Margaret Philbrick

Author. Gardener. Teacher. Planting seeds in hearts.

Author. Gardener. Teacher.

Planting seeds in hearts.
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I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow.   1 Corinthians 3:6
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Orchard Memories

July 10, 2021 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

This piece of short fiction pays homage to a simpler time when life in summer was spent playing tag in orchards and never once thinking about the time. Special thanks to Julie Lockard whose experiences growing up on a Michigan orchard informed this piece as well as blessed summer days alongside my grandma and grandpa in Door County, WI.

Like most things it started with one. Grandma could never throw anything out. Like every Grandma in America she grew up during the depression or the war or the oil embargo. Some hard time, harder than any other hard time in history when only Grandmothers knew the tricks of survival.

Lipprandt Landscaping began at the end of the driveway in a handcrafted wooden cart, with an asphalt roof. A few dried florals, Empire apple trees and freshly cut Bittersweet in sea glass blue jars filled our stand. We thought it was too pretty to pass up on Highway 57, but people blew by us. My little sister Riva and I played dress up in ridiculous looking prairie dresses and sunbonnets to attract customers. We’d sit out there on weekends, perched atop tall picker stools counting cars. Buick Skylarks. Delta 88s. Ford station wagons loaded down with “turkey” kids, bikes on the back whizzing north. “Turkeys!”  Our code word for tourists, we screamed into the tart October air while staring down the license plates trying to figure out where all those turkeys came from. In one weekend we cleared $4.75.

“Olivia, why is no one buying these trees? Who wouldn’t want an apple tree to keep their family going?” Grandma wondered as we packed up the farm stand for the night. “Well, it’s the end of the season so girls, you get to help me plant ‘em.” Grandma handed each of us a Little Pal shovel and gazed out to the western stone boundary wall. By 6:30 p.m., after planting five trees, Lipprandt Landscaping became Lipprandt Orchard. It grew over the next twenty years to thirteen acres, and four varieties of apple trees. While I attended Marquette University, Grandma and Grandpa became experts in “orcharding.” Crabapple trees encircled their creation like a snowy wreath in springtime because bees love them and that speeds up pollination. It takes more than trees to be a successful orchard grower.

Our Apple Delight machine allowed visitors to smother their picked apples in caramel and a choice of crushed peanuts or hazelnuts. Cleaning up the concrete floor beneath this gooey apple coater put Grandpa in the Maritime Clinic twice for herniated discs. After a few years, apple themed knick-knacks littered the shelves. Folks bought the ugliest dried apple-faced cornhusk dolls, decked out in miniature calico aprons, sewn by Grandma on her Singer. Apple sauce, apple butter, apple fritters, apple pies, apple Christmas ornaments.

“Bess, how ‘bout an Apple Tilt-A- Whirl ride?” Grandpa asked. “No, we’re keeping this place natural. Nothing they can get in the city at Lipprandts.” Grandma shot back. One fall break I arrived in my little Pacer coupe and tried to pull up to the farmhouse, but a traffic cop in blaze orange shooed me over to an empty field parking lot across the road. Things were getting big and I wondered how Grandma and Grandpa could keep it going.

Every year, right before Halloween, we gathered around the dining room table for “Harvest Dinner.” This family tradition began when Grandma announced that cooking the Thanksgiving meal felt anti-climactic so long after harvest season closed. Now almost twenty, I’d graduated from the kids table to the adult circle expecting enticing conversation to twist along the lines of Nixon’s Watergate scandal and the upcoming bake sale at Saint Paul’s Lutheran. Instead, Grandpa, who rarely said a word while sawing through his Honey Baked ham, cleared his throat and picked up a toothpick. 

“Kids, it’s gettin’ to be too much,” he said while working the toothpick around his canines. “The orchard is too much work for Bess and I to keep up so we’re inviting one of you to think about moving back home and helping out. Our hope being that one of your families would eventually take it over.” 

Grandpa bit down hard on the toothpick and spit the wooden shards into his trembling hand. One by one adults set down their forks and sat up straighter. Their cigarettes extinguished hard into Green Bay Packer ashtrays. 

Mom spoke first. “Dad, Jeff just started his new job in Neenah and we’re getting settled in. I’m thinking about taking a job as a paralegal now that Olivia is at Marquette.” Her sympathetic glance across the table forced me to look away. 

I wanted to yell, “Mom, Riva and I planted those trees out there, how can you say no?” But, being new to the adult table I kept my mouth shut. 

Uncle Bob, the oldest brother in the family, went next. “Dad, you can’t be serious. Leave my job with Ernst and Young, my partnership, to come up here and prune apple trees and clean up the Apple Delight machine? I can barely get up here for Harvest Dinner. The firm is really growing and I’m a big part of the success in my division.” 

