Sowing Seeds: Why Writing is Like Gardening

If you take some time to look at your bookshelves or browse through the stacks at your local library, it’s astonishing to remember that every new book grew from a tiny idea. Every character, every plot, every chapter is grown in the fertile ground of a writer’s imagination, tended with careful gardening from the beginnings of an idea to the last line of the final chapter.

As spring has duly sprung in the northern hemisphere, here at The Novelry, we’ve come to consider how writing is like gardening. In this article, our writing coach Ella McLeod, a Branford Boase-nominated author, puts on her gardening gloves to explore the writing process through the lens of a flowering plant.

Ella leads us through the creative life cycle, as a story idea is born from a tiny seed of inspiration and grows through several stages, eventually becoming a beautiful book in full bloom, ready for a reader to pluck from the shelf.

This article is perfect for you if you’re looking for inspiration, gentle encouragement, or a way of writing that feels in tune with nature. Read now!

1. Gathering seeds: your story idea 

Having spent the last six years living in a flat, moving to a place with a garden has felt like a miracle this year. We moved in the winter, when everything was gray, wet, and draped in tarpaulin, but recently, this began to change. Our gardening changes started small; we cleared some dead weeds on dry days, swept up the remains of debris and detritus.

Then those changes grew; we let our formerly indoor cat outside for the first time, we removed the tarpaulin from the garden furniture, we watched weeks-old puddles evaporate. Tiny snowdrops and goofy daffodils appeared in our flower beds as if from nowhere—but it wasn’t from nowhere at all. Someone had spent time gardening here; they tended to the soil, planted bulbs, let nature do its thing. The weather changed, rain through to sun, and there we were, pulling out the choking weeds sometimes daily to create room as more plants grow and breathe and bloom.

It interested me, as I sat drinking my coffee in our morning sun-trap—the idea that this is what writing a book is like. Across all genres, subtlety and patience—planting narrative seeds—lead to richer, more immersive stories. This is the craft idea we’re going to dig into today. How you, the writer, can create something blooming brilliant with your words!

2. The soil: preparing the narrative ground

Before any idea can be sown, a gardener must tend to the land—testing the richness of the soil, clearing stones, ensuring it can nurture growth. So too in good writing, the foundation of a novel—by which I mean the tone, genre, and mood—must be carefully prepared. Without the right base, no narrative seed can take root and thrive. Of course, how you prepare the soil will be impacted by the genre and the space you’re writing in.

In historical fiction, for example, the soil is your research. Nothing can grow without authenticity. Your research will not only add texture and help you locate your voice, but it will also allow your reader to step into the past without question. A thorough understanding of the milieu of your writing will also allow you to draw more organically upon details, conveying the unique atmosphere of time and place without burying your pages in exposition. A world that feels too modern or loosely drawn will cause trust to wither before the story even begins.

In fantasy and science fiction, the key to nutritious soil is solid world-building. Readers are willing to believe in dragons, warp drives, and alien empires—but only if the internal logic holds. Foundational lore or science must be lightly present from the first page, shaping the atmosphere without needing immediate explanation. A few well-placed hints—a strange spell, an unfamiliar festival, a casual mention of a spaceship’s AI—can establish texture, inviting readers to lean in rather than resist.

For middle-grade and Young Adult fiction (YA), the soil is emotional clarity. If you’ve read my other blogs or attended one of my craft workshops, you’ll know I’m constantly going on about Big Feelings. Young readers crave heart, humor, and honesty. They do not need—or want—heavy-handed exposition. Instead, they respond to the mood and emotional resonance of a story, needing soil that feels warm, welcoming, and full of promise.

3. The germinating stage: subtle exposition

Once the soil is ready, your idea must be planted with care. We want to avoid the heavy-handed info dump and unnatural, explanatory conversation blocks. The most powerful novels plant details into action and dialogue, trusting readers to gather and nurture them into understanding. The garden design of our novel allows for the creation of curiosity gaps—questions without immediate answers that invite readers to piece the world together for themselves. To stay, to wonder, to keep turning the page.

In sci-fi and fantasy (SFF), for instance, altered societies are best introduced through use, not exposition. Your protagonist might unlock their home with a retinal scan, consult an AI assistant for directions, or patch a wound with a self-healing bio-skin patch. Immersive world-building does not come from writing lengthy lectures about magic systems or ancient lineages. It comes from the way someone haggles over the price of a spell ingredient, the casual mention of a forgotten god during a toast, the feel of strange coins passed hand to hand. Readers are drawn in deeper not because everything is explained, but because it is lived.

