Interview Abigail Drake -The Enchanted Garden Cafe
My youngest son is a singer. He was once invited to perform at an acoustic night being held in a smoothie bar in an area of Pittsburgh called the South Side. A funky little place called “The Enchanted Garden,” it was basically an old house that had been converted into a shop and smoothie bar. A small garden containing a few benches and plants, was located in the back, hence the name. It has since closed, and I only spent a few hours in this place, but as soon as I stepped inside, the wheels started turning in my head. I could imagine the characters so clearly, and felt compelled to tell their story. Several are based on actual people I met that night at the smoothie bar. Others were inspired by people I met at various places and times in my life, and some have elements of people I consider to be close personal friends. The location was pivotal, however, so much so that I feel it’s kind of a character in my book. What an impact one night spent listening to music in a smoothie bar made in my life! That proves you just never know when the muse will strike.
What secret do you use to blast through writer’s block?
I’m going to tell you a little secret. I don’t believe in writer’s block. There are always times when a writer struggles with something – be it plot, or a character arc, or even the name of a book. With the right tools and the right attitude, however, these problems can be easily over come.
How? Well, let me tell you.
First of all, if I’m ever having trouble with something in my writing, I meditate. I have guided meditations for writers created by my very dear friend, Madhu Wangu. When I’m stuck, I listen to one of Madhu’s meditations, and then I get back to work. Somehow, during the meditation, everything becomes clear, and the problems are solved.
The other option? I go for a long walk in the woods with my dog. He’s a Labrador retriever, which is the opposite of a Zen experience, but the quiet of the forest has a soothing affect on me. Also, physical activity is good for the body, good for the brain, and very good for a person’s mental health.
Another tip: If you’re stressed about starting a new chapter, focus instead on reviewing and editing the last chapter you worked on. When I take the pressure off, and try to do something as basic as just rereading and editing, I usually figure out what to do in the next chapter with very little pressure, and less time wasted.
For really big issues, call upon your friends (especially your writer friends) to help you. Sometimes, just the act of talking about the problem helps you figure out the solution. It’s like magic.
Do you find it easier to write from a male or female point of view? Why?
Most of my books are in first person, and from a female point of view. I like getting into the head of my characters, and figuring out what makes them tick. It feels more personal to me, and it gives me a better connection to what I’m writing. That being said, often it’s helpful, especially in romance to be able to have the perspective of both main characters. One of my young adult books, “The Bodyguard” (published under the name Wende Dikec), is in third person with alternating perspectives. One of my new adults books, “Sophie and Jake” (published under my pen name, Abigail Drake), is in first person with alternating perspectives. It’s interesting for me to experiment with this, and who knows? Maybe I’ll write from the male point of view eventually. I do have three sons. I kind of know how men think at this point!
If writing is your first passion, what is your second?
I studied Japanese and Economics in college, and lived abroad for many years. I lived in Nagoya, Japan for three years, and then in Istanbul, Turkey for three years (my husband is Turkish). I love to travel and explore other cultures, and I love learning new languages. I speak three (Japanese, Turkish, and English). My husband speaks four, and we love exploring new places together.
Other things I enjoy – as I said above, we have a Labrador retriever named Capone. I blog about him, and he’s become a bit of a local celebrity. My blog is on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/caponethewonderdog/ ), and it’s been a fun way to talk about the crazy things my dog did as a puppy. Lately, however, it’s become something else as well. I’ve been working with our local humane society to post twice a week about dogs and cats available for adoption at our local shelter. Quite a few animals have found a permanent home because of it, and that makes me very proud.
Falling in love is like baking.
Results may vary with experience.
~Aunt Francesca~
Chapter One
I opened the box and stepped back, tripping over a pile of Himalayan wind chimes I’d left lying behind me on the floor of the shop. They clanked in a discordant melody as I untangled them from my feet.
“What the heck?” I asked, ignoring the chimes and focusing on the parcel that had arrived in the mail earlier that morning. Tiny stone phalluses in various shades of gray filled the container to the brim. Checking the return address, I noticed the shipping cost and wanted to cry. Most of our inventory budget for the entire month had been used to mail this one small box halfway around the world.
