Bookselling and Bravery

I have a book coming out on Tuesday!

Whew. I have a book coming out on Tuesday.

This book release feels a little different to me than the others. It’s the second in a series, which means it doesn’t have the excitement of the first book or the finality of the later books. It’s about growth. About taking what you were taught and deciding how you’re going to relate to it. It’s about figuring out if all those traditions you were given really make sense in a world that’s been completely transformed by world events.

Sounds kind of familiar, doesn’t it?

Ever since I decided not to wait for a traditional publisher to buy my books, I’ve tried to approach the whole process like a small business. Each book I release is like a new product line. I spend months developing it, working with outside consultants to make sure it’s just right, and then I release it to fanfare, all while working on another product in the background.

Each time I do this, I add one new layer of marketing – first it was a blog, then Instagram and Facebook, then timed price promotions, and this time, professionally designed covers! Like an entrepreneur, branching out while weighing risks and rewards, debriefing and always, always learning.

Can I be honest? I don’t love this part.

I love sitting at a table covered in notes, a hundred tabs open from museums and the Library of Congress, trying to figure which station in 1920s New York had direct trains to Baltimore. I love putting in meaningful details six chapters before they matter, wondering if you, the reader, will notice them. I love editing a paragraph, thinking over the words to make sure they say just the right thing.

And I love learning and getting better at that, every day.

The marketing stuff? Not so much.

I do it, of course, because I want people to read these books. I don’t even care that much about selling them. I just want them read. And they have been read – beyond my wildest dreams. If you had told me five years ago that thousands of strangers would have my book on their (electronic) shelves, I would have laughed in your face.

Then I might have cried. That’s a lot of people reading a story I made up in my head.

Right about now is when I start asking myself why I bother with the whole publishing part. I could just write the stories in a journal, leave them to my kids in my will, and hope they don’t get thrown out in the trash. But something calls me to finish the process. To do it properly, even if the very idea brings my shoulders right up to my ears.

I think a lot about seasons. Of the year and of life. Maybe that’s what this season is about for those of us in the middle of it all. About taking all the learning that we’ve done, and finishing the job. It’s scarier now, isn’t it, since we know how big and vast and cruel the world can be. When you’re young, you’re immortal. But now, I know how short and precious and serious this life is. I don’t want to leave anything on the table.

I don’t think that’s just me. All around me, I see people starting businesses, taking big jobs, getting remarried, training for marathons, pursuing artistic risks. None of these feel like a midlife crisis. These aren’t people running away from their aging. They’re realizing that the only thing scarier than putting yourself out there is waking up one day and regretting that you never did.

So Tuesday is going to come and go, and all those pesky marketing tasks will fade, but in the end, I’ll know that I didn’t let the fear get in the way. Or the drudgery. Or the self-doubt. And then, I’ll hop on my social media, and in between posting about promos or something, I’ll get to scroll through and see all the amazing things that my fellow humans are up to. And for a moment, I’ll know what it really means when people say courage is contagious.

Thanks for showing up and inspiring me every day. Let’s keep being brave together.

Productivity and Poems

I just wrote five hundred words on working with our inner critic, reread it, and deleted it all. If that isn’t some kind of metaphor, then I don’t know what is. My inner critic took one look at the clunky way I was trying to communicate some deep truth and decided to throw the whole thing out. Instead, it reminded me of a poem by the late, great, Andrea Gibson that says everything I was trying to say, but better.

Spider by Andrea Gibson

All of my pain is a spider 
I’ve learned not to crush 
with the heel of my shoe 

but to guide with a page 
of my journal 
into an empty glass. 

I ask questions about 
its life, its purpose 
as I walk careful 

out to the garden and rest 
it down on the earth. 
My pain—how happy 

it is to leave me 
whenever I treat it 
kind. 

That’s it. That was what I was trying to say. When we treat the critical parts of ourselves with kindness, they stop been the bogeymen of our nightmares and actual start teaching us things we might need to know.

I’m releasing a book in September—you might have heard—and it’s a tremendously daunting endeavor. I do it all myself, choosing to walk a path that I forged rather than wait for someone official to open the gate for me. With that comes all sorts of self-doubt. Is this worth doing? Is it a real job to make up stories? Can I honestly ask someone else to read something that hasn’t been given the imprimatur of the traditional publishers?

And when I let myself sit quietly and instead, ask back, “What is the purpose of this? Why is this important?” the answers amaze me. Because they’re not about books, or writing, or even a job. They’re about life. They’re about my place in the world.

I don’t want to make a fool of myself. I don’t want to move through the world, wondering if people think of me as less than a real grown up with this sometimes ridiculous job (and it is definitely ridiculous at times). I don’t want to look back and wonder if any of it mattered.

Those words are true for a lot of people, and a lot of jobs. These commonplace fears that we aren’t real people if we aren’t doing serious things. In my opinion, they come from a place that has twisted what it is to be a human in our society. That has decided that some ways of living are serious and meaningful and others…not so much.

I once knew a man who said, outright, that he believed people’s value was based on how much money they made. No amount of arguing would sway him. Rich people were valuable, poor people less so. It was offensive, ridiculous.

It was also honest. He’s not the only person who thinks that way. So many of us have ranking systems for each other, whether that’s status, beauty, wealth, or even something more understandable, like how our jobs impact others positively. Who is going to say that a pediatric oncologist doesn’t do more for the world than a landscaper?

Over the last few years, I’ve come to realize that creating a hierarchy of value based on usefulness can be just as destructive as one based on wealth. I think it’s good to do good. I think we should all be as kind and giving as we can. But if we base our worth on that? Well, then our inner critic starts having a field day. Because if we create value with our usefulness, what happens when we get sick? Or burned out? Or if the world no longer needs what we have to give?

Are we worthless then?

Many would say yes, but I would argue that doing good work out of a fear of losing worth…it twists everything, doesn’t it? We’ve all known that person who is so devoted to the good mission that they stop treating others with kindness. They stop seeing other people as people. They’re only resources to be used or obstacles to be overcome. And the good work isn’t so good then, is it?

This is longer than I meant it to be, and more rambling than I’d hoped, so I’m going to finish with another poem, one that says everything I am trying to say, but better. Take care, friends.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

The Mud Witch of New York Info!

