Flowers that find their way through stone or rock (or any apparently impenetrable surface) always touch my heart. They manage to flourish in the most (apparently) inhospitable places.
I’ve been rewriting a novel I thought I’d finished last autumn. But when I couldn’t sell it I did what I should’ve done before I tried to sell it: I asked fellow writer-readers to tell me, honestly, what wasn’t working. What they said showed me how angry I was about my subject matter. Anger is good, it can fuel action, but I’d failed to allow any flowers to find their way through the stone of my anger and give the novel the heart and the hope, the love and the compassion it needs.
I hope it won’t be too long before that novel, like these daisies, finds itself flourishing.
