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Author Spotlight: Jim Minick

August 16, 2021 / April Asbury / 0 Comments

The phrase “triple threat” pops up in sports far more often than in creative writing. But if there is a “triple-threat author,” Jim Minick fits the bill, with his moving poetry, award-winning novel, and thought-provoking creative nonfiction.

Head shot of author Jim Minick, smiling, against a background of green ivy — Author Jim Minick

The first work I encountered from Minick was his poetry, published in several local and regional journals. Some of those poems would evolve into Her Secret Song, a portrayal of the growing relationship between nephew and aunt.

Later, in 2008, Minick published another collection, Burning Heaven, which won the 2008 Book of the Year Award from the Virginia College Bookstores Association. (If you follow these links, scroll past the well-deserved high praise of these works, and you’ll find outstanding samples from each volume.)

A heap of fresh-picked blueberries — Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

My family subscribed to The Roanoke Times with an almost religious dedication, and for some years we were treated to “Field Work,” Minick’s monthly column in its New River Current.

Those reflective columns hinted at his book-length creative nonfiction works, Finding a Clear Path and The Blueberry Years. The latter, inspired by his family’s creation of an organic, pick-your-own blueberry farm, entwines personal experiences with reflections on national issues . . . And, of course, blueberries, blueberries, blueberries.

In addition to his poetry and nonfiction, Minick had another type of story he wanted to share: the novel Fire Is Your Water. This fictional story marked a venture into magical realism, creating a work Lee Smith calls, “a love story wrapped in horror, fire, and faith.”

Now that Minick has retired from the classroom, he has three new projects in the works. That’s right—three new books on the way.

Told you . . . He’s a triple threat!

A Favorite Writing Exercise

Minick attributes this exercise to Bill Roorbach’s Writing Life Stories. He says he’s used it “often and with great success”; like all the best writing exercises, this one can surprise you.

Write a letter explaining yourself to someone you know. Don’t expect to send the letter. The recipient can be dead or alive.

“The exercise often gets to deep emotional struggles and truths,” Minick says, “and often it is a great way to really find or think about your voice.”

What will you discover through writing a letter? Try it, and listen for the music of your own voice.

Spotlight: Leatha Kendrick

August 10, 2021 / April Asbury / 1 Comment

Author Leatha Kendrick in a bright scarf and oak-leaf earrings — Author Leatha Kendrick, photograph by Kevin Nance

In July, the Highland Summer Conference at Radford University hosted two powerhouse poets: Diane Gilliam and Leatha Kendrick. While this visit was Kendrick’s first to the HSC, she has a prolific creative career as a writer, teacher, presenter, and workshop leader.

Recently Kendrick released her fifth book of poetry, And Luckier, through Accents Publishing, which praises it as “her bravest, most mature work.” Additional praise from Molly Peacock, Kathleen Driskell, Pauletta Hansel, and Sherry Chandler follows, but perhaps George Ella Lyon describes And Luckier most aptly: this is “a mature poet’s reckoning.”

Cover of And Luckier, Kendrick's most recent book — Cover for **And Luckier**

In addition to And Luckier, Kendrick’s other publications include Almanac of the Invisible, Second Opinion, Science in Your Own Backyard, and Heart Cake, as well as a whole slew of journals and anthologies. The first time I encountered her work was in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume III: Contemporary Appalachia, an outstanding collection of modern regional authors.

Below is one of Kendrick’s favorite writing exercises, a prompt that brings together writing, drawing, and memory for potent results. (Note for teachers: this exercise works for poetry as well as essays; if you need a “starter” for a personal experience narrative, “Map the House” is gold!)

Here’s “Map the House,” as used by Leatha Kendrick, in her own words. Used with permission.

Writing Exercise: Map the House

In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard asserts “the houses that are lost forever continue to live on in us: . . . they insist in us in order to live again.”

I first did this exercise at the Appalachian Writers Workshop sometime in the late 1980’s. It may have been Jo Carson who gave us the assignment. Other writers of my acquaintance (George Ella Lyon, in particular) have used their own variations on this prompt to generate powerful and surprising writing.

Here it is: an exercise to help you write more vividly about the “housed” memories of your life.

