I’ve reached two hundred pages.  Funny to think that four falls ago, I was gleeful with fifty.  There was a period of two years where I did not write much at all, working with material I finally threw out.  In January, about the same time I began this blog, the words came faster.  How interesting is this to a reader?  Writers want assurances, rewards, encouragement.  They–we?– rarely talk about composition, aside from meeting the page, the muse.  Who was it that said, “What if the muse shows up at my desk, and I’m not there?”

Now, with classes over, I putter in the garden–two square inches of green–put things in pots, know I’ve bought more than I can sow.  Aside from wild geranium, I’m not sure what little seedlings are emerging from last month.  It that feverfew or dandelion?  Is it culturally inappropriate to want pink jasmine in the mountains, especially now that I’ve learned how it was smuggled into the states?  I don’t really like the smell as much as star and what is known as round-fat jasmine.  But mostly, it’s geraniums, coleus,  marigolds, snapdragons.  A honeysuckle .  I think, more pages will come to me as I scoop out soil, and weed and water.  All I get  is what’s at hand.  I suspect my muse is in a hammock, sipping lemonade, reading a mystery.