So anyways, writers get inspiration from the most random of sources. We know that. After all, my inspiration for my latest novel came from an Abba song…more on that later.
I have this theory that John Wyndham- the guy who wrote the post-apocalyptic novel The Day of The Triffids– got his inspiration for the story one summer morning after a period of heaps of rain. He might have wandered to his back door, a cup of tea in his hand as he surveyed his garden, the weak British summer sun lighting the corners that he hadn’t ventured into since Autumn.
‘By gum!’ he would have declared (or something like that…I’m not entirely sure what the curse word du jour was in 1951).
Then he would have said of the weeds, something like ‘those buggers are so tall, they look like they could grow legs and march across the lawn.’
Then he might have said something like, ‘what if they could walk, and take over the world, and then what would happen if the whole thing was triggered by a meteor storm that made anyone who watched it blind, but that somehow they had to save the world?’
Perhaps it didn’t happen quite like that- although I like to think that it might have.
It certainly occurred to me yesterday as I walked to the edge of our pergola and surveyed what used to be my herb garden, and what used to be a neat path down to the pool. Was it only a few months ago that I’d tidied it all up, and put the garden to bed for the winter?
Which neatly segues me into todays topic for the Confessional linkup with My Home Truths– What Spring Means to You…
Sure, it’s that smell of warmth (yes, it’s a smell) in the early morning. It’s the dawn chorus that starts at 5.30am- the first kookaburra breaking the silence way before my alarm goes off.
It’s also the first trip to the garden section in Bunnings. It’s the days (yes, days) spent weeding the garden beds from winter. It’s the bales of sugar cane mulch spread over the top of newspaper to ensure that every weekend between now and Autumn isn’t spent weeding the garden beds.
It’s the declaration of ‘this year I’m fixing up that weedy bit down near the pool once and for all.’ It’s the conviction that I’d be a good goat farmer- and possibly a good goat cheese maker- if only hubby would let me keep goats to save on the weeding. It’s the annual ‘why can’t I have a few chooks? They’d keep the weeds down!’
It’s also that first tinge of blossom, that first smudge of green, the purple of the lavender and the rosemary flowers. That first breath of warm breeze, bringing with it the scent of Spring. It’s the lorikeets at dawn squabbling over the fresh, sweetness of the banksias.
It’s the knowledge that this season, in Sydney, is fleeting. By the time the blossoms are gone and the jacarandas are out, the heat and humidity are with us.
So yes, I may curse the time spent hunting triffids and mulching, but for a few short weeks, the garden is glorious.
Linking up in the confessional with My Home Truths…