It’s book release time again! This time, it’s for The Mud Witch of New York, the sequel to The Mud Witch of Verdun. Here’s some info on it:

When will The Mud Witch of New York hit the shelves?

The next Mud Witch book will be out on September 15th, just in time for some cozy fall reading!

Where can I buy it?

It will be available internationally through Amazon – you can get in on Kindle or in hard copy here.

What’s it about?

This book follows Adelaide Simone as the Great War ends and she’s sent on mission back to America to investigate an explosion at a munitions plant in New Jersey. She follows the trail into New York City, unsure whether the destruction was caused by a vengeful metalworker or someone much closer to her. With her best friend, Ruth, by her side, Addy chases down lead after lead, while trying to abide by the restrictive oath of the Order. It’s not until she finds herself alone once more that Addy faces her hardest decision yet: follow the rules or do what needs to be done?

What else do I need to know?

Around the book’s release, I’ll be running a bunch of discounts and promotions on this book and my backlist. To keep up to date on those, sign up for my newsletter here.

We’re Not Doing That Anymore

Last weekend, I was on a walk with my daughter. She started to downplay one of her recent accomplishments. A pretty big one, to be honest, and one that she had worked toward for the last 12 months. Day in, day out, practicing, getting better, overcoming obstacles, and pushing herself to be her best.

And she told me that she felt like a poser.

“Oh,” I said, “we’re not doing that anymore.”

“What?” she asked.

“Imposter syndrome. The moms have decided. We’re giving it up for your generation. When you guys are amazing, which you often are, we’re not going to feel bad about it anymore, got it?”

“Oh. Okay.”

We finished our walk, talking about what she’s going to do next, how she’s going to get there, and how good it’s going to feel when she does.

Yesterday I decided something for us: for the people my age, mostly women.

We’re not going to feel bad about feeling sick anymore. We’re not going to feel guilty because we spent our 20s and 30s pushing our bodies to the limit and now things are breaking down. And we’re especially not going to feel bad about admitting what it takes to live in a body that maybe isn’t showing up the way it used to.

Because it’s not just you.

I talk to a lot of women, and I’m not great at small talk so things often get very deep weirdly fast. I cannot count the number of people who have told me that they have recently developed health issues that are chronic, life-altering, and severe. I’m talking everything from MS to daily migraines to vertigo to the kind of fatigue that keeps you down for days.

A lot of us feel guilty or ashamed about that. We feel bad that it's twice as hard to do half as much as we used to. That we have to psych ourselves up to get dressed. That some days everything is fine and some days everything hurts (or is numb. Or spins. Take your pick.)

Last Thursday, I had a bad day. It was a bad day in my body and a bad day in my brain. I worked from my bed, sat down during my shower because I couldn’t stand, and cried to my therapist. And I felt so lazy and guilty and worthless.

But we’re not doing that anymore.

Because I wasn’t lazy before this season of life came to me. And I’m not lazy now. What I am is aware. I’m not ignoring the work it takes, every day, to live my life. I’m not pretending like I’m okay, pushing myself past my limits, giving 110% every day. I’m resting on the decades of wisdom that I built up, realizing that some of those balls I am juggling are glass and some are plastic and I’m smart enough to know which ones will bounce.

I don’t know what the path out of this season looks like. Maybe we’ll be like this forever. That’s terrifying thought, but also an empowering one. If this is it, this is life, then what do we have to lose by losing the shame? It’s not like it’s helping, is it? And if we shame ourselves too much, sooner or later we might shame our sisters. And we’re definitely not doing that anymore.

So, let’s make a promise to accept the truth: we are all trying our best and that looks different than it used to. We will find our way through this, together, the way we were always meant to.

Agreed? Agreed.

Weeds and Worries

I think I may have developed tennis elbow from weeding last weekend. Maybe I should call it weeding elbow? All I know is that I spent a solid six hours hacking away at buttercups and ivy, burdock and dead nettle, and now my arms are in serious pain. It was worth it, of course. All of our perennial beds are pretty neglected during the rainy winter months, but the weeds are never deterred from their endless quest for dominance.

It’s a funny dance we do, isn’t it? You always hear that a weed is just a wildflower in the wrong place, but as someone who has a certifiable mint infestation, sometimes it’s an intentionally planted herb that got out of control. What turns a plant into a weed isn’t only that it’s in the wrong place—it’s that the weed in question feels entitled to the whole dang garden.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about how the entire world seems entitled to the whole dang garden. We can’t just be up on the news; we need to be devoting our lives to advocacy. We can’t just be committed to our jobs; we need to be productive machines who are never out of reach. We can’t just be devoted parents; we must shape every moment of our children’s lives. If we don’t? Well, whatever negative outcomes that come our way are one hundred percent our faults. After all, we didn’t do enough to stop them.

This feels like an anxiety response to me. The world is changing in huge, amorphous, unpredictable ways. We want to believe that if we work harder, pay more attention, and never let down our guard—well, then we can make sure that nothing bad ever happens to us or the people we love. And if it does, well, at least we’re immune from criticism if it does.

Let me tell you, as someone who was so on top of my children’s health that I caught a deadly chronic illness before it caused significant damage, not once, but twice—there is no amount of care that will keep bad things from your door. And a lot of people criticized us, none of whom knew what they were talking about.

I’ve watched a lot of Type 1 families crumble under that anxiety response. If I’m always vigilant, never do a single thing wrong, allow the weeds of worry take over the whole garden, then, and only then, can I keep my kid safe. The problem is that, at the end of it, I don’t have a garden any more. I spent so much time letting the mint take over that I forgot to plant the seeds of what I really wanted.

It’s only when I stop paying attention to those fears that I can chart a course to a future that is worth having. The fears will always be with us. So will troubles and hardships. But if we’re nurturing the seeds of resilience and courage, prudence and compassion…well, then our garden can contain more than just whatever feels entitled to claim it.

News and Musings

Wow, it’s the end of March already. There’s a few bookkeeping things I need to get out of the way and to be honest they are all good! First, if you haven’t been following it, I’ve been sending out a quarterly newsletter with bonus content, book recs, and writing updates. You can sign up for it here. The next issue comes out on April 15 and includes a bonus scene from the time between Mud Witch 1 and Mud Witch 2.

