Writer's Odyssey

What I Learned by "Winning" NaNoWriMo Through Cheating and Trickery

2011-12-02T15:08:00.000-08:00

...and yes, I am going to buy thetee-shirt.

The task? Write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Usually, Iuse NationalNovel Writing Month to get as much word count aspossible on my work-in-progress. This is already cheating—but since I've nevercome close to winning, I haven't felt guilty about it.

But three days before the start of this year’s NaNo, myeditor says, "Katherine, we need to start thinking about 2013." Now,this does not constitute a book contract, but it does constitute a challenge. Idecide to begin a new novel on November 1 and that this year I will"win" NaNoWriMo.

Day 1: Brainstorm—characters, ideas, suggestions from Facebookfriends, (Hula Hoops, a camel, a zeppelin and “copious amounts ofdefenestration.”) I write all this sort of thing into what Janet LeeCarey calls a “story journal.” At The Lyons’ Den in Bothell, I try to write the opening scene, but a man at the nexttable is determined to attract my attention. I turn him into an eleven-year-oldgirl with black fingernail polish and add him to my word count. My goal is2,000 words a day. I’m going to finish early!

Day 2: Teaching day. Spend the entire day on lessons, and theentire evening hosting the Duvall 1^st Wednesday Poetry Reading at Match Coffee and Wine Bar in Duvall, But, it’s only Day 2, right?

Day 3: Up to 1710 words. I’ll catch up.

Day 4: Paesano’s Coffee in Monroe. Lots of story journaling. A hunky, shirtless guy on a dirtbike has appeared and called my heroine Principessa.All in all, not a bad writing day.

Day 5: My son takes the SAT, so I hole up at Caffé Ladro in Edmonds and write. I hear an NPRinterview on Joan of Arc and decide she’ll have to go into thebook—somehow.

Day 8: My protagonist nearly drowns, so I spent many hoursresearching water safety on Mario Vittone’s blog. Then I teach a teen poetry workshop for RASP.

Days 9-14:Hunky guy doesn’t want protagonistto know he saved her life. Girl with black fingernail polish followsprotagonist everywhere. Up to 12,769 words. Still behind, but I have lots oftime.

Day 15: Wee hours of the morning. I watch a live feed of theeviction of Occupy Wall Street from Zucotti Park. Suddenly my screen freezes.When I reboot, my entire D drive is gone. Restore takes all day.

Day 16: Teaching day. D drive disappears again overnight.

Day 17: Restore.

Days18-19: TEENWriteBecause I’ve put TEENWrite into thebook, I come as my protagonist’s character, an elf.

Days20–26: School break. When I’ve had a goodwriting day, I get to watch Dr. Who.Make it to 17,963. 32k to go, which is somewhat alarming. Make plan for writing8k per day which is, frankly, impossible. Paste the story I wrote at TEENWrite into the book for another 857words. This is not really cheating.

Day 27: My daughter, Sarah walks by my office and says innocently,“Why don’t you include your story journal in your word count? It IS part ofwriting your novel.” Word count jumps suddenly by 7k.

Day 28: My friend, MollyBlaisdell dares me to write over 8k in a day.She uses Muppet Movie tickets as bait. (Molly’s picture book THE BIG FUZZY COAT is a contender on theMeeGenius Author Challenge) I add 8265words, including Psalm69, which I cut and paste in its entirety. (One of the characters prays alot.)

Day 29: One of my characters says, “Do you want me to tell you whatHindus believe?” Bing “What do Hindus Believe?”Seconds later I have 160 more words. Realize that one of my characters is a CatStevens fan, and paste the lyrics to “TheWind,” “I Wish, I Wish” and “How Can I Tell You?” into my story journal (nowpart of my word count). I go to The Wayward Coffeehouse in Seattle, where I write like crazy with a bunch of otherWrimos.

Day 30: Teaching day. Have not slept since yesterday. Phone meetingwith publicist in the morning. Get son from clarinet lesson. Grade stuff. Conversewith a student about leprechauns. Teach in an even more crazed fashion thanusual. Go home. I have seven hours to finish this book. 7775 words to go. Hunkyguy in book writes a very nice song. Characters sneak into the Lan SuChinese Garden. By 11:15 PM, I have 47k… There isNO WAY I will write 3,000 words in 45 minutes! I wrack my brains. And this iswhere the real cheating begins: My “secret blog” contains words. And myprotagonist and I muse about similar things… I paste in two blog posts. Notenough. I write more on the Lan Su scene. Still not enough. It is 11:52. Didn’tI start another book with that one character who’s in this book? I paste in theopening of that book And…I WIN!!!!!

So, now Ihave learned my lesson: It doesn’t matterwhether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game? No. It matters thatyou win.

1) In 30 days, I have writtenapproximately 150 manuscript pages. I have a full outline and 19 characters. Ifpressed, I could probably write a synopsis tomorrow. (Note to Leah—please don’tpress. The one I send later will be better.)

2) This manuscript contains huge gaps,but the writing is actually pretty good—maybe even better than writing I’ddeliberated over.

3) When there’s no time to figure outall the whys and whens, write “the heart of the scene.” Like the heart of the TARDIS, that’swhere all the power is, anyway.

4) DIALOGUE is the backbone of a novel.

5) Get a little help from your friends:When I was ready to give up, my friends were there with cheers and challenges.And, I got great tips from the Nanowrimoforums, which I’d never thought I had time for.

6) Even though I am a NaNoWriMoRebel I still feel giddy with success. Hitting that 50k, even with “illegal”content, gives me the confidence that I needto turn a viable book into a publishable book.

Sky

2011-09-01T22:58:00.000-07:00

When the weight comes down like an iron sleeve,

When your ribcage turns to lead,

And your heart is a trapped bird,

You steal outside and the darkness

Holds you in its lush embrace.

Your feet test for balance

Along the shoulder of the hill

Until you come to a flat spread of ground.

You are too full of words,

Crowded with the names of things

Instead of what they are.

You pull your robe tighter

And the thoughts throng

Inside your head,

Reeling and staggering.

Around you the calls of night birds

Answer the scrape-scrape of the frog’s song,

While fir and maple spread their arms

To praise the sky.

It is the sweet hum of the dusky earth

That draws you down

Until you are stretched out,

Cradled: hips, spine, neck, head.

And above you—the sky!

It stretches beyond and beyond,

Star-thick, a crowd of planets and constellations,

The streak of a sudden meteor.

You want to fall into the sky,

To let it drink you like water.

You want to stay until your ribs spring open

And you are swept clean of every word and plan.

You untie your robe and slide your arms free.

The night caresses your bare skin.

The stars gaze at you.

You let the sky fill you up

Until it sings inside your bones.

When you return to your bed,

To the four walls of your room

You carry the sky with you,

A tiny, hidden seed.

Animated .gif from Australian Spaceguard Survey

Truly Awful Stories #3

2011-08-05T10:43:00.000-07:00

Here we continue our series and allow writer Chandler Cook to have a crack at plumbing the depths of awfulness. This one has shades of Peter Shaffer...

Horse Horse Heaven
By Chandler Cook

        There once was a boy named Ted. Ted liked horses. Ted liked horses so much he loved horses. Ted loved horses.

        The horses were Ted’s god.

        “Who’s there?”

        “It’s me horses, I love you.”

        “We love you too Ted, kiss us.”

        Ted kissed the horses. He braided their hair and put flowers in them. Ted’s head was filled with horses, he thought about them all day long in his brain and he never wanted to be away from his horses, especially the pretty brown one Ted called Queen Horse because she was royalty of Horse Land and she liked to be called that so Ted called her that and Ted was happy because the horses were happy and so was his best friend Mabel who was a cloud shaped like a horse.

        But Mabel wasn’t really happy she was actually a bear who just looked like a horse cloud. Mabel was angry because Ted never told her jokes anymore.

        “Tell me a joke” Mabel said.

        “No,” Ted said, “I’m worshipping the horses,” he said, “especially the pretty brown one called Queen Horse because she likes it.”

        “You’re a horse now Ted.”

        And Ted was a horse. Ted galloped to the horses and told them he was a horse then they said he was a horse and he was a horse so he was a horse.

