Welcome Author, Beth Hoffman

As a reader, I am drawn to stories with characters so rich that reading about them is like reading a letter from a good friend. I hang on to every word, every image, and I fall easily into their emotions — good and bad.

Beth Hoffman’s debut novel, Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, is exactly that kind of story for me.

Ms. Hoffman weaves a beautiful tale of CeeCee, a young girl who grapples with her mother’s mental illness, agonizes over her father’s abandonment, and then discovers unconditional love, friendship, and healing — in the arms of Oletta, in the mysterious charm of Miz Goodpepper, and in the saving graces of her Great Aunt Tootie.

Saving CeeCee Honeycutt reminds us, no matter what our trials, we are carried along by a spiritual force which manifests itself in those around us.

I invited Beth Hoffman here, to answer a few questions about her novel and her writing. She graciously agreed. And, she offered to give away an autographed copy of her novel and a set of audio CD’s. So, after you read Beth’s interview, please leave a comment. If you’re shy, just leave your name.

At the end of Mother’s Day – in honor of the women in Beth Hoffman’s novel who become CeeCee’s surrogate mothers – I will choose two names. Each winner will receive either the book or the set of CD’s, the best part being that Beth Hoffman, herself, will send them — a New York Times bestseller novel, straight from the hands of the novelist to yours. That’s good karma, people.

*****

Beth Hoffman

BH: Thank you for your kindness and support, Christi. I’m delighted that you invited me to be featured on your blog.

CC: Which inspired you first to write this story, plot or character? And, if it was character, was it CeeCee or Aunt Tootie who whispered the tale into your ear?

BH: I’ve always been drawn to character-driven fiction, and from the get-go I knew I wanted to write a story about strong women of all ages, cultures, and backgrounds. Aunt Tootie’s kindness and wisdom are qualities that I greatly admired in my great aunt Mildred, and I knew Aunt Tootie would be a key figure in my novel. But it was CeeCee who arrived in my imagination first. I had begun a rough outline for the book I thought I would write, and then late one night CeeCee appeared. She was so fully alive and her voice was so clear that it rocked me back in the chair, and, her story was far better than the one I was outlining! So, I deleted my notes and listened to what CeeCee had to say. It was one of the most fascinating events of my writing life. I’ve heard that it’s called writers alchemy—a magical moment when a character comes to life and the story unfolds in surprising ways.

CC: You live in Kentucky, but you wrote a story mainly set in Georgia. How often did you travel to the setting of your novel, and how did you use those trips to help create such a strong sense of place?

BH: I’ve always adored the South, and my first visit to Savannah left me completely enthralled. Savannah embodies so much of what I’ve admired throughout my life: outstanding historical architecture, a rich multicultural history steeped deep within the very fabric of the city, and the lovely hospitality for which Savannahians are so well known. I’m a bit of sponge in the sense that if I like something, I soak it up until it becomes a part of me. And that’s what happened with Savannah. I’ve walked every street in the historic downtown area, talked with residents and shop owners, and I live fully in that wonderful city whenever I visit—which is quite frequently. I usually rent an apartment in the downtown area so I can immerse myself in daily living as if I were a long-time resident. The sense of place in CeeCee’s story was actually quite easy for me to create because Savannah has become a part of me.

CC: Under “For Writers” on your blog, you say, “Captivating storytelling is a gift – good writing is an art.” Clearly, you are a talented storyteller. How did you nurture that gift into the art of great writing?

BH: What a lovely thing to say, thank you. My father was a wonderful storyteller, and I think much of his gift of spinning a good yarn was passed down to me. But there’s an enormous difference between telling a captivating story and writing one. As with any art, practice is crucial. The more we practice, the more we hone our craft. And the more we hone our craft, the more we stay awake and aware to the world of words. The other thing that’s crucial is cultivating the imagination. From a very early age I had a whole cast of imaginary friends that I kept in a shoebox beneath my bed. We went on all sorts of adventures together, and to me, they were real. When I eventually outgrew playing with them, I began to write stories about their lives, which segued into short story writing when I was a teenager, and finally, to writing my first full-length novel. Even now, as an adult, I still have the vivid imagination of my childhood, and I rely upon it with my writing.

CC: What are you reading these days?

BH: I just began Page from a Tennessee Journal by Francine Thomas Howard, and thus far I’m thoroughly enjoying it.

CC: Do you have any final thoughts for writers on the rise?

BH: I would say practice and editing are two of the most important things an aspiring writer should keep in mind. And when a writer honestly feels her/his work is complete, then there’s the Holy Grail of all—reading the manuscript out loud. It’s amazing how, when reading a work aloud, every single bump will reveal itself. Though it was time consuming, I read every single word of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt to my cats, and that prompted me to do one final edit that really paid off.

