HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: When I first read this post, a song started going through my head, and it took me just a moment to figure out. The song "And Watch Our Garden Grow" from Candide--do you know it? Is one of the most beautiful most poignant, most inspirationally life-changing songs I've ever heard. I can't really listen to it anymore, because it makes me cry.
If you've never heard it, or if you have, here's a lnk.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ey5e7buHfls
Or just read Wendy Tyson's lovely post. Same life-changing idea.
Melon, Mizuna, Murder and Mayhem:
Writing Lessons from a Kitchen Garden
Wendy Tyson
My husband and I live on a micro farm. Never mind that we’re less than ten miles from the Philadelphia city proper, or that we’re situated on a third of an acre in a busy sidewalk neighborhood.
We made the decision a few years ago to raise our own food, after my husband’s business was affected by the market downturn. Organic produce is expensive, and growing our own seemed the way to go. We fell in love with the abundance of fresh vegetables, fruit and flowers we could produce, and before we knew it, we’d allocated most of our small yard to the effort. Now we raise enough produce to feed several families, and this suburban gal has even learned to can (although the pressure cooker still scares me).
All very nice—but what does it have to do with writing? Our kitchen garden (or, as the French so eloquently call it, potager), has taught me more than a few lessons that transfer well to the writing world.
- Patience rules. It was Jean-Jacques Rousseau who said, “Patience is bitter but its fruit is sweet.” He must have been a gardener. Planting a garden is an act of faith. The first year we expanded our garden, our entire crop of tomatoes was wiped out by blight. We'd prepared the soil, planted the seeds, provided water, mulched and weeded, all in the hopes that eventually we'd have a big patch of red, ripe tomatoes. The process took months from start to finish, but we persevered. That year, we looked out over a brown patch of dead plants and rotting tomatoes, frustrated and a little heart broken. The next year we did it all again—and guess what? Our plants lived. We’d learned from our experience and future efforts rewarded us with more tomatoes than we could ever eat.
In the beginning of my writing journey, when it felt like I would never get an agent or, later, a publisher, I'd remind myself that people aren’t born fiction writers. We have to learn the craft of writing—and that takes time. As with the garden, I had to believe that all of the hard work, all of the hours spent writing and researching and reading, would—someday—pay off. As it happened, it took years before I had a contract. But I don’t regret the months in between. I learned, and am still learning, craft. I can only hope the fruits get better each year.
2. No matter how much sh-t you shovel, sometimes nothing grows. Last year, my husband invested in hybrid zucchini seeds that were guaranteed to resist powdery mildew. By seed standards, they were incredibly expensive, and despite two attempts to get them to grow, less than half the seeds produced a plant. The seller was stumped, we felt frustrated, but in the end, we planted the few seedlings that lived and moved on to a different variety. As with gardening, there may come a time when no matter how much you revise a manuscript, no matter how many attempts you make to tell a particular story, it doesn't work.
My first novel, which landed me an agent but no contract, sits on a shelf over my head. My first agent called it my training bra novel and she was right. When I think about dusting it off and resubmitting it, I pull myself back. Part of the learning process for an author involves knowing when to start anew.
3. Give it time to rot. Okay, rot may be the wrong word for a work of fiction, but the concept is the same. When gardening, we make compost by taking raw materials—clippings from the yard, vegetable-based food scraps, coffee grounds, etc.—and adding all of this to a pile in the yard, which is then turned over periodically. The process is quite ugly (and occasionally smelly), but the end result is a rich soil additive that the plants love.
Writing is similar. As authors, we take raw materials—impressions, memories, ideas, scraps of information and bits of overheard dialogue—and let them ferment in our minds. When we finally put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) the initial draft may not look or smell so terrific. But if we keep working it, turning the pieces over and over so that we view them from different angles, it may all come together to create something rich. Suddenly a story is not just a jumble of disparate elements—character, plot, a dash of romance, a steamy sex scene—but an integrated whole. Synergy prevails.
4. It’s okay to be different. We don’t have much of a backyard—most of our grass is on the side of the house. This means our gardens are visible from the street. We have no privacy. When the grape trellises went up, a visiting relative remarked that we were becoming “those people.” You know—the ones whose unkempt home stands out amidst a sea of manicured lawns and well-trimmed hedges. For a while, I saw our micro farm through her eyes and I’m ashamed to admit I was embarrassed. But one day, while writing outside, something clicked. Our yard is different, but it’s beautiful and functional and so much more efficient (and visually interesting!) than grass. I needed to believe in what we were doing and accept the fact that although it’s not the norm in our corner of suburbia, it’s just fine.
Similarly, I write. That’s also not the norm in our circles. Most of the other lacrosse parents are not carrying around laptops or books they’re blurbing—and most families we know don’t revolve vacations around writing conferences or book deadlines or have dinner conversations focused on murder motives. But, like gardening, writing is a labor of love. And the things that make us different make us (and our characters) more interesting. And that’s just fine, too.
HANK: Femmes, just this moring I was filling up the bird bath in our back garden.The hose was on very gently, and the water was not coming out very quickly. I began to be impatient--then I thought: If I stand here, just a bit, and hold this hose, the bird bath will fill up. I just have to wait and let the water flow and soon, inevitably and unfailingly, the bath will be full.
And now I'll do my thousand words for the day. I'm impatient, and the words aren't flowing very quickly. But if I wait, they will emerge, and inevitably and unfailingly, the page will be full.
Femmes, do you have a garden? How does it grow?
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Wendy Tyson is a corporate lawyer, former therapist and avid gardener whose background has inspired her mysteries and thrillers. She’s the author of three crime novels. Her latest, DEADLY ASSETS, the second Allison Campbell mystery, will be released on July 22 by Henery Press. The first Campbell novel, KILLER IMAGE, was named one of the ten best mysteries for book clubs in 2014 by Examiner.com. Wendy lives near Philadelphia with her husband and three sons—and an abundance of vegetables.
Deadly Assets
An eccentric Italian heiress from the Finger Lakes. An eighteen-year-old pop star from Scranton, Pennsylvania. Allison Campbell’s latest image consulting clients seem worlds apart in every respect, except one: Both women disappear on the same day. And Allison’s colleague Vaughn is the last to have seen each.
Allison’s search for a connection uncovers an intricate web of family secrets, corporate transgressions and an age-old rivalry that crosses continents. The closer Allison gets to the truth, the deadlier her quest becomes. All paths lead back to a sinister Finger Lakes estate and the suicide of a woman thirty years earlier. Allison soon realizes the lives of her clients and the safety of those closest to her aren’t the only things at stake.
