KEEP PRESSING !

Friends, I’ve been struggling with a lack of focus. Am I alone in this journey?

2023 is a mere three months old and already my thoughts seem scattered. This is unlike me. I must focus! My daughter’s wedding is in May, and two other significant projects are nearing completion. One of these projects is “The Apothecary.” Many of you know that Poppa and I purchased my grandmother’s farm a few years back. On that property there are several ramshackle out buildings as well as a 10 by 60 mobile home which served as the inspiration for my novel, Outbound Train. To say the home was in a state of disrepair is an understatement.

I had a two year “plan” which included using the mobile home as a classroom for medicinal herb classes. This project, through no fault of my own, has dragged into a three-year journey of hope and prayers that I might see it happen. Along the way there have been many obstacles. One day I’ll have time to share, but today I need to give myself a pep talk.

I can see the finish line of this project. I only need to complete the trim work. Slather on another layer of paint and purchase the furnishings. But I also have an agent looking at my manuscript and a new book in the works.

Why then am I distracted?

Friends, I don’t know for certain. I only know that if I am going to see these dreams come to pass I must press harder than before.

But when I press, so does a new distraction that has taken root. There is a tug at my heart, a strong force interfering with my longing to complete what I know God has given me as a gift. I will preserve my grandmother’s farm, at all cost. And the evil one is using every trick in his playbook to keep me from being successful.

The distraction he has planned for me is beautiful, it is sensual, full of love and promise. The image of what could be does not leave my mind from the moment I wake until I lie down at night. In all my years on this earth, I have never wanted something as much as I want this one thing.

My friends, the evil one is a master manipulator. Like a horse following a carrot, I have allowed my mind to take me far away from the path God set out before me. I felt myself pulling my hand out of His.

I was about to close the door I had prayed for God to open, for reasons I couldn’t explain.

Has anyone else struggled with a distraction this strong, a force you just can’t shake; something wedged in tight between you and the life you were meant to have?

Maybe fear, or discouragement, doubt and financial uncertainty keeps you from pursuing your dreams. Maybe you suffer from comparison-syndrome. We see social media posts of people with new jobs, new homes, new businesses and -let’s be honest- we self-reflect. Why can’t I have that? Why can’t my children be like that, my house? Why is my life so stinking hard?

What we never see are the struggles behind the glossy photos. This post is a raw journal entry to the struggle behind my dream. Over the past three years, I have felt all of those emotions, especially a deep concern about the financial investment I am making.

I pursue this dream after I leave my paying job. I’ve been injured, sunburned and exhausted on both an emotional and physical level. I have wanted to give up more times than I can count. I have hated this dream and asked that it be taken away from me (I was dehydrated at the time and later apologized. . . I didn’t mean it, I was just overextended). In short, I have poured every ounce of myself into these projects and the only way I persist is through constant praise, prayer and pressing !!

Why then, am I literally weeks away from being finished only to face a stronghold that has taken over my thoughts?

Last night I had a breakthrough. I “took myself to the woodshed,” so to speak. I got alone with myself and my creator. I gave myself a good talking to; and the conversation wasn’t pretty. I asked myself some tough questions.

“Renea, are you strong, or are you weak? Did you come this far only to be distracted? Were you lying when you asked God for help? Do you mean what you say, or are you just talking to hear yourself talk? Renea, why can’t you see what’s going on in your life right now. You KNOW where this distraction is coming from, or more important who has sent this distraction. Again Renea, I need you to answer the question, are you strong?”

Yes, I said all of this out loud, because sometimes I need to hear the problem, I need the sound of my voice to drive out the other distractions burrowing into my gray matter.

Then I waited for the answer, and kept repeating, “Are you weak, or strong? There are only two paths. One leads to the finish line, the other is a long and winding road that will waste the precious time you have remaining on this earth.”

Then I came to the Throne of Grace.

Friends, it’s been a long time since I have laid my life out before my Creator. I sense there has been some toe-tapping, while God watched me struggle. But I also sensed there was a self-confident knowing I would recognize this distraction for what it is, a plan designed by the evil one to hurl me off course and toward the wrong path that will postpone everything, everything, I have worked years to achieve.

God was proud of me. He gave me a nod. Go on now, daughter. You’ve got this.

Friends, if you are struggling, you have the same two choices: press toward the finish line, or not. Set your mind to make good choices.

I grabbed a notepad and quickly penned this reminder, Renea, stay strong !

God gave me strength.

“Lord, let me keep my hand in yours as together we finish this project. You have been with me all along. I want to walk the path YOU have laid out before me, not the trap set by the evil one. My strength comes from you. Not me. And if my hand slips from yours, let me cling to the hem of your garment, for if I can only touch it, everything will be perfect.”

Renea Winchester is an internationally-published author who lives in the mountains of Western North Carolina. She is the owner of Butterfly Cove Botanicals.