Speaking of which…the second book in the Mud Witch series has a title and release date! The Mud Witch of Verdun will be published on September 15, 2026! I’m so excited to share it with you and of course there will be a ton of info forthcoming on it on the website, Instagram/FB and in the July 15 edition of the newsletter.

It’s been a long road to get this book pulled together and published, not least because I want to make it as historically accurate as possible, and writing about post-World War One America was a little harder than writing about the day to day life on the Western Front. There just aren’t as many sources. That period just after the war was marked by chaos, uncertainty, and no small amount of violence right here at home. In addition to thousands of young men returning, the country was still suffering from the Spanish Flu, wartime censorship, and increasingly contentious views about immigrants from Central and Eastern Europe, places considered beneath America’s heritage. Oh, and women were fighting tooth and nail to be recognized as full citizens of our nation.

Sound familiar? I wish I could tell you that our better angels won out, but mostly, they did not. It was hard to write a book about that time, knowing that all of the struggles would not bear any fruit for more than a generation. To read about men and women who fought for their rights – as black people, as women, as immigrants – and know that they would only be offered the barest of concessions in return. And that those concessions would be continually undermined by the actions of those in power.

There are a lot of people who would like us to return to 1919. To a time where bosses could do anything they wanted to workers. Where men could do anything they wanted to women. Where white people could do anything they wanted to black people. Where if you were a white, male business owner you could do anything you wanted to anyone. I see why those people want to return there.

Mud Witch 2 isn’t about tackling those injustices. It takes place in a world defined by that corruption, but the book is about Addy and how she navigates a world that is changing. How she has to keep making the next good choice despite living in a country that seems to only reward the bad ones. And how hard it is to make a moral choice in a world that seems dead set against kindness, compassion, and justice.

I couldn’t write about Addy standing up to that corruption because, unfortunately, history didn’t include superpowered women from secretive orders. It just included people like us, trying to make the moral choices in a world that will demoralize us at every turn.

I’ve stopped going on social media so much lately. I miss it. I miss the fun and connection. But it started really getting me down. My neighborhood page got so full of people complaining – about traffic, about new houses, about schools, about taxes, about noises and kids and dogs and, and, and. But when I went outside to my mailbox, nothing about the real world looked anything like what was being discussed.

That made me realize that those people, whether they meant to or not, were demoralizing everyone around them. The word demoralize means “to cause someone to lose confidence or hope.” By God, I need all the hope I can get right now. Because, like Addy, we are facing a world full of intractable problems led by men who can not be bothered to fix them. And I’m not superpowered. But neither were those men and women back then. And slowly, slowly, slowly, through grit and struggle and creativity and hope, they built a world that is better. So much better for most of us that some men want to bring us all the way back to 1919, before any of those changes happened.

Well, not on my watch, right? And not on yours either, I’m sure. So, let’s keep our chins up and our arms strong and keep working to honor the legacy that has been passed down to us by our forebears. A legacy of community, and compassion, and, above all, hope.

Carpets and Corruption

Ahh, the end of February. In Seattle, that means the beginning of the end of what is jokingly called the Great Dark. The cherry blossoms are blooming, my bluebells have emerged, and the sun is even making an appearance from time to time. Cabin fever, which has fully set in by now, is starting to ease off.

For some reason, this year felt worse than most. Which is funny, because it wasn’t, not weather wise. It was a remarkably clear, warm winter. But Forrest spent a month this winter pulling out our old carpet, throwing our entire household into a state of upheaval. It was a necessary change. The carpet was in the house when we moved in sixteen years ago, and has survived three kids and two dogs.

When we pulled it up, we found old scraps of wallpaper under the baseboards, patterns from the sixties and seventies which had been long forgotten. We found uneven boards that had to be sanded and puttied. We saw evidence of our own family’s history – stains from a hundred spilled glasses of water, from that time our daughter dropped slime on the floor and it never quite came up, from the pacing feet of parents up late with crying babies.

That carpet was ready to go and I am so happy the project is done, but the mess and the work and the stress made for a very long winter.

I think a lot of us are feeling like our world is in the middle of a very long winter. We’re pulling up the carpet on the world, aren’t we? And seeing the ugly wallpaper and stains. The question is what are we going to do about it? It would be easier to just tuck that old carpet back down, or hey, maybe pull up the old stuff and then just put new stuff on top without worrying about those uneven boards. Leave it for the next person to deal with, just the last person left it to us.

To be fully honest, that’s my first instinct. I’m busy, there are projects that I need to move forward with, bigger and better ideas that I want to work on. But not my husband. Forrest likes things done properly. And so, the floor will be sanded and the old baseboards will be replaced and if it takes twice as long, then so be it. Because it’ll last twice as long too.

It’s been heartbreaking, hasn’t it? To realize we live in a world of corruption. Even worse, a world where too many people think that allowing corruption might be the price we need to pay for a better economy, a stronger military, a more ordered society. I understand it; I really do. Life is hard enough. Are we really going to use our energy to fight one more unending battle?

But the thing about corruption is that it corrupts. It will ruin everything it touches and in the end, it’ll need to be fixed anyway. So the real question is, do we have the courage to do it now? Or will we leave it for our kids? Our grandkids? Do we have the willingness to take on hardship so that when we hand something to our kids, it is something worth having?

That might feel like an easy “yes”, but it leads to the harder question: What will it take to clean up this mess? I don’t know. I doubt anyone really does right now. Except that from here on out, we must have the courage to be honest. Honest about how we got here, and honest about where we’d like to go. We must demand accountability and refuse to accept anything less.

And maybe then, when we’re building whatever comes next, we can at least be sure of the ground underneath our feet.

Snowdrops and Ice

Whew. It’s January, isn’t it? Feels pretty cold here. The blog I had planned to write was about snowdrops coming up through the icy ground and maybe there’s still something there, but to be honest, I’m not really in the mood to talk or think about gardening right now.

As cold as it is, it feels like the world is on fire. I write and read enough about history to have some context for this moment. The world often feels like it’s burning down. Whether it’s war or pandemic or weather, this is an uncertain place we live it. But up til now, in my lifetime at least, it hasn’t felt like there’s this much brinksmanship.

