The Story Behind the Story with Author Diana Stevan of West Vancouver, BC, Canada.

 

One of our most popular guests is back. Say hello to Diana.

 

It’s always a treat to have her join us. She launched her newest book yesterday, March 15^th and everyone is talking about it. 

I look forward to reading it. 

Diana has been here before and if you missed her last visit, please go HERE. 

 

Diana Stevan jokes she’s a Jill of all trades. She’s worked as a family therapist, teacher, librarian, model, actor, and CBC television sports reporter. She’s published poetry, a short story, newspaper articles, a novelette, and five novels: A Cry from The Deep, The Rubber Fence, Sunflowers Under Fire (a finalist for the 2019 Whistler Independent Book Award), and the sequels, Lilacs in the Dust Bowl, and Paper Roses on Stony Mountain (on Miramichi Readers’ List of Best Fiction for 2022). Her latest book Along Came A Gardener (non-fiction) is an inspirational book weaving her experiences working in mental health with her love of gardening. It launched March 15, 2025. She lives on Vancouver Island with her husband, Robert.

 

Title:  ALONG CAME A GARDENER

Synopsis:
From the author of the award-winning Sunflowers Under Fire, comes an inspirational book with personal memories and stories from the world of mental health. Along Came A Gardener is based on the thoughts and ideas the author Diana Stevan gleaned from her 25 years as a family therapist combined with those she found working in her garden. Stevan shows us that even when life looks grim, there are tools we can use to meet its challenges and move toward a better future. This book explores the nature of loving relationships and the lessons Nature provides in our backyards and beyond.

The Story Behind the Story:  

Along Came A Gardener covers my 25 years of working as a family therapist and more. The people I saw in counselling or therapy were varied, from all walks of life and backgrounds. I counselled individuals, couples, and families, and even did some trauma work with bank employees after a robbery. It was rewarding work and surprisingly, mutually beneficial.  The people who came for counselling taught me a lot as well. And over the years, I discovered that Nature also has much to contribute. Nature shows us daily how to live in harmony and how well its vegetation thrives when it’s cared for.

Because I’ve worked in so many different mental health settings, I share stories about those who’ve dealt with addiction, depression, guilt, grief, marital and family conflict, and other emotional pain. Woven in are thoughts on anger management, stress reduction, and other ways to calm our minds and lift our spirits.

I’m hoping readers will find inspiration within its pages, and if they’ve ever had questions about the value of psychotherapy, I hope they find the answers there as well.

WHAT INSPIRED ME:

I had thought about writing this book back in the late 1970s, but I’m glad I didn’t. I wasn’t ready. I had been inspired to write it after a high school student, who I’d seen for counselling wrote me a beautiful poem, called The Seed of Hope. Though a bright student, she was failing and had attempted suicide. More of how I helped her and how she inspired me is included in the excerpt below.

Diana's Website - please go HERE.

A question before you go, Diana:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?

Diana: I’m thankful I have a room in the house that serves as my office. Because of back issues, I have a sit-stand desk, which has been a godsend. And though I love music (who doesn’t?), I like quiet when I’m writing. Coffee is my drink of choice in the morning and lemon ginger tea after that. Though I like a neat desk, it invariably gets messy and I have to take time every so often to get it back under control.

An Excerpt from Along Came A Gardener

THE SEED OF HOPE

It's important to note that our capacity for growth is greater than we think. Neuroscientists have discovered that our brains keep growing and stabilize in early adulthood. Our brains continue to develop new neurons even in our eighties as long as we keep challenging ourselves intellectually and socially. Just as we learned in school that we can succeed if we apply ourselves, it is also true we can better our lives through self-examination, therapy, and other forms of knowledge. We all experience bumps in the road. Some seem insurmountable, but it’s not always the case. That’s when hope has a role to play.

