Grieving Gardener

I learned something important at a writers conference long ago.

Prewriting takes time.

At the time, I thought that meant a few days of thinking. Maybe a few weeks of notes. Perhaps a folder full of ideas, a stack of index cards, or a rough outline scribbled on paper.

I had no idea.

There is time.

And then there is six years of time, stretched across what felt like a lifetime of grief. That is how long I have been working on my first book, Widow: A Journey Toward Life.

My second book, The Dark Side of the Curtain, has taken even longer. That story began as memories, letters, scraps of paper, and mementos dating all the way back to 1977. That is nearly a fifty-year prewrite.

At this point, the story needs to be told before I am no longer here to tell it.

Prewriting is everything you write, collect, save, remember, sort, and carry before the first official words ever land on the page. It is the planning. It is the memory gathering. It is the old letters in a box. The notes in a drawer. The photograph you cannot quite throw away. The story that keeps tapping you on the shoulder.

It is all of it, wrapped into one messy ball.

At many points during the last fifty years, I thought both books were a giant waste of time. I wondered why I kept the mementos. I wondered why I saved the papers. I wondered if any of it would ever matter.

But did I throw them out?

Nope.

Did I close the door on the possibility?

Definitely not.

So the prewriting continued, even when I did not know that was what I was doing. The collecting continued. The remembering continued. The sorting continued. The waiting continued.

Until the real writing began.

Maybe you have a story like that too. Maybe it is sitting in a drawer, tucked into a box, folded inside an old envelope, or waiting quietly in your memory. Maybe you have told yourself it is too late, too messy, too ordinary, or too hard.

Do not wait too much longer.

Take it out.

Look at it again.

You may discover the prewriting has already been happening for years.

And once you start writing, you may not want to quit.

Remember, writing is life.

My first book, Widow: A Journey Toward Life, grew from six years of grief, faith, words, and healing. It will be released soon through Winterpast Publishing, and I can hardly believe this long prewriting journey has finally become a real book.

Winterpast is made of stucco and wood. She sits on the vast high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, where the sky stretches wide and the wind always seems to have something to say.

Last year, she got a facelift. New paint. Fresh sparkle. A little polish for an old friend. At the moment, she is slowly undressing for winter, letting go of summer one leaf, one bloom, one chilly morning at a time.

And I love her.

Winterpast is home.

But these days, Winterpast is much more than that. Somehow, without ever applying for the job, she has become a publishing house.

Winterpast Publishing began as a little joke, much like Winterpast Honey. A name. A smile. A pretend business attached to a very real place. But somewhere along the way, this little name grew legs.

Inside these four walls, GrievingGardener.com was born. I sat here in my own horrid grief, trying to make sense of a life I no longer recognized. At first, the words were only for me. They were a way to breathe. A way to sort through the broken pieces. A way to find my footing when the ground beneath me had disappeared.

Slowly, those words brought me back to life.

Then the words became a blog.

And the blog helped birth a book.

Now Winterpast is on the brink of becoming the home of a real published book: Widow: A Journey Toward Life.

Is the garage full of printing presses and employees?

Nope.

Are there workers in aprons stacking pages and binding covers?

Nope again.

There is just me. HHH. One small dog. Our brains. A computer. A printer that behaves most days. A dining table that often looks like an office supply store exploded on top of it. And a whole lot of determination.

That is the part I want you to know.

You do not need a fancy office to begin. You do not need a staff. You do not need perfect equipment, perfect timing, or perfect confidence. You need a story. You need paper and a pen or pencil. Or a computer with a few helpful apps. Most of all, you need the will to get started.

If you have lived a little, loved a little, lost a little, laughed a little, and learned a few things the hard way, you already have material.

This week, I want to share a few things I have learned along the way. Not because I have become an expert. Far from it. I am still learning every day. But I have learned that ordinary people can do extraordinary things one small step at a time.

A blog can begin with one paragraph.

A book can begin with one memory.

A publishing house can begin in a stucco house on the high desert plains, with one woman brave enough to write the first sentence.

And sometimes, new life begins with words.

Every picture has a story. Sometimes it has more than one.

At first glance, a picture seems simple. A birthday. A wedding. A vacation. A walk in the park. A group of people smiling at the camera. But if you look closer, there is always another story tucked inside the first one.

It is a little like zooming in on a map. First, you see the whole world. Then your country. Then your state. Then your town. Then your street. Finally, there you are, standing in one tiny spot, holding one tiny moment.