I saw Aunt Lois give his hand an appreciative squeeze under the table. We all waited for the one possible “yes.” The youngest of the three, my Uncle Pete.

Uncle Pete made it his own tradition to show up for Harvest Dinner dressed in full camo, counting the days until deer season. When he finished at Sevestapol High he took a job apprenticing for a local wood carver. He never wanted to leave the county. 

We all suspected it was because of the loss of Benjamin, the baby in our family who was only three years younger than Pete. We still don’t know exactly how it happened. “When Pete’s ready to talk about it, he will.” Mom once told me. Aunt Lois whispered one Sunday afternoon while drying the dishes that the accident involved the tractor and the harrower. Arm chills crept over me just thinking about it because the harrower is covered in long, sharp spikes. 

“What do ya think, Pete?” Grandpa asked.

Like most youngest, Pete leaned way back in his chair to the tipping point and grabbed hold of the brim of his hat. He took in a deep breath and rocked forward, pushing the china plate near the stacked apple centerpiece. Folding his hands deliberately, like he’s about to pray, 

“I don’t think I can Dad. I’m sorry. Things are real busy down at the wood shop.” Uncle Bob, the accountant snorted in disbelief that a woodshed could actually be “real busy.” Uncle Pete shot him a dagger look. 
“Well, we have our answer then. We’ll talk to Betty Wilsee about putting the orchard on the market tomorrow.” Grandma pushed away from the table, and cleared the dishes with an extra loud clatter. Grandpa picked up another toothpick.

After the orchard had been on the market for a year we came to believe that all the potential orchard owners were young couples in their early twenties with beards and braids tied in yarn ribbon at the ends. They wanted to leave behind the “rat race” and “live off the land,” but they didn’t know the difference between an Empire and a Johnny Gold. During the fall of my junior year at Marquette, I received an invitation from Grandma and Grandpa written in pristine green ink. 

Join us at Lipprandt Orchard and help bring in the last crop.
All Apple Delights on us. October 21st, 1975. 

Midterms presented a conflict, but my psychology professor granted an extension so I packed up the Pacer and spent three hours on the road wondering who bought the orchard.

Turning right onto Germantown Road I was surprised to see the empty parking field. Usually a few straggler pickers gleaned their way through the orchard before Halloween. A strong odor like burned apple pie juice on a cookie sheet wafted through my car vents as I pulled into the driveway. Half drawn bedroom shades covered the windows at 3:00 in the afternoon. Could Grandma be taking a nap? Somewhat relieved, I saw my sister’s car and the tractor alongside the barn, but where was everyone else? 

As I climbed out of my car in the gravel circle behind the farmhouse, a path of black death stretched out before me extending all the way out to the boundary wall. Every tree stump, a charred tombstone, about the height of your hand. I breathed in the ashy air. Grandpa was the first one to come out. 

“Well Olivia, there it is, twenty years of work. We wanted you and Riva to see it first because you planted the first trees. We couldn’t find a buyer. No one really wants to work an orchard these days. They just like the idea of owning one. The county environmental control told us to burn it or decaying trees might be overtaken by a fungus and kill off everything else. Whatever that means, I’m not so sure, but burning is clean and it allows everything to start over from scratch.” 

I could feel the sharp wind burning my tears as I looked out on smoldering teepees of leftover trees. Grandma and Riva came down off the porch and joined us at the wall of what was the Granny Smith corner. When you plant a tree with another person there is a sacred, silent trust you share. Riva and I wove blossom necklaces, played hours of hide and seek in their shade. We gave several trees names from our favorite story characters: Dickon. Mary Lennox. Madeleine. Miss Clavel. 

Bending over to grab a handful of charred ground, Riva crushed it between her polished fingertips. “Why didn’t you tell us? Olivia and I would have left school to come and help you on weekends.” Grandma reached out her hand and drew Riva’s sadness into her large aproned chest. Comfort blanketed us as the strong arms of our grandparents held our aching hearts. My baby sister knew and I knew that our orchard days and Harvest Dinners were over. College responsibilities called, applications for internships needed mailing. 

With one more look to the western boundary wall, Grandma saw a hope that neither of us could see. It was her art, making something beautiful out of nothing. “We saved each of you a bag of the best Johnny Golds that we picked before the crowds came. Let’s go in and make a cobbler. Remember, don’t look back. It’s bad luck.”

Inside their cozy kitchen, Grandma handed me a flour sifter and Riva reached for the apple peeler coring machine that belonged to our great grandmother, June Rose. We took turns threading Johnny Golds onto the stem and turning the crank, forever marveling at the long twisted peel left behind. Once a necklace, today we let it fall to the ground.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: Lautenbach's Orchard, long summer days, orchard life, Seaquist Orchard

A Back-to-School Existential Crisis

September 9, 2019 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

End of School – 2019


Today I turned the page on a fall tradition, school. No one is in school! After decades of teaching writing, or packing my children’s backpacks, or heading off to school myself, I’m sitting at my writing desk sans school. We live in a new city, in the midst of an enormous college campus and with that move I relinquished the routine of going to Chalkboard to buy school supplies, grade papers, start the fall season fresh and clean, learn an abundance of new names and faces. I confess, this is somewhat of an existential crisis that I didn’t anticipate so what is a writer and a teacher to do? Write about it.

