I’m Not a Gardener
I attempted a garden just a couple years ago. Well, maybe the word garden isn’t exactly correct.
I had a pot of grape tomatoes and two peppermint plants. I admit it. I’m not a gardener.
I have friends who garden and blog about it. My pal Amelia Rhodes always has produce a plenty. She’s a gardener.
She’s the kind of gardener who contends with huge rodents and doesn’t faint when she sees a tomato worm.
I, on the other hand, scream like a banshee when I see critters near the food I’m thinking about eating. True story. After tomato worms infested my tomato plant, I refused to eat anything else that grew in my yard. It just grossed me out too much.
When developing the garden theme in My Mother’s Chamomile, I had to really stretch myself. I decided that Olga, one of my characters, would tend a flower garden full of chamomile (of course), tea roses, lavender…
…flowers.
No tomatoes.
No nasty tomato worms.
Here’s the problem; I kill every plant. Even flowers.
Hyacinth? Killed it.
Mum? Killed it.
Irises? Kill them every year…and they keep coming back for more.
So, when I went to our local greenhouse, I was more than a little nervous for the little chamomile plant that I was about to purchase.
“Don’t worry,” said Zach, the plant guy (who I’ve known since he was 7…how’s he 20-ish now?). “This is a resilient plant. Chamomile is hard to kill.”
“Ooo. A challenge.”
I took my itty bitty pot home. Set it in full sun. Watered it regularly. And. Waited.
It bloomed, it grew. If blossomed! Well, one little flower did. After weeks, another few flowers opened. Resilient, indeed! And so sweet smelling.
The characters in My Mother’s Chamomile are strong. Not so strong that they don’t feel. They bend to the winds of pain. They rely on the waters of mercy. But they are resilient.
When I set out to write this novel, I knew that chamomile is used for its calming properties. It is a good, soothing herb. What I didn’t know was how the plant can weather all kinds of adversity.
Comfort helps to heal hearts. It also doesn’t die out at the first sign of hardship.
True mercy is a sturdy, calming garden, full of love that doesn’t quit.
Your turn! Do you garden? If so, what do you grow? If not, are you a plant killer like I am?
Have you ever been the recipient of mercy and comfort that didn’t give up? I love hearing from you!
Paint Chips is 99 Cents? But…Why?
Today only (that’s Saturday, February 8, 2014), Paint Chips is available for a 99 cent Kindle download! This is an exciting day for me.
What? Why is the price reduced? How does this make me excited?
Well, allow me to (attempt) to explain.
Next week is the release date for My Mother’s Chamomile, my second novel. Right now is all about building hype. Building anticipation for the novel.
The more people who buy and read Paint Chips, the more potential for them to buy and read My Mother’s Chamomile.
Hype. Hype. Hype.
Also, if Paint Chips can get on the Amazon bestseller list for today, it’s very helpful. Free exposure for the novel!
Hypity, Hype, Hype!
I know a lot of you have already bought a copy, if not multiple copies (I’m looking at you, Mom). You have NO idea how much I appreciate that! And several of you have written encouraging reviews. Again, I’m so grateful! You all have become an essential part of my writing.
I can’t say enough how you’ve all spurred me on.
But I will say this, (I’ve said it about a thousand times this last year), I have the very BEST friends in all the world. I’ve even had other people say that about all of you.
What I think I appreciate most, though, is the fact that you’ve championed this novel. Told your friends about it. Shared links on Facebook and Twitter. Told your book club that you’d like to discuss it. And on and on. This means so much to me because, in doing these things, you’ve endorsed the book.
You’ve said it was worth the time to read. Oh, how that makes my heart swell.
I totally feel the love.
So, while I can’t come to your house with a plate of cookies and a big hug to thank every single one of you (although I’d love to), I can do this.
Thank you all right now.
You are super friends.
And, yes, I believe super friends have super powers.
Thank you.
When Writers Collaborate
I know, I blogged later last night about being a Drama Queen. And here I am blogging again!
I’m only here to let you know about the story that Novel Matters is putting together. It’s like one of those stories you did in Middle School. Someone wrote a few lines, passed it around, let others write a couple lines, and passed on and on until the story was done.
But at Novel Matters they are using, like, writers! People who have worked on the storytelling craft.
I’m so honored that they let me contribute. It’s my turn today. So, go on over and check out the story! Click on the picture below to find the story.
Confessions of a Drama Queen
I am a Drama Queen.
And everybody in my whole family just rolled their eyes. Seriously. I know they did. How DARE they?
You see, I’m the baby of my family. Drama was how I got attention. It was how I made sure they didn’t leave me at the grocery store or forget to feed me.
Poor, poor me. Oh! How I’ve suffered!
Ahem.
I just did it again, didn’t I?
Yes, I’m a Drama Queen. I admit it.
