Moth Dust

Well, friends, I finally did it. Years later. So many years I wonder if any old blog readers even remember me writing about it… I finally published my book! I was looking at old blog posts last night and found a bucket list for my 30’s. Publishing my moth fairy book was on it! I may have not hot air ballooned in Turkey or zip lined through the jungle…but just shy of my 41st birthday, my little cocooned dream finally got its wings!

It’s so good, you guys. I know that sounds braggy, but it is! It’s chock full of my illustrations and every bit of my heart I could muster. Years of doubt and sorrow and joy and light procured from passages of tattered journals. Every last drop of the me I’ve been the last fifteen years. The child inside me, that is. I even dedicated it to “Little Me.”

It’s everything I ever wanted to read. Everything my little heart wanted as a girl, and everything I still long for. Sparkling magic…the kind that leaves tingles in your ribs. An ode to the miraculous bits of nature. Darling, true, forest creature friends. Moths and starlight and derring do. And just the teeniest touch of romance.

It has been my favorite escape and my biggest anxiety so it is with a great sigh of relief and pride, but also a little bit of sadness, to finally let it go.

I did a soft launch on Instagram so some people have already read it and the reviews have been so delicious. These are all from people I don’t know!

“This is THE BEST middle grade fantasy I have EVER read”

“It made me feel so warm and whimsical”

(My daughter has) “declared herself a moth girl!”

Perhaps it’s tacky and silly of me to show you, but there’s still a pinch-me am I allowed to be a real author feeling I’ll never truly shake off.

On the solstice, The Curious Nest in Edmonds had a little launch/signing for me. It was the most beautiful I’ve ever felt and I know it was because my truest self was radiating out of me. To be able to share it all, to lay it bare before you, is such a gift.

Thank you to every one of you who has subscribed, commented, encouraged, and delighted with me. All the cocoon and moth talk, the celebrating over drafts, the bleak days where I thought I’d give up and just eat chocolate on the couch for an eternity in lieu of being productive… it’s been a strange and delightful journey.

Buy my book! I promise you’ll love it. And if not, “it’s better than a poke in the eye!”

You can find it Here!

The ends of things

On a walk through a forest jeweled with topaz leaves and diamond dew, I thought about the ends of things. Trees release their last rush of sugar into their leaves when the sun tilts out of view, making them flush red. It’s the same chemical in the skin of apples…a sweet, crimson flush. That brilliant, fiery color is a last attempt at life.

It has me thinking. How often do I go through life in a lackadaisical fashion, taking much of what blows through my leaves for granted, and then at the realization that something may be lost…jump to action to savor and experience, only realizing it’s too late. And yet…some of the most tender, sweetest moments occur in that flush of holding on.

This is Harry’s last year of elementary school. My last year in my thirties. Finn will be 16 in a couple months. I feel that aching tug towards a new chapter, and the leaves of my soul are as bejeweled and brilliant as ever. Almost too saccharine for comfort sometimes. I wake up in the middle of the night questioning things I’ve done, how I’ve parented, friends and dreams lost, wondering how I could have done anything different without a second sight, and then nurturing my broken spirit with reminiscences of all that I’ve done well. The true, deep relationships, snuggles and laughter, the castles made of sticks and leaves that are so much more beautiful to me than any bucolic dreamscape. Life has been a smattering of all that it should be. Stars in earthly bodies should be living just that…a smoldering, guttering existence with bits of light peaking through. Moments where they shine their bright light, and then get doused for another day.

I’m mixing my metaphors again. And being as cliche as they come to boot. Change, hmmm, what symbolized that? Leaaaaves? Haha! But sometimes the most obvious things are the truest. That flood of sugar as the leaf turns red? I’m feeling it. A sugar high at times. Sometimes the low after the rush. But overall, something dear, rosy, and sweet. An echo of the bud that will come after the still, silent interim. Because, after all, it’s never truly the end of things…it’s only the beginning.

Illustrations!

I started illustrating my childrens book! I decided to make one illustration a day until they’re done and post them on Instagram. (On @bridgetbethpaints.) When I finish, I’ll go back and redo things that need work. But the goal is just to go one step at a time. I go back and forth between awe and delight at what I’ve accomplished in a short amount of time and dread and hatred for myself for not being as talented and prolific as I want to be. I’m astonished at the sheer magnitude of work others have put out. Comic book illustrators, I’m looking at you! But then I remember how I started…one step at a time. That’s all I can ask of myself, and it’s all I owe myself.

