Compost on my Mind

It probably takes a gardener to appreciate a picture of dirt -- but this isn't just any dirt; it's composted soil/hay/manure, courtesy of our little herd of cows. My husband brought up load ofter load and today I've been cleaning off the asparagus beds and top-dressing them with this wonderful stuff.

At the end of the day, of course, I'm stiff and sore -- a winter spent sitting in a comfy chair with a laptop is not a good preparation for physical labor. But it's the same every Spring and the aches are good aches.

And now, back in the comfy chair, I think, as I have before, of of the relevance of compost to writing. Before I begin a book, I throw all sorts of diverse bits of research into my mind. Old textbooks, diaries, half-remembered stories, newspapers, histories, period novels and music -- anything and everything goes into the compost heap of my brain, there to simmer and work and, in time, with luck and labor, it will turn into a novel.