In the spring of 2015 I took my computer and walked out to the magical garden my family and I had created and I began to write Faltofar. Previous to our botanical efforts, the side yard had been a repository for miscellany: an aging, heavy canoe, rotting, leftover lumber, unused pots of all sizes and shapes and one ponderous propane tank.
The garden idea had percolated on my family’s collective back burners for quite a while. The side yard had potential to be something other than a dirty collection of sometimes used toys and leftover pieces of prior projects. On the day we finally cleared off the land our neighbor, who had caught the contagion of creation, volunteered his rototiller. The freshly turned soil wafted the heady scent of warm, fertile earth into the air and seemed to validate our dreams of something grand and lush to come.
How fitting that I planted myself and my computer and notes in the midst of our botanical success in order to begin to create again. As bees lazily drifted from flower to flower and water from the sprinkler tapped insistently on the newly painted propane tank, I set my mind to the stories my children had grown up hearing and helping to form. My time in the garden was sacred. My family understood my need to sit alone with this new foreign land called Faltofar I was imagining into reality.
Every afternoon that first summer I would purposely tuck my writing paraphernalia under my arm and with a wave to whomever was around slide the latch on the garden gate and step into my private world. Even if it was only for an hour, I committed time to write. Opening the gate was the first step. This ritual of writing is imperative. It is the beginning.
Blog entry June 25, 2020 Morri Stewart