The Flower Pot Pals from my show a couple years ago in New York's A Perfect World Gallery "Sketch It Out" Exhibit, are peeking at me and asking, "When are you going to plant the beets, the leeks, the peppers, and the tomatoes? When are you going to write our story, while you sit nibbling on chives and dipping them in ranch? I say to them, well, true, the chives are all ready, both from my garden and Mom's, but they just popped-up, they take no work, no time, they just do that and well, I haven't rototilled the garden, or picked up my black Ticonderoga pencil for quite awhile and well, as to beets? Do I try beets, again? Will they behave and not be squishy sour-pusses like before? To beet, or not to beet? To write or not to write? Well, I know the answer to the last question, yes, I will write and lift my black Ticonderoga to plow through the mire and seed the pages of my journals. Yes, to sowing the ideas of stories, but when? I see you Flower Pot Pals, asking when... I see your mischievious, encouraging, ways. Bend time and grow things out of your head, they seem to say. I know... I know... I say. The garden will wait another day, for what is truly another day?