Vulnerability
Today, Caleb Wilde is hosting me over at his place. That’s a fancy bloggy way to say, he’s got a piece of my writing up on his blog.
Caleb is a sixth generation funeral director. He helped me out with some details on My Mother’s Chamomile.
I’m a little nervous, to be honest.
The piece is non-fiction. And it’s a vulnerable one. It’s about an evening that changed me. One of those creases between “Before” and “After”.
I’d love for you to go over and read it. I’m nervous to have you read it. It shows a lot of me. But I want to show you that part.
You can find that post on Confessions of a Funeral Director by clicking HERE.
If you’re new around these parts (if you found me through Caleb’s blog), feel free to poke around. Look in the medicine cabinet (or the archives). Make yourself at home. I’m glad you stopped by.
Slurping Coffee Like a Barista
Yesterday, I took my regular, favorite seat at my local Starbucks. The one all the way in the back. It’s the best spot for people watching. Well, and it’s close to the bathroom…so there’s that.
Now, I spend a good amount of time there writing. They know my name. I’m a gold card holder. The regulars know me.
It’s like Cheers. Oh good golly. I hope I’m not Cliff Clavin.
Well, I’d shoved the earbuds in (seriously, can that really be healthy?), pulled out my stack of notes, opened the document for my work in progress.
I noticed that the baristas were gathering around a table nearby. They had their French Press and tiny coffee shot glasses.
“We’re doing a tasting!” I heard the manager say.
Then she looked at me.
“Would you like to join us? We’re tasting Caffe Verona.”
Now, how did she know that was my very favorite blend? Oh. Right. She makes my coffee, like, 3 times a week.
Oh. And I need to add, I wasn’t the only person in the cafe. It was pretty full. But she picked me.
It made me feel special.
I stood among the kind baristas. If your Starbucks isn’t full of kind people, choose a different one. Mine is a friendly place.
There’s a process to tasting coffee. You sniff it. Look at it. Then, finally, you get to drink it.
The tall, Nordic looking guy slurped.
The beautiful, Parisian looking lady slurped.
The hip, folk star looking girl slurped.
“Oh, here at Starbucks, we slurp,” the manager reassured me. “It helps us to taste the fullness of the coffee.”
So, the geeky novelist (that’s me) slurped.
Yeah! It worked! It was cool. The rich flavors filled my entire mouth. The coffee tasted amazing.
Plus, it wasn’t as embarrassing to be slurping among the green apron brigade.
Hm. I wonder if they’d let me wear a green apron…
Anyway, this post does have a point.
It’s this…
Sometimes, in life (and in art), we need to let our inhibitions go. We need to just go for it. Take everything in, slurping it eagerly. Experiencing the fullness of it all.
I’ve spent too much time sipping. Enjoying just a small measure of the whole.
Really, what I need to do is slurp.
What does that look like? It looks like how my kids live.
Less fear. Less concern for how others might think I’m an oddball. But heavy, gut busting laughter. More telling people how I really love them.
More writing the way I want. Less thinking about the market and what might sell.
Slurping life seems a lot like authenticity.
I think that’s a pretty amazing way to live.
How about you? How would you slurp life? What would be different?
Quaking in my Boots
This weekend, I spent a little quality time with the nurses and doctors in the Emergency Room. I wore mismatched socks. They took my blood. It was a great (eye-roll) way to spend the afternoon.
Wonky heart.
Well. That wasn’t the doctor’s official diagnosis.
His diagnosis was that my heart beats funny. Palpitations. And that I didn’t have a heart attack. Isn’t that reassuring?
“Anything stressful going on?” one of the nurses asked.
“Not really.” Well, except that my socks TOTALLY didn’t match.
What could be stressing me out? I mean, I got to wear a fashionable, papery gown and have the dickens squeezed out of my arm every 5 seconds by the blood pressure cuff.
And…And…
Oh. Yeah. I have a novel releasing next month.
But this is all part of the DREAM! I should be leaping in the air, doing toe touches. I should be in bliss and rapture.
Right?
I mean. The hard work is over.
Right?
RIGHT????
Well. Not exactly.