This past —ouch! I just said “past” summer, my spiritual reading centered around Thomas Merton. He and Mr. Oswald Chambers have some pretty wise things to say about what to do when one is suffering from a no more back-to-school crisis, or any obstacle that lands in the way of living life “normally” which we all know doesn’t really exist. A better way of describing it would be a disruption in living a productive life within the design that God has given or allowed over a pattern of time, a life we are accustomed to. Chambers says:

“You can see God using some lives, but into your life an obstacle has come and you do not seem to be of any use. Keep paying attention to the Source, and God will either take you around the obstacle or remove it. The river of the Spirit of God overcomes all obstacles.”

“Keep paying attention to the Source.” Since that’s good news and applicable to my current life situation I wanted to capture it in my journal. I turned the page and discovered to my horror, that I’ve arrived at the LAST page of my beautiful journal. If you journal then you know the sick feeling of attachment disorder at the thought of getting a new one. Loving friends gifted me with this journal for Christmas in 2013. Five and a half years of love, loss, answered prayers and  unresolved questions, poems, drawings, book recco’s, quotes, ideas, reflections …all the critically important aspects of life are captured in this volume, soon to be retired. My writing grew tiny, could I make the last page last until at least the end of the year? As Tom Collins, the author of Good to Great says, “confront the brutal facts” —I can’t.

Journals Old and New

So, I resigned myself to cracking open a new journal which seems fitting for stepping into a new season of life. One of my students gave me a grey, leather-bound beauty with gold embossed flowers on the cover. At the time I didn’t know it, but I’ve saved it for this season, this time of uncertainty and new beginnings. When this end of year teacher’s gift came across my desk, I’d never dreamed we’d be living here, or September would arrive without fresh faced students staring at me from behind their desks. When I told my husband of now 30 years about my crisis he simply said, “You are a writer, write.” Okay then, my new journal begins…

“Stay close to the Source and write” followed by this quote from Thomas Merton which compliments what Mr. Chambers says so well,

“The relative perfection which we must attain to in this life if we are to live as sons (and daughters) of God is not the 24 hour a day production of perfect acts of virtue, but a life from which practically all the obstacles to God’s love have been removed or overcome.”

Achievement obstacles, back-to-school expectations, impatience and impertinence that my design for my life isn’t what I expected, “practically all the obstacles…removed or overcome.” When I get to heaven, I’m going to ask Merton what he meant by, “practically all,” but for now, there’s Source-filled works to write with a purifying fire by my side. 

Filed Under: New life, Writing Tagged With: Existential Crisis, journaling, Oswald Chambers, Thomas Merton

Thank You Luci Shaw

April 10, 2018 by Margaret Philbrick 4 Comments

Dear Luci,

Happy National Poetry Month! When I heard you were being honored at Festival of Faith and Writing this past weekend and I was not going to be there, my heart lost a sad beat. The last time we spoke in person was back at Festival 2014, but your work sings to me in every season. Some nights I come across your heart and unique poetic voice while reaching for chapstick in my nightstand drawer, but instead I grab Harvesting Fog and my lips dry out as my struggling eyelids give way and your book rolls up and down with my sleeping chest. Or I hear you when I’m running on a trail in the woods, telling me to watch out for, “their blunt ends jutting,” or staring at the rain, waiting for the right word.

I think we knew each other when I was a skinned knee girl at Saint Mark’s Church in Geneva, IL. Or, more likely, I knew who you were. Not until college when I read your Advent collection, Winter Song did your voice come alive in my ear with that special connection that allows us to “know” a writer by her words on the page. We are related by the “word made flesh.”

When you spoke at Festival in 2014, I remember, “I’m an Episcopalian because of the mystery.” I thought, me too! We must be the only two female, Episcopalian (I’m actually Anglican) poetry writers in this world! It’s the mystery by which we connect our disconnected lives to the great mystery of the Incarnation and our words come. “Enkindled, enfleshed, enlightened, they are born.” Thank you for teaching me not to rush, but to watch and listen instead. To listen for the sound of heaving earth and cracking Spring while walking the dog. To take off my parka hood, no matter how cold, to hear the birds and squirrels chattering and chasing amongst last fall’s dry leaves. Their crackle a reminder that what is past is past and to dust it shall return, “humble earth can turn beautiful.” For in the stillness and silence the word can be found and this is a shared secret of writing’s joy. T.S. Eliot told us on “Ash Wednesday” and you reminded me from that big, Festival stage, “In our day we must learn to be still, to wait, to hold our tongue.”

