Excuses, Excuses

Time is perhaps the biggest bugaboo for writers. I guess there are people who can say they're going to get up at 5 a.m., write for three hours, then breakfast on dry toast and organic orange juice, but then world peace is a possibility, too. The rest of us struggle each day, trying to find a few minutes to pursue the muse and much too often failing.

The problem is, we do it to ourselves. For someone who professes a love of writing, I can find more excuses than Carter's has liver pills, if they still do. (It's too early in the morning to think. Sometimes cliches do come in handy.) Anyway, when it's time to write, it also appears to be time to:

walk the dog (even though I don't have one, I figure I can make one up. I'm a writer, right?)
take a walk myself (and convince myself that my mind will be fresher when I come back)
do the dishes (which I normally feel is the sole job of whatever gadget GE has placed in my house)
play the guitar (once I dig it out from under the bed and dust it off)
run a load of wash
shred old tax receipts
call somebody on the phone (even if it's to hear my bank balance on the automated teller)
and this latest,
check my worms.

I'm afraid you read that correctly. Worms.

Let me explain. For Christmas this year, I got a worm farming kit, complete with a thousand little wigglers. I won't go into all the rather gross details, but it's something I've been encouraged to try by several gardeners who claim my garden will be an earthly delight if I use castings from the worms. (I'm not sure yet what castings are. They could be worm poop or dead worms. Either way, they sound awful.) These gardeners also claim that worms are easy to take care of. Dump them into a bin with a bunch of wet, shredded newspaper and a bunch of garbage. (Oh, yeah? Then, why do people feel the need to write books about worm farming, huh? If it was that easy, wouldn't a pamphlet do?) Well, I shredded and dumped and have been down in the basement a few times to see what's happening. As far as I can see, nothing. The worms don't seem to be trying to crawl out, which is good--very good. They might be dead already, although I doubt that. I have to assume they're munching away, happy as clams, making good dirt. (Yes, even for cliches that's poor, but I said it's early.)

Now, my gardens have always been an experiment in experiments. My general approach has been to toss seeds in the direction of the ground and wait until something comes up. I also use compost and often get interesting products from last year's rinds, skins, and cores. Tomatoes are the ones that most often show up, although I've also had cantaloupes, pumpkins, and decorative gourds. So, I have to ask myself whether the worms are really going to make a big impact, or whether they're better used as an excuse for not writing.

I'll keep you posted. Right now, though, this blog seems to be fulfilling the need just as well as the worms.


rhenee said...

Mary, I LOVE hearing and reading about the worm farming experiment! I'm sure you'll generate wholesome fodder for your garden veggies, but what I can't wait to see is the book that comes from all this! The fodder for humor is boundless.

Happy farming!

Anonymous said...

Keep at it - I am sure you haven't killed them -- yet!! Yes, I can see this as an extension of your Erma Bombeck tendencies! Keep me posted!