All around me, life is flourishing. But my writing life feels like it is dying on the vine.
Here we are in the middle of April, and all around me in this part of the world I see dogwoods are in full bloom, the brilliant purple flowers of redbuds giving way to the new, tender sprouts of leaves, and the dreary, dirty browns of winter erased by lush greenery, from lawns to trees to fertile undergrowth. My unevenly green yard is bursting with the yellow flowers of dandelions, which contrast with the canvas of lawn like the radiant stars of Vincent Van Gogh’s The Starry Night.
All around me, life is flourishing, as it should be in mid-April. But my writing life feels like it is dying on the vine.
Continue reading “Failing to flourish”