That being said, there is a reason many protagonists in popular SFF are new to their respective worlds. From Feyre in Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses to Frodo in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, characters going on a journey into the unknown act as a proxy for the reader, allowing for more organic exposition.

This is not dissimilar to YA and middle-grade (MG) fiction, and is perhaps why fantasy and dystopian novels are currently the most commercially popular within this age group. Exposition is tied closely to discovery in a way that is typical of a bildungsroman (a novel dealing with one person’s formative years or spiritual education). Readers and protagonists alike stumble upon the world together, whether it’s the unspoken rules of high-school hierarchy or a secret map tucked into an old library book.

The most powerful novels plant details into action and dialogue, trusting readers to gather and nurture them into understanding.
—Ella McLeod

In my novel, The Map That Led To You, Levi, my protagonist, is the son of a Pirate Prince, and we meet him on his 16th birthday. As he steps into adulthood, he is trying to manage the weight of his father’s expectations. His journey, as he embarks on an adventure full of pirates and magic, evolves in parallel with his personal development, with the details of his own magic serving as a metaphor for self-love and the transformation of coming-of-age. 

Historical fiction thrives on embedding the past in the everyday. Culture is revealed through clothing choices, the cadence of dialogue, the rituals of daily life. A character tightening stays on a corset or attending a ration line during wartime tells us far more about the setting than any paragraph of historical context ever could.

The Color Purple by Alice Walker is an excellent example of this. The epistolary style and the use of dialect and African American Vernacular English give us a close read on the worldview and experiences of Celie, the protagonist. We’re able to locate Celie so securely and authentically in her milieu that the sense of time and place is all the richer for it.

Romance demands its own subtlety. Past wounds, insecurities, and histories should be planted early, not by confessions or internal monologues, but through glances, silences, and telling body language. In the early chapters of Normal People by Sally Rooney, Connell and Marianne have a conversation about a teacher who behaves flirtatiously toward Connell in school. Rooney tells us that Connell ‘doesn’t even know what desire is supposed to feel like.’ We get so much information about Connell—anxious, insecure, self-doubting—in this one line.

A lover flinching from a casual touch. A defensive quip that masks vulnerability. These are fresh buds of importance that, when tended properly, will blossom into the emotional stakes of the relationship.

In literary fiction, exposition often becomes even more impressionistic. Think about the green light in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, or the way each character in Samantha Harvey’s Orbital  relates to the turning globe differently. Detail and sensory richness take precedence over explanation. A story might reveal a family’s economic decline not through narrative summary, but through the chipped paint on the porch, the frayed cuffs of a father’s jacket.

4. The weather: pacing and timing in the writing process

In a novel, pacing is the weather that governs the growth of story. Too much too soon—a storm of revelation or conflict—and young narrative shoots are flattened before they can take root. Too little and the soil dries out; readers lose patience with the plot.

In literary fiction, the narrative often unfurls slowly, growing toward the light: a truth, a question, or an emotional revelation. In the same way plants bend toward the sun, the story seeks clarity, stretching through layers of experience and uncertainty. The writer’s task is to provide enough warmth (momentum, desire, glimpses of understanding) to draw us forward, while introducing moments of chill (conflict, doubt, resistance) that slow and deepen the journey.

In fantasy and science fiction, managing the climate is vital. The temptation to unleash lore and world-building all at once must be resisted. Core concepts should be introduced one at a time, like clouds gathering gradually before a summer rain. The tension should build and build until the heat must break; the final conflict should feel like a storm, gripping and cathartic. Immersion depends on restraint.

Romance demands a careful balance of warmth and storm. Think about the way seasons turn imperceptibly until, suddenly, everything is in full bloom. Emotional pacing is critical; backstories and vulnerabilities must not be spilled in a flood of writing. Instead, elements like attraction, tension, and conflict should build naturally.

Pacing is the weather that governs the growth of story. Too much too soon—a storm of revelation or conflict—and young narrative shoots are flattened before they can take root. Too little and the soil dries out; readers lose patience with the plot.
—Ella McLeod

I always think of writing romance a bit like this particular time of year: late spring into early summer. A few days of blue sky and sunshine convince you that winter is over, and then suddenly it’s pouring rain again. Some call this ‘fool’s spring,’ and indeed, that’s what the early moments of a romance will feel like, with your protagonists beginning to feel warmth toward their love interest and then second-guessing this, feeling foolish. There’s usually some more sunshine across your midpoint—maybe a first kiss or a wonderful movie montage of everything going well for your lovers, before the rain returns... And it begins to pour.