Thank you for inspiring me to teach poetry, every April. Yesterday we visited Seamus Heaney’s “Clearances,” his tribute to his grandmother, “A cobble thrown a hundred years ago keeps coming at me.” Thank you for speaking into the necessity of awareness of memory and recommending the brilliant book, The Geography of Memory. My first novel benefited greatly from Jeanne Walkers’ heartbreaking reflections of her mother’s descent into dementia. I tell my students that poetry gives voice to things we cannot see. Sometimes a sliver as subtle as a glinting shadow stops our breath and Sprit-filled words compel us to capture the holiness of light and shade.

I’m sure that my sweet, writing sister Tammy Perlmutter will do a wonderful job blessing and honoring you this weekend, but since poetry is personal, I can’t help myself. Our crooked letters bump and grind against each other with the discomfort of teenage angst, loves lost and gained, middle age’s menopausal fog (not to be harvested) and later years of sensible shoes, hand knit sweaters and an incising eye that can only come from standing decades in the mystery, with gratitude.

Thank you Luci Shaw.

http://www.lucishaw.com/poetry_possibilities.html

With love,

Margaret

Filed Under: Inspiration, Poetry, Writing

Book Marketing – A Love/Hate Relationship

October 30, 2017 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

John Koehler, founding publisher at the small indie press, Koehler Books just wrote this blog post for their website,http://www.koehlerbooks.com/the-truth-about-book-marketing/ While reading it, he jarred my thoughts back to book marketing with a sigh. My experience with this dreaded or delightful aspect of the publishing industry reeks of highs and lows and some words for future authors which will hopefully help you avoid the pitfalls along the way. Here’s a quick summary of my experience followed by helpful hints.

My first book, a children’s picture book called Back to the Manger, was published by a tiny publisher in Minnesota. They did a beautiful job on the product and gladly left all the marketing to me. Being the zealous first time author with a holiday book in hand I pounded the internet pavement with a vengeance. The book did well, supported by strong events and speaking engagements. In two months it sold a few thousand copies, but I found myself wondering what might the sales result have been if this publisher marketed the book as well as they produced it? Also, by Christmas Day my weary bones could barely make it downstairs for stockings and presents.

For my first novel, A Minor, I signed a traditional deal with a small publisher. Just FYI, traditional means you get an advance and royalties. They worked hard and created a gorgeous product with breakthrough technology, the music embedded into all the ebooks – presto! – just touch the title of the music on your Kindle and it plays. Their partnership with Ingram distributors accomplished this feat, but Ingram didn’t seem to do much more, despite being a big name. Again the lions share of the marketing landed on my doorstep with the first box of comp books. As John says, expect about 50-80% of the work to be done by you, the author. He’s not kidding. The book sold well, but not as well as I’d hoped.

Next up, a poetry and essay compilation with Redbud Writers Guild, Everbloom, with a small publishing house which also happens to have a fantastic marketing department. Lesson here, some small presses do have the capability to market your book so look carefully under the hood. Talk to other authors who’ve been published by this press. What did they do for their book? What does the contract say about marketing? What I’d describe as teamwork marketing muscle launched this book (i.e. not just me) and again it did well, but not as well as I’d predicted. Hint- don’t make predictions on book sales. However, the experience of working together with a marketing team enhanced my joy in releasing this book into the world.

So my singlehanded marketing effort for my first book has actually sold more copies over time than the others? Why? Not an easy question to answer because an amalgamation of factors are at play. A key one is what I like to call the unanticipated demand factor. Some books are organically launched in the right place at the right time. My Christmas book happened to be such a book. It leveraged a unique time period that can be maximized year after year. So timing effectiveness is a reality.  Hint – think about how you can link your book to a specific timing or event that thematically ties in with the topic. Also, breakthrough technology doesn’t ensure success so don’t bank on a quality of uniqueness as a factor of sales. Sure, the cover is important, but a breakthrough cover design/feel won’t make a huge difference. A teamwork approach to marketing is best. Hearing about a new event/opportunity from your marketing team even six months after the book launched buoys your desire to do more. If they’re still working for the book, then you can too, especially beyond the book signing launch party. In store signings don’t sell many books. Celebrating with friends and family at a rock ‘em sock ‘em launch party is a blast, but just because you sold 50 books that day doesn’t mean your book will succeed down the road. As a benchmark, a friend working for a larger publishing house told me, “If your book sells 10,000 copies then it’s a success.” With my limited track record of working through three book launches, I’d say he’s right.

