Life has been very challenging of late—lots of tears, pain, emotions, fears, prayers, rantings, and little or no answers. Because of dealing with all this, I have had no inspiration and energy for writing or author business, much less promoting my upcoming book, The Regal Pink.
Today, in the wee hours of the morning, I dug into a study by Joni and Friends entitled The Gospel in Hard Times. It is just what I need right now. Though it is meant to be done with a group, I am doing it individually. There are videos to watch online too. The one I watched this morning was very inspirational.
Listening to some worship music this morning when I woke up really lifted my spirit as well. I spent a few hours in the depths of despair yesterday. I am thankful that God was there with me. I am glad that there is nowhere that I can go physically, mentally, or emotionally that he is not. He is always with me. Because of that truth and others I can continue on.
I wrote this poem/prayer this morning and thought I would share it with you. I hope that my words might encourage you to keep believing, keep trusting, and keep on living.
With a Hallelujah
Though my song has been stolen, You sing over me.
When my lips cannot even form one plea, You intercede for me.
In the threatening darkness, You light my way.
On the frontline of my battles, You spread the banner of love over me.
When I think I can no longer go on, You strengthen me.
Though my hope becomes like a caged bird, You free it.
When fear spreads its fingers around my neck, choking me, You are my breath.
At the edge of the precipice, You make me fly.
When pain floods over me, almost drowning me, You help me walk on water.
Though my heart quakes within my chest, You make me courageous.
When I need You, You never fail me.
And at the end, when nothing else is left to say,
I will die with a a sacrifice of praise and a hallelujah on my lips.
Recently, I revealed the cover of my upcoming novel, The Regal Pink. I am so thrilled with how the cover turned out. I think it exemplifies the main character and the feel of the book very well. Stepping into writing and publishing in the genre of fantasy is new to me, but I knew I needed to have something eye-catching that fit well with what readers can expect from this genre.
The story is based on a Grimm’s tale, The Pink. Of course, I put my own spin on things and will connect the story to two others—also based on other Grimm’s tales but ones that are more well-known—in the series. Next up in the series is The Wildest Rose, which I will start writing soon. I am drafting a rough outline right now. A fun fact: I am writing a gnome into this one, and my oldest grandson came up with the character’s name.
The ebook for The Regal Pink can be pre-ordered now on Amazon. The book releases in e-book and paperback form on May 12th.
“This inventive novel has more layers than first meets the eye, elevating it far beyond a simple retelling of a familiar story into a uniquely, entertaining, genre-blending work of romantic fantasy.”
Self-Publishing Review
💕ABOUT THE BOOK💕
A young man who can grant wishes. A fairy hoping for her wings. A king and queen seeking an heir.
Far, far away, in the fairy tale kingdom of Evermoor, young, gifted Daniel dreams of escaping his life in captivity and his dastardly Uncle Aldrich. Diana, a flower fairy charged with guiding Daniel, helps him channel his ability to grant wishes, but his uncle exploits Daniel’s gift, stealing the wishes for himself.
Warned not to fall prey to mortal love, Diana keeps a friendly distance from Daniel, but she cannot deny her growing feelings for him. Will she shield her heart or risk losing the chance to ever go back home to the Green Glade and gain her fairy wings?
In the same kingdom, childless King Roderick and Queen Rosalind have become divided by a great sorrow. Battling the wounds of the past, the monarchs make a valiant effort to move forward, but can they learn to trust each other again? What future can the kingdom have without an heir?
Readers of fantasy, Christian fantasy, clean romance, and YA fantasy will be enraptured with this gripping tale of overcoming the past and embracing hope, layered with romance for both the young and the young at heart.
“Knipfer has created a well-constructed story with all the elements of a classic fairy tale: a royal family, a lost prince, magical creatures, and determined villains.” Readers’ Favorite, five-star review
“A heady blend of magical realism, miss, and references to God’s force in the world that will involve readers in a complex, appealing rendering of Grimms original ‘The Pink’.” Donavon’s Literary Services
A short excerpt from The Regal Pink
Daniel In the 20th reigning year of King Roderick III Evermoor 1451
She tried to kill me in my dreams.
