We have a wee vegetable garden in our backyard, partially in honor of my youth (we were poor; the garden supplemented our groceries) and my grandfather (big garden and root cellar full of potatoes and yams). I planted some potatoes this year--on St. Patrick's Day (tradition). The plants looked pretty dead, so I started poking around in the dirt.
Bingo, I found about seven pounds of healthy looking tubers (we only had a few plants, so this was a decent yield). From the look of the wilty leaves and sad stalks, I was surprised to find anything.
Good metaphor for writing, too. You "plant" those stories, wait and wait, and poof. Potatoes. The only question is: mashed or fried?
I also received my contributor's copy of Sein Und Werden today (the sein, cos, tan issue). It is full of math-related fiction, including my piece "Fifty-fifty".
If we only could solve the big existential questions with a coin flip...