02.21.2013

For Writers: On Quitting Writing

 

WRITING ADVICE FROM MAINSTREAM AUTHOR CATHY LAMB

BY RT BOOK REVIEWS, NOVEMBER 02, 2010 | PERMALINK

Author Cathy Lamb shares the wise advice that helped her get published when she was an aspiring author. 

I will give all aspiring writers the advice that I wish I had gotten years and years ago, before a mountain sized load of rejection letters from two category romance publishers almost buried me in a literary avalanche. You may not want to hear it, you may not agree with it, you may find it discouraging….or, like me, you might follow it with a hop, skip, and a jump, or at least a tiny jig.

So, here it is: If you are continually getting rejections in one genre – category romance, science fiction, fiction, nonfiction, whatever it is – and brace yourself here – you may need to change genres entirely. Yep. You may need to take a deep breath, drown yourself in decaf mochas, which is what I do, or a box of chocolates, which is what I did when I was in the midst of rejection hell, and start over.

Here’s the truth: Your talents may not lie in the place you’re currently trying to publish in.

So, for what it’s worth, here is my non-earth shattering story.

I decided I wanted to be published in category romance when I was 18 years old with one of the two largest category romance publishers in the world. My first (of many) attempts at writing category were total flops and rejected so quick the manuscripts almost hit me in the face as they flew back in my door. I have nightmares that those manuscripts will someday be found and I will have to become a monk and hide in the mountains. Even with those rejections, however, I continued reading category romance, studying the books, the plots, the characters, etc. and I continued writing.

I started sending off synopses of the books I wanted to write instead of wasting my time writing full books that would be rejected. An editor would write back, saying, essentially, “We like it. Send the first three chapters!” Yahoo. High on hope, I would write ‘em up and send them in. She would write back, “We like it, send the whole book.” I would write the whole book.

They would reject.

This painful torment went on for several years and I wondered if I would be better suited for studying beetles in a cave somewhere in Africa while muttering to myself.

Then there was the mother of all rejections. I went through the above process and, over the phone, an editor at one of those gigantic category romance publishing houses implied the book would be bought if I made the following changes. I made all the changes requested, re–edited the book and sent the book back. It was a two year process. I could not reach the editor. I finally went over her head (two years of waiting, people!) to her editor. That editor was apologetic, she clearly got on the back of the editor who was dragging her feet, that ticked that editor off, and I received a scathing rejection letter listing what was wrong with the book down to the tiniest detail, none of which had been mentioned in the previous letter.

So, here is where I decided to burn any bridge I had to that industry in a burst of ash and fire. I wrote a letter back to the head of the line, detailing what I just told you. I knew that would be that for me in romance writing. The bridge, I thought, was torched. Instead, the head of the publishing house apologized many times and asked me to send all future manuscripts to her.

I thought about that, thought again, and declined. I just couldn’t do it anymore, friends. Could. Not. Do. It. My love for category romance was dead. The rejections had killed it. I was done.

So, I wrote Julia’s Chocolates. I wrote with abandon and fun and tears and heart. This was women’s fiction, not category romance, although there is romance in the book. The characters in my book had real problems, real joys, the same as real women do. Well, except for the psychic. She did have some magical powers that the vast majority of us can’t claim to have. In my first scene Julia is throwing her wedding dress up into a dead tree on a deserted street in North Dakota, and I was off and writing, my head from that moment totally into my book, as if I was living Julia’s life.

Julia’s Chocolates was so much easier for me to write than category romance. The story flowed, I could hear the characters talking in my head, I could see the scenes as if I was in my own movie. I could smell the cinnamon, taste the chocolate, feel the kisses, touch the breeze, wonder at the blue mountains in the distance, puzzle at quirky characters. It was all as clear to me as clear can be. I lived those characters, I knew them. And, when they did something I had no idea they were going to do, I sat back and let them do it or say it, and gave them the freedom to move and groove.

My very favorite agent, the one I had always wanted to work with, picked it up almost immediately, he sold it almost immediately to the world’s most incredible editor and I’ve been writing women’s fiction since then, with a few voyages into independent romance stories, not category romance, which have been in anthologies withDebbie Macomber and Fern Michaels.

Honestly, looking back, writing category romance felt like I was trying to pull a kidney out through my ear. It wasn’t my fit. So why did I keep trying? Because I thought I could follow the formula, the fairly rigid structure of category romance, and be successful at it. Nope. Couldn’t follow the rules, couldn’t follow the formula. It wasn’t my style, my talent, my skills.

Secondly, I absolutely, positively, did not believe in quitting, in giving up. I was raised as a child not to quit, to persevere, to follow a dream and stick with it. I was like a pit bull who would not release my jaw when it bit down on something tasty even when that something had rotted.

Ladies, don’t be like that pit bull.

