where the writers are
Weeding

Today I realized, I am a weed.

I'm talking about writing.

Makes sense, right. It rarely does.

I was weeding a section of yard that runs alongside the house's southern side. Six feet wide, the section has a privacy fence, and is just small backfill stones. There's a small stretch of dirt that's fertile and hospitable as baked dirt. My vinca from the front has made its way around the gate and has created a beach head. 

But weeds grow in these rocks. They need to put their roots down through three inches of stone but they manage to do it. You must admire the drive or will that makes them put their roots down and say, this is my ground. 

And they make it, until I come along and extract them. 

It's hard on the back and takes a while. Such time at tedious work allows thinking, and I thought, writers need to be like these weeds. Put their roots down. Find a way to thrive. Be like a weed. Persist. Persevere. 

Keep trying.

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