Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? Harvesting the Sky. There weren’t any other names because once I knew the story was about a special apple from Kazakhstan, I knew this had to be the title. The title has hidden meaning so if I explain it too much here, I’ll spoil things a bit for readers. But usually, I play with words until I find the right combination. I like fiddling with titles.
https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20160523-kazakhstans-treasure-trove-of-wildly-flavoured-apples
What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I wrote the draft in November and December of 2014. Then I spent the entire year of 2015 editing it. I had the story idea from another novel that had never felt quite right. So I completely rewrote it as a story starring a horticulture professor. When I did that, the book felt right. Then in 2016, I tried to sell it but couldn’t.
So I wrote another novel and ended up selling that in 2018: The Forgetting Flower. Then my publisher was interested in what other stories I had set in that world so I polished and submitted it in 2020. Now, the release date is September, 7, 2021. Just remember, if you can’t sell your first novel, don’t give up! You may sell it later on.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? I wrote most of the novel in what I call my “green leisure lounge.” It’s green because I can see my garden from the window and it’s leisure because it’s a place of relaxation, and it’s a lounge because I hang out there with my husband and kids. I wrote it on a laptop in my big green chair while my dog Olive kept me company. Some of the outlining and editing was done outside in my garden.
Right: Karen’s dog Olive.
Credit and Copyright by Karen Hugg
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? When I wrote this book, my habit was to work during the six hours my kids were at school. I only had between 9 and 3 and that was it. When they came home from school, it was impossible to concentrate on anything for longer than a few minutes. So every morning I had to make sure I was in my chair right after I walked my daughter to the bus. I didn’t always feel like writing and often had other chores to do so life got in the way sometimes. But now I have teenagers and it’s not an issue. They’re not interested in me anymore, haha!
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. This is a Chapter 1 scene (a few pages in) where Andre, atop a steep hill, has discovered a small tree that’s produced the medicinal apples he’s been searching for. He wants to dig out the sapling and take it back to Paris so he can grow more apples, which will help cure the ill, especially his mother. But the tree grows at the dangerous edge of a cliff:
Yes, the sapling was a Tengri. It shared the same upward leaf serration. And a small apple rotted nearby. The tree had produced the previous month. With an excited smile, he knelt for a closer look. The trunk, just wider than his thumb, grew horizontally for a few inches before disappearing under a barberry. Careful, thorny. He reached underneath and tugged at it. The sapling was attached to a hefty root. He tossed off his hat, mashed his umber hair from his forehead, and crawled into the prickles. Beyond his hands, tan from the sun, the ground curved into a brief drop before the brambles stair-stepped to the field.
That curve was to his advantage. If he could cut the root along the curve, he needn’t dig in soil. He’d saw straight through the ground. He’d ruin his pocket saw doing it, but it’d be worth it.
He scooted toward the hill’s edge, laying on his side, and sawed the root, the prickles scraping his face. The deep bellow of Vlad’s voice and Samal’s frantic one echoed, but he stayed spread out. His arm hung over the ridge, the blade bumping against the soil’s pebbles. He almost had it. A spray of rain wet his neck. He breathed out. Nearly there. He sawed faster, faster, and finally cut through. The sapling loosened, but a small feeder held it back. He yanked it, felt in the soil with a finger. Get closer. He got on a knee to take out his pruners, still a hold of the sapling, when the rock under his knee slid and the root snapped.
His body dropped into a slide along the hill. Branches slapped his face. He grabbed at clumps of tarragon, feeling the wet leaves. With his foot he groped for a toehold, but only found gravel. If he dropped the Tengri, he could hoist himself up, but it would break in the fall. The herb slipped from his hand and he slid, his forearms scraping rock. He dropped into the cold air before catching in a hefty wild rose.
Ouch. Stillness. He grabbed a prickled cane. Ouch. Thorns poked his ear. He exhaled. Through the leaves, the field, green with the gray humps of boulders, swayed below. His foot pressed against the shrub’s base, then slipped. His body jolted. Bump. Face hit a stone. His ankle too. Pain. Warm liquid. Where’s the saw? More pain. Is my tooth loose?
Vlad and Samal exchanged high-pitched calls, repeating Russian phrases again and again, back and forth, negotiating in a panic.
Rain blew. He gripped a rock, the toe of his right boot still stuck in the rose. Crackling sounds. Branches breaking? The fire? He was unsure whether looking up or down worried him more.
Some twenty feet above, Nes appeared at the edge. “Brilliant. Now your arse’s in a thistle.”
“I don’t know how…”
“Here, catch.”
A clump of rope landed at his chest.
“Hold tight a sec.” Nes disappeared for a minute, then threw a leg over the rope, gripping the taut line, and tapped around for a hard surface. The hair on his calf was blonde. His leg, pink. The image blurred from blood. Andre blinked, unable to see, but felt the sapling in his hand, the trunk as solid as a bone.
“Nes, take the sapling.”
“Andre, forget the sapling.”
The wind kicked up the smell of wet soil.
“Nes, take it.”
Carefully, Nes climbed downward, setting each foot by a rock or plant. “You’re about to break your back, now let it go and grab the damn rope.”
“If I hold it high, you can reach the roots.”
“Andre, forget the sapling. Grab the damn rope!”
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? Well, Andre’s desire to help his mother recover from a stroke reflected my desire for my husband to recover when he was diagnosed with cancer. I would have gone to the ends of the earth to find him a cure and so I relate to Andre’s pointed need to get his mom this new apple variety that could alleviate her suffering. By the way, my husband, after 15 years now, is thankfully fine.