I wish that I had changed genre years before I did. Changing genres is not quitting, it’s not giving up, I wished I’d gotten that. It’s making a realistic inventory of what you’re doing and how it’s working out for you. It’s changing course, it’s not stomping out the door in frustration or throwing a petty fit. It’s assessing your skills and talents, acknowledging you won’t succeed in that area, remember it’s not personal, and moving on.

If I had quit trying to bash my head against the category romance wall earlier, it would have been a lot less painful, that’s for sure. I still love romance, and I love, love, love writing the short stories for the anthologies. But the category romance genre…that just was not an area I would have been successful in, probably ever.

Now, if you love category romance to pieces, you love reading it, you love writing it, stay with it, by all means. For me, those rejections zilched my love of category romance. It was time to go forth and sail on another literary sailboat. I’m glad I did. So, my advice, if you’re getting a lot of rejections in any one genre, and you’re losing your love of it, losing the gumption and guts you used to have for that project…consider switching. Consider putting your talents into another project and see what happens.

Most of all, keep writing and keep reading. Keep reading really great writers, study what they’re doing, how they’re doing it. Study their plots, their characters, character development, how they make you cry or laugh, their pacing and word choice, descriptions, sentence structure, etc. Study, study, study those great authors, and good luck.

I really mean that. Good luck.

And eat chocolate. It makes life sweeter.

– Cathy Lamb

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01.29.2013

An Executive, A Car Thief, And My Mother

Last week a former classmate was arrested for running a chop shop. A chop shop, for those of you not running around with criminals, is where that jerk who stole your car will drive it, where it will then be stripped down, the VIN numbers scraped off, and your license plate tossed into a pile.

They’ll sell it off to some other dark and scary entity and you’re out of a car. It’s a bad day for you.

The former classmate’s mug shot indicated a very hard life. Honestly, that face scared me.

I met – let’s call him Cory –  in seventh grade. He was wild even then, but not in a fun, let’s go rock and roll and laugh and be crazy in a whooeee sort of way.  He was wild in an unhealthy, tough way.

My mother, Bette Straight, was Cory’s English teacher.  She was five feet three, always wore heels, and was the most cheerful, kind and compassionate person I have ever known. Cory, tough guy, loved her.  He used to take roll for her every day and if a kid was even a second late, he’d mark the kid as tardy. No one ever argued with him, he was too much of a hard ass. If you messed with him you could expect to get hit, your nose put in the wrong place on your face.

The hard ass would come to our house to visit my mother. Not me. My mother. He liked talking to her.

But something was seriously wrong at home for this kid.  He came to school drunk one day. We were thirteen. He went to my mother’s class, took roll, did what she told him to do, and left. My mother recalled him being “extra funny” that day. The teacher in the next class smelled the beer/whiskey whatever he’d guzzled, and he was expelled for three weeks.  Drunk. At thirteen.

My mother would have been so sad – and that would be the word for it – sad, that this kid grew up, became tougher, stole people’s cars, broke ’em down, and re – sold them. That wasn’t honest work. That wasn’t right. She would have remembered the kid who treated her so well, every day, even if he was a ball breaker about kids being on time to her class. She would have seen a person who could have become so much more.

On the flip side, when I was growing up there was a family next door with the last name of, well, we’ll just call them the Wengs. The oldest son, we’ll call him Jay, used to come over and visit my mother.  They were Asian, and he was having the usual cultural clashes kids have had over hundreds of years with parents who have migrated from another country and want to conserve the old ways and traditions, and their kids who are growing up American.

He was upset about the conflicts with his parents, the pressure to excel, and his girlfriend who was white. The parents wanted a nice Asian girl, not a blonde American.  Jay just loved my mom, and loved talking to her. My mother told me, “He needs someone to listen to him.” So, she did. She listened.

Today, Jay is within the top 60 best paid executives in this country.  He founded a technology company, which will remain unnamed here. A building at an Ivy league college is named after him after a massive multi ten – million dollar donation. His net worth is over half a billion dollars. I believe he married the blonde girlfriend his parents did not approve of. They are still married.

My mother would have been so pleased for Jay. Not because of the money, she was not a materialistic woman, nor did she base someone’s worth on their income. She was a teacher, remember?  No, she would have been proud of Jay because of his character. She believed in hard, honest work, she believed in family. Jay worked hard and honestly, he had a nice family.

My mother died in January, 11 years ago. Feels like yesterday that I held her hand and watched her go. It was the most heartbreaking day of my life, only equaled by my father’s death five years later, as I held his hand, too, and watched him follow my mother.

I always miss her, but January is definitely a harder month.  I do, however, get a lot of peace, a lot of comfort, thinking about the wonderful impact she had on so many of her students, including future car thieves who needed some kindness when they were young, and top level executives who needed someone to listen.

Cheerfulness, kindness, and compassion sure goes a long way.