        Ted was a god now. Ted was an angry horse god because Mabel didn’t believe in horses and neither did his mother who he hadn’t seen since he became a horse.

        Ted killed everyone because he was mad at Mabel. Mabel was a bear so she ate Ted and then Ted was dead.

        The End.

        P.S. Ted came back to live with Mabel and they had babies.

Truly Awful Stories #2

2011-07-28T17:08:00.000-07:00

Here is the second in our series--in which we see more of the awfulness a writer can achieve if she truly applies herself.

Night of Endless Sadness
by Sapphire Hotlips (also known as Marie Guenette)

How could he betray me like this? Oh sorrow, great sorrow! My heart is broken, I feel empty, like a hollow object. That isn't filled with stuff. The tears fall from my eyes in an endless stream like a waterfall.

My boyfriend cheated on me. At a party. With another girl. Has anyone ever suffered as much as I am suffering now? I think not. I'll never love again! I walk out of the room I caught him in, mascara all over my face like a river.

Then I walk quickly and with alacrity over to the red, big, glass, and massive punch bowl. Then, I see this guy. He smells so heavenly, I can smell his scent better than all the other scents in the room. He looks like one of those guys on the cover of romance novels, with giant, rippling, totally awesome muscles and a white smile. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I see the same girl I always have, big blue eyes, straight blond hair, and perfect teeth. I wonder what I did to deserve being hurt so. Then I think about the guy again. Who is he? I have to know. With his totally rocking bod, it could totally be love at first sight. Then, I think about maybe going to talk to him. Then, I bite my lip and sigh. Then , I think about him some more. Then, I think about how totally awful Tammy King looks in that dress. Then, somebody taps my shoulder, breaking me out of my reverie. Then, I turn.

Then I see him. It's the guy. You know, the one that smells good. He smells so good, like some awesome, spicy, woodsy, addicting, amazing cologne. It's not like any other cologne I've smelt before. It's so overpoweringly amazing that I can't think of anything else. Scent, scent, scent. Scent.

“Hi” he then says, his voice, deep, low, and growly, like some snarling, raging, panting, jungle beast. He still smells delicious. And has totally awesome arms.

Then, we totally talk for a whole five minutes. I totally think we're in love. I can't even remember why I was so sad anymore. Ohmigod, he smells so good and he is so hot! Scent!

Truly Awful Stories #1

2011-07-22T19:22:00.000-07:00

Beginning with the idea that good writing comes from bad writing, my students in Teenage Novelist were challenged to write the worst story ever. I’ll be posting the results, beginning today.

The Story of How I Single-Handedly Fended Off A Zombie Attack

by Ban L., a.k.a Stormy D. L. B. M. M. Graves (also known as Isabelle Liu)

My name is Stormy Dragoness Lightning Blackie Midnight Mermaid Graves. I am 17 years old and I go to a school. I'm also like the most popular girl in school. But the one thing that they don't know is that I'm a vampire that goes to school. Not like the school-attending Twilight vampires. I don't sparkle. Instead, I glow in the dark.

“Zombie attack!” Someone says. People are running around like big bunch of dragons are chasing them. I'm also part dragon, too. I'm part dragoness, so I can fly and have impenetrable skin. I don't breathe fire. Instead, I can snap my fingers and fire will appear in my hand. I can also control the weather. My favorite kind of weather is the stormy kind, so when someone ticks me off, I can call down a lightning bolt to fry them. I'm powerful like that.

A zombie comes walking toward me on the sidewalk. “Oogh,” he murmurs.

“Hi, Panther Quietus Darkness Nephilim.” I murmur. I know his name because I can read minds. I smile sweetly at him and use my gorgeous, beautiful, stunning, elegant purple wings to rise a few inches above the sidewalk. I flap them a couple times to make the zombie take the full force of my strawberry-scented armpit perfume. No one has ever been able to resist the heavenly scent of my strawberry-scented armpit perfume before.

The zombie smiles. “I like your strawberry-scented armpit perfume, Stormy,” he murmurs.

“I know, Panther,” I murmur back. I take him to a graveyard and bury him.

“Wait, Stormy!” The zombie murmurs breathily.

“Yes, Panther?” I murmur and flutter my long, glittery eyelashes gracefully.

“Let's watch the stars and talk about love and life for a while, before you bury me, Stormy,” the zombie suggests, murmuring.

I murmur eagerly. So we lie on the lush green grass of the graveyard and talk about deep stuff like love and life.

Finally, I see the sun rising in the distance. “Panther Quietus Darkness Nephilim?” I murmur. (That's the zombie's name.)

“Yes, Stormy?” he murmurs.

“Kiss me, Panther,” I whisper in a murmur. And we kiss. Later, I bury him and cry and murmur over his grave.

THE END

Embarking

2011-07-02T00:35:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking about journeys tonight, as I get ready for a drive to Yellowstone. And I'm thinking about the journeys we take in our relationships. Sometimes, as a parent, my journey has been about saying good-bye and allowing for the journey of one of my children. I ran across this poem as I was planning a lesson on journeys. I wrote it in 2008, but tonight it seems especially applicable.

Embarking

You beg for distance,

not angry, but earnest

like a cypress longing for a different river.

When you were small,

we made coracles from words.

Now you ride rapids in a cockleshell,

which carries you, rootless, out to sea.

No book nor prayer charts a map

to the empty horizon.

My troubadour,

My brown-eyed bird.

Where can I go

With my honey faith?

Summer of No Regrets

2011-06-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

Brigitta: On a quest for Ultimate Truth. Reads poetry and comparative religion.

…Secretly buys the National Enquirer

Luke: Lives in a mansion. Vacations in Aruba.

…Looks a lot like hot teen star, Trent Yves.

What’s the truth about him?

And what happens when you fall in love with a fantasy?

coming from Sourcebooks, May 2012

Help me out here, friends. This is about the title of my YA novel. Titles usually undergo several incarnations. Mine has had five so far: the first one I wrote it under, the second one was the pitch title my agent and I chose instead, the third one I floated to my editor after the book was accepted, the even cooler fourth one was the one we thought it was going to have, but this fifth one jumped out at the editorial team as the best one of all.

What do you think about Summer of No Regrets? If you heard the title, would you want to know more? If you saw it on the shelf (with cover art of the extremest awesomeness) and read the description on the back, would you page through it? Why? What would grab you and make you curious?

More on the book is here. Note that the "cover art" isn't what will be on the book and that it shows title #4.

Your thoughts?

Writing Difficult Books

2011-06-08T16:35:00.000-07:00

My WIP right now is a tough one, as it takes me back to a painful time in my life, and to relationships I'm still sorting out. Today in my story journal, I made two lists. One was "What I Believed Then;" the other was "What I Know Now." I only want to share the second list, and I share it because I know I am not the only person to have grown up with mental illness in my household. If any of this resonates for you, let me know:

What I know now is

Mental illness changes people’s personalities
Mental illness is…an illness.
Mental illness seems a lot like an evil spell
You still have to set boundaries with a mentally ill person, even if it is because of their suffering that they are behaving irrationally.
It is hard to treat a mentally ill person like an adult and like a child at the same time. And sometimes it feels as if you are doing just that.
Honoring a parent does not mean entering into their illness
You have to find your own ground, rather than grounding yourself in your parents.
Setting boundaries can create distance in relationships.
Things don’t always turn out the way they “should” turn out, and people don’t always behave the way they “should” behave. This is not because there are “good” people and “bad” people. It’s because we are ALL affected by sin and death.
Our job is to find and cling to God, and from that place make decisions about what we will do in relationship with others—including a mentally ill parent. Our decisions should be grounded in God, not in whether a family member will be angry or pleased with us. It is possible to say no and still be loving.
Our job goes beyond self-preservation. Self-preservation is not the end goal. It may be a means to the end goal, or it may not. The end goal is to be in Christ.
The mentally ill family member is not the only one behaving badly. Sometimes the crucible of mental illness in the family brings out the best or worst in other family members.
A mentally ill person may still have deep wisdom to share. Mental illness does not disqualify a person from membership in the human race.