I was talking to a friend this morning and she said something that stuck with me: when two opposing forces meet, neither one will back down and each will just increase the pressure, until…

Neither of us know what the until is. And I don’t see how the pressure can decrease. On the one side, there’s a bunch of army rejects who have been raised to believe that northern cityfolk are traitors and are enjoying the idea of putting them in their place. On the other side, there are residents who are committed to protecting their neighborhood from violence and chaos, as much as that is possible.

But the images are enough to break your heart. That little boy in the blue hat.

When my children were in early elementary, one of the first volunteer gigs I had was to sit with kids while they practiced their reading. For two hours a week, I would go in and listen to them sound out words. Sometimes they would cry. It broke my heart but it was okay. Learning to do hard things is hard and frustration is normal. Usually we’d work through it and finish the book. Sometimes we’d set it aside for another day.

When they got older, I volunteered to help with math facts. Addition and subtraction memorization, mostly. In order to move up a level, they had to get thirty problems right in a minute. Some kids really struggled, especially with the timer. Sometimes they would cry. That’s okay. Performing under pressure is stressful. Usually, I would tell them just to practice and I wouldn’t time them. But secretly I did, and they almost always passed without the pressure of the timer. But sometimes we’d have to set it aside for another day.

The world is hard for children without us making it any harder. And we are making this world harder for them. I know that there’s nothing that will convince ICE agents that what they’re doing is wrong. It’s pretty clear they like treating those children like that. All I can say is that I agree with Gov. Arnold Schwartzenegger on this when he said that hate “eventually consumes whatever vessel it fuels.” I really hope so.

But for the rest of the people who see this and say “We need more context.” or “Isn’t there nuance?”, or “They shouldn’t have broken the law!” – we all need to be honest with ourselves. Facing that our country can do these things is terrifying. It’s hideous. And once we face it, we have to deal with it and that means doing something and then we’re faced with our own powerlessness. And that’s almost impossible to tolerate.

The truth is almost unbearable:

We live in a world where bad men can steal innocent children and there’s not much we can do about it. We must stare this fact in the face with all the courage we can muster.

And then we need to focus on the most important two words in that sentence. “Not much.” Because not much ain’t nothing. And a lot of us have been doing a lot for a long time. God, aren’t you so damn tired? Me too.

But then I remember those kindergarteners who used to read to me, those third graders who struggled over times tables. That little boy could have been one of them. And it doesn’t really seem to matter how tired I am. There’s work to be done.

I’m sorry I couldn’t find it in me to write a treatise on snowdrops this month, like I had planned. May you and your neighbors stay safe in these dark, dark times.

Expectations and Unexpected Joy

I think I’ve probably watched two dozen Hallmark movies in the last three weeks. Most of the time, my kids will wander in after homework is over, invite me to snuggle and probably reflexively turn on one of the many, many options on offer. They’re teenagers now, so I’m not about to refuse to spend time with them, given how busy they are. Although, if I were being honest, I’d probably choose something else to watch. I’ve seen a lot of variations on the ‘falling in love at Christmas’ story. I enjoy them, I really do, but they always meet my expectations…exactly.

Authors and editors talk a fair amount about meeting genre expectations. That is to say, when a reader picks up a certain type of book, they bring with them certain preconceptions about how the story is going to go. If it’s a romance, they’re going to get together at the end. If it’s a mystery, the good guy will catch the bad guy. If it’s a coming of age novel, the main character will grow and face the world with new vigor and wisdom.

Sometimes genre expectations are subverted and, if it’s done well, that story becomes one that you think about for a long time afterwards. For example, in The Usual Suspects, it’s only in the last scene that you discover that the main character (and you) have been tricked. Sometimes, you think a book is in one genre only to realize midway through that it’s in another. Again, if it’s done well, this can be a thing of beauty, or at least fascination. La La Land is a controversial movie in our home, because half of us think of it as a romance (and are therefore disappointed in the ending) and half of us think of it as a coming of age movie (and therefore the bittersweet finale is just perfect).

And sometimes an author subverts expectations only to fulfill them again but in a richer, more meaningful way. In Saving Private Ryan, the men fight through hell (and their own disillusionment) to rescue Private Ryan, just for him to refuse to abandon his fellow soldiers. In the end, they complete their mission to keep him safe, but not for some PR stunt, but rather because, he, like them, shows the same devotion to his mates as they did.

Hallmark movies do none of this. And that’s ok. Neither do most of the movies we watch or books we read. And on a cold Thursday night, it’s nice to sit with a cup of tea and a story that ties everything up in a bow. Goodness knows it’s nice to watch a happy ending.

But the unexpected can also bring such surprising joy with it. I’m sitting by the window as I write this and no less than fifteen birds just came to sit in our lilac bush. I don’t know what kind they were; they didn’t stay long enough. They descended as a flock and left as a flock, a small bit of unexpected joy to lighten up a grey afternoon.

This is a time of year when festivity is expected. It’s anticipated, and traditions anchor us to both the past and the future. To some extent, the same foods, same songs, and same decorations are the Hallmark movies of life. They bring us warmth and good memories, and a sense of home and comfort.

But I would wager that the best moments of this holiday season might also be the least expected. The gift you’d forgotten you wanted. The quiet moment of connection that couldn’t possibly have been planned. The unexpected Christmas card that reminds us that we are more loved than we know.

May we all embrace the beauty of this time of year, both that which we lovingly craft and that which surprises us with its abundance.

Meat and Gravy

I’m trying to put some thoughts on paper here today, but my cat disagrees. The laptop is taking up valuable lap space she feels entitled to, and my compromise of putting the computer on top of her is apparently not acceptable. I don’t blame her. It’s a rainy day and there’s nothing better than a good couch nap on a rainy day. Unless it’s a couch nap with a cat by your side.

Work has been going unusually well for me lately. Generally, the writing portions of my job are a bit a rollercoaster. Euphoria at intriguing ideas often falls to frustration when they don’t pan out. Some moments the words flow so fast I remind myself to enroll in a typing class to brush up on my skills. Other moments, I start ten sentences in a row with the same word and can’t remember a single synonym to save my life. It’s the meat of the job, though, and so it is both filling and occasionally gristly.

