Sweet Potatoes, Patience, and Pirate Queens

A few months ago, I planted an old sweet potato.

I’d bought a couple with the intention of roasting them all, but I didn’t need that many. So I saved one. And then I kept saving it. And eventually, that little tuber sprouted—thin shoots, tender leaves—until it was undeniably alive.

At that point, I couldn’t throw it away. I also couldn’t eat it. There was only one reasonable option left: stick it in a pot and see what happens. I had nothing to lose. It was either that or a slow fade into mulch in the green Los Angeles bio-bin, which I’d dramatically named my own personal compost graveyard.

That sweet potato grew. And grew. Soon I had a pot bursting with life.

As it turns out, this potato became the unsung hero of my entire garden. The lemons. The pears. The other hopeful plants clinging to life in my yard all owe it a debt of gratitude. I have ADHD, which means “out of sight” often becomes “out of mind.” I call it my creativity trade-off. It has its perks, but it can also be a pain in the butt.

In practical terms, this means: if a plant isn’t actively dying, I’m probably not watering it.

Not ideal. But when you’re juggling a lot of tasks alone, some balls drop. Luckily for my garden, sweet potato leaves are dramatic. They shrivel when they’re thirsty (and maybe when they get too much sun—don’t quote me on that). When they shrivel, I water. And when I water the potato, everything else gets watered too.

That one sweet potato I almost tossed became the linchpin of happiness for my entire garden.

Today—the day I’m writing this—I harvested it. It was just a small pot, nothing fancy. But when I dug my hands into the dirt and started pulling out the tubers, I laughed out loud. One potato went in. With a little water and time, eight came out.

Which brings me to the obvious question: what does this have to do with a writing blog?

I’m not big on pretending this isn’t obvious. Sweet potatoes and novels have more in common than they probably should.

The Pirate Queens of Dicore Island wasn’t my first story idea—or even my first novel. It began as a distraction. I needed a break from the primary fantasy project I was working on, so I planted something small. Low pressure. No expectations. I watered the idea here and there and let it sit.

And then, quietly, underground, it multiplied.

That little side project became the focus of my writing career. It grew into a planned trilogy. It even sweetened the deal with a surprise spin-off. I didn’t force it. I didn’t rush it. I just kept showing up and checking on it when it started to shrivel.

What that sweet potato taught me—what Pirate Queens confirmed—is this: never discount the unexpected. The ideas we almost discard are often the ones with the most to give. Not because they’re loud or urgent, but because they’re patient.

Give them time. Give them care. Check on them when they start to shrivel.

You may be surprised what you dig up.

Sometimes it isn’t one idea at all—but eight. And if you’re lucky, one of them turns out to be pirate gold.