One Year to Launch—Calling on the Well-Traveled for Advice

2011-04-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

My debut YA novel is scheduled for release in May, 2012, so this morning I was thinking about the word “launch.” I think I came to my previous book releases a little bewildered, overwhelmed by the options (101 Ways to Promote Your Book), and a bit timid about getting my feet wet. Now, I realize that while I can’t do it all, I can have a focused plan. So I asked myself, if I were sailing around the world, how would I prepare for my trip?

I’d love it if my novelist friends would tell me specific things you’ve done to prepare for your own launches. How would you interpret these steps?

Laying in Supplies—I’d need food for the voyage, blankets, emergency lights, fishing gear, etc.

Maps, both paper and electronic

A Route Plan--decide how I'll get there

Talk to Experienced Sailors—especially those who’ve sailed around the world before

Enlist Supporters at Home—people who will stay in contact remotely and report on my progress

Enlist Supporters in Foreign Ports—people who would welcome me, let me stay with them, and introduce me around their city

Avoid Dangerous Waters—war-torn areas, areas with pirates, areas prone to storms

Languages—acquire a working knowledge of the main languages where I will be sailing, or find interpreters.

Time for Loved Ones--build in daily

Post-Trip Plan—a plan for after I return home, so I can rest and slow down, but not all the way down.

Work on Next Trip—preparing for another trip, even while I’m on this one.

Advice?

Banned Again

2011-02-23T23:28:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I'm so bummed about it this time. Maybe I relished the challenge of approaching a controversial topic in a way that builds bridges rather than walls. And no, I won't name the school, so don't ask. I'm not mad at them. I understand the pressure they are under and they stood to lose a lot more than I would if some lawsuit-happy parent got their knickers in a knot.

But I'm still bummed.

Legend of the Valentine has religion in it. And not just any religion. Legend of the Valentine has Christianity in it. It also has the Civil Rights Movement, school integration, handling bullies, Valentine's Day and a wise grandmother. Because of that, I'm sometimes invited to speak by people who don't know about the Christianity part. So I make sure I tell them it's there and discuss how I might present the book in a context appropriate for a public school setting.

What I was hoping for this time, was to bring up the topic of bullying on the basis of religion. I wanted to brainstorm various ways we divide ourselves up: race, language, nationality, money, gender... and religion. Inside the book is a story of religious persecution. And while I don't know if anyone is being fed to the lions anymore (at least in this country), kids in school routinely experience bullying aimed at their religion--be it Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Jewish, Pagan, Sikh, or something else. But religion has become the Great Unspeakable in the public square--most especially in public school.

Do I think it's acceptable for an author to waltz into a public school and proselytize a captive audience of children for her particular religion? No. But the squeamishness that places religious references in a category of obscenity previously reserved for... well, obscenity, does a disservice to our kids--and to the culture as a whole.

I remember my daughter coming home from Kindergarten and telling me it was "against the rules" to talk about God at school. Of course, her school had no such rule, but the anxiety and discomfort of her teachers any time a child made a religious reference was evident to her. How many children begin to see their innocent faith, and the religions of their families as something shameful? Our kids are taught to speak openly about all manner of sensitive topics--most of which would have curled my grandmother's hair (had it not already been curly.) But the topic of spirituality and faith elicits a "Don't Ask Don't Tell" superciliousness among policymakers.

What this does is further isolate children of faith (and nonreligious children) from one another. And those children grow into adults who build fortresses around their belief communities because they have never been exposed to any other belief. From within these fortresses, the adults shoot arrows at the other fortresses. Fortress A must be defended against the alien "others" from Fortress B. The beliefs attributed to Fortress B are a caricature, created by Fortress A. Why? Because they never got around to talking openly with each other and trying to understand their common ground.

Do I blame teachers for this? Absolutely not! I am a teacher in a public school. And I am guarded about religious discussion in my own classroom. I know what the climate is in these times, and I can't put my own school at risk.
So maybe I was a Pollyanna not to decline the invitation to speak in the first place, knowing how loaded it would be to read a book with the name "Jesus" in it.

But I wish that we would talk about this. There has to be another way.

order

Book Banning or "You Can't Come to My Party" and other Awkward Moments

2010-08-21T02:21:00.000-07:00

With the rescinding of Ellen Hopkins' key to the Teen Lit Festival in Humble, Texas, some lively writer-chat has been taking place. Deemed too controversial AFTER she was asked to keynote, Ellen received an "Oops! Disregard that invite," when a district librarian brought a handful of parental complaints to the superintendent. Following Ellen's dis-invitation, authors Pete Hautman, Melissa de la Cruz, Matt de la Peña, and Tera Lynn Childs dis-invited themselves from the event in a show of solidarity.

Because I like Ellen (and her books), it's been good to see her respond with strength and confidence. And it got me thinking about the time I was uninvited to a school visit. I told a writer friend about it during Banned Books Week one year. She was outraged for me. "You should tell everyone!" she said. "What was so offensive in your book that they didn't want you there?"

I told her that the book, LEGEND OF THE VALENTINE, had religious content. And my friend said, "Katherine! Why are you trying to bring religion into the schools?"

It seems a fair question. I'd been invited by a teacher who loved my book. I wanted to go, but I was hesitant. What if they thought I was a "stealth" author determined to evangelize the children for my particular flavor of religion? So I wrote a letter to the coordinator of the event, explaining that there was this aspect of the book (It's about the Civil Rights Movement, and also has the story of early Christian martyr St. Valentine, along with prayerful talk about loving one's enemies). I planned to address religion as broadly as possible, given the diverse setting, and assured her it wouldn't be a Sunday school lesson.

Nevertheless, she was uneasy and she asked me not to come. I suggested some other authors for her, and that was that.

Personally, I think we need to be less afraid about religion in the public arena than we are. If we can allow children to learn about and discuss spirituality and religions in a heterogenous environment, as if it is a normal part of life, we can go a long way towards diminishing the fearmongering that takes place -- both among the religious and the non-religious.

But ideologies go crashing against each other when we bring up censorship and religion--specifically, Christianity--at the same time.In some quarters, censoring Christianity is okay censorship. And yes, I know that censoring and belittling other religions has been standard in this culture. I'm not for that, either.

And it's never fun to be kicked out of the party.

TELL ME A SECRET Book Trailer Launch Party!!

2010-08-01T22:56:00.000-07:00

My friend, the fabulous and talented Holly Cupala has just released her debut novel TELL ME A SECRET. I love this book! I heard it in installments as it was being written, and found it moving and authentic then. Reading it in its published form was a thrill -- and, yes, it made me cry. This is a story that is both gripping and redemptive. I know you will love it, too.

Party Prizes! Here’s what people can win:

Signed TMAS books!
TMAS t-shirts!
Fan-made bracelets from Hannah S!
Music that inspired the book!
Sneak Previews!
Bookmarks and Handmade Magnets!
and...
A Tell Me a Secret handmade necklace!

HOW TO WIN? Share the Trailer Love!

Holly Cupala

1. Click here to go to YouTube, then click the Share button to send to your Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, or blog! 5 pts each

2. Click here to tell us where you posted and enter to win!

Plus Holly will be featured at readergirlz for the entire month of August, with a live Twitter chat coming up! Hope you enjoy the trailer, and thank you so much for being part of the virtual tour and party!

Summer Writing Workshops for Teens now posted

2010-06-24T13:39:00.000-07:00

follow to summer workshops

Spring Teen Write April 9-10 -- A few spots left!

2010-04-04T12:11:00.000-07:00

Next week is our Spring Teen Write, from April 9-10th. I have kept this event somewhat “under the radar” and didn’t send the dates to the general list, because it filled up quite quickly with current Teen Writers. It does look like I may have a few spots after all, so I wanted to make you aware of it. This is a very popular event, and participants come back again and again. Newcomers are always warmly welcomed – this is a great group of teens! If you want one of the spots, let me know ASAP—we only have 24 beds. (Forgive me if you get this mailing twice—I started with the Call & Response list and some of you are already on my mail list.)

