Field Work

 

My husband and dad out for a walk in the fields.

When I was a kid, field work meant “walking the beans” under an unforgiving sun to pluck errant corn stalks, which sprouted from leftover corn seed into the current year’s bean crop. Sigh. I hated that job.

Mind and feet.

But now, field work simply means thinking and walking. It means losing myself while walking and immersing my mind and feet in nature so deeply that thoughts percolate to the surface unbidden. Why the change? As a writer, I find that walking helps with my writing. And it’s not just me; it’s a well-known remedy for writer’s block.

Walking increases blood flow to the brain, helping you enter a flow state or heightened mental clarity. It also leads to new connections between brain cells. But don’t ask me to list my sources, since this is a newsletter, and not a book report!

For years, after I began my writing odyssey, creativity followed me, no matter where or when I walked. Walking has been my primary form of exercise since I took my first beach walk as a kid, when endorphins soaked my brain, gathered from the combination of seashell treasure, sun, fun, and barefoot exercise. To this day, my longest walks navigated the mangroves behind Lover’s Key State Park, where I could walk alone with just the Gumbo Limbo trees and my book bag for company. One time, while reading on a bench mere inches from the water, I heard a snuffling and looked up in time to see a stray dolphin arc before me, so close I could have touched it. But I lost this joy when my feet became afflicted with hallux rigidus arthritis.

Walking became about pain management, and creative thoughts withered.

This month, I had surgery to fix my right foot, with screws, a surgeon, and a prayer. Next up will be my left. It hurts like hell. I feel antsy. I have plenty of time to write, but I want to walk. Wish me luck!

“Goals transform a random walk into a chase.” ~ Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

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Literary Deplorables

Since my book launch, pages have turned, sales have simmered, and book bindings have remained stuck. Nothing horrible or unexpected has happened. And yet, there are still many deplorables in my book publishing and marketing basket—the worst part is gaining email subscribers for my newsletter. I’ve found the job akin to herding cats inside a David Lynch movie produced by persnickety sudoku enthusiasts. Why is it so hard?

I decided to seek advice from David Lynch himself, surreal filmmaker extraordinaire. David’s film credits include Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks. He has since passed. RIP Mr. Lynch. But you didn’t think I was serious, anyway, right?

Here’s what he had to say: 😊

“Sharon, if you take away nothing else from our imaginary Zoom correspondence, remember, when in doubt, talk backward.”

 “esaelP, lliw uoy ebircsbus ot ym liame tsil?” I repeat very slowly to Mr. Lynch.

“No thanks,” he says. “But here’s another tip: When you send your newsletter, include an insane soundtrack to keep potential subscribers on edge. You know, unstable even.”

“I’m not sure if that will help me. But I can try Nirvana or Metallica, and maybe include a link for spotify in my next newsletter.”

“Great. Sarah, that’s your name, right? People like a good mystery. Tell people they may be signing up for a Sears credit card or your email list, but they won’t know which one—keep it cagey.”

“Okay, Mr. Lynch.”

“Sharon, here’s another gem: when you ask for new subscribers, make your questioning extremely difficult to follow. Keep potential subscribers on their toes. Make the tone weird, bizarre even. You know, switch it up. I like to use the word “discomforting” to describe my approach; maybe this feeling can help you, too. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mr. Lynch. I already feel slightly uncomfortable.”

“Good. Hey, Simone, I’ve got to go. I’m having lunch with an elephant and a coal miner. Goodbye.”

“This is going to be more difficult than I thought.”

knahT uoy rof gnidaer!

In other words,

THANK YOU FOR READING!

My August newsletter hits inboxes next week! 

"I discovered that if one looks a little closer at this beautiful world, there are always red ants underneath." ~ David Lynch

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The Gate

It must be raining on Earth, because I sit with my front paws curled beneath me, waiting at the gate, just like yesterday and the day before. Many strange animals pass through the bright light and golden bars that resemble skinny aspen trees, and my whiskers twitch with wonder. Some beasts lick and groom me as they pass, and the act gives me a wave of euphoria, just like a good puddle of sun still warms my heart.

I keep watch, barely blinking, for the arrival of my parents.

Time is irrelevant now that mornings don’t begin with a frenzied rush to my mother’s bedroom and by meals that arrive in a bowl that clinks on the floor. Oddly, I feel loved and safe even though my Earth family isn’t here. My mother whispered in my ear to wait by the gate, and loyalty is my mantra. But when will she come? The sun is warm, and I fear I’ll fall asleep and miss her.

“Akua, come here,” two voices call from behind my tail, the sound intermingling as if coming from a synchronized choir, almost singsong, like birds.

