I’m running late this year. Well, frankly, I’ve been running later and later every year for a long time now — time speeds up and I slow down. My life has become like those dreams I have where I urgently need to get somewhere but just can’t move.

But lately I’ve been even slower than normal. So here it is, June already, and I just got around to filling the flower pots on my deck. And it occurred to me that planting summer flowers is a lot like writing a book.

First, there’s the hope, the excitement, the idea of it — going to the nursery, browsing the aisles. The flowers all look so beautiful, so peaceful, filled with potential and hope. This is the fun part — choosing the flowers, planting them in the warm, soft earth, deciding where to set the pots. It’s a lot like brainstorming a book — deciding on a setting, discovering the characters, making that heady rush through the start of the book.

Of course, then the work sets in. In the garden, too much rain rots the stems. Too much heat fries the blooms. Then (at least on the East Coast) those blasted Japanese beetles invade, chewing the leaves into lace. And by the end of the summer, the garden doesn’t look much like it did at the start. Some flowers have died, others cling to sadly to life, while a few others — sometimes the ones I least expect — have actually thrived.

And so goes the book. Scenes stall. Plots dwindle, die. Characters start to annoy me or refuse to come to life. So I write, rewrite, stress…and then eventually, the story is done.

Reality never matches my expectations, of course. The book — like the garden — is never exactly what I’d dreamed. But sometimes, amazingly, the characters transcend me. They become alive, tell their story instead of the one I’d planned. Which is why I keep writing and planting those flowers, I guess. I keep hoping for the magic.

So how about you. Have you read any magical books lately?