I’ve always loved garden tomatoes. And not just from that old song, from the romance and idea of it. Two summers back, I started gardening. I finally had the space for it and, by gum, I was going to have some home grown tomatoes just like my grandparents grew!

The thing is, I’m the only person in my household who likes tomatoes. And, while I’ve tried for a very very modest little patch, my plants are looking like, well… like they belong to a farm stand.

(Ripening tomatoes on the vine)

Of course they’ll all come due more or less at once! (I’ve three sitting on the counter as I type this… and have eaten… so. many. tomatoes.)

But…

Tomatoes, M. K.? That’s nice, but … aren’t you a writer, and that’s what this blog is supposed to be about?

Kind of, yes.My ideas garden is currently in the same state as my tomatoes.

You see, this morning I had the pleasure of tossing another story idea into the queue.

(Realistically? I panicked. I’ve 4 books in the works -not counting the one that will release this coming December. Okay, well, that’s not counting the 16 or so that live in my “soon as I can get them done” folder on my hard drive of various projects.)

I’m buried in story tomatoes. I’m swimming in a marinara sauce of prose.

I’m … torturing metaphors.

But if you see nothing of me for months? Don’t worry, I’m off trying to learn canning. And by canning, I mean: flipping a coin on what comes next book-wise; pitting characters one against another in a bracket of winner takes all; trying out various divination techniques on plot.

And you’re looking at someone who doesn’t even have a green thumb.

(& thank goodness I love tomatoes.)