Welcome to the web page of Cecilia Galante, author of The Patron Saint of Butterflies, Hershey Herself, and Willowood. The Patron Saint of Butterflies has been awarded as a Book Sense Pick for 2008, been named Young-Adult Book of the Year by the Northeast Independent Booksellers Association, and is a Recommended Read for Teens on Oprah's website.
It’s a good one!!!
Yes!!!
Willowood Cecilia Galante. S&S/Aladdin, $16.99 (272p) ISBN 978-1-4169-8022-3
Galante (The Patron Saint of Butterflies) writes a heartfelt story of friendship and change. When Lily’s single-parent mother gets a new job, the fifth-grader isn’t happy about moving to a bigger city (“Their lives had been so perfect back home in Glenview, where everything was quiet and green”). Lily sorely misses her best friend, Bailey, and their secret place under a willow tree. With her mother working long hours and Bailey too busy to talk on the phone, Lily’s closest confidante might be Weemis, her pet gecko. Although some people—her babysitter, Mrs. Hiller; Gina, the class nerd; and a pet shop owner who offers Lily a part-time job—make kind overtures, Lily doesn’t recognize the value of their friendships until actions she takes result in hurt feelings and misunderstandings. Galante has a knack for small details (like Lily contemplating that neither she nor her mother know how to braid hair) and fully formed characters that make the story inviting and authentic. Lily emerges as a likable, realistically flawed heroine; her courage and integrity, illustrated in her determination to make things right, will win readers’ respect. Ages 9–13. (Mar.)
Thank you, Publishers Weekly!!
Onward!
CG
My third novel, Willowood, will be released into the wide world tomorrow morning! It’s exciting and terrifying too - almost like letting a child of your own go out there and have to navigate all those treacherous hills and valleys without very much help. So to those of you who may go out and buy the book, be gentle! It’s my little girl one, and she has to be treated with much kindness!!
Also, see me talking a little bit about the book here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvvEvKDylDI
Onward, always.
CG
One of the first reviews for my new novel, Willowood, which will be debuting in stores March 9, 2010, is from the Library School Journal and very, very positive!!
Read for yourself:
GALANTE, Cecilia. Willowood. 272p. S & S/Aladdin. Mar. 2010. Tr $16.99. ISBN 978-1-4169-8022-3. LC number unavailable.
Gr 4-6–Eleven-year-old Lily is not happy when her single mother decides to move them from a small town to a city. Her mother’s long hours at her new job and a class bully don’t help. But Lily has a gecko that she loves, and her neighbor and sitter, Mrs. Hiller, introduces her to the owner of a pet store, Bernard, and his adult son, Nate, who has Down syndrome. The characters, including Lily’s new friend, Gina, the class nerd, are fully realized individuals. Nate is especially well drawn, and he becomes a true friend to Lily. As the story develops, she begins to understand that life is not always fair. With its finely tuned plot and poetic language, this novel compares well with Kate DiCamillo’s Because of Winn-Dixie (Candlewick, 2000) in character development and plot. Children will enjoy the story of Lily’s first few months in the big city.–Wendy Smith-D’Arezzo, Loyola College, Baltimore, MD
I’m really, really thrilled with this, most notably because I am somehow in the same paragraph with the goddess Kate DiCamillo, who I have admired, adored, (and yes, envied) from afar. It’s sort of surreal, to be compared to someone that good. It makes me really proud and really, really grateful.
Thank you, School Library Journal!!!
Onward!
CG
So I was reading an interview last night with the speedskater Apolo Ohno who said that when he failed to make the Olympic team in 1998, he retreated to a cabin off the coast of Washington State. He was, he said, “at my lowest point, physically and mentally.” And then this happened: “One day, I went out for a run. It was rainy and cold. Right in the middle of it, I stopped and asked myself how much I wanted to be a speed skater. If I was going to fulfill my dream, I knew that I needed to finish the run I was on right then, no matter how many blisters I had or how bad I felt. That was the turning point for me.”
Sometimes I think the small things - like choosing simply to finish a run when everything inside of you says quit - become the big ones. They set the groundwork for future disappointments, build up a resevoir of insurance. YOu can look back, say to yourself, “You know, I kept going that day when I really wanted to stop. Maybe I can do it again.”