The editing is the kale and broccoli. Good for me, essential even, but far from my favorite Without it, though, the meal is too heavy and all tastes like just the one thing. Editing brings variety and brevity. It encourages me to get out of familiar ruts and figure out how to make even the most mundane of sentences into something worth eating…um, I mean, reading.

This asks the question then, what is the dessert in this meal? The part I long to savor, that I think about after I’m done for the day. For me, it’s the plotting and planning. The research and brainstorming. The weeks before the writing begins where anything can happen and I don’t know yet what will slam up against the unpleasant reality of sentence structure and narrative flow.

Luckily for me, I’m required to eat my dessert first. Every book starts with research. With reading lots of nonfiction, listening to podcasts on history and botany and culture. Poring over old images from museum websites, trying to figure out how to fit this story into that setting. It’s fun. More than fun. It’s joyful work.

But like dessert, it’s not the bulk of it. When you begin to write books, lots of people come out of the woodwork to tell you that they have an idea for a book, and they plan to write one. Every time, I think the same thing, and sometimes say it.

“You should do that.”

And I mean it. Not only because I think more creativity is almost always a good thing, but because the writing of a book is a transformative experience. The idea is important, but it’s just the first step. Like most hard things, it’s when I’m knee deep in a plot that won’t work, which characters who have become caricatures, and a premise that wasn’t quite robust enough – that’s when I need to dig in and do the real work.

And to finish my Thanksgiving analogy, that’s when gravy really helps to get the turkey down. The gravy for me? That’s the support of the people I love. Who won’t ask me to talk about work unless I want them to. Who will then listen for an hour and then offer a suggestion that I reject immediately, but which leads me onto a different, better, path. Who, in the end, show me cat videos to lift my spirits when I emerge from my work tired and frustrated.

During this Thanksgiving month, I’m reminded that it isn’t just what other do for us that matters; it’s also what others help to do for ourselves. How the people who believe in us hold that torch shining so when we’re discouraged, we have something to guide us back into believing in ourselves. For that, on this day, I give thanks.

Alpine Strawberries

Last spring, Forrest completed the long and arduous task of clearing out an overgrown forsythia bush. When we first moved into our house nearly sixteen years ago, the property along the road was filled with a beautiful and healthy forsythia. One of my first memories as a new mother was telling people to turn at the house with the wall of yellow flowers alongside it. Over the next decade, the forsythia held out against an onslaught of ivy and invasive blackberries. It would still bloom, but I struggled against the thorny vines. We would do what we could, but with a swiftly growing family, time was limited.

It's not so limited any more, so Forrest set to work. He pulled out piles of vines and chopped them into pieces for our own little hügelkultur experiment. The forsythia got most of the land, but off to the side, we buried the composting vines under a covering of cardboard and a heap of topsoil. On top of that, we began to place rocks.

Our yard has never been short of rocks, and eventually, we’d gathered enough to build a rockery. One afternoon, Forrest and I sat outside and placed them all in our aspiring rock garden. All that was left was to plant something in it.

I got to work researching what would grow in a spot we were unlikely to water or fertilize. What plants like living in dry, poor soil, out in the sun with little space to expand? The answer was resounding: alpine species. The ground cover that dots the hills of Austria and Switzerland. These species are often extremely hardy, drought tolerant, and good at finding a niche.

So, in March, we started some alpine strawberries and creeping thyme in a tray in our kitchen. Usually plans are ready to go out in less than a month. Eight weeks later, spring had fully sprung and it was time for them to go out, whether or not they wanted to. I had fifty plants, each the size of a quarter. Forrest and I set them out on a sunny May morning, gave them a good watering, and promptly forgot about them.

It wasn’t until August that I remembered to check on them. You’ll imagine my surprise when not only did those little plants survive, but in fact held a dozen of the tiniest, most delicious berries you could ever taste! And they haven’t stopped. Not through our smoky September or rainy October. They’re still producing to this day.

Even with fifty plants, I never get more than a handful of berries. They’re small, fingertip sized, and picking them has none of the satisfaction of harvesting baskets of tomatoes or shovelfuls of potatoes. And certainly nothing beats the productivity of zucchini. These strawberries are for snacking. For picking a few when I’m out for a walk. A nice treat when we arrive home after a long day.

And it’s that, in particular, that makes those little alpine berries so special. They pack all the flavor into a small punch, leaving you always wanting more. And more will always come. Just not today. I have to wait until tomorrow, until the next walk, and hope that this isn’t yet the end of the season.

And when the season does end, which it inevitably will, I will have nothing but gratitude for the plants that grow where nothing but weeds would, and turned what was once a thorny mess into one of the best moments of my day.

Autumn Cleaning and Lights in the Dark

Autumn has fallen upon us and I’m feeling far more melancholy about it than I usually do. Most Octobers, I am excited. Excited for the return to cozy evenings and delicious foods. Excited to see friends after adventurous summers and hectic Septembers. Excited to dive back into work, all the transitions and travels behind us.

But this year, I wanted summer to go on. I wasn’t ready to start up the routines again. Something about this year was too adventurous, with all of us going in separate directions. There weren’t enough lazy days. Not enough afternoons at the lake, not enough mornings spent lingering over breakfast. And now, we’re all praying for rain to end smoke season.

The changing of the seasons has always been a place of grounding for me. Even as I child, I would take stock of what I had done and what I wanted for the season laid out before me. And so, I suppose, despite my desire for summer to continue, I need to figure out what autumn has to offer me this year, at this stage of my life.

In every year, autumn promises to gently move us into darkness and hopefully contemplation. It ends with festivals of light and, almost immediately, a new year with new promise. It is an outward representation of the reality that we must let go of old things before the new can come.

At this stage of life, I find myself letting go of a lot of old things. We recently cleaned out our garage and ruthlessly got rid of a decade of toys, booster seats, kid-sized life jackets and kayaks, and a million little socks and coats and rain boots. It was time. My kids are nearly full-grown now, with feet larger than mine. We need room for the new things – the hobbies that Forrest and I now have time to pursue. As I tossed yet another box of stuffed animals into the charity bin, I felt a pang. There was a moment in time when these seemed like the most important items in the world. And now? They’re off to be sold for a few dollars.

