Meanderings on the Fruits of My Labour

I plucked a perfect cucumber from my garden yesterday, and I am still revelling in the glory. Its skin was a perfect emerald green, its centre juicy, and its taste refreshing. From nothing comes something so fruitful—pun intended, 

I only planted my tomatoes and cucumbers in late May—now granted, this year I began with seedlings. (I promise that I’m a real, live writer who just loves em-dashes:-)

I am somehow so much more amazed by the fruits of my labour in my garden than by my writing. You see, I am days away from finalizing the ending of my fourth novel, yet somehow I felt prouder slicing into the cucumber—yet I had to do so little. 

Why is this? Writing is more of a slog. And the fruits of my labour are not nearly as fruitful. Oh sure, I have at least one beta reader who loves all that I write. But I suppose until I see one of my stories bound in a glossy cover, I feel like I have not truly succeeded. A teacher with no students, a vase with no flowers, a writer with no publications. 

And therein lies the crux of the question: Why expend gargantuan blocks of time if said expenditure doesn’t amount to something meaningful (as defined by the time-spender)?

Writing fills my days. Is it therefore not worthwhile because no one can purchase these stories? The jury is out. I have been on a path to honing my craft for years now. My first manuscript alone took me many, many years. Mind you, I was working full-time, juggling three children on my own, and all the demands that their lives and schedules presented. 

I can see my first novel through more objective eyes now: it is stiff, full of purple prose, and lacks proper story pacing. I am proud of my second novel, though it presented new challenges: multi-POV, third-person narration, and the effective weaving of lives. 

My third story, a Hamlet retelling, is a decent manuscript in my humble opinion. This fourth—and I dare say final (for a while, at least)—is an entirely different beast: plot-forward, character-driven, speculative fiction—my first foray into this genre. And it only consumed my focus for seven months. Ironically, it is more me than anything I’ve written. In a sense, the novel is equal parts auto-fiction and light urban fantasy.  

Do I enjoy gardening and writing equally? Truthfully, I enjoy reading above both. Writing is more akin to a compulsion than an enjoyment for me, and gardening, well, I don’t love the process as much as I love sitting on my deck (with my coffee, cats, or a good book:-), staring at leafy green leaves where two short months ago, there was nothing but soil. A garden of my making makes me feel content, fulfilled, and more myself, which I suppose is exactly what finalizing the ending of this current manuscript this week will make me feel.