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.
All works are available through amazon.com: Patron Saint, Hershey Herself, Willowood
Even without the sweltering heat outside, my house bears all the inside markings of the arrival of summer:
- Damp bathing suits hanging on every available doorknob.
- A bowl of fresh cherries sitting in the middle of the dining room table, their skins as smooth and polished as rubies.
- Remnants of sunscreen behind my baby boy’s ears.
- My little girl’s hair a permanent tangle of seawater, chlorine, salt and wind.
- Wild hydrandrea bushes in full bloom outside the kitchen window; flowers as large around as my hand, white as cotton balls.
- Fruitflies emerging from nowhere, circling lazily overhead, drifting from room to room.
- Frozen, chocolate-dipped banana chunks laid out on sheets of waxed paper in the freezer.
- The smell of sun - a pale, lemony scent - in every single room.
Long may summer reign!
Onward, always.
CG
Mrs. Galante,
I have just finished The Patron Saint of Butterflies and I loved it No, more than loved it. It touched me in a way that few books have. While I loved both of your main characters, I could really relate to Agnes the best. I myself am a very religious person, and while I’ve been blessed with a loving and supportive family, I am also a perfectionist, and I could see myself becoming like Agnes if the circumstances had been different.
Your book is wonderful and I’ve been recommending it to everyone I’ve talked to. I’m going to buy it at the first chance I get, and read it again. It is that good. Thank you for writing it. Just in case you’re curious, though I don’t believe in ’saints’ per se, my favorite one, next to your Agnes, would have to be Joan of Arc.
Anyway, thank you again for the amazing work.
God bless,
Emily
When I was 25 years old, I worked for the county courthouse. I had my own office with blue carpeting, my own computer, and a window which afforded a bird’s eye view of the river and the county prison. And for as interesting as the work was, for as fast as the days flew by, it was not where I wanted to be. I wanted to be writing.
As if to remind myself of this fact, I taped a Nike ad I found in a magazine to the wall. It was a black and white photograph of an overly worn sneaker with a simple caption below: “When I am _______, I am going to be _________.” I had filled in the blanks with the words ‘26′ and ‘published.’
Well.
Today is my birthday. I am thirty-nine years old. And while I am now published, it didn’t happen when I was 26. Or 27. Or 30. Or even 35. I published my first book when I was 36 years old. But sometimes I pause and think back on that Nike ad in my office. And even though I didn’t acheive the goal I wanted by the age of 26, I realize now that I had something else - something really precious - in my possession back then. I had desire. I had the want, the need to create. I had hold of something bigger than myself. And I ran with it. For a very, very long time. But still, I ran with it.
Now, at 39, there are a few things I think I’ve learned along the way:
1. Getting published doesn’t make you any better of a person than you were before. There is a wonderful saying in a movie about Olympic bobsledding where the coach says, “If you aren’t enough before the gold medal, you’re not going to be enough after.” And that is 100 percent true. I honestly thought at 25 years of age that getting published was going to make me “someone.” As if I wasn’t someone already. As if I wasn’t enough of a someone already. Except that I was. And getting published didn’t change that. Not even a little bit.
2. Never, never, never, give up. Winston Churchill uttered this iconic phrase in a speech to England during World War II, and it is one of my favorite sayings in the world. It’s never to late to do what your heart is telling you to do. Never. Creativity has no age-limit, no bounds. No matter how old you are, no matter what point you are at in your life, get to work. Do it anyway.
3. Failure is in your head. I am my own worst critic. Even if The New York Times Book Review wrote something about one of my books and panned it for the entire world to see, it wouldn’t compare to what I do to myself. But here’s the thing: it’s in my head. It’s not real. They’re just thoughts. Nasty, horrible, sef-defeating, deflating thoughts. Which means that they can be tossed. Erased. Put in a jar like so many screaming mice and thrown into the river. And yes, I know this is easier said than done. But it can be done. Trust me. Every day, I make a choice to go a little easier on myself. Some days I don’t do it well. Other times, when I do it better, I get work done. And then a little bit more.
Today, on the cusp of the last year of the third decade of my life, I realize how young I actually was at 25. How much I didn’t know yet. This morning, I really feel (finally!) like a grown up. And it doesn’t have anything to do with getting books published, or living the dream I always saw myself living. It has to do with the fact that I realize how long I worked at it. How long I will continue to work at it. How many more years, God willing, I have to give back with stories and characters that might, somehow, flip a light on for someone someday. Illuminate something about themselves that they didn’t know before. Even if that someone is me.