Teen Write Acting/Writing Workshop

The Red Beret: Characters in Conflict
(Teens – middle and high school and college-age)
April 9-10 5:00 PM Friday – 7:00 PM Saturday (start time will “slide” between 5-7 because of distance, ferries, etc.) , Camp Robbinswold on Hood Canal. $100
NOTE: The April TW is very nearly full. Register ASAP if you would like to participate.

Love to act?
Love to write?
Done one, but never tried the other?
Are you ready for an adventure?

Embark on the Hero's Journey.
Draw a card. Follow it. Hidden objects/other characters guide or thwart you.
You are live and outside. This is not like any RPG you've ever done!
Parallel universes: How a 17th century count finds an ally in a Martian spy.
Act the scene, then write it. Oh, what curious tales come to be!

ALSO COMING UP:

Summer Teen Write – (August 23-26, Camp St. Alban's, Belfair, WA)
4 days, 3 nights of extended adventure!

Katherine Grace Bond has written or contributed to more than 20 books, including the bestselling Legend of the Valentine (Zonderkidz), a children’s story of the Civil Rights Movement. Her additional publishing credits include fiction, poetry, essays (and even a comic strip!). A certified K-12 teacher, Katherine has worked with child, teen and adult writers since the early 90’s, believing that creative communities save lives. To this end, she teaches at Bellevue College, The Attic Learning Community, Sky Valley Education Center, at writing conferences, and for numerous homeschool groups. She is also the creator of Teen Write, an acting/writing camp modeled on the Hero’s Journey. She is at work on a YA novel-in-verse.

Workshop Registration for all classes
Workshop__________________________
Name___________________
Birthdate ________________
Parent/Guardian Names _________________________________
Address_______________________________________________________
Phone _______________________cell______________________________
E-mail__________________________________
Emergency Contact____________________________Phone_________________
MD__________________________Phone________________________
Allergies____________________________________________________
Medical Conditions___________________________________________
Medications needed during camp/workshop___________________________________
Other pertinent information_________________________________________
How did you hear about us?__________________________________________

If under 18:
I give my permission for my child, ____________________ to attend a writing workshop with Katherine Grace Bond. Portions of the course may be held outdoors on or off the workshop site. I understand that Katherine Bond will make every reasonable effort to provide a safe environment, although I am fully aware of the special dangers and risks inherent in participating in the activity. These could include physical injury, death and other consequences arising or resulting from the activity.

In the event of an accident or illness, I understand that every reasonable effort will be made to contact me, the parent immediately. However, if I am unavailable, I authorize Katherine Bond to secure emergency medical care as needed.
__________________________________
(Parent signature)

Please send check, payable to Katherine Grace Bond, to:
Katherine Grace Bond
c/o Dawn Pontious
22721 87th Ave. SE
Woodinville, WA 98077 Questions? Dawn@KatherineGraceBond.com
_____$50 deposit holds your spot. _____Payment in full (amt._____) due 2 weeks before workshop

Call & Response: An All-Day Event for Writers & Dreamers

2010-03-05T19:27:00.000-08:00

Saturday, March 27 9:30-4:00 in Monroe, $25!

I’m so excited about this!!!

Many of you have asked me about writing workshops for adults. Unfortunately I have less and less time to teach, due to current writing commitments. (Did I mention I have an agent? I have an agent! Just in case you missed that…) So what did I do? I enlisted five friends, who ALSO have pressing creative deadlines, to teach an all-day workshop! It’s rare that most of these gals get out to teach anymore, so you are witnessing a miracle. WHY am I doing this? Because One A-Chord Academy of Music has been such a blessing in the life of my son. This program gives music lessons to teens, regardless of their ability to pay. I want to say thank-you, and enable many more kids to be similarly blessed. Why are my friends doing this? Well… because they love me!

Who: Janet Lee Carey, Margaret D. Smith, Molly Blaisdell, Katherine Grace Bond, Heidi Pettit, Dawn Knight
What: Sessions in Fiction Writing, Journaling, Songwriting, Writing for Children, Writing Your Life, and Creative Process Groups
Where: Monroe Community Chapel, 23515 Old Owen Road, Monroe, WA 98272
When: Saturday, March 27 9:30-4:00
How Much: $25 (Additional donations welcome. Checks payable to Monroe Community Chapel)

To Register: robinh (at) monroechapel.org

Here’s an article about One A-Chord in the Monroe Monitor. Scroll down to “School of Shrock”

Organizing Words (I Sort Clutters of Paper)

2009-08-11T18:30:00.000-07:00

The trouble is
They want to be in so
Many places,
Won’t
Stay still.

Each letter on each
Sheet
Can imagine itself read
By a waterfall
Or at a kitchen table
Or in a rocker winged
With bookshelves.

Each has Something Vital
To share, about
The welfare of my children or
Balanchine or
The Theotokos.

They fold themselves into airplanes,
Flit
To various ports,
Never land for long.

They resist
The confines of file folders,
Spill out, instead
Into the marketplace of my mind
Where they call out,
“Promises!
Ice-cold
Promises!
Don’t forget your
Promises!”

Poetry Friday: The True Meaning of My Name

2009-07-17T20:26:00.000-07:00

Listening to NPR this morning, I was caught by the phrase, “A woman discovers the true meaning of her name.” I asked the teens in my Young Writers Workshop at Bellevue College to write poems about that – but to write them in a language other than English. Everyone wrote in Chinese except me. I wrote in French. (My moment of victory was hearing a student exclaim, “I need to go home and study my Chinese today.”) Much hilarity ensued as they composed poems they understood (in varying degrees), but I did not.
Writing in French put my head in a completely different place. Without a dictionary handy, I had to rely on whatever vocabulary remains in my memory. I didn’t have the luxury of nine different synonyms for a word. In French the word “means” is “veut dire” – “wants to say.” A whole new world of possibility opened as I pondered what my name wants to say.
I’m going risk foolishness by reproducing my poem here without looking at the dictionary or grammar book – it may be that my phrasing is a little quaint, but I think the poem wants to be here, nonetheless.

Ce Que Mon Nom Veut Dire

Mon nom veut dire courage
passion
pureté.
Mon nom veut dire ce qu’un oiseau dit
quand il vole dessus une temple,
ce qu’une enfante dit quand elle imagine
des âmes dans des dessins de craie.
Mon nom veut parler des escaliers,
d’ascension,
du baptême,
des flammes.
De nuit en nuit mon nom s’inquiet.
Il marche la longue des corridors
en conjurant des images de nœuds.
Le matin il se réveille.
Dans la fenêtre un oiseau,
ses ailes en feu,
chant la rythme de mon nom.

What My Name Wants to Say

My name wants to say courage
passion,
purity.
My name wants to say what a bird says
when it flies over a temple,
what a child says when she imagines
souls in chalk drawings.
My name wants to speak of stairs,
of baptism,
of flames.
Night after night my name frets.
It walks the halls
conjuring images of knots.
In the morning it wakes.
In the window a bird,
its wings on fire,
sings the rhythm of my name.

Another Off-The-Cuff Poem

2009-04-27T09:41:00.000-07:00

I'll have to be careful, or I'll end up making a habit of this lack of revision...

Chasing Joy

What if
Elusive joy slid
Like silk under my
Front door and out, across the dandelioned
Grass, down
The steps past the pumphouse, over the horse-tracked mud,
Where it stopped and bolted suddenly
Up a Doug fir trunk,
Wound itself around the tenth-highest branch, waited
For a God-gust --
Flapped like a flag?

With no time to collect my thoughts,
I’d have to scribble a plan, standing
Between the roots
While the horses searched my back pockets
For MacIntoshes.

How would I climb up, branch to branch,
Without so much as a pair of tree boots
Or leather gloves?

I’d have to become a raccoon,
Circling,
Peering down,
Washing my hands carefully.

Then I’d become a squirrel:
Pause to chitter of my ascent
Becoming narrower and narrower.

Then a song sparrow, small as an egg:
Flit the last three levels up and perch.

And all at once I would be me once more,
Bear that I am,
Cumbersome on such spindled height:
Begin a dangerous sway.

But just before I fell, I’d yank free
The unfurled silk, clutch the corners,
Raise my untried arms
And sail.