Does all this deter my desire to write the next great American novel? Heck No! The intangible “amen” of writing a creative paragraph that develops a character and advances the storyline inspires me to keep going. We authors love words and the way we can manifest, manipulate and massage them to speak life into something that’s never been spoken before far outweighs the hills and valleys of book marketing. Keep your heart focused on the story while learning and growing as a marketer one book at a time. Keep the faith and Happy National Novel Writing Month everyone! For the first time I’ll be participating in this worldwide, manic writing endeavor with a healthy dose of fear and trembling.

p.s. John Koehler published a helpful little ebook for those who want more illumination on writing and book marketing and it’s free. Here’s the link: http://www.koehlerbooks.com/dropbox/pocket/pocket%20guide%20digital%20ARC%207-1.pdf

 

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: Books, marketing, publishers, Relationships

Is an Artistic Community Right for You?

June 14, 2017 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

https://www.americamagazine.org/arts-culture/2017/05/18/meet-women-building-community-christian-writers

This article was written for America magazine by Judith Valente and it might be helpful in sparking ideas about the benefits of creating in community vs. going it alone. I remember standing in a receiving line before a wedding reception and the woman in front of me, whom I’d never met, asked me if I was in a Bible Study. I responded, “No, I like studying the Bible on my own.” In about ten minutes she explained why studying it in a group is more beneficial and she invited me to try it out. I’ve been in various Bible studies for the past 20 years because of her invitation and she was right it is better than studying it alone. The same may be true for you in your creative endeavors. Have you ever thought about joining an artistic community? Here’s some reasons why that might work for you. If you already have, please write me a note and tell me why it works (or doesn’t work) for you.

Note: One correction – I am not an “original” member of the Redbud Writers Guild as the article states. I believe I joined the Guild about five years ago.

Meet the women building a community of Christian writers

Judith ValenteMay 18, 2017
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(iStock) 

For the members of the Redbird Writers Guild, writing is not only a craft, it is a spiritual practice.

The original members of the group first encountered each other about eight years ago when they traveled from the Chicago suburbs to attend a Festival of Faith Writing at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Mich. In addition to their shared geography, they all shared a call to write.

They bonded too, says founding member Shayne Moore, over a mutual “love of Christ.” They also shared a common belief that writing with faithful trust can lead to transformation—their own and ultimately that of their readers.

The women of the Redbird Writers Guild shared a common belief that writing with faithful trust can lead to transformation—their own and ultimately that of their readers.

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When they returned home to Illinois, several of the women met over a glass of wine. They kept thinking back to the redbud trees that were flowering then on Calvin’s campus with their bright magenta blooms in full spring splendor. “We thought, ‘This is a beautiful metaphor for who we are,’” says Margaret Philbrick, another of the guild’s original members—writers seeking to blossom.

Many beginning writers seek out groups where they can share their work and receive constructive feedback. Few of those groups might last as long or have as much success as the e Redbud Writers. Today, the guild has grown to include 150 members in the United States, Canada, Mexico and Australia. Their regular meeting place is no longer someone’s living room or a local café in the Wheaton and Glen Ellyn suburbs where many of the women live. They meet via Skype and converse through a private Facebook page, which female writers who also see their writing as a spiritual practice can apply to join.

“We see it as a way of expanding feminine voices in the area of faith and culture,” Ms. Moore says of the group’s aim.

The guild’s philosophy is simple: that women of faith have something important to communicate and they do that best with the support of community. The writers come from a variety of religious traditions, ranging from Catholic to Congregationalist, Presbyterian to Pentecostal. “We are Christian women, but we don’t get hung up on the individual core values of each of our traditions. There is unity in the essentials,” Ms. Philbrick said.

Redbud Writers
The Redbud Writers Guild. 

Most writing groups focus on how to improve a manuscript, find an agent or get a publisher. Redbud Writers care about those things too. But the art of writing is never far from their spiritual practice.

This is how Ms. Philbrick, a fiction writer and poet, talks about her creative process: “I want to have the life-giving Storyteller give me my words. So before I type or write a word, I have a practice where I put out my hands and pray that the Lord’s spirit will infuse me with his creativity and give life to what I have envisioned,” she says. “There is a faith component to my writing that makes doing it more exciting than me just grinding out chapters, going about my task.”

Community, not competition, guild members say, is the trademark of their group. Among the Redbud’s “Core Values” are respect for the feminine voice and a spirit of non-competitiveness.

“That last thing is what I think sets Redbud apart. We are really grounded in that spirit of non-competition. God’s theology is one of abundance and there is more than enough to go around,” Ms. Moore says.

“These manuscript groups are deep times of intimacy,” Ms. Philbrick says, referring to individual members who meet either on line or in person to discuss manuscripts they are working on. “I’m giving my heart to this group in sharing my work. You have to have a deep level of trust.”

The prescription seems to be working. About half of Redbud’s members have books out now, or significant other print publications. Ms. Moore is the author of two books, including Global Soccer Mom: Changing the World Is Easier Than You Think, which chronicled her work as an advocate for H.I.V./AIDS treatment and prevention.

