It’s a merciless life. Awake before the sun, working the earth until long after the sun sets. Turning the hard packed soil where rocks are more plentiful than crops, a back- and spirit-breaking effort that never ends.
My field is my mind, my plough is my pen. I toil to cultivate a crop of words that will yield sustaining tales. Digging deep furrows, churning up memories, experiences and relationships, I plant kernels of thought, cull word weeds, and foster growth during dry spells.
It’s a relentless pursuit for an uncertain harvest, but I’m grateful for what fruit I reap.