“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,   

The world offers itself to your imagination,

Calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting,

Over and over, announcing your place

In the family of things.                                                                                                                            

 - Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

1. What does lonely look like?

          A bruised pear; the moon, high and solitary above the earth; the glass surface of a lake; brown leaves, the edges crisp as waxed paper; a tiny hand pressed against a window; eyebrows knitted into a single line; sheets of newspaper blowing down the street; the white of a sky just before it starts to snow. 

2. What does lonely feel like?

           Two parallel lines of pain in the back of your throat; panic, like when you’re trying to get to the water’s surface and you’re not sure if you have enough breath left; the padded swell of a bruise; vacuous; eternal.

3. How does the world call to you? 

               In the miraculousness of the ordinary; among the furry edges of a butterflies’ wing; inside the smell of new canteloupe, split and seeded; in the desperate sound of a baby crying; along a trail of dimpled skin; among the drone of an airplane overhead; through the shelled beetles that occupy my gardenias; through the taste of water when you’re so thirsty you could weep; in the first light of morning.

4. What is the family of things?

                 New babies, their fists curled tight as fern fronds; the first leaves of autumn; the swell of a bubble of the end of a plastic stick; an old man sitting alone at McDonald’s; the endless stream of traffic; the smell of your corduroy couch; fresh laundry; the screaming exchange of a fighting couple upstairs; the careful eye of the school crossing guard; love.

5. What is your place in the family of things?

                       Inside, all of them. No matter how dark, no matter how lonely.

Onward, always.

CG

I have been given a lot. My life is full of health, light, color, and the wonder of all things new. Just yesterday, my little girl told me that I was the “best Mama in the world - even better than all the Mama’s I haven’t even met yet.” It doesn’t get much better than that.

And yet, despite this - or perhaps because of it - I still find myself some days wracked with fear. With doubt. With the never-ending scourge of feeling as if I am “not enough.” Herewith is quick internal snippet of the ol’ noggin, and how it works:

“You’ve written five books! How can you still feel as if you haven’t done enough?”

“I’ve written for kids. Young adults.”

“And?”

“And anyone can write a book for kids.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure. Anyway, everyone knows that kids’ writers aren’t real writers.”

“Hmm. And who or what constitutes a real writer?”

“You know. Writer-writers. Like Alice Munro and Elizabeth Strout and Ernest Hemingway and J.D. Salinger. Writers who for some reason or another are intelligent enough and good enough to write about the human condition. To attempt to explain it. Or at least throw some light on it.”

“And that’s something you can’t do?”

“Please.”

This is just maybe three or four seconds of one part of a single day. I could go on and on and on. (Which believe me, is what my head is all too happy to do.)

I’ve been around now for 39 years. And so while I may not be an expert on the human condition in any way, shape or form, I do know a little bit about my own. And I know that these holes in my net of self-worth were created a long time ago. I also know that it’s my responsibility now as an adult to find a way to fill them. And so I keep trying.

Life has a funny way, sometimes, of offering solutions.

Yesterday, I came across an incredible passage about this exact issue in the book “Letters to a Young Poet,” written by the ethereal Ranier Maria Rilke. Rilke was a German poet who transcended his time and his work by writing some of what is arguably the greatest lines of poetry ever composed. And yet even he was prone to great and staggering periods of self-doubt.

Until he learned to overcome it.

Here, he writes to a young poet (who is also suffering from the pains of uncertainty), encouraging him to do as he did:

“…Your doubt can be become a good quality if you train it…Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perhaps bewildered and embarrassed, perhaps also protesting. But don’t give in, insist on arguments, and act in this way, attentive and persistent, every single time, and the day will come when instead of being a destroyer, it will become one of your best workers - perhaps the most intelligent of all the ones that are building your life.”

How marvelous a concept! To think of doubt not as a destroyer, as a crushing blow to the creative self, but the exact opposite - as a tool of sorts to dig your way to the very, very bottom of what it is you are trying to find.

I already know what it is I am trying to find. Somehow, in some way, I would like to unearth that small, untouched part of me that believed in everything good about herself - before all the judgemental eyes and words and hands descended and tried to muck it up.

It’s in there. I know it is. It’s faint by now, I have no doubt. Maybe even just the palest slice of a glimmer. But if I can keep forging ahead, using the doubt and fear now as tools instead of barriers, maybe, just maybe, I will get a peek at her once more.

And then, fly.

Onward, always.

CG

I was helping my 3-year old son this morning as he used the bathroom. (He still does not have very good aim.) After he was done, he yanked up his firetruck undies, and turned around to wash his hands. “Hold on,” I said. “What did you forget?” He studied me for a moment as if I had just asked him what the meaning of world peace was, and then suddenly, his eyes lighting up, reached over and put the seat down.

When my son first started potty-training, I had a flash of insight one day during a morning just like this. If I could train my son to put the seat down after every use, what other things could I stop in their tracks and reverse? Could he possibly grow up to be a man who would never even dream of hanging his underwear off of doorknobs? Throw his wet towels on the floor? Leave hair gel and toothpaste and dental floss strewn all over the bathroom sink every morning? Maybe I could teach him to take out the trash at the slightest hint of overflow, or how to cook something other than scrambled eggs for dinner. Standing there, in the middle of the bathroom that day, I became dizzy with the possibilities.

And this is how I feel a lot of the time when I sit down to write. Every day, before I begin, I think about the possibilities of what might come out. Sometimes the list is huge. Other times, it’s just a few things. This direction, or that one. Up or down. Either way, it’s easy to get overwhelmed. Dizzy.

What it comes down to, I think, is something pretty simple: I’ve learned to pick just one possibility and run with it. No matter what direction it takes me in, no matter where I end up, I am always surprised because I always finish somewhere I never knew I was going in the first place. Which leads me to the next possibility. And the one after that.

And perhaps that will be true of my boy too. I know I can’t mold him into the “Ideal Guy.” Besides, there’s no such thing. But maybe I’ll just stick with the toilet seat thing. And see what direction that takes us. Who knows? Maybe somewhere down the line I’ll have a daughter-in-law who will share a cup of tea with me out on the back porch and say, “You know, he’s so good about never leaving the toilet seat up. Now if I could just find a way to get him to pick up his underwear….”

Onward, always.

CG

So while we wait and ponder the life and whereabouts of my adult novel, another window has been opened. My agent called this morning to inform me that Random House has offered me a 4-book deal on a children’s series!!

I am so incredibly excited; not only is this an entirely new genre for me, but I wrote the original story as a gift for my little daughter Sophia, and now she will have an entire series to read as she starts first grade!!!

The series is tentatively titled Little Wings, as it is about a six-year old cupid angel who doesn’t “fit in.” Instead of blonde silky hair, she has an enormous head of brown, tangled curls. Instead of sweet white little wings, she has a pair of bright purple wings - that don’t work! She’s freckled and ornery, funny and sweet, and I hope she takes off and soars!

Here’s to unexpected gifts in the meantime - and all the gratitude that comes with them.

Onward always!

Such a fun event at the Tunkhannock Library last night where the girls read Hershey Herself, got to ask lots of questions, and the librarian served Cheetos (Hershey’s favorite snack in the book!) in tiny paper cups!Thanks so much, Tunkhannock Public Library, for inviting me - and thanks so much to my readers who came out and shared such a wonderful night!!CG

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