Recent posts

How to raise a writer

Today, for your reading pleasure, I am presenting a guest blog by my friend, Cathy Lamb. Who happens to be a real and prolific writer, as I talked about here. Her books speak to many, many women and her blog speaks to everyone.

 

We’re approaching the hot days of summer, when kids can whine louder about nothing to do, and it seemed like to perfect time to give Cathy’s advice to you parents.

Have a kid who wants to be a writer?

My parents did, too.

What did they do to encourage, support and give me room to write?

In no particular order…

 

1. They put me outside all the time to play.  I spent my first ten years in California and my brother, sisters and I lived outside. I chased butterflies, played hide and seek, climbed trees, and tried to run my brother over on my bike. (No kidding. We have it on film). Kids need to be outdoors making up stories and games and running around with other kids. It fosters a creative, inquisitive spirit and early insight into people and relationships…and that helps grow a writer.

2. My mother bought me tons of books. This was at a time when she had three dresses. Three. Total. That’s what she could afford when she had four young children.  My parents were very frugal. Their parents had lived through the Depression and they were taught to save money. Save more. Save again. Their motto: A disaster could happen at any time, and probably will, so be prepared!

We did not get a lot of clothes and if we wanted more as teenagers, we were told to get out there and get a job, which we did. But books…well, that was another thing. You cannot become a writer without being a reader. Go to the library with your kids, buy them books. The world opens up to young minds as soon as books are open on their laps.

3. They spent a lot of time with my siblings and I. My parents were always there. Years ago I kept hearing the saying, “It’s not the quantity of time you spend with your kids, it’s the quality.” That was bull then, and it’s still bull. Of course quality time is good, but kids need their parents around all the time, even if they’re upstairs on facebook or have just slammed the door in your face.

Be there for your kid, listen to them and their stories, buy them journals to write in and neat pens, read the same book together, talk about favorite writers. Discuss why some books are so catchy, so interesting, and others are boring. Discuss the author’s voice, word choice, how the book ended, the overall theme. What’s the lesson here? What did they learn? It gets them thinking about writing – and how to write compelling stories.

People will says that some of Americas best writers had tragic childhoods. I don’t recommend this at all for your kids – so go hang out with them.

4. They valued God first, family second, and hard work and academics third. That’s the framework I grew up with and my parents never strayed from that framework. Kids need structure and tons of love to walk the walk they need to. Structure and love is a breeding ground for imagination and creativity. When you feel safe, you can daydream. When you feel loved, you can build, sing, write poetry, and star in your own show in the backyard.

When you have people who care about you and like your artwork and stories, you start to believe in yourself. You start to believe you can do it. You start to love words, and to be a writer, that is crucial.

5. They allowed me to be myself. My mother’s mother was a southern belle with a tragic past who gave my mother, via DNA, that same southern belle personality. My mother was an English teacher, kind, polite, absolutely lovely and hospitable…a magnolia with one of those spines filled with iron. I was a rebel. I had a mouth, I had a temper, I did things I should not have done, and I had a wild streak. My parents still loved me, and I knew it. They tried to trim the edges, smooth the feathers, teach the lessons…but they never squashed my spirit. That’s key. A squashed spirit will produce a squashed voice. A squashed voice will never write.

6. They did not try to mold me into their vision of what they wanted a daughter to look like or be.  You would be hard pressed to find a more homely looking girl than me. No kidding. I hardly remember brushing my hair until I was in middle school. I was a tall, gangly, frizzy haired kid who had about as much style as an elephant.

My mother bought me the clothes I wanted to wear. My sister wore the same purple pants and purple sweatshirt every day for a year.  I had a fondness for my low-rider butterfly pants. My brother didn’t stay clean for five minutes so it didn’t matter what he wore.

The point is this: Allow your kid to grow up organically. Let them choose how they want to look. Follow them in their interests. Support their talents and natural skills. If it’s not a big deal, don’t make it one. Kids never work well when they fill boxed in.

