The Fallow Season.

All my life, I’ve lived in cities.

And aside from one brief but glorious stint in Canada’s capital, I’ve lived in the Midwest of the United States.

When you live in the Midwest, no matter how large or small your city, rural life is never very far away. There’s a lot to learn from our farming community. And for the past two years, I’ve delved into the concept of the fallow season.

Oh, it didn’t start that way. At least not knowingly.

No, I finished and published Dead Weight: The Orphans of Antwerp Book One in April of 2017. As was usual, I immediately started the second book in the series, A Cut Above.

But things didn’t go as usual. I struggled to define the story I wanted to tell. Later, when I figured out what that story was, I couldn’t seem to find the words to tell it.

I blamed it on life events that were unexpected–and unwelcome. Later, when some of those things had settled, I couldn’t find my rhythm again. My flow.

To say I struggled is an understatement.

But somewhere along the way, I started to wonder if my inability to write was really just the Universe calling a time out on me. I’m not a fast writer but I’d been working full out for a couple of years.

I published six books in that time. And I was tired.

The concept of a fallow season in farming dates back thousands of years. Basically, you rotate crops and allow fields to lie fallow so that the soil may replenish itself, restore its health, and rebuild its nutrients.

Well, it turns out that’s exactly what I needed.

I wasn’t exactly dormant. I read a LOT of books–about the creative process, the writer’s life, and I even explored the hell out of chronotypes and what makes some of us night owls and some of us larks.

(News flash: I’m a night owl.)

I studied the craft of good storytelling. 

And yes, I even continued along with writing the book, limping and crawling, not sure if anything was making any kind of damn sense.

The thing about a personal fallow season is you’re not quite sure how long it will last. And that is very disconcerting. You start to question yourself, your abilities, and your commitment.

You wonder if you’ve lost something irreplaceable. Something that made you able to do something one day and unable the next.

But like any other season, it does pass.

As I neared the two-year mark since I’d last published, things began to click. I wish I could explain this better but all I can say is that the things I studied, learned, and explored during my time away jumbled, resorted, and slotted into place.

My well was filled. I finished the book in a joyous frenzy of writing.

Because of what we went through together, this book is very special to me.

There’s always some sadness in saying goodbye to a book once it’s written. But I know it belongs to its readers now while I have other worlds to delve into.

My fallow season has ended. It’s time to plant new seeds and tend a new story.