It's Planting Season

It's time to plant the seeds of your dream.

I have a Burpee seed clock. It's got this celestial face on it, and I think it was made in the late 1960s-early 1970s. The moon passes through this window from Night to Day, when the sun rises up from the window, and then this other window tells you what seeds to plant at what time of year. It's pretty cool.

I bought it about 18 years ago when I was married (briefly). I bought it with my first "big" paycheck at the time, after I found it in this funky store. It was all of $85, which at the time seemed like a lot for something that was . . . well, thrift store junk. When I brought it home, I was yelled at by my spouse for buying something so utterly and completely frivilous. But the thing is, I LOVED it. I put it someplace prominant, in a marital battle of the clock. When I left him not much later, it was the most important thing I wanted, I think. When I moved from house to house since then, I always had to have a place for it, and now it sits right in front of me, on this shelf on my desk. My beloved tacky thrift store clock.

Now I realize the clock stands for something much more. Irrational dreams. You see, it was completely impractical. A stupid purchase that meant something to my heart for reasons I could never articulate and still can't. I just LOVE it, just like much of the clutter and stuff in my life--Buddha statues and trinkets and candles and a cookie jar that belonged to my grandmother. There is a scene in THE ROOFER, in which Ava stores the things of childhood in a cigar box. You know all the little crap we accumulate as kids. Stones that are flat and smooth and special, found feathers from birds, a parasol from a fancy drink our Grandma had one time. That's what my clock is. A grown-up version of the dreams of childhood.

Writing is like that, too. It's an impractical goal to want to make a living as a novelist. A stupid dream, really, because how many people really get to achieve it? An utterly foolish and foolhardy idea. But don't give up. Adulthood and doubt and naysayers would like to take that dream away. So what if it is a completely extravagent dream? Nurture it anyway. We live one life. Maybe. But on this pass through of this existence, you have one shot. You can play it safe or you can buy your Burpee seed clock.

It's time to plant your dreams. It can happen. Twenty or so sold novels later, I can tell you that it can happen. And my Burpee seed clock still ticks away the planting seasons.