The vision of it rested as real in Daniel’s mind as the clock on the mantle, which he heard striking midnight. As the clock chimed for the last time, he envisioned Diana hovering over his chest with a raised knife, her eyes wide and wild and her cheeks flushing as brightly as the bloom of a clove-pink. The dream had caused Daniel such terror, his heart still pounded thinking about it.
He sucked in a breath and shivered on his pallet by the hearth, which had now gone cold. Daniel stretched the rough, woolen blanket up to his chin. His eyes searched the small room of what passed for his home, expecting Diana to jump out at him, but no one appeared. Hopefully, she rested better than he did. Her bed sat behind the muslin curtains sectioning off a corner of the room. The curtains hung suspended like a ghost in the moonlight shining in through the window. The fabric fluttered, brought to life by the draft under the door.
Dwelling on his dream, Daniel understood that it wasn’t the idea of dying that had frightened him. No, it was the fact that his friend, whom he had come to love, had held the knife. What manner of alarming premonition is this? Daniel couldn’t understand how his mind had fabricated Diana taking up a weapon against him.
Surely not!
Uncle Aldrich, Daniel could see. He did not care for Daniel. He only kept Daniel because he proved useful to him. Daniel grew tired of working his uncle’s wishes. He dreamed of leaving the hovel they lived in, but he didn’t know where to go. Daniel couldn’t comprehend why his uncle had not wished for a life away from this place. Something surely kept him tethered to such a humble abode, or Uncle would have forced Daniel to lay a path of wishes that led to a richer life.
Thanks for reading!
I hope you enjoyed the short excerpt from The Regal Pink and look forward to more tidbits of info and excerpts. J
For sometime, I’ve been thinking, I want to write a poem again, needed to write one. Poetry has always helped me truly express what is inside, more than anything else. So today I tapped this out on my iPad, and I can say I feel much relief over having gotten it out. Maybe you can relate to something in it.
I thought I’d share an excerpt from my upcoming fairy tale novel, The Regal Pink, which I am releasing just before Mother’s Day on May 12th. Though the story contains romance for the young and the young at heart, it is also very much about a mother and a son, so I thought a Mother’s Day release would be meaningful. 💕👸📚✍️
Daniel In the 20th reigning year of King Roderick III Evermoor 1451
She tried to kill me in my dreams.
The vision of it rested as real in Daniel’s mind as the clock on the mantle, which he heard striking midnight. As the clock chimed for the last time, he envisioned Diana hovering over his chest with a raised knife, her eyes wide and wild and her cheeks flushing as brightly as the bloom of a clove-pink. The dream had caused Daniel such terror, his heart still pounded thinking about it.
He sucked in a breath and shivered on his pallet by the hearth, which had now gone cold. Daniel stretched the rough, woolen blanket up to his chin. His eyes searched the small room of what passed for his home, expecting Diana to jump out at him, but no one appeared. Hopefully, she rested better than he did. Her bed sat behind the muslin curtains sectioning off a corner of the room. The curtains hung suspended like a ghost in the moonlight shining in through the window. The fabric fluttered, brought to life by the draft under the door.
Dwelling on his dream, Daniel understood that it wasn’t the idea of dying that had frightened him. No, it was the fact that his friend, whom he had come to love, had held the knife. What manner of alarming premonition is this? Daniel couldn’t understand how his mind had fabricated Diana taking up a weapon against him. Surely not!
Uncle Aldrich, Daniel could see. He did not care for Daniel. He only kept Daniel because he proved useful to him. Daniel grew tired of working his uncle’s wishes. He dreamed of leaving the hovel they lived in, but he didn’t know where to go. Daniel couldn’t comprehend why his uncle had not wished for a life away from this place. Something surely kept him tethered to such a humble abode, or Uncle would have forced Daniel to lay a path of wishes that led to a richer life.
Daniel rolled onto his side and thought about his parents. He wished he remembered them. Uncle had told him little over the years about them except that they’d died in a fire when Daniel was a child. Uncle Aldrich said he had rescued Daniel— which Daniel would always be grateful for—but Daniel had no memory of a fire or its smoky fury.