Sketch a floorplan of a house or room that is important to you.
In each area of the map, place the objects that come to mind.
Label each object or piece of furniture with sensory memories or events they bring to mind. “The kitchen smelled of bacon grease (or cardamom or coffee) . . .
Note any actions or voices or phrases that come up.
When you are ready, start writing. Try to write quickly, without too much thought. Don’t second-guess, even if you think you are going “off topic.” Trust whatever comes. If you don’t remember something, say, “I don’t remember . . .” or “I wonder why . . .” and keep writing.

Remember: Writing is an act of discovery.

We are likely to vividly remember moments, single instances, and often in a more sensory than verbal way. In other words, our most vivid memories are likely to be ones we have not yet narrated for ourselves, rather than the stories we’ve been told or the “facts” about our lives. Our bodies store memories in our skin, our noses, our nerves, our bones – and not only in our brains.

We know more than we think we remember.

The things we have forgotten are housed.
Our soul is an abode and by remembering houses and rooms,
we learn to abide within ourselves.
Gaston Bachelard

In Memory of Jeff Daniel Marion

August 4, 2021 / April Asbury / 1 Comment

On July 29, 2021, regional literature lost a powerful and eloquent poet, teacher, mentor, editor, printer, and friend. Jeff Daniel Marion was a prolific author, publishing Letters to the Dead, Ebbing and Flowing Springs–in total, according to Still Journal, nine poetry collections, four poetry chapbooks, and a children’s book.

The children’s book, Hello Crow, is one of my favorite illustrated books. This story celebrates the wonder of nature, which lasts a lifetime, accompanied by Leslie Bowman’s vibrant artwork.

A selection of Marion's books, including a volume of Hello Crow, an issue of Iron Mountain Review, Letters to the Dead, The Chinese Poet Awakens, and Miracles of Air — A celebration of Marion

Another illustrated jewel is Miracles of Air, a 12-page chapbook illustrated by George Chavatel, a beloved artist and professor at Emory & Henry College for many years. Marion hand-set 226 copies, including 26 lettered “A-Z,” signed by author and artist.

Marion shared a vision of the book as a whole piece of art, not just free-floating poems. (Those poems, floating now across digital pages, still shine with their own grace and integrity.) Marion’s vision gave us a cohesive creation of poetry, visual art, and printed design.

When I began this post, I almost typed the cliched words, “A voice in poetry has fallen silent.” But that isn’t true at all. Through his carefully-crafted work, his numerous students and readers, we can still hear his voice, and it will echo for generations.

Jeff Daniel Marion Online

A selection with interview on Still
Selections available from Poetry Foundation
A detailed biography from The University of Tennessee
And if you haven’t read it before . . . Please go read “The Man Who Loved Hummingbirds.” I will never stop loving that poem.

Remembering Some Advice

In addition to his writing and teaching, Jeff Daniel Marion was a printer. He spent long hours hand-setting type, an experience he described to classes and workshops.

Writers often say each word matters. (The legendary William Strunk Jr., of Strunk & White fame, commanded us: “Omit needless words.”) As a printer, Jeff Daniel Marion said he learned a much deeper appreciation for cutting excess words.

Marion would laugh as he described long hours setting a poem word by word, letter by letter. Once each word meant extra work, he was acutely aware of the words a poem needed and the words to let go.

Few of us have access to vintage printing presses, but his story is a reminder to slow down, read closely, and then read even closer. Take a poem or paragraph you need to revise and copy it by hand in your most careful print. Have patience, give your full attention–have mercy on the printer!–and savor every word.

What we leave behind is memory,
those little seeds drying on the sill,
the hope of harvest
to return again and again.

     Jeff Daniel Marion, from The Chinese Poet Awakens

How Dead Is a Doornail, Anyway?

July 12, 2021 / April Asbury / 0 Comments

I don’t mean to say that, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a doornail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for.
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Dad was fond of the saying “dead as a doornail.” Dad was fond of a lot of colorful expressions, some of which can be attributed to his West Virginia upbringing: “sure as God made little green apples,” “ain’t got the sense God gave a turkey,” and, my personal favorite, “cute as a speckled pup on a little red wagon.”