“Mom, what exactly did you order from Inuyama, Japan?”
My mother popped her head around the corner, a bright smile on her face. “Did they finally arrive, Fiona? I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“For stone penises?”
Why was I even surprised? This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. My mother, Claire de Lune Campbell, had never been the master of impulse control, and she had a history of making very poor decisions. She’d been born Claire Campbell and added the “de Lune” in, what I can only guess, was a moment of pot-induced inspiration. The pot no longer played a part in her life, but the total inability to make common-sense decisions remained.
Mom picked up one of the stone penises, a happy twinkle in her eye. “Aren’t they lovely?”
On the outside, Mom and I looked alike. The same blonde hair, the same blue eyes, the same stubborn tilt to our chins, but there the resemblance ended. Mom was as happy and bright as a butterfly landing on a flower, and she had the same level of fiscal responsibility. I stressed about everything, especially money, but I had good cause.
My mom owned and operated the Enchanted Garden Café, where we served food, coffee, and specially blended teas and sold unusual items in our small gift shop. Nestled in the middle of the South Side, the funky hippie district of Pittsburgh, it was the perfect spot for my mom but a constant source of anxiety for me.
I wiped sweat from my face and brushed off my clothing. Dust covered my T-shirt and shorts, and some kind of stone powder had fallen out of the box from Inuyama onto my tennis shoes. Mom, glowing in a dress made from recycled saris, didn’t have a speck of dust on her, but she hadn’t handled the phalluses.
Kate, the girl who worked behind the counter, came over to us, her blue eyes alight with curiosity. “I want to see them,” she said. Mom handed her one, and she studied it closely, peering at it through the thick black frames of her retro hipster glasses. Her ebony hair was pulled off to the side in a low ponytail, and her colorful tattoos peeked through the crocheted black cardigan covering her pale skin. “At least they are anatomically correct. Look at those veins.”
My cheeks grew warm, and Mom smiled, putting a cool hand against my face. “Aww, Fiona is blushing.”
“No, I’m not. It’s hot in here.”
“Of course it is,” she said, making me feel twelve instead of twenty-five, but it was hot for early June, and the air-conditioning was broken. Again. Even with all the windows open, it still felt stuffy.
I ignored her and picked up a penis. “What are these things anyway?”
She beamed at me with pure, unfiltered happiness. “Fertility charms from a little shrine in the mountains of Japan. They have a big festival there every year. I went once.”
She sighed, most likely remembering happy times at the fertility festival, and went back to the kitchen. I looked at Kate and rolled my eyes, making her snicker, before getting back to work. The fertility charms came in all sizes and seemed handmade. I just wasn’t sure how to sell them or where to display them in our shop.
A Victorian eyesore, the café was painted on the outside in what once had been a mix of bright pink and various shades of green. The pink had faded to a dull rose, and the green looked like the color of old limes just before they rotted. It needed work and a fresh coat of paint, but instead of doing so, we spent our money on phalluses from Japan. That was how things worked with my mother. No planning. No rhyme or reason. No logic. No rational thought.
The bell above the door tinkled, and I turned, a penis in each hand, as a stranger walked into the shop. I couldn’t see his face at first because the sun was at his back, but he carried a guitar case. A sure sign of trouble.
“Hello,” he said as he came closer.
He had straight dark hair that brushed his shoulders, brown eyes, and a goatee. He reminded me of a sexy, naughty French pirate, and I knew his kind well. Close to my age, he was definitely one of the artsy, flighty types who always hung out around my mom. I could spot them a mile away.
“Holy guacamole, if he were any hotter, I’d need new underwear,” whispered Kate, taking off to the back of the shop and leaving me alone to greet the stranger.
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Posted in Authors' Secrets Blog and tagged Abigail Drake, South Side Stories, The Enchanted Garden Cafe, Women's Fiction by Tena Stetler with comments disabled.