Instead, when he closed his eyes and concentrated, he remembered the sound of splashing water, a garden edged with peachy, sunset-hued clove-pinks, several of which he’d clutched in his hand, and something red, staining the white, pebbled path. That was Daniel’s last memory of his life before he had come to live with his uncle.
I’m happy to share an author interview I did with Kayla E. Green with you today. Kayla and I connected on Instagram awhile back, and I have enjoyed getting to know her. Kayla writes Christian fantasy, a genre, as an author, I am dipping my feet into as well. I hope you enjoy getting to know Kayla too.
Interview:
What prompted you to pursue publication?
I was raised to be a storyteller. Through read-alouds and bedtime stories as part of our daily routine, my mother fostered a love for literacy in me from an early age. Even before I had mastered the skill of reading, I would make-up my own stories based on book illustrations. I wrote my first “book” in elementary school, complete with my own drawings about a guinea pig wanting a family, and I used electrical tape for the book’s binding. Later, in middle school, I won my first writing contest. Somewhere along the way, with the burden of growing up, I lost that part of me. But, like C.S. Lewis explained to his goddaughter about life, I one day grew old enough to start reading fairytales again. With my return to reading, I started writing again. I realized that I had been ignoring a great passion and ultimately a calling by trying to be what I thought I needed to be versus embracing the stories God was placing on my heart. My faith fuels my writing, and I want to share my stories, and my faith, with others. This ultimately led me to pursue publication.
What inspired you to write Aivan: The One Truth?
An important scene in Aivan: The One Truth was inspired by a church sermon on Elijah and the prophets of Baal. I had a rough idea for the character of Rune, but it wasn’t until this sermon that I realized who Rune was and what story she was telling. Many Old Testament scenes inspired Rune and Rolf’s journeys in the novella.
What was the most difficult aspect of writing your novel? The most rewarding?
The most difficult aspect of writing the novella was trying to weave biblical truth into a fantasy tale that young readers would love. Aivan: The One Truth is actually a prequel novella to the story of Reyna (I will be sharing some related news soon with readers). Trying to introduce readers to the world in a fast-paced, quick-read was challenging.
The most rewarding part, however, is seeing young readers connect with Rune and Rolf.
Before the novella was published, I did a short reading with a group of seventh grade students. They were hooked with chapter one and begged me to keep reading! That moment of seeing my target audience respond so positively to my story was extremely rewarding.
What do you hope readers will take away from your book?
I hope readers, specifically young readers, walk away from the novella with a desire for growth in their walks of faith as well as in their character. I want them to see the importance of standing up for truth, even when society preaches lies. I want them to understand that hard things are possible. I want them to recognize that oftentimes our plans don’t work out how we want them to because they are flawed as we are only human and our foresight is limited. And, if a reluctant reader, I want them to see that reading can be, and is, fun.
Which authors or books have inspired you the most as a writer?
Patricia Wrede’s Dealing with Dragons is the book that solidified my love for fantasy
stories. Maggie Platt’s Kingdom Above the Cloud is the book that showed me that I could not just write fantasy stories with Christian undertones, but write Christian fantasy – it opened my eyes to a whole new sub-genre. Other authors I love include C.S. Lewis, Roald Dahl, Ray Bradbury, E. B. White, and Janette Oke.
Hannah Carter, author of the YA fantasy The Depths of Atlantis, is one of my favorite authors. Her talent as a writer, her genuine spirit, her gentle candor, and her strong faith inspire me in so many ways. Hannah’s ability to handle hard, relatable topics with grace is something I aspire to emulate.
What piece of advice would you offer aspiring authors?
You are not aspiring; you are an author. I struggled with labeling myself as an “author” for a long time. Instead, I told people that I “dabbled in writing” because writing wasn’t my full-time job. I realized it’s all pointless semantics. If you write, you are an author. Life is hard enough without stripping yourself of things you should take pride in; you are an author – wear that badge proudly!
A second piece of advice I have to offer is don’t let perfectionism keep you from writing. In the words of Jodi Picoult, “You can edit a bad page, but you can’t edit a blank page.”
