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FOOT by FOOT

/ janpriddyoregon / 5 Comments

Everything is blooming here, other than things that are already nearly done blooming. In the front yard the wild roses and rhododendron and irises are done, but Pink Grootendorst is still setting new buds and so is my favorite double white rugosa. The honeysuckle and salal are still in flower, and the ceanothus is covered in bees, and the other flowers are getting close to opening. Lucifer looks like it will pop a week or two early this year. [I try not to notice the red lines under three botanical names my computer thinks I’ve misspelled.]

The northern half of the front garden. There is a massive lacecap hydrangea at the south that you can’t see. It’s covered in green buds that, in a few weeks, will open up to blue. The richly scented Blanc Double du Coubert and another highly scented pink single are out of the frame too. Three clay pots, two with herbs, and one with a volunteer viola that’s come back for years. We continually fight the ivy and the neighbors’ invasive single red rugosa rubra.
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THE WORDS I WANT

/ janpriddyoregon / 1 Comment

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Most days I find glass during my walk on the beach, but I always find agates. Rarely I will pick up a feather. I lean down slowly, sliding my hand down my thigh, and even so my head throbs when I pluck a treasure from the sand.

Ten days ago I suffered a concussion in a fall that threw me hard on my back. Two days ago I sat on the edge of a too-soft chair, leaning forward while I played Scrabble with a friend for an hour. That has my back acting up.My head hurts when I wake. I drink plenty of water. Today I will try to stay off my feet and off the computer, but here I am typing.

Sometimes you just do what you want, what you might even pretend you must do. I could be knitting now or winding a warp. I could be watching television or reading. There are other satisfying, creative outlets. None of them reward me as writing does.

I have completed many stories, I could not even guess how many. Novels, and collections of writings, children’s stories and a novel probably suitable as YA, craft essays and creative nonfiction. Poems.

On the other hand. (She had warts.)

On the other hand, writing troubles me. Writing takes longer than anything else I do, longer than baking, knitting, piecing a quilt top, planning, teaching, a long walk on the beach. Reading a book. It is less certain. There is no absolute I-am-done point with writing. There is no clear reward, in most cases there is no reward at all. Few people ever see my knitting, weaving, and few eat my baking. Fewer read my words.

The novel that I have been sending out since last winter has been rejected 68 times. So far. Is that enough? Am I done? May I set this writing aside and move on? Should I?

But still, it is the words I want.