A writer's life is not all beer and skittles, well, keyboards and Word documents. The inner bloke needs to be fed. Thanks heavens for dirt and determination.
|Hot potato ... The crop that grew as the new story grew.|
I planted some seed potatoes before I flew to the Cape to go into virtual hibernation to write the extraordinary experience of shipwreck and a deeply worrying time on a liferaft in the mid-South Atlantic, close to the Roaring Forties.
The visit went well, the basics went onto paper, well, into the trusty laptop, and back at home, I completed the editings and the many read-throughs today, enough of that editing process to feel pretty sure that I have told it like it was, and in the best way I can.
Ready for harvesting
Then the inner man needed a spot of editing. I rushed off into the garden to attend to the crop of potatoes which have grown and produced conscientiously, thankfully, in my absence and are now ready for harvesting. And now they have been.
I'll probably give most of the crop to neighbours who seem not to know about the pleasure of vegetable gardening.
However, I did sneak a couple of moderate beauties up the stairs to microwave lightly tonight. Yummy! That pleasure confirmed that I'll probably reserve a dozen for the hungry writer within.
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