Showing Your Love Today, and Always

Blood dripped from his fingertips into the rain-soaked earth. Even though the land couldn’t accept another drop of rain, it seemed hungry for the life-blood-offering the man unknowingly gave. I watched hypnotized as drops landed in the mud with a soundless splat. The mire absorbed the red splatter, like quicksand devouring a car, until no trace remained, not a single drop to remind me of this man’s wound.

Everyone I encountered after the Kentucky flood bore scars, whether physical, or emotional.

It seemed this land was hungry for blood, having lost its battle with Mother Nature, who had hurled a wall of water, cars, trees, homes, and beloved animals down a narrow creek that-on any other day- wouldn’t be three feet deep. Imagine for a moment, mattresses wrapped around power lines. That’s how high the wall of water was and why I can still barely talk about the people I met there. God bless them. God bless them all !!

The man’s injured hand hung loose at his side as he surveyed what remained of his belongings. Only nothing remained. The lack of personal items was evident in the empty house he once called home; a royal blue structure with doors and windows flung open in a feeble attempt to dry the interior of the unsalvageable building. I noticed the furnishings stacked neatly at the street: sofa, bed, refrigerator.

“Lost all my chickens.” He glanced around the fenced in yard, hopeful for survivors.

That one sentence encapsulated a deep loss for both the man, and the community. Even the roughest, toughest Appalachian holds a deep affection for poultry. Hill folk work in harmony with their feathered friends. Tossing them table scraps, and collecting their offered eggs, calling them by name; hugging the little darlings when no one is watching.

I arrived two days after the flood waters subsided. FEMA hadn’t yet arrived. It was hades-hot and the need for medical supplies, food, and water was critical. The few remaining vehicles not washed away were heavily loaded with supplies and ran non-stop as far as they could into the mountains, stopping only when Mother Nature cut a swath across the road. Here the trucks unloaded into privately-owned 4-wheelers that ran non stop delivering supplies.

The People of Kaintuck

It would be almost 10 days before the roads were clear and FEMA arrived. Some areas didn’t regain power for 6 weeks. These ladies, and that little one in the fuchsia shirt, weathered the storm while inside their home. Like many living in rural Appalachia, they live in a dead-zone with no cell coverage. Even if they had received notice to evacuate, there was no time, and no safe-way to cross the bridge. So they prayed, as water inched higher and higher until it was waist-high in their home and the noise of trees crashing down around them became unbearable. They are still homeless today.

A week later, I stood at the kitchen sink slicing a juicy ripe summertime tomato. Seeking the comfort only a tomato sandwich can bring. I had returned from Whitesburg Kentucky and was processing what I’d seen, what Mother Nature in her rage, did to people who were already struggling to make ends meet. There are some things in life I don’t understand, and at the top of my list is why do bad things happen to good people?

I readied the slices of tomato on the bread then tipped the cutting board to drain like I had done countless times before. As the seeds inched toward the sink my brain shouted, “What are you doing? Those seeds are life for the people of Kentucky. Why are you wasting them?”

Appalachians value heritage varieties of beans, corn, squash, and of course, tomatoes. As I watched the seeds slide toward the drain I realized the people I’d met the week before lost not only their homes, they lost a way to feed themselves. In a panic, I used my bare hands to scoop the seeds, while chastising myself: “Renea, you must do better A seed that is of little consequence to you will feed one of the families you just met!”

And thus began a new mission; one you are welcome to join, because the cause truly is worthy. I am collecting seeds to replenish what Mother Nature took and I am inviting (begging) you to help.

Back in Kentucky, flood waters wiped out four libraries, destroying every single book. The moment I became conscious of my seed-wasting, my heart knew the Kentucky folk had also lost their seed libraries. I reached out to the Regional Office and Alita Vogel confirmed my fears. All the books were destroyed and would need replacing, as would the seed lending libraries, if there was enough money. And we all know how narrow the margins are when working with insurance companies.

I reached out to Swain County High School Carpentry Instructor Derek Oetting. I’ve been hearing about these carpentry students at my former high School. Surely if I explained the urgent need, these students would help. And did they ever. Take a look at these remarkable seed storage boxes !

This is where you come in. We need to fill these boxes with seeds, any variety you wish to donate. Those seed catalogs have arrived, bringing with it a fever (ok, maybe it’s just me). Could you order a couple extra packets, or pick up an extra packet while in the store? Do you have a heritage variety you’d love to share? Please do ! This spring I will make a trip to Kentucky to deliver the seed catalogs for the lending library. I welcome donations to me directly, or to the District Office at the address below. I’ll bring y’all long with me by documenting the trip on my social media page and blog.