Two copies of Inklings with a sealed bag of rough-looking iron nails. The bag reads, "Coffin Nails." — Two high school lit mags, topped with the deadest nails of all

At some point in high school, I wondered why “dead as a doornail” became the ultimate measure of annihilation. Dickens wryly suggests the phrase is “the wisdom of our ancestors.” Sure enough, it was already old hat when a guy named Shakespeare used it in Henry IV Part 2.

“Look on me well,” snarls the hangry Jack Cade. “I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.”

Spoiler alert: somebody dies, but it’s not the other six guys.

So this poem is high-school me wrestling with the question. I blame my father. And possibly Marley. And I should probably apologize profusely to anyone who makes it to the end.

Just How Dead is a Doornail?

Just how dead is a doornail,
and how came this doornail to die?
Hung, shot, stabbed, crushed by a whale,
fallen fifty stories in an effort to fly?
Then, perhaps, by the end of this tale,
you won’t care how, or when, or why.

When it gets itself got I have paid for a plot
inside a Kroger parking lot. Flowers, lilies, have I bought,
morbid now are all my thoughts, but the doornail sickens not.
Though we two have never fought, Doornail’s deathwatch is my lot.
And the doornail does not die.

The villains are foiled, the waters are oiled,
the pure have been soiled and the workers have toiled.
The snakes are uncoiled and the lobsters are boiled,
the sun-bathers broiled and great treasures despoiled.
But the doornail . . . does not die.

Time crawls by and shall ne’er again fly
as I wait for nail nigh to finally die,
and I ask why, O Great God on High,
why, O God, why have I this curiosity?
For this doornail does not die!

While my plants have died and my chicken’s fried,
the brave heroes hide and the honest have lied.
They succumb to the tide no one can abide;
we’re fit to be tied, and the whole world has cried.
Yet the doornail will not die!

Gnats live days and flies just weeks,
and everyone dies and begins to reek . . .

But the doornail never ages, nor war on illness wages,
and my heart inwardly rages as I live out life’s last stages.
We all find our coffin cages as we flutter through the ages,
and the poets pin their pages from the heroes’ hemorrhages—

BUT THE DOORNAIL . . . DOES NOT . . . DIE!

Originally published in Inklings, the literary arts magazine of PCHS, 1991. Additional blame and/or credit to Monica Hoel, for keeping the existential angst of domestic ironmongery in her desk and in her heart.

Spotlight: Marilou Awiakta

July 6, 2021 / April Asbury / 1 Comment

This spotlight celebrates a long-time friend of writers, teachers, and students throughout the region. The work of Marilou Awiakta, an author of rich Cherokee and Appalachian heritage, remains relevant. Her messages of respect–for the environment, for others, and for oneself–are vital, necessary, and hopeful.

Awiakta’s 1978 book, Abiding Appalachia: Where Mountain and Atom Meet, includes themes she will explore throughout her life. As a child, Awiakta truly lived on “the atomic frontier”: Oak Ridge, Tennessee, a town dedicated to developing the atomic bomb.

Pile of different editions of Abiding Appalachia and Selu — Copies of Selu and Abiding Appalachia

Abiding Appalachia illuminates a childhood full of science and secrets. These wonders are braided with reflections on heritage, Cherokee belief and history . . . From “Cemetery Folks” to “Star Vision,” from lucid prose to rhythmic poetry, Awiakta braids these elements into a cohesive whole.

This hybrid form appears again in Selu: Seeking the Corn Mother’s Wisdom. Little Deer, the “small white chief of the deer,” fills Abiding Appalachia with his luminous energy. (He’s the deer leaping through the whirling atom on the cover,) In Selu appears the powerful figure of the Corn Mother, guide and provider. Both Little Deer and Selu teach, in their own ways, the importance of respect: respect for the providers, for the natural world, for family, and for the stories that teach and unite.

Awiakta frequently visits Virginia, presenting and reading at the Highlander Literary Festival and leading workshops for the Highland Summer Conference.

A woman in blue sits with Marilou Awiakta. Both share a single flowered shawl. — “Shawl sisters”: Jo Ann Aust Asbury with Marilou Awiakta in Radford

Her interviews and readings are online in the Radford University Digital Collection. (Hearing her–and reciting and even dancing with her–makes a special experience!)

