In all reality there were only two
things that made me want to become a botanist. The first reason,
plain and simple, in the long months of Desert Storm, all I really
wanted to see was plants. The second reason, when I returned to
Ansbach, Germany in May of 1991, it was springtime and there were
plants everywhere. One day in the first spring after the war, I was
running along an access road on the outskirts of town looking at the
gardens when I saw her. I don't know who she was, or what kind of
grapes she was tending to. I do not know why she was doing it naked.
The naked woman tending grapes was really the reason why I wanted to
become a botanist.
Late the other night, I sat at the bar
at Atticus and casually mentioned that my life's ambition was to
become a botanist. The conversation was about Warehouses and
Rusted Angels which will be my
third novel. I had just signed the contract. And I concluded it by
saying: “And I wanted to be a botanist.” It solicited a laugh for
some reason. I stared. Well, why didn't you?
Why? Because I became a writer instead.