It makes me wonder. What are the things that seem so important to me right now, that in a decade, I will discard with a mere moment’s thought? Not just possessions, but routines, relationships, aspirations. The tasks between here and there seem so large: launching our children into the world, navigating emerging health issues, and figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.

But the tasks ten years ago seemed pretty big, too. And I had no way then to know how we would manage. You could say I was in the dark. But there were little lights along the way, guides that came in the form of friends and books, and even the occasional Instagram post.

Yesterday, I ran into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a few years. She’s a few steps further along on this path. I mentioned I’d be reaching out to her in a few years, when I’m ready to pick her brain on how to help my medically complicated children in their transition to college. So there’s another little light, I suppose, waiting to help me when I need it.

I’ll admit it. I miss summer. The seasons changed too fast for me. I miss slow days and going with the flow. But I wouldn’t stay there for the world. There’s too much up ahead. Even if I can’t quite see what it is yet.

Dog Days and Slowing down

Whew. We’re in the middle of the dog days of summer here, and I have to say, I’m certainly feeling the heat. At the beginning of school vacation, my kids and I had all sorts of plans. Over the last few days though, things have begun to slow down. Mornings start later, big adventures are scrapped in favor of picnics at the beach, and we’ve definitely had a few nights of pasta with jarred sauce when it’s just too hot to cook.

The garden is the same. There’s always plenty to do, but during some of these sunny afternoons, all I’m up to is picking the many, many zucchini and making sure the watering system is still running. It’s not even that hot! I’m just worn out.

I suppose there’s good reason. We got through the gauntlet of the end of the school year, just to jump into travels and visits, and then into getting ready for summer camp. And now it’s over and there are a few weeks of nothing. We were on a treadmill that all of a sudden is standing still.

But even as I’m standing still, I’ve realized how pleasant it can be. In a house with three teens, there are a lot fewer parenting requirements. Which leaves room for moving slower. For taking the time to try the tik-tok famous Watermelon Smoothie. For hosting campfires with a million friends at the drop of a hat. For running to the thrift store just because.

Last week, at ten p.m., my eldest asked Forrest and I if we wanted to go for a walk. To be honest, I’d been in my pajamas since 8:30 and had already brushed my teeth. But when a fifteen-year-old asks to spend time with me, I try not to say no. I remember a few years ago when the gravity in our relationship seemed to shift from parent to child. I remember realizing that if I didn’t make her a priority, she wasn’t going to make me one either.

So I slipped on my crocs and went outside, pajamas and all. The sun was just setting behind the trees (yes, at 10:00 pm. Seattle is weird). The bugs were out in full force, but other than that, our suburban streets were deserted. And we didn’t talk about anything important at all. But we talked. And we took a few extra turns to extend the walk a little longer.

And when we got back, we each went to do our own things. But now, looking back, I realize that by doing less, what we’re actually doing is choosing to leave space. Space for connection. Space for rest. Space for conversation.

My only hope is that I can remember that I’ve got the rest of the year to get things done. Right now, right here, my job is simple: to slow down enough to enjoy each day as it comes. Maybe not the easiest thing in the world, but I’ve worked harder to do much less pleasant jobs. So, if you’re looking for me, I’ll be outside laying in the hammock.

Fuchsia

The girls and I went to a plant nursery yesterday. We had planned to go in and get exactly one plant. We left with ten. I want to be angry about it, but I was just as excited as they were, and there is something charming about a bunch of teenagers making jokes about not having enough “thyme” at home.

We’re replacing a butterfly bush that died in the heat wave a few years ago. I say died, but it held on for a few more months, before giving up the ghost over the next winter. Eventually, we cut down the dried husk, and even more eventually, Forrest and the twins yanked the stump out of the ground. (I was away from home with our eldest and called home to check in. They mentioned that they’d recreated the Bluey episode “Stumpfest” without elaborating. I spent the rest of the weekend wondering which stump they’d been talking about and if there would now be one less tree than I remembered. Such is life with those three.)

Shortly after we removed the dead plant, we traveled to the U.K. and took a long walk through Kew Gardens. There, my kids saw a hardy fuchsia and fell in love. They were determined to have one. Unfortunately, our local nursery went out of business and I haven’t been able to find one at the grocery store. So their persistent requests have gone unanswered.

Still, yesterday was a muggy, cloudy summer day and everyone was in a bad mood, so I thrust all of us into the car to go find a new nursery. Within fifteen minutes, we’d gotten out of town and into the rural area north of us, where my kids began pointing out “alpacas!” and “cows!” We pulled into our destination and the grumpiest of the three said, “I want to live here.” Me too, kid, me too.

We walked to the first table of plants, where I immediately saw a hardy fuchsia. Bish bash bosh, job done. We could have gone straight to the checkout, job done. Of course, we didn’t. The four of us wandered and dreamed and looked at tags and eventually left with way more than we anticipated. Some hydrangeas for a neglected back corner, a few beardstongue for my cottage garden (since the coneflowers aren’t cooperating), and yes, some creeping thyme for ground cover around the fuchia.

I would like to tell you that everyone was in an excellent mood for the rest of the day. But I have three teenagers and not even a trip to a quaint and well-supplied nursery will banish all complaints. Still, once we got home, everyone went their separate ways for a while, eager to plant and, maybe, to have a bit of solitude.

As for me? I enjoyed a cup of tea with the spare time (and thyme).

Book News! (ish)

Hi!

I know I’ve been MIA of late. I’ve been deep in book writing, and as always, it takes longer than I want it to. It’s frankly annoying how long it takes. And writing the book takes precedence over writing the blog most days. But summer is coming and oddly, with that there is less overall time and more writing time, since I have fewer obligations (read: chauffeur duties). I hope to be blogging more.

But to keep myself accountable to some schedule, and to keep people updated, I’m introducing the gold standard of author marketing staples: an email newsletter. It’ll only come out once a quarter and will include book updates, a quick blog post, and some bonus content from either the Mud Witch universe or the Hellebore Society universe.