Today Awiakta’s work is being introduced to new audiences. Her alma mater, the University of Tennessee, celebrated her work in a virtual event now accessible online. She donated her papers to the Betsey B. Creekmore Special Collections and University Archives, ensuring that future students and writers will experience her work in new ways.

Recently USA Today selected Awiakta for their Women of the Century list. Joining other Tennesseeans such as Maxine Smith and Dolly Parton, Awiakta is celebrated as an “award-winning writer” who draws “the curtain back on this turning point in U.S. and world history.”

Awiakta’s life is intimately connected with the birth of the atomic age, her recovery of her Cherokee heritage, and the immediate need for protecting the environment. She truly is a woman of the century, and her work points our way to the future.

Marilou Awiakta’s “Three-Times Vision”

Understanding rarely comes with the first quick glance. For deeper understanding, Awiakta says some Cherokee believe in looking at something three times:

Look once with the left eye,
then once with the right eye,
then once from the corner of your eye to discern the spirit.

The first glance and the second glance get “the actual, the tangible clearly in mind,” while the third look involves both sense and spirit. The deeper understanding, Awiakta says, requires patience and stillness, a readiness to see from multiple perspectives.

The writing exercise below is one version of a favorite prompt Awiakta used at Radford University. Try filling in the blanks, and you will have three different perspectives of a vivid memory. Put yourself in that special memory, and then answer the following.

I hear . . .
I feel . . .
I remember . . .

Bonus: A Little Advice from Awiakta

Below are just a few notes from Awiakta’s writing workshops. While this advice was originally intended for poets, all writers can benefit, especially from #4. The theme of “respect” runs through all of Awiakta’s work, so respect your work, respect yourself, and respect your readers, too.

Cut adverbs. Words that end with “-ly” can destroy the rhythm of a poem.
Cut pronouns. Join sentences together.
Don’t explain as you go or preach at the end.
Less is more. Trust your readers!

Photograph Writing Exercise: Zoom In, Zoom Out

July 1, 2021 / April Asbury / 0 Comments

This week I’ve been sorting through a box of photographs. The women in my family were always “keepers,” keeping all kinds of photographs, letters, and ephemera. But as they grew older–or, in the case of my grandmother and aunt, developed dementia–they tossed these keepsakes and mementos in boxes, mixed up, or tacked them willy-nilly in photo albums.

Old photo of boy wearing letter sweater — Uncle Norman, is that you?

Sorting through them now brings up a lot of memories–or, in some cases, discoveries. Is this freckle-faced kid in a “Dublin Dukes” sweater my dignified Uncle Norman? Who is this strange guy posing with my teenaged grandmother? And why is Dad wearing that kimono?

Old photographs provide rich prompts. Dozens of prewriting exercises start with pictures. During the 2018 Highland Summer Conference, author Crystal Wilkinson gave a writing exercise based on family photographs.

Before digging in, however, she asked us to read a famous (and heart-rending) example: “I Go Back to May 1937” by Sharon Olds. The poem begins like a basic writing exercise. First look at an old photo, then write the words, “I see them . . .” After this start, Olds gives us vivid description:

. . . I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the   
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head . . .

Description unfolds into context and background: “they are about to graduate, they are about to get married, / they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are / innocent, they would never hurt anybody.” (What a perfect time to break the old “rule” of “Show, don’t tell.” In this case, the “telling” makes the poem.) Then she evokes the terrible miracle of her parents marriage–their suffering, the pain they inflict, her own existence.

Below is my version of some of these popular writing prompts. Feel free to try it out, and let me know if it works for you.

Fashionable young woman in foreground of a busy sidewalk — Note on back reads “Fay in Baltimore.” What details do you notice? Could there be a story here?

Zoom In, Zoom Out

Find a photograph you’d like to spend time with. You can be part of the photo or not; the photo can be of friends and families or complete strangers. Set aside at least ten minutes for sections 1-3. Remember this exercise is for prewriting, so don’t worry about making it “perfect.”

Describe the photo in front of you as objectively as you can. Pretend you are an outsider; what is actually visible? (Pay special attention to color, shadows, location, clothing, expressions, etc.) Be detailed, and take as much time as you need.
Now zoom in. Describe the scene as an insider would. Who are these people? What are they doing? (It’s OK to use your imagination.)
Now zoom out. See beyond the camera lens. What is outside the picture frame? If you were standing behind the camera, what would you see if you turned your head? What might you hear, feel, smell?
Zoom in even closer. What is the “secret” behind this photograph? What is something only the subject(s) would know?

