STORYTIME!
In the spring of 2025, I wrote a novel – the greatest creative rush I’ve ever experienced in my life. I lived inside that story 24/7. I could hardly sleep because I was so excited all the time. It came after a long spell of writer’s block, and I felt as though I’d stepped back into life. I finished the first draft in 102 days. But the truly magical part began after that… with three orange seeds.
Jane: controlled, emotionless and about to be cracked open
The main character who came to me one morning in March was Jane – a woman who, like all of her people, has had her emotions erased, along with her need for sleep and her ability to feel pain. Now that the apocalypse is over, people are slowly learning to feel again. The process is called restoration, and it’s tough – imagine going to sleep (surrendering all control and consciousness!) for the first time in your life, just as you’ve become capable of fear.
Without giving too much away, I’ll say that Jane walks a long and difficult path to rediscover herself. At one point in the story, she is gifted three orange seeds, and the tree growing from one of them becomes an important companion.
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After 102 days of writing euphoria, I wrote the final scene. I cried, I was joyful – and terrified that this might be the last story I had in me. Perhaps that thought sounds familiar to you? I’ve had it more than once (it’s been wrong every time). To celebrate finishing the story, my wife gave me three orange seeds. (Yes, I cried again.)
I killed my cactus when I was four
There’s a picture of it in the family album. Since then, I’ve never managed to keep anything remotely plant-like alive – nor was I ever interested. I used to joke that I had two black thumbs.
But here I was, with three orange seeds, and it felt important to give them life. Having absolutely no idea what I was doing, I stuck them into some flower soil my wife had lying around and put the pot on the windowsill. At least it was summer, though our window gets very little light, and I certainly couldn’t recreate Mediterranean temperatures in Berlin.
I wasn’t too surprised when nothing happened – but I was disappointed. I checked my orange seeds every day (invisible), watered them, talked to them. July passed, August passed. No seedlings appeared. After asking ChatGPT for advice, I bought an organic orange and planted those seeds as well. Still nothing.
Now, I’m a patient person, but this project mattered to me. Every day without a spark of green, I felt more and more discouraged. In my mind, the growth of these orange seeds became tied to my writing.
What if Jane’s story had been my last?
And that’s when the universe sent me a sign.
A sign from the universe: apple seeds
One morning, as I was making my porridge, I cut open an apple and found a germinated seed inside – a small but healthy-looking root already sprouting.
I took it as a sign from the universe. A whisper saying, “Hey, you’re trying something hard and it’s not working. Here’s an easier way. Your life doesn’t have to be hard anymore.”
There’s a long story behind why making my life easier feels so important, and why planting seeds became a metaphor for everything – but that’s for another time. What mattered was that I found that seed and teared up because … it was an invitation to lightness. To ease. Perhaps even to joy.
So I planted my first apple seed.
The Apple Empire begins
It turned out to be the first of many, because for weeks I kept finding germinated seeds in my apples – something that had never happened before, and hasn’t happened much since. But for a while, I was planting apple seeds like a madwoman. Some looked very eager the moment I found them.
The rest I wrapped in a damp cloth and placed in the fridge – I’d learnt they need cold stratification. Essentially, you make them believe it’s winter, and in anticipation of spring, they start germinating.
Soon, I bought a tiny (think book-sized) greenhouse and put it on my windowsill. It even came with a little grow light. That was how the Apple Empire began.
I cried again the day the first little seedling broke through the soil. Still no trace of the oranges, but the apples were growing! I named the first one Mister Apple, the second Mister Apple’s Little Sister. Neither survived – I probably killed them by transplanting too early. But Tiny Pip, my third one, is still going strong. Here’s how he looks today (early November):
And he’s Not Alone – which, by the way, is the title of Jane’s story. I now proudly own a cheap indoor greenhouse full of hopeful apple trees (and the occasional other plant that’s snuck its way in).
Life became easier – in many ways, but always with my apples as a symbol: this is how easy it can be. Just receive the gifts without fighting for them, and follow where they lead.
But the story doesn’t end there.
Return of the oranges
In October, four months after planting the first orange seeds, I discovered the tiniest hint of green – and this one didn’t look like an apple.
I had a full-body reaction to that bright, vibrant spark of green. I celebrated it. I spent long minutes each day watching it grow. And how it grew! Within days, there wasn’t just one seedling – there were three. And they were shooting up as though there were no tomorrow.
Between the original three seeds and the ones from my organic orange, I’d planted a total of nine, and never more than three seeds in one cell. You do the maths:
Yes – that’s more than three. It turns out (I didn’t know this) orange seeds often contain more than one embryo. In this case – six!
I could try to explain how witnessing this little miracle made me feel, but perhaps it’s best to let the pictures speak. Or my view of the universe: it gave me sprouted apple seeds to comfort me … only to prepare a much greater miracle in the background. It rewarded my patience and care with far more than I’d imagined possible.
That’s how the universe often works for me. I anticipate the best possible outcome … and then find it surpassed many times over. As of today, I’m counting around seventeen orange seedlings from nine seeds – and who knows if that’s the end of the story.
And my writing?
Yes, I’m writing again. I’m 25,000 words deep into my story about Claire and Owen – in a genre I never thought I’d write in, let alone talk about publicly. But here we are, and it’s incredible. I love these two characters so much, and they’re helping me explore new depths of safety, trust, pain, and surrender. Perhaps they’ll do the same for you, once I’m done.
And that’s not my only project. I’m also working on my Writer’s Block Tarot, revising Not Alone, tending to this blog, and exploring new creative directions. I wished for one story – and I received abundance. In seeds and in words.
I don’t want to be too on the nose with the message of this post, but just in case you need to hear it right now:
Yes, you can write again. And the universe may already be preparing abundance for you in the background.