Moving a Mountain

Do you want to see what I’ve been working on this past year? Actually, it’s been more like seven years, which is how long we’ve been in this house, but I only got serious about it a year ago. We have a large yard, but it’s built into a rocky slope, covered with loose fill that is the perfect medium for thistle and blackberry brambles. After I discovered that the coyotes had actually made themselves a blind amongst the weeds, from which to stalk our pets, I said THAT’S IT. Time to landscape.

See? Even the snow can’t cover the weeds. It’s very private, and jam-packed with potential… mostly unrealized. My husband estimated that it would cost somewhere between 30 and 60 K to do what we want. (It used to be that any project I wanted to do would cost $700. He just pulls numbers out of his, um, hat, mostly to shut me up.) So I kept imagining how awesome it could look… and quit talking about it.

Until last fall, when I lost it and attacked it myself. With a pick-ax.

Hubby had been largely AWOL, finishing his MBA, and I needed to destroy something. Can’t spend the money to landscape the yard? Fine. I’ll do it myself. Stand back, MBA guy. I’ve got tools and I’m not afraid to use ’em.

I started digging, just far enough to a) realize what a herculean task I’d undertaken and b) make it look actually worse than before, forcing me to finish the job.

Frank, the gentleman who’s helping me reach the finish line, is a Rock Star. See all those large, nicely cut hunks of stone? He hauled them all up there by hand. He cut the beautiful stone steps into the slope and he built the rock wall just below the first evergreen. So now I’m into the incredibly fun part – arranging the plants. Well, I’ve got a lot of grunt-work left; rocks to arrange, landscape fabric to cover, bark mulch to haul and spread… but it’ll be worth it.

What does moving a mountain have to do with writing? Besides the obvious benefit of creative procrastination?

Anyone who’s ever tried to write a book will understand the metaphor immediately. It’s so hard, and once you get to a certain point, you simply have to do the grunt-work to get it done. You can’t believe you started something that is so obviously past your ability to complete. You’re embarrassed because so many people keep asking how it’s going and you have to lie and say you’re almost done, just a few more revisions now, just a tweak here and there and it’ll be ready for submission. Or you start into a hideous, self-deprecating explanation of how your self-esteem has been in the toilet and you doubt the idea was any good in the first place, and your shoulders are seized up so you can’t type, and your publishing house went bankrupt, and your editor is a mean, mean man who doesn’t understand you and THAT’S why the book isn’t done yet.

Or you keep all that stuff for your journal, write the damn book, then go outside and work on your dirt farm.

I’ll let you know when the book comes out. I’m almost done, just the final scene to write, some character layering, a few plot points to fix…

Until then, doesn’t my yard look GREAT??