Because I have to…
-Promote…promote…promote
-Find the best websites that run ads…and see if I can afford the $5 septillion to pay for the placement.
-Face one last round of edits/look overs.
-Write a few dozen blog posts
-Hope that I get the books in time for my first book signing
-Hope that people (other than my mom) buy about a million copies
-Fret over the first nasty review…because I feel like this one is going to evoke some pretty strong emotions
Oh gosh. There goes my heart again. It feels like a 3 year old was given a drum set.
Hm. Maybe it is a little bit linked to stress.
To quote my friend Jocelyn Green (who is an awesome writer, by the way)…
“Book stress is no joke…”
And, to be completely honest, My Mother’s Chamomile has taken so much out of me. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.
In the novel, one of my characters (named Olga) feels a kinship to the Israelites. When they’re wandering around the desert. With no food. No water. Nothing but hot sun and dry sand. She’s in that kind of place, too. She needs an oasis.
Relief.
Mercy.
Writing this novel took me to a similar place. I felt absolutely knocked out by this story. It required a lot of my tears. A lot of my prayers.
I put so much of me into this novel.
I’m afraid that people will see so much of me in it. And I’ll feel exposed.
That the emotional reaction readers have will make them angry.
I fear…
I fear…
That it will disappoint. Mainly because of how much I invested in the writing. The work. Pouring nothing short of my love into it.
Because, really, what I want the readers to feel is loved. That they are worthy of compassion. Mercy. Relief.
No matter who they are. Or what they’ve been through or done.
We all need mercy.
I want them to feel that pour over them.
Maybe I should let myself experience that, too.
Building Muscle
I’m reading. A lot. I’ve always been a big reader. I just didn’t know how much so until I started the Empty Shelf challenge.
I’ve decided that this is the year of reading what I want. Not what I feel obligated to. So far, so good. And, honestly, each of the 8 have stretched me, informed me, challenged and convicted me.
I’m reading a lot because I have to. It’s a VERY important part of being a writer of any kind. You must read. Lots. And a variety. And not just fluff. I assure you, my list has been anything but fluff.
See. For a writer, reading is like spending time at the gym. Putting on the spandex. Getting your sweat on. Pumping the iron. Feeling the burn.
If writers don’t read, our craft becomes flabby. Nobody wants flabby prose. Chubby poetry. Muffin-top essays. No. Body. Wants. That.
By reading these books, I’m stepping into shoes which aren’t mine. Looking through different eyes. Hearing, feeling, tasting, smelling the world in fresh ways. I’m honing my abilities to build conflict and tension. Exploring more about life so that I can more accurately create characters who will be believable and loved.
I’m beefing up my writing muscles.
So, grab a good book. Make yourself a steamy cup of tea or mud or cocoa. Pull the snuggie on and enjoy a book.
Work it out, baby.
Tell me. Why do you read? What’s next on your to-read list? I’m about to start For Whom The Bell Tolls by Big Papa Hemingway.
Tour of a Funeral Home
The concept for My Mother’s Chamomile popped into my mind when my husband’s grandmother died. I had all kinds of passion for writing a novel about funeral directors.
Problem.
I knew very little about them.
Even less about what went on in the business.
To be quite honest, I was terrified by what I’d learn. Also, I had that picture in my head of a jolly man embalming some poor old lady with no gloves on. And eating a sandwich. Telling jokes. Applying far too much blue eyeshadow on the body.
You know what I’m talking about. Right?
I didn’t want to paint that picture of funeral directors. I wanted it to be accurate.
So, I called the funeral home that helped us with Jeff’s grandma’s funeral.
“(Unnamed) Funeral Home,” the man answered.
“Hi. So. I’m a writer and I’m writing a novel about funeral directors.” My heart beat so fast and I was sure I’d vomit.
“Hold on. You’re doing what? Why would you do that?” Then he paused. “Just a moment. Let me get John.”
I waited. Considered hanging up. Finding a different topic for a novel. Like rainbows and the unicorns that trot on top of them. Just as I was about to wimp out, I heard a voice on the line. A warm, heavy Michigan accent.
I trust people who sound like Michiganders.
“So, you’re writing a novel about funeral directors?” He asked. “Can you come over to the funeral home next Tuesday?”
