Hello to all my new subscribers! And a big thank you to my new paid subscribers! I took a break after February Poetry Adventure, and I’m now back to my regularly scheduled newslettering. :)
A quick bit about me if you’re new here. (If I’m already old hat, feel free to skip this part. 😉) I’m an indie author who is re-releasing a fantasy novel co-written with my husband, Adam Lombard. We’re currently in the editing process of the re-release. I also write sci-fi and post short speculative fiction here on my Substack as well as host February Poetry Adventure.
I’m so glad you’ve joined me on this indie author journey! ❤️
Quick Note: We’ve entered hot summer here (not to be confused with Mordor season). So I don’t have an audio version of this newsletter included, because I can’t bear to turn off the fans or A/C to record. 🥵 We can’t get our dear, older house below 80 degrees even with all of them running, so they will stay on and I will be adding the audio versions in September when it will (hopefully) be cool enough. 🤞😂
Newsletter
When I was eight, I visited the world’s largest shopping mall. As I peered over the edge of the second floor glass railing to the ice rink below, I happily licked my ice cream, entranced by the graceful skaters. But the blue bubblegum scoop wasn’t pressed onto my cone firmly enough, and with one distracted lick the scoop tipped off the cone and over the edge, falling to the ice below. There were silent tears. That scoop was lost forever. And it wasn’t going to be replaced. The magical moment was broken.
The other day I pulled into a parking spot and saw red cherries strewn across the space next to me. Someone had spilled their delicious snack-to-be and there was no retrieving it. But the artist in me was excited because — and here’s a weird fact about me — I like to take pictures of fruit on pavement. Specifically, squished fruit on asphalt. I discovered this about eight-ish years ago, when I noticed a crushed yellow cherry tomato on my mom’s driveway. I became so enamored of the sunny, juicy innards against the black tarry asphalt that I had to pull out my phone and snap a few pictures. Since then I’ve taken every opportunity I’m given to snap photos of squished fruit. Which isn’t common actually. While it’s normal to see garbage, candy, french fries, and spilled drinks strewn across the ground, I like to think it’s not as common to see fruit because we all understand its delicious magical value. (Or maybe it’s just because the birds get to it first…)
As I contorted myself into odd positions in the empty parking lot taking pictures of the cherries, I stopped and thought about that long ago lost ice cream scoop in a different way.
What if someone had noticed the beautiful blue, slightly melty scoop, with its ridges and brightly colored chunks of bubblegum? What if they had stopped to enjoy its creamy beauty against the scratched white ice? What if they even took out a camera, a real film camera, and took a picture?
When I take pictures of squished fruit, I feel like I’m honoring each piece. The fruit won’t be eaten, but I’m savoring it in a different way. I can find beauty in what was probably a moment of loss. I’m finding beauty in the squishy mess.
In fact, art is most commonly made out of mess. Paint squished across canvas, food chopped and mashed and drizzled, clay shaped between fingers, stories edited and reorganized. In each of those situations, something is lost — a clean canvas, crisp veggies, a block of clay, an old novel draft — but there is still something beautiful yet to be discovered. Perhaps something even more interesting than what was there before.
Which is what I keep reminding myself. It’s okay to mourn the loss. It’s okay to be disappointed about the dropped fruit. It’s okay to cry over the ice cream. But I still have the memories of that magical day, walking around a shopping mall that was the size of a small town, seeing things I’d only imagined. And, once I’m ready, there just might be art to find in the loss. Just as I hope someone stopped and took a picture of my lost scoop of ice cream. Because that melty bubblegum blue mound was art — with all it’s visual beauty and emotional pathos. And I hope someone savored it.
Are We There Yet?
I’m back to the original title for this section because it’s how I’m feeling about the rewrite of Manly Hero. 😂 (I temporarily named it ‘Writing Adventures and Detours’ which just wasn’t as fun to type and didn’t feel as true.)
I was not born a naturally patient person. It’s a skill I’ve practiced. And continue to practice. However, I’ve found that patience is often the step before accomplishment. So I keep reminding myself of this as we continue to reshape this book. And, I’m finally starting to see the bigger picture fall into place.
We’ve got maps, outlines, and major plot points on white boards. We’ve got great new scenes. We’ve got more information. And (I hope) we’ve kept the heart and soul of it all — our characters. I keep getting more and more excited about it and book two of the series. So I know the time we’re spending rewriting and editing is worth it.
If I’m being honest, I continue to be surprised at just how much of our story never made it onto the page the first time. And I’m surprised by just how awesome the story is feeling now. We’ve still got a ways to go, but I’m feeling so proud of what we’re able to do with the storytelling and writing skills we’ve built up over the last decade. And I’m really proud to say it’s never too late to re-approach a dream and continue to work on it. So, if there’s something you’ve been dreaming of and set aside, or would like another go at, do it! Time, wisdom, practice, and grit are amazing dream supporters. As are all of you! Thank you for your continued support of our dream. I love you for it and I can’t wait to share our book when it’s finished! And I’m cheering you on as you go for your dreams. 🙌😀
Obsession Sessions
I’ve been needing two things lately: something to calm my nervous system and something to remind me that creativity is an awesome process. And I found it on Amazon Prime. Portrait Artist of the Year is a wonderfully soothing program AND it reminds me that it’s okay to be in process or even start over completely. When I’m watching I’m shocked by how many of the painters and artists make big shifts in their projects as they go. There are twelve seasons and I’ve started at the beginning. It’s such a perfect program to relax to in the evenings. (There’s also a landscape painting version, so there’s a pleasant amount of binge possibility.)
Bye For Now
May you pick up a dusty dream, sprinkle in some wisdom, add a lot of elbow grease, surround it with hope, and polish it back to a shine. May you know it’s never too late to make something a little bit (or a lot) better. And may your fruit be juicy, sweet, and stay in your hands. But, if you do drop it, remember to take a picture. ;) And, let me know in the comments about a dream you’ve picked back up, dusted off, and are reapproaching.
Love you, Petra ❤️
P.S. If you’re reading this newsletter in your email, the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed that my header image has changed. That’s because I’m working with an artist to create a new image and I can’t wait to show it to you when it’s finished. :)
P.P.S. Here’s one of my poems from February Poetry Adventure 2026 that fits the current season.
Thanks for reading! As an indie author, I really appreciate your support. :)
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I love hearing your thoughts and comments on these posts. As always, this means I’m trusting you the reader to give me the benefit of the doubt if I say something weird, or create space for something which doesn’t align with what you think or where you are in your journey, just as I’ll do for you. And please extend the same courtesy to fellow commenters. This is a space to respect each other and the fact that being human is both amazingly beautiful and fucking complicated. Thank you for your respect.
Dear Petra,
Your post struck me. Seeing connections between stories that are like metaphors feels like discovering hidden treasures that are unique. The ability to share a story that is relatable and inspiring in unexpected ways is a gift. Your story of loss of the fruit and the beauty in the bruised brokenness pierced into the grief I’m walking through w the recent loss of my mountain of a father. Then, your encouragement to dust off dreams we’ve been hoarding surrounded by inaction/procrastination but me and spurs me back to my writing and art. Thank you for sharing and creating connection toward better futures.
I love this and it’s so good to read your writing again. I remember my first trip to a mall when I was little—it was the first mall in Dallas and I went with my parents on a Friday night. And, oh, the falling ice cream. I could just feel that disappointment and then you turned it into art as well as the other “accidents.”