I’m inking because I want my book to be affordable and color is terribly expensive. If I could have had my Fairy Journals book be $10 I would have! But it’s $30. Eeeek! So I’m going with an old timey Pauline Baynes from The Lion the Witch and The Wardrobe vibe. It fits in with the feedback I got when I first had an agent look at it. “Too old fashioned.” I freshened the story and dialogue up a bit, but kept all the nostalgia. I have a mood board filled with colorful wings, shimmering silk dresses, violet clouds…none of it is in black and white and I’m struggling because I want the magic to jump up from the page and it’s so hard to capture that without color. But it’s all written in the story. So maybe children’s imaginations can fill in the gaps.

A publisher would probably be irritated by my posting these images on Instagram, (or have it written into my contract that I can’t) but I don’t have one, nor an agent for this book, so I’m not really worried about it. I will probably self publish and it’s kind of a relief to be able to share images…and it keeps me accountable like an editor would. Nobody is actually really paying attention to my quota, but I can sort of trick myself into thinking that they are. I’m that impressionable.

I can feel the self doubt sort of trickling off me, ever so slowly. When I was in my twenties I thought, “I can paint all this! It’ll be easy!” In my thirties I thought, “I will never be able to do this. I can’t get what’s in my head to come out of my paint brush.” And now, 40’s ebbing closer, I’m a combination of the two. I had a friend who is in her 60’s tell me recently that life has never been better…still terrifying and vulnerable…but maybe that’s the secret sauce. I love that!

Of pearls and oysters

Here’s something magical for you. For me, really, but it’s fun to tell. A month ago I went on a vacation to the Oregon coast with my family. Moonstone caves, a ruby glass light house, surfing, and s’mores on the beach. It was just the thing for my dried out brain. I felt so inspired I began writing a little romance novel when I got home.

At first it was a bit of a joke. Beau and I were on a walk. Together, we made up a silly story about my sister meeting the handsome surf shop owner on the Main Street and, with all the usual tropes we laugh at in rom coms, came up with a plot. I thought it would be cute to write it and give it to her. A super short, zero substance sort of dalliance.

But! When I started writing the story took hold, and my sister somewhat fell away and a new female lead formed. The seaside town became a whimsical place, the characters became magical. Suddenly I had a sizzling story that spanned four generations and involved selkies and mermaids and a magical pearl. Half of it was written on a sailing trip we took in the San Juan’s, with so much inspiration at my fingertips my nails could have turned to mother of pearl.

In two weeks, I’d written a 50,000 word draft.

And then (see last post) I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. It needs a good edit, and I still want to write a better ending. It’s obviously what Anne Lamott would call a “shitty first draft”. But I am struggling to get back to it.

Then! I saw the sign for a flower shop down a little lane in a town my friend Juliana and I stopped in in Calistoga, California. (I know it sounds like I go on a thousand vacations, and you’re not wrong…in August, yes I stack them up.)

Anyway. We had zero time to get to our next appointment but we wanted to look at this little shop. It was the sweeetest. Dried bouquets stacked up, flowers popping out of every corner, crystals, soaps, jewelry. The most darling place. And there, in a display case, in a little porcelain bowl, were oysters with pearls in them. I knelt down and showed Juliana.

One of the pivotal things about my book involves a pearl. Without giving too much away, there are oysters and pearls all up in those shitty first draft pages. I kept seeing oysters on our sailing trip, and things that reminded me of Pearl divers and shell seekers. At one point we were sailing over a kelp forest with a bed of oysters underneath and Oliver said, “I can see why sailors imagined mermaids.”

Juliana and I went on to look at many more things in the shop and bought a gift for my aunt and uncle who were hosting us. Then as we were leaving, the gray haired, jovial woman who owned the shop picked up the dish of oysters and handed it to me. She looked me right in the eyes and said

“I want you to pick one of these oysters. And know that when you make a wish on it, your WILL COME TRUE!”

I was so thrilled and struck with such a sense of magic! It was just like my book! I had entered into a waking dream! It felt as though she became a sea sprite ready to claim me for the frothy depths if I didn’t choose an oyster wisely.

So I chose the smallest oyster, and made the biggest wish.

Testing testing

Remember when we all used to blog?

Here I am using the phone app for my old blog and I’m still not entirely sure if this text is going to end up in the subject line. I feel like an old dog relearning a trick she used to be really good at.

There. I have relearned how to post a picture. Yay me! (Me at the San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers)

Today I’m thinking about something my artist friend Blaze and I were talking about yesterday. We both have books that were never published and (at least for me) it feels like there’s a part of me, that nobody knows about, that is a giant part of me. (Ok, maybe I need some brush up work on my prose, too). Basically I feel like there is an invisible part of me that I would love to be seen and known.

Right now I have about four books that are just not quite finished, but close, that I want to put into the world. But I have a giant block when it comes to publishing. When I look up agents I freeze and all my anxious behavior kicks in. I can create things like a banshee screaming into the void, swirls of imaginative gumbo drizzling from my hair…but when I think of the gate I need to walk through to publish a book traditionally I am that creepy dead knight in the sand at the southern oracle in The Never Ending Story.

