Soil, Rich in Choices

Soil, Rich in Choices

An adequate writer's mind is a garden, in which grows many plots, characters, meanings, whole stories in a nutritious yield. Like any farmer worth his salt, a good writer cares for their garden, always watering it and picking out the weeds, keeping all the fruits and vegetables of literacy in easy-to-access rows. They sow seeds of inspiration and motivate themselves to make sure that what grows is a tall and leafy and green stalk with budding potential, potential that they can then harvest to feed themselves, keep in a pot on their windowsill, or mass produce. A writer is well off when what they grow can sustain them and their families and still nurture and take root in other plots.
I'm a writer without a garden; instead, I have the woods-chaotic, overgrown with shrubs and weeds, dirty and buzzing and disorderly in all aspects. Sporadic. But there's something in my forest that doesn't grow in domestic soil. Where other writers produce the fruits and vegetables that they so patiently desire, I've noticed that among my bristles sprouts wild berries, flowers that have sprung forth seemingly out of nowhere, mushrooms thriving where oak ideals have fallen. All I need to do is take a walk in my woods and I'll find random growths of material. My writing is harder to navigate through, and at times it may seem as if you're stumbling over logs, twigs, anthills, webs of thorny vines, mud puddles, and other natural blunders; but just keep strolling through the woods, you'll find a world that runs wild with green and eccentric freedom.