Early in my counselling career, I worked for the Child Guidance Clinic in Winnipeg. As a clinical social worker (and later school psychologist), I visited schools and talked to classroom teachers, guidance counsellors, and special education instructors. School personnel referred children who were showing signs that all was not well in their lives. These were students who displayed aggressive tendencies or showed an inability to engage with others, which was especially worrisome if they were teens who could be at risk for suicide. Sometimes, that meant I would see the student alone in the guidance counsellor’s office; other times, I’d arrange to meet with the student and their parents at their home or the clinic.

On one occasion, a high school guidance counsellor referred two sisters, who were gifted academically and artistically but failing miserably. One was an exceptional violinist; the other a talented poet who had attempted suicide. Their mother had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Following the referral, I made a home visit to assess the family dynamics.

After meeting with the family, I had a better understanding of what the two sisters faced daily. Their father had a responsible executive position that took him away from home for long periods, leaving the three females of the household to work things out on their own. When the sisters came home from school, they never knew what mood they’d find their mother in. One minute, she was loving, and the next, she lashed out for little or no reason. Meanwhile, their father was of little help when he was home; he was a passive man, trying to hold on to his sanity. Given the mother’s mental illness, family therapy was not practical.

Instead, I met with both sisters and listened while they poured out their problems. They complained about feeling rejected by their mother. They could do no right.

As we know, adolescence is a time for developing a sense of self and gaining more independence. However, adolescents still need their parents’ support while they find their way.

The older sister kept expecting her mother to behave as she thought a mother should by showing love, warmth, and understanding. Given her mother’s mental illness, her expectations were unrealistic. But who could blame her for wanting her mother’s love? We all want our mother’s love; we all need it.

It’s not clear how much their mother loved them. She may have loved them dearly but was unable to show it. She appeared stiff and remote, unable to engage. She could’ve been so preoccupied with her own existence that nothing else registered. Either way, the girls couldn’t get the love they wanted. They kept trying to no avail. All they got for their efforts was an erosion of self, which added to their depression.

I empathized and reassured them that, given their mother’s emotional challenges and erratic behaviour, it wasn’t surprising they were having a hard time at school. In crisis, they couldn’t see the personal resources they could draw on. We discussed strategies for dealing with someone unpredictable. Lowering expectations of their mother helped them step back and see how they could diffuse potentially volatile moments.

Rather than trying to change the people who are important to us, we need to look at what we can do differently about our situation. This way, we take responsibility for our own lives. We find the power within ourselves. The eldest sister did just that, and months later, wrote me the following poem. She gave me permission to share it with you.

The Seed of Hope

They had left me behind
but I did not mind,
for I was content
to live in darkness
and solitude.
No one there to hurt,
no one to start a feud,
no one there to rule me,
somewhere I could be free
I had all the comforts and food to survive;
yet I began to question why I was alive?
I began to shrivel up within and die,
when the gardener happened by.
Most would have thrown me to the wind, as he;
the prey of a ravenous chickadee.
But it was his wife, who reasoned
that it was just patience in need,
for the revival of life,
the emergence of seed.
No matter which direction
I tried to move
the walls of earth kept crumbling in;
it seemed impossible to win.
My world had become corrupt.
My only escape was up.
I hesitated below the surface,
fearing what lay ahead,
afraid I would not find a plow;
abandoned instead.
My determination was stronger than my fear
So I continued more excited
as I grew near.
As I broke through the earth
and met the sunlight,
my heart took to flight
for I’d found rebirth.
Though the tears of heaven
may splash against my face,
weeds try to win my place,
the wind whip and lash me
to the ground,
the sun wither my every leaf
I have faith, it is my belief.
That I can grow,
I have the resources to cope.
for I began below
from a simple seed of Hope.

There are many gardeners out there who are willing and able to plant these seeds of hope. From family members, friends, doctors, priests, ministers, rabbis, imams, counsellors, and psychiatrists to the neighbour next door.

But the seeds we plant in our garden can’t do the work on their own. They need our help; they need nutrients, sun, water, and a decent environment. They need us to nurture the planted seed.

