I live on a smidge more than quarter of an acre, and over the years I have planted about ten trees, a dozen shrubs, countless perennials, herbs, vegetables, and fruits. Some of these gardening experiments turned out brilliantly – the wispy stick of a birch stuck in the ground the fall we moved in is now a looming tree, whose cinnamon bark peels off in layers. Other choices have been less than stellar, such as the heavenly-scented Daphne that cost a small fortune and caught a chill her first winter, promptly keeling over.

I’ve come to realize that gardening has taught me much about writing.  
Read my full essay at Women Writers, Women’s Books.