That is where the story begins.

Choose a picture. Any picture. Before you write about it, name the event. Was it a picnic? A graduation? A trip to the lake? A Sunday afternoon walk? Start there.

Then zoom in.

What was the weather like? Was the air cold enough to make your nose sting? Was the sun bright in your eyes? Was there wind in your hair? Were leaves blowing across the sidewalk? Was rain threatening to spoil the day?

Who was with you? Family? Friends? Someone you loved? Someone you miss now? Someone who made the day easier, funnier, louder, or sweeter?

Why were you there? Were you celebrating? Saying goodbye? Starting over? Keeping a promise? Trying to make the best of something hard?

Then look down.

What were you standing on? Grass? Asphalt? Sand? A wooden porch? A church floor? A gravel road? Sometimes the ground beneath our feet tells part of the story, too.

Now think about the minutes around the picture. How did you feel five minutes before it was taken? Nervous? Happy? Tired? Irritated? Excited? How did you feel five minutes after? Relieved? Sad? Full of laughter? Ready to go home?

The picture itself may show only one second, but the story lives on both sides of that second.

Look beyond the people in the center. What else is in the picture? A purse on the chair. A coffee cup on the table. A child’s shoe kicked into the corner. A dog waiting near the door. A bouquet beginning to wilt. A car packed for a trip. A shadow across the sidewalk.

Those little things matter. They are often the breadcrumbs that lead us back to the real story.

Before long, a simple picture becomes more than a memory. It becomes a doorway. Step through it, and you may find a story you did not even know you remembered.

This weekend, make a few new memories. Take a picture. Take a walk. Go somewhere. Notice the weather, the people, the ground beneath your feet, and the feelings that come before and after.

Autumn is a lovely time to kick through the leaves and gather stories.

Winter will be here before we know it.

Some things hold memories for us. Early on in my widowhood, I called them kryptonite. A smell. An initialed stapler. A cookie sheet that baked his favorite cookies. Or something more obvious, like a card, video, or letter.

During my move into Winterpast, everything had belonged to us. Things had been held and packed by us. But the unpacking was something entirely different. I was the one opening the boxes, deciding where things belonged in a life I hadn’t planned. At times, the weight of a memory caused me to close the drawer or box. That was enough for one day.

As days have rolled into years, those moments are fewer and farther between. Pictures now bring a smile and more memories of what was beyond the frame. The photograph holds one instant, but I remember more. What we were doing. Why we were laughing. What happened when someone finally put the camera down.

Find those things. A photograph tucked into a drawer. A recipe with handwritten notes along the edge. A letter you haven’t unfolded in years. If you’re ready, spend a little time with one of them.

Try thinking about the fifteen minutes before the picture and fifteen minutes after. Who suggested taking it? What had you been talking about? Where did everyone go afterward? Pretty soon, you have memories of an entire hour or day.

The same can happen with an ordinary household object. That cookie sheet brings back the kitchen, the smell of something baking, and the person waiting for the first cookie. The story grows as you remember the little things around it.

Write those details down. You don’t have to know where they belong yet. A few words may be enough to hold the memory until you’re ready to tell more. And if today is a day for closing the drawer, you can do that, too.

Many of those small things found their way into Widow: A Journey Toward Life, my memoir of the first year after losing my husband. The book will be released on November 11, and the e-book version is available for preorder now on Amazon. I’m looking forward to sharing that journey with you.

For today, perhaps there’s one drawer waiting to be opened. Who knows what part of your story is tucked inside?

Memories are breadcrumbs that take us back to our beginnings. Some bring laughter. Some carry regret. Together, they bring us to who we are right now. Each has played a part in shaping the unique person we’ve become, even the ones we’d rather forget.

Writing memoirs has been an experience in opening and closing the file cabinets of my brain. Some memories would have made a great story, but telling them would have come at a great cost. Those got put back in the file cabinet. A good writer knows how to pick and choose. Not every memory has to become a published story.

When I write, the thing that matters most to me is writing my own truth. What I experienced. What I understood then. What I understand now. Sometimes, the distance between those two understandings is a story all its own.

When something is written truthfully, it can touch the heart. And THAT is the key to beautiful writing.

Today, choose a file cabinet in your own brain. Open it. See what’s there. Take your time with the memories you find. Find the truth you can live with. Then…WRITE.

