The Sunflowers are Nine Feet Tall Источник: https://barbaraoneal.substack.com/p/the-sunflowers-are-nine-feet-tall ============================================================ The sunflowers in the next allotment are taller than me by a yard, a green-and-gold wall that makes me stop in my tracks. I’m three weeks from deadline, but yesterday I closed the laptop, picked up a watering can, and let the garden dictate the pace. It sometimes feels as if I should be writing every minute I’m awake at this stage, but it’s impossible to be creative if you’re completely exhausted. And I don’t have servants or a wife to take care of me—though, to be fair, I do have a cleaner who comes every two weeks, and my husband takes on a lot of the “wife” work: all the dishes, every day; market runs; dog walks when I’m swamped; and a hundred other chores that would simply vanish if left to me right now. My main responsibility is making sure we eat halfway decently—sometimes that’s a rotisserie chicken and scalloped potatoes from the deli, sometimes tuna on toast (which we both weirdly adore), and occasionally a pot of chili or tacos to last a couple of days. The rest is Amy’s Organics and eggs. By yesterday, I’d worked six days straight—my limit. It’s not just mental fatigue from holding the whole book in my head—the facts, the connections, the life stories, the chapter breaks—but also physical weariness. Sleep gets ragged, even with my walks, even with decent meals. So I put things away for the cleaner, let her do her thing, and gave myself permission to do nothing useful. I finished a very charming book (The Road to Tender Hearts by Annie Harnett), took a nap with three cats, picked up a watermelon and popcorn for the next writing blitz, then wandered to my allotment to water and commune with the garden. My tomatoes look like they might finally bear a respectable crop. The strawberry marigolds are absurdly beautiful. I poked around other plots, admiring another flower-rich beauty. I picked peas and left the overripe ones for the crows, cut some flowers to bring home, and in the evening, unable to settle on a new book, simply went to bed early and slept ten hours. Exactly right. A book can’t be written if the body holding the mind isn’t cared for. I can’t find new details if the box of details in my head is empty. I can’t sling sentences together if I’m too tired to think. This morning, refreshed, I started a new collage piece—drawn from a sketchbook image of an empty table at a restaurant we visited when my family was here. Ten minutes a day feels doable and keeps me tethered to art while the book consumes most of my hours. The manuscript awaits. I hope some of you are reading The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth. Reviews have been remarkably good, and I think you’ll like it. Buy The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth Tell me a story about your summer (or winter). I miss hearing from you while I’m in this faraway land of the manuscript.. Leave a comment This Place of Wonder is a reader-supported publication. Share