Forgive me while I complain for a moment. The truth is, writing a book is difficult under the most ideal circumstances, when the words are flowing and the light is faultless both inside and out, when I’m swimming in the deep end of creative waters. BUT. Writing a book is impossible when Japanese beetles are chomping away on my rose bushes.
Yesterday, I planned out the whole day—an entire luscious day with nothing to do but work on the book I’m writing. But you know the saying. The best laid plans of mice and men and writers. Somehow, even though I am “one with my garden”, piddling around in it at least daily, often twice a day, even so, yesterday morning completely by chance I noticed Japanese beetles swarming my roses like something straight from the Old Testament.
The Book of Exodus, to be specific.
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