Joint Venture: Susie Finkbeiner on Facing Fear
Many thanks to Sweet Gail over at Jotter’s Joint for hosting me on her blog today!
Photo provided by Susie Finkbeiner
My friend, author and blogger, Susie Finkbeiner is hanging out at the Jotter’s Joint today as we celebrate the release of her second novel: My Mother’s Chamomile.
The most terrifying moment in writing (for me, at least) is just before I start. The cursor blinks. Blinks. Blinks. The word count at the bottom of the page shows a big, round zero. My fingers hover over the keys.
I hesitate because the beginning is important.
No, I’m not talking about the “hook” or getting the first sentence right. That’s not the beginning that scares me. All that can be tweaked and polished later on.
I get goosebumps from the genesis of creation.
My first book, Paint Chips, was in the hands of a publisher and I was ready to start work on my second novel. I had the characters, the plot, the ending, even the…
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Spring?
This morning, I hustled out the door to get the kids in the van. I didn’t have my gloves on. I mean, it’s March. I’m sick of coats and gloves and all things winter-wear.
Except scarves. I’ll never be sick of scarves.
I turned over the ignition of my van. Felt the steering wheel. Yowch! It was cold. TOO cold.
“Mom! Look at how cold it is!” My children love to point out the temperature.
-7 F.
I know. I know. Canadians scoff at my shivers. They giggle (very politely) at my wimpy cries of it being too cold.
Still.
I grumped silently. It’s stinkin’ March. MARCH! Come on! Warm up already!
At this moment, I have serious doubts that Spring will come. Ever.
I’ve been in this place before. Not always literally. But I’ve been here.
Life can be one tough booger sometimes. We experience loss and rejection. We suffer anxiety or depression or just down right frustration. We get defeated. War breaks out. Evil prevails (at least it seems to). Hate crushes us.
That, my friends, all of that, is the making of a terrible winter of the soul. And in those winters, spring seems impossible.
But it always comes. Little bit by little bit. The sun shines, warm on your face. A friend writes a letter or brings over a meal. A baby is born. Is there anything more healing than new life? A relationship is mended. Good takes the battle.
Spring arrives. It thaws the frozen heart.
That’s not to say that it fixes everything. Or that the pain is entirely gone. But it brings with it the hope of warmth, flowers, brilliance.
On the cover page of My Mother’s Chamomile, I quoted Jeff Manion, the teaching pastor of my church.
“God strengthens and comfort spills. Morning comes.”
(Jeff Manion from the sermon “Comfort Spills” preached at Ada Bible Church)
Morning comes. Spring comes. Healing does too. The snow of disappointment and the freeze of hurt will melt.
Joy will remain.
Satisfied
I just finished reading Satisfied by Jeff Manion the teaching pastor at my church. He wrote about how to live with satisfaction in this world where consumerism drives us to every store in town, encouraging us to fill our trunks with things, convincing us that the more we have, the happier we’ll be.
We aren’t our stuff. We don’t need to fill up our homes to be happy. In fact, we need to give and give and give some more. And enjoy what we have, but not let it rule us.
It’s great and convicting and I’m not doing it justice. You should probably just pick up a copy from Baker Book House instead.
One part of the book, though, convicted me deeply.
It was the section about comparison.
The short of it is this:
DON’T COMPARE!
Be satisfied and happy and content and thankful for where/who you are. For what you’ve been given. Stop looking at others and asking, “Why them and not me?”.
If I’m honest, I compare far too much.
Yeah. I do it in the normal ways. I compare the way I look, the clothes I have, the van I drive, the house I live in, the phone I use (really? I’m envious of someone’s PHONE? How ridiculous is that?)…and on and on and on and on it goes.
But, even more deeply rooted is how I compare my writing career to others.
That started before I got a book contract. I’d read a book and think, “I’m so much better than this author. Why’s he published and I’m not?”
Ouch. That’s not very flattering, is it?