I whip my head and cock my ears toward the sound. I don’t recognize their voices, but the humans look and smell familiar to me. They approach, and the woman stoops to pick me up. I don’t struggle within her arms, and she holds me close. “We’re here to take you home,” she says with a smile.

I press my paws against the woman’s chest. “What home? I’m waiting for my mom and dad. I can’t leave!” I plead, unsure if they’ll understand me.

“It’s okay, Akua,” the woman says, scratching my cheeks and chin just the way I like it. “They're not coming yet, but we’re your grandparents, and we’ve come to take you to a place of contentment, where every breath is like a silent purr. It’s heaven, Akua, and in the blink of a cat’s eye, you’ll be running into both of your parents’ arms. You’ll see,” she said, placing me back on the loamy ground.

“Follow us," said the man beside her, beckoning with his hand.

I could barely see the man's face because it was backlit by a bright light. But I trusted him.

I glanced at the gate before I followed them with my tail held high. 

>^..^<

RIP, beloved Akua: extreme cuddler, gentle spirit, berserk cheek and tummy rub warrior, frenzied bedroom burster, and lover of bins, baskets, and bags. 2008-2025.

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I Lost My Marbles...

Re-treat Yourself: The Jess Lourey and Erica Ruth Neubauer Writing Retreat

I arrived at the Franciscan retreat center in Colorado Springs, expecting to meet writers, but I met shaggy grazing deer instead. The center is the former home of a Tuberculosis Sanitorium, and numerous stone buildings sprawl under the Colorado Rockies at an elevation of around 7,000 feet. When I walked down the sidewalk, I announced my passing to the feeding deer, and it worked; they didn’t trample me. A few writers walked the grounds and fed in the cafeteria. The food was hearty but good!

The day started with yoga, and after breakfast, workshops frazzled my mind until noon. Then, we had free time to sightsee, write, or even nap. After dinner, we had group writing prompts and meditation. Snacks rained down like beads during Mardi Gras. My favorite memories include walking the courtyard labyrinth with a new friend, reading in the peace garden with a stunning mountain view, and visiting the nearby Garden of the Gods for a hike with fellow writers.

My favorite swag was a perfect glass marble intended as an offering for the writing fairies. (If the mischievous literary goblins whisper good intel in your ear, you can repay them with a marble left in a fairy hotspot of your choosing)

I learned many things, but the acronym that stuck was ARISE. You must include at least three of these in each scene:

Action

Romance, humor, or friendship

Information

Suspense

Emotion

The retreat concluded with sparkling wine and a wand ceremony, where each writer blessed a pen before handing it to the recipient. My blessing from each writer proved profound and life-changing. I'll never forget the warm fuzzies, and it still feels like a warm hug.

My lesson for you: Even if you aren’t a writer, don’t forget to re-treat yourself!

Look to your inbox for my next newsletter on July 21. You can read my writing articles Read like You're Standing in a Buffet of Steaming Hot Books and Be Like Samwise and Frodo and Help a Writer Out at Orange Blossom Publishing and Orange Hat Publishing this month. Plus, I have another Goodreads Giveaway in motion until June 30. 3,274 readers have signed up so far!

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“Nowhere can man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul.” ~ Marcus Aurelius

 

Have you ever gone to a retreat? I bet you have, and maybe it inspired you. My first experience with one happened in High School, and it was memorable, but not in a good way. My mother decided I should attend a retreat with a youth group from our small-town church. I wasn’t in the group, and since I hated church, I wanted no part of the deal.

The group raised money for the retreat by washing cars. I reluctantly helped, even though I had no plans to attend the event. But my mom thought otherwise. Then, something tragic and horrible happened. I was a teenager, so everything that wasn’t wonderful felt tragic and horrible. Every kid from my church opted out of the weekend except for one boy much younger than me. I still had to go—alone. I hitched a ride with some teens from another church located in a big city. They intimidated me immediately with cool talk of happenings beyond my pay grade, and they befouled me with their stinky cigarette contraband. Even so, I would have been happy to bunk with any one of them. But that didn’t happen.

My assigned room left me utterly alone without the welcome presence of crickets chirping. My room sat mutely inside an expansive dormitory floor with dim hallways reminiscent of midnight in a lonely hospital. I had no roommate nor adult supervision, and no one else checked in to my floor. Yes, you heard me correctly. I remained alone on the whole bleeping floor unless you count spiders. It was a nightmare! It was also eerie, as if a zombie apocalypse had scrubbed every living soul from the wing of rooms. At least I had privacy in the communal showers.

The first thing I did upon arrival was find the big city girls on another floor that bustled with laughter and voices. But they spurned me and my lonely predicament. I returned to my private wing. Needless to say, I’m only halfheartedly ashamed to say I ditched the scheduled events and spent all my time at a nearby mall. I didn’t even eat at the cafeteria, instead opting for pizza at Rocky Rococos. I'm sure my mother never heard the end of it.