God help me.

Last summer I watched Neil Gaiman’s master class on writing and he said you have to send your writing out into the world if you want to be a writer. And his voice keeps popping up in my head. (His voice is super sexy so this isn’t entirely unwelcome.)

To give myself a little credit I should say that I did have an agent I was working on a book with and it just never got to a place where she could figure out what to do with it, despite rewrites and editing over the course of a few years. So I have a fear that I will run up against the same thing with a new agent and never get past that step.

I also fear being irrelevant, or too niche, or trite, or cliche, or “tone deaf” in the sense that I can’t tell that my writing is crap and will make a huge mistake in showing it to people. I remember a person in choir who couldn’t sing to save her life but had the confidence of Mariah Carey. She always got the solos and applause nonetheless…and the thought of me being that, but with writing, makes my insides wither into a prune.

And yet, there are stories I want to tell. When I’m in a good mood I feel like they’re marvelous masterpieces! Like I could have a career in writing and illustrating, a myriad of interesting and beautiful books under my belt. But when I feel insecure I feel like…the best description I can come up with is when you feel ugly but you look exactly the same as you did the day before. You know, like when the outfit you once loved is suddenly the stupidest thing you own. If you don’t know what I’m talking about perhaps you’ve never been PMS.

Anyway. I self published a book called The Fairy Journals last January and it was such a freeing, beautiful thing for me. To finally have something for people to read, and get kind reviews, and sprinkle some of my own magic into the ether…well it was such a sense of satisfaction.

But the reach is pretty minimal compared to traditional publishing. And I’ve always been a bit of a snob about it, which is something I might just need to get over. Indie publishing allows for individuality (obviously) and that might be more my cup of tea anyway.

Well…I don’t know why this was the first time in a thousand years (three years) that I wanted to write to you, dear blog readers. Perhaps the block of not being able to get my books out so I’m blabbing here…I don’t know. Next post, I’ll try and have something inspiring for you. Or maybe it’ll be me announcing a new book. Time will tell.

Hey, when am I supposed to feel like an adult?

Every year I like to try to do a little thanksgiving dinner for just us five. I admit sometimes this means grabbing a precooked rotisserie chicken and all the fixings in “just add water” type form. But this year Oliver saw ducks at the grocery store and proclaimed he wanted to try one. So a duck I decided to make.

(You guys, why in tarnation do they come with the neck and inner organs? I’ll get back to that later.)

A couple weeks ago I bought myself a really cute apron with candy stripes in pink, green, grey and a metallic gold stripe. I put it on to show Beau and he said, “Now you have to bake!” I promptly put the cinnamon rolls I bought at the bakery in the microwave and presented them to the kids. If I don’t act the part at least I can feel it!

I would love nothing more than to be the type of mom who bakes all sorts of delights and has a sparkling kitchen and reads fairytales to her children before bed every night. I’ve gotten past the delusion that I will level up to that someday. I’m more of a buy-a-fun-cereal, “find a bowl in the dishwasher!”, help to find the Korok mask in Legend of Zelda kind of mom.

But every once in a while I’m like, “yeah I can totally cook a duck with no stress, no problem.” ELLL OH ELLLLLLLL.

So first of all I have this serious problem with uncooked meat. I hate it so much, you guys. I hate that drippy oozy blood, the very idea of a carcass, the thought of salmonella. I try my very very hardest never to touch it. I won’t go into detail, but I have a system. But for some reason every time I go to throw the container the meat came in, the garbage is FULL. And I tell myself to remember to empty in next time. (And never do). So I had a container of the NECK, gizzard, and liver and some other thing, I don’t know what, to throw away and only had room for the styrofoam container and cellophane in the garbage. So I decided to put the body parts of the deceased into the sink disposal.

There are moments in life where time seems to stop, and this was one of them. At around that same time, or just before, my dad walked in through the door to pick up Oliver for a sleep over (Yes, the Oliver who wanted to eat the duck…I’m terrible at planning these things to perfection). My dad wanted to try to find some ski boots or something in the basement and I freaked. The basement is particularly messy right now. Picture the medieval muddle of dishes in sword in the stone, turn it into laundry and brick-a-brack, and cover it with snail slime and spiders…that’s my basement right now.

My hands were filled with bloody cellophane and duck neck and I was blocking the stairs to the basement yelling for Beau to please come find whatever ski thing my dad wanted. As I lured my dad away showing him my cute new apron or some other diversion, Beau whisked past to say there was a message on my phone. I think this was when I put the duck innards into the sink and washed one hand to look at the message. The message was “YOU HAVE TESTED POSITIVE FOR STREP THROAT” which I read out loud, said, “Oh no!” and turned on the sink disposal…

DUCK NECK BITS FLEW EVERYWHERE. That drippy bloody oozy stuff landed in my hair, all over my new apron (at least I was wearing one? heh heh) and all over everything in my once in a blue moon clean kitchen. This was when my dad chose to say,

“Bridget, is something wrong?”

