On a whim one cold October I bought a bag of 50 daffodils. The firm, sturdy bulbs I carefully planted on my yard as if I was planted buried gold. My neighbors even stopped by to ask, “What are up to?” Yes, I was always up to something, some project, some reason to be outdoor during the pandemic. Or as other neighbor said to my daughter, “Your mother enjoys toiling on the land.” I like that imagery. Nonetheless, I waited after two snowstorms, worried about my bulbs, knowing that there were asleep with warm organic fertilizer on top of them protecting them from the wrath of Mother Nature.
Writing just like planting daffodils is a slow process. It requires patience. Now, I am see the fruits, or shall I say, the daffodils of my labor. Their tiny roots are now bursting from the ground, as I greet them with a huge grin. “I have been waiting for you.”
My writing has been slow and steady, and I continue to polish my writing as I reach the final stages of my writing process. I realized that my writing process very fluid: brainstorm, research, outlining, more research, read, revise. write, reread, and first draft, second draft, and now third draft. My deadline is May 3.