Delicate. Exquisite. Brilliant in yellow. The daffodils of late winter brave every kind of weather. Pounding rain. Skiffs of snow like this morning’s chill. Sometimes they wait. They seem like long-term weather forecasters, setting expectations by the date of their appearance. Will spring be early this year? Or late? But whenever they come out they give me hope. It’s why I call them the hope flower. They let me know. Early or late, spring is coming. It always does.

It’s a little bit like being an author. The delicate lines across many pages. The bravery of putting words out there. The battering critique. The wait. The joy of acceptance.

Followers of my blog know I get a little daffy every year when the daffodils start to rise. I’ve been watching this bloom for quite a while. The swelling bud. Another bud started sooner but something nipped it off before it had a chance to open. And this one dared spread its petals first. Weighted down by drops of rain it bows still. One day soon it should lift its head and glow.

Progress on my work continues. I finished the outline for my next book today. That’s the frame from which the story will flow. It’s the sequel to the one my new agent has ready. Exciting times. Hope rises like daffodils announcing spring.