Perhaps seeds “aren’t your thing,” Perhaps you are a closed book hoarder (surely, I am not alone). If so, the public library in Whitesburg can accept donations and will shelve them accordingly. Children’s books, non-fiction, fiction. Whatever tugs at your heart is exactly what you should give.

Would you consider joining me? Together, we can give our best, and then some to our Appalachian friends.

Alita Vogel Letcher County Public Library District  220 Main Street Whitesburg, KY 41858

Renea Winchester 60 Almond School Road Bryson City NC 28713

Renea Winchester is passionate about preserving seeds and capturing human interest stories. She in an international author who has penned multiple works of nonfiction and fiction. Her recipe booklet, Bryson City Recipes, just released and is available exclusively on Amazon.

Renea Releases Something Delicious!

A Bonus Recipe Booklet Inspired by the Women of Outbound Train

This summer, the publisher in France asked me to write a little recipe booklet of ten recipes which she would publish with the hopes of pairing with the French version of Outbound Train to increase sales. I submitted twenty-two recipes which we hoped to release in October. But life got in the way of the release schedule. Isn’t that always the case? Fortunately, we pushed through and this week, Bryson City Recipes released in both Bordeaux, France and in the US. While Marie released her French version, I opted to self-publish the booklet exclusively on Amazon. I hope you will consider purchasing this little booklet if you haven’t already. There is still time to send a copy for those who love to read, and bake. The recipe booklet features introductory essays from the Parker Women of Outbound Train. Here is a little tease. Barbara brought tears to my eyes when she whispered this little story in my ear.  I know in my heart I can’t stop time, but if I could, I would stop it on a Sunday morning. I would freeze the moment when I peer over the coffee cup at Carole Anne. At times, just looking at her steals my breath. She deserves more than I can offer. I hope her future is better than what I can provide inside the walls of this tin-can trailer. I hope when she gets out on her own, she finds love. Yes, love, and gravy-covered biscuits. Who could want anything more?   As with my other international release, Marie contracted with a local artist who painted the cover. With this booklet, she wanted the cover to feature some of the dishes. This meant me spending time in the kitchen and then setting a table outside to capture the photo you see below during the heat of August before two inches of rain descended in what we call a “frog strangler.” I would like to say the table survived, but alas, it did not. I do think Claire perfectly captured the image Marie hoped for. I partnered with an amazing designer who created something better than I could have imagined. What do you think?

My Concept Photograph Claire’s Creation

Here is the US Cover. I love the back cover almost as much as I adore the front !

Am I the only one who feels like 2022 fell through my fingertips like grains of sand? It was a gloriously busy year. One that saw my speaking calendar filled with events that allowed me to spend time with you, the reader. I was keynote speaker for three conferences, lead workshops at four different conferences, taught multiple herb classes, spoke to countless libraries, book clubs, and bookstores. We had a great time, didn’t we? If you’d like me to visit in 2023, please reach out.

Things were also busy on the land. Poppa and I invested a lot of sweat equity into our little farm. We are growers for Sow True Seed, a company specializing in offering non-GMO seeds to the public. I’m happy to report our crops passed the germination test, which means our harvest will be packaged and available for the public in 2023. Next year, Sow True Seed has asked us to grow the local favorite, Cataloochee Corn. This thrills me.

I am lucky to have this land and I have vowed to continue growing, seeds, herbs, and -Lord willing – offer the land for artists who need a quiet place to create. While others around me are selling farmland, I am doing everything within my power to keep mine! When you support me, you support the preservation of this land from development.

Also on the land, I am more than a year behind schedule due a non-conforming building that I just can’t get fixed and working a fulltime job. I pray this spring to have an “open house.” I covet your prayers.

If you’re struggling to find a last-minute gift for the holidays, Bryson City Recipes is available exclusively on Amazon in print and as an e book. Currently, Amazon has a two-day-turn around for print copies. So order today for your gift-giving. There is still time !

Heading into 2023, I am deeply grateful for my health and the health of those I love. It hasn’t been an easy year, but we press on. I pray for the farm, for our future, and for you. Yes, I pray for you. I hope I see you in person and if I don’t you can always find me on social media, or, on the land.

Here’s wishing you a safe and happy holiday season.
With love,
Renea

Billy Albertson, A Life Well Lived

Billy Albertson: 03/31/32 to 08/14/21

He was two and a half pounds of “tow-maders” weighed heavy, because he knew one day he’d, “stand before his maker,” and he wasn’t about to short a single customer.

He was baby goats, pregnant nannies, ball bands, and “lemme teach you how to milk.”

He was the last farmer in Roswell, Georgia.

He was pink-eyed-purple hulls and zipper peas.

He was Truckers fav-oh-right and corn smut.

He was okra, pods, cut and carried out of the red-clay field in five-gallon buckets.

He was string beans, and renegade cotton stalks.

He was the permission we ALL need to live a slower life.

