How I Wrote My New Book, "Garden Disruptors,". 1

A NOTE — This is the long and winding story of how a book comes together in my left brain, insecure ego, and hazy memories. I started it as a book of short stories, pre-Covid. The stories were of oddball gardeners who’d used plants to escape the rigid expectations of society. But in a strange twist, a small town in South Carolina hired us all to build a new botanical garden. Over the years of writing, the book has changed a lot, including my personal journey as a young gay man. More importantly, it includes stories of not-so-hidden but not-ever-talked-about racism, homophobia, and classism in Southern gardening. Follow the weekly post, please comment and read ‘Garden Disruptors’ in fall 2023.

“Oh man, you're taxing my memory; hold on.” Jamie finally came up with it, “Mitch! Mitch could take a dozen random plants in pots, rearrange them in front of that grungy 1972 trailer and make a spectacular garden that every high-tone suburban lady who drove by wanted.  He’d sell every plant by ten am. And do it all again by noon.”

Writing with Jamie went like this. We’d face each other across my dining room table desk. Coffee and pastries to the side. Each of us looking at our own laptops but reading the same story shared on Google drive. He’d fix the commas and spelling, ask leading questions, and rattle our brains while I’d add more and more memories to the screen. 

“I think we need to find a place for Mitch in this story. You know he lived with me for a while. Maybe he fits with all the other great gardeners who died of AIDS? Or the tropical section?” My constant problem is too many memories. Joyful, heartbreaking, bewildering memories all crystal clear. How did a farm boy have a life filled with characters and a mind’s eye that still sees them all?

We were writing a book.  It was 2019, but the stories going on paper were from 1990. The early ‘90s. The heyday of South Carolina gardening. And we’d both been in neck deep.  We weren’t the only ones reliving glory. Turn on the car radio to The Spice Girls, The Rolling Stones, and a slew of ancient rockers reviving glory. But now, Amazon ads interrupt them.

This book started out as a collection of short stories about odd characters set in that 90s plant world. Nothing more than random stories with no common thread other than time and place. Jamie said, “Don’t worry about that. Just write. Write, write, write, and you can throw away, edit, cut, and rearrange later.”

But damn. In other parts of my life, I’m organized. I need a goal. A process.  “This is your process. Write, remember, and let it flow. If it’s stories, if it’s a book, that’ll happen later,” Jamie said as he left at lunch.

Hours later, on those hot afternoons, Melodie texts, ‘Meet me out back.’  Mel manages horticulture at the Botanical Garden and Zoo. We have along and complicated personal history that’s led to frequent afternoon swim and bitch sessions. It saves our families from bearing the brunt of work, employee, rabbit, rain, drought and garden client stories.

I’d print the morning stories, then join her in her pool next door and read to her. She was part of the 90’s plant party. I’d interrupt my reading, “Do you remember Mitch? He fell in love with Fuller and lived here for a while?” She rolled her eyes, “Fuller had so many of those. No, I didn’t know him. I was busy having babies and planting the new giraffe exhibit.”  Mel and I worked together at the Zoo and yet to be opened Garden. “I gotta go make these changes,” and I take my wet papers back to the same laptop next door. 

The writing, reading/therapy/editing thing wasn’t over yet.  I’d print again, then join Bob and Tom in the kitchen for gins and tonic and to read to them.  Jamie’s voice in my head says, ‘It’s a Britishism to pluralize gin and tonic that way. It’s a little pretentious.”  I’m leaving it. 

Dreams helped me too. Night releases things, and I’d slide out of bed to capture those dream stories. But mostly, that summer and into fall, I relied on an indulgent, core creative team, my friends and lovers, to hone stories. Writing was like group therapy.  I couldn’t imagine doing it alone. 

But then it came. We’d watched the news all fall. We bought Spam, toilet paper, and masks before there was a rush. I’m no fool. I’m a scientist. I deal with plant viruses every day. One morning, Tom and I walked out of our Columbia house full of dread that we may never come back and may never see housemates, pool buddies, or writing friends again. We had to go back to the farm where Momma would need us to get through whatever this was. There’d been that lovely summer of reminiscing, writing, and reading that ended like an arm cut off by a chainsaw.

I’d need to focus on the farm, the family, and keeping isolated and safe. Writing felt silly. The book, the stories sat up there in the dark cloud. In this new world, a book about odd characters and their plant obsessions, even the host of loving mentors that I lost to AIDS, seemed like a frivolous luxury.

CONTINUE READING. CLICK TO STEP TWO.