 

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01.08.2013

New Year’s Resolutions. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Every year, in January, we are besieged with articles on how to be healthier: Eat better! Lose weight! Exercise more!

Blah blah and blah, blah, blah.

Here’s what we should all do:

1) Don’t eat like a pig very often.

2) Don’t eat kale. Or alfalfa sprouts. They’re gross. It’s rabbit food. God made it for rabbits, not you.  Are you a rabbit? Eat some fruits and vegetables or cheat and dump fruits in a blender and make a smoothie with ice cream. It would be naughty to add scotch. See below.

3) Don’t slam liquor down, you fool, when you do you look like a fool and your liver hates you. Yes, your liver speaks out loud and it also groans and has political opinions.  Listen to it.

4) Don’t eat food that’s not really food unless you can’t resist. Here are my favorite non – food items to eat that I love and shouldn’t eat, but I will anyhow in 2013: Cotton candy. Dulce de Leche cheesecake with caramel. Orville Redenbacher’s movie theater popcorn with extra butter. Burger King’s french fries. Yours?

5)  Read more to shake up your brain. Do something new to shake up your attitude. Travel to shake up your soul. Shake your booty to get some exercise. Really. Go shake your booty, boom, boom, boom.

6) Don’t pretend your life if perfect. By pretending it is you’re annoying and that’s why no one wants to hang out with you.  Now you know why no one calls. If your life is perfect, make something bad up. Like, you’re actually a man under your dress, or your husband is a flesh eating cannibal and everyone should watch their thighs around him in case he entertains some carnivorous thoughts. If he squirts ketchup on you, run.

7) Keep the whining to a minimum unless you are conversing with your cat. If the cat whines back at you, in English, quickly sell the cat off and make a lot of money.

8. Let go of the people in your life who are negative, mean, manipulative or difficult. Life is lickety – split. You/Me could be dead tomorrow, hit by a crashing ostrich or Jupiter falling. Your tribe should consist of awesome and fun Earth – walkers only.

9) Get that colon photographed by a snake – tube while you’re knocked unconscious like salami. Women, stick your feetsies in stirrups for that scintillating pap smear with the tool that resembles your mother’s metal salad tongs. Men, you don’t need a pap smear and you should not ask for one, that would be weird. Women, you do not need to get your testicles checked by a doctor unless he is gorgeous and you can think of no other reason to make an appointment.

10) Get out into nature. Watch leaves, the seasons, the weather. Make it a goal to see more sunsets. (No comment about sunrises. I rarely see them). Walk along a river. Go to the mountains or beach. See that beauty? Just relax in it for awhile and marvel and be glad you can sit and marvel. Do not smoke pot while you’re enjoying the scenery. That goes against previous goals of being healthy. In fact, don’t smoke pot at all. Another fact: Marijuana is not an herb.

11)  Say nice things. Look for the good in others. Hug people. But don’t hug strangers, they may think you’re a drunken lecher and act accordingly.  And don’t hug Keanu Reeves because he is my Second Husband and I’ll get jealous and act accordingly.

12) Daydream wildly. It’s healthy and takes the edge off life. Dance. Sing. Laugh a lot. Listen to music. Take vacations. Be your own damn self and no other.

13) Be grateful. Still upright? Not planted in the dirt? That’s something to be grateful for every night. What about your kids and spouse and partner and home and health? Yahoo. Never stop being happy about the basics. It’s the basics that make everything else possible.

14) Love more.

15) Love better.

16) Love with an open heart.

Cheers and Happy New Year.

(Remember what I said about kale and alfalfa sprouts.)

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12.31.2012

Jane Porter’s Interview Of Me – Thanks, Jane!

New Year’s Author Feature: Cathy Lamb

by Jane Porter

Where Jane Porter talks about everything on her mind…and yes, as usual, there is quite a lot on her mind.

http://janeporter.com/janeblog/2012/12/new-years-author-feature-cathy-lamb/

It might be almost New Year’s Eve but I’m here in Hawaii, deep in writing, as I’m so late on this book that its making my head swim.  Thankfully I have good friends who have come to the rescue, and women’s fiction author, Cathy Lamb, is joining us here for an early New Year’s treat.    Cathy is absolutely wonderful and since she just wrapped up writing her latest novel before Christmas, she’s all ours at the moment and I think you’ll love this interview!

Welcome Cathy Lamb!

Cathy, what do you love most about writing Women’s Fiction?

I love to write stories about women and the challenges they have with their families, work, friendships, men, their pasts, and in their own heads.  I love living in my imagination, creating storylines and characters, deciding which issues I’ll address in my book, and writing scenes that make me laugh and cry. I love the journaling that I do as I work.

I think what is the most fun for me, though, is to be up really late at night writing a scene and yet watching it, as if have a movie running in my head.