He was straw hats, fried bologna sandwiches, a bowed-head-blessing, and tears splattered on the inside of his spectacles.

He was collected-rain water, hauled to a thirsty garden in five-gallon buckets and a little red wagon.

He was a Mason, of the highest respect. A deacon, a servant of the most-high God.

He was a thin cotton shirt, draped across my shoulders because, “Zippy, that old Georgia sun is hot enough to fry an egg.”

He was a warm house, heated with split-wood come wintertime.

He was dopes in a bottle and moon pies (just don’t tell the daughters).

He was, “Zippy, try this here fig. It’s so good and sweet, it’ll make you wanna slap your Granny.”

He was baby chicks and fretful hens sitting on a clutch of eggs.

He was sandwiches from “The Chicken House,” and fried shrimp at Captain D’s.

He was barefoot, and thrice-patched cotton pants dashing out to catch an escaped goat by the horns.

He was a magnolia tree with thick branches that hung so low, you could take a nap in the shade.

He was the founder of the Best Friends’ Club.

He was homemade wine and head-knocker pears.

He was an old white truck, and a Farmall tractor that required a prayer to God before it’d crank.

He was corn shelling and fodder tying.

He was a box fan circulating air and, “Here’s a towel to dry those tow-maders.”

He was a sharpened chainsaw and, “Let’s drop that limb.”

He was bent nails, hammered straight and re-used.

He was a teacher to everyone, age one to one-hundred, who visited his “little strip of country because Zippy, folks ’round here don’t know how to grow food.”

He was a seed saving, share cropper’s son, with roots so deep he could hold all your secrets and bear your burdens.

He was the inspiration for my first book (and my second). He was a way for me to deal with being so far from home, and later, he was my shoulder when my mother passed.

He was radio interviews, newspaper articles, and book signings. His was the most-important autograph in the book. Not mine, never mine.

He introduced me as his “third daughter.”

He was pure of heart and kind. There was meekness in his soul. He wanted you to know our Jesus.

He was my friend, and, if you had the opportunity to meet him, even for one fleeting moment, he was your friend as well.

God Speed, my friend. Hug everyone for me in heaven.

Go rest high on that mountain, my friend.

De l’autre côté des rails de Renea Winchester

Today I share a blog post from a blogger in France who shares their thoughts about Outbound Train https://laminutelivres.wordpress.com/2021/05/10/de-lautre-cote-des-rails-de-renea-winchester/

My word, I am in tears at this delightful French review of Outbound Train, “Rails”
Renea Winchester’s novel is not about failure and the condition of its characters is far from inevitable.
Confronted with life’s difficulties soon enough, these three women will learn to react, to get up, and to fight so that those who will follow do not suffer the same evils.

La minute livres

«1976, Bryson City, petite ville ouvrière des Appalaches de Caroline du Nord. De l’autre côté des rails, à l’écart de la ville, trois générations de femmes luttent ensemble pour joindre les deux bouts. Mamie Pearlene perd un peu la tête. Barbara part tous les jours à l’usine pour coudre des vêtements qu’elle ne pourra jamais s’offrir. Carole Anne est encore au lycée, mais travaille en cachette pour s’enfuir un jour vers un avenir meilleur. Elle ignore que Barbara avait autrefois caressé le même rêve, et qu’il s’était brisé en une seule nuit. Grandir du mauvais côté des rails prédestine-t-il à courir après le rêve américain sans jamais l’atteindre ? La mère réussira-t-elle à faire taire le passé quand sa fille sera portée disparue ? Renea Winchester brosse ici trois beaux portraits de femmes fortes, dont les parcours de vie semés d’embûches nous tiennent en haleine.»

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L’histoire se déroule dans…

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Outbound Train launches in France.

Guest post: Author, Angie Kinsey

When Renea Winchester’s novel, Outbound Train, debuted, she never imagined an international release. Then an email arrived: “I’m Marie. I’ll be working with you on the translation for Outbound Train.”

“I was so humbled I couldn’t stop crying,” Winchester said. “2020 was tough. Outbound Train had a great first week in the US because it launched ahead of the shutdown. With everyone worrying about a life-threatening pandemic, writers struggled. Having Outbound Train release in France this year is more than I could have ever dreamed. I only wish I could be there when it happens.”

The path to an international release came by way of a meeting in the low country of South Carolina when the publisher attended a conference intent on securing southern authors. There she learned about debut novelist Renea Winchester. After asking Firefly Southern Fiction to review the manuscript, Outbound Train was selected for publication.

“We are committed to bringing strong Southern Voices to French Readers,” Publisher Marie Bx writes.

“For me, this good news couldn’t have come at a better time. Honestly, I have been so depressed. Sales of Outbound Train have been abysmal. The pandemic hit me hard. I am hopeful the US sales of Outbound Train will pick-up. As you know, it’s hard to find an agent with low book sales.”