I wondered what a girl wears to visit a funeral home. Black? I figured I couldn’t go wrong with that.
Tuesday came. John G. met me at the door. He was just as kind and welcoming as I imagined. I’m telling you, the Michigan accent is a warm one. He told me I could put my things in the office. He wanted to start by giving me a tour.
First the chapel. It had a few chairs. A couple lamps. No casket. Whew.
Next, what he called the “display room” (where they keep the sample caskets), the break room (where the family can go and rest, have a cup of coffee, keep food for between viewings), the garage (I almost asked if I could take a joy-ride in the hearse…but thought he’d kick me out).
“Last, let’s go on into the prep room,” he said.
“Sure.” I thought the prep room was where they kept the paper masks and robes and things. You know. The preparation things.
Boy. Was I wrong.
The first thing I saw was the porti-boy. That’s the machine that pumps the…ahem…fluids out and in. It was clean. Thank goodness. Then, the stainless steel embalming table. Really, it looked like an operating table. I pretended that was all it was. He pointed out different things. The closet where they keep the fluids. The sink. Tubes and instruments and make-up. Everything sterile. Super clean.
Then he turned and touched something.
A casket.
It was open. A woman was inside.
I’d never seen an ‘unfinished’ body before. She had been embalmed. She had been dressed. Her hands crossed over her stomach.
But she didn’t have the make-up on. The make-up gives the appearance of life. It makes the decedent (a.k.a. the person who died) look asleep.
Without the make-up, it is impossible to deny that the person no longer has blood or oxygen or life.
I had the feeling that I shouldn’t have been there. Looking at her. Seeing her.
I felt vulnerable. Because she was vulnerable.
And in that exposed state, I heard the stories of the funeral director.
How, at one of the funeral homes, he’d lived in an apartment on the upper floor of the building. How hard it had been for his daughters to hear the crying of the mourners. How difficult it was to keep the girls quiet during viewings and funerals.
How he’d had to embalm a set of brothers who’d been in a farming accident. How he’d had to tell the parents that they couldn’t be viewed. How that had broken him. He’d never be the same after that.
How he couldn’t go to the grocery store in his small town without people avoiding him. Some wanting to know “too much” of what went on. How he felt different. Other.
Story after story after story. I think he was relieved to tell them. In the place of vulnerability.
In that prep room. The porti-boy across from me. Make-up tray to one side. Woman in the casket on the other. There I learned about life. Compassion. Mercy. Serving others.
As John walked me out to my van, he said in his kind, Michigan accent,
“I heard this quote somewhere. I don’t remember who said it. Maybe Thomas Lynch. You heard of him? He’s a funeral director and poet from Michigan.” He pointed at me. “You should read his books. Anyway. He, or somebody, said, ‘Funeral directors close the eyes of the dead and open the eyes of the living’. Isn’t that something?”
Yes. Indeed. That sure is something.
Live with your eyes open.
Blank Canvas
My kids had two snow days last week. I found 4 blank canvases and a box of acrylic paints. I thought, why not…
Look at all that white space! All the potential. The possibility. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen to those four spaces.
I let them choose their colors. One of my boys asked what would happen if he mixed all the colors together. I told him to go for it. See what happened.
The nice thing about acrylic is it dries fast. And it’s good for layering. I knew we could fix it if he didn’t like the effect.
This is what he made. Dark. Brooding. Textured.
My other son said he wanted to make a rainbow. But not a normal rainbow. A rainbow his way.
I love the simplicity of this. Even more, I love that he actually agreed to do the project. And that he felt good about his painting.
My daughter said she wasn’t sure what her painting wanted to be yet. That she needed to discover as she went. She’s 7. Her first gallery showing will be next week, I’m sure of it.
She decided that this was abstract. And this was what happiness looks like to her. I’d be inclined to agree.
I decided to give it a try, too.
Now, I come from a family of artsy types. Photographers. Writers. Doodlers. Painters. Crafties. In high school I was the singer/actor/writer. My sister was the artist. My mom was the art teacher. I stuck to performing arts.
Trust me. There’s a story there. I’ll tell you later. I promise.