I let the characters take over my brain. I write down what they say and do, and worry about adding setting, motifs, symbols, weather, repetitions, and sensory stuff later. The characters go off on their own tangents and I follow them around, like an invisible spy. They become people I hadn’t exactly planned for them to be, with problems and issues, quirks and flaws, lovable and funny qualities that I hadn’t sketched out. I leave room for sub plots, too. Some characters I understand right away, but now and then I’ll have a character that I don’t really “get” until the sixth edit.

If you want to tell stories, just write. That’s what I do. I let it flow, no negative voices in my head allowed. They are banned. The editing process is my friend, no matter how crazy it makes me, and how much muttering and talking back to the characters that I do while I’m in the thick of it.

Writing gives me an excuse to daydream all the time.

 

Some writers like to let plot ideas percolate and grow for a while before they start writing the story. Would you say this applies to you as well?

Yes I do let ideas percolate. However. My deadlines come up pretty quick, so I can’t sit around in the Bahamas, drinking pretty drinks with umbrellas while the ideas run around in my head for weeks on end. Oh, wait. I have never been to the Bahamas and I don’t drink.

I’ll think about my books when I’m on a drive in the country, drinking coffee, running, walking, eating chocolate, all the time. The story is constantly there. I relax and let it come to me.

 

 

 

 

 

Do you incorporate any of your own life experiences into your stories? Do you get asked this question very often?

Yes, some of my own life experiences are in my books, and yes, I am asked that question a lot.  Just as important, a lot of the emotions I’ve experienced – joy, grief, loss, loneliness, anger, gratefulness, devastation, etc – I put in my books. I may not have gone through exactly what my characters have gone through, but I get much of the emotional aspect of it. 

No one likes going through horrible times, but there’s no question they give you a depth that wasn’t there before. I take the horrible times in my life, throw them up in the air, watch them spin around, and then give aspects of them to my characters.

Do you have a writing schedule or any writing rituals to help you achieve your daily writing quota?

My best writing time is from ten at night until two in the morning. Lately it’s been stretching closer to three, even five thirty in the morning,  because I had a deadline.  I’m at peace knowing that all of my kids are safe and sound and I work best within the quiet and darkness.  There’s nothing to distract me so I simply think better in the wee hours of the morning.

As far as writing goals…When I’m writing my first draft of a novel, I write 2,000 words a day, 10,000 words a week or I don’t let myself go to bed on Saturday night. I’ve had some incredibly late nights. When I’m in the editing process, I give myself a certain amount of pages I have to edit before I go to bed each night. Honestly, sometimes I have cried trying to get to that elusive goal, but I get there.

 I edit each book eight times before I send it to my editor, and as the book gets in better and better shape, I’m able to set a new goal and edit more pages each round.

I would rather play. So, if my books are going to get done, I have to set out really hard and fast goals for myself, and get them done, or I’ll just go skipping off into the wild blue yonder and have a grand ole’ time.

 

What are you working on right now?

This past week I just finished my next novel, If You Could See What I See.  It’s about three sisters, a  lingerie business, a mother who’s a sex therapist, and a grandmother who says she came from Ireland after slipping off the curve of a rainbow with a dancing leprechaun and flew to America on the back of an owl. That she has whip marks on her back dims the story quite a bit, but she refuses to tell the truth about her past.  It’s also about leaving a legacy, a fashion show, a documentary film maker, a tree house, a dog named Pop Pop, falling in love, and finding two fathers. 

Name five items sitting on your desk right now.

What desk?

Name three books you hope to read soon.

Next on my line up: Slaughterhouse Five, The Light Between Oceans, Molokai, Where’d ya go, Bernadette?, Behind The Beautiful Forevers, The Kitchen House, Someone Knows My Name.

Okay, that was more than three. I get a little too excited about books.

What’s the one thing you couldn’t live without if you were stuck on a deserted island?

