Holly Ringland

[hollyringland]

‘Would you like me to tuck you in?’ June asked, gesturing to Alice’s bed. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. Alice followed her gaze. On her pillow sat a small rectangular tray holding a glittering white cupcake, decorated with a pale blue sugared flower. Dangling from the cupcake was a paper star that read, EAT ME. Next to it sat a cream-coloured envelope bearing Alice’s name. A smile squeezed through the tangles and hurts inside, warming her cheeks. She ran to her bed. ‘Goodnight, Alice,’ June said, standing at her door. Alice gave a small wave. Once June was gone, she tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten letter on matching cream-coloured paper. 🦋 🦋 🦋 This cupcake has been sitting in the freezer at home in Australia since December 2016, when one of my faves @mrhutch had just finished reading an early yet full draft of Lost Flowers. Afterwards, unbeknownst to me, he rang a bakery with what must have been a fairly odd request: could they bake a singular bespoke cupcake, gluten free, with vanilla icing, a sugared blue flower, with a handwritten tag saying, EAT ME? The beautiful bakery obliged, and Matt turned up at my door with this piece of absolute treasure hidden behind his back for me, to celebrate my freshly-signed book deal with @harpercollinsaustralia. When he held his hand out and offered Alice's cupcake to me, cheeky grin on his jubilant face, I stared like I was seeing something mythical and magical, from another world. Because of course it was. Beyond the gorgeousness of his consideration and love, being given a tangible piece of my imagination by someone else who'd been in it, cared for it, and loved it, was an incomparable, shooting-star kind of feeling I'll never forget. Hence, to my family's bemusement, this little cupcake takes up prime space in the freezer. Forevermore. http://bit.ly/2QVC67c

[hollyringland]

Artist credit: @bluebird_ink So humbling, and so beautiful to see artists inspired to create while reading Lost Flowers. I’m honoured @bluebird_ink. You’ve reminded me to remember and take heed of what these words mean too. Thank you so much. ・・・ Repost @bluebird_ink: Sturt Desert Pea ~ Have courage, take heart. Learning the language of flowers from the most beautiful book #thelostflowersofalicehart @hollygoeslightly 🌼🌺🌸🌷 http://bit.ly/2FrLq1D

[hollyringland]

That feeling when the light falls right and your fella catches you in a candid photo and when you see it, if only for a moment, you feel like you’ve done a Mary-Poppins-jump into your mum’s yellowed photos of 70s Queensland that you grew up ogling. ✨ You know the ‘which superpower’ question? Flying or invisibility or x-ray vision or reading minds might be cool but my answer is still the same that it’s been for the last couple of decades: the ability to Mary-Poppins-jump into chalk drawings on the footpath, or photos of times before I was alive, or paintings with bright, thick brushstrokes or ethereal watercolour lines, or old fairytale illustrations, or ancient rock art, or, or, or... Best thing is it’s a superpower we all have a form of access to right now, that we can feel and use any time we make time to do so: jumping into our imaginations can lead to ideas, which can lead to action, which can lead to hope, which can lead to joy. And, as beloved and powerful @resistancerevivalchorus say, joy is an act of resistance. ✨ Imagination, eh? What a gift. ✨ http://bit.ly/2QPyoMn

[hollyringland]

‘”Memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape," wrote Janet Fitch. By my late 20s, everything about home caused me pain and fear. Accumulated memories were embedded everywhere I'd ever been, in every sense and memory: the smell of the sea, the feeling of summer heat softening in dusk air, and saltwater tightening my skin as it dried. Gum leaves hushing each other in the strengthening wind and the deep growl of thunderstorms; the smell of rain hitting baked dry earth. The drunken joy of rainbow lorikeet song at sunrise, and the haunting scents of wattle and honey grevillea in bloom. I tried different cities and jobs in Australia, but lived with the unending feeling that I belonged nowhere... Writing stories set elsewhere was an act of refuge; I wrote myself away from places that weren't safe, into fictional ones that were.’ Excerpt from my essay A Place To Call Home (link in profile). This stretch of beach is where I grew up. While I was physically England, this is where my mind was moored as I wrote my first fiction set at home in Australia. From my desk in Manchester I imagined Alice Hart’s coastal Australian world to life, then wrote it into being. The last time I was on this beach, last summer, Lost Flowers wasn’t yet published. There were only a handful of people who’d read Alice’s story. I’m so humbled and honoured by the thought of how that has changed, by readers who’ve given Alice a home in their hearts. THANK YOU. Returning here this summer, I relished still being able to read the tides. I remembered all the stories this sea knows of me. To travel so far and to be able to return is a privilege; it doesn't belong to me, I belong to this landscape. ‘We can't go home again, to home as it was when we lost it. But we can find our own ways to return, anew. And in those ways, maybe everything we hope for can be possible.’ ✨ http://bit.ly/2CZDLoy

