Compost

I have a composting barrel out back, came with the house. It was full when we moved in, and over the years whenever I did a bit of so-called landscaping and gardening, I found it a source of rich black soil. Almost magic, taking jetsam and debris and discards and turning them into -- actually I suppose back into -- something as elemental as soil. In cool weather I could feel it generating heat, quietly converting away.


The last couple years not so much. The raw materials are still there, jammed with dead leaves, a bit of grass clippings, coffee grounds, orange and banana peels, weeds, and so on. But it’s working slowly if at all.


Turns out it needs some “starter” to get it moving again. Some rich mix of certain nutrients that stir things up. So I’ll add some.


I suspect my writing self is much like my composter. I have a lifetime of materials piled up, all sorts, and much of it capable of conversion to something useful. I’ve generated quite a lot over the years, even now generate a bit of literary heat, some short stories and drafts of novels, this blog. But it all seems too slow, even to the point of stopping.


What I need is something to kick me into gear. Could be as simple as making myself sit and grind away until I find something. I know a lot of writing coaches advocate the BIC HOC approach -- Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard. Maybe I can expect some sort of muse or divine inspiration (wouldn’t that be nice?). Alcohol or pot? Nah, never helped much and certainly not now.


Bottom line is, I have the raw materials. I need some good starter. For the composter and for my writing.