If I were stuck on a desert island I don’t think I could live without Keanu Reeves.  Don’t tell my long suffering husband I said that.

~~~

Cathy, thank you so very much for answering all my questions and spending time with us here today.  I know my readers will enjoy getting to know you and they’ll also love having a chance to win some of your amazing books.

Readers, I’m giving away 3 terrific Cathy Lamb prize boxes, filled with her novels, chocolates, Starbuck drink cards, and tons of JP reader goodies.  The contest will run until midnight Jan 2nd, and the winners will be announced on the morning of January 3rd.  To enter, please comment in the comment section below.  Have you read Cathy Lamb before?  Did you read anything over the holidays?  Can you recommend anything fun to read?  Please remember to check back on the 3rd to see if you won.  I announce the winners names in the comment section, too.  So go to the bottom of this blog’s comments, and look for the announcement from me.  Easy!

Happy New Year, everyone, and for those of you wanting to learn more about Cathy Lamb and get a complete listing of her books, visit her website.

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12.27.2012

Running And Writing

I run and I write.

Four or five times a week, I throw on my running shoes, usually mismatched socks, and head to the forest near my home. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I head down the path to the left, and start running. I run five or six laps, for five or six miles, in the warm sunshine, the pounding rain, the hail and the blustering wind....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love watching the leaves change, the seasons change, the weather change.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...and I love that the sunlight slips through the trees, as if it's following me, bright and cheerful...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For some reason I find inspiration in leaves. Golden leaves, burgundy leaves, emerald green and pumpkin orange leaves. I cannot get over how each leaf is completely different from another. Like people. All unique. All special.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ry of the ferns, the perfection of the white flowers.

I find peace in nature during my runs. The vibrant colors, the crystallized silence, the rustling leaves, the dead tree trunk with a new tree growing nearby, the curious squirrels, the darting mouse, the sneaky raccoon out in the afternoon, the arches of the branches, the symmetry of the ferns, the perfection of the white flowers.

 

 
I find humor in nature, too.

 

Can you see the cross? Every single time I run, I blow that cross a kiss and say, "Thank you, God, for the health and safety of my kids."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think of the tree on the left as my late father's tree, the tree on the right, my late mother's...a bit strange to associate a tree with a parent, but these trees are standing together, on either side of my path, and I couldn't help but think of my beloved parents when I saw them. I do not think of the cancer that killed them as I run by, the chemo, the radiation, holding their hands as they left, I think of the happy memories we made together. I am past, for the most part, that terrible and tearful grief, and now embrace all the wonderful things we did together as a family, and my relationship with both of them. I let those memories comfort me and bring me a smile, or a laugh. My father was a runner, my mother was a walker, and I grew up camping. The trees are my way of remembering them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The two trees that cross each other on the right, I think of as my twins' trees. I thought the way the trees grew so close together was symbolic of their fun, funny, loving relationship. I lived in the hospital for six weeks when I was pregnant with them and prayed almost hourly that they would live. They did, and they have been a gift to my life ever since.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is my oldest daughter's tree. Growing straight and tall and strong, right into the blue sky. This tree will stay where it is for hundreds of years, but my daughter, with her adventurous heart, has gone to school on the east coast, in France, and now in Scotland. Still, there's something about that tree that speaks to me about her...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I use sticks to keep track of the laps I've run. Can't keep the count straight if I don't as I'm running around in my own thoughts too much, too lost in my wild imagination and private story telling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I used to try to solve hard problems and life's entanglements and issues while I ran. I no longer allow myself to do that. For one hour, I run. I daydream, I laugh, I think only pleasant and easy thoughts. I have found that my problems are always waiting for me at the end of the run, but for one hour, I let myself be me, for one hour, I leave everything else behind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 2013, I want to be outside more. I want to enjoy more brilliant sunsets, though not more sunrises. I want to be on our drift boat more in Oregon's rivers, I want to hike through old forests, I want to watch snowflakes fall and I want to run through the freezing cold waves at the beach. I want to breathe in cold mountain air, and walk alongside rushing rivers. Wishing you a year full of nature that soothes your soul, brings peace to your troubles, and offers you a bit of colorful relief from life. Cheers.

 

 

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10.18.2012

Fashion Show

I don’t know much about fashion.

I don’t truly care to know. I can’t imagine spending much of my precious time on this planet worrying about what the latest styles are. There are so many more interesting things to think about and interesting people to talk to.

Plus, I hate shopping. Shopping makes me want to eat, specifically chocolate, and drink, specifically decaf mochas.