I turned to him with that look babies have when they fall and you’re not sure if they’re gonna burst into tears or laugh..and just started laughing. And despite being covered in duck blood he gave me a hug.

I’m not perfect, there’s no such thing. And even though I know the idea of being a well-adjusted adult is entirely unattainable, I’ll still strive, with a big dose of laughter because every once in a while I get it right. Which is what came next, if only fleetingly.

With fresh antibiotics in my system, a somehow delicious and beautifully roasted duck on the table with all the pre-made fixings (thanks Met Market), and without my Dad seeing the basement, four of us sat down to a sweet thanksgiving dinner. It was a tiny moment of domestic bliss. Until someone, I think it was Finn, said,

“We’re eating Donald Duck.”

Well, there’s always next year!

 

 

Lucy’s baby shower!

My sister Lucy is due to have a baby boy this December! We are over the moon, thrilled, excited beyond belief, exuberantly jazzed! It’s been a long beautiful journey for Lucy to become a mama, and we wanted to send her into motherhood with a giant shindig with all her family and friends. Guys, gals, kids…there were about 50 people!

The theme was The World Awaits. I wanted it to be classy meets cute because Lucy is both sophisticated and sparkly. Little luggage bags (precious cargo) filled with candy, globe chocolates, map napkins, treasure, and post cards…decor that reminded you of embarking on a Jules Verne adventure. 

I asked Lucy what she was going to wear the night before so I could match her flower crown to her outfit. Isn’t she like a glowing goddess of fertility? My mom had the idea of having food from all around the world and we had little flags for each dish. My mom, sisters, and I brought a few different dishes and I got little country flags for each one. I just brought sushi and Russian tea cakes, but Lauren and my mom went ALL OUT and the table was overflowing with flags and food…it was SO fun. And delicious! Sadly I never got a picture! 

Because let’s be honest here…I was just mostly excited to hang these hot air balloons. Squeee!

My new book: The Art of Flora Forager!

My new book comes out on September 26th!

I’m letting people know about it early becuase pre-ordering is always a killer deal. It’s available on Amazon for $13.49! tinyurl.com/florasbook

The Art of Flora Forager has 108 images of my floral artworks encompassing animals, faces, fantasy, characters, fantasy, and my memories of places I love. It’s pretty much the end-all, best of, piece de resistance book for anyone who loves my Flora Forager Instagram account.

And it’s GORGEOUS. The team at Sasquatch did an incredible job of making a book that will become a beloved keepsake. It will look beautiful being unwrapped at Christmas, on a coffee table, or on a shelf. The title is metallic gold, it has the prettiest peach background, and my firebird was chosen for the cover because it was a favorite when Instagram posted it, receiving over 1 million likes.

I hope you love it!

(I also love that it’s pink and orange because that combo always makes me think of my cousin Deena <3 )

 

 

Yellow Rose

Yellow rose,
Eternal womb.

I planted her in your roots.
“Wrap her in your earthen arms, yellow rose.
Cradle her forever.”

But now you taunt me with your tiny buds,
year after year.

The pain creeps slowly,
Like the orange at the base of your petals.

And I try to ignore you at first.
There are other blossoms; bigger, more boisterous than you.
Heady aromas, frills and bright colors.
Children grown and strong and ready to be cherished.

You are delicate. Barely any thorns, hardly any fuss.
Easy to forget.

But as the garden fades into summer,
I pick out your familiar sugar-lemon scent.
And with it the memory returns.

Webbed fingers, blue eyes.
A still red heart sheathed in translucent skin.
She fit in the palm of my hand.

Peach and yellow burgeon across your blooms like a sunrise.
Your brightness calls me to you.
I can’t help but come.
Your petals fold around my face.

I breathe you in.

I am the translucent one now.

I am the one you still cradle.

I have lost.
but because of you, yellow rose,
I never will be.

Anne

I watched the Netflix version of Anne of Green Gables (Anne with an E) this week. I have no comments, except for that I am SO glad that I got to grow up with Meghan Follows in the Kevin Sullivan version of Anne. I just love it so SO much. Nothing can really compare for me. Lucy Maude Montgomery spent so much time describing everything in bloom, and the color of the sky in all its forms, and the beauty of the world…I loved how that version stayed so true to it with its cinematography. That being said, though, I am very excited to see how the Netflix series progresses, because I would love to see the Royal Gardener vs Gilbert Blythe romance story from the books. (The Sullivan version broke from the books quite a bit in Anne of Avonlea and the continuing story).

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple with more chemistry than these two. Sigh.