©2009 Katherine Grace Bond

Why I Do What I Do

2009-04-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I hear myself saying that my life is “stressful” or “overwhelming.” My task list marches relentlessly through my Outlook calendar and I think I am unhappy about this. Last week, though, I began to pay attention to my life – to try and notice why I do what I do:

Monday: Come home from Spokane, where we have spent three days celebrating Pascha (Easter) with our friends at St. Gregorios – a community of Orthodox Christians whose backgrounds include Indian, Ethiopian, Armenian and many others. Hearing the Lord’s Prayer in multiple languages made me cry. Remember we are family.

Tuesday: Attempt to catch up and prep for the rest of the week, but indulge myself by writing a poem I don’t have time to write. Apprehensive because my calendar looks like a mosaic, but experiencing little joy flickers because of the poem. Afraid I am heading into a whirlwind and will be hit by flying pieces of mosaic.

Wednesday:

Morning -- Teach Care and Feeding of the Novel at Sky Valley Education Center. Circle up with my teens and listen to them read their chapters and respond to each other’s work. Marvel at their ability to not only write, but encourage. Love it that my son is in this class.

Realize that the staff day at Sky Valley is tomorrow and I have forgotten to put it in my calendar.

Afternoon -- Read the first, experimental chapter of my new project to my critique group, the Diviners. Receive incisive, but heartening feedback. Contemplate how privileged I am to have had fifteen years with these outstanding authors.

Evening -- Assess students, plan, email, plan, assess, email. Ask for prayer. Fall into an exhausted heap near midnight.

Thursday:

Morning/Early Afternoon -- Attend Sky Valley staff meeting, which is a blast. Talk with amazing teachers, watch a fascinating film on the brain (I am totally inspired), continue student assessments.

Late Afternoon --Teach Care and Feeding of the Novel at The Attic Learning Community. The sun is out (!!!), so we spend most of it outside acting -- throwing the characters from our various books together in earthquakes, elevators and fields of rattlesnakes. Then everyone curls up and writes. Enjoy their faces, bent over their work, deep in concentration.

Evening -- Finish assessing. Plan, plan, plan for tomorrow. Midnight or 1:00 – in bed. So tired I want to cry.

Friday:

Morning -- Begin new Un-Writing class in Woodinville for elementary age homeschoolers. Some are a bit nervous at first. After wantonly tearing pages out of magazines for collaging “Secret Journals,” we head into the woods to figure out where our characters live. One of the boys exclaims excitedly, “This is completely different from what I expected!” I experience several hours of personal gladness from this comment alone.

Afternoon -- Go with a beloved and brilliant writer-friend to a scary medical appointment. Since I can’t stay the whole time, another writer comes to take my place, tag-team style, as I am leaving. Awed by how writers are a tribe – for life.

Friday Evening through Saturday -- Teen Write “Dangerous Liaisons” overnight at Carnation Tree Farm. Rejoice at having teens here from six of my different groups. Watch both characters and new friendships emerge over 24 hours as teens in capes and unusual hats rove the ponds and trees creating scenes together. I play a bestselling novelist who inserts her book title and Amazon ranking into every conversation. Watch the faraway looks in their eyes as they all settle in to write. Listen to them laugh and cheer each other as they read their stories on Saturday. Grateful that my husband, daughter and middle son are here helping, while my youngest is embraced as a participant.

Saturday:

Evening -- Talk with Roger Thorsen, who owns the award-winning farm, about the June Play’s The Thing kids’ acting/playwriting workshop there. Feel suddenly delighted and energized for it.
Go to Poetry Night at Duvall Coffeehouse and hear my friend, Denis Streeter read from his first chapbook, Unfoldings. He is fantastic! Supportive friends and poets new to the Duvall reading, listen, eat good food and read at the open mic. I even read a few from my laptop, as I haven’t had time to print anything. Drop the last of my Teen Writers off at home.

Night -- Realize that throughout the whirlwind, I have been entirely happy.

NaPoWriMo

2009-04-21T11:45:00.001-07:00

I have not been doing NaPoWriMo because I haven't had time. But this lack of poems is giving me a kind of malaise. So here's one off-the-cuff. It KILLS me not to revise. But if I don't begin writing poems again, I shall go mad, so sacrifices have to be made.

I have no time to write this poem

but I am jealous
of the poets who have written every day this month.
I drink in their words as one parched
for every stolen sip

There is (and I have no time to start this line with something other than “there is”)
a weight in my belly
that comes from words not thought.
It is
the weight of the sun
I am hiding myself from.
(And I have no time not to end a sentence with a preposition)

Even more than words run away with me,
it is the meanings of things,
the putting-together-of
the Universe I long for
in these pilfered glances

A poem may not make
everything right,
but it does take water/fire/thieves/ paradox
and make them
Holy.

Bodacious Mystery Galpal Tells All: Chapter 1

2009-04-17T16:14:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd give you a sneak peek at my YA novel Bodacious Mystery Galpal Tells All. (Please note that this material is copyrighted and includes PG-13 content.)

CELEB’ MAGAZINE

Trentmobile Crunched

Teen superstar Trent Yves was less than friendly when caught on film after his beloved green Mini-Cooper crashed into a wall of the LA Equestrian Center Saturday Night. No injuries were reported, but the previously unblemished Trentmobile sustained a seriously crumpled hood and unknown internal wounds.
While chick-magnet Trent denied reports he'd been drinking at the wheel, witnesses said they'd seen the car careening through the parking lot and jumping curbs shortly before the wreck. According to a source close to the family, Trent's crazed mom, Wendy Burke, was a passenger in the car. "She'd drive anyone to drink," said the source. When approached, Trent gave reporters the one-fingered salute and threatened to break a photographer's camera.
Trent, who recently snagged Best Actor at the Cannes Film Festival for his portrayal of a young runaway in Rocket, seems to have let international fame go to his head. While Europe and Japan have gone Trent-crazy, gobbling up every film and TV series the star has ever appeared in, the former child-wonder has become increasingly cocky.
When Celeb' caught up with him Monday to congratulate him on being voted our Reader's Choice Hot Teen Actor of the Month, Trent's only reply (to a reporter twice his age) was "I'm surprised you can keep your hands off me."
Trent’s manager had no comment.
--------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1