If you’re interested, you can sign up at the bottom of this page or on the homepage of my website. I promise not to spam you or sell your data. The only other thing I may use this list for is to send out purchasing details in the week before I release a book (so, one additional email a year). I usually run price promotions then and I don’t want you to pay full price if the book’s going to be discounted the next day anyway!

This will be the best place to hear book news from me, although I will do my very best to keep Instagram and Facebook updated. As always, I am delighted and so grateful to everyone who reads my books and supports my work. Thank you for being such a wonderful community of thoughtful people!

Controlled Chaos and Experimental Parenting

Our family has been watching some of the coverage of the Chelsea Flower Show because, although I have three teenagers in the house, I’ve successfully indoctrinated them to be 13 going on 57. Like our own little version of Househunters, we’ve enjoyed critiquing the gardens, imagining what we’d present there, and, most importantly, coming up with ideas for things we could implement at home.

Our house, and by extension, our yard, has always been a laboratory for everyone in our family to try out their ideas. We live in an area that is rapidly urbanizing which means that our little cottagey rambler will someday be torn down to build two McMansions in its place. As sad as that may seem, it’s actually been quite liberating: there is no resale value in the house – the land is far more than the structure. So we can paint our walls how we want, install the tile we want in the bathroom, and build and unbuild whatever backyard landscaping we desire.

This devil-may-care attitude gets combined with a commitment to giving our kids as much agency as we can. My youngest was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes early on and with that came many, many impositions on her. I spent many years downplaying them, but that’s a lie. It is much more onerous and burdensome than you can imagine.

So, because of all of those responsibilities, Forrest and I have done our very best to give our kids as much control as we can over literally everything else. They wear what they want (yes, always, and yes, that did mean that my daughter wore a bathrobe to school every day for five years). Their rooms look how they want (often messy but much more tasteful than I would have imagined). And we let them have a lot of leeway over what deciding what our backyard looks like.

I keep telling them that this is all an experiment and that we, as their parents, might be screwing it all up. But as they age, what I’ve realized is that with that power comes not responsibility, but consideration. They think deeply about what and how they want to use that space. Forrest is always on hand to help but he’s as bad as the rest of them: I left for a four day trip once and came home to a nearly-finished treehouse as well as a small catio.

I’m consistently impressed, but now I wonder why? Human beings, when given the freedom and resources to make their own choices, often make impulsive and extravagant choices at first (ask my kids about the giant hole they dug in the yard – twice). But eventually, the consequences of those choices become clear, and sanity reigns. They realize that as much fun as it is to play in the mud, it’s nicer to play in the grass. And while an elevated slide with a four foot drop onto the ground might seem like a blast, eventually someone gets hurt. (Yes, this did happen, and no, it did not require a visit to the ER).

The key, I think, is to let those consequences have time to become clear. This has been the hardest thing for me. It really is a bit like playing a game of chicken. One time, the twins decided that they wanted wash our deck. Seems good, yes? Except, knowing them, it involved pouring the better part of a bottle of dish soap on the deck, scrubbing for a while, and then getting bored and leaving soapy residue everywhere. It took maybe an hour in the hot sun to make it sticky and terrible, but I just walked right over it to make a cup of tea. It took two hours before they realized that it was sticky and terrible. It took three hours before they realized I was not going to clean it up for them. And, in their own way, with more scrubbing and a hose on full blast and, oh, so many wet towels, the deck got clean. Cleaner than it had been in years.

For some reason, that particular adventure has never been repeated. But my kids did clean the deck for me this spring, while I was in the front yard planting seeds. And this time, they used brooms like a normal person.

People have said that our family is “controlled chaos” before and I think they’re right. But slowly, over time, the control has moved from my hands into theirs. And while this is a grand experiment, I can’t think of any better result than that.

Yarrow

It’s the time of year when I decide what new plants I’m going to try next spring. And this year, among others, I’m experimenting with yarrow. Unlike many of our other experiments, I’m not in any doubt about whether or not it will work. Yarrow seems tailor made for our dry summers - it likes full sun, long days, and near drought conditions.

It also likes poor soil, which I think is a funny term, since a lot of the plants that we like best prefer it. I know that it just means nutrient-poor, but since lavender, rosemary and daylilies all like it, I’ve always smirked a little. In fact, we had a hard time growing lavender for a while, I believe because our soil was too well nourished.

That shouldn’t be a problem for the yarrow. It’s going on the side of our house in an area that can’t really be cultivated for much. Forrest spent the summer and fall ripping out ivy and some kind of thorny vine that had been taken over, and then building some basic beds to contain the plant matter in a hugelkultur set up. He laid half-rotting logs, covered them with pruned branches, then finally, some topsoil. The hope is that over time those logs and branches will break down, but in the meantime, the location of the beds means whatever goes there pretty much has to fend for itself.

So, yarrow it is. I’m interested to see just how little time I can devote to it, given that the rest of the garden will be full of much greedier plants. There is something special about those plants that can look after themselves, like a cat that is happy enough to sit in the sun without constantly needing attention. We give so much adoration to the beautiful but difficult plants, don’t we? The roses that need to be perfectly pruned, the melons that must have gallons of water and hours of sun, the orchids that need special, well, everything. But I delight in the species that find a way. At the lettuce that will grow in the earliest, coldest months. At the garlic that will overwinter, ignoring frosts and rain alike. At the mint, which will take over the whole yard if we’re not careful.

They’re not the stars of the show, that’s for sure. No one is talking about their prize yarrow plants. Still, the sturdiness, resilience and sheer stubbornness of these plants is worth taking a second look at. I’m looking forward to spending a summer doing just that.

Wildfires and Paradoxes

I just read another sad news story in a litany of sad news stories. The wildfires in Los Angeles are still fresh in my mind. Even though we live in one of the wettest areas of the US, our summers are so dry that we also fear the wildfires. So far, the snowpack in the Cascades melts off slowly enough to keep the fire from our doors, but climate change brings the inevitable fear that we, too, will one day run from our house, subjects of an evacuation order.

There’s still time though, and from what I can see, the state government is doing a good job of preparing. Part of that preparation, paradoxically, is controlled burns of the undergrowth throughout the state. For the better part of a century, those in charge believed that any fire should be put out and as a result, our forests are full of fallen trees just waiting to burn. And burn they should, but hopefully not all at once and not when there is wind and drought conditions that will drag them out of control.