So, I squeezed paint onto my pallet (the lid of a long lost tupperware dish). I started.
The paint moving on the canvas felt natural to me. Like a homecoming. Truly. And I had no idea what I was creating. I thought my daughter’s idea was a wise one.
Then. I realized it. I knew it. It smacked me so hard, the subject of the painting did. It was a character from the novel I’m currently writing. It’s her scene in the book. It’s the culmination of her purpose.
It stunned me. But I kept going. And the scene which had baffled me when I first attempted to write it became clearer. I realized why my character did what she did in that scene.
The painting became what it wanted to be. And, in so doing, the character let me know who she is.
That’s what a blank canvas can do.
My daughter took a tiny break from her work. The boys were long done with their painting and in the middle of the floor wrestling. But, my girl stepped close to me. Tilted her head the way artists do. Rested paint smudged fingers on the edge of our table.
“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s not abstract. But I like it anyway. I know what it is.”
And then she told me. And she was right.
She’s 7 and will soon hold lectures on modern art and literature in two weeks at the local university.
I’ll show you the painting. But it’s not because I’m bragging…or am I? It’s not van Gogh or even Velvet Elvis. But it’s a look at what I’m writing. And, no. I won’t tell you what it is. That for me and my girl. And my character.
Happy Birthday, Paint Chips
Paint Chips is a year old. Well, kind of. A year ago the ebook version went live on Amazon.
It was a good day.
It’s been a good year.
It’s not done yet!
I’m still trying to get the word out about Paint Chips…and My Mother’s Chamomile.
Want to help? Oh! How kind of you. Thank you so much! Here are some ideas…
1. Contact your local library and request that they carry the books on their shelves. Most library districts even have a form you can fill out on their website. Easy peasy.
2. Recommend the book to different book clubs.
3. Go over to Goodreads and give it a rating. Or a review on Amazon.
Thanks so much, friends.
And thank you for such a great first year with Paint Chips!
You Wrote A Book About THAT?
I was out to lunch with my friend Janet a few months ago. Now, one thing you need to know about Janet is that she has no filter. She says exactly what she thinks/feels/etc. Our lunches are never boring.
Oh. And she doesn’t have internet. So the only way for us to catch up is over lunch. It’s refreshing. Also, so isn’t a big reader. She’s never read anything I’ve written. Not a word.
It’s okay. She’s dear to me.
“So, how’s the other book coming?” she asked.
“Fine. It’s coming out soon,” I answered.
“What’s it about?”
“Well…it…is…about…Funeral Directors.”
Janet rolled her eyes. Stuck a french fry in her mouth. Poked at her chicken roll up thing. “Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Sue…”
(She’s the only person in all the whole wide big world that gets to call me Sue, by the way).
“No. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about you writing a book about funeral directors.” She shook her head. Sighed. Ate another french fry. “You wrote a book about that?”
“Yeah. Well, I mean, it’s about a family. And they own a funeral home. And…”
“Sue…” Janet interrupted. “I’ve got to tell you about what I bought at the store. You know how dangly earrings fall out sometimes? I got these little backs for them…”
Janet was obviously done with the conversation.
I love Janet. She is a hoot and a half. And another half. She’s two hoots.
My newest novel, My Mother’s Chamomile releases February 15. Yup. It’s about a family of funeral directors. Nope. There are no gory, gross embalming scenes. Yup. It’s got some sad parts. Nope. It’s not without hope.
It’s about a family who pours out mercy every single day. And one day, they are in need of a flood of mercy to be poured back onto them.
I am prepared for this book to evoke an emotional reaction. My editor, Roseanna M. White wrote about her experience with the novel (read it HERE). Roseanna’s reaction was positive. I’m getting ready for some not-so-good reactions.
One of the things I’ve learned in life is that extreme emotions can make some people thoughtful. Others spring to action. And some people respond in anger.
There might be some ugly reviews from this one.
Here’s why. Death touches all of us. We all lose people and it hurts. So badly. If we didn’t, it would mean we haven’t allowed ourselves to love or be loved.
My Mother’s Chamomile was conceived as I held the hand of my husband’s dying grandmother. I held her head as she died. Tried to soothe her with my words. Did all I could to make her comfortable in the last moments.
