At this point I have eighteen working days before my own personal writing retreat begins. To say I’m excited would be an understatement. This week I noticed that the rhubarb was sending up red shoots in one of my raised beds, and there are crocus and scilla all over the place, narcissus and daffodils poking up long, green shoots, and trout lilies blooming along the edge of the bush. We’ve heard the woodcock now for weeks doing his courtship flights, and the ruffed grouse is drumming in the bush. Everything is sprouting and courting, and I feel the creative juices building up, waiting to run down my fingers and into the story.
I have an orange Adirondack chair in which to sit by the pond, with a cup of coffee or a glass of white wine and my trusty laptop. I have a dog to get me off my butt at intervals. I have my garden, so I remember what it’s like to have dirt under my nails. I have a nail file, so I can get the dirt out – I’m more than a bit obsessive about short nails, but I still manage to get them dirty.
And I have the whole summer to finish this novel and – I’m now thinking – start the third. It could happen. Stranger things have.