Periwinkle

Not the color, but the plant. I've just spent an hour attacking it, insidious, wicked plant that it is. Don't let those cute blue flowers fool you. It'll take over your garden, your yard, your house, if you let it. Nothing daunts it, not even the green worms from hell, who couldn't be bothered to munch on it when there were lilacs and azaleas to decimate.

As I jerk, clip, and dig at the periwinkle, I'm thinking, as I'm wont to do, about writing. First I'm working on a difficult character in my head, wondering if I'm being fair to him, and that leads, of course, into what do you do with the book at never ends? Like the groundcover I'm trying to eradicate, the story just wanders on and on, and you're wondering if you've created a nightmare and not a novel. The leap in logic here may have escaped you (don't worry), but it all came around in my head as I realized the character who had been worrying me was unnecessary to the story. He's getting ripped out by the roots just as soon as I can get him out of there, because he's just more ground cover.

I call this a successful morning. Clearing the garden beds and the WIP of extraneous bits at the same time is a good day's work.