Winchester now had good news and something to focus her attention on . . . the translation process.

“Appalachians have their own language. I worried some of Granny Pearlene’s sayings and the Parker women’s strength would be lost in translation. I needn’t worried. Marie had no questions during the translation process. She adored Granny Pearlene and even asked for a copy of my mother’s recipe for apple stack cake to share with French readers.”

Like most publishers, having an appealing cover is essential. “I focused on the car Carole Anne needed to leave Bryson City,” Marie writes. “I wanted the artist to get that right.”

Editions Le Nouveaux Pont hired a local artist who painstakingly created a book cover that included the trailer where the Parker women lived, the car Carole Anne needed, and the train tracks that would lead the Parker women to a better future.  

“I am in love with the cover. It captures the reader’s attention. There is no greater honor than knowing a young artist created the cover with her own hands. This process deeply humbles me. Seeing the cover thrilled my heart,” Winchester said. I love it

Winchester recorded a short video expressing her appreciation, which is features on the publishers Facebook Page.

The title, “Outbound Train”, was the only translation snag. Editions Le Nouveaux Pont proposed a new title: De l’atre cote des rails, On the Other Side of the Tracks, releases April, 15, 2021.”I adore the title: It perfectly describes the Parker women’s life which was on the “other” side of the tracks.”

Outbound Train is available wherever books are sold.

Happy Birthday, Terry Kay

Almost two months have passed and the tears still come.

Uncontrollable.

Sorrowful drops splatting on my keyboard while I type.

I’m not ready to share images of us together at conferences and festivals. They are sacred.

Protected.

Locked in the vault. As were all our conversations, whispered with our heads pressed together like kindergartners avoiding naptime. It’s an honor being considered a vault, a place where your mentor can relax, speak truths.

Terry Kay was more than a mentor, he was my friend. I loved him.

There, I said it. I loved him. I was not alone. If you knew him, you loved him.

I sought his approval. I listened and heeded his advice: “Renea, keep writing.”

My debut novel would still be under the bed were it not for Terry Kay. I didn’t want to let him down. If Terry took the time to invest in you then you tried to live up to his expectations.

He called after reading my debut novel, Outbound Train. He’d read my non-fiction works, but it was his encouragement to transition to fiction that fueled me. I listened as his voice rich and healthy, full of glorious encouragement said, “This is Terry.”

That was all it took. I began to cry.

“Now don’t you go telling anyone about our talk. Not a soul, or I’ll have every writer in Georgia mad at me . . .” he paused for effect, for he’s spent a bit of time on the stage. “Girl, you can write.”

I couldn’t breathe. The Emmy-Award-Winning, author, liked my novel. He not only liked it, he called to tell me so. He gifted me his time. (The rest of our conversation is pressed into the pages of my journal. Bury me with those words, for they sustain me still).

“It’s unfortunate Covid will kill this novel.  No one will see it, you know that don’t you?” His voice had softened and took on the caress of a father kissing away tears of his daughter. I nodded. He was right.

“I am deeply sorry. You did everything right.”

I curled around the phone and sobbed. As I am now, pouring out my soul to you, the readers who sustain me.

“But, you can’t look behind you. You can’t look at what could have been. You’ve written one novel. It’s under your belt. You must get to work writing another.” His voice had changed to a velvety drill-sergeant. “Stay off Facebook. Start writing. Keep writing. Get an agent.”

I nodded.

+ + +

Liver cancer.

Aggressive.

My friend’s life became measured in moments that no longer included me. Still, I vowed to write. To write Terry daily, until I became worried his family would deem me a stalker; I decreased the letters to three a week.

I wanted to call, more than anything in the world I wanted to hear his voice. But I understand how cancer robs the most valuable currency: time with loved ones.

I continued writing, praying someone would read my letters to him. I know he received them because he messaged me, “receiving letters, too weak to respond.”

I wrote about the first time we met at the Blue Ridge Writers Conference. How he’d picked me out of the crowd and said, his voice strong and confident, “You are a writer.”

Terry Kay made me believe I was a writer. No other writer supported fledgling writers like Terry. My experience wasn’t isolated, although when you were with him he always made you feel like you were the only writer in the world.  We owe him everything. We craved his encouragement and discipline.

We needed Terry Kay to live forever.

And so the letters continued, hopeful-ever hopeful- for a healing, a miracle, or perhaps a letter postmarked from Athens, Georgia.

But no letter came.

It was selfish of me to hope for one last letter, a final email. He’d already sacrificed so much of his time for me, a nothing, a wannabe who sat at the feet of a master and licked crumbs that tumbled from the table. He’d given his time to readers, to writers and we’d devoured it like candy, then held out sticky hands begging for more.