This policy is deeply controversial. Every time I read about it in the news, I think of how many of the most important goals in life require us to tolerate those paradoxes. Whenever my girls are struggling with homework, I remind them that in order to become knowledgeable, we must first learn to tolerate feeling dumb. No one ever learned anything by sticking to the easy stuff.

Saying that and doing it are two different things. Tolerating feeling dumb is a hard thing to do, especially in a world where people feel empowered to say the most awful things. And it’s not just learning. How intimidating is it to go to the gym for the first time – out of shape and uncomfortable, walking around and seeing people who look like they were born in a weight room? But there is no other way to fitness than to start when we’re not yet fit.

But if we are willing to tolerate the paradox – the discomfort of “not yet but perhaps soon” – we open up a world of possibilities. It seems to me that one of the keys to life happiness is the willingness to seem dumb, or unfit, or even a bit ridiculous. One foot in the adult recognition of  “not yet” and another in the childlike hope of “perhaps soon.”

I’m not sure what’s bringing up these thoughts today except that when it comes to the state of the world, I, too, am in a place of “not yet but perhaps soon.” We do not yet have a handle on climate change, but perhaps soon we will find the will to make the adjustments we have to. We do not yet have a world that values my daughters as much as it values your sons, but perhaps soon they will all learn that both men and women are better off when the hierarchies are destroyed. We do not yet have a world where the most vulnerable among us are protected, but perhaps soon we will agree that none of us are safe until all of us are safe.

Until that day, though, I’m going to sit in the middle of my paradoxes – studying new knowledge, attempting new skills, making new memories – and remembering my own words: No one ever learned anything by sticking to the easy stuff.

Rhododendrons

We decided to name our house a few summers ago. You know, like Green Gables or Tara or Wuthering Heights. The girls were all in favor of naming it Kitten Manor or something, but in the end, I got my way, and we live in Rhododendron Cottage. I’m still looking for the perfect sign to announce it to our suburban neighborhood. I’m sure people will be confused, or worse, sigh over yet another Dillaway oddity.

I chose Rhododendron Cottage because directly in front of our house is a very large red rhododendron. When it blooms in May (late because it’s on the shady north side), our entire living room basks in the pink reflected light. You can barely see the greenery. When it’s in bloom, the rhododendron also makes noise. Ok, it doesn’t make noise. But it is so covered in bees that you hear the buzzing from a dozen feet away. My children are terrified of being stung, but I am delighted every year. So many pollinators! And they’re so happy!

If it sounds like I’m bragging, I’m not. First, I have done nothing to cause our rhododendron to be so large and productive, except perhaps ignoring it. We barely prune it. We let the fallen leaves rot on the ground. We don’t use fertilizer. Second, here in western Washington it’s not exactly hard to grow rhododendrons. They’re the state flower and they grow nearly everywhere. Just down the road from us is a park that has a huge collection of them. I once saw one towering over a two-story house. It feels like everyone has a rhododendron.

But to us, it’s our rhododendron that’s special. Because it blooms later than most. It blooms only when spring has actually come to our house, to our yard. And it blooms so spectacularly that even the interior of our house is transformed. We can’t ignore it. Whether we’re coming or going, that rhododendron is right there, shouting, “Spring is here!” I love its brashness. There’s nothing delicate or fragile about it.

Maybe that’s why we settled on Rhododendron Cottage in the end. Because our home is all of those things. Brash, sturdy, and probably a little indelicate. Just the way we like it.

Clarity

Now that The Hellebore Society has been out for a week (you can get your copy here if you haven’t yet!) it’s time for me to dive back into the sequel to Mud Witch! I’ve been working on it for a while, but between finalizing The Hel and all the end of year holidays, I honestly can’t wait for some quiet mornings to just…write.

My kids leave early for school these days, which means that if I’m at all diligent, I can be sitting at my table by seven and done with my writing by lunchtime. There is a real beauty in those morning hours and an even more wonderful feeling of accomplishment when I stand up, stretch out, and have time to get outside.

It’s easy for me to forget the importance of the last part. Now that I work primarily from my kitchen table, I can go a whole day without getting outside if I’m not careful. And while that is extremely appealing when I’m warm and comfortable, it’s also extremely bad for me. There’s a tunnel vision that can set in, where the project becomes the only important thing and nothing else really matters. While that is productive, it’s also not very conducive to creativity.

Tunnel vision is what keeps me writing a plot that is no longer working. Tunnel vision is what keeps me banging my head against the desk, trying to make up for the wrong direction by writing prettier words. Tunnel vision is what eventually paralyzes me with self-doubt.

It’s only by stepping away that I gain the clarity to actually do my job. For a long time, I was a work hard, work hard kind of person. Even when I wasn’t working, I would think about work. Perhaps that’s because I’m not always so good at the playing part. It’s easier to do things that feel important and bring a sense of accomplishment. It’s harder, somehow, to choose not to forgo those feelings.

I’m not talking about simply slumping into the couch at the end of the day. That’s easy. I’m talking about stepping away from work and stepping into play. Putting precious commodities, time and energy, into activities that are anything but useful. It feels risky somehow. What if I go to all that effort and it’s not restorative? What if it’s not even fun? What if I make that choice and come back to my desk and I’m no more creative or productive that I was before?

Those questions show the flaw in my thinking, don’t they? The idea that fun, the rest, is only there in order to feed the work. That if I return from my break still mired in tunnel vision then there was no point in taking it at all. What if I looked at things a different way?

What if I do all that productive work to make my fun more satisfying? It sounds bizarre to me, but then I think of working in my garden on hot summer days and sitting down afterwards to drink the best glass of water I’ve ever had. I think of cleaning my house and cooking dinner for friends, just to be able to enjoy sitting with them, knowing that everything is done. Or getting to a Friday night, tired and spent, but ready to sit down with a good book I’ve been wanting to read all week.

Maybe the fun is the point. Maybe if I start thinking about it differently, I’ll remember that I write not just to have the words on the page, but to experience that first, glorious stretch after I stand up and look at a job well done.