Last week, for the first time in my life, I saw daffodils in people’s yards. The area I live in is too hot for them so I’ve never seen them other than as potted plants.
When I saw them growing wild, daffodils became one of my favorite flowers.
A few days after I fell in love with daffodils, a friend sent me an essay about a hillside of daffodils blooming in a glorious pattern of colors. The plot had been planted over the course of thirty-five years, one bulb at a time. The moral of the essay is any plan can be accomplished if it’s taken one step at a time. Like several of my friends, I’ve been in a writing slump. The fog is starting to lift. I know the pattern of the story tucked in my brain. I’m not going to let the enormity of what I want to accomplish, the pressure of other stories that need to be finished or edited stop this story. Every day, I’m writing one word at a time, one paragraph, one scene of this story that makes me smile whenever I think about it.