The world could not get enough of Terry Kay.

As much as we loved him, his family loved him first, loved him more than we could imagine. To the Kay family, I am forever grateful for your gift, for the generosity in which you shared Terry with us.

Enough has been written about Terry Kay the writer. If you attended readings you’ve heard him recite While Reading. I link it here because the words are powerful. You should read it. Print it out.

You should read. Any book, any genre, worthy of your time, read it. Lesser known authors; read them first. Support those struggling to find a place at the literary table.

My favorite section: While reading, I have climbed mountains lost in clouds.

While reading, I’ve become people I cannot be, doing things I cannot do. And I do not know of any other experience that could have given me such a life—Terry Kay.

If you read any book this year, please pick up a copy of The Book of Marie. Today, I’m choosing to support Adventure Bound Books, a tiny bookstore in rural North Carolina who could really use your help. Call them at 828-475-6955 or text 828- 782-3358. Honor Terry today by placing an order with them, or Mercer University Press.

Happy Birthday Terry in heaven. You are missed, and shall never, ever be forgotten.

Photos taken from Terry’s Website and other public domains.

Order Renea’s debut novel at any of the following links, or through Adventure Bound Books

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Outbound-Train-Renea…/dp/1645262413

Barnes&Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/…/outbound…/1136262875

WALMART: https://www.walmart.com/search/…

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/50690274-outbound-train

The Illusion of Success

Recently, someone told me, “I didn’t by a copy of Outbound Train because (on Facebook) it looks like you’re doing so well.”

I paused for a moment, not understanding the rationale behind the statement. Why would someone ever think I am doing so well that I don’t need help? At that moment I knew I needed to immediately clear up this misunderstanding, while not breaking the unwritten rule: Authors don’t talk about sales.

Today, I’m going to talk about sales during the time of COVID-19.

Outbound Train debuted at number 22 in Southern Fiction. Because I thought I knew how many books it took to receive that ranking, I was elated. The reality punched me square in the gut.

Five years ago, this ranking meant a novel sold approximately five to six hundred copies in a week.

Two years ago, this ranking meant a novel sold approximately two-three hundred copies in a week

This year, debuting at number 22 meant Outbound Train sold less than 25 copies in order to achieve this “high ranking.“

Fewer than twenty-five copies.

Here’s what authors are telling me behind the scenes:

Every day I try to find something good, a little bit of news I can post about my novel just to keep it in the public eye.

Everyone is on Facebook; it is saturated with videos about books. 

I wish readers would write reviews.

I wish readers would tell their friends.

I wish readers would ask the library to order a copy of my book.

I wish someone would buy my book

What is going to happen to us?

But what I’m hearing most is the following: I’m going to take a year off, maybe two years and think about whether I’ll write again.

Authors have already seen changes to the way publishers do business. The shift began in March as publishing companies furloughed editors, halted the distribution of paper galleys to reviewers, and pushed back book release dates. Moving forward, many publishers will select future novels based on public interest (meaning more celebrity books, more conspiracy and pandemic books) [Source, Publisher’s Weekly]. Many Independent Authors, who struggle to find a place on this ever shifting platform, simply haven’t the energy – or the money–to invest in a book when a financial reward isn’t possible.

As the saying goes, “Don’t quit your day job.”

Pay attention to how many of your favorite authors have taken teaching positions, or who offer summer conferences. There’s the truth about publishing. Authors simply can not make a living in this business. Traditional publishing has always been difficult, but now debut novelists and those represented by small presses will not receive future contracts without good sales now.

So what’s an author to do? The only thing I know is to be honest with readers, which, as you know, has always been the case.

Outbound Train has received phenomenal support from readers. Some recommended Outbound Train to book clubs. (Thank You). Some readers have given copies away (Thank You). With so many unemployed, I realize people don’t have money to buy books right now. Did you know, you can recommend Outbound Train to your librarian?

However, that doesn’t solve the problem of those who think the book is so successful I don’t need their help. Friends, I need your help more than ever. Helping is so easy. Even if you haven’t read Outbound Train, even if you have no intention of reading it, even if you don’t read – at all – you can support me and other Indie authors by posing on your Social Media Platform. You can tell a friend. You can talk to your librarian.

Social media experts need only grab an image of the cover,and copy the following into your social media platform with the following words:

“Happy to see Renea Winchester’s debut novel, Outbound Train, available wherever books are sold.”

 

Or,

“Congratulations to Renea Winchester whose debut novel, Outbound Train was selected as a #SummerRead by famed reviewer, Dannye Powell.

Support Independent Bookstores by including this link to purchase https://bookshop.org/shop/rwinchester 

or this one https://www.amazon.com/Outbound-Train-Renea-Winchester/dp/1645262413

or the publisher https://shoplpc.com/outbound-train/

Pick one, or all three and share.