Just do it.
Onward, always.
CG
Another rejection on the adult novel.
I’ve been doing lots of putzing, which is a really nice way of saying that I’ve been doing nothing at all, except feel sorry for myself.
Well, I’m done.
Even feeling sorry for yourself can get tiresome after awhile. (Not to mention incredibly annoying to the people around you.)
So I’m back in the saddle. The adult book - while still tucked away in a little pocket of my brain - is no longer going to be occupying the front and center of my days. Work is. A few weeks ago, I discussed two more book possibilites with my editors and was given the thumbs up. The thing is, because of my obsession with whether or not the “big book” was going to sell, I haven’t done anything about either of them.
Now it’s time. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sitting down with at least half of a heavy heart. I am. But I’m still sitting down. I’m going to give it my all. My best. And that’s all I can do. The rest, as they say, will come. Or not.
And that’s okay, too.
Onward, always.
CG
Two rejections so far on the adult novel. Each a blow to the psyche, a staggering of the senses. Both another nail in the “not good enough” coffin.
Eleven more to go.
My agent keeps reminding me that it aint over til it’s over. Which I know is true. And I’ve been through worse than thirteen rejections on my work. (Although not at this stage of the game.) My first book (which has been relegated to a dusty cardboard box in the attic) received no less than FORTY-THREE rejections. And I just read something this past weekend that Kathryn Stockett, author of the hugely successful novel The Help (which is marvelous, by the way) persevered after FORTY-ONE rejections. And now look at her!
So we’ll see. We’ll wait and hope and just…see. Meanwhile, I am lucky enough to be occupied this week with my adorable 6-year old who just underwent a tonsillectomy. She is home recovering and we are doing things like princess puzzles and baking brownie cups, and writing thank you notes to everyone who sent her post-operative gifts. With three kids, it’s not often that you get to spend so much time with just one of them. And she is so lovely. So dear. Just this morning, as we were sitting in front of the fireplace working on a light catcher for her bedroom, she looked over at me as I was gnawing on my fingernails and said in her gravelly, frog-like voice: “If you keep biting your nails, they’re going to get shorter.”
I laughed out loud. Gave her a big kiss.
I can wait through anything with her by my side.
Anything at all.
Onward, always.
CG
This Saturday, May 8th, I will be having a reading/book signing for Willowood at the Barnes and Noble in down town Wilkes-Barre from 12:00 - 2:00 p.m. Come on out and see me, or just browse around for books - always a wonderful way to spend time on a Saturday afternoon!
* Note: The Barnes & Noble for this event is the one next to Boscov’s on South Main Street, NOT the one up by the Arena. (That one will be in June!)
Hope to see you!
Onward, always!
CG
Well, the adult novel is finished. As in rewritten, edited, revised, and sent off to my agent. It is a huge relief, along with a sense of extreme pride. I really wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do it - but I did. And I really, really like it. I think it’s one of my best books to date.
My agent sent me the list of publishers it is going to be read by this week, a total of 13 in all. They include: Random House, St. Martin’s Press, Penguin/Putnam, Harper Collins, Grand Central, Grove, Graywolf Press, Viking, Bloomsbury, and Ballantine. (I can’t remember the rest.) It will be awhile until we hear back from anyone, but let’s hope 13 proves to be the lucky number it is touted to be and someone makes an offer!! Fingers (and toes!) crossed.
Meanwhile, the galleys for my second young-adult novel, The Sweetness of Salt just arrived! (Galleys are the just paperback copies that are printed first so that reviewers and book buyers can get a look at - and read - the book before it goes on to hardcover.) Copies are also sent to me, so that I can take a final read through and spot any errors before it goes to press. I also have the opportunity to send the galley to authors I know so that they can read it and provide a blurb for the dust jacket. Blurbs are those single-sentences provided by another author that praises the book in some way. For example, Jackie Mitchard who wrote The Deep End of the Ocean, provided a wonderful blurb for The Patron Saint of Butterflies, which really boosted the look of the cover.
Finally, the copyedited manuscript for my third middle-grade novel, The Summer of May, just arrived as well. A copy edited manuscript is a copy of the novel, which has been pored over with a fine-tooth comb by the copy editor at the publisher. Right now, The Summer of May is freckled with a million little red circles, question marks, and other copyeditor scribbles. I have to go through all of those scribbles and either agree with the copyeditor’s suggestion to change the thing in question, or disagree. It’s laborious work, but work I am all too eager to dive into, namely because (1) I am always open to suggestions to make the work better, and (2) a peace of mind is gained knowing that mistakes are being caught - and corrected. (There’s nothing worse than coming across a misspelled word or name in a book!)
