I have big plans. Things I intend to accomplish around the house and beyond. Really, I do. Like the empty flower pots on the front porch and the planter boxes overgrown with mint. This is the first summer those pots have been ignored. Yesterday I thought about planting red and white flowers for 4th of July, that’s what I envision anyway, and maybe caladiums for height. This morning those pots look the same. Ignored. I’m surprised my neighbors haven’t intervened.

I also plan to get back to yoga regularly. And the messy bookcase in our bedroom needs attention. I want to help cook lunch for the VBS kids this week. Really, I do.

Yet all I do is write. All.I.Do.

For those of you who occasionally ask when can we buy your book, I offer this excuse/explanation.

I’m rewriting my entire manuscript, changing it from memoir to fiction, novella to novel, 125 pages to 300. This has taken a while, but I’m at the editing stage. At least I think I am. When I began this book writing journey, I had no idea what I was in for, but I am obsessed, and I love it. Manipulating sentencing, choosing words, bringing something ordinary to life. Except when I want to pull out my hair.

What’s my timeline? I’m still not sure, but I’m writing as fast as I can, and I’m getting closer (I think). My neglected flower pots out front are certain proof.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

“E.L. Doctorow said once said that ‘Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.’ You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”
― Anne Lamott