So when New York has fashion week, I pay little attention to it, except that this year I noticed the NY Times had many articles on it. As I have a slight addiction to the NY Times, I opened up an article and saw models strutting down the runways in various…fashions.

One model seemed to be wearing a poorly sewn quilt. Another was in dizzying polka dots. There were models dressed as presents and others who sported fabric with amoebas and what appeared to be blood clots on it.

Some wore shorts with stilettos and suit jackets.I find this particular style ridiculous. If you’re going to get dressed up, get dressed up. If you’re going to be casual and wear shorts, then don’t wear four inch heels, a tie, and pearls. Just me. But I don’t get it.

There were a couple of see – through white dresses. Wearing a see – through white dress in public is my nightmare come alive. One of the latest styles appears to be knee pads. Another is a flowing tail.

But that is not here nor there, nor that or this.

What bothered me was the models.

They were so, so thin.  I could see collarbones poking out, ribs and sternums sticking through skin, knobby knees, sunken cheeks, gangly arms, emaciated legs, fragile shoulders.

Can I say this without trying to be hurtful? They looked absolutely awful. It made me feel slightly ill for them, and for their families, to look at them.

If my daughters were that thin, I would commit them to the best anorexia/bulimia clinic I could find in this country. I would keep them there for months until they gained at least thirty pounds, and this problem was under control.

Why are designers using these young ladies? Because tall, slender people show their clothes the best. I get it. They are not looking for an average sized American woman with hips and a bust.

But how can these designers justify using girls who are not eating healthily, many of whom quite clearly are suffering from eating disorders? You do not get this thin, you cannot get this thin, without having a problem, without dieting down to nothing. Your food intake? Diet pop and carrots.

By using models who are emaciated, it encourages other young women to get this emaciated, too. This isn’t healthy. This isn’t right. This doesn’t look good. This isn’t what our daughters should strive to look like, and yet so many girls in our country struggle with anorexia and bulimia and want to be this sickly, scary thin.

Fashion week?

It was mildly amusing to look at the clothes.

It was tragic to look at the models.

 

 

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09.19.2012

USA Today Interview

September 19, 2012

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09.09.2012

Back To School, Back in Time…Interview with Lori’s Reading Corner

My Favorite First Day of School
By Cathy Lamb
I would have to say one of my favorite first days of school occurred when I was in first grade. It involved tattling on my little brother and it delighted me to no end.
Finally, I could get my brother, the darn saint, in trouble!
My brother, Jimmy, is eighteen months younger than me.  My mother, Bette Jean, a lovely lady, walked us to school in Huntington Beach, California on the first day.  My older sister was with us, as was my younger sister who was about two at the time.
We walked through the cement tunnel, past the scary barking dogs, and inhaled the scent of honeysuckle hanging over a wire fence, which still, to this day, reminds me of my walk to school. My mother dropped me off at first grade where I was assigned the intimidating Mrs. Kenyon for a teacher.
I did later learn that she did not yell that loud (those were the days when teachers could yell at students without parents coming in to yell back), and she banged the piano keys with enthusiastic force. I learned how to sing She’ll Be Coming Around The Mountain with great gusto.
Anyhow, I digress. After leaving me safely ensconced with Mrs. Kenyon, my mother then dragged my sister to the Kindergarten section where she dropped off my nemesis, and the source of all my angst, Jimmy.
Right before school started, I skipped out to recess.  I played wall ball with all my might and swung from the monkey bars. It was during one, delicious moment, head down, knees clenched around a bar, when off in the distance, what did I see?
I saw my brother, the boy who always got me into trouble. My mother’s favorite, I was sure!
Jimmy was scampering off the playground towards home, making a wild, but useless, dash for freedom.
Ha!  I still remember the football jersey he was wearing. It was number 86.  His short legs were pumping, arms swinging. Upside down on those monkey bars, I practically chortled.
Well now. My poor mother, who was probably soooo looking forward to getting rid of three of her four loud and naughty children for the day, was still near theKindergarten section. In fact, her eyes were scanning their playground with the castle playhouse for my brother. Where did he go? Where was her curly blonde sweetheart?
I skipped and hopped right over to my mother, hoping my brother’s punishment for escaping from the school grounds would be fierce. Perhaps he would have to sleep outside for a month, foraging for food on his own? Perhaps he would be locked up in jail? Perhaps I would get his skateboard or his nifty bike? I would like that!
I gleefully ran up to my mother and pointed at my brother, the soon-to-be-convict.  “There he is, mommy! Do you see him! Right there!”
Her face stilled.  Poor woman.  She could almost smell the coffee she had planned on drinking with all of us out the door. She grabbed my sister by the hand and started sprinting for home. My mother took the short cut. I have never let my brother forget that when he was escaping, he took the loooong way home, through the park. Why did he do this? Silly boy!
Anyhow, my mother hurried off in her pretty flowered dress, my sister practically flying out behind her. She met Jimmy at the door and dragged him back to school. My brother, who is now a brave, strong dude working as a lieutenant in the fire department, told me later he had simply decided that he “didn’t want to go to Kindergarten,” hence the hair raising run through the playground.
So, why was that my favorite first day of school, especially since none of my imagined punishments came through?
