I spent today gardening. I was *meant* to be writing. This keeps happening now that I have a garden that is bigger than a dining table, and I can’t help but notice how many writers are also avid gardeners.
I wonder if it is because gardening and writing are very much alike in many ways. Such as when planting a seed, you imagine the potential of a new crop of tomatoes in the future, and when you write that first paragraph (or plan) for a new idea, you have visions of how great it will be to have the completed manuscript.
Ideas also don’t tend to grow the way you expect, but pruning them to fit your original plan might end up killing them. Not to mention the weeding of a good edit to leave just the right bits of story behind, no longer hidden behind the clover and dandelions of excess adjectives and back-story.
Most similar, though, is the feeling that something else is with you along the way; a special energy, being or life-force outside of your efforts that helps it all to grow. They are both truly magical pastimes.
Gardening does leave the muscles a bit sorer than writing! 🙂