And remember: Writers, and kids who want to be writers, hate boxes.

7. They did not spoil me, or any of my siblings.  As teenagers, we worked. We did not expect our parents to fly in with anything fancy, in fact, it never occurred to us that they would. They let me take my knocks. Sulky behavior got me nowhere. Whining got me less. Sharp words were used when I was obnoxious. You do your child no favor by allowing them to become a brat. I saw this when I was a teacher.

Grown up brats don’t listen, they don’t take constructive criticism,  they can’t see beyond themselves, they’re selfish, they lie, they lack compassion, empathy and understanding, emotionally they’re out of control. In their heads: They are the world. All lousy qualities for becoming a writer.

8. My parents ultimate goal was to build character in their kids. My parents praised accomplishments fairly lightly, because they didn’t want me to ever think their love was based on outside accolades.  They concentrated on building my character and helping me to see the skills and good qualities within myself, not liking myself ONLY IF the world thought I was worthy.

You need relentless determination, focus, a willingness to work hard, and a clear view of how to chase down your writing goals if you are going to survive in the literary world. All those characteristics come from within.

9. They encouraged my writing and believed in me, but they made sure I went to college and got a degree.  I received two degrees in education, Go Ducks, and became a teacher so that I could support myself until I became a full time writer.

Do not allow your child to spend an outrageous amount of money in college to get a writing degree, unless she is double majoring or minoring in writing. She may think she will get that writing degree and become an overnight success.  99.99% of the time, she is dead wrong.

Your child needs to be able to support herself while becoming a writer, hard work will build her character. Have her major in something practical, take tons of writing classes, and be employable. There is little that is more dream-killing than being buried in college loan debt, with no employment, living in your parents’ basement. This is not an atmosphere a writer will thrive in.

10. They encouraged travel. I paid for three trips to Europe before I was 24 by working summer jobs and by working every term in college except the first one. That was why I was always broke. My first trip was for seven weeks with my sister hiking around with backpacks living in hostels. Writers need food for their heads. Traveling is one of the best ways to get that food.

 

I wish my mother had lived to see my first book published.  I know she would have been delighted, but not because my name was on a book.  Again, outside accolades didn’t mean much to her. She would have been happy because of the personal  characteristics that got me to that place, she would have been happy because I was happy and not a sappy mess anymore, getting beat down by rejections. She would have been happy because I had a goal and I made it to that goal. (Okay, there were a lot of tears and head banging along the way).

To be quite honest, one of the reasons my father was so happy I published was because I didn’t break one of his most important, adamant rules: Never quit, Cathy. Never quit.

Tell your kids that, too. Never quit.

Now go raise a writer.

 

Less Home and Garden, more Home

Dear Person-who-took-a-brown-couch-to-the-consignment-store, forever now known as Couch Lady:

 

Can I just say something? I SO did not want to add another couch to my living room.

 

You know me — well, not technically I suppose, but you know people like me. We like our living rooms to look magazine perfect. The sofa cushions plumped just so, the area rug perfectly aligned and honkin’ big bouquets of fresh flowers about which you have lied about the price to yourself.

 

(That conversation sounds like this. “Oh, look, these pretty flowers would really liven up the dreary winter days. It’s really no more than buying a latte. And I rarely do that so I deserve this honkin’ big bouquet.)

 

We like things dusted. We like artsy-fartsy arrangements of antique vases and, I dunno, brass keys and a precious collection of our father’s cats eye marbles. We like people coming in and saying “Oh, this is so beautiful. I just love what you’ve done.”

 

At which you smile, shake your head and murmur, “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry it’s a mess today.”

 

You know who we are, Couch Lady. You might be us.

 

I’ve loved the living room I’ve created in the last few years, a blend of contemporary and whimsical with “just right” seating. Throw pillows that took me forever to find and a “fun” shaggy rug in bright green.

 

I wanted to lick my living room, it was that delicious. She said modestly.