What do you enjoy doing when not writing?
When I’m not writing, or working on my never-ending to-do list, I’m usually trying to catch up on sleep. I very much like to sleep. I also enjoy reading, though oftentimes my dogs’ demands for cuddles distract me from reading. But those are happy distractions. I like to sing loudly and off-key to KLove Radio, country music, and Taylor Swift. Pretending I’m a unicorn, spending time with my family, talking with friends, napping, convincing my husband to take me to Logan’s Roadhouse for dinner on the weekends, and watching my favorite three comfort movies over and over are also things I like to do when I happen to have free time.
What 5-10 adjectives would you use to describe yourself?
My favorite color is pink. It is bright, bubbly, inviting, and fun.
Thank you!
Thank you so much for reading Kayla’s interview. I hope enjoyed reading her answers as much as I did! If you’d like to learn more about Kayla or purchase her books, you can find her at:
“Drink and be satisfied.” Those were the words I heard during my prayer time this morning. Often throughout my life I have sought an image from the Lord that I can hold onto. That I can believe in and draw strength from. That is real. More real than my present circumstances and disability from MS.
As I listened to the sound of bubbling water on my iPad during a time of prayer and meditation, I imagined a forest spring of clear water, running over smooth stones. In the vision I saw myself as I might be someday: long, wavy golden brown hair, eyes, a brighter green than ever, and a slim, youthful body attired in a shimmering white dress, covered in tiny scales like diamonds that caught the light and changed color with every move.
I kneeled down and dipped my fingers in the cool, refreshing water. I prayed asking for guidance for this next phase of my life. I listened, and I heard, “Drink and be satisfied.”
I asked myself these questions: “What does satisfaction look like? And what am I supposed to drink?” I believe the answers can be found in these Bible verses: “…but whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life.” John 4:14 and John 7:38 “If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.”
Living Water
Living water sounds pretty satisfying; doesn’t it? Lately I have not been satisfied but have been recounting all the things that I can no longer do and the furthering disability that I am experiencing and see ahead. It’s like watching a devastating accident that hasn’t happened yet but you know will. I want more than this crummy hand I’ve been dealt. But as a Christian I have to believe that I am not in a game of chance. I have to trust that God can bring purpose through anything. I can be satisfied in Him, even with a life lived with MS.
Yet, I grieve what isn’t any more and what yet will be taken from me, but how can I grieve what has not come to pass? And conversely how can I hope for what I do not see? That is the core of faith—the evidence of what we hope for.
Evidence
But what and where is that evidence? In a court of law evidence is based on fact. In hope we foresee evidence that has not come to pass yet but will. How can we possibly hold on to something so ethereal and misty, morphing into dozens or perhaps countless possibilities. How can we anchor and pin this hope down?
I look back at the evidence of how God has moved in my life. How he has been so very real to me. And how my hopes have materialized in ways I could never have even fathomed. This gives me faith for the future, knowing that He is trustworthy of my hope. He is God and cannot lie or fail us like those around us. No, indeed, He is the only anchor in this storm of life.
Are you in need of an anchor today? Do you need a word from the Lord? All you need to do is seek Him, listen, read His word, and believe that He will give you what you need. Pray for a phrase or an image today that you can hold on to. That you can hope for. That you can believe in and that through Him will satisfy your soul.
I am so happy to tell you that my last and final book, By Broken Birch Bay, in the Sheltering Trees series has released today!
I set out to write a mystery with this book, but it’s not your typical mystery, with a murder at the beginning and a person who investigates the crime to catch the murderer. Rather this book starts each chapter, set in the future, with prison diary entries from the perspective of the person who has committed the crime. The following portion of each chapter is the narrative. The timelines converge at the end.
In writing the story this way, I kept the prison diary entries ambiguous, so even I didn’t know who did it until the very end. I knew who was going to die, but I didn’t know how or who would commit the deed. I would like to write more books this way. It was fun! Every reader so far has really been kept in suspense and no one has guessed correctly who did it at the end.
