Fall is Here

Fall is here, along with Notes from The Rocket, my latest book and one more labor of love in a long line of such creations. Do I say this every time? That this one is especially special, an endeavor like no other? I suppose I do, which speaks to how blessed I’ve been as an artist and a writer. So many of you have been with me for years—decades even!—and it gives me such comfort. Each time an order for Notes from The Rocket lands in my inbox, I get giddy, immediately wondering, “Who is it?” So many of the names are familiar, years-long familiar, and it makes me want to hire one of those pilots who flies at low altitude with a colorful banner flapping in the wind behind the plane. THANK YOU, the banner would say, each letter a different color, stars on each side.

A while back I wrote about my decision to sell this book only on my website. After all my experience writing, publishing, working with publishers, selling on Amazon, and doing most of my own marketing and publicity, I now see that this decision was inevitable. I tend to be drawn to ideas that are somewhat contrary, just a bit (or sometimes a lot) off the beaten path. This started with the decision to publish Ordinary Sparkling Moments on my own back in 2007, at a time when independent publishing was barely a thing. It started way back before that even, when I launched my own line of greeting cards back in 1995 and I had this thing called a website, which was rather cutting edge at the time. 

And now here I am—feeling like I have come full circle, back to the more fundamental aspects of my creative work and how I choose to share it with the world. The only catch is that this, by necessity, requires a community that is willing to walk on that path with me. Going against the grain is a risk; people may or may not be open to whatever it is I’m trying to do, encourage, or create. But I’ve never been terribly comfortable doing what most everyone else does simply because that might be easier. I have become quite skeptical of this incessant pursuit of convenience, which is an idea that is constantly being jammed down our throats by Silicon Valley. Convenience does not encourage meaningful engagement. It does not inspire presence.

The decision to keep my channel of distribution singular opened the door to all kinds of possibilities for Notes from The Rocket. Each book has tiny embellishments tucked between the pages, including a hand-pressed flower from my garden. I wrap up each book myself with a personalized label typed on the Rocket. I print the invoices, I create the shipping labels, and I take them all to the post office. Every single book is assembled with each person in mind; every single book is 100% unique. None of this would be possible if I sold it on Amazon, where the books would move from a conveyor belt to a bubble mailer to your mailbox. There’s nothing personal about that.

This is the kind of exchange I aim to create with Notes from The Rocket. I love knowing who is drawn to this book, who has made the effort to order it. I love seeing repeat orders come in—someone who ordered one book then orders a few more for gifts. I love typing the labels. I love feeling this shared appreciation for beauty and attention to detail. My dear friend and creative kindred Mari Robeson and I recently had a lovely conversation about this and you can have a listen right here. 

But back to fall. Most of my garden has been put to sleep. I’ve cut back all the flowers that have run their course but let any that are still bright with color remain. Looking outside my window, I see two bright spots of red that stand out like thick dabs of paint from an artist’s brush in a landscape of deep greens, browns, and rusts. The turquoise umbrella over our patio table trembles in the wind, looking as if it is trying to hold in its skirt to avoid being immodest. Sweaters have been pulled out of storage and tucked into dresser drawers; tank tops and shorts put away. I’ve come to appreciate these seasonal tasks—chores I never had to consider when living in California—as reminders that as time continues its constant march forward, what was once vibrant and bright will eventually fade, and what once looked dark and lifeless will one day burst open again.