Ms. Philbrick’s first novel, A Minor, came out in 2014, and she is working on a second novel now centered around a famous painting.

Would male writers be welcome in the group? Well, not exactly. “My sense of men’s writing groups is that they very quickly become elitist. Men are going to look for men who are like them,” Ms. Moore says.

“Women tend to be more comfortable than men are sharing in groups,” Ms. Philbrick says. “Women crave intimacy.”

The group aims to encourage emerging writers in particular. The choice of the word guild in its name is an intentional reference to Medieval guilds where artisans worked as apprentices with more experienced artists in order to improve their craft.

“Many of us are moms with newborn babies, getting up at six o’clock to write before the kids wake up,” Ms. Moore says.

Every Wednesday at noon, guild members stop whatever they are doing, wherever they are, and say a collective prayer. While most of the conversations take place online, they meet every two years for a writing and spiritual retreat at Techny Towers, a retreat center run by the Society of the Divine Word order outside of Chicago. Then the writing resumes.

The Massachusetts-based religious publisher Paraclete Press recently put out a collection of writing by Redbud writers, called Everbloom: Stories of Deeply Rooted and Transformed Lives, edited by Ms. Moore and Ms. Philbrick. The two said they were careful to include writing from veterans as well as previously unpublished writers.

The anthology offers a snapshot of feminine life in the 21st century, or as Ms. Philbrick says, it reflects the many trains of feminine spiritual thought, like the outspread branches of a redbud tree. Topics of the reflections in the book range from living as an expatriot to the search for home, the loss of a child or a relationship, the suicide of a brother, the violent abduction of a relative, overcoming cancer and surviving rape. Each story ends, of course, with writing prompts to get both novices and veterans started on new work.

“I hope women who feel stuck grinding out the day-in and day-out routine, wondering what it’s all for, will pick up this book and get a tap on the shoulder from the Lord and see a bigger view of their lives and what it all means,” Ms. Philbrick says. “They just might see what God is doing in their lives beyond the cycle of grocery-shopping and feeding the children. I hope this book wakes them up a bit.”

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Judith ValenteJudith Valente is America‘s Chicago correspondent.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: community, creativity, Everbloom, faith, Relationships

From Back Patio to Bookstore Shelf – The Journey of a Book

April 19, 2017 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Everbloom, Stories of Living Deeply Rooted and Transformed Lives is the new book from Redbud Writers Guild which launches next week. How did it happen?EverBloom_Cover_04 On a sweet summer night in 2015 my hubby and I were sitting on the patio talking about the transforming work God has done in our lives which led to us chatting about how God has transformed the lives of many folks we know. He casually mentioned, “You know that writing guild you are part of must have some pretty incredible stories of transformation.” I thought to myself, yep and it would be fun to know some of those stories. The next night happened to be our quarterly Redbud Board conference call and at the very end of the agenda I threw out the idea that maybe we should do a book about how Christ has transformed us as writers. The response was milky, lukewarm as in “Hmmm, interesting. Let’s think about it.”

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The next day I got a call from Shayne Moore a.k.a. our Redbud founder, dynamo, powerhouse get- it-done kind of gal saying, “Let’s do the book. Let’s you and I write the book proposal.” It took a few months and then we sent it to our fab agent who shopped it around. We waited and waited, for months to hear anything. In publishing, if you don’t like to wait, then this business isn’t for you. A year after our first phone call, we learned that Paraclete Press wanted the book. Insert—— screaming, dancing erratically in the living room, taking selfies with Shayne, more screaming and then the real work began.images

I wrote my poem for the collection while sitting out in a fading September sun. Looking over the finished product, I cried realizing my deep gratitude for a community of women who truly, genuinely love the Lord and desire to serve him with their words. We solicited the whole Guild for essays and/or poetry to a tight turnaround if the collection would launch in the Spring of ’17. A small ocean of high caliber work flooded our inboxes which we took to the giant whiteboard in my classroom and sorted through. We love all these women, how could we say “no” to any of them? Fortunately, the final say comes from the publishing house editor which made our job a little easier. Most of the submissions I read while sitting outside, crying my way through several of them. Submitting to God’s work of transformation is painful. People die. Children get kidnapped. Suicide crosses our threshold. Miscarriages, again. Families break. The broad reach of media brushes these stories across our screens everyday, but when you know all the participants who’ve experienced them, you feel the pain deep down.

In about two months we completed the compilation and editing, then the Paraclete designers brought their art and beauty to the project. We know and trust their work. They designed my website and the Guild’s website and many of our authors’ sites and what is pure joy about Paraclete? They LOVE the arts and they LOVE Jesus. For the first time emails were coming in from “Sister A.” and “Brother B.” people who’ve turned their entire selves over to the Lord exclusively, as sons and daughters for life. Supporting our book with prayer and their talents is their first nature. What a gift.