After I got my book contract for Paint Chips, I thought “Holy cow, I’m not as good as that author. Everyone’s going to know I’m not a good writer like she is.”
Then, after my contract for My Mother’s Chamomile, “Wowza, that other book by that other author sold so many copies. I’m never going to sell that many. I’m a failure.”
Can I let you in on a little publishing industry secret?
Jealousy is our downfall.
My eyes have been turned green more times than I’d like to admit since I started writing.
Here’s the thing. In those moments/days/weeks/months/YEARS I’ve taken my eyes off the gift I’ve been given and focused on what others have. Doing so made me feel like I was lacking.
But I wasn’t.
I was looking with messed up perspective.
When I intentionally see my career as a gift (which it really is), I realize that it’s not for me, anyway. That, by comparing, I’m desiring to hoard up all the words and acclaim and opportunities for myself.
Nothing will kill joy like holding it so tightly it is snuffed out.
But, when I see it as the gift that it is, I realize that it’s to be given away. So, I write the stories I have to tell. I try to be encouraging. I work at being grateful every single day.
And part of that gratitude is finding a way to do happy dances when other writers land a huge contract or on a super-special-super-book-seller list.
When I can do that, I’m living a satisfied life.
And that, my friends, is a very peaceful and joy-filled way to live.
#Winning
I love winning things. Especially when those things are books.
You too?
Great. Here are 2 chances to win a copy of My Mother’s Chamomile!
First, you could win a digital download of the book through April McGowan’s blog. Oh, and while you’re there, you can read a little interview with yours truly. I’d love for you to hop over and leave a comment (that’s all it takes to enter the drawing). Click HERE.
Second, enter for a chance to win a paperback copy over at Amelia Rhodes’s blog. I also wrote a little post about mercy. Amelia’s been writing about loving your ordinary. It’s a great series she has going on. Super encouraging. I stuck with her theme. Loving the ordinary ways you can spread mercy. Go on over and enter by clicking HERE.
As always, thank you all for your support. I can’t tell you how powerful it is to have friends like you! So often, the writing life can seem very lonely. But I’m not lonely. I’ve got pretty amazing friends.
Thank you for the prayers, encouragement, and the way you’ve all cheered me on.
It pushes me to keep going.
Reading Haruf
A few years ago, I picked up a book called Plainsong by Kent Haruf. The writing was brilliant. I had a difficult time putting it down.
But there was a problem.
The book touched too many ragged nerves. It was a painful read for me. Never before and never since have I read a book that did just that thing to me.
Until this week when I picked up the sequel. It’s called Eventide. It’s been on my shelf for a good long time, waiting for me to be ready. To be a little more emotionally solid.
I opened the cover, sighed, started the read. I was right back in Holt, Colorado with characters who had endured so much in Plainsong. But they had a whole lot more to live through in Eventide.
After reading a few chapters, I was exhausted. Truly worried. Wishing the characters could avoid pain and loss and betrayal.
Only a handful of books have earned my tears. This was one of them.
As was Plainsong.
It wasn’t until the end of the story that redemption arrived on scene.
Here’s the thing. The redemption isn’t offered up on a platter with a sweet rose design along the edges. It was served up on a rusted bit of metal. The way I think true-to-life redemption commonly is. Because it isn’t the dish that matters. Not one bit. It’s the change, the salvation, the love.
This book isn’t for everyone. As a matter of fact, that can be said for every book. If you look for an escape while reading, don’t turn to this one. Haruf doesn’t allow for that. Fluff? Not here. A happily-ever-after ending? No.
But, if you are interested in a book that will make you feel, then read Kent Haruf.
His books are at one moment a kick in the ribs and the next the tenderness of an arm around the shoulders.
How about you? Ever read a book like that? Did you keep reading or did you throw it across the room? I love to hear what you have to say.
An Apologetic for the Most Depressing Month of the Year
February is a great time to talk about time. Largely because time goes so slowly during
this shortest month of the year. Midwesterners and Canadians know all about this. We’re
used to rolling our eyes at groundhogs and silly little myths like the so-called “first day of
spring” that is supposedly coming up. We know better. We know it will snow in April, no
matter what the calendar says.
