We don't have a garden. Shame, shame, a yard and no garden. My vegetables are purchased and my flowers run wild along the stone wall, like dirty, colorful, unwatched toddlers. I tell myself this is because I write, because I staked my claim of how my time will be spent, how priorities are seized on free mornings and afternoons. But I also *bites fist* don't like to garden. I don't mind the dirt or the digging. (That's like writing.) It's the sunburnt wheelbarrow-y repetition. It's the dull tedium of the rows. (That's like sending out queries.) And it's the waiting. (Argh, like going out on submission!)
