In the backyard, I sat under the kitchen window behind a hibiscus bush. The hibiscus bush grew up to the gutter along the roof. The space was a cave. One side white scuffed wall, the other side and roof branches, leaves and red flowers, the floor black dusty dirt. Jill, the german shepherd, sat in the dirt with me and I would tell her everything.
I was seven, eight, or nine. Jill died when I was nine. Grandma sold the house when I was 13.
You can’t expect others to take care of your memories and hibiscus flowers don’t contain magical properties.
No one else is going to care about your story as much you. No one is going to care about it in the same way. What is the condition of your novel right now? Well-tended, trimmed, weeded, painted, and bright? Neglected, wild, overgrown, and dark? Is it in the middle of your busy life, on the edge of your thoughts where you go once in a while, or far out past a bridge to nowhere? Oz?