Writing is like planting a garden and waiting for the emergence of something green.
The one who plants is bent over the dirt. She takes off her gloves as they are stifling hot and place too much between her and the earth -- rich, damp, and deep.
She brushes a mosquito from her arm, leaving a smudge of blackness mixed with blood.
The cultivator, or as she referrs to it -- "the claw", is held firmly in her hand and is drawing lines in the dirt, breaking up clumps and pulling up roots that had long gone dead.
The odor of turkey poo drifts up to her nose, which crinkls in recognition that what feeds growth is not always pleasant.
She punches a hole through resistance and drops in a seed, then another, then another. She pushes the dirt back into place, blending old and new, with a smile of satisfaction.
She knows she can't simply wait for the magic to happen. There will be watering, weeding, and vigilance to watch for pests biting away at her produce. She must protect and feed tender shoots.
But she also knows there is only so much she can do. The rest is up to Mother Nature and a bit of luck.