The girls and I haven’t written in a long time. And there has been no comments when we have written. The only two people who regularly responded here have passed away.
But
I can’t seem to quite give up on our little blog that no one reads.
There is so much good stuff in the back pages.
From this point on I’ll write as though this is a writing journal. If someone reads, cool. If not, well, no big deal.
So here goes.
After years of nurturing a little orange tree grown from a 6-inch twig, I HAVE orange blossoms. The lemon has yielded fruit and the lime tree has 6 or 7 limes. But the orange trees (I have three of them) have been so slow-growing.
And now this!
The blossoms are beautiful, with a stripe of pink on the fragile petals. And in Florida, back in the day, you could drive past huge groves, all in blossom, and the smell was out of this world.
I had a friend who couldn’t smell at all (I think it was because of abuse). One day when she was stoned, she rode on the back of a motorcycle down a dirt road in town. She was hit by . . . what? What was happening? Wave after wave of a taste in the air. As the two made a turn she saw the groves, acres of orange trees, all in bloom. She realized then she was experiencing her first (and last) smell ever.
I love that.
Those kinds of descriptions, those kinds of incidents, help readers know where they are, physically in your novel.
What smell do you remember? What something changed the way you look orange trees or pizzas or fresh almonds?
Throwing Up Words 