So here’s a behind the scenes look at the folks at Paraclete Press  who made Everbloom come alive and our book trailer . We received gorgeous mugs and complimentary copies of the book, both of which I will give away on launch day, April 25th to the lucky winner who  answers this question via my Contacts page or in a comment below. And the question is…..How has your relationship with God enabled you to bloom in a dry and fallow season? Happy Spring!

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Filed Under: Inspiration, Writing Tagged With: agents, Books, Everbloom, faith, Inspiration, publishers, Spring

Making Marriage Beautiful

April 2, 2017 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

I often thank God for blessing my life with a joyful, sacred marriage for 27 years. People say that building a strong marriage takes work and effort. In some sense that is true. Self-control is a virtue that I push myself to exhibit when my husband leaves his socks by the side of the bed again. Be the loving wife and just pick them up, right? They’re just socks. But the devil hanging out above my ear is saying, “Are you kidding, he’s done it again and he’s assuming you will pick them up for him, just leave them there.” Usually, I pick them up, sometimes he does and sometimes I leave them. But enough sock talking trivialities.

What makes our marriage beautiful? Dorothy Greco’s book, Making Marriage Beautiful forced me to think about this question and that alone is a worthy exercise. I’m recommending her book here today for anyone who wants to strengthen their marriage. This book, written by a woman with insights from her husband and other couples, focuses on listening to one another and God , maintaining realistic expectations (see chapter, “Not Your Mother’s Lasagna) and how we commit to growing together long term. It goes way beyond the everyday realities of socks and addresses the big challenges found in a life of commitment. I love the book trailer posted here because it focuses on growth and how we have to dig, sweat, and wait for those springtime blossoms, much the same process we follow in cultivating a healthy marriage.

bookcover-Aug-0815-003-©DGreco

 

Savor the vulnerable and wise voice of Dorothy Greco as you dig into her story. Ideally read it with your spouse and please leave a review on Amazon when finished reading, Making Marriage Beautiful. Here’s the link to buy the book and the link to Dorothy’s fantastic website. She is a phenomenal photographer and an author, of course. Just being proficient in one art form wouldn’t do. Love and thanks to you Dorothy for helping us and caring enough about marriage to write this book.

Buy the book here:

https://www.amazon.com/Making-Marriage-Beautiful-Lifelong-Intimacy/dp/0781414083/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1491177718&sr=1-1&keywords=Making+Marriage+Beautiful

Dorothy’s Website:

http://www.dorothygreco.com

Book Trailer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhyKpDLRIHM

 

 

 

Filed Under: Inspiration, Writing Tagged With: book review, marriage, Relationships, sacred

Who’s Your Agent?

April 17, 2015 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

My dear friend signed a contract with an agent today. We met during a writing prompt session in the intimate library of the Margarite House in Evanston, four years ago. A handful of us writing strangers with no established trust hunkered down in red leather chairs to write our response to the prompt, “Write about your father’s eyes.” Outside, the robins serenaded us while magnolia petals dripped onto the windowsill. Our pens ripped across the pages of our red and black Redbud notebooks. When ten minutes flew by, we stared at each other. Who would be brave? Who would share first?

As the responses trickled out, we heard about how we all lived under the hand of dysfunctional fathers. By the time Sheli read, tears poured on pages. We coaxed her along because we shared our souls and she could too. I’ve been in many of these sessions where the author can’t read on and another writer finishes reading her work, but Sheli hung in there. She took breaks, we passed her Kleenex. Her father stalked her in their house while she hid under the bed as a child.  When she finished we all kept silence. The open leaded glass window allowed sunlight to gentle our circle. We prayed for Sheli. We prayed that someday she would share her story with the world, that she would keep being brave. Today I raise my chamomile tea to her terrified determination. Someone else in a small literary agency on the other side of the country believed in her voice.

I spent this morning being brave speaking to a book group at a local country club. When you speak to a large group there will be people there who don’t care about what you have to say. For some reason they came expecting something else. Those women were at the farthest table in the back. While I read from my novel they chattered away and giggled. My junior high students wouldn’t do this in class. I kept going and did what we all must do, ignore them. One woman on her way out said to me, “You were marvelous. You must have a hundred people lined up to be your agent.” I stood silent, too afraid to tell her that I’m agentless because I live in a world where every successful author has an agent. Her question gnawed at me. When things chip at my being I take them to my writing desk and pray. It occurred to me, ask God to be your agent. I did. He said, “yes,” an enthusiastic yes!

So today Sheli and I both have our agents and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Please take in some of Sheli’s raw, unadulterated story at: http://shelimassie.com/

Who’s your agent?