Read more details about the book and where you can purchase it here:
Thanks for being a part of my writing journey! If you are on Facebook, please join my release party tomorrow in my group, Journeying With Jenny. Visit the group link below and request to join. I’m giving away a number of prizes, including two paperback books. I hope to see you there! J
I dug through my upcoming release, By Broken Birch Bay, and thought you might enjoy reading the pre-Thanksgiving scene. It comes about mid-way through the story.
Many years ago, I used to work in a local, hometown café as a short-order cook. It was actually my first real job. I have some good memories from that time, but I also can attest to the craziness of how busy it would get and the idiosyncrasies of customers.
EXCERPT:
The week before Thanksgiving 1924 “Do we have any more pumpkin pie?” Petra shouted at Mick from the cafe’s pass-through. Mick, cooking a steak atop the stove, appeared to ignore her. Petra notched up her volume. “Mick!”
He turned his head in a quick motion. “What?” he shouted back. “Can’t ya see I’m busy?”
Petra huffed. This is ridiculous, shouting through a hole in the wall. She took the time and trotted around the wall, through the swinging doors, and into the kitchen. She marched up to the stove. Petra cocked her head and stood waiting with one hand on her hip, trying her best not to show her frustration. “I have another order for pumpkin pie, but I believe we’re out, unless you made more. Did you?”
Mick flipped the steak, a sizzle emanating from the pan, the smell of black pepper and onions rising up. “No. That’s on the agenda for tomorrow morning. What’s with people and pumpkin pie lately? By Thanksgiving we’ll be out.”
Petra snickered and thought of the mound of pumpkins inside the cellar at home. “Oh, don’t you worry. I know where you can get your hands on some pumpkin.”
“Good, ’cause I’ll probably need ’em.” Mick took a quick gander at Petra before examining his steak. “How’s it going out there without Ginny?”
Petra didn’t want Mick to think she wasn’t up to the challenge. “It’s busy, but I can handle it,” she told him. Petra needed her job at the cafe. Though, it wouldn’t hurt Ginny to show up when she’s supposed to.
“That girl’s got one more chance to get to work on time. If she pulls this again,” Mick ran his finger across his neck, “she’s done.”
Petra nodded, silently agreeing but inwardly groaning. She could handle the extra work for a few hours, but night after night? No way. If Ginny got herself fired, Mick had better have someone else lined up soon. Petra pointed to the dining room. “I gotta get back out there.”
Mick raised the spatula in his hand. “Wait. Take this with you.” He plated the steak and added a baked potato he pulled from the warming oven. He split the potato with a flash of a knife, dolloped a blob of butter on top, and scooped a big spoonful of peas on the side, adding more butter as a yellow crown to the mound of legumes. Mick handed Petra the plate and the slip. “Table six.”
“Gotcha.” Petra took the plate and hurried back to the dining room, depositing the meal with a smile to a beefy man in plaid at table six. “Sorry,” she told him. “We’re out of pumpkin pie.”
“Apple, then,” he said.
“Right,” Petra confirmed. “I’ll be back.” She had seen a few pieces of apple pie remaining in the pan in the pie safe. Hurrying back to where the pie was, she stumbled and almost fell.
“Whoa, there,” a familiar voice said, and a hand steadied her elbow.
Petra looked back into the bright blue eyes that had stolen her heart. Unsettling prickles sped up her arms. “Thanks,” she managed to get out, lowering her eyes away from Don’s. He must have come in while her back had been turned. He still had his coat buttoned and his gloves on. He stood near the bar.
“Sure is hopping tonight. Where’s Ginny?” he asked.
Petra flicked her eyes up to his. “Late. Which she better fix, if she wants to keep her job.” Don smiled, slow and easy, and the sight of it made her slightly woozy. Pull yourself together!
But his smile faded. “I better let you get back to work. When you have time, I’ll take a cup of chili, hot tea, and a slice of pumpkin pie.”
“Oh, no!” Petra groaned. She splayed her hands out to her sides.
Don’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “What? Did I say something wrong?” He half laughed.
Releasing an exaggerated sigh, Petra found the humor in her predicament and chuckled. “It’s just that you’re the fourth person to request pumpkin pie tonight, and we’re out.”