Most people I know get sullen this time of year, and I suspect many silently scheme
about moving to Arizona. Social media makes February harder to bear as our Southern
friends post photos of daffodils while we linger beneath two feet of snow and sub-sub-
zero temps. But this year, even the balmy South is getting a wallop of winter weather. To
that I say, you had it coming. (Kidding, of course.)
February used to depress me. But over the past few years, late winter has become
something special because it’s come to mean more time.
More time to stay indoors and snuggle with my family in front of the fire.
More time to avoid the busyness of outdoor chores in the spring.
More time to read.
More time to exercise.
More time to create.
Practically everyone I know complains that they don’t have enough time for X, Y, or Z.
But that’s exactly what we do have—when we make it.
Time is one of those funny things in life that you cannot change, but that you can often
control. We all get the same 24 hours a day. We just don’t all use them in the same way.
I have a friend who often uses his lunch hour to get outside in any kind of weather and
take photos because that’s what brings him joy.
My sister gets up before 5:00AM in order to get in an hour at the gym before work. She
has two young children and her commute every day is 45 minutes each way because she
lives in the middle of nowhere. It’s the only time she has to exercise, and that’s what
brings her joy.
I have a friend who gets up every day at 6:00AM to knit, crochet, or sew for an hour so
that she goes to her full time job feeling like she’s already accomplished something. In
the evenings she might take up her project again or bake fresh bread, one loaf for her and
her husband and one to give away. That’s what brings her joy.
My husband and took last week off work and spent the weekend away (kid-free) at a
friend’s summer house on Gun Lake in order to get traction on the books we are currently
writing. Writing brings us joy (and some frustration…but mostly joy).
We can’t add more hours to our day, but we can control how we use the hours that we are
not sleeping or working. Those are ours to use for family, prayer, the Word, and all of the
things that make life a blessing.
When was the last time you really took time to use your gifts?
My gift is writing. Susie’s gift is writing. Maybe your gift is writing or maybe it’s
something else. Whatever it is, God gave it to you so you would use it to His glory.
If your gift happens to be writing, or if perhaps you’ve read Susie’s book and feel called to tell your own stories but you’re not sure where to start, might I suggest checking out an ebook I’ve written? The Intentional Writer is my answer to the problem of finding the time, space, and inspiration to write. It’s written for writers, but many of the tactics and ideas can be put to great use for any creative discipline. If you’ve been yearning to create something but have felt at the mercy of your busy schedule, please check it out.
It just might be the kick in the pants you’ve been waiting for.
Erin Bartels has been writing marketing copy for Baker Publishing Group for more than
a decade. A prolific short story writer, she is the author of The Intentional Writer and is
currently writing a novel. She is a board member of the Capital City Writers Association,
the features editor for the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, and a member of the
Michigan Hemingway Society. She lives with her husband and fellow writer, Zachary,
and their karate-obsessed son, Calvin, in a little brick house nestled somewhere between
angry protestors on the Capitol lawn and couch-burning frat boys at nearby Michigan
State University. And yet it’s really quite peaceful. Find her at erinbartels.com.
Erin and I are swapping blogs today. You can check out her blog to read my take on chamomile. Linger around her place and poke around a little. She’s got a beautiful blog full of posts about the writing life and our beautiful state. She’s a Michigander who loves this mitten of ours.
10 things to like about this horrible, neverending winter
Josh Mosey, a buddy of mine, adds a silver lining to the “neverending winter”. Good stuff.
I’m done with winter. If you are honest with yourself, you probably are too. But winter is being a cold [expletive] and long overstaying its welcome.
But since there is precious little we can do about it, here are ten things to like about this winter:
You can make as many snowmen as you want. At no other time in the year is this an option. You are limited only by your receptiveness to frostbite.- You never have to run out of ice for beverages. It is everywhere you look. Just take a hatchet and get some.