“Touch him,” Natalie whispered. “Go put your hands on his shoulders.”
I slid my chair back into the shadows of Earl’s Country Burger Arcade. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding, Brigitta. Boys love that. Don’t you want him back?”
Devon sat by himself playing Darkstalkers. A curl of hair fell across his cheek and he brushed it back, revealing a constellation of freckles. “I don’t do massages,” I hissed. “And I didn’t come here for Devon.”
It hurt to look at him: Devon, who made raspberry sandwiches for me when we were five; Devon, who knew our 20 acres better than Natalie. Devon, who won us the homeschool science fair prize in third grade for our project on animal scat (it is what you’re thinking); Devon, who was the first friend I let in our treehouse, even though my sister Mallory said, “Girls Only.” Devon, who started putting his arm around me last summer and saying things like, “I’d rather be with you than anyone.” Devon, who now found Jazmina_of_The_Night in his stupid Sci-Fi/Fantasy chatroom more interesting than me.
It was Natalie’s craving for French Fries that had brought us into charming downtown Kwahnesum (that’s Kwa-NEE-sum, rustic Washington hamlet, population 1054). It was supposed to be a blissful stroll through the shelves of the Dusty Cover New and Used. Just books. Quiet and reliable. No drama. No friends who betray you. No Devon.
His wiry arms flexed as he punched the buttons, concentrating the way he used to when he was helping me with a physics problem. I missed that. Natalie didn’t need to know how much.
The arcade was crowded. It was midsummer-hot and we were blockaded by sweaty, gaming bodies. The bottom book in my stack stuck to the table. Natalie’s pile of romances was topped by Makeup Secrets: Twenty Strokes to a Great New You. She’d been giving it a try in the restroom, so now her L’Oreal Smoldering Auburn curls were caught up in a silver barrette; she’d added extra glam liner to her eyes.
I am the complete opposite of Natalie – hair: longish, blondish, straightish; eyes: non-glam; goal: to find the meaning of life. Natalie wants to “ditch this two-cow town and make it big in LA.” Honest to God. But she was my best friend from the time we believed our dolls came to life at night, and if I still have a best friend, I guess it would be her.
“By the way,” Natalie sneaked a peek towards the food counter, “that new guy they have scooping ice cream? Zac Efron.”
On the other hand, maybe she still believed dolls came to life. It would be at least as weird as her “sightings.” Natalie spotted celebrity look-alikes everywhere: Corbin Bleu making lattes at Starbucks, Tobey Maguire taking tickets at the Space Needle.
“Why would Zac Efron take a job here?”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Research,” she explained patiently. “Actors are always going undercover to explore some new role. And they come to the Northwest all the time.”
My Hollywood education started with Natalie — since my family doesn’t own a TV. When Natalie saw my pop-culture ineptitude the year I went to Kwahnesum High School, she instituted “Media Night.” It had cured me of saying homeschoolish things like “What’s American Idol?” and depleting her social points.
At the Darkstalkers console, Devon leaned towards the screen where a nearly topless succubus was fighting a pharaoh in a giant headdress.
I shifted my body away from him. Couldn’t Natalie just finish her fries?
“You should totally let me do your makeup.” Natalie opened her bag.
I shook my head. “My face wouldn’t know what to do with makeup.”
She rummaged in her lipsticks and brushes. “Just maybe a little bronzer? I could so bring out your cheekbones.”
It would be so Natalie to try to make me over and then present me to Devon like her 4-H project. I shook my head again. “They test that stuff on defenseless bunnies – doesn’t that bother you?”
Had I heard him turn? Was he staring at my back?
Natalie poked at my books. “What did you get?” She scrutinized the top title with one of her upside-down smiles. “The Complete Poems of John Donne? You’re hopeless, Brigitta.” She offered me a fry.
“Donne was the greatest of the metaphysical poets.”
“Ooh! How exciting!” She touched the second book. “And what’s that? Sound the Shofar: A High Holy Days Handbook? You’re going Jewish now?”
“Mom and Dad have a kosher group staying with us at The Center. They’re biking for a sustainable planet. We’re one of their stops.”
“Wasn’t it the alien abduction victims last weekend? Why weren’t you studying them?”
“‘Abductees.’ And I don’t consider them a religion.”
For Natalie, religion is something that runs in your family – or not. If I asked her whether she likes being Jewish, she’d say it was the same as asking whether she likes having brown eyes. I can’t talk to her about how I want the Great Cosmic Mystery to let me climb on its back.
I slid the books into my lap before Natalie could look closer. Fortunately she hadn’t noticed the item folded between them: the literary equivalent of fried pork rinds. Poetry and religion were not enough to redeem it. And I’d die if Devon saw it.
“You can’t just become Jewish, Brigitta.” Natalie licked some ketchup off her thumb. “You have to either be born Jewish or convert.”
I took another French fry. (Hopefully they weren’t cooked in animal fat.) “I’m only reading up, okay?”
“Whatever,” said Natalie. “I like it better than your Baptist phase.” She peered over my head. “He’s still heeere,” she singsonged.
“What’s he doing?” I whispered, hating myself for giving in.
Natalie patted my hand. “Sweet Brigitta.” She stood up. “You’ll just have to turn around, won’t you?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Do you want some ice cream?”
I shook my head. Natalie headed for Zac Efron. I would so not turn around.
Devon’s parents stopped homeschooling and stuck him in Kwahnesum High School in 9th grade because it had a chess club. A chess club! Why my parents decided Kwahnesum High School was a good idea after they’d carefully cultivated counter-culture children, I’ll never know. Mallory begged to go when she was a freshman and stayed through graduation; I lasted (barely) through one awe-inspiring year. Then I went back to the woods.
In September Devon was back at KHS and I wasn’t. In October he quit chess club. And as fall moved into winter we were (I think) a couple. On Valentine's Day he gave me a card, but it didn't say, “I love you” or anything. It didn't even have hearts on it. It had a picture of Arthur Schopenhauer with a quote that said, “Religion is the masterpiece of the art of animal training.”
He never did get around to kissing me.
I shifted, ever so slightly, in my chair.
Did his head whip back to the screen? I peeked surreptitiously. The pharaoh turned the succubus into a mummy. Had Devon fumbled the joystick? I had a rush of sympathy. I could make it easier on him. I could walk over there. I’d smile and in that smile would be Divine forgiveness. He wouldn’t have to speak. He’d take my hand, and…
Devon’s cell phone rang. “Hey!” his face broke into a grin. “Nothing much.” He laughed a goofy, un-Devonlike laugh and leaned back in his seat. Beneath the pharaoh flashed the words, “You misbegotten spawn of a jackal! Crawl back to your hole.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” said Devon. “For you.”
Thoughts of saintliness vanished.
Natalie zipped over with a bowl of Cherry Garcia. “I gave Zac my phone number.” She shivered. “God, he’s beautiful. I have a good feeling about this.”
Devon closed his phone like he’d just been named Beefcake of the Year. Natalie glanced at him. “So,” she said, still flushed with her own victory, “why are you still huddled over your books, Brigitta?”
Before I could run, she was beside him. “Devon!” she trilled. “Guess who's here?”
There was no way to hide.
“Brigitta Schopenhauer,” he said, as if I was a distant acquaintance.
“Hey.” I felt wobbly. Did I have big wet spots under my arms? Why did I care?
Devon slid his phone into his pocket. “I meant to come by,” he said. Was that, just maybe, regret in his eyes?
Natalie seized her matchmaking opportunity. “You should come by. Tonight. We have a meeting in the treehouse and you haven't been in forever.”
His irises had little gold flecks in them. He'd said he meant to come by; "coming by" had meaning for him: it meant —
“I left my jacket the last time,” he said.
I imagined strangling him with said jacket.
“There'll be pizza,” said Natalie, while I stood there like an idiot.
“Um, okay,” said Devon. He looked caught. He pulled on his hoody. “See you around.” He beat it fast out the door.
“Huh.” Natalie frowned. “Don’t worry, Brigitta. He’s just nervous around you. It’s obvious he still likes you. We just need to—”
I didn’t stick around to hear what “we” needed to do. I made for the cave in the back. No one played the 80’s games. Space Invaders faced the wall, making a phonebooth-sized hidey hole. I threw myself in.
I landed, hard, in someone's lap. “Hey!” he yelled.
I jumped off him as my books hit his feet and his third life dematerialized on the screen. He sprang up, his hands in fists. “What the hell?” Clearly, I'd invaded his space.
He looked a little older than me — dark hair, scowling eyebrows. And better-looking than I wanted to notice. Maybe I could dematerialize.
He bent and began gathering my books. He smelled good. He had very broad shoulders. He handed me the Donne, the Jewish festivals…
Too late I dove for the floor. I groped for the rest in a last-ditch attempt to save my dignity, but it was useless. The boy reached under the console and retrieved the last item: The National Enquirer, flopped open to shout, “Pamela's New Boytoy Needs Penis Implants.” He slapped it on my stack with an expression of pure disgust.
He offered me a hand, but I ignored it. Fake gallantry I could do without. I straightened as loftily as possible and pitched the Enquirer into a garbage.
The boy’s scorn melted into amusement. “Who are you?”
“Never mind,” I said as Natalie sailed in calling, “Brigitta!”
She stopped as soon as she saw him. “God,” she said, “You look just like Trent Yves.”
Maybe a hole would open up in the floor.
The boy shoved his hands in his pockets. “I'm Luke,” he said.
“Did you see Trent in Rocket?” Natalie babbled. “He should win a Golden Globe, I think.
“I don't follow movies,” said Luke.
“Really?” Natalie flashed her pearly whites at him. “What are you into? Music? Football?”
He smirked and looked at me. “Tabloids,” he said. “Love those tabloids.”
I wanted to brain him with my Donne.
He glanced at the clock. “I have to go,” he said. He edged past the still-chattering Natalie.
I squeezed my books tight so my arms wouldn't shake. Natalie didn't notice. “What was that about?” she said, when he was gone.
“Let's just leave.” I scanned tables for my purse. Mom wanted me home. Mallory was coming back from college so she could help us with The Center for the rest of the summer.
“He's so hot,” said Natalie. “God, those muscles. And the long lashes? Didn't you think he looked like Trent Yves?”
I shrugged. Trent Yves was definitely not a star I kept track of.
“What is wrong with you?” said Natalie. “Did you look at that face? That gorgeous, gorgeous face?”
I had looked at that face and it had looked back at me, and seen — what? Poet-and-violinist Brigitta? Seeker-after-Truth Brigitta? Brigitta-who-knows-the-origins-of-hundreds-of-words? No. He'd seen vapid Brigitta. Easily-entertained Brigitta. Sellout Brigitta.