Your friends who are readers, and are looking to discover a new writer, will see your post and boom, that’s how Outbound Train stays alive. That’s how all authors stay alive to write another book. Because at the end of the day, authors are also small businesses and we need your support.

As always, my success comes from readers telling other readers. And my gratitude is immeasurable and heartfelt. And as always, I welcome your thoughts about lifting the veil on the illusion of an author’s success.

Renea Winchester is an award-winning non-fiction author. After years of writing nonfiction, Outbound is her first novel and is available wherever books are sold.

 

Grow your own craft Beads: Indian Corn Beads, Rosary Beads, Job’s Tears, Coix lacryma- jobi

Did you know you can grow your own beads? Before I tell you how, I shall first begin this post by paying homage to those who have suffered and endured insurmountable loss.

Cherokee Legend of the Corn Bead

Many years ago during the 1830’s, the Real People, as the Cherokee call themselves, were rounded up as cattle. They were forced to leave their homeland and walk west to a new land. They cried tears of sorrow and grief and hopelessness. Where their tears hit the ground, a plant sprung up. The seeds look like tears and their color is the color of grief.

Beads ripening. Copyright, Renea Winchester, all rights reserved.

Today, the Real People wear the seeds in necklaces, medallions, and earrings in memory of the Trail of Tears.

Technically, the botanical name is Coix lacryma- jobi and before we progress further, please don’t use Google as your guide when it comes to Corn Beads (Job’s Tears). The plant I write about is not the same as grown in India, or Asia which used as grain. The variety grown as a cereal crop is called Coix lacryma ma-yuen. That particular variety is white and pale brown with a groove on one end.

We grow a different kind here in Appalachia. Corn Beads are rock-hard and the seeds endure multiple color changes, from white to yellow, then pale green, dark brown laced with a variety of colors and finally, when ready to use, the bead is gray. Indian Corn Beads are a vital part of Appalachian and Native American Heritage.

Indian Corn Beads growing with our corn meal corn (back) Copyright Renea Winchester, All rights reserved.

 

While the Cherokee, and other Native American tribes, refer to them as “corn beads,” others call the seeds “Rosary Beads,” or “Job’s Tears.” According to legend, the name “Job’s Tears” was given to the plant because of the many tears Job (yes, the one in the Bible) shed. Their tear-drop shape, and hard shiny exterior shell resemble human tears and serve as a reminder of suffering, sorrow, and redemption.

Mother Teresa of Calcutta used a rosary made of Job’s Tears for her personal prayers.  The fruit of Job’s Tears has been used in jewelry since before Christ. Growing as its maker intended, each seed grows with a perfect hole that runs through it making it easy to string, and feed wire through. Seeds of Job’s Tears are used for jewelry, basket making, and gourd decorating, just for starters. The beads are highly prized by designer jewelers.

According to Richard Bauman’s Differential Identify and the Social Base of Folklore, Rosaries made from Job’s Tears involve the union of the sacred and the profane and, “illustrate and reinforce kindship bonds.” It is also said that there is an emotional bond between the owner of the rosary and the maker of the rosary. While I have no experience with that bond, today I would like to speak about the grower’s bond.

I love many things about this plant. It is pollinated by those little precious honey bees,

Busy pollinator, Copyright Renea Winchester, All Rights Reserved

and is a member of the grass family. Jobi (the nickname I give it) grows as tall as corn, hence name, “corn bead”, with bunching stalks that become rougher as the season progresses. One must harvest with care, because the leaves slice through tender skin.  One should also be on the lookout for stinging packsaddle insects who love to hide beneath the leaves.

Despite planting them the appropriate length apart, the Jobi growing here at Butterfly Cove seems to need the touch of its sister in order to thrive. Foliage arches outward, reaching-if you will- toward a brother or sister, touching it when the wind blows, whispering secrets.

When a farmer stands amidst rows of Jobi and listens, truly listens, she can hear the plant whisper, “I will heal you if are willing.” Picking the seeds is a Holy experience for the senses. Preferring to harvest when they are the color of dark roast coffee, I relish the feel of slick seeds against my hands that have grown rough from summer field work. Ripe seeds are slick and detach easily from stem, whereas fruit that holds fast needs more time to mature. Many farmers harvest only gray seeds, but I prefer picking all season as the fruit matures, building a relationship with them as I visit daily. Typically, after a long day at work I can be found “in the tear patch,” depositing them into a glass jar, smiling as they ping against the glass.

I have three varieties that ripen to the same gray color, but range in heights of a foot to six feet tall. At times it seems that the more I pick the more the plant offers, even when a drought descends upon the land. Not much is known about the three varieties, which is why I and a colleague are trying to isolate each by plant size while documenting how it grows and produces. As we save seeds from year-to-year we should have true seed stock in three years for those who wish to grow a more compact variety of Job’s Tears but may not exactly have the garden space like I do.

