I had a bit of a crisis on my novel this week as I decided I needed to reorder the first nine chapters. This had implications that brought my first diva moment and I'm ashamed to say I threw several books across the room in frustration (sorry lovely published - grrr - authors).
DD2 came home from school. "Mummy, why are these books on the floor?"
"They helped me think" I replied sulkily.
"Shall I pick them up?"
It's all OK now. I took pen to paper and thrashed out my narrative arc or something, and I know where I need to go. But my eyes were unusually sore from scrunching and concentrating so I gave them a rest and ventured out into the garden for first time since October.
It's fair to say I'm not a natural gardener. My list of jobs includes: 'move that greeny white bush to between the red and dark green ones'. I have no idea what they are called, but my elderly friend bought them for my birthday last year so I want them to live. I enjoy the winter simply because it means I'm not wracked with guilt that I should be digging something up. When I do get my gardening gloves on, I'm an all or nothing kind of gal and gave myself RSI after a vigorous five hour pruning session at the end of the summer. So the final point on my list is 'Don't do all this in one day'. I hope I listen.
What thrills me every year is what my little garden manages to do despite me. Look:
There's stuff, growing:
Tiny little things:
I'm under strict instructions from my friend not to prune yet (can you tell I like to prune?) - something about frost not being over - so I'll leave well alone for now. My goal is that by the time my garden needs me, my book will be ready to let go. Only, promise you won't quote me on that?