Beth Hoffman’s debut novel has appeared on several bestseller lists, including the New York Times, and was selected by the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance as one of the 2010 Winter/Spring OKRA Picks for great Southern fiction. Read more about Beth Hoffman here and find her on Twitter under @wordrunner.

Don’t forget to leave a comment, so you can be included in the drawing for a copy of her book or a set of audio CD’s!

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Burned: Flash Fiction on Wednesday

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Check Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar for past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces.

Today’s word:

imbricate. adjective: Having overlapping edges, as tiles on a roof or scales on a fish.

Burned

They called him “Albert the Human Armadillo,” and he was.

He had rows of scales that ran down the course of his chest – a hardening of his skin well-studied and biopsied by doctor after doctor but never explained. They prescribed creams and ointments and oils that left him smelling of fish or burnt embers. Though always well-lubed, his armor remained.

Albert’s scales had grown slowly. He remembered the day they started, and the times they spread.

When he was eight, he worked all day on a card for his mother’s birthday, writing letters to perfection and coloring in her cartoon hair with a light shade of brown. She smiled when he gave it to her. But, two days later he found the card abandoned in a pile of newspapers – the letters smeared by something wet – and he felt a burning sensation in the middle of his chest. His mother apologized as she stood outside his closed bedroom door, saying she couldn’t keep every card. But, still, he had spent all day drawing. When he woke up the next morning, his eyes were swollen and a small, rough patch had formed along the spot on his chest that had burned when he cried.

The patch doubled in size after his father’s trip to Italy. His father promised to bring Albert a statue of the Leaning Tower of Pisa when he came home. Instead, he showed up in the kitchen and hoisted an expensive bottle of wine. Then, his father called Albert a cry-baby and said he’d go back to the airport and buy him a postcard if it meant that much to him.

Albert’s whole chest succumbed to scales overnight after Ruby, his first real girlfriend, dragged him to the drive-in restaurant and then told him – over a chocolate malt – that she couldn’t go out with him any more. She said that the spot on his chest was getting bigger, she was sure, and it was starting to freak her out. As Albert turned and stared at the steering wheel, she climbed out of his dad’s station wagon and ran to the other side of the drive-in. She jumped into Roger Simon’s red Mustang, and Roger drove her away with a screech and a squeal.

At the high school prom, Albert approached Roger and took a swing at him. He missed, but Roger didn’t. Roger hit Albert square in the chest. Only, it didn’t hurt at all. In fact, the punch barely knocked him back. That’s when they started calling him Albert, the Human Armadillo.

And, that’s when Albert stopped treating his condition. He settled into his armor that stiffened his posture. Sometimes he even stood in front of the mirror and hit his knuckles against it, with pride.

Continue reading “Burned: Flash Fiction on Wednesday”

On Stanley Kunitz, Memoir, and Fiction

Sitting in my critique group the other night, it was Stanley Kunitz who came to mind as we discussed the challenges in writing memoir.

Not because Stanley Kunitz wrote memoir, but because his poem, The Layers, seemed to answer the question of how to write memoir.

How does a writer condense decades of one’s life into 300 pages?

What years do you ignore? Which memories do you highlight? And, how do you make it all come together without retelling every minute of every day of how you got from there to here?

After my mother passed away, a good friend gave me Stanley Kunitz’s book, The Collected Poems, and she pointed me to page 217. The poem,  The Layers, in its entirety, is a beautiful tribute to loved ones gone but never forgotten. We are touched by the people in our lives in a way that, even after their presence is diminished – for one reason or another – we still feel their power.

Two specific passages from that poem stayed with me during the early days, months, years of grieving for my mother. Then, as I sat around the table with other writers and talked about memoir, those passages burst forth again:

When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.


Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.

Writing memoir isn’t about retelling every detail of every day. It’s about picking and choosing those pivotal moments, or about recounting those powerful relationships in our lives, that served as a catalyst – that swayed us one way or another or shifted our perspective slightly – and forced us to grow and to change.

I mentioned the poem to my critique partners, and the second I related it to memoir, I realized the same principle applies to fiction. The main character in my WIP has experienced pivotal moments in her life as well. I don’t have to wrestle her into confessing every gorey detail about her life from first memory and beyond. I only need to discover places along her journey where she stayed – just long enough – that they left an imprint, and I only need to write on the people in her life who, like precious stones, line her path of character development.

*****

Kunitz, Stanley. The Collected Poems. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2000. Print.

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