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Here’s a section of my garden only a few short months ago. It’s hard to believe the days are already growing shorter. I’m not a fan of heat and humidity and find the end of August tolerable at best. But here we are: the dying days of summer, and I’m feeling in limbo. Today I realized my life the last few months has echoed the season. After a hot season of writing and writing, last week I finished the third round of revisions on my current manuscript. It’s not due until January, but I rely on others to read over it and point out the absurdities so I can have another month or so to revise before handing it over to my editor.
Even while writing, I squeezed in several weekend trips to see family and friends, attended two weddings, and enjoyed visits from the grandkids. Our lives were bursting with activities – things that come with the season. Now the kiddos are back in school, my flower garden is a shambles of deadhead blooms and overgrown lilies and Russian sage. Even the cicadas, whose serenade continues deep into the night, are shedding their summer coats leaving their “pork rind” husks scattered about the patio.
Last night, a gentle breeze blew over, bringing with it a newness to the air. Cool. Dry. A hint of autumn’s promise. It’s time to sweep the dusty cobwebs from the corners of the patio and the nether regions of my brain. My next writing project? I can’t decide, but already several ideas are vying for attention. Perhaps it’s time to take my yellow pad outdoors and scribble the ideas on paper while they’re still fresh. Let the characters who are shouting the loudest, “Pick me! Pick me!” have their say.
Another season on the calendar and in my writing life. You know, I’m glad they coincided. And I can’t wait to see what’s around the corner. Maybe I’ll meet you there.