Ah, because of the tattling and the teasing rights I had later. I believe my first words to him when I came home were, “Scaredy cat,” and we went from there.
Plus, in my advancing age I have treasured forever the image of my little brother, in his number 86 football jersey, who is not little at all anymore, running free from school, too frightened to attend Kindergarten, of all things.
Hmmm….Perhaps I will tell his son today, his first day of school, what his father did. Watch out, Jimmy! The tattling continues!
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08.30.2012

Excerpts from Beach Season’s June’s Lace

June’s Lace

 

Opening Scene…

 

Ten Things I’m Worried About:

  1. Too many wedding dresses
  2. Not enough wedding dresses
  3. Grayson
  4. Going broke
  5. Losing my home
  6. Never finding an unbroken, black butterfly shell
  7. The upcoming interview with the fashion writer.
  8. Not having peppermint sticks in my life
  9. Turning back into the person I used to be
  10. Always being worried

 

Another scene about June’s studio at the beach in a blue cottage where she designs unique wedding dresses…

My studio is filled with odd and found things. I need the color and creativity for inspiration for the non – traditional wedding dresses I sew. Weathered, light blue shutters from a demolished house are nailed to a wall.  Two foot tall pink letters spell out my name, June.  On a huge canvas, I painted six foot tall purple tulips with eyes, smiles and pink tutus. I propped that painting against a wall next to a collection of mailboxes in the shapes of a pig, elephant, dragon, dog, and monkey.  The monkey mailbox scares me.

I dipped a strawberry into melted chocolate and kept stomping about.  I eat when I get upset or stressed, and this had not proved to be good for the size of my bottom. Fifteen extra pounds in two years. After only four more strawberries, okay seven, and more pacing, I took a deep breath and tried to wrestle myself away from my past and back into who I am now, who I am trying most desperately to become.

“Remember, June,” I said aloud  as my anger and worry surged, like the waves of the Oregon coast below me. “You are in your sky lighted studio. Not a cold, beige home in the city. You are living amidst stacks of colorful and slinky fabrics, buttons, flowers, faux pearls and gems, and lace. You are not living amidst legal briefs and crammed courtrooms working as an attorney with other stressed out, maniac attorneys hyped up on their massive egos.”

My tired eyes rested, as they so often did, on my Scottish tartan, our ancestor’s tartan, which I’d hung vertically on my wall.  When I’d hung it in our modern home in Portland, he’d ripped it down and hid it from me for a month. “Tacky June, it’s tacky. We’re not kilt wearing heathens.”

I am a wedding dress designer in the middle of a soul-crushing divorce. I am a wedding dress designer who will never again marry.  I am a wedding dress designer who has about as much faith in marriage as I do that the Oregon coast will never see another drop of rain.

A blast of wind, then a hail of rain pummeled my French doors.

I ate yet another chocolate strawberry. I have been told my eyes are the color of dark chocolate. Not a bad analogy.  I washed the strawberry down with lemonade, then a carrot.

No, I have no faith in marriage.

None.

It was a bad day. It became worse after the next phone call.

 

 One More Scene with the hot rancher, Reece…

“You want to know about my childhood?” I pushed a strand of wet hair off my face.

“Yes, I do.” Those eyes were sincere. I was being pulled into a green pool, only the pool was warm and sexy and had big shoulders. Look away, June. Look away! Remember, you do not believe in lust at first sight.

 I shook my head to clear my burgeoning passion. “My sister, August, was born on a commune in California. My next sister, September, was born in the back of our VW van.  I was born in a hippie colony here in Oregon. There’s some difference, not much, from a commune. My brother was born about fifteen feet over the US border.”

“Fifteen feet?”

“About that. We had been in Mexico, living on a farm with other Americans, but my nine- months – along mom decided at the last minute that she wanted March born on American soil, like the rest of us, so they drove through the night.  My brother was born on the other side of the customs building.”

“That must have been quite a ride.”

“It was. I remember it. We packed up the van on the fly.  We were all wearing tie dye shirts and sandals.  We also had three mutts, two cats, and a bird who flew loose in the van. We each had our tartans, our ancestors were Scottish and we’re proud of it, and we had a box of apples and a box of bananas. I slept on the floor of the van between my sisters with our dog, Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Death, asleep over my legs. Our other dog, Flower Child, snored away on a seat, and the third dog, Fleas, because he had fleas when we found him, my sister was using as a pillow.”

“You are making my childhood as boring as heck. I can barely stand it.”

“We were travelling gypsies in a VW bus.” I drew my arms tight around my freezing, shaking body.

“So, your brother made it to the US border?”

“Yes, he did. My poor mom. No drugs at all during child birth. She wanted it natural. All of us were natural. My dad grabbed two tartans out of the back of the van for her to lay on.”

“Tartans?”

“From Scotland. Our ancestors are from Scotland and our family takes our love of Scotland seriously. My dad fluffed the tartans out for her to lay on. Afterwards, my dad’s face was whiter than my mom’s.  I remember my sisters and I had to stay in the van and there were a bunch of men in uniform helping my mom, and all of the sudden one of those men was holding our brother, March, who was screaming his head off but, I’m sure, delighted to have been born in America.”

He laughed again.

My, what a seductive and deep and gravelly laugh. My!

 

 

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08.20.2012

For Writers: How Not To Write A Book

I’m working on my next book, due in December.

Tonight I finished the first draft.

It is a total mess.

I am a mess.

This is a photo of a redwood that I took. Climbing this redwood is like writing a book. Do not fall while climbing.

