The other day, my little guy was taking a nap on the couch when my daughter arrived home from school. He'd been asleep less than ten minutes and it would have been the perfect moment to grab my laptop and head to my office for some quality writing but the outdoors beckoned.
Like the angel sitting on my shoulder, my daughter said, "Shouldn't you be taking this time to write?" She had a point. But another angel sat on the other shoulder pointing out the perfection of the day- not too hot, not too breezy, the ground was damp and I had seeds which needed to be in the ground.
As much as I enjoy writing, I enjoy getting my hands dirty. Plus, when I'm outside digging, planting, weeding and hauling the ideas sprout. Solutions to holes in my plot become apparent while transplanting. Relationships between characters become clearer when I'm deciding what vegetables compliment each other. Unnecessary scenes are easier to toss while on hands and knees weeding.
The best part is I get alone time and room to think because my family flees at the mere mention of yard work. I can barricade myself in my office threatening extreme torture to anyone daring to interrupt and I am assured of constant interruptions. Put me out in the yard clad in overalls, bandana, insect repellant and no one dares to intrude for fear I'll enlist them in weeding, clearing rocks, turning the compost or some equally terrifying task. I've devised dastardly yard chores designed to give me my creative solitude. That's why this writer just has to plant.