But I’m working on it. I’m slowly removing the rhinestone tiara from my head and tossing it into the trash.
Because being a Drama Queen has gotten me nothing but trouble. A whole lot of messed up friendships, hurt feelings, and a stupid amount of stress.
In My Mother’s Chamomile (you knew I was going to tie this into the upcoming book, right?), I’ve got a character who’s a bit of a Drama Queen. Her name is Deirdre. Throughout the novel, Deirdre is trying to sniff out the scoop. When she finds out a little tidbit of gossip, she magnifies it, making it worse than it actually is. She’s creating drama.
Nobody in town trusts her. They don’t respect her, either.
I seriously don’t want to be like her.
But sometimes I totally am.
Or, really, a lot of times, if I’m going to be honest.
And, when I’m acting like Deirdre, I steal joy from other people. I steal it from my family. I snuff out hope. I take time from my kids and my husband and friends.
And if I don’t stop this, I’m going to end up a shriveled up, bitter, raisin of a woman. Nobody wants to be around that person.
So, I’m letting go. Blocking things on Facebook that get my Drama Queen all revved up (ie, political posts). I’m giving myself a breather from dramatic situations. Praying for calm and peace and the ability to resist gossip.
The Drama Queen needs to go away. I need to give that part of my life up.
I’m not going to live for the drama anymore.
I’ll just save it all for my characters.
10 Days
My mom gave me this mug a few years ago while I was working on a manuscript called Paint Chips.
At the time, I doubted the novel would ever find a publisher, let alone an audience. Still, I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.
I wrote my story. The one on my heart. I knew very little about novel structure and plot arcs and passive verbs. I wrote out of shear passion.
When it was done, I needed to start work on my second novel.
I felt paralyzed. This time I knew more about how a novel should be written. How I should format everything. I’d gotten a few reviews that stuck in my head. Some were too flattering. Others hurt.
There were months when I’d sit down to write and I’d hear the reviews. What they’d said spiraled into negativity.
For the good ones, I’d think about how one day they would realize what a fraud I am. That I can’t write. That they were just being nice.
As for the less than good reviews, I heard the negative things they’d said. Not that anyone was mean. Not at all. But the “cons” or what they didn’t like about the book spun around and around in my head. I’d write a sentence. Stop. Read it. Agonize over how bad it was. How that reviewer would grill me for how awful I’d done. Beat myself up for even attempting to write.
I just about gave up. Quit the story. Tossed it in the trash.
Then, one day, I pulled my mug out of the cupboard and filled it with coffee.
“Write your own story.”
It clicked.
What went right with Paint Chips was that I allowed the passion to flow. Who cares if somebody didn’t like the story or my writing? I needed to stop caring.
I had a story to write.
So, I wrote my own story. A story that had been bursting from within. Let me tell you, My Mother’s Chamomile is from my heart.
If people don’t like it, okay. If they think I’m a hack writer, all right. I’ll survive.
But it’s the story I had to write. And I did.
I can’t be more pleased that I let it out.
Tell me, do you have a story to tell? What keeps you from doing it? Or, if not a story, do you have a passion that you’d like to let out? I love hearing from you!
Guest Post | Comic Relief with Susie Finkbeiner
Josh Mosey was gracious enough to have me as a guest on his blog today! Head on over and look around his site. He’s got some funny material and a few very heartfelt ones, too. He’s a good feller.
While I would love to claim that the blog today is 100% my work, that would be a lie. You’d see right through it. For one thing, you are smart people. For another, Susie Finkbeiner (who did write today’s post) introduces herself within the post. And I’m glad that she does, because Susie is totally worth knowing, following, and reading. Be sure to pick up her newest book, My Mother’s Chamomile, when it comes out later this month!
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Here’s a story I hardly ever tell. But I’ll share it with you. Because, you know, you’re special. Super special because you follow Josh Mosey’s ultra fantastic blog.
My grandmothers died within days of each other. It was Spring Break of my sophomore year in college. Worst Spring Break.
Ever.
By the end of the second funeral in a week, I was exhausted. Grieving deeply. Just done.
I looked at…
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A Novel Helped Me Mourn
A few years ago a friend of mine died. She’d been sick for a long time. I’m talking years. One health issue after another.
When she passed away, I was sad. Extremely sad.
The problem was, I just couldn’t seem to mourn. I cried. But didn’t mourn.
Yes. There is a difference.
Months went by. I was still blocked. What I didn’t realize is that grief works its way in strange ways. That the way I best realize grief is by writing.
And sometimes by reading.
I remember reading Club Sandwich by Lisa Samson. The kids were napping. I was curled up on the couch. I read a scene in the book that triggered it.
It pulled the grief to the surface. I gushed. It was a good thing the kiddos were sleeping. I was a mess.