 

No matter how scrumptious, however, there was the problem of not enough seating. The perfect couch and chair (which, it pains me to say out loud, took me four years to choose. FOUR YEARS.) are not holding everyone. Unless we are feeling ever-so-close.
“Too many adult-sized butts,” eldest daughter termed it. “The little girls are too old to just pull up a piece of the floor anymore.”

 

Mind you, “the little girls” are taller than most of the rest of the family, and fully formed.

 

And there was just no room for company. Now that we’re hosting some of Camo Man’s events at my house, that’s a big problem. Which is not to say it’s a big butt problem.

 

 I began half-heartedly scanning the furniture horizon for something affordable that was not also hideous. I had no optimism at all, given how long it took me to find couch happiness the first go round.

 

But, Couch Lady, you saved me! At some point, you decided to take your perfectly wonderful mocha couch to the consignment shop. Who knows why  … I understand not being able to live with a piece of furniture for ANOTHER SECOND. Ask Camo Man, I’m kinda legendary for that.

 

Anyhoo, on total impulse, I swung into the parking lot and went in. Mostly so I could tell myself I tried to find something used. I walked the store, going in a full circle before I spied it.

 

There it was, in contemporary and clean lines and a lovely shade of brown that would complement my living room perfectly. Like I had dreamed the right thing into existence. Your darling — comfortable — sofa was ultra spiff and not a hole or loose thread to its name.

 

Which now happens to be “New Couch.”

 

George, owner of the store, told me New Couch had come in just days before. “I think she told me it was three or four years old,” he maintained when I tried to haggle on the price. This did not work.

 

Nonetheless Couch Lady, you made my day, my week, my month! And I can’t tell you how relieved Camo Man is to not be going from store to store and threatened with a trip to Portland and Ikea. In fact, he is the one who really should be thanking you.

 

Bonus gravy, my living room actually looks bigger and more homey. And STILL hip. Everyone has a spot for their aforementioned butt. How can that even happen?

 

Couch Lady, call me up. I owe you coffee. A latte that costs about as much as a honkin’ big bouquet of fresh flowers, actually.

 

Sincerely,
New Couch’s mommy

 

My girl Cathy all growed up!

What I said in the newspaper….

HOME PLACE – Kindred spirits grow as sisters of the pen
SHEILA HAGAR
WALLA WALLA UNION-BULLETIN

 

Alrighty now, we’re two days past Christmas.

Our decorated living rooms are beginning to look like a long weekend’s over-extended party. The food we delighted in Sunday is now jammed to the rear of the fridge and apparently breeding.

There continues to be glitter from the kids’ homemade cards embedded in the carpet, along with those sadistic wire ornament hooks the cat is managing to pull off the needle-shedding tree.

Let me take you away from all that with a story about my friend, Cathy Lamb.

If you Google “Cathy Lamb,” the first search page is filled with references to and images of this Oregon-based writer, making this one of those “I knew her when” stories.

Since her first book, “Julia’s Chocolates” came out over six years ago, the prolific writer of women’s fiction has published 10 books, including short stories and full novels.

This month alone, Cathy has sent off yet another novel and finished editing one more short story. It’s like she has an IV of caffeine pumping into her body, opened to full drip at all times.

I should hate her, but she’s always been this way.

Cathy and I “met” in 2000. I was contributing regularly to the commentary pages of The Oregonian, my state’s Portland-centered newspaper. She was, too, but it wasn’t until I read her piece about Bonnie that I paid attention.

Bonnie was Cathy’s irascible neighbor, who happened to grow tomatoes that tasted like rich red nirvana. The kind of tomatoes that makes your grandmother toss aside those she picks through at the store with a sigh of exasperation. Your grandma, like Bonnie, remembers what tomatoes are supposed to taste like.

Bonnie shared her harvest with Cathy’s family, and occasionally shared shots of vodka with Brad, Cathy’s husband. — whom, I will just say right now, is one of the funniest, sweetest guys I know. I’ve had a crush on him from Day 1. Bonnie was equally charmed by Brad, it would seem.

