Pruning, growing
How a fallow season has shaped who I am now
Dear Creative Soul,
My kitchen today smells of Morocco - a spicy symphony of warm flavours: chilli, garlic, onion, cumin, ginger, tomato. The ingredients are laid out on the bench, an invitation. I close my eyes and imagine the finished sauce, simmering under a tagine, with some beef meatballs adding depth to the flavour; I imagine the aroma drawing us to the table, where shallow blue-and-white china bowls patterned with old British castles wait to be filled. And then I open my eyes and begin to cook.
First you make a coarse paste, pulsing garlic bulbs, onion, red capsicum (pepper), hot paprika (or chopped chillies) and olive oil in a food processor. The cat watches from her perch, as she does most times I am cooking. Always hoping for a tidbit or two, but there are none today.
Earlier I pruned our only rose bush, a gorgeous Augusta Luise that in full bloom reminds me of a sunset sky. The Augusta Luise is known for its large double blooms, fragrant petals flushed with peach, pink and yellow; the variety is named after Lady Augusta Luise zu Stolberg-Stolberg, a muse and correspondent of German philosopher and poet, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. This bush, tucked away near our now-dormant apricot tree, was a gift from a friend about ten years ago, a gift that every spring gives me the sensual joy of stopping to smell the roses. And after seeing photos of mine, unable to believe the colours were real, my second cousin sourced one for her own garden in Frankfurt. Her first flowers bloomed in April and they were as exquisite as I promised.
Now you transfer the paste to a large pot. I use my preserving pan, the one my husband said looked too big when I bought it. Will you really use that? he wondered. I last used it five weeks ago to make a batch of mandarin marmalade, of which there is only one precious jar left. Today, I set a simmer mat under the pan, then add cumin, salt and fennel seeds to the paste, cooking the aromatic mix over medium heat for about half an hour.
After tackling the thorny rose, I harvested another batch of mandarins and oranges; of the former, only a few are left, out of reach at the top of the tree. They are sweet now, almost honeyed, with an edge of tartness. I basked in the winter sun, eating a freshly-plucked mandarin, relishing this simple, sweet pleasure before moving on to my wild little flower bed, in need of some light maintenance. Weeding, trimming, thinning out. When we moved into this house in 2008, a small shed stood in this space. It was quickly replaced with a herb garden and now holds space for an eclectic mix of flowers and herbs. In my dreams, this would be an English cottage garden, but that whimsical landscape does not suit Perth summers and this spot with its baking heat several months of the year. But there it has its own whimsy, a hotchpotch of lavender, daisies, marigolds, gerberas, chrysanthemums, thyme, freesias preparing to bloom, jonquil stems rising from the cool soil … and two leafless frangipani plants, a pot of mint.
When the paste begins to stick a little, add diced tomatoes, tomato juice (or water), red wine vinegar, lemon zest, torn coriander (cilantro) and parsley leaves, and regular paprika. Cook over a low heat for about two hours - you want a thick, rich sauce. Season as necessary, then leave to cool. Later, bottle the sauce or freeze it. Or make Moroccan meatballs (kefta), by boldly seasoning ground beef with grated onion, cumin, paprika, cinnamon, coarsely ground pepper, Kashmiri chilli powder (or hot paprika), chopped parsely and coriander. Shape into balls and place in a tagine with lashings of the sauce, then simmer.
Tending to a creative garden
There are light scratches on my forearms from pruning the rose (I have a cute pair of red gardening gloves, but they don’t protect my arms, and Augusta Luise is a thorny old girl). They sting in the shower, and I am briefly grateful that there is only one rose bush to prune. Later, working on my tax spreadsheet (it’s that time of the year in Australia), it strikes me that my life is a bountiful garden, abundant with possibility for growth; as I tend to it with love and compassion my creativity is blossoming in new and exciting ways.
Strange to think that a spreadsheet could inspire this knowing, but as I tally up author expenses and deductions - much less than the year before - I realised that I don’t care about only just breaking even. In fact, I have deliberately pruned certain expenses from my budget because (for now) they are excess to my needs. I’m in a completely different space to where I expected a year ago. Twelve months ago, my novel Wildflower was published by Bloodhound Books, followed two months later by Wherever You Go (both books were previously published in Australia). Twelve months ago, I thought I had a second chance to find audiences (and I did, but not as widely as I’d hoped). Twelve months ago, I started working on my third novel, because I didn’t want to lose momentum. And then, for many reasons (you can read more about that here), I stopped.
I found myself - unexpectedly - in a wintry wilderness, my creativity cold and dormant.
shared a fantastic piece about publishing this week, about how publishing can affect your mental health, triggering feelings of imposter syndrome, as well as being a lot of work with few tangible rewards (for most, me included) in terms of money and recognition. I can definitely relate to that, especially when she says, “I kept waiting for the, ‘oh my goodness, I’m a published author, all my dreams have come true’ feeling, and then wondering why it wasn’t coming.” I didn’t have high expectations of fame and fortune, but I didn’t expect to feel so flat. It’s part of the reason I started La Muse - to rediscover the joy in writing and my creative life.