Even after a farmer believes she has picked all of the cascading grouping of seeds, there are more. Hiding in the crevices of the stalks, emerging from folds of green leaves, waiting at knee-length lower than the rest. More and more seeds, giggling like children saying, “find me if you can.”

Regardless of name, I call myself blessed to grow such a significant crop. Friends, it is an honor to have a heritage plant of historic, and spiritual, significance growing at Butterfly Cove.

If you are an artist looking for beads, mine are available in packs of 60 for $ 15.00

Indian Corn Beads, Rosary Beads, Job’s Tears, Coix lacryma- jobi in various phases of drying

Or, if you would like to try your hand growing your own, 12 seeds for $5.00 shipping included. Please note the planting seeds are white and are not suitable for craft purposes.

Feel free to leave a comment, or order through my website at http://www.butterflycovebotanicals.com

Used by Native Americans for necklaces, and artisans who create Rosaries, these seeds play an important role in Native American, Appalachian, and Spiritual heritage. Sustainably grown. Ethically harvested. Never sprayed.

Visit my website here to order beads for craft projects and jewelry making.

Renea Winchester is an award-winning author. Firefly Southern Fiction will release her debut novel, Outbound Train, in April 2020. All photos on this blog are subject to copyright and may not be reproduced without expressed written permission of Renea Winchester. 

 

 

Another Delightful Rose Glen Literary Event.

A deluge of rain and widespread flooding couldn’t deter me from attending the 10^th annual Rose Glen Literary Festival this past Saturday. This makes my third event: One as a presenter with my second non-fiction book, the second as a reader supporting long-time friend Bren McClain, and yesterday, I was a volunteer.

During a time when book festivals are faltering, it is the community of readers that sets Rose Glen apart. Readers who are BUYING BOOKS. There is a sprinkling of magic at Rose Glen. This type of event happens only through generous corporate and private sponsorships. One need only look at the history of communities outside of the Great Smoky Mountains to understand the importance of art. Sevierville businesses and entrepreneurs “get it,” they embrace and support the heritage of hill-folk. But Rose Glen isn’t merely a celebration of stories, it is a community of artists who support each other.

Simply put, Rose Glen shines like a diamond; it is a much-coveted jewel in the literary community.

After lunch, I spoke with members of writing groups in Knoxville who bemoaned a lack of festivals in their area. They couldn’t understand why Rose Glen receives such an outpouring of community support, while critics shoot down literary festivals for Knoxville. I believe there is a chasm between the academia of larger universities and grass-roots movers and shakers who remain determined to make things work for the sake of literacy. Academia may chase the prestige of heavy hitters, not realizing that it is the reader who sustains the author, regardless of the author’s publisher. All while Rose Glen quietly grew larger and larger and this year had a heavy hitting NYT bestselling author who, in his words, was an “overnight success” (after 38 years of rejections).

Serious authors in Appalachia understand the importance of tearing down stereotypes and promoting literacy. We may add an extra “A” when pronouncing “Fancy Girls,” in a lighthearted manner, but we indeed know what a Fancy Girl is and the solemn history of the oppressed. Despite the backwoods stereotypes we endure, and our lighthearted way of making the best of a bad situation, it is the authors of Appalachia who persevere. We are people who embrace the written word and stories. We listen. We observe. We collect. We jot down stories. We tell others. For many who attended the festival preserving stories is a calling, a part of our DNA. Sevierville’s own, Dolly Parton, taught us the importance of literacy. Saying, “If you can’t read you are almost crippled.”

Her words empower us and we shall not remain oppressed by stereotypes.

At Rose Glen I had the great privilege of introducing Stephen Lyn Bales who has attended every Rose Glen since the first festival in 2009. Mr. Bales was there to present “A Look Back at 10 Years of Rose Glen.”  He has penned three books. However, Lyn didn’t stand at the podium pontificating about his works. In fact, he didn’t mention his book not a single time. Instead, he held up someone else’s book time and time again telling the audience what he liked about each work.

Mr. Bales “gets it.” He understands how to build a community.

He understands that the most successful author promotes the work of his colleagues. He understands that “an author only needs a bit of hope.” I stood in the back of the room awestruck at his generosity. He wowed the room. He inspired me, enough to take a moment to tell you about him. His words matter to me and the world we live in. I’m proud he is part of the literary community, even prouder to call him friend.

During my first trip to Rose Glenn I took my daughter with me. Using her own money, she purchased a butterfly print he had available for display. Years later, it was my great privilege to introduce him, and sing Happy Birthday to this talented author, naturalist, and friend.

Find his books here.

Renea Winchester is an author and volunteer at Rose Glen. Find her on Twitter @renewinchester or Instagram @ reneawinchesterauthor