She was in her 80’s. The fact that she’d lived a long life didn’t make grieving her easier.
The people at the funeral home were amazing. They knew when to let us be quiet. When to let us burst into near-insane laughter. When to step back and let us be alone. One of the funeral directors was a woman. She was amazing.
I wondered, watching her work, what happens when funeral directors experience the death of a loved one.
That’s when my novel started to take shape.
Because I wondered who offered them comfort.
Mercy.
Characters developed. A plot formed. Conflict. Resolution. Comic relief. All of it started to whip around in my mind. Refused to leave me alone.
The writing was a way for me to process my grief. A love letter to Jeff’s grandma. And my friend Patt. To my grandparents and friends who have died. To my family and friends who have that hole of grief. To funeral directors who see bereaved people on the worst days of their lives.
A letter to myself, even.
Permission to grieve. Encouragement to let comfort spill from you and to you.
Yes. I wrote a book about that.
Reading Like I’m 13 – Or Books 3 and 4 on my shelf
I’m on a book reading binge. I do this every year…usually around this time.
Typically, I’m a slow reader. I take my time. But right now I’m tearing through books like crazy.
Honestly, it makes my writing better. It’s part of the job. I don’t feel guilty or indulgent for sitting down to read. Plus, it’s VERY good for my kids to see me reading. It teaches them a love for books.
So, my shelf is filling up. (Sorry for the giggles…every time I say “my shelf” I think of my Grandma Relf…she was always talking about her shelf, but not the kind you put books on).
I read The Hunger Games forever ago (after I watched the movie and had to breathe in a bag for a week afterward). It was about time I read Catching Fire, the second book in the series. Fast paced. Heart attack inducing. This book was so well written. And SMART. I can’t say that for every novel I read. Collins is not only a good storyteller, she’s a good writer.
I’m waiting to read Mockingjay, the last in the series. But not too long. I’m really worried about Peeta.
After reading such an intense book, I needed something a little lighter. Plus, I wanted to know what all the fuss was in 1998 about a young chap named Harry Potter. So, I buckled after years of resisting and read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. It was delightful! I thoroughly enjoyed it. I don’t think my daughter’s quite ready to read it. She gets scared pretty easily. However, I caught a few theological themes within the story. Appreciated that the adults were the ones to bail out the kids. And that good and evil are so very distinct. I look forward to reading the rest of the books in this series!
Next up: Love Does by Bob Goff. I heard Bob speak in Chicago about a year ago. I’m curious to see what this book has to offer. It’s been highly recommended by several of my friends.
Your turn: What are you reading? What’s on your “to-read” list?
Doing Work
My buddy Mitch* called me a “Writing Machine” the other day.
Can I tell you, I don’t mind that title at all? Because I don’t. It’s flattering. It made me giggle a little. Then I felt like a non-writing machine because I was messing around on Facebook.
But I’m trying. I really am. Trying to make a big go of this writing life. Not to make money. Seriously. There’s very little money for writers. Surprising, right? Most of us work for WAY less than minimum wage (so…invest in books, it helps writers keep going so we all have good stories to read…really…go buy a book).
I want to make this happen because I love it. I love the work. Every bit of it (except probably the marketing stuff…but every job has its downside).
So, I keep going. Keep working. Keep writing and editing and agonizing and reading and loving it all.
And I’m in a good place right now. A place a lot of writers dream of.
Paint Chips is almost a year old!
My Mother’s Chamomile releases in 39 days (squeeeeeeeeel)
I’m preparing to send the first three chapters of my next novel to my agent.
Plus, other exciting possibilities that will remain hush hush for now.
But, here’s the thing…
…my words are being read. Characters from my neurotic little head are coming to life. And there’s nothing like that.
Now. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to do work.
*My buddy Mitch Auvenshine is a rock star. I’m NOT kidding you. You really should check out his band The Breathing and download all of their albums (like, legitimately, no piracy, please…). Check out Mitch and his band HERE.
P.S. I’ve added another book to my Empty Shelf…
Next up is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone…I’ve gotta find out what all the buzz from 1998 was all about.
susiefinkbeiner.com 