. I dream of the day that my current novel will be deep and rich, loose but cohesive, a true melding of parts to form a whole nurturing mass waiting to be spread across the minds of my readers, filling them with good thoughts, allowing them to stretch and grow down their tap roots, anchoring them in a sure place and time, while allowing their branches to reach for the sky with bright new ideas full of foliage and fruit.
But alas, daydreaming never got the compost spread, and it won’t get my story written either. Like a farmer, I need to rise to my work, be consistent and caring, sow the seeds daily, and the benefit will be evident at another point in time.