Sunny day followed sunny day, lulling me into believing that I’d never be chilly again, at least until October. I ran my car through the carwash, walked to the beach in the sun and began organizing my deck, so I could plant my Mother’s Day plants.
Surely, my single yellow pear tomato plant was anxious to get out of its green plastic pot and into a larger pot filled with fresh Rapid-Gro, so it could begin thriving and bearing handfuls of warm little pear-shaped fruit.
East of the mountains, I became accustomed to juicy tomatoes plucked in 95-degree heat near my kitchen door, just in time for dinner. I do not recall my mother growing tomatoes when I was a child on Fourth and Dayton. That may explain why this is my hesitant first attempt at growing a tomato plant in a pot in Edmonds.
Besides my tomato plant, the little packs of white cosmos and double-ruffled white Sonata petunias (both favorites) beg to be planted. So do the marigolds and portulaca and amazing corkscrew-looking “grass” I impulsively paid $6.50 for in Idaho last month.
Then, of course, the weather changed, so my glossy car got wet, beach walks required a rain jacket, and I lost interest in further work on my deck organization project, not to mention my planting. I came back inside.
Now I’m organizing kitchen drawers, doing other household chores--and reading.
I’ve started Ken Follett’s “Fall of Giants”—which is the 985-page Book One of a trilogy. The man has in mind two more books, related to the first book. How can this be? How can he be so creative? How large a staff does he have to do his research?
Writing a book nearly a thousand pages long does seem to be a habit Follett practices.
I read “The Pillars of the Earth” and its sequel “World Without End,” each of which was nearly too heavy to lift, as I recall. I enjoyed them, or I probably wouldn’t be tackling his latest.
Still, as one who now and then resurrects the pitiful number of pages of what may or may not someday turn into a young adult novel (known as YA in the book world), I cannot imagine writing Book One of ANYTHING, without using up everything I ever could think of to put in a book.
My granddaughter Annika confounds me by alluding to volume 15 of one series and volume 37 of another, and I have to wonder how on earth those authors find something to captivate my third grader volume after volume after volume. Granted, the books are thin.
Anyway, while I wait for the weather to change again, the little plants in their little plastic pots can wait on the deck, while I make my way through 985 pages of what’s termed “a magnificent new historical epic.”
Perhaps I’ll feel inspired to resume writing my own novel. I am not planning on writing a trilogy.