[hollyringland]

This morning's to do list:⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Yusuf Islam/Cat Stevens songs and gum-leaf-enchanted daydreaming. Note to self: hustle, sure. But don’t forget to protect and nourish your own magic. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ✨⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Our creative courage doesn't get to work unless we do.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ #ArtistDate ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ✨ http://bit.ly/2H0iSOk

[hollyringland]

Your favourite 9 from my 2018 on Instagram. It was a year I’m not sure I’ll ever get my head around. ✨ In essence, I think I'll remember it for being the year in which my wildest childhood dream and deepest childhood fear both came true: I became a full time writer and globally published (!!) novelist, and my grandmother, a woman who held up the sky, suddenly died. There was also joy like I've never known, chronic pain to the same degree, exhaustion, exhilaration, anxiety, courage, failing, learning, grief, wonderment, trauma, sweeping loves, and ever-deepening gratitude. I've been considering whether I can distill the year into one sentiment. Thing is though, we're never just any one thing, are we. We can be brave, terrified, anxious, strong, messy, organised, powerful, traumatised, uncomfortable and utterly at home within ourselves all at once. Such is this ride, being feeling humans as we are. ✨ I spent one of the last days of the year with my favourite eight year old. We went on our first ever rollercoaster ride together, which might have been my favourite 2018 moment; she gripped one of my hands so tightly it brought tears, but let her other arm go, into the free air, encouraging me to do the same as our carriage crawled up the steeply ascending track. "It feels safe and scary at the same time in my belly," she squealed as we crested. I can't think of any better way to sum it up; here's to the safe and the scary, the holding and the letting go, feeling it all. ✨ Thanks for being here, on this crazy ride with me, wildflowers. I’m so grateful for your support. I wish everything for you in your 2019 that you wish for yourselves. http://bit.ly/2C9n7kZ

[hollyringland]

That moment, when you’ve ‘surthrived’ through everything that goes with Christmas and NYE, and you seize a moment to yourself in a hammock and a breeze under wind chimes, and the sky fills with pink clouds, and you can literally smell sweet hay. You’ve been drunk, you’ve been anxious, you’ve been joyous, you’ve been heartbroken, rageful, and ecstatic. But now the tightness in your chest starts to ease and, as anxiety recedes, you begin to rekindle your awareness of all you’re grateful for. How vital laughter and hope and courage are. So when it’s a new moon and your bestie is on a plane headed your way, and a cockatoo flies overhead unleashing one of its unholiest screeches, you get a welcome case of the sillies, strike a paint-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls pose, and remember it doesn’t do anyone much good to take themselves or the small stuff too seriously. Yes. That moment. This golden moment. Wishing a whole year of them for us all. ✨ http://bit.ly/2C3GWKf

[hollyringland]

🇨🇦🇨🇦CANADIAN WILDFLOWERS!🇨🇦🇨🇦 I'm coming for you! THE LOST FLOWERS OF ALICE HART VANCOUVER FREE EVENT: book signing & author in-conversation SUNDAY, JANUARY 27th, 2019 5.30pm - 7pm The Bloedel Floral Conservatory 4600 Cambie Street, Queen Elizabeth Park, Vancouver The event is FREE but please book your ticket via link in profile. Join us for a winter evening sharing all things Lost Flowers, including stories, courage, and dreams, set against the stunning glasshouse backdrop of Bloedel Conservatory filled with tropical flowers, plants, and birds. I would dearly love to see you there! Dressing as your favourite flower, or dog, is encouraged, as always. The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart is proudly published by @houseofanansi and is out now in Canadian bookshops. Also... 🇺🇸🇺🇸USA PUBLICATION UPDATE!🇺🇸🇺🇸 Lost Flowers will be published in the USA on MARCH 5 by @houseofanansi! (A girl could be easily driven to daytime drinking, or in the least, smelling salts.) As ever, this ride is what it is because I can share it with you. Thank you so much for your love and support. http://bit.ly/2RrwK8g