Face it. With decades in the rearview mirror, we all have a deep well of material to draw stories from. First, decide which decade is the richest. Then, pick your favorite memory—the one in which you can still feel the breeze on your face as the emotions come flooding back. Your memory may help you choose the story before you even have a chance to protest.

It’s good to have a comfortable place to begin. It’s also nice to choose a time that seems right for you. Over the years, that time has changed for me. In the beginning, it was between 4 and 4:30 am. But as the years have passed, I’ve found that 3 pm is a hot spot. Change up the time and place until you find just the right fit.

Write that story as YOU remember it. Not as a brother, sister, mother, or father remembers it. Just you. As you experienced it.

Then, remember Who, What, When, Where, and Why. Start with one-word answers. Write them down. When all of those things are on the page, you’ve got the beginning of something. One of those answers may be the place your story starts.

Our senses are a wonderful source of questions, and questions help uncover the words. Think about sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. Try to remember three things about each one. What could you hear beyond the conversation? What did the air smell like? Was something sweet or bitter lingering on your tongue? Give yourself time. Put those details together, and you can deliver the reader to that moment.

If you have photographs from that time, get them out and gaze upon them. They hold clues to unlock more memories. Look beyond the people. Notice the curtains, the car in the driveway, the dishes on the table. Something small may bring back a detail you haven’t thought about in years.

If you have favorite songs from that time, play them. Then, just enjoy the richness of the memories for a moment. You don’t have to catch every word immediately. Let yourself remember.

As I work on my second book, The Dark Side of the Curtain – Coming of Age in the USSR, a certain Joni Mitchell song unlocks memories of a day almost 50 years ago. Things I thought were lost all start coming back. Asking myself a few questions has opened the floodgates to sights and smells that have been waiting for their turn. And so come the words.

My sweet mother-in-law was wondering just how writers find their words. That’s a tough question, and it’s specific to each person. For me, I just know I need to write. Because to me, writing is life.

Stories.

Everyone has such wonderful stories to tell.

Just where does yours begin?

From the moment we are born, the file cabinets of our brains begin to fill.

Some files are easy to open. They bring laughter, joy, and the sweet surprise of remembering something we thought we had forgotten. Others stay locked. They are too scary, too tender, or too heartbreaking to pull out and read again.

Memories can be life-saving. They can also hold life-changing events. They remind us where we have been, what we have survived, who we have loved, and how far we have come.

For writers, those file cabinets can become very busy places. Papers fly everywhere as we sort, stack, shuffle, and search for the right story. One memory becomes a blog post. Another grows into a chapter. Another waits quietly until we are brave enough to open the drawer.

But today, the point is simple. Everybody has a story.

I used to smile at my third graders on the highway of “Writer’s block”.

“My life is so boring,” they would say. “It’s like dry gum. Nothing left.”

And yet, those same children were budding ballerinas, Little League stars, young poets, animal lovers, and dreamers. Some rode horses at spring roundups with Grandpa. Some baked the best birthday cupcakes with Grandma. Some knew how to fix a fence, gather eggs, memorize songs, care for younger siblings, or tell a joke that could make the whole room laugh.

They had beautiful stories.

They just didn’t know it yet.

Sometimes the very thing we take for granted is the thing someone else would find fascinating. The ordinary details of our lives may not feel special to us because we have lived inside them for so long. But to someone else, they may be a window into a different world.

A kitchen table. A dusty road. A school desk. A church pew. A garden row. A fishing trip. A holiday dinner. A first job. A hard goodbye. A moment when everything changed. It’s there the stories hide in plain sight.

Not a writer? Record your words.

Still not for you? Try thinking in story form. Notice the beginning, the middle, and the end of an ordinary day. Pay attention to the people, the weather, the sounds, the smells, and the little moments you might usually hurry past.

Maybe you’re an artist. Draw your story.

Do you take photographs? Let those pictures remind you what happened before and after the camera clicked.

Or, you simply tell a grandchild, a friend, or a neighbor, “I remember when…”

But tell it.

So many people keep their stories locked deep inside. They believe no one would care. They think their lives are too plain, too small, or too ordinary to matter.

I don’t believe that.

The world needs good stories right now. Honest stories. Funny stories. Tender stories. Stories of survival, courage, faith, foolishness, family, work, loss, healing, and hope.

Your story does not need to be polished before it is worth telling.

It only needs to begin.

Open one drawer. Pull out one memory. Give it a little light.

Then tell the story. Because, you have lots to tell.

Last week, we learned a few things while traveling.

