I talk to plants—mostly in my head—when out in the garden. I get on my hands and knees to weed and admire the intruders as much as the plants I intended to be there. Each has their personality, their will to survive and adapt. And they’re so quiet.
I can talk to humans, but it takes energy. Sometimes I end up invigorated, other times deflated. It’s a crap shoot. And it’s not quiet.
Reading is quiet. I know I am not alone in turning to books to live vicariously and under the radar. I’m pretty sure aspiring to be the author of a book is also not uncommon for an introvert. I guess I was destined to write a quiet book about a quiet boy who discovers he matters thanks to the creatures of a quiet enchanted garden world, Terracolina.
The plants of Terracolina break out of their “real-world” shells and overtly show their pride, determination, fear, joy, kindness, sensitivity, brilliance, neediness, anger, greediness and sense of community. The citizens of Terracolina: a story-telling dwarf, a web-footed-tree-climbing-mind-reading gardener, two orphaned, root-dwelling Nubbins, a miniature dog-horse, and a mysterious girl with violet eyes live in harmony with their plant friends. But just as in the real world, evil still lurks. Final survival is still in question.
My first magical realism novel, turned trilogy, is an allegory. (I was probably the only kid in my class who loved reading Pilgrim’s Progress.) It has been so much fun for me to write the world I still pretend to live in when I’m out there tending my garden, even as I am acutely aware that “final survival” of our real mother earth is at stake.
As a survivor in the real world, what does a visit to Terracolina do for the reader? Perhaps provide a glimmer of hope and a sense of belonging. It sure is something we all need.