So that’s what I will be doing for the next few days. After I’m done agreeing/disagreeing with the copyeditor, I send everything back to my regular editor, who will then send the whole thing to the printer. And then the graphic artist will begin sending me suggestions/ideas for the cover!! Another joy!
I spent most of last week on a mini-vacation in Vermont with my babies. This week, I will be spending time with my other babies. Lots of work. Lots of care and precision and nourishment and love until it’s time to kiss them goodbye again and send them off into the wide, wide world.
Until then, onward always!
CG
Ok, so “The Call” didn’t end up being all that exciting after all. Basically, the editors said they loved the main character, that I “nailed” the voice, and that if I tweaked this and that and maybe re-envisioned the background part and maybe oh, thought about another angle to take the whole thing in, they would be happy.
Um.
Right.
Basically, it was a really nice, padded NO.
I can definitely say that as the years have gone by, I’ve gotten better at hearing rejections. This means that I no longer take to bed for 2-3 days, crying like I’ve just lost a parent, and consuming vast quantities of Ben Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. I’m not that kind of person at all anymore.
Now, I sort of just stagger around the house, blindly picking up the thousand or so unmatched socks that seem to litter every available inch of every room, and try to convince myself that although I am the author of six books, not everything I write is going to be touched with the golden publishing wand. I will open the pantry door and take out the earless, tail-less six pound chocolate bunny left over from Easter and bite off one of its paws. Maybe a little angrily. And I will tell myself, as I am rewrapping the bunny in foil that I’m not a loser. And that eventually, I will write something else that will be deemed worthy enough to be put in print. Someday.
It’s funny how this rejection thing still stings. How, despite my modest modicum of success, hearing the word no can still put me back all the way at Square One again. The rational part of me (otherwise known as my husband) says, “But this is the business you got into! This is the way it works!” To which the irrational part of me (otherwise known as the perpetually six-year old side of me) juts out her bottom lip and says: “But I don’t care! It sucks!”
It does suck. Not having all your work embraced and loved as you do is never fun. But I told a friend of mine (during one of my more rational moments) that I had a feeling that this rejection was going to lead to something better. Which all rejections do, eventually. I just have to remember to be patient in the meantime. Have faith. Keep working.
And maybe hide that chocolate bunny a little better next time.
Onward, always!
CG
So I’ve been deeply immersed in rewriting the new book, coming up every so often for air, the occasional pretzel and peanut butter sandwich, and to spend time with my children. Then this morning, out of the blue, my agent calls.
“The editor at Random House wants to have a three way tele-conference with you tomorrow. Are you free?”
Huh? Wuzzat?
“For your series proposal,” she says patiently. “The one we submitted a few months ago? For little kids?”
I get up from my desk. Walk downstairs. Step over the cat, and then turn around and walk back up. Sit down in my chair. Months ago? That is agent/editor/literary speak for half a year ago. Try November. Or December even, when we got a few disinterested passes. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten it was even out there. I forgot I even wrote the damn thing! And now the editor at Random House wants to talk to me about writing a series for them? For real?
“Cecilia?” I hear my name on the other end of the line. “Are you free tomorrow? Can I set something up?”
“Yes!” I get up again, start pacing. “What do they want to talk about? Is it good? Do they think it’s good? Do you think they want it? Do you think they’ll make an offer?”
(I always picture my agent at this part of our discussions quietly placing her own phone down while I go on one of these rants and making herself something to eat. It’s like someone has pulled a plug inside my head, turned a light on; I go from speechless to yammering in two seconds flat.)
After a minute (or two) I settle back down, take a breath. And then she says: “I honestly don’t know yet. We’ll have to wait and see.”
I open and close my mouth with a fish. Little whimpering sounds drift out and then fade like bubbles in front of me. I have to wait? A whole day? Just to find out if they even want it?
“Yes,” my agent says. “And you’ll be fine.” (She says this a lot to me, too.)
So that’s where I am tonight. Sitting on the edge of my chair, trying to work on Chapter 23 of the new book, while half of my brain is out there, wandering around in Random House Land. I don’t have any choice but to sit back, do the work, and wait. Tomorrow at one o’clock, I’ll know more. And when I do, so will you.
In the meantime, onward! Always!
CG