Growth

After an overnight rain.

My deck garden is approaching peak production. I'm debating canning homemade pickle relish with the excess cucumbers. I've already frozen packages of green beans we'll eat this winter.

Tomatoes are beginning to ripen. I will enjoy the cherry tomatoes on salads. The drying tomatoes will go in the dehydrator, then glass jars for year round use. Slicers I'll share with our son-in-law who loves them on sandwiches. I might freeze pureed Romas if I grow enough, to make tomato sauces later.

If we relied on our garden for sustenance, like my pioneer ancestors, we'd be in sad shape. I have the luxury of playing at gardening, using it for relaxation and to supplement our diet with the very freshest of produce. There's no pressure, worrying whether we'll survive the winter if it doesn't produce enough over the short growing season.

I'm in the same position with my writing. Like the vast majority of fiction writers, I'd be hard pressed to survive on my earnings. But I don't dabble, like I do with my gardening. I'm serious about this adventure. 

I worked a day job, a corporate drone position, for most of my adult life. There was a certain satisfaction in the work, and a reliable paycheck. The need for this career was emphasized as I began selling stories and novels. There is no way I could have survived on that meager income.

That season of my life has concluded. I'm now a retiree. A pensioner. If I budget carefully, I don't need to work for anyone. I can work as many or as few hours as I want on my writing, regardless of whether I ever make a dime from spinning tales.

But I've had a taste of success. I've made a little money from writing fiction.

I don't expect to survive from what I grow in my little garden, but I work at it diligently. I strive to improve, and to grow enough to put back for winter. I'm the type of person who dreams of growing giant pumpkins just to see if it can be done. (No pumpkins in my garden this year.) 

I am grateful I'm not dependent on what I earn writing fiction to survive. But I'd like to at least make take-a-vacation money. Honestly, buy-an-island levels of success would be welcome. I don't typically write the type of stories that generate a large income. The cozy mystery market is steady but the pay is modest. I'll keep trying, though. To write better. To write more. To reach a larger audience.

Grandiose dreams in a middle-class, mildly talented life. I could dabble. But I'm crazy enough to strive for greater achievements. I just completed a definitely-not-cozy novel. Can I get it published? Will anyone want to read it? I think of it as my giant pumpkin book. If I don't try, I'll never know.

In the meantime, I'll be working on my reliable, comfortable, cozy mysteries. And growing my dependable Defiant slicer tomatoes, chocolate mint, and stubborn, steady cucumbers.

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