I have characters lunging and skippity skipping through my brain and I am trying to corral those stubborn people into a story line. I have too many characters. Some must go, but who? Who should be voted off the island? What about that wily group of women in there? Are they too much?

Where are the main themes and thoughts? What is the story REALLY about? Where are the metaphors?

After writing seven novels and five short stories, one would think I would have a better grip on this book writing process. I do not.

I make mistakes with all my books as I write them. Hundreds of mistakes. That’s why I edit obsessively. I learn all the time what to do, and what not to do, when writing books, and then I don’t follow what I’ve learned and I’m off in a free fall and swearing as I write the next one.

Here’s a few thoughts, though on how NOT to write a book. It is not complete. It is not near complete. It is something I wrote last night at one in the morning as a break from the cacophony of imaginary friends in my head whose stories I am trying to tell.

1. Do not write long passages about stuff that you are angry about that has nothing to do with your story. Get a journal. Emotionally vomit in there. Or go see a therapist. They are very helpful.

2.  Do not move slowly with your plot. We people are in a fast world. Get ’em in the book and keep ’em there, and whip ’em through the scenes. Do not overindulge your love of reading your own voice.

3.  Do not use boring language. Find cool and zippy words. Find words that punch and scrape and resonate.  Use description so your readers can be in the scene with you and smell what you’re smelling, even if it’s fire, and hear what you’re hearing, even if it’s screaming, and taste what you’re tasting, even if they are tasting failure.

4.  Do not use dumb plots.

This is a photo of a cat. She is not as evil as she looks. She does not like to read much. You, however, should read all the time.

5. Do not write stories that have a close resemblance to other books. Publishers will notice. Publishers will not publish carbon copies.

6.  Do not think your first or second or third draft is good enough. It is not.

7.  Do not be over confident. Over confidence will kill the critical analysis you need to be doing of your own work. I can’t tell you how many unpublished writeres I have met over the years who think their work is “really, really good.” I don’t think my own work is “really, really good, ” and I’ve written a bunch of novels, shorts stories, and over 200 articles for The Oregonian. Stay humble, stay open to constructive criticism, stay normal.

8.  Do not write all the scenes for one particular relationship, or one particular event, all at once, straight down, for pages and pages. If you do, like I did for many different sections of this book, you will have a literary puzzle. The puzzle will suck. You will have to print out your whole book, then cut and paste and organize the scenes back into the original manuscript. It won’t work well. You will get lost. You will forget where you are. You will give up and drink so much coffee your insides shake.

9.  Do not live too hard in your book until six weeks before your deadline or you will get confused about reality. No, you are not a character in your book. No, you are not that hot man’s new wife in the book. You are already married. His name is Innocent Husband. Stop thinking about the character in your book who is not your REAL husband. He is imaginary. You made him up. No, you are not the main lady character either. You haven’t been 125 pounds in decades. No, you aren’t so young anymore and you don’t wear cool clothes.

10. Do not even THINK of naming people in your book the same names as people you don’t like, or who told you that you baked them “passive aggressive brownies,” or you will get sued.

11. Do not be pathetic. Do not whine while writing (like I am doing here). It’s a first world problem and no one gives a rip, plus you will sound pretentious.

12.  Do not forget to get food for your children while writing. They’ll get upset and cranky.  The refrigerator needs to have things like milk and eggs. Clean out the pantry. Food in there should not be green.

This is a picture of a long road. Writing is a long road. You will be lonely on it sometimes. Suck it up. It's part of life.

13.  Do not use the word ‘just.’ Just don’t. It’s over used. I hate that word.

14.  Do not be bothered if you feel that you are strange, an outsider, slightly obsessive or compulsive, have thoughts that go off on bizarre tangents, feel emotions really deeply and swim in them for long periods of time, or are feisty or quiet, and like to spend years alone. Lots of writers are like this. You will fit well into The Club. I am comfortable with myself, so I am comfortable knowing that I don’t quite fit in in the usual way.

15.  Do not give your work to lots of people and believe that the feedback will be helpful. It will not. It will only confuse you. One person will love part of your plot, the other will hate it. One will find your main character releateable, the other will want to have her killed off by chapter two.

Some people who offer opinions on your book plain don’t like you and will say mean things about your plot. Some really like you and will over – flatter you. Some won’t have a clue about what’s good and what’s not.

Do not allow a lot of voices in your head when you’re writing. Yours is the voice you should listen to, and perhaps one or two people whose opinions on books you trust. This does not include your mother. Sorry. Or your lover. Sorry. Or your Aunt who smoked too much pot as a younger woman and still seems dizzy to you, but quite pleasant.

16.  Do not feel bad about all the daydreaming you do. Daydreams can always be used in books. How do you think I’ve written mine?

Now and then with your writing you will get to a lovely, peaceful place. It won't happen very often, so slam a beer down and enjoy it when it does.

17.  Do not ever stop reading. Get a book out and read. Now. Right now. Yep. Go read.

I am going back to attacking the literary puzzle I wrote that sucks. Goodnight.

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