Friday Half-Day Writing Workshops for Grades 3-5

2009-02-23T10:58:00.000-08:00

When: Selected Friday Riverview School District half-days from 1:30-3:30

Who: 3rd-5th graders (Need not attend Riverview Schools)

Where: Carnation Tree Farm!

What: A variety of workshops ranging from poetry to stories to creating a play.

7 wkshps =$155 6=$150 5=$135 4=$120 3=$99 2=$70 1 = $45

Sniffing Out a Story 1 -- March 6
A good story makes readers feel like they’re there, seeing, smelling, touching, tasting and hearing everything on the page. So what happens when a writer hears a strange sound, smells an intriguing scent, and tastes something delicious? What story may come from unexpected surprises? Find out!

Sniffing Out a Story 2 – March 20
Bring your story and tweak a little here and a little there to make it even better. Then we’ll read them around the fire – with marshmallows!

Poet to Poet (with special guest poet Maya Ganesan) – April 3
I thought the earth remembered me – Mary Oliver
And it was at that age…poetry arrived in search of me – Pablo Neruda
And every morning I went to the willow grove and brushed the trunks and I whispered questions like, How are you doing? and, Is it very cold here at night?—Maya Ganesan

Words can stir something secret inside us. That something is poetry. If we let other poets speak to us, then we will have something to say. Ask Maya Ganesan who, at age 11, is a published poet. Maya cannot read poems without writing poems. I think you’ll find her words have the same effect on you! Listen to poems by Maya and other published poets, then write and read your own. Maya will bring her new book, Apologies to an Apple and you can take home a signed copy.

Where the Stories Live 1 -- May 1
In a hidden hollow beneath gnarled branches; behind a boulder under vines; atop a grassy mound where deer stop to listen: here is where the stories live. Why sit at a desk waiting for stories? Stories pounce when you least expect them. Lie down on the earth; sneak up on a rabbit; run down a hill – and you’ll catch the stories wild. Dress for outside and be ready to imagine.

Where the Stories Live 2 – May 15
Maybe your story can live in a magazine! Katherine will show you how professionals submit their stories and help you make your own submission to a magazine such as Stone Soup, which publishes work by kids. Even if your story is not published, you’ll be on your way to being a pro! Send your story to Katherine in a Word file by May 10 and it will go in our class book.

The Play’s the Thing 1 -- June 5
“In which we create a play on June 5 and perform it on June 12.” (Has Katherine lost her mind?)

Acting is making stories on your feet. In this workshop, you will come as a character you create (costumes welcome) and discover that you and the other characters are part of the same story. This story will become our play.

The Play’s the Thing 2 – June 12
Come with your costume and props. Today’s the day we rehearse like mad so that our parents can see our play at 3:30. (Allow 15-20 minutes for an outdoor performance)

contact: Dawn@KatherineGraceBond.com to register.

Announcing the Hotchkin-Bond Award for Creative Excellence

2009-02-23T10:02:00.000-08:00

"Hotchkin" because I grew up a Hotchkin and that's when I began writing. "Bond" because it was given to me by the wonderful man I married, who is my most splendid encourager, and the reason I am able to keep writing.

Hotchkin-Bond Award for Creative Excellence

This award is given to a high school student who has attended Teen Write, an acting/writing camp founded by Katherine Grace Bond. The award consists of:
· A full scholarship to the following year’s Teen Write
· A critique by Katherine Grace Bond of the winning manuscript
· A letter of recommendation to be used for college applications

Criteria· A story of 2000-3000 words with a viewpoint character created and embodied by the writer at Teen Write.
· This story must follow the Hero’s Journey structure and incorporate characters created and embodied by fellow Teen Writers.
· The writer must use scenes created and experienced at Teen Write, being open to the element of chance inherent in the Teen Write cards.
· Additional scenes and information created by the writer are permitted, as is elimination or change in scenes or circumstances originated at Teen Write.
· The story should be written in a way that can be enjoyed and understood by a reader who did not attend Teen Write.
· The manuscript should be double-spaced, with a standard 12-point font. Author’s name, address, phone number and email address (single-spaced) should appear in the top left corner, with word count in the top right-hand corner. Each page after page 1 should contain a header including author’s last name, story title and page number.

Deadline for 2012 Award is November 2, 2011

Mail to:
Teen Write
c/o Dawn Pontious
22721 87th Ave. SE
Woodinville, WA 98077

Attn: Hotchkin-Bond Award

Why We LOVE Revision

2009-02-17T01:46:00.000-08:00

I've heard it. I work with kids: "But I like my story the way it is. I don't want to change it!" (And to tell you the truth, I may hear that even more from grownups than from kids!)

But the reason I love revision is that it allows me to write badly. Which, frankly, is the only reason I can write at all. If I have permission to write badly, then I can feel superior to all that badness by revising it.

So when I was at Snohomish Parent Partnership last month, I made sure to come armed with a REALLY BAD story. Here it is:

Dragon’s Orb

By Brandy Nuwrite

CHAPTER ONE: THE DRAGON’S CAVE

Once upon a time, a girl named Fireda found a dragon that had been attacking her village. She told the dragon to stop attacking her village, but the dragon didn’t want to.
Fireda used her magic orb to get the dragon to do what she wanted.
Then the dragon took the orb away and Fireda couldn’t find it. She was really mad. She then walked toward the cave that the dragon was staying in and secretly went inside. Then the dragon breathed fire on her, but Fireda used her magic shield to protect herself.
Machifa came and tried to find Fireda, but he could not find her. He thought about it and in his mind he said, “Where is Fireda?”
“I’m in here,” Fireda said.
“Where?” said Machifa.
The dragon didn’t like it that they were talking to each other because he wanted to keep Fireda prisoner.
One week later, Onchnu was riding up the mountain. He was all covered in vines so you couldn’t see him. He saw the cave. Then he went inside. Then he found Fireda and Machifa.
“Aha!” said Machifa, because he hated Onchnu since Onchnu was in love with Fireda.
He said that Fireda should come with him and then she did come with him, but the dragon tried to stop them.
Fortunately, they got away.

And here's how the students of Snohomish Parent Partnership improved on it (note that each section of the story was written by a different group and no group knew what the others were writing.)

Dragon's Orb

One cold and wet morning in northern Germany, Fireda was walking amongst her quaint village fetching some water from the town well. When she pulled the
bucket from the well, there was a blue and glittering orb, about the size of a baseball. Fireda did not know what it was. Then out of nowhere a dragon flew out of the sky and hit a nearby barn and ran up to her and took the orb.
She said, "Hey, that's mine!" but the dragon said, "Yes! I've got
it."
Then she said, "Give it back to me!" He said, "NO! I do not want to."
As he started to fly away, she jumped on his back.

What is an orb? An orb is a golden glass ball that fits in the palm of your
hand, with a unique inscription. The inscription reveals numerous magical
powers that open portals to another world. If put into the wrong hands, all
mankind could be destroyed.
Fireda knew the power of the orb and combined it with her special abilities
to soften the dragon's heart.

The tall green dragon shifted his triangle-shaped eyes and glared at
Fireda. He snatched her shiny blue orb from her hand. In the dark of the cave,
the dragon placed the orb high on his secret ledge. After the dragon fell
asleep, Fireda searched the dank cave for hours. She missed the secret ledge and
didn't find her magic orb. By sunrise, Fireda was infuriated, enraged and
exhausted.

