How I Wrote My New Book, "Garden Disruptors," 21

Sometimes I give directions in the small-town country style.  Bob swears the first time he came to the farm I gave country-style directions that caused him to drive around lost for an hour.  “You told me to turn at Downer School Road. Finally, as the sun set, I tried Hammond Road, where there were remnants of an old building that I thought possibly could have been a school.”

Bob says I need to be more precise with my words sometimes. 

That evening he had come for a fateful, Saturday-night-after-Thanksgiving oyster roast. A certain type of people watch football on that night—the other type, my type, needed to escape to a field and bonfire. Even strangers showed up. They had to be adventurous types because turning off the paved road puts you in a tiny dirt lane that’s bumpy, dark, and claustrophobic as a carnival haunted house ride.

A guy named Kevin made his way with trepidation. Recently, he told me about that night, “Remember, you and I had never met in person at that point. You just sent me an address and said come after dark. I knew it was way out in the country, so I was a bit apprehensive. I brought a friend along. He was flat-out scared. The moment we turned on that dirt lane, he said, ‘This is a mistake. Just turn around, and let’s go back to town.” But Kevin kept driving because he’d actually been on the lane before. Way back in the 70s, he’d collected arrowheads along the red dirt shoulders.

Today, urbane Kevin dresses in tidy black, like Steve Jobs. He keeps a perfectly trimmed silver crew cut. He goes to Knit and Sip Night at the hip brewery in town. But in his youth, Kevin mucked stables on a horse farm, hunted arrowheads, and knew all the old dirt roads.  Kevin had a strong sense of adventure — strong enough to take up an invitation from a stranger to park in a pitch-black pasture and walk through knee-high grass toward a fire and a bunch of strangers. That was twenty years ago.

Last year, he proved adventurous enough to take on my convoluted writing style and help me organize my thoughts and stories into a book, ‘Garden Disruptors’.

Today as my editor, he’s also inclined to say, ‘Make this more clear.” or “No one understands what you are trying to write here because you’re relying on your memories. Fill in the gaps for us.”

I’ve had really important editors who’ve helped get this book sharpened up. Jamie, who I wrote about earlier. Bob and Tom, who listen to me, read and then fix my sins of grammar. 

But it was Kevin who said, “You have a lot of great stories, but readers need an arc that pulls us through– makes us want to turn the page. If you want to share these characters and their lessons, explain their connection to your journey. You need more about you.”

I objected vehemently. I do that sometimes. When I do, Kevin doesn’t say anything. Which means I’m supposed to consider his advice and figure out how to come around to it. Or, like a priest or a therapist, he restates everything he just said in a different way. Sometimes he has to do that three times. Eventually, I came around and added in more of “my journey.”

At first, though, I thought he meant my physical journey. So I beefed up a story about my drive from graduate school in Seattle back home to a botanical garden construction job in South Carolina. The physical journey was an exciting road trip.

“But,” Kevin said, “an interesting part of your journey is your emotional state. Specifically, how judgemental you were about the South and Southerners.” Kevin said. “Tell us how you got over being so judgmental.” We both laughed at that. 

I dove in. It was kind of like therapy. In one chapter, I’d stereotyped a group of society dames as The Garden Club Ladies. When I reread it, I realized my characterization was one-dimensional. And most importantly, it was false. I found a memory of the day the ladies and I went on an ill-advised hike along a rugged river. I ended up carrying Miss Emily’s fine 9 West slippers, and we made a very special connection in those woods. That buried memory became a pivotal point in the book – and a moment I treasure. 

Writing is like that. A draft of a single chapter relies on personal memories. To make it compelling, it needs detail, precision, and emotion. My first drafts are for me. But good editors point out where I neglected details that connect with the reader’s emotions. So I add in joy, the colors of trees, and the captivating fragrance of magnolia roots. “Is that too obscure? Kevin might ask. Trust me, I can hold my ground, but Kevin is often right. 

He was right, twenty years ago, when he ignored his scared friend and continued down that mud-puddly road too. At the oyster roaster, I didn’t get to interact much that night. As the cook, I stood over a smokey oyster pit, a bed of glowing coals topped with corrugated sheets of old tin. On top of that, the oyster roasts inside burlap bags, which I constantly mist with a hose. The eye-searing smoke and steam keep most people away. The oysters keep them at the shucking table.

Through dark and a mezcal buzz, I watched people standing around the plywood tables—old hurricane oil lamps cast just enough light for me to watch their faces. 

I see my friend, who we call Bo-kra, slapping a confused New Yorker on the back. There’s my Momma standing mesmerized by a dreadlock, probably stoned woman telling a convoluted story of how she came to be here. I see Bob and Kevin, who just met for the first time, seemed to have hit it off. Their crew cuts shine in the dark. 

In one of the moments of new friend solidarity, they laugh and look over at me. They’ve found something in common. I imagined they were trading stories of their journey of getting to this farm in the dark. Years later, I wonder if they were hatching a plan to try to make me write more precise directions. 

They have most definitely done that over the years. This book wouldn’t exist without patient editors. But I stand my ground. I’m keeping mud-puddly in because it should be a word. Precision and details are fine, but country-style directions, obscure root aromas, and under-planned parties connect us all too.

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