[hollyringland]

Current curables on heavy rotation for end-of-year mental exhaustion: desert peas, boob-tube baggy-bum playsuits, cold beers, dogs, being in skin with the ones you love, southeasterly breezes, mindfulness walks, scribbling daydreams into notebooks and Dolly Parton playlists. ❤️ Here’s to making and taking time to look after our minds so we can look after ourselves and others; brave and vital work in this wild world. ❤️ Desert pea bib necklace handmade by the clever, courageous and wonderful Kylie at @xaviahcollections. It was a special commission: I sent Kylie a photo of desert peas I had stuck on my writing office wall throughout writing the first draft of Lost Flowers and asked her if she’d make me a wearable version. This inimitable, beautiful hand-painted creation of hers was the stunning result. I wore it constantly throughout my Lost Flowers Oz road trip tour and love it desperately. ❤️ #HaveCourageTakeHeart #NotAnAd #ShareTheLoveForHandmade #BaggyBumPlaysuitsForever http://bit.ly/2QXHYls

[hollyringland]

The townspeople became wilfully blind to Thornfield after Ruth stopped selling flowers and let her garden wither and die ... and they mostly ignored Wattle, the girl some said had been raised more by birds than by her own mother. But not Lucas Hart, who first saw Wattle when he was a boy walking alone along the river. He'd thought she was some kind of river mermaid then, the way her skin shone green under the water and her long black hair was tangled with leaves and wattle flowers. - The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart ✨ Sitting around Granny's kitchen table together - cups of tea and her homemade scones with chilled slabs of butter and thick streams of honey all in hand - was coming back, always back, to the tap root of the tree of myths in our family history. We would pull out old cake tins of photos and share the ever-evolving verbal stories of our ancestors. It never mattered how many times they’d been heard or told before. In the afternoon of my first Christmas without her, we went for a walk under a chalk-blue sky. On the way home I spotted this wattle in flower. Though not the same species, in Lost Flowers the Cootamundra wattle means, I wound to heal. So much of Thornfield’s histories, both real and mythical, were inspired by the feeling of coming home in summer to Granny and her kitchen table, where all matters of strangeness, hope, and magic were possible. For anyone who’s lived through their First Christmas Without, or Another Christmas Without, I hope, in the magic and mess, you've been able to listen to and hear stories that fill your heart. Or, maybe even more miraculously, you’ve found a way to tell yourself a new story. One that might seed, take root, and bloom. http://bit.ly/2AiNp42

[hollyringland]

We shake with joy, we shake with grief. What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body. - Mary Oliver 🌸 Christmas Eve in Queensland is a beautiful, balmy summer day. Southeasterly breezes are blowing, kookaburras are laughing, fresh prawns are in the fridge for tomorrow’s lunch, and my heart has felt like it’s sometimes floating and sometimes drowning. ❤️ This time of year can be so magical and it can be so difficult. I heard myself say the other day, I just want to “get through it”. Afterwards I thought, that’s not true. Because that would just be grieving, without honouring the joy that also abounds. So, in Dickensian spirit, I’m honouring Past, Present and Future by choosing to house mess AND magic. I’ve bought possibly the most fabulous love heart sunnies of all time, covered myself in Christmas colour, and I’ve uncapped my red lipstick with abandon. Along with presents for beloveds, I’ve wrapped a talisman for myself and nestled it in the branches of our tree for tomorrow: I don’t know a bigger gift we can give ourselves than choosing to live. To house grief AND joy. Also, we were tasked with going to our nearest country town for last minute groceries today. Saw the pub = frosty beers and immediate task fail. Because, joy is a choice we’re lucky enough to be able to make. 🌸 If you celebrate Christmas, I hope this eve has calm in its chaos and moments of peace for yourself and people you love. From my heart to yours wildflowers, festive wishes to all. ❤️ http://bit.ly/2RcKdAC

[hollyringland]

“I used my life savings to leave Australia for England to give my writing dreams a wholehearted crack … I’d never been to Europe before, I was alone, and I knew no one.” 🦋 Deeply honoured (read: lose-my-shit thrilled) to have my first publication in @goodweekendmag’s Summer Reading special tomorrow, alongside other incredible Aussie writers I so admire (read: full fangirl). My essay A Place Called Home is available in the @sydneymorningherald, @theagephoto and @brisbane_times. Online reading via link in my profile for wildflowers outside of Oz. 🦋 Photo: the wondrous @giuliamar_photography https://ift.tt/2Lg4Whl