Cathy told readers that and more, including how Bonnie — 80 years old and driving while using oxygen — chased down some young, hothead of a driver who was tailgating her. “I am sure she scared the hell out of him,” Cathy recalled.

Her Oregonian piece brought the old woman to life with such clarity and tenderness that I wept when I read far enough to discover Bonnie was gone, never to grow tomatoes or quaff vodka again. All we had, Cathy and her readers, was the vivid image of a woman who took life by the tail.

I nearly ran to my desk to shoot a note off the the editor of the Sunday commentary page, telling her how moved I was by this Cathy Lamb’s writing. “I hope to read much more,” I told her. “I’m a fan already.”

Within a day Cathy wrote me, telling me she was MY fan and detailing which of my writings she had most loved. And that was that — we were friends. We discovered we both had twins, we deeply loved our husbands, we had days we wanted to airmail our children to anywhere else, and we both wanted to write as much as we wanted to breathe.

It’s all Cathy ever desired. “Everything I did from 16 on, professionally and educationally, was geared toward meeting that goal.”

She went into teaching, knowing she could write evenings, weekends and summers. And when she reached a point that she didn’t have to wipe second-grade noses and take the hot lunch count, Cathy dove off the solid pier of the sure paycheck and into the vast sea of unknown writers.

We quickly bonded as writing sisters. Before the days of real-time chatting and phone texting, we would send out exploratory emails. “It’s 2 a.m. and I’m up, trying to make deadline. If you are up, call me.”

You’d be amazed at how many times those bait messages hooked a phone call on both ends. Despite knowing we would be slicing bananas over hot oatmeal in just a few hours, we used the deep of the night to get the peace not found when our small children were awake.

We traded tips about editors, each of us passing on what we thought this editor was looking for or what that editor might feel connected to. We cared about the money, some, but we were passionate about honing our craft, getting published and having more eyes see our work.

Cathy and I edited each other, being sharply honest and committed to accepting constructive criticism. Too, we offered each other ideas for keeping our kids happy and occupied while we stayed on the keyboard “just 20 more minutes” day after day.

My family traveled west to hers and the Lambs came here. Our husbands immediately connected and our kids played well together. We suffered through great loss of mothers and fathers in a span of a few years and we weathered it better because of each other. Cathy and I, well, we wrote about our grief because doing anything else was unthinkable.

When I landed my job as a reporter, Cathy was beside herself with excitement. I happened to dial her number one day right after Brad had answered the phone call a publisher who said he wanted Cathy’s book. But Cathy wasn’t home and Brad was going to burst with the news if he didn’t tell anyone.

Since I had a tiny hand in the preliminary editing of the book, he told me.I, of course, screamed as loudly and happily as I could into poor Brad’s ear.

When the Union-Bulletin decided to publish a book of my columns last year, Cathy was the first person I asked to write something nice about my stuff.

Which she was ever so happy to do, she assured me then and elaborated on this week: “What I noticed about you and is that you never followed the shallow road to friendship. All your conversations were deeply personal and honest.”

But that’s just how it’s been with us. Our victories have been fuel for the other, and not in some one upmanship way. Our individual challenges in life have shaped the other’s perspective, rounding our written thoughts.

And now Cathy is long emerged from that sea of people hoping to someday have a book on s shelf bearing their name as author. She writes stories of women who have the most amazing journeys, some of those dark and horrific before coming into the light. In her writing, Cathy tackles issues that many of us would hesitate to bring up in the most private of conversations.

Her fans love her for it, judging by the comments I see on her Facebook postings when she announces a new book is about to hit the stores yet again. Readers can’t get enough.

In my secret heart, I am hoping Cathy decides to write a story based on my life. Its all there, I believe, from the deepest grief to the height of happiness. If you agree, go to www.cathylamb.net and let her know.