Because what I’d read was just about exactly what I felt when my friend passed away.
Lisa Samson had written something that made me feel like I wasn’t alone. That gave me permission to release the pain.
Fiction is powerful. It truly is.
I feel like Lisa gave me a gift. I know she didn’t write it for me specifically. However, she wrote it as a gift for all who would read her book.
My Mother’s Chamomile releases in less than 2 weeks. Some people will read it. I hope, truly hope, that it is a gift to my readers. I mean for it to be.
My desire is that this gift will help someone release something inside them that is blocked.
Fear.
Grief.
Bitterness toward God.
In 2 Corinthians 1:3-7, we read that we are able to comfort because of the comfort we’ve received.
I received that kind of comfort when I read Lisa Samson’s novel.
Because I was comforted, I hope to offer that selfsame mercy to you. In one way or another.
That is a gift I’d like to give to you.
The Birthday Aunt
Of all the things I always loved about my birthday, it’s that I shared it with my Great Aunt Bertha.
Aunt Bertha was my Grandpa Riggs’ younger sister. She was a legend. Most people in my family have been. But Aunt Bertha was something super special. Gorgeous. Quick witted. Sweet. Compassionate. Ready and willing to do anything to help anyone. Determined. Tough. Gentle.
And, let me tell you, her marriage to my Uncle Ken was just about the best example of a romantic relationship I’ve ever seen. They loved each other. They were best friends. They loved their kids and grandkids. Deeply.
When it came time to write My Mother’s Chamomile, I wanted to include a sweet, very in love, elderly couple. Olga and Clive. As I wrote, I remembered my Aunt Bertha and Uncle Ken.
I miss them.
I’m so thankful for them. The example of deeply meaningful marriage. I believe that their marriage had roots that went deep down in their faith.
Every year on my birthday, I think of my Great Aunt Bertha. Remember the stories of her, still attracting the boys in her rollers and cold cream covered face. She was truly a beautiful woman. I remember the way her clear blue eyes would crinkle in the corners. How she laughed, not holding anything back.
I remember hearing a story of her, sitting on the patio of her cottage and saying, “Aren’t we blessed?”
And, today, on our birthday, I think of her and say, “Yes. And you were part of that.”
Gandhi, MLK, Ireland
I write a note for my daughter’s lunch box. She loves trivia, so I include an obscure fact to the note. Right now, we’re having fun with “This Day In History”.
I looked up this day in history. January 30.
Beheadings.
Wars.
Gandhi was assassinated.
Martin Luther King, Jr’s house was bombed.
Ireland’s Bloody Sunday (a vicious massacre that occurred in 1972).
I said to my husband, “Gosh, this isn’t really that great of a day.”
As I was writing the note, my daughter fell into her dresser (she’s graceful like me). Scrapes and bruises and lots of tears.
“This is such a bad day already,” she said.
I found one positive fact for her note (today is Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s birthday…that’s pretty cool), packed her up, got her in the van, and took off for school.
Along the way, driving East, we saw a beautiful, watercolor sunrise.
“God made that painting for us,” my daughter said. “He’s the kind of Dad who’s a good artist.”
Smiles. Oo’s and Ah’s. Little giggles. She got out of the van. I told her to have a good day. She said she would.
The bad day turned. Transformed. Overcame the bad to become something worthy of a seven year old’s wide, loose tooth smile.
In my novel My Mother’s Chamomile, I wrote about a family of funeral directors. They saw people in their worst moments. Their most horrible day. They witnessed distress and agony and grief.
In those horrible days, they’d see mercy. A kind word. A warm hug. A smile. Reminders that the worst of life isn’t all of life.
The bad times hurt. They wound. But they don’t last forever.
The horrible things in history are behind us. We are capable of overcoming them. That’s not to say they should be forgotten. But we can overcome.
We are more than war and hate. Loss and fear.
All that may last a night…sometimes a very long night.
But healing comes. Mercy comes. Smiles and orange-yellow-pink sunrises wake us.
Joy comes in the morning.
This is a Thoughtless Post
I’ve got very little to say today.
It’s Wednesday. We’ve had three snow days. This week.
My kids are awesome. I’m not kidding. They have been troopers.
Super. Troopers.
Still.
So far we’ve had a glitter glue explosion. An apple in the toilet. A game of soccer in the living room (unauthorized, by the way). Cereal spills. Bean bag fights. Tears. Stuffy noses. Hungry (bored) tummies. Back, neck, and shoulder surgery on a beloved Polar Bear.
My brain is numb. All 100 words I’ve written this week (100 is VERY little) have been deleted. They weren’t good. They didn’t fit the flow and feel of the rest of the novel. Those 100 words ticked me off. They died. Erased into oblivion.
It felt good.
susiefinkbeiner.com 