The dragon left footprints in the wet sand as he went to the cave, where he
fell asleep. Fireda, who felt scared inside, and began to turn pale, crept
toward the cave. She desperately wanted to get her orb back. As she entered the
cave, she accidentally kicked a rock, which echoed loudly, waking the dragon.
Her furious foe breathed fire on her, but Fireda used her magic shield to
protect herself.

Her friend Machifa came and tried desperately to find Fireda. He tried
vainly to find her. Machifa thought about where Fireda was and in his mind he
said, "Where is she?"
"I'm in the back of the cave," Fireda exclaimed.
"Where?" Machifa asked.
The big, green dragon hated that they were talking because he wanted to
keep her prisoner.

One week later the traveling alpaca salesman Onchnu was riding his woolly
mammoth up a mountain on his way to a customer's house, when he saw a cave and
went inside. In the cave he saw Machifa and Fireda eating a pizza.
"Aha!" said Machifa, as he pulled out his battle axe and ran towards
Onchnu.
Onchnu yelled, "Waaaaiiiit," as he ducked, barely dodging the blade of the
axe.

The red and orange fire-breathing dragon jumped over a cliff with lava. The
dragon spit fireballs and lava at Fireda, Machifa and Onchnu to try to stop
them. Fireda reached into her pocket and felt the magic orb. She ripped it from
the pocket and touched the dragon. The magic orb shrank the dragon and turned it
into a fly. Fireda, Machifa and Onchnu all took turns squishing the fly.

Be a Sweetheart for Orphaned Children in Africa

2009-02-14T11:48:00.000-08:00

From the New Day Africa website www.newdayafrica.org

What a delightful time we had yesterday at our Valentine Party for New Day Africa, making valentines for the children of the Green Door Orphanage in Songea, Tanzania. These are kids who have lost their parents to HIV/AIDS.

Christine Tapert, the "founding mother" of this organization brought such a treasure of art supplies that we were all giddy -- especially us grownups.

My husband, Fr. Andrew, loves to cut & paste

A friend and I play with ribbons & "punchy letters"

The lives of these African children have been changed forever. And now the vision of a mom halfway across the world has changed their lives forever again. People with a common vision came together and brought their background and expertise. Partnerships were formed with NGO's and interested donors. Now the children have a well, they're getting needed medical care, a new orphanage is being built and a brand new group of children is being helped. Christine says, "Now I know what I want to do for the rest of my life."

Christine Tapert, my new hero.

If you had to miss the party, there's still a chance to help. Make a donation to New Day Africa www.newdayafrica.org/donate.html in the amount of $20 or more by February 28. Then write to me at Katherine@KatherineGraceBond.com and let me know. Send your mailing address and I'll send you a signed copy of Legend of the Valentine. Specify whether you prefer the hardcover (the complete version) or the board book (for kids under 5) .

Making Stories at Snohomish Parent Partnership Program

2009-01-20T21:30:00.000-08:00

I'm having a blast with the students and parents of the Snohomish PPP where I'm doing a two-part workshop. This K-12 program is part of the Snohomish School district.

Because it's "that time of year," I got to read Legend of the Valentine. It feels good to be able to introduce this book to a new generation of readers.

Last Friday we began stories using characters from the Hero's Journey.

I got to "interview" several of the characters.

And we did a little acting to help with the process.

This coming Friday we'll revise. Yes, revision is fun! I promise.

Care and Feeding of the Novel

2009-01-10T17:30:00.000-08:00

Novelists on “come as your character” day

Lookie! Another class you can take!!

Here's the info for Care and Feeding of the Novel

Thursdays 3-5. Jan. 29 - May 7(12 weeks) (No class Feb. 19, April 2, 9) $240

Grades 9-12 (middle schoolers with instructor permission)

Location: The Attic Learning Community, Woodinville

You lie awake at night pondering whether Griselda should find Horatio (who she thought was dead) or if that would interfere with Flossie's plan for world domination. You wonder if it is possible to pull the pin out of a hand grenade with your teeth while running from a mob of crazed insurance agents. We understand: you're a novelist.
Bring your idea or work-in-progress. Bestselling author Katherine Grace Bond is your guide. We’ll work at plot, character, setting and scene-writing. We’ll discover what novel-reading has to do with novel-writing. Sessions will include in-class writing, discussion, and peer critique, with the goal of creating a complete novel by year’s end.

contact: dawn@katherinegracebond.com

PS Please note the the date of Dangerous Liaisons may be changed to the previous weekend (see Jan 8 post)

NEW TEEN WRITE WORKSHOPS IN THE WORKS!!!

2009-01-08T16:36:00.000-08:00

I've been brainstorming all day and I think I've almost got it. Of course, I still have to check with facilities rental, so I'm probably jumping the gun. BUT I think you should get this on your calendars. I'll fill you in on more details as soon as I've got 'em. Marshall the troupes, we're going to act and write!

TW Workshops

Summon Your Character

Monday February 16, President’s Day 10-5 (Carnation) $50

Get a jump start on your Teen Write character! Come to this one-day workshop for a time of frivolity and creation. Bring six items that can help lure your character out from your imagination. These could be props, clothing, pictures, music or ??? Katherine will have games and prompts to get you going, and there will be time for just hanging out with your fellow Teen Writers.

Dangerous Liaisons: Dynamics of Scene

Friday-Saturday April 24-25 5:00 Friday – 5:00 Saturday (Carnation)$85

Go to the Gates of Hideous Death and find 17 objects wrapped in cloth, plus four other characters who have their own ideas about who you are, who they are, and how this story is supposed to progress. Your life is about to change. Is it ever…

If you’re a veteran Teen Writer, this will look awfully familiar. How do you coordinate multiple characters and storylines into a single impromptu scene without being ready to use that sword on someone? This overnight workshop will focus on the dynamics of character cooperation in the unique form of improv that is Teen Write. Hang time included.

Teen Write Scouting Trip (TW Veterans ONLY)

Saturday, July 18 FREE (Bring ferry fare, gas money if carpooling and a sack lunch.)

If you have been on a Teen Write before, we need your help. Travel to Fort Worden and help us scout out new scene locations, revise the cards and brainstorm. This is the time for photo ops as well. And maybe we’ll shoot a TW video to let others know what we’re all about.

Teen Write !!!

Monday, August 3-Wednesday, August 5 $250

If you love to act, this is for you.

If you love to write, this is for you.

If you've done one, but never tried the other, are you ready for an adventure?

You will spend 3 days and 2 nights at Fort Worden embarking on the hero's journey.

You will become your character for the entire three days (costumes encouraged).

You'll be given written instructions that tell you where to find hidden objects or other characters who will help you on your journey. Only this is live. This is not like any role playing you've ever done before!

You and the other writers will live in parallel universes. Perhaps for you, it's 1587 in Scotland. For someone else, it may be 2526 on a planet similar to Earth. Perhaps someone kills you in their story; in yours, you may just beam up to your ship.

At each stage of your journey, you will write the next part of your story.

On Day 3, you will hear how everyone's journey went -- and how you were a part of their stories

Who's coming? LMK

Katherine

Let the Stories Begin!

2008-08-03T02:16:00.001-07:00

Here we will post the many stories, ridiculous and sublime, that have emerged from our adventures. Who still has their stories from Teen Writes I, II, III, IV, V, and VI? I can remember a few:

A certain Lord Rothschild (I think) who seemed to be geographically and historically confused, was discovered to have beamed up to his alien ship and regenerated after being cut down by the sword of a pirate whose name I do not remember. He was in search of a toaster so he could study earth life.
A ghost accidentally discovered an urn of her own ashes, which caused her to come back to life. Unfortunately, she was happier as a ghost and spent the rest of her journey trying to throw herself into the fire.
A female warlock collected pixie dust from a robot.
A number of people went in search of someone called Will McNaughton.
A game designer became trapped in her own game while troubleshooting.
Two characters flew away on the back of a dragon.

When I have time I'll post my "Celeste" story from TW IV at the Carnation Tree Farm. It's a doozy!

I'd better get back to revising the game cards. We've got all new locations, including some with spectacular views and great dramatic possibilities. Can't wait for Monday