Although the viburnum blossoms started popping today, there's nothing much happening in the back garden other than the daffodils and the potted pansies and primroses I showed you two posts ago. But there are several things blooming in the front garden: grape hyacinths, brunnera, bleeding heart, two young rhododenderons, and of course, the daffodils and jonquils.
Does this garden look a little messy to you? It's totally a matter of taste, but I love my cottage garden, which is essentially a mad jumble of shapes and colors. I don't like carefully manicured shrubs surrounded by neat mounds of mulch with perhaps a few well-behaved geraniums or petunias added for color--which is a good thing, because that kind of garden is a lot more work than the kind we have. We do very little shrub-trimming because I like the wild look. There's hardly any weeding because the plants are too crowded for weeds to gain a foothold. And there's no drawing up of complicated plans or dithering about color-coordination and balance. We basically just stick plants into the ground wherever there's space, and then we water them in and whisper, "You can grow nicely, or you can be compost. Your choice!" (Come to think of it, that's almost exactly the way we brought up our two rascally boys.)
But I'm rambling, just like some of my roses. And some of you new NRJW readers may be wondering what all of this has to do with writing novels.
In a nutshell, my gardens inspire me. I spend much more time daydreaming in them than I do actually working in them. I call the patio my summer office because on nice days I drag my computer out there and write romance among the roses.
Is it any wonder all of my books have happy endings?