I’m meant to be writing about my publishing journey (must everything be a journey these days?) but instead, I’m beguiled by the view from my library where I work. A hibiscus in full, blushing pink bloom is nodding at me in the dappled afternoon sunshine, commiserating with my procrastination, it seems. Just over its shoulder looms a graceful hydrangea set inside a tall iron planter, ivy trailing over the sides. If I squint a bit and let my imagination wander, I can almost transport myself to an estate somewhere in the Irish countryside. Sheep dotting the lush green fields; ponies grazing tall grass in the distance. Perhaps I’ll take my tea out on the great lawn in a bit and watch the wolfhounds amble about.

Stretched out on the couch across from my desk, one of my Cairn Terriers grunts her protest in her sleep, forcing me from my reverie.

I’m always in awe of how nature inspires my imagination and leads to particularly productive writing sessions. Once I hit that stride, if left uninterrupted, I can be lost to the world for hours as I work on a short story or a scene. Getting lost in writing is an intense, magical experience; there’s nothing more rewarding than being in a creative flow and finding connections and ideas. In those moments, it never feels like work. It’s just a clear channel. But finding that space is so difficult—I’m sure it’s true for everyone right now in this chaotic world where there’s no peace to be found. Where there’s no such thing as being unreachable. And yet.

I’ll leave My Road to Publishing for another day, or maybe never. For now, I’ll step outside and enjoy what’s left of this summer while I can. I’ll leave my computer on the desk and my phone, with its constant news alerts, beside it. The season is waning—I can sense it in the chill of the morning. The late afternoon shadows lengthen every day, stealing inches of sunshine with each rotation. September is always a melancholy month for me, even though I’m born in it. It meant the end of summer and a return to school when I was a child. And later on, it marked the end of my summer idylls with my own children, leaving my heart aching at the loss. September means change, and not the good kind. 

So. Enough. Out the door I go. These glorious hibiscus blooms will be gone in a few days, the hydrangea will darken and prepare for the autumn frost, and in a wink the world will go fallow for another long, cold winter. 

Maybe I’ll write about my publishing journey then.