The garden is really coming along. I made ratatouille this morning in the Instant Pot and the only ingredient I had to buy was onion. It feels good to have all that available. 

Also, in hot weather, there's nothing like coming with an instant pot instead of spending a few hours over the stove. When I first got the pot, I bought an extra liner, which makes labor intensive dishes like this a lot easier - I don't have to dump out the first stage of vegetables, I can just switch in another liner. And I have a silicone lid, so I can just put the whole pot into the fridge when I'm done. 

I like my ratatouille both hot and cold, so it doesn't matter to me.

What's your favorite straight-from-the garden dish?

Routine

Do you have one? Do you need one? Or do you drop into your day like the balls in a pinball machine, scattering everywhere? 

I'm a little of each. I have certain routines I like to follow - tasks on my calendar that get done each week, because otherwise I'd forget - and if I don't get my Monday morning at the coffee shop, I do get a little grumpy. The rest of the time, there's a list, and so long as the bulk of items on that list get done, I don't care in what order. 

A lot of writers like to sit down at their desk at a set time every day, staying there for a certain period or a certain number of words. That doesn't work for me. I've spent so much of my life writing in small corners of my life - at work, on the train, waiting in line - that a large stretch of time usually pushes me to do something that takes a large stretch of time to accomplish. I can do words in a few minutes, and come back to them later. It may not be the most efficient, but that's how I've trained myself to work, and this dog is too old to learn new tricks when the old ones serve perfectly well. 

This heat wave we've been having has definitely thrown off my routine. I haven't seen the coffee shop in 2 weeks, other than standard Saturday breakfast club after the farmers market. My daily 2-mile walks, which absolutely helped my writing brain, have also been curtailed. The only task I'm really keeping up on is the garden, because if I don't, it will die and we will have no veggies. 

So what's your method? Are you a list maker? A list checker? Or do you fall free form into your day and still get all the things done?? Or do you fall free form into your day and still get all the things done?

Long hot summer

It's hot. It's been hot for days, and it's going to be hot for more days. Philadelphia is good at heat and humidity, but we had August in June, and now we're having August in July.

The heat has sucked every bit of energy out of me, but since things still have to get done, I'm running on fumes at this point. 

Which means today's check-in is very low effort, but I did want to share that if you are in the UK, Songbird is on 99p sale for the entire month.

Are you a summer or winter person? I'm definitely winter - you can always put on more clothes, but I haven't yet figured out how to take off my skin.

Here's the link to buy, if you're so inclined. It says something about the heat level that I had to be reminded to do this.

Stages of grief

Last week I told you about the mastermind group I joined. A week ago today was the first zoom meeting - just the coach, his assistant, and nine slightly nervous writers. 

After some preliminary chat and an explanation of what was coming, he went over the goals section in each of our applications and gave us his thoughts on them. (The application was long - longer than most job applications I've ever filled out).

When he got to mine, he read out, "I'm confident in my books, my sales are decent, and I have a lot of good reviews, so what I'd like to learn is how to market them bettter and get them in front of a wider audience." 

That seems reasonable, right?

Right?

"Well...." he starts, and gives me an apologetic smile. "Your blurbs are doing a lot of the heavy lifting. Those covers, though, they aren't doing you any favors."

What?

The five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

"No!"

"#%&@*$!!!"

"Can I keep the cool font?"

"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"Hmm. I wonder if that cover designer I talked to a while ago - the one who did the covers on books I bought, but whose covers I didn't want to be like - has any availability?"

So that's where I am. It's the Tudor books he's talking about, and while I do LOVE those covers, and always will, thtey don't sell the books the way they should. And I've paid a significant chunk of money for this coaching, and he warned in the application that there would be hard truths and apologetic smiles.

I just didn't think it would happen in the first week.

Help

Help.

There's a word. One I hate using. Always have. 

But.

Recently I had the opportunity to apply for a mastermind program for indie writers. I knew it would be good for me. I knew someone who was in the program just ending, who spoke highly of it. 

But. 

It's asking for help, right? Even paying for the membership is asking for help.

I don't do that well. Just ask my husband the stupid situations I get myself into because I don't like asking for help. Move furniture alone? Sure. So what if I can't stand up straight for 2 days? Transport 3 yards of mulch by myself? Absolutely - unless you insist on helping, and then I'll probably tell you that you're doing it wrong.

But it nagged me. I knew that this program - 12 writers at the same level, 12 months of intensive coaching, the kind of inspiration you only get from people who want the same thing as you, as badly as you - would work for me. 

Fine. I applied. It was a more thorough application than any job I've ever had. 

And then I got accepted. 

For a moment, I thought about making an excuse - too busy, not enough money. Something. 

Then I said, "Yes, thank you," and sent my payment. Because I do want to learn how to improve as an indie author, and I'm far more likely to do the work if I've paid for it.

But asking for help...it still hurts.

We're having a heat wave

Not much to say for myself this week. We're having a heatwave, highs in the 90s, and my motivation has leaked out of my pores.

The book released on Saturday to very nice sales, and I also set up at my local farmers market and sold a few more copies.

I also finished the garden rehab and finally have proper space to set up my hammock. It's really surprising that I've emerged from it long enough to write this and occasionally use the bathroom. (When the temps no longer drop at night, I'm pretty sure I'll be sleeping out there, as I'm lucky enough not to be attractive to mosquitos)

This morning, despite the heat, we decided to sort out the growing chaos on the back patio. It's a project that's been coming, escalated by a new neighbor with an escape artist toddler. We have melted and now I'm in front of a fan considering what - if anything - I feel like doing next.

Garden Therapy

So the book comes out on Saturday, and basically I'm spinning like a top. And what's the best thing to do when I'm spinning like that? 

Go to the garden.

I posted earlier this spring about rearranging the backyard and installing new raised beds. They're all in, they're all full, and they are all planted except for one, which is getting a late crop of seed potatoes because my peas, which were doing so nicely, got eaten by something and now it's too hot and dry to start over with any chance of success.

The beds have two kinds of squash, two kinds of eggplant, cucumber, Lima beans, a variety of peppers from sweet to Mexican spicy, and far too many tomatoes. I planted three deliberately, and transplanted another seven of the volunteers that popped up.

What I finally have to do next week, when there is a little more clear space in my head, is order the wood chips to cover the weed barrier. I hate walking around on that woven plastic-y stuff. But I need to pick a day with a good forecast, and after a few days of clear weather because I don't want to shovel wet wood chips and transport them around the yard.

Pomegranate flowers

In the side yard, the blueberries are about half done. I want to get two more bushes to plant this fall, because I have spaces along the drive where other things didn't do well and they will. The fig tree is taller than I am and covered in little hard green figs. Now, I don't like figs personally, but my husband loves them, and I like to make fig jam. So it's worth the real estate. 

In the front, flowers are blooming away. The cherry tree actually produced cherries this year, but we didn't get as many as the birds did. I think this fall we'll trim it back so that it's low and wide enough to get a protective net over. Right now, I'd have to throw it from the second floor window, and my aim isn't that good. The peach tree isn't having its best year, but it had so much fruit last year that my neighbors were finding squirrel-relocated peach pits all up and down the street.

Overambitious fig

My favorite - although, like the figs, it's not my favorite fruit - is the pomegranate. Just because it feels so weird to grow pomegranates in Pennsylvania. We got 11 last year, and I'm hoping for more this year, because the blooms are crazy.

So that has been garden tour 2024. Inconsistent fruit, far too many tomatoes, and a backbreaking effort to not break my back again next year. We'll see. The whole point of putting in raised beds is to not rearrange things - or at least that's what I said 5 years ago, when I put in the previous raised beds.