A WRITER'S DIARY: Springtime and One Writer's Fearful Blues

My watchful angst slips away as the birds wake from winter's lethargy and prepare for new life.  Even hummingbirds are busy, sipping nectar from fledgling blossoms. Oh yes, I feel it: Spring has opened one eye.

Old timers mark true spring by one of two things: Easter has passed or the pecan trees have begun to leaf.  Experience has taught me to rely on the pecans.  But my pear tree, unable to wait for either, is fully leafed out: pale leaves against cinnamon branches.  A few clusters of white blossoms opened two days ago.



My grapefruit  and tangerine are in deep need of a good feeding.  I'd love to mound the banana with oyster shells but the dogs enjoy nothing more that a good chew on a bivalve.

The winter's heavy rains prompted my jasmine to grow wild all season.  It's now thick and unruly, like a good head of hair.  There is no hint of sky through the green tangle.  An old coon beds down in the vines when it suits him.

Each morning I awake and study the sand for tracks.  Mama bear and her cub have become accustomed to using our property as their gulf-to bay byway.  I'm careful at night.  I believe in every cliche I've ever read about mama bears.

And then there are the coyotes.  I love the sound of the group howl--reminds me of Hank Williams for some reason.  I think Hank possessed a lonesome but longing heart and I hear that same beautiful pathos in the coyote song.  But I also don't allow the dogs into the yard after sunset.

The tides have reflected how uneasy--perhaps unready--this spring is.  Fast currents and wind driven chops have kept the kayaks in their berths.  And it's still cold to this Floridian's thin skin.

As I write, I pause to stare out my window, trying to figure out what is next.  I have a new book to write, another to promote, and a life to live with four dogs and a good husband.  I need to start digging in dirt.  I gotta make things grow. 

I spent all of last year hobbled in various leg casts so the yard was left to its own devices.  This year I plan to assert myself as a gardener and writer.  I need them both to flourish.  I fear that How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly won't find her readers, as if she's some blind homing pigeon destined to head to China instead of Brooklyn where she might be loved.  I fear everything I plant, every seed I tuck into the warming soil, will die or remain dormant.  Of course, I fear my agent and editor will say, "What was she thinking, starting a new book?"  Oh, yes, I fear. 

It's part of a writer's job, this insecurity.  Perhaps it's our readers' job to say, "Oh, honey, of course it's all going to work out just fine.  Now go write that book.  I need something to read."

As I think about it, I've almost always started a garden in tandem with a new project.  Perhaps my creativity is more seasonal that I know.

And what about you?  What will you grow in your garden this year?

Heart and soul,
Connie

P.S. Links to love: The Clarissa Burden Postcard Project, The Clarissa Burden Launch Party in Tampa, Pre-order How Clarissa Burden Learned to Fly, Some Recent Writing, A Good Interview