I have a confession to make. I’m not really doing any creative writing at the moment, and haven’t done any for a few months. Worse yet, I don’t really care. I’m trying to care, and for a long time now I’ve been pretending to care, but the truth is I don’t. It’s a bit scary.
I’ve been trying to diagnose the problem, sure that there must be a cure for it, or that it will just clear up if I apply enough Lucas’s Pawpaw cream, but it hasn’t. Today I think I might finally have found the answer; it’s all about creativity.
Boxed up in my little flat in Melbourne there were limits on my creative outlets in the home, so writing was always going to be the winner (I assure you, one look at my sketches or knitting would convince you of this fact). Our back yard was about twice the size of my desk and always in shade, and our front yard was the communal driveway.
In the Adelaide hills I have this massive garden screaming out for my creative expression. It is a blank canvas begging for veggie patches and fruit trees, it demands mowing and clipping and brings all manner of birds down to amaze and hypnotise me. I get into it every weekend and love every muscle straining moment of it.
I know a garden cannot enchant me forever, at least I hope not, and in the words of the Starks ‘Winter is Coming’ –so maybe my novels will just have to wait a little bit longer, for the magic to wear off or the rains to arrive. Whichever comes first…