“Mick, out of pie? It’s unheard of.” Don feigned shock, and Petra jabbed him in the arm. Boy, it was great to laugh with him like they did before things changed.
Petra turned serious. “Take a seat. I believe your usual is available.” She pointed out his stool at the bar’s counter. “I’ll get your tea and chili. Want some bread with that?”
“Sure.” Don’s eyes said so much more than the one word, but what they were saying Petra wasn’t sure. She desperately wanted to find out.
Trying not to think about him, Petra bustled around filling his order and getting the apple pie she’d promised to the man in plaid. After she’d placed Don’s order in front of him, she allowed herself to look into his eyes. Hers were almost level with his, even though he sat, and she stood.
Don held her gaze, unwavering. “Petra, I…”
“Miss! Miss!” Petra looked up and saw a woman toward the far end of the cafe waving a hand in the air, a pinched look on her face. Petra hitched her thumb toward the back of the cafe. “I should go see…”
He didn’t drop his eyes from hers. “Yes.”
Petra grabbed the plate of pie and pulled herself away from Don. On her way to the woman calling her, Petra handed the plate of pie to Plaid Man. Going one table over, she went to see what the woman wanted.
The woman complained about the peas, saying they were “old and shriveled,” but wasn’t that how canned peas always looked? Then she went on and on about a hair she’d found in her bread. The woman made it sound like Mick had put it there on purpose to annoy her. And, of course, she had to be one of the customers who’d wanted pumpkin pie. Petra gritted her teeth. This day just keeps gettin’ better and better.
“I’m never coming back here again,” the woman stormed. Before Petra could offer something to appease her, the lady stood, as if she had a steel rod rammed up the back of her corset. She pointed to the door and tipped her chin up. “Come along, Bert.”
The poor, thin man next to her rose slowly, whispering an apology as he passed Petra. Petra shook her head and wished them good riddance. She turned and took two more orders before walking back to the counter. She reached into the pass-through and clipped the orders where Mick would see them. “Order!” she shouted.
Mick turned her way and acknowledged with a tip of his finger that he got the message. Turning back to face Don, Petra wondered what he’d been about to say.
“What was all that ruckus about?” Don asked between bites of bread dipped in his chili. A hint of stubble darkened the lower half of his face, and though it made him appear a little unkept, Petra also thought it made him look more handsome. Why, she couldn’t say. Maybe the idea of a rugged man more than a well-groomed one fed her romantic side. It certainly wasn’t her touch of sense governing her reason. Whiskers scratched, plain and simple, and that was a fact.
“An unhappy customer.” Petra gave him the details, and he laughed.
Shaking his head, Don said, “What people get annoyed over never ceases to amaze me.”
Petra agreed. “You aren’t kidding! I mean, really, shriveled peas?”
They shared another laugh.
Petra inched her fingers closer to his on the countertop. She looked down. “I’ve missed this, us laughing together.”
Don’s voice was soft, wistful. “Me too.” He moved his hand until it touched hers, then he brushed his fingers over hers. The simple action sent a shiver up Petra’s arm.
She had to know. “What happened? What did I do?” She braved looking into his eyes, her heart thumping harder at what he might say. He shook his head, a frown on his lips.
“Nothing! You did nothing wrong,” he said in a fierce whisper. He leaned across the counter toward her, the front of his shirt almost dipping in his chili.
“Then what?” Petra whispered back.
Tipping his head back, Don sucked in a breath and closed his eyes for a second. He opened them, connecting with Petra like a lead to a horse. “It’s more like who.”
Petra frowned. “Who? I don’t understand.”
“Order up!” Mick shouted loud enough for the whole diner to hear. Petra nearly jumped out of her skin and rolled her eyes. “Just a minute,” she told Don.
She turned to collect the two orders Mick had filled. She carried them to their respective customers and made her way back to Don at top speed. She faced Don. “You were saying.”
Giving a furtive glance around, Don said, “I think we should talk about this privately. Can I pick you up after work, or do you have to get home to Jefferson?”
Petra shook her head. “No, he’s staying at Mom and Dad’s tonight.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later. Around nine?” Don asked.