Besides finding empathic gardeners, we can also find the gardeners within when we work to improve our lives. Faith—in others, ourselves, and/or a higher power—can lead us on the path to recovery from the hurts we’ve experienced.

Thank you, Allan, for the opportunity to discuss my upcoming book, Along Came A Gardener. I've been looking forward to the launch on March 15th. It’ll be available for sale on all the bookseller sites.

You are most welcome, Diana. And I thank you for being our guest this week. We wish you continued success with your writing.

A SPECIAL THANK YOU to all out visitors and readers.

Please tell us what's on your mind in the comment section below. Thank you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Luke Beirne of Saint John, NB, Canada.

 Let’s welcome Luke to the Scribbler.

 

Luke is another newcomer to our blog and he is most welcome.

He is just coming from a successful book launch at 

The Write Cup in Saint John, NB.

He is also a participating author at the GMRD Book Fair in April.

We are most fortunate to have him as a guest to tell us about his novel.

Plus an Excerpt.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

 

Luke Francis Beirne was born in Ireland in 1995 and now lives on the Wolastoqey land of Saint John, New Brunswick. His first two novels, Foxhunt and Blacklion, were published by Baraka Books in 2022 and 2023 respectively. Saints Rest will be published by Baraka in March 2025. Beirne’s writing has been stylistically compared to Graham Greene, Frederick Forsyth, Ernest Hemingway and John le Carre.

 

 

Title: Saints Rest

 

Synopsis:

Malory Fleet’s son was killed by bikers and now she’s worried about his missing girlfriend, Amanda. But that case was closed shut by the police a year ago and Frank Cain, the private investigator she’s hired, is reluctant to take it on. On the sometimes seedy streets of uptown Saint John, no one wants to talk, even fewer have anything to say, and the police have cast a blanket of fog over everything. As Frank searches fruitlessly for clues, he learns more about Malory than about Amanda, and begins to grow wary. Throughout, Detective Stuart Boucher is following Frank and making little effort to hide it, leading Cain to conclude that the officer may have more to do with the case than he’s letting on. For Frank Cain, as unmoored as a lost ship in the harbour, in unravelling this case he risks unravelling himself.

 

Saints Rest is a neo-noir novel set in a gritty and unforgiving Saint John, a town where few people are prepared for its secrets, least of all Frank Cain.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:

In September 2022, I suffered a life-threatening brain injury while boxing and spent five weeks in a coma. I had to retrain my body to do everything, from moving my fingers to walking. While I was in a coma, my second novel, Blacklion, was accepted for publication by Baraka Books. With incredible difficulty and determination, I trained myself to write again. Before I was able to structure my own days, my partner would hand me a pen and notebook and ask me to write. My father, who is also a writer, was amazed to see how well my writing had stayed intact, despite the severity of my injury. I worked with a great Speech Language Pathologist, at the Stan Cassidy Centre in Fredericton, who helped me with this. After my release, I structured my days, setting aside specific times to sit down and write. I also followed online writing courses diligently. Before my injury, I had a rough draft of this book, which gave me something to focus on as I relearned how to write. As a result, this is the book I am most proud of so far.

 

Website: Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Luke:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Luke: At home or the Saint John Free Public Library.
I am neat.
A deep, dark roast coffee, black.

An article in yesterday's (March 8) newspaper in Saint John.

An Excerpt from Saints Rest. 

In Saint John, sunshine was rare. When day broke, the sky turned grey and shards of light glared through to front steps where people huddled and smoked, to dockyards where people worked, to park benches where people slept. In the city’s peripheries––the east and west––people sat in breakfast nooks and morning rooms, and maybe the sun shone there, rising over pine-crested cliffs and frozen bays as bacon sizzled in the pan and accounts were discussed, as affairs ended in lawsuits and bitter resentment rather than fistfights and broken windows; but, in the heart, Saint John woke when the light shifted and darkness retreated behind the clouds, distant but ever-present, looming over the uneven rise of flat-top roofs.