Little girls in dresses at a picnic. One makes a face while holding a balloon. — Are we even related? Who knows. It’s still a great photo. Happy Fourth!

The Highland Summer Conference is Back!

June 28, 2021 / April Asbury / 2 Comments

COVID interrupted all our lives, and we still live with its consequences. The Highland Summer Conference is one of many longstanding traditions that 2020 interrupted. This July, however, the annual workshop and class marks its 43rd event. Rejoice, writers and readers–the Highland Summer Conference is back!

Banner for the 2021 Highland Summer Conference, July 19-23 2021. Photo of Diane Gilliam, guest writer. — From the 2021 Highland Summer Conference flyer

The Highland Summer Conference evolved from a residency program at Radford University, Virginia, in 1978. This creative workshop, hosted in the Blue Ridge mountains, features Appalachian themes and Appalachian writers. This year, the workshop welcomes two favorite guests: Diane Gilliam and Leatha Kendrick.

Photo of guest author Leatha Kendrick. Public readings in McConnell Library, July 20 and 22, at 7 PM.

Students can take the workshop for course credit, as both undergraduates and graduates. If you don’t need the credit, you can still take the event as a conference (with a special rate for seniors, too).

If COVID has been hard on your finances, you can still attend free readings on Tuesday and Thursday from the guest authors. And, if you can’t be here in person, this year also offers virtual participation.

I’ve participated in the Highland Summer Conference as a student and a guest author. The experience remains a special one.

One of my favorite comments about the HSC experience is from Bonnie Erickson, a frequent participant, quoted in the 1997 volume of ALCAlines: “In this class you write about life–your life. . . . Some write about happiness, but just as many write about pain. Many write of success and some write of failure. Many come in wounded. Hundreds leave healed. I was among the latter.”

What a testament to the power of a writing community. With the return of the HSC, particularly with guests such as Diane and Leatha, attendees can refresh the creative spirit, produce new work, listen to a pair of fine writers, and maybe even find a little healing themselves.

Spotlight: B. Chelsea Adams

June 24, 2021 / April Asbury / 1 Comment

This is my first “Spotlight”: a series (I hope) of posts about favorite regional writers, their works, and their favorite “getting started” exercises. Today I’d like to turn a spotlight on an excellent writer, teacher, and mentor, B. Chelsea Adams.

Portrait of B. Chelsea Adams in front of trees. — B. Chelsea Adams

Chelsea was born in Fairfield, Connecticut, and she has spent much of her life in southwest Virginia. She earned an M.A. in English and Creative Writing from Hollins College (Hollins University today), working with writers such as R.H.W. Dillard.

For many years she taught at Radford University; I met her through my mother, Jo Ann Aust Asbury, as they taught in the English department. Chelsea’s friendship and her generosity with her gifts has left an expansive legacy within the creative community. Writers have blossomed in her writing groups, flourishing in a rich creative company.

Chelsea’s work runs from the elegiac to the playful, the contemplative to the sensual. Consider some of the titles from her Sow’s Ear Press collection, Looking for a Landing: “Chaos Theory,” “Aesthetics of Dying” . . . And, in contrast, the simply-titled “Bike Ride” and “Cows.”

It’s hard not to love her slender chapbook, Java Poems. This elegant book is a paean to the writer’s elixir of life: Coffee! The truly fortunate have been lucky enough to see Chelsea perform her “java poems” live, beatnik style, complete with beret and the jazz accompaniment of her husband, Bill.

Chelsea’s poetry collection At Last Light is available from Finishing Line Press. Both her fiction and poetry regularly appears in Floyd County Moonshine, including their most recent issue. Her 2020 novel, Organic Matter, promises “romance and roadkill” and is currently available on Amazon.

The Sure-Fire Poetry Exercise

Below is a “sure-fire” exercise from B. Chelsea Adams. Answering its deceptively-simple questions will put you “in place,” giving you a quick path to concrete imagery and creative experssion.

