England decides to have summer, suddenly, in May. This results in sudden excessive and rather random attack on horrible mess formerly known as garden; utterly neglected for at least a year while wrestling with last novel. Things that should be small, or at least contained, have all become huge and straggly; things that should be flourishing either languishing palely in their shadow or reduced to sad bundles of dead sticks.

Wonder briefly if this some sort of metaphor for writing, then forget all about metaphor and indeed writing, in deep pleasure of sawing, cutting, chopping, digging, etc., with astonishingly willing assistance from good friend and Young Dan Next Door. (Must stop calling him Young Dan as is probably 30). Spend far too much money in garden center replacing all dead plants with new ones, buying armloads of seeds, compost, fertilizer, etc., etc. Eventually forced to stop spending money when garden entirely filled from edge to edge; if plant anything else will all strangle each other.

This partly due to fact have decided in sudden surge of possibly misplaced enthusiasm to try growing vegetables again this year, which have not done since flourishing row of beans eaten through overnight by Evil Slugs of Doom.

Remember this, run back to garden center and search for least environmentally damaging methods of discouraging slugs. Wonder if organic slug pellets really are, and if so, how, but buy them anyway offering up brief apologetic prayer to Gaia just in case. At least will now have something to do with own excessive output of coffee grounds, as according to knowledgeable chap in garden centre, slugs hate them.

Wonder if could persuade genetic scientist to produce coffee-flavored plants, as means of discouraging slugs, then realize don't actually want coffee-flavoured  courgettes, really. Fall into bed exhausted every night with such incoherence rambling around in brain, and rediscover arm muscles for first time in months.

Of course, at least some of this is pure displacement activity as am still awaiting word from Dear Agent on latest oeuvre, but at least when wrestling with massively overgrown buddleia am not actively worrying about it.  

Finally manage to arrange meeting. Dear Agent friendly and welcoming as always, and assures me latest oeuvre is OK though in need of some revisions. Gulp vast mouthful of coffee with relief and try to conceal fact some has gone up nose, as wish to appear Professional and Marketable, not like complete div. Manage to relax slightly now know have not entirely wasted last year or so, and settle down to all sorts of diverting gossip about publishing industry though Agent disappointingly discreet about naming names.

Feel strange admixture of emotions at thought of revisions. Waved novel off with such intense sense of relief at having finished the ruddy thing was quite hoping never to see it again, and will now have to, and indeed spend some time in its company. Wonder if our relationship can possibly recover, or even blossom into something new and wonderful, or if am doomed to continue hating its guts when forced to work with it for several more months.

On the other hand, is first time have been given Real Professional Revisions to do by Real Agent, and therefore now feel, strangely, more like Real Writer. Though suspect will go on feeling Unreal at intervals at least until glorious day when have published novel in hand with actual price on it and ISBN and everything. Keep trying to remind self am not Unpublished any more, what with poetry book, articles, short stories, etc., many of which have had ISBNs and prices and even illustrations, but somehow, without published novel, do not feel Properly Published and therefore not like Real Writer.

Have horrible feeling that attacks of Unreality will not stop with novel publication, either; brain will almost certainly manage to come up with further reasons for feeling inadequate.

Sometimes wish brain was less complicated. Would quite like to be nudibranch-- gorgeous things have only just discovered. Apparently are form of sea-dwelling slug, but look more like independently mobile Mardi Gras costumes. If was one, could just waft around in sea eating stuff and being colourfully gorgeous, quite happy without any brain at all to speak of. Instead, am stuck with own overcomplicated brain constantly undermining slightest hard-won sense of achievement.  

Wonder if can keep nudibranchs as pets, or even replace ugly land-dwelling slugs with them; would not care if they ate plants. However would presumably have to give them miniature breathing apparatus to survive on land, and refill tiny tanks of seawater every five minutes or so. Also nudibranchs apparently poisonous, which might be useful form of defense against land slugs but would probably mean was creating own miniature eco-disaster in back garden. Not to mention possibility of cats trying to eat them. Oh well.

While awaiting notes from Dear Agent am up to neck in current novel, which seems, rather like garden, to have Grown when am not looking at it. Have been happily bouncing along, having fun with characters, world, assorted strangeness, etc., but am forced to come to screeching halt when realize have overplanted novel. Large number of minor characters all rubbing shoulders and complaining of lack of space, together with assorted increasingly complex sub-plots, at least one of which is insisting it is, in fact, the main plot, thankyouverymuch, and does not wish to be forced to hang around with these mere sub-plots any more as they are Not Its Sort.

Growl at sub-plot and tell it to behave.

Sub-plot instantly goes into sulk and refuses to do anything at all. In meantime force self to extract several characters from novel and transplant to the May Come In Useful file, promising them that this does not mean they are doomed, but cannot look them in the eye as know they may never get used, along with all other poor things in file, including increasingly psychotic central character from old unfinished novel who disliked so much had to stop writing her. Wonder if one day she will Run Amuck, and will open file to discover nothing but psychotic character sitting alone atop pile of bones, picking teeth and saying, "What?"

Oh well, at least bones will provide fertilizer for garden.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com. Visit PlotMedics at http://www.plotmedics.com.

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