[hollyringland]

Choose to be yourself. Go get a tattoo if you always wanted one. A star, a dragon, your children’s initials, Tinkerbell with pale green wings. Stay in your pajamas for days. Buy a pair of kick-ass boots. Go to a club and hear jazz, or drive to Cleveland to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Start wearing red lipstick. Duck out of work and catch a Red Sox or Yankees game, depending on where your loyalties lie. Order a margarita at four in the afternoon. Volunteer at the museum and be alone with the Egyptian artifacts early in the morning before anyone else has arrived. How is it possible that something made so long ago is still so beautiful? Gold, stone, turquoise, all of these elements have outlasted their owners. But all were made by hand. — p. 73 of Survival Lessons, the book that lives on my bedside table, by @ahoffmanwriter. 🦋 Been thinking about a few things that hold transformation in their wings: The power in acknowledging we’re shitting ourselves from fear about doing A Thing but say yes and do it anyway - because this is our one life. The magic that comes when we fight to still believe we have more in common than what sets us apart. None of us know what we’re doing, we never fully arrive, there are no guarantees; that thing that’s consuming us, is it really worth our energy? No? Let it go. Yes? Adjust life accordingly. Pink hair dye, ginger juice and spontaneous lunch getaway dates in the middle of a work day with your northern star are never mistakes. Here’s to choosing to show up today. Here’s to choosing to try to do the thing we don’t know we can do. Step by step by step, wildflowers. 🦋 ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ https://ift.tt/2Qs3fDz

[hollyringland]

There must exist a word in a language in the world for this feeling, when your favourite author of books you’ve loved your whole adult life and have carried around the world with you, posts across her social media feeds that she’s reading your first novel. Surely the word exists. In German, maybe? Like frühlingsgefühle which describes a feeling of excitement in Spring, as the sun is coming out, the trees are green and the flowers blossom. Or Swedish? In which exists the word smultronställe. Literally translated as, “place of wild strawberries”, it refers to a favorite, special place that we discover and treasure, where we can find solace, relaxation, and peace. No stress or sadness can touch you in this place. Both describe how reading Alice Hoffman’s novel have felt to me throughout my life. Thank you, @ahoffmanwriter. Your books have shown me how to be brave, and to believe. I hope you enjoy Alice Hart’s story. https://ift.tt/2QzN5XY

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Bloody hell, what a thrill and honour this is. 🌸 Congratulations everyone, I’m humbled and proud to be longlisted in your incendiary company. 🌸 Thank you so much to all the indie bookshops and booksellers who have shared their shelves and hearts with Alice, and me. Thank you @ausindiebooks! 🌸 #IndieBookAwards19 #SqueezeAndCelebrateEveryDrop https://ift.tt/2E0h1Ws

[hollyringland]

On the first day of holidays, Alice stood at her window, gazing at the chalky white path that cut away through the bush to the river. She and Oggi were meeting there the next morning, as soon as they woke up, for her tenth birthday. Oggi was the best friend Alice ever had, which she reasoned was fair because Toby was a dog, and Candy was much older, and Harry was also a dog, and a book wasn’t actually a person. - The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart 🌸 Oh for the love of getting our feet and paws out on our local dirt road to crunch through lush Yugambeh land. To loll our tongues, and breathe in the humid AF sunsets and tropical greens. To follow monarch butterflies between the pearlescent trunks of gum trees. And to catch strays drops of molten stories colouring the sky, one of which, a few years ago, was about a girl named Alice. 🌸 https://ift.tt/2DYYv0H

[hollyringland]

Monday. December. This time of year can be such a chameleon of contrasts all at once. Joy, and trauma. Bliss, and burn out. Mess, and magic. And everything in between. Note to self: all we can do is try our best, to hold compassionate space for ourselves and each other. It’s not always easy, yet in maintaining hope as an action and not giving up, it’s so necessary. Here’s to trying our fucking best, wildflowers. To going gently with ourselves and remaining open as much as we can. 💛 Repost @weareallthesameproject ・・・ Shout out to the powerful women who struggle and try their best every day. We see you. We support you. We know it’s not always easy. Just take it a day at a time. 🙌 We believe you. 🎨: @sarahdayarts https://ift.tt/2recXdC