 

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: agents, fear

Your Artistic Corner

November 4, 2014 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Amidst falling linden leaves, I passed by and heard the sound of a Skilsaw coming from the potting shed. For about a year I’ve been hoping to catch a glimpse of the backyard artist who lives three blocks away. Wrapped in yellow paint, her windowed workshed is a tiny haven of reclaimed creativity. The corners are stacked with orchard pear and apple crates, rusty nails waiting to be extracted. On a high southern shelf her 1940’s radio serves as friendly company between searing wood cuts. “I love Chris Fabry while I’m working,” she says nodding to the familiar voice overhead. Long planks of end-of-driveway fencing are being refashioned into nativity stables. Our dogs romped the fall green lawn as we chatted about how she began this truly cottage industry. “I started making them back in 1985 for my family and then a friend offered to buy one and I realized I could make a little business out of it.” She hand fashions the nativity figures as well, starting in January.  If you are interested, here is a look at what she makes on Etsy:

https://www.etsy.com/shop/engelsoftsculpture

Every artist needs a “room of my own” as Virginia Woolf described it.  While I don’t yet have a whole room dedicated to my version of creativity, the old Lincoln desk is where I cozy up with words. Objects in the hutch inspire with past, present and future reminders. A skull – from my San Antonio love of calaveras and their celebration on Dia de los Muertos. We are all mortal.  An ancient copy of Pilgrims Progress because we need the tangible scent of old leather and crinkling pages for connection with ancient predecessors.  My “chop,” brought back from China by a close friend. Plunging the carved dragon into blood red ink to sign my name in Chinese characters links my arms with another culture in word and symbol. The smattering of these sentimental friends extends my heart into the world while typing on green felt, at home.

 

Karen Cushman has her own out building – a writing studio.  A place apart from the bustle of laundry, the phone and distractions. Cats sit on her lap all morning or ball up around her feet like an angora blanket while she researches her next novel. Stephanie Hulthen, who took the portrait photos for this website, lives on a farm with a gaggle of children and geese. Her photography studio is a small barn, set apart from her zany house full of runny noses, spilled milk and broken crayons. Here she can put things together with vision, seeing them through her singular lens, taking time amidst the drying corn stalks that stand on the periphery.

Before walking my dog home, I bought one of those nativity stables as we talked over linseed oil soaking into the grain of reclaimed wood. The sawdust smell alone forced me to do it, but also the joy of seeing my neighbor putting her hands to what she loves in her shining corner of the world.  If you don’t have a room of your own, stake out a parcel and start creating. If you do, send me a photo or a comment  about what lurks there.  If you aren’t creating something now you MUST at minimum have your own cozy reading nook. See some favorite reading nooks on my pinterest page: http://www.pinterest.com/margaretphilbri/

 

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: artistic nooks

Writing with Lyme Disease

August 7, 2014 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Most of July was spent promoting my novel and trompling through northwoods forests, running trails, spying on an eagles nest through binoculars and praying along the lakefront…pretty sweet , but deer ticks are not sweet. They are the size of a pinhead and unremarkable. When you go to the doctor and they give you the attractive photo of this pest, you will not recognize it. When you get a fever of 103plus for five days, you will think you have a virus. It is the ugly rash following the fever that should get you to the doctor. Antibiotics can kill this bacteria if you catch it early. Generally, I don’t go to the doctor, but generally I don’t get this sick. Dr. S. takes one look at me and tells me I have Lyme, take the antiobiotic and I’ll get better. I hate bugs more than ever!

So I think about Laura Hillendbrand writing Unbroken in bed because she suffers from chronic fatigue syndrome and I marvel. I couldn’t write anything last week if you offered to pay all my kids’ college tuition., room and board.  This week, at least I can read., (and write this blog post.)  The BIg Rich by Bryan Burroughs is a deep dive into the lives of the big four Texas oil families, the beginning of research for my next novel. It is pretty tragic stuff and Godless for the most part. I really feel sorry for these people.  Hassie Hunt sobbing over his father’s casket despite the fact that his father made the decision to ruin his life by approving a frontal lobe lobotomy to relieve his depression. Lyme Disease looks pretty minimal in this light. Lying in bed, looking out at the sun baking on our terra cotta roof, gives me plenty of time to think about these ghostly lost souls drifitng through the balance sheet of life. Despite so much money, they missed the “couer” of life, the heart, the joy. It’s good thinking inbetween fits of fever. By the way is it Lyme Disease or Lymes Disease. Could someone let me know? Stay healthy dear readers! God bless you!

Filed Under: Uncategorized, Writing Tagged With: research

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A Minor: A Novel of Love, Music & Memory
Redbud Writer's Guild
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© Margaret Ann Philbrick 2014. All rights reserved. / Contact
Website by Paraclete Multimedia / Portrait Photography by Stephanie Hulthen