I’ve decided to do that now with this book. I feel so much like quitting. Like I’m in the middle of this spinning vortex that is just sucking me down. It’s hard, this one. I have to write like an adult, for adults. Not for kids. I worry that I sound stupid, not “adult” enough. I fret over the use of certain words, every scene, each movement of my characters.
But I also know what it’s like to get to the end of something - finally - when you’ve been thrashing and floundering throughout the process. There’s nothing else like it in the world. Nothing.
And so I’m going to finish this run, even though the blisters are stacking up, and I’m wet and cold and reallyreally tired. I’m going to push through - until I see my own finish line waiting there for me at the end. It’s a turning point for me, choosing to keep on. A medal in itself.
Onward, always.
CG
Pushing on, pushing on, despite terrible doubts, plagues of misgiving….
Onward, always.
Is it just me, or do some of you guys out there have a hard time getting started? And by getting started, I mean the part where you roll up your sleeves and actually dive into the work.
I have a hell of time doing this. For some reason, I like to mess around a little - okay, sometimes a lot - before actually writing. Take this morning for example. I turned on the computer, checked my email (only four of which needed responding to), checked my spam mail (because you never know), and then logged on to the yahoo website to check the weather. (We do have a potential snowstorm coming off the coast tomorrow.) Then I noticed a blurb about Michelle Obama talking about her daughters weight, so I clicked on that and watched the entire piece from the Today show. (It was over 10 minutes and frankly, not that interesting, but I do love that woman.) Now I am writing on my blog.
I do this sort of thing - more or less - every morning, with one eye on the clock. Nine is when I like to actually start the work, especially since I only have five hours after that before my daughter’s bus comes home from school. Sometimes I manage to do it. Other mornings I don’t. And I always feel so guilty about it - this seemingly aimless drifting through cyberspace - this “putzing around” as the people here in the valley like to call it.
Last night, though, I was reading something about the magnificent J.D. Salinger (who recently just died.) He said that it took him a good amount of time every morning to get started on his books, because it took him “at least an hour just to take all his disguises off.” I thought about that for a long, long time after reading it. And aside from feeling comforted by the fact that one of my all-time favorite authors in the entire world may have done a little putzing of his own every morning, I couldn’t help but wonder if this stalling that I do did in fact have something to do with removing these so-called disguises.
Maybe my mother disguise had to be put aside this morning as I watched Mrs. Obama talk about her own girls, my sister disguise next as I responded to an email from my younger sibling, and so on. Maybe all of these things, all of these faces that we wear, have to be removed, forgotten about for awhile as we begin the work, until the only thing left is the heart. The voice. The eyes and ears, which we can use then to write as cleanly - and putz-free - as possible.
What do you think?
Onward, always.
CG
A few months back I went down to the Simon & Schuster offices to record an interview for their newest website, in which they highlight their authors talking about all kinds of different topics. Here is little chunk of it, in which I talk about writer’s block. (The entire interview will be up - I’m told - at the end of February.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrSknNYMkHk
Enjoy - and cheers!
CG
I am out of the muck and treading much warmer waters.
How, you may ask?
The honest answer is this: I said to hell with the first chapter. Literally. After months of struggling with it, this is what I said: “You’re wearing me out, big boy. Big time. I’m not going to have an ounce of strength left to write the rest of this damn book if I keep sitting down every day, trying to figure out what the hell you’re all about. So I’m moving on. I’ll come back later when - I trust - the rest of the book has helped me learn what you were supposed to be. But for now, I gotta get out. I gotta move forward. Otherwise, I’ll be stuck up to my eyes in mud and won’t be able to see clearly for months.
And so that’s what I did. I jumped feet first into Chapter Two.
Today, I finished Chapter Eight.
It was another good writing lesson for me to learn. I am forever straining to get things just right (dare I say the word perfect here?) before I take the next step. But learning that I can move ahead - and sometimes soar ahead - without everything being exactly in its place is a sit-up-and-pay-attention-here moment.
Writing teaches me so much about life - every day. If I can learn to apply the lessons I learn on the page - trust, let go, listen, pay attention, be gentle, be strong, be fearless and honest - to my every day life, I think every day I will get a little closer to becoming the person I have always dreamed of becoming.
With or without chapter one.
Onward, always.
CG
So.
That darling little last post of mine? About the notebook full of character details that my subconscious gave me for Christmas? The one I was going to refer to over these next few weeks, months, as the first draft started to pour out of me?
