Our garden is in its final throes. The tomato leaves are turning yellow and the last of the little green globes stand out stark red. The herbs have long flowered, but the late bees still come and drowse among the purple and white of the mint and oregano. The catnip buds hang heavy. Even the zucchini plant is still trying, and the green apples, given a reprieve this year with a hot October, might yet make it to red. They’re blushing for sure.
All this reminds me of gathering in what you’ve worked hard to plant and grow. Writing a novel is harder work than all that hoeing and tilling, then digging trenches and sowing seeds. Editing is weeding. I’m bad at both, but it must be done. Then I mulch. Is that like sending things off to editors and agents? Tucking the plants in and waiting?
I’m waiting for two publishing contracts to end with more anticipation that I await the volunteer cantaloupe that may produce a little round globe that’s edible. The first two novels in my Power Places series are soon to be mine. I can pick them off the vine of traditional publishing and bring them to my own table. In plain language, I’m going to put them back out myself. I’ll continue the series.
I hope to have the next installment of the Power Places series ready by next spring, so I can bring two out at once. All my own. I won’t make ten percent or six or eight. I’ll make the whole thing. Yes, I’ll have to pay for production. I’ll have to promote—just like I do now. But the harvest will be mine. And the plowing and planting of the next in this series. I do have another piece I’m working on that I’ll send around to traditional publishers. Why not? A little variety makes for a healthy writing career, just like biodiversity keeps the planet and the bees happy.