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.
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
Well, the time has come for me to put away pen, paper, and all things computer to welcome in the holiday season. I would like to work up until the very last minute; say, Christmas Eve, but with a teenager and two babies awaiting Santa’s arrival, it is just impossible. There is too much to get done!
I’ll be back in the new year - until then, I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday! Eat up, enjoy each other, and remember: Santa is real!!
CG
My publicist emailed me today with a letter that a woman from Oregon sent her after reading The Patron Saint of Butterflies. After reading the letter, I just sort of sat back and sighed. And smiled. A lot. Butterflies has gotten a lot of recognition in the eighteen months its been out there, as well as a few awards. It’s been added to a whole bunch of high school curriculums across the country and even got the golden nod from Oprah. But none of it has affected me quite the way this woman’s letter did. I may just be getting sappy in my old age, but I think this is what writing is all about.
Read for yourself:
I am Michelle Rochette (73) and I live in a senior community on the Rogue River in Grants Pass , Oregon . Winters are pretty dreary around here, but it warmed up to 30 degrees yesterday and I bundled up and wallked to the river; stopping at the rec room library for a book to read later. I scanned the huge assortment of mystery, adventure, historical, autobiographical, etc. and just couldn’t make a selection.
Having been an avid reader all my life I enjoy something I can sink my dentures into. I have read everything from Steinbeck to Stein, Cussler, LaMore, Dostoiyovsky, Tolstoi, and plenty of self-help from “Be Here Now” to “The Secret” and all of Robert Monroe’s SRV info. plus Coourtney Brown’s “Cosmic Voyage” to Dr. Pat Allen’s ”Getting to I Do”, “The Rules” and hundreds more.
I was leaving when I saw Cecelia Galante’s book just laying on a shelf as tho someone dropped it off and didn’t file it in the G section. I glanced through it and took it with me. What a great read!! I came home and got some coffee and sat and read from 4 p.m until 1 a.m. I finished it today. It is perfect for all ages and I hope she will continue to write as she does. It would make a fine movie. The characters are finely drawn and it just flows. You have to keep reading to see what happens next. Obviously I loved it. I thank her for this gift.
The copy I have says “Advance Reading Copy - Not for Sale “. I hope it will be available to purchase on the net or in stores as I intend to recommend it to friends.
Sincerely,
Michelle Rochette
I think I will send Miss Rochette a copy of her own - as well as a big ol’ thank you note from a very humbled and appreciative author.
Onward.
CG
Shhhh…..
Scribblescribblescribble….
Writing….
CG
So, at the gentle prodding of my editor at Bloomsbury, I am starting my very first adult novel. As in not children’s or young adult. Big people. My age. Engaging in adult-type of activities like dating and marriage and child-rearing and car insurance. That kind of thing. When she first mentioned it to me, I stared at her blankly and then said, “Me? I don’t know anything about being an adult.” She laughed. And then she told me to write about exactly that.
So I have begun.
The fact that I am absolutely terrified about it is, I hope, a good thing. Fear has always motivated me more than anything else. I’ve been asking a writer friend of mine who also writes young adult and has recently completed her second adult novel, what the major difference between the two is. She said there really isn’t one, except for the character’s ages, and that if the story is compelling enough and the characters believable, I don’t have to worry about anything else. I do have this nagging fear though, that I still haven’t “learned” enough yet to be writing an adult novel. Most days I feel as though I am still wading through these incredibly murky waters of adulthood, parenthood, marriage. Some days I’m not even wading. I’m floundering, struggling to keep my head above the water.
Despite all this, I am about a third of the way through a draft I have been stewing about for months now - and it feels awful. Horrible, even. Kurt Vonnegut said that most day when he sits down to write he feels like an “armless, legless man.” That’s pretty much how I feel. I’m in the throes of First Draft Horror. I’ve got to trust that I will come out the other side - and that when I do, maybe, just maybe, I’ll have something to start with.
Hey, now that I think about it, maybe that was a pretty grown-up thought after all.
Onward!
CG
Back from a 3-day stay at The Bancroft School in New England, where I was invited to be the keynote speaker at their young writer’s conference. It was an awe-inspiring, humbling, and hugely wonderful experience, complete with fifty kids straining at the bit to write their hearts out, four other writing mentors who kept me laughing and eased my pre-speech jitters, and the most gracious host family I have ever come across.
The keynote was sort of the “big” thing of the event. Or at least that was what everything had been leading up to. I was prepared, had practiced the speech at least 6 or 7 times, and stood up behind that podium after being introduced feeling fairly confident. Except that nothing that I had practiced, nothing that I had written down on that paper came out of my mouth. Instead, as I looked out at all of those kids, most of whom I had spent the last two days with talking intensely about writing and reading and Twilight and what it feels like to be in a room with a hundred other kids and feel like you are completely alone, something completely different began to come out of me. It may have been my maternal instinct kicking in. Or maybe I saw myself in those kids, the way I had been when I was 15 and 16, struggling to come to terms with the world around me. And so instead of talking to them about writing and revising and trying to find inspiration, I began to talk about how important they were. I told them that they all had a voice, and that when they found that voice, it was their job, their duty, to use it. I told them to sing out. I told them to be brave. I told them to tell the truth - even when it hurt. I told them to speak up when they saw something wrong, and to speak up again when they saw something right.
At one point - and to my absolute horror - my voice cracked as I spoke to them. But I couldn’t have prevented it, even if I had tried. I knew that they were listening to me and that all these years later, standing up in front of a room full of kids trying to understand, I was listening too - maybe for the first time.
It felt good. It felt right.
Afterwards, they asked me to come back next year.
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Onward.
CG