Maybe they fight, maybe they break up—and it’s up to you, the writer, to decide where we leave them. Trapped in perpetual April showers? Darling buds of May, shaken by endless rough winds? Or will your writing carry them through to the balmy breezes of June?

5. Fertilizer: nurturing character and world

At this stage, you have carefully planted small details in your dialogue, actions, and environments, all ready to begin their natural growth. But just as plants require nutrients to thrive, your plot will be nourished by richly realized characters.

In YA fiction, a character’s traits don’t emerge in broad strokes; they develop through the choices they make. Their loyalty, courage, or vulnerability isn’t summarized or told outright, but is revealed in decisions—whether standing up to a bully, comforting a friend, or confronting their own fears.

In Ravena Guron’s This Book Kills, Jess is initially in Clemmie’s thrall; their friendship is one-sided and Jess offers little complaint. Over the course of the novel, Jess gains the courage to speak out and this is a vital part of her solving the murder mystery at the heart of the story. This slow bloom is what makes YA so compelling: readers see the growth of a character not as a list of qualities, but as a journey of becoming.

Romance, similarly, feeds emotional depth through meaningful interactions, not by the writer telling us that someone is ‘guarded’ or ‘afraid of commitment.’ Instead, allow your writing to show them flinching from intimacy, retreating when someone gets too close, or offering a half-smile when they’re secretly moved. These tiny gestures are the fertilizer that sustains emotional complexity. Romance thrives on how characters build, break, and rebuild trust.

In historical fiction—and, indeed, in SFF—the world must be felt through its people. To take your writing to the next level, have a think not just about the details of your setting, but also how your characters relate to it.

• Does your female protagonist hate her corset?
• Are your protagonist’s relationships in some way transgressive?
• Is your love interest adorably bad at spell-casting?

One of my absolute favorite details in The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller is the description of Achilles’s feet, a recurring motif throughout the novel. He is barefoot but rubs them often with oils, ‘pomegranate and sandalwood.’ Not only is this very evocative of time and place, but our protagonist, Patroclus, describes Achilles’s feet with such tenderness and care—such swoonworthy yearning, frankly—that we get a real sense of his character, too.

6. Weeds and pests: paying constant attention to narrative clutter

Every novel, like every garden, needs careful tending and constant attention. Weeds—overwriting, info-dumping, heavy-handed explanations—choke out the delicate growth of plot, character, and theme. The solution isn’t more effort, but a smarter, lighter touch: strategic pruning that allows only the strongest, most necessary elements to flourish.

In literary fiction, watch for overwriting. Beautiful sentences are valuable, but if they obscure rather than illuminate, they must go!

In fantasy and sci-fi, beware the lore dump. Cultivate only what’s necessary, and let the complexity of your setting emerge naturally.

In YA and MG, avoid moralizing. Allow lessons to unfold through characters’ mistakes and triumphs.

In romance, hold back character backstories until they’re emotionally earned.

Every novel, like every garden, needs careful tending and constant attention. Weeds—overwriting, info-dumping, heavy-handed explanations—choke out the delicate growth of plot, character, and theme.
—Ella McLeod

You’ve probably heard creatives of all descriptions use the phrase ‘kill your darlings.’ Well, when in doubt about a line or a piece of information, I like to ask myself: If you die, will I miss you?

If the scene or chapter holds up without the line or a piece of exposition, go they must. In draft three of The Map That Led To You, I edited out an entire character, at my editor’s suggestion. I had a serious tantrum about it when I first read her note and then—after a cry, a bath, and a large glass of wine—I had to admit she was right. And out he went.

7. First shoots: foreshadowing

Sara and Anji’s front door is painted somewhere between grey and purple—a colour named Elephant’s Breath by the person with the world’s best job. Every time Sara walks through it, she thinks of a huge creature parallel-parked outside the row of terraced houses. And there the elephant is, just before eleven on this bitterly cold Saturday morning, blood seeping from two wounds where her tusks once were, as she imagines it.
—Charlotte Paradise, Overspill

This is a quote from the beginning of Overspill  by Charlotte Paradise. In literary fiction, nothing is explicit or overstated—here, nothing is revealed. But the quiet violence of the image foreshadows the simmering grief and trauma that lie at the heart of this beautiful novel.