​In our office, Randy and I were wide awake. I hunched over a space heater beside the corner window with a double double and a folder of surveillance photos suggesting that Dustin Colter could walk on his left foot and was, therefore, ineligible for worker’s comp. Randy sat at his desk writing up the delicate details of an infidelity case.

​Our office was on the third floor of a townhouse on Princess Street. The ceilings were tall and the windows narrow. From the corner, you could see over the curve of the road to the plateau of the harbour, where the fog gathered and rolled. 

​Below was the South End. Cannery Row, by another name. In the South End, people were real; ghostly demarcations kept apparitions at bay. I sipped the coffee and looked out. It wasn’t good but it was familiar. 

​Footsteps in the hallway stopped in front of the door, drawing a slouching silhouette behind the glass. When the door opened, a woman stood in front of us. Looking forty or way past it, she had distinct smile lines at the upper edge of her mouth, though it didn’t appear that they’d had much exercise lately. 

​The woman was worn, beaten. She wore an old, fur lined puffer coat: once expensive, now stained and torn. 

​“Can I help you, ma’am?” Randy asked. He set down his pen, looking her up and down as he did.

​The woman glanced at me, then back to Randy. “Is this the Cormier Agency?” She spoke with the rasp of a lifelong smoker.

​Randy couldn’t help but smile. “It is,” he said. He closed the file on his desk. “I’m Randy Cormier. Come on in.”

​Randy was a good guy. I felt a kind of obligation to him because I was his first employee and he hired me before we even met. The woman looked at me again and closed the door. She was nervous.

​Randy gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat.” She began to unzip her jacket but he lifted his hand. “You might want to leave your coat on,” he said. “Landlord controls the heat.”

​She sat down and folded her arms in her lap, pulling the palms of her hands into her sleeves. Yellow fingertips protruded from the ends.

​“What can we do for you?” Randy asked.

​I set my coffee on the spare desk in the corner and sat behind it. I opened the folder and began to sort through the photos inside. When Randy’s at work, I like to fade into the background. That’s where I feel most comfortable, the background. 

​“My daughter in law is missing,” the woman said. 

​“Ok. When was she last seen?” Randy asked. 

​“Over a year ago.”

​Randy nodded. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a thin black binder. He flipped to an empty sheet. “I’m going to start taking some notes,” he said, “in case we open a file. I won’t charge you unless we take you on.”

​She nodded.

​“What’s your name?” Randy began, filling in the blanks at the top of the sheet. 

​“Malory Fleet.”

​I looked up. I did not know Malory but I knew her name. More importantly, I knew the case she was bringing us.

​In 2015, on the night of Halloween, her son Jason Fleet was shot to death outside his apartment. No charges were ever laid. Jason was not much missed by the Saint John Police Department. One year to the day, his girlfriend, Amanda Foster, was reported missing.

​For a while, the coincidence brought attention to the case. Then it faded into obscurity, relegated to unsolved mystery forums and half-hearted Facebook posts appealing for information.

​Randy glanced over at me and then returned his gaze to the woman. “And your daughter in law is?”

​“Amanda Foster.”

​Randy set down his pen. “So, they’ve had no luck then?”

​“The police don’t give a shit. They’re crooked,” Malory said. “That’s why I’m here.” 

​“Are you in contact with her family?”

​“You’re looking at her family.”

​Randy nodded. “Ok,” he said. “Malory, listen. A missing family member is usually an easy enough case, a simple matter of asking around. An investigation like this though, with the complicating factors––your son, the ongoing investigation, the police––it could get complicated. It might take a lot of time.” He paused. “It might be expensive.”

​“You don’t think I can afford it.”

​“That’s no reflection of yourself,” Randy said, exhaling loudly. “I don’t think I could afford it.” 

​Malory shrugged. “Cut me loose when my cheques bounce.”

​For a while, Randy just looked at her, contemplating. Then he nodded. “Ok,” he said. “Let’s open a file. Talk to me.”

 

"Excerpt reproduced with the permission of Baraka Books"

Thank you for being our guest this week, Luke. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And a BIG thank you to all out visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.