Behind the Essay: Marigold Stew
From shitty blog post to beautiful work of art...
In June, Marigold Stew was published by
. I’ve been thinking about this behind the scenes post for months now, because that essay wasn’t always so lovely. If you haven’t yet, you’ll want to read the essay before reading this post; otherwise some references won’t make sense.It all started as a blog post in September 2015. I was part of a launch team for Out of Sorts by
and was blogging my way through the book when something in the first chapter made me think of that day in the courtroom. Several years ago, I took down that blog, but I saved all the posts in a file. They were glimpses of who I used to be and I didn’t want to let them go.Sometime in the fall of 2021, Ruminate Magazine put out a call for reader responses to the prompt: Beginnings and Endings. Sitting at the cafe table in my front yard, mulling the prompt over, I noticed the marigold plants in my garden bed. I walked over to them and began picking off the dead buds and that day in the courtroom came to mind. Suddenly I had an idea.
I took the buds apart and did a nature study like I’ve taught my kids to do since they were young. Paying close attention to the seeds within the dead plants, I allowed myself to notice and wonder. I made notes about sensory details, and began thinking about how to weave the marigold through the story in that old blog post. When I submitted it to Ruminate, I was so dang proud of those 298 words and their title: pinch the dead buds. Several months later, I received my copy of the magazine. My response was not in it.
I read every Reader’s Note that was printed, taking notes comparing the successful submissions with mine. I was devastated my piece didn’t get selected, but I could tell it wasn’t the same caliber as those that were. Not willing to give up on it, and hopeful that one day I would revise it again, I filed it away until the story became more clear.
The next January, I was in a workshop with
and . One of my first assignments was to write a piece telling the truth. I instantly knew this courtroom scene was the truth I needed to play with and figure out how to tell. I knew I wanted to continue the story of endings and beginnings. And I knew the marigold needed to be the anchoring image.I first made notes about the marigold plants. I wrote about the day my daughter and I bought them. I wrote about planting them with her. I wrote about the day I noticed the dead buds, and how I taught her how to deadhead. I played with the structure, and turned it in. Callie and Sonya had good feedback, but I knew it still needed work.
When Literary Mama announced they were creating a new anthology celebrating the 20th anniversary and it would be open to all staff members, I made another round of deep edits, and submitted this essay—now called Marigold Stew—for publication in that anthology. The editor told me as it was written, the essay didn’t have enough to do with motherhood in order to be included, but if I could cut the divorce scene and tighten it up, she’d consider reading it again. I was heartbroken. With no idea how to tighten it up or what direction to take—and deeply committed to keeping the divorce scene intact—I once again filed it away.
I wanted to make it something beautiful and I wanted to give it a home outside of Substack, but I just didn’t have the stamina to keep going with it. Now, I think I was too close to it. It’s not that the timeline of the story was so close in time; it’s that when I wrote it—in all its revisions—I poured my heart into it. I didn’t have clear enough vision to be able to really see what the holes were or where it needed to be fixed.
It took me more than a year to feel ready to edit it again. While it sat in the files, I worked on other stuff. I read a lot of books, I wrote a lot of other scenes—mostly not about motherhood. I wrote tens of thousands of words towards my memoir—none of which had anything to do with a marigold. Or my divorce. I took a very long break from writing to create a homeschool co-op. I developed curriculum, I educated parents, and I made spreadsheet after spreadsheet with schedules, assignments, class groups, and so much more.
But when I saw the
submissions open for spring essays, I felt this pull to try once again. Spring felt like a good time to talk about planting flowers with my daughter. It felt like a good time to edit, and it felt like a good time to try to submit my work again.Because I knew the piece needed to be edited before I submitted it, I decided to treat it like an essay by someone I didn’t know. When I edit pieces for Literary Mama, I print every single essay and write comments by hand. My brain works better when I see words on a piece of paper, rather than on a screen. I make connections differently, and I’m able to really spot holes—and also nuggets of truth—in a way that I often miss if I don’t print it out.
So I started by printing out my essay and reading it out loud, making notes and comments in the margins as I went. I looked at feedback from the workshop, and I wrote responses to the comments in my journal. Once I took a step away from the piece, I was able to see where I needed to cut large parts of the middle section, and how I could better connect the three different scenes together.
I submitted it with trepidation. I knew if it was rejected again, I would be heartbroken. There are a handful of essays in my hidden files that are so near and dear to me I’m afraid to send them out into the world. But I knew, in that moment, I had done everything I knew how to do for this piece. It felt ready to fly—even if it ended up boomeranging right back to me, where it would sit for another year or two until I was ready to brush it off again.
I was on a mom’s weekend away over Mother’s Day with a close friend (who is not a writer) when I got the email saying it had been accepted for publication. I was scrolling through my email to make sure I didn’t delete anything super important, when I saw the message. I expected a rejection. (Don’t we always? Or is it just me?)
I had this intense feeling of elation. I wanted to squeal and jump up and down and celebrate that this baby that I had worked on for so long was finally going to have wings and fly away into the world on its own. But it’s hard to share submission news with people who aren’t writers. When I told my friend, she congratulated me, but there just wasn’t the same amount of excitement that might have come from my friends who have been through the submissions process. So I promptly texted two friends who had read various versions of the essay and tampered down my outward excitement.
Despite my excitement, I was still a little hesitant. It had to go through another round of edits and I was really afraid of the editorial comments. I didn’t want to make deep edits and I really didn’t want to work on it anymore.
’s edits were so generous and helpful, and they made the piece so much better. But even after I accepted most of her edits, I wasn’t sure how to address her suggestions for the ending. It wasn’t until I sent it to that friend of mine who was with me on retreat and said “Tell me what you think of this as a reader,” that I was able to really see how to shape the ending.That’s how the Marigold Essay came to be.
I can’t tell you how thrilled I am that said yes. It really felt like a C+C piece from the very beginning; I put so much heart into it with other women from Exhale who helped me workshop it in all its various stages, so it really felt like that was the right home for it in the end.
Your words are a gift, friend
Thank you for sharing this behind the scenes look into your beautiful essay.