If you’ve sown your plants thoughtfully and nourished them well, an exquisitely foreshadowed moment will make readers lean forward with anticipation and, on a second read, recognize the quiet genius of what was there all along.

{{blog-banner-10="/blog-banners"}}

In fantasy, hints of prophecy, legacy, or fate must be subtle. A childhood memory, an offhand warning, a minor family heirloom—all can bloom into pivotal turning points. Sometimes setting these up as prologues can work well, too.

In Esmie Jikiemi-Pearson’s The Principle of Moments, before chapter one is ‘The Beginning.’ It starts:

This is a story we are hesitant to tell, though it is true we are many lifetimes removed from it now.
—Esmie Jikiemi-Pearson, The Principle of Moments

I challenge you not to get chills! The scene is set and context is provided, but with very little actual exposition—we do not feel spoon-fed. Instead, we read these words with a sense of anticipation, wondering when each piece of information will come into play.

In historical fiction, understated cues—unusual troop movements, uneasy political talk, a shortage of supplies—can foreshadow war, upheaval, or tragedy far more powerfully than overt warnings. Trust the reader to sense the brewing storm.

Effective foreshadowing creates thematic continuity: an image, idea, or emotion introduced early grows into something rich and powerful. This builds not only a more satisfying climax but a story that rewards rereading.

Ways to encourage these first shoots

Try to:

• ‍Think in small gestures. A single glance, an object, or one thing said as an offhand remark can carry future weight without feeling obvious.‍
• Use emotional resonance. Seed foreshadowing through feelings (unease, longing, suspicion), not just facts.‍
• Let images echo. A recurring object, color, or symbol builds a quiet sense of continuity across the story. I bloody love a good motif!‍
• Hide clues in plain sight. Place significant details inside normal action and dialogue, trusting readers to connect the dots later.

Restraint is key! Let discovery feel earned. In a living story, nothing important blooms without having been planted long before!

8. Watching your plants grow: the payoff in full bloom

And so we reach the climax of your story, where you should find your gorgeous story in full bloom as a result of your careful gardening! If you have worked hard and worked well, you will have created a satisfying emotional, intellectual, and thematic resolution that doesn’t feel forced. The beauty of this payoff lies in how it resonates with all your ideas sown before, rewarding the reader for their patience and investment.

Final gardening notes to ask yourself

• ‍Is the payoff earned?
  Does the climax feel like a natural outcome of the seeds you’ve planted throughout the story? Sudden twists or rushed resolutions can feel unearned. Instead, let the climax arise from what’s already been set in motion.‍
• Have you resolved the central conflict?
  Ensure the primary tension—emotional, narrative, or thematic—finds resolution, not just a neat bow.‍
• Are the characters active in their resolution?
  For a satisfying payoff, characters must make choices that directly lead to the outcome, not just react to it.‍
• Does the climax reflect your themes?
  Remember what we said about those first shoots? In real-life gardening, you can’t have a daffodil bud that becomes a daisy, babes. The emotional and intellectual payoff should echo the story’s central theme, whether it’s love, identity, self-discovery, or justice.‍
• Does it resonate on multiple levels?
  A great climax often delivers on more than one front: emotionally, thematically, and narratively.

9. Conclusion: harvesting the meaning

Storytelling, above all, is a beautiful act of creation, just like gardening! It’s seasonal, frustrating, and at times, a little mysterious. Each seed has the potential to bloom into something profound, but only when given everything it needs—the right tone, considered pacing, grounded characters, discipline, patience, and especially time.

Apply your discipline, care, and trust while gardening your story, and remember that sometimes a little conversation over a cup of tea with your horticultural neighbors—other writers who are busy tending to other fruits of their own labor—can help you find new tricks to try.

Sow your seeds with care, and when you rest at the end of your gardener’s season, amaze yourself at the beautiful bouquet you’re left with. It’s in truly trusting the process that we can enjoy the harvest that will follow.

Write your novel with coaching from Ella McLeod

If you’re writing romantasy or YA fiction and would appreciate some experienced guidance from an award-nominated published author, Ella is an encouraging and insightful writing coach who can help you on your way.

‍

Join us on the world’s best creative writing courses to create, write, and complete your book. Sign up and start today.