I walked a long way yesterday. I like to walk. I liked this walk especially.
Also, yesterday, I bought more plants. I really forget how much I enjoy being around plants and soil and rows of stacked pots and trickling fountains until I find myself in the middle of all of it. The current crop from Chez Guth will, with any luck, yield Ichiban eggplant, Roma tomato, onion, dill, strawberries, artichokes, green bell pepper, basil, garlic, lavender, and mint. I am forgetting something, I know. My cat has discovered the leaves and defiantly looks at me while eating them from the corner of is mouth. Maybe I will grow catnip, too. Sigh, I realize blogging about plants and cats makes me sound like a ninny.
In between moments working on my little windowsill farm, I was reading Miss American Pie by Margaret Sartor, who I met, spoke on a panel with in New Orleans, and just really like. The book is a collection of excerpts from journals she kept as a young girl in the 70s and they read so touchingly and heartbreakingly familiar at times that I’ve only read up to her early high school years but I have cried three times. Really, sometimes the stripped-down, simple way young people write (before we learn to censor ourselves as adults) is so beautiful, complex and poignant that it is staggering.
I needed to get some writing done yesterday, and I did not. But, I have today to write plenty. I woke up with a spark of a new novel, title and all. That will make six manuscripts-in-progress. Six! Sure one is basically finished, one is close to finished, two are about halfway and one is a seedling, so they are staggered, not overwhelming by any means. I’m a little amazed to be adding a sixth, but, in any case, there the idea sits, patiently waiting to pounce.