The seed of an idea that grows into a story. The fact that, however much you plan, some seeds take root where you least expect. The backache and sheer hard graft. The dreadful dependence on powers (like editors and weather) beyond your control.
A job or a hobby, an itch or obsession, something to dip in and out of according to the seasons or your whims. It can be wonderfully therapeutic to feel the soil between your fingers or the pen in your hand. Such a thrill to finally see the fruits of your labours: the food on the table; the words on the printed page. Yet the disappointments of both writing and gardening could have you climbing the walls in frustration, and often will.
A job or a hobby, an itch or obsession, something to dip in and out of according to the seasons or your whims. It can be wonderfully therapeutic to feel the soil between your fingers or the pen in your hand. Such a thrill to finally see the fruits of your labours: the food on the table; the words on the printed page. Yet the disappointments of both writing and gardening could have you climbing the walls in frustration, and often will.
Is writing like gardening or is this forced analogy my apology for being a total* ignoramus on the subject of Japanese fiction (I've decided that Kazuo Ishiguro's work would be cheating) as I announce the online publication of my short story The Japanese Garden?
*Not total, but forgotten: on my bookshelves I find
Black Rain Masuji Ibuse
Masks Yukio Mishima
Both now transferred to my To Be Reread pile!
*Not total, but forgotten: on my bookshelves I find
Black Rain Masuji Ibuse
Masks Yukio Mishima
Both now transferred to my To Be Reread pile!
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