Often in the quotes I share from my books, I tend to choose dramatic ones that have conflict rather than romantic ones. But today I thought I’d give you just a little flavor of Petra’s budding romance with Don, a local fisherman and a frequent customer at the café Petra works at.
These quotes come from the ninth chapter in my soon to be released whodunit novel, By Broken Birch Bay.
Petra is rather gun shy when it comes to relationships. She had previously trusted her heart to a man who left broke it, leaving her expecting his child and alone.
Now, back home in Broken Birch Bay Petra is lowering her defenses once again, and praying this man won’t tread all over her heart like the last one had.
COMING UP:
A blog post on how I included how my parents met and fell in love in this book.
A Thursday Throwback pic of me next to my favorite trees.
The release date for By Broken Birch Bay is coming up, on November 18th. If you’re on Facebook, please join my release party, with fun historical and behind the scenes info, games, and giveaways. Request to join here:
I enjoy writing family drama, and I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s the interchange of dialogue that isn’t romantically based. Romance bits are actually my least favorite to write because often they are so predictable, but with family drama you never know what’s going to happen. Writing it brings me joy, however it is not too pleasant to live through in real life. With my drama although there is tension, which needs to be there for the story, I always work it out in a way that brings hope.
In this scene Petra and her mom are cleaning up after a family meal, in which Honey’s finance, Jeb, had joined them. And in this novel, the parents are the ones that need the most growth. Parents don’t have it right all the time. I can say for certain that in real life—no matter what your age or level of wisdom—there is never a time where you stop needing to grow, stop needing to be gracious, stop needing to expand your own understanding.
Excerpt:
August 1924
Broken Birch Bay Petra leveled her gaze at Mom, who looked away and continued to scour the crockery dish in the sink. If she rubbed any harder the glaze might come off.
“Aren’t you happy that Honey is happy?” Petra asked.
Mom rinsed the dish and handed it to Petra, who stood by with a towel. “She doesn’t know what happiness means.”
Her mother’s bitter tone surprised Petra. She didn’t know who this sarcastic, life-hardened woman was by her side, but she certainly wasn’t the mother of her growing-up years. That woman had been tender-hearted, had smiled at the drop of a hat, and certainly hadn’t shown such a sour outlook on most things in life. What changed her? Petra thought about it but couldn’t think of anything but her leaving to go to Colorado as the catalyst. Perhaps Petra could blame no one but herself for her mother’s hard spirit.
“And you do?” The question left her mouth before Petra had time to contemplate the boiling pot she might be stirring.
Flinging the last few pieces of wet cutlery on the towel on the counter, Mom said, “I know a far sight better than Honey. And I know that man will never make her happy.” She curled her bottom lip down at the corner, shrugging and shaking her head at the same time. “But you can’t tell her nothin’.”
Mom tipped the basin of dirty wash water down the sink. A gurgling, sucking noise followed. Petra heard in it a synoptic auditory semblance of how her gentle, loving family had changed—drained away by the messiness of life. And a lot of it had been her mess.
“Why don’t you like Jeb?”
Picking the cutlery up, Petra dried it and put it away, waiting for her mother’s revelation. Mom heaved out a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a number of small things. You wouldn’t understand, but a mother knows.”
Petra hung up the towel and faced Mom, her hands positioned on her hips. “Look, I can’t help if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No one asked for your help,” Mom barked.
Petra widened her eyes in surprise. Where did that come from? She decided to take a gentler route and moved closer to Mom. “I love Honey too. You’re not the only one.”
A sniffle broke Mom into an outright cry. She beat her fist against her chest. “I wanted more for her and for you. I had dreams for you both.”
Petra hung her head, feeling like the black sheep again. “Sorry to disappoint.” She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up.
“No, I’m not blaming you.” Mom spoke with care and longing. “I just wish it could have been different. That you hadn’t…”
Petra finished, “Come home in disgrace.”
Thanks for reading!
As always, thank you for reading my humble words and stories. You can find out more about By Broken Birch Bay and watch the book trailer here: https://jennyknipfer.com/by-broken-birch-bay/