- Is your freezer broken? Nature’s isn’t.
- Snow, ice, and cold temperatures makes hot cocoa, tea, and coffee taste a billion times better.
- You have a valid reason for being late to anything.
- When is the next time you need to mow your lawn? Not for months and months.
- Get plenty of exercise shoveling snow…
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3 Out of 3 Reviewers Agree
I read some of my reviews. I know I probably shouldn’t. That mature writers most likely ignore them. But I’m not sure that I’m all that mature. So, I read them.
My Mother’s Chamomile has garnered a few so far. Just 3 between Goodreads and Amazon.
One thing all 3 agree on? That, as they read this novel, they felt like they became part of the family. Not that they were observing it, but that they were in it.
Did you happen to know, that’s the very best good thing anyone could ever say about my writing?
It sure is.
And I’m so flattered/grateful/encouraged/glad.
Love and Hairy Backs
I don’t write romance novels.
A statement like that will get a girl shunned by some in the Christian Publishing world. You think I’m kidding? Go on to your local book store, find the “Christian Fiction” section. You’ll see a whole bunch of romance novels. Probably 75% of the books will have characters making kissy faces on the covers.
Note: It doesn’t bother me that so much of the Christian fiction section is dominated by romance. If that’s what sells, okay. People like those kind of books. More power to them. And there are some fantastically talented writers who provide them with reading material.
I’m just not a romance writer.
But I do like to write a good love story into my novels.
Yes. There’s a difference.
Romance novels are all about the…well…romance. That’s what drives the plot. It’s what gets the characters up in the morning to spend hours doing their hair or tightening their corsets (seriously, who’s with me that we’re glad THAT fad is over…ouch!). Romance is about two people overcoming some kind of conflict to end up together.
I like a thread of a love story every once in awhile. But I don’t want it to overwhelm the plot. I want it to enhance the flavor of the novel. And, sometimes, that love story isn’t about men and women. It’s about family and friends.
In My Mother’s Chamomile, the dominant love story is between Olga and Clive, a couple married for 52 years. While their love isn’t new and fresh, it’s sweet and still full of passion.
More than anything, though, their love survives because they choose it.
It’s Valentine’s Day.
How about you choose to love someone today.
Even if it isn’t gooshy, smooshy face love.
Choose to love somebody.
The guy who cut you off in traffic. Choose love.
The kid at the burger joint who messed up your order. Choose love.
Your coworker who is having a rough time. The neighbor who snow-blowed ALL their snow into your driveway. The child in the middle of a temper tantrum. Your husband or wife or significant other.
Choose love.
Hairy back, bald head, and all.
Today, Ashlin Jakobson interviewed me about the writing life on her blog. Click HERE to read the interview. Then hang out and read some of her stories!
Feel At Home
I realized something the other day. Something that makes me a bit sad.
I’ve forgotten a lot of things about my grandfathers.
One of them died when I was three, the other when I was six. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been with them. I miss them still.
I don’t remember what their aftershave smelled like. What their voices sounded like.
A few years ago I learned from my uncle Phil that my Grandpa Riggs couldn’t sing. I’d always imagined he could. Funny how memory can do that kind of trick.
When I wrote about Granddad’s relationship with Evelyn in My Mother’s Chamomile, I wished that I could have had more time with my grandfathers. So, I wrote what I imagined a relationship between grandpa and granddaughter could be.
You know, it felt a whole lot like home.
That’s what I remember about my Grandpa Relf. When I sat with him, watching football, that was home. When he’d let me try on his glasses or hearing aid, that was home.
It’s what I remember about my Grandpa Riggs. When he’d tease me and tell me jokes, I felt at home. When he’d smile, making the corners of his blue eyes crinkle, I felt at home.
When I want to remember what home meant during my childhood, I let my memory take me back to my grandpas.
Your turn. What makes you feel at home? What do you remember of those who have defined home for you? If they have passed away, and you’re comfortable sharing, I’d love for this to be a day of memory and honoring.
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