Honestly, I thought “finding my way back to my writer’s heart” meant writing another novel.So here I am, a year later (and with a far busier day job managing events) and I’ve reached a point of acceptance that I am not in a season of novel writing, but a season of showing up for small things, of exploring what it means for me to live more simply with joy at the heart of what I do. A season of rest and re-set. Of nurturing, replenishing, renourishing. And like so many in this space, I am weighing up what’s important to me. What I want from life now. What I need now.
I’m figuring out what to prune from my life.
I think about this more as I practice painting with watercolours; today I’m painting blueberries, experimenting with mixing colours and creating different effects with more or less water. As the paper fills with berries in shades of blue, a scented candle smells of burnt sugar, and I hear soft music and light rain. My heart beats slow and steady. I haven’t posted on Instagram since May, on my Facebook author page since June. Once I posted every day, believing I needed to be a constant content creator to be visible. My disenchantment with social media and algorithms is not new, but the transition from caring to not caring has arrived quietly like flower buds on my apricot tree.
I no longer wish to create content.
I want to create for creativity’s sake.
To cut out the dead wood.
To sow seeds of creativity in my life’s garden and see what blossoms.
To see how I blossom.
“Everything has seasons, and we have to be able to recognise when something's time has passed and be able to move into the next season. Everything that is alive requires pruning as well, which is a great metaphor for endings.” - Henry Cloud
This life pruning extends to other areas of my writing life. As well as stepping back from social media and discontinuing memberships to organisations I no longer need, I’m questioning the need to maintain my author website (is it enough to be here on Substack?), to have a custom domain email. I’m not rushing into a decision on either of these things; I’m not hacking away at everything that goes hand-in-hand with being an author without thought. But the seeds are sown; they lie in wait for my next move.
I asked myself the other night, does all this pruning mean I will not write another novel? Am I giving up on my author self? No. I don’t believe so. I’m still an author. I’m still writing. There is 50K manuscript in the metaphorical drawer; a character with an intriguing story. I’m still hoping audio rights for Wherever You Go will sell, like Wildflower’s did. If a library approaches me to do an author talk, I’ll happily do it.
But I’m enjoying this fallow season in my life.
This time to create just for the love of being creative.
This time to let go of outcomes.
To hold space for myself.
I’m writing in a way that is meaningful to me in the now.
If you’d asked me a year ago, I would have thought I’d be in a different place, with book three submitted to the agent who said she wanted to see my next manuscript. (You’d think that was enough to keep me going.) Perhaps I would have been in a heady spring season, bursting with life and energy, with all sorts of exciting author events and success stories happening.
I honestly didn’t expect my winter to linger so long.
And when it started to release its hold, and joy began to sprout anew, I was impatient. I wanted to do all the creative things I’d set aside so I could write. To paint and sew and cook and garden. To walk and talk and gather with loved ones. To live simply and joyfully. To embrace the me that I am now, today.
I am learning that transition is slow and beautiful. When you prune a rose in winter, you must wait for fresh growth before it bursts into to bloom. The shift in me does not need to be hurried, but savoured. Rushing will not make growth happen any faster; rushing will not make any growth stronger and lasting. And, ultimately, this shift will not make me who I am meant to be, for I am already the one I am meant to be.
“When we can become skilled at selectively knowing what to prune out of our lives, what remains becomes stronger, brighter, clearer.” - Lisa Byrne
Another day has passed. It is evening and, in the oven a whole fish (a baby barramundi) is baking; I have stuffed it with aromatics - ginger, lemon slices, lemongrass. There is wine waiting to be poured and in half an hour, we will enjoy the sweet gift from the sea with celeriac puree, and Brussels sprouts and baby peas cooked with speck.
PS. The peas in my garden are fruiting; today I picked the first pod and ate the tiny green balls, one by one.
Stacks I’m reading
I’ve read too many articles to mention them all but here are two more that resonated this week. First, this from
, which made me think about who I am now.
And this, from
resonated because, like me, she wonders about making time to rest and restore, and about letting go of outcomes.
A bit about snails and poetry … sort of
Last week I received snail mail from Substackers in France and Spain, as part of a snail mail exchange. It’s rekindled a long-buried joy of finding real letters in the mailbox! Anyway, while preparing a note of encouragement for another writer in Poland, I added a piece of blackout poetry into the envelope … the Note below caught the attention of
and we decided to share a call out inviting others to be part of a Global Blackout Poetry exchange. I’m so excited about this little creative collaboration - it’s such a lovely, simple way to create creative connections in this community. I wonder who will send me a poem …PS. Click the link if you want to know more.
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