I have been planting monbretia this afternoon, deliberately introducing an aggressive species in the hope it will prove more aggressive than the ivy.
One of the jobs we were just about to do together when my husband died so suddenly was an all-out effort to rule our unruly garden, with help from the gardener since it was evidently too much for us together due to age and infirmity.
I’ve also planted: a new paragraph in Chapter 11 of ‘Shadows of the Trees’; a deposit payment at the furniture store for a new sofa for my study; and a few bookmarks in my ‘Other bookmarks’ with a view to finding a small bookcase for the same room to take some of the overflow (would people perhaps take a break from writing books abut Tolkien while I sort that out, please?)
The irony of all this is that it all falls under the heading of ‘stuff I never ever expected to be doing.’ I can see clearly the different life I would have had if Andrew had not died. In spite of my love of writing, I doubt that I would have gone into publishing as an indie. In spite of my love of gardening, I doubt if I’d have done so much myself (too much, ouch!) We’d have followed our joint dream of travelling as much as we could.
Well, here’s another blog-post from a female writer that seems to demonstrate it’s all about the personal for women. But to me, if writing isn’t about the personal I can’t see what it isabout. Even academic works emerge from a person, and while they strive to be accurate and factual, are rarely successful if there is no sense of some passion for the subject in the writer.
I’m having a day off to morrow. Hope the monbretia will be OK.