Weeding is one of the most sensual and pleasurable pursuits. Knees on the moist earth, warm sun on my back, I make order in my garden, and in my mind. There is nothing like weeding for stimulating thought.
Many gardeners will agree that hand-weeding is not the terrible drudgery that it is often made out to be. Some people find in it a kind of soothing monotony. It leaves their minds free to develop the plot for their next novel or to perfect the brilliant repartee with which they should have encountered a relative’s latest example of unreasonableness. ~Christopher Lloyd
Last week, I turned down the offer of a contract to write a novella. It is the first time ever that I turned down a contract. And it is the oddest thing, but my decision somehow energized me and thrust me headlong into firm commitment to the new novel I have been working on.
Some people think that it is publishing that makes you a writer. I have discovered that it is the level of commitment to the work that makes a writer.
I am committed to my writing in a way that I have not been in a long time. I am writing it to enjoy the process and for a personal challenge of learning and growing. I truly am back at the beginning, where I started. It feels good, like the dirt in which I dig my fingers.
I am committed to the gardens, too. I’ve been more or less getting drunk on gardening books and perusing plants at the nursery, and going out each day to look around the yard.
I think I am committed to my life in a way I never was before. Does commitment grow, like weeds?
I am rising early and writing on the novel an hour or two before the house explodes with activity and demands. It doesn’t seem like much– one hour. But I get one or two pages done, or redone, and that is more than none. I feed my Writer, and that feeds all parts of me.
The only way for a woman, as for a man, to find herself, to know herself as a person, is by creative work of her own. There is no other way. ~Betty Friedan
There are so many sides to me: the Writer, the Mother-Nurturer, the Gardener, the Finder-of-All-Lost-Things. Men writers are writers. Women writers balance the world.
So do I.
Enjoy your weeding this spring…