Answer these four questions. (The answers can be real or made-up.)

Where are you? (But you can’t say, “I am . . .”)
What are you doing? (You can’t say, “I am . . .”)
What are you thinking or feeling? (Don’t say, “I am . . .” or “I think/feel . . .”)
What do you see? (But don’t say, “I see . . .”)

And that’s it! Have fun, and see if it’s “sure-fire” for you, too!

Snowdrop in the Supermarket

June 21, 2021 / April Asbury / 0 Comments

Red and yellow supermarket apples — Not a winesap. Not even close.

Some folks requested the rest of “Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight,” the poem mentioned in “Publishing Tales 2: Mistakes Were Made.” Below is the full version, which also appears in my chapbook, Woman with Crows.

The work previously appeared in The Anthology of Appalachian Writers. It also won first place in the in the Wytheville Chautauqua Festival creative writing contest.

Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight

Glass doors slide closed, sealing
me in the chilled air; everything dying
is perfectly preserved. Metal bins
gleam, and a gloss of water
glistens on green plastic turf.

Fruit is piled like promises: pale orbs
of honeydew, mesh bags of limes. The curve
of a cantaloupe cracks like a potter’s glaze,
and persimmons burn dim crimson
beside the dignified lumber of plantains.

I heft the fleshy gold of oranges,
bright tangerines, bastard tangelos,
baroque and burnished pomegranates,
the jumbled purple plums. There is no red
more red than cherries studded
with crystal, no yellow brighter
than the panes of pineapple,
no blue more other-worldly
than frosted globes of grapes.

And in that moment, I would trade
the whole waxy rainbow
for one crisp winesap,
dappled with sun, sugared
with September, its white flesh
sweeter than honey in the mouth.

Small apple ripening on a leafy branch. — Much more tempting. Photo credit Pexels.com.

All rights belong to April J. Asbury. Do not reprint, alter, or redistribute without express permission.

Publishing 2: Mistakes Are Made

June 17, 2021 / April Asbury / 1 Comment

Before publishing anything, we always want to make sure the piece is as “clean” as possible. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, our work escapes us in less-than-perfect form.

19th-century portrait of a Puritan woman writing at her desk while rolling eyes heavenward — Kids, man.

Some issues are due to our own errors, editing, or computer glitches. Whatever the cause, we suddenly we feel deep kinship to Anne Bradstreet in “The Author to Her Book.”

Anne Bradstreet wrote her poems almost 400 years ago, but writers today can empathize. We can use spell check, run our work through writing groups, hire editors . . . Stuff happens. While we want to send our best work out into the world, sometimes we need to let go of it, blemishes and all.

Almost 20 years ago, I did a prewriting exercise that turned into “Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight.” This tribute to late-night grocery store produce departments is meant to be an abundance of color and texture.

I wanted to play with words and give the reader unexpected, chewy combinations. Here’s a stanza:

Fruit is piled like promises: pale orbs
of honeydew, mesh bags of limes. The curve
of a cantaloupe cracks like a potter's glaze,
and persimmons burn dim crimson
beside the dignified lumber of plantains.

“Persimmons burn dim crimson”–isn’t that fun to say? And I wanted to describe the pile of brown-streaked plantains beside them . . . But I didn’t know I had a problem.

I couldn’t spell “plantains.”

A bunch of ripe organic bananas — Bananas. Not plantains.

I put the prewriting away. Over the years I’d take it out again, rewrite it, show it to people . . . By my count, the poem went through at least three writing groups. Multiple people proofread this poem. At one point, it even won first place in the Chautauqua Festival Writing Contest, sponsored by the Wythe Arts Council.

Finally I submitted the work to The Anthology of Appalachian Writers published by Shepherd University. They selected the poem, and I was thrilled. Before publication, they sent me the poem to review one last time. That’s when I finally noticed the tiny red wiggle under “plaintains.”

All these years, all those readers, and nobody noticed I couldn’t spell “plantains.”

I added it to the edits, sent it back to the editor, and “Snowdrop” is in the book in all her word-chewing, apple-loving glory. But I learned an important lesson that day: do your best, send out your work when it’s ready, and remember that mistakes will still happen.

So . . . Don’t go bananas.

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April J. Asbury, Writer