I’m on a writing retreat in Colorado with Ted Talking and award-winning author Jess Lourey! What will happen this time? I’ll keep you posted.

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“A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit!” ~ Sarah Jessica Parker

My April Book Pick. Ha!

We could learn something from the rattiest city in the world: New York. A team of creatives didn’t just turn lemons into lemonade or spoiled milk into a savory sharp cheddar; they turned a rat problem into an opportunity by creating hilarious, tiny ads distributed on rat-height, 13-inch sidewalk billboards, with a rat wearing a bandaid like a blindfold to solve the creature’s nocturnal sleep problem. Or the skateboarding rat that was shredding more than cheese.

This rat-centric ingenuity made me wonder what kind of rat creativity I could develop. A group of rats is called a mischief, and that’s what I’m up to in today’s post.

Me: Do you like my book?

Rat: Your book’s plot is so convoluted I could turn it into a rat maze for my inbred relatives who think inbred means their head is sticking through a loaf of wonder bread. Holy, Cheez Whiz, Ratman.

Me: Is my book as good as Kate DiCamillo’s The Tale of Despereaux?

Rat: Some things are better left in the dark. Roscuro wouldn’t leave his dungeon to read your tail. I mean tale.

Me: Will readers buy my book?

Rat: Some readers acquire new books like pack rats, but I don't consider pack rats (woodrats) to be a real rat. What was your question again?

Me: Rats often live with and near humans, so will any of your friends read my book? I keep some copies in my T.V. console for your relatives that may be hiding in my walls.

Rat: Rats have a keen sense of smell. So the answer is no, because your book stinks.

Me: Rats are easy to train, so can I train you to leave reviews on Amazon or Goodreads for my book? There are a lot of rats out there, and I could get millions of new reviews; I’m just saying.

Rat: No training bleephole. But we also carry disease, so would you like me and my friends to visit the people who left a bad review for your book, The Levitation Game?

Me: YES! Thank you, Mr. Rat! (Me with a fiendish grin, rubbing my hands together and cackling as if choking on a cheese curd)

The end!

I finally posted my first book marketng reel on instagram, and I hit 30, 000 words with my new WIP. My short story, A Yard Fit for a Princess debuted in the Women Who Write literary journal Goldfinch. Plus, click here to read my writing article at Orange Hat Publishing, inspired by The Lord of the Rings. 

“I have a rat inside my skull that runs on a treadmill - pitta-patta pitta-patta pitta-patta. I enjoy the company of other people who experience that pitta-patta in their skulls.” ~ Richard Lederer

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“I wish to be cremated. One-tenth of my ashes shall be given to my agent, as written in our contract.” ~ Groucho Marx

“If you dream of becoming an eagle, you follow your dreams and not the words of a bunch of chickens.” ~ Penny Johnson Jerald

I signed with Dreamsphere Books! My second novel, Chorus of Crows, will launch sometime in 2026. Here's a preview...

When retired farmer Oren Walton receives an offer for a romantic hook-up in his rusty R.V., he embarks on a summer-long relationship and respite from loneliness and heartache—the death of his wife and son, Parkinson’s disease. Finally, Oren feels happy. But there’s a problem: Oren’s daughter, Sedona, thinks he hallucinated the whole affair.

Soon, strange happenings percolate on the farm. Oren battles trickster crows and sleepwalks into deadly farm machinery mishaps. Strange visitors arrive with mud cleaved to their boots, and a miracle of birth occurs on the porch, both foul and fabulously freaky. Sedona doesn’t see a darn thing except she hears unusual wailing in the barn at night but figures it’s only a litter of undiscovered kittens nestled outside. Besides, life on the farm has always been weirder than a lutefisk supper since her mother’s unexpected death and the sad day her brother died in the hidden spot behind the barn.

As summer rolls forward, Sedona discovers her dead mother’s diaries. She finds comfort in her mother’s words, but they don’t insulate her from the dangers of living with her dad’s increasingly malevolent delusions. Lavinia, Oren’s annoyingly real lady friend, thinks Oren is off his rocker. And Jeb—Sedona’s summer romance—is sure of it. Only one thing is certain: no one will survive the pestilence at the farm unless an answer from the stars can solve the mystery of the spot.

~

I have a new lead magnet freebie with Water Street Design on Etsy. Every new subscriber receives a free, downloadable and adorable greeting card from the WSD star seller Etsy shop. If any current subscribers want a free card, just let me know! Look to your inbox for my next newsletter on Monday, April 21.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

“I'm a dreamer. I have to dream and reach for the stars, and if I miss a star then I grab a handful of clouds.” ~ Mike Tyson

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