#1. Never leave Oreos on the counter.
#2. Be flexible. Weather happens.
#3. No matter how early you think you are, there’ll always be a mile of cars ahead of you.
#4. Touching down on the final runway is a sweet feeling.

Winterpast was just as we left it. The grass needs mowing. The roses need deadheading. The weather is still in the 90s, and we had a stack of mail to go through and discard. After a trip to Walmart and a little unpacking, it’s almost as if we never left.

Except we brought home something a little extra.

No mouse.

No baby burro.

Colds.

Both of us are battling colds as we get ready for our next adventure next week. Not exactly the souvenir we had in mind.

As cold and flu season arrives, here’s my little reminder: If you think it’s “just allergies,” give the people around you a little extra consideration until you’re sure. Sometimes those “allergies” have a funny way of spreading.

For now, we’re home. The suitcases are unpacked, the mail is sorted, the roses are waiting, and Winterpast is exactly where we left it.

There’s no place like home.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday with the latest news.

South Dakota is such a gorgeous state. Complete with forests, lakes, green hills, and ancient history, there is something for everyone. From Columbian mammoths that died there, only to be revealed thousands of years later, to the most modern farm equipment, there is always something interesting around the next bend.

Custer State Park is home to about 1,300 buffalo—the same ones we’d watched being rounded up earlier in our trip. It’s also home to the Begging Burros. People travel there to feed them apples and carrots, and one lady told us a baby burro had actually crawled into her car and wouldn’t get out.

Sure it did.

There was everything except grizzly bears, which definitely made things a bit calmer. Still, these are wild animals, and wild animals don’t always behave according to plan. There had been a fatal encounter between a hiker and a buffalo in the park, a good reminder that no matter how peaceful these enormous animals may look, they deserve plenty of space.

Gambling is allowed in South Dakota, so dotted along our route we found little casinos in some unexpected places. But the Las Vegas-style casinos were in Deadwood. Yes, we went to Saloon No. 10, the modern-day namesake of the saloon where Wild Bill Hickok was murdered while playing poker in 1876. Deadwood is one of those places where the Old West doesn’t feel quite so far away.

We also discovered that a lot of places were hiring. During one breakfast, the restaurant cook was also the cashier and the busboy. With tables full of customers, she did a great job, although we waited an hour to eat.

It was worth it.

Delicious.

Another day, we pointed the car in the opposite direction and drove to Wall Drug. If you’ve never been there, go for the Western art. Their collection includes more than 300 original paintings, and each time I’ve visited, I’ve walked away with the memory of a new favorite. I could spend a long time just looking at the paintings.

HHH and I also discovered the fresh blueberry pie.

Some of the best ever.

Sadly, rain and clouds took away any chance we had of really seeing the Badlands. We were there, but Mother Nature apparently decided we didn’t need the view this time.

That’s okay.

There’s always next year.

Sometimes a trip doesn’t need a schedule packed from morning until night. Sometimes you just need a car, someone you enjoy traveling with, and a road you’ve never been down before.

South Dakota gave us plenty of those.

Let’s take a drive.

Staying in Airbnbs, we’ve learned that one needs an extra bit of patience. What is great for the host might not be so great for the guests. I suppose the opposite is true as well. But what is not great for either is when an autumn mouse crashes the party, bringing friends. No. That’s never good.

Early one morning, I awoke to a tiny little crash coming from the kitchen. My mind went many places, but not to the mouse I found hanging out of the range hood, trying to pull HIS Oreo cookie inside before I came around the corner. The Oreo was almost as big as he was. That little crash I’d been hearing? It was the mouse dropping his cookie onto the range top and trying again. An infestation of the crafty kind.

We decided that was a great morning to eat breakfast at a cute little bakery in town. We’d deal with the mouse later. When we came back, we had four traps. We’d get this guy, and everything would be okay. Right?

The next morning, the cheese was gone from the two traps we’d set. And the fight was on. We set the traps again, this time a little more carefully. We also bought glue traps and strategically placed those around the kitchen.

The next morning, we discovered that two mice had paid the ultimate price. But the third? He took the glue trap with him. These South Dakota mice were true survivors.

Somehow, the thought of cooking—or even spending much time in that kitchen—lost out to eating at the Dairy Queen right around the corner. Our host was so kind and felt horrible that we were spending part of our vacation trapping mice.

But the fact of the matter is this: When you rent a house, sometimes it just might come with a mouse. Or three.

Be ready.

And maybe hide the Oreos.