Ha.
Not so fast, Little Smuggie Pants.
I have spent the last eight days referring to said notebook, writing and rewriting Chapter One according to those precious details, and guess what? It’s still not working. It is still not *&^%$# working! Yesterday, as I wrote a paragraph, deleted it, and then wrote another one (which I knew I would then delete) it was all I could do not to grab the computer screen and hurl it out my window. Seriously. My mind went down all sorts of roads: “You’ve written five books; you don’t really need to write another. Close up shop, darlin.’ Your allotted time to create has come to an end.”
Honestly as I sit here writing this, my brain is still entertaining thoughts like these. (Although the desire to throw my computer out into the street has faded considerably.) I am my own worst enemy, and it has never been more apparent to me than it is now as I continue, day after day, night after night, to wrestle this story to the ground. I have this horrible, nagging feeling that this may not be the story I am supposed to be writing right now, but how do I know that for sure? Am I having doubts because it is difficult? Or am I trying to force something that can’t be shaped?
All I know right now is this: I am slogging through a terrible, thick muck. And it is a horrible place to be. It’s lonely, wet, dirty, and cold. I feel like crying a lot. Or swearing. Or punching something. Or eating really bad food, like a Big Mac and supersize french fries with extra salt and ketchup. And an apple pie, too. With some vanilla ice cream.
But I also know this. (And I know this only because I have been here many, many times.) I will come back and sit in this damn chair and write my way out of this muck. Someone once said that the only way out is through. And as much as I hate that person right now, I know he or she is right. The only way out of any conundrum is walk through it. To be willing to sit with the discomfort and the cold and the wet until it passes.
It always, always passes. I am promising myself that right now, sitting here, staring again at a blank screen. It will pass.
Until then, I will try to keep myself company, wrapping my arms around myself when I start to shiver, and holding my umbrella up high.
And if anybody out there feels like giving me a shout of encouragement, I would welcome it with open arms.
Onward, always.
CG
Last n
I didn’t write about how hopeless I felt about my writing just before the holidays. (Who wants to hear someone griping about anything during Christmas?) But I did feel hopeless. And it wasn’t one of those “I’ve had a shitty day writing, so please leave me alone,” kind of thing. It was a deep hopelessness. An “I’ve spent the last two and a half months writing and every single page - every single word - of it has gone into the garbage,” hopeless.
Then Christmas came - and with it, all the demands of shopping and wrapping and being Santa Claus for our children. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to leave the manic pounding, the frantic searching of this character behind for a while. I had to sit still - in another kind of way - and be quiet.
And so I stood outside with my 5-year old on Christmas Eve night as she wrung her hands and stared up at the inky sky. “Don’t worry,” I said softly, anticipating her next question. “He knows the way.”
“But how?” she persisted. “Does he have a map?”
“I think so.”
“What if he loses it?”
I glanced over at my husband for help. “Rudolph knows,” he said, without missing a beat.
And that (thankfully) was enough. We put out a few extra carrots for Rudolph, (just in case he wasn’t sure how to get back home again) tucked them in, finished the wrapping and the displaying of gifts, and enjoyed a few hours of sleep. I tried not to think about all the time I had wasted over the last 75 days or so, time that - unless I emerge with something I can use - I always consider wasted until I finally remember that the opposite is in fact true: that time spent writing - anything - is never wasted. Period.
Over the next few days, strangely enough, something began to happen. Amid the family games of Wii and Twister, the annual Christmas Story movie marathon, and midnight consolings of my little boy who has suddenly developed a fear of invisible spiders, I watched as my mind wandered off on its own. Slowly, silently, away from the forced circumstances I was shoving my character in day after day, it began to lead me down corridors of her life that I had not known were there before - one a particularly dark one that I know will be difficult to write about - until a picture of her - an actual image - finally gleamed forth in my mind’s eye like a glorious, newborn baby.
Each time a new detail unearthed itself, I would get up and go over to my notebook and write it down. And this morning, as I sit at my desk and begin my daily solitary routine once more, I am filled with hope. Next to me is a tattered notebook full of images that I was given this holiday season. I realize now that it is a map of sorts. A silent, flying through the blackness, with just the glimmer of light out front kind of map.
It knows the way.
Not me.
It is time to let her speak.
Onward, always.
CG