Even though I've been fighting water in my basement, it's been a beautiful spring. The abundance of rain has turned my garden into a lush wonderland. I spend this morning pulling weeds enjoying the misty morning air as dark rolling clouds painted the sky. Weeding was easy because the roots have never had the need to search for moisture. As I knelt amongst the bud-laden peonies and baptista, I took notice of how my garden has matured. It started as a meager perennial bed mainly composed of discount and shared plants from neighbors and friends. I designed the layout carefully placing each species to create interest using leaf texture, flower color, and height. But as I viewed my garden this morning, I noticed how several plants have moved. Yes, moved. Basically, they've stopped growing where I'd placed them in the soil and spread filling in new areas of the garden. I realized that not only did my garden have a mind of its own, but it had created a better layout than my original plan.
My writing is similar to my gardening. I design a plot, create characters, and draw interest by laying themes but the story takes on a life of its own. Characters do things I never would have planned, themes pop-up through symbolism and plots go astray. Yet, somehow, my words evolve into a beautifully constructed story. In my garden, I plant plants. Some die, some move but some flourish as planned. In my writing, I use words. Some are cut during the editing, some become more poetic during the rewrite and some were perfect the first time around.
I feel this is true of all art forms and I wonder, do we create art or does art create us?
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