February 29, 2008

Hello, My Name is Camille, And I'm A Wordaholic

We met for our local ACFW chapter meeting the other night. I never liked going first when there's a round-the-room intro, I always think of what I should have said after I hear everyone else.

I might have said: Hello--my name is Camille, and I'm a wordaholic.

About a year ago, I was thinking about writing a novel. I'd never heard of acfw, pov, mru, or storyworld or scene and sequel. Goal-Conflict-Disaster was just another name for parenting teens. Definitely never heard of making a novel out of a snowflake. Head hoppers and pantsers could have been slang for the people I quit hanging around after I got saved.

A year ago the thought never entered my mind to quit making homestyle dinners and cleaning toilets, to join a critque group, to spend hours and hours into the night pounding at the keyboard, to sign up for feeds from writing blogs and leave posts everywhere like a puppy in training, to attend writing workshops, to read stacks of books on writing craft, to download a fiction writing course, to think about how to market myself, or to attend a writer's conference. Or to whine to gracious, wise ones for extra help in getting it right. When I look at the bio I am crafting for my upcoming proposal, I see someone who didn't exist a year ago. Pretty weird when I think about it.

I'm counting down the days until the MT HERMON CHRISTIAN WRITER'S CONFERENCE in March. Lately I've been glued to a few pages of a proposal and the first few of my story that keeps shedding skin and emerging a tiny bit tighter each time, and talking about little else besides pre-subbing and morning tracks and elevator pitches and agent panels and the one thing to never include on the business card when you're unpublished. A year ago, this would have been a foreign language. To family and friends, it still is.

I wonder where I'd be today if a year ago someone told me what writing a novel actually takes.

I'd like to think . . . I'd be right here. In a maniacal frenzy to get ready for MT Hermon.


Oh, here's that bio.

Qualifications: Camille has a PhD in Learning Things the Hard Way. She’s acquainted with dysfunction, pain, despair, and the hope that comes from knowing Christ. She’s a cynic saved by grace who simply wants to encourage herself and others to turn that amazing grace around and use it on those other pesky people.

Camille lives with her family in Oregon. She has been relentlessly pursuing the craft of writing. She is an active member of the Oregon Christian Writers, The American Christian Fiction Writers and her local ACFW chapter where she serves on the board of directors. Camille is a member of The Writer’s View2 and other quality Christian online writing communities that encourage and cultivate literary excellence. She meets with a local critique group. Her past writing credits include two published newspaper articles; she also produces church newsletters and scripts used in drama presentations.
Love Worth Fire is her first novel.

10 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hello Camille it's your friend John
I am wordy,could go on and on
It's great youre goin' to California
Many of us are prayin' for ya

Michelle said...

I hope you have a great time and good meetings at Mt. Hermon. And I love the Edgy button on your blog. It looks nice. :)

Ane Mulligan said...

GREAT post, Camille. I love your humorous outlook on things. ;)

I'm praying God's richest blessings on your conference experience. I'm also praying favor for your ms with agents and editors.

Blessings!!

Christina Berry said...

This is such a great bio! I hope you have a terrific, productive time at Mt. Hermon.

Anonymous said...

I am very jealous. But I will be gracious enough to wish you a good time at Mt Hermon. Please give the Dictator for Live my regards. Good luck with your novel. I root for you!

Anonymous said...

Sorry Camille. The last comment was by me.

Daan Van der Merwe.

Camille Cannon (Eide) said...

Michelle - thanks for the wishes and I'm glad you like the button. There's a cute blonde in the corner that really makes it pop.

Daan - I will give that Dictator your regards. I actually had to explain to him at our recent acfw meeting that I was just kidding about finding his website because I was searching for the Supreme Dictator for Life. He actually thought I was serious. Ahh, I need to check my warped sense of humor at the door, sometimes.

To all you other well wishers: Thanks loads, man. I will take Mt Hermon by storm. Or hide like a chicken in my room. One or the other.

If I get a chance to meet Cec Murphey in person, my generous benefactor, would a huge bear hug be appropriate? Chocolate? Booze?

Daan Van der Merwe said...

A bear hug, chocolate and booze.

PS. I love the humor in your comments. I myself am constantly in deep booboo because sometimes my jokes are taken seriously.

Daan.

Camille Cannon (Eide) said...

Ditto the deep booboo, Daan, whatever that is. I'm sure I'm in it most of the time too.

John....I just realized that was a POEM, man! How'd I miss that?

heather said...

Came here via Mary's wannebe blog. This cracked me up! It is funny the verbage we learn and the people we confuse.

ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF. . . .

8 RANDOM FACTS ABOUT ME:

I wrote a NOVEL (more about it at the bottom of the page . . . keep scrolling).

I've been writing stuff - an actual literary term - all my life, but now, I'm serious about being published. Or pubbed, if you like. (It's so cute how writer people have all these enigmatic little code-names for things)

I love action movies and Jane Austen. (she’s dead, I know. I found that out when I tried to get her to endorse my novel)

They let me play Bass guitar and sing in a worship band.

I can produce 4 dozen homemade cinnamon rolls in less than 2 hours for a crowd of drooling young adults.

I have a Harley A 2002 Sportster 883. Chrome, black leather. Ram Horn handles. No sissy pink stuff.

I hate shopping (Yes, I'm aware that I'm a girl)

My ringtone is the theme from "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly"(whoo-00-oo-00-oo, waa waa waa)

I speak 3 languages:
1. Sarcasm, fluent

2. Teenage ghetto-girl slang: actually, I'm just learning. It's a difficult language to grasp as it changes without warning and involves complicated neck, hip and finger snapping motions that are often dangerous for middle-aged white people.

3. My native tongue: English with an Oregon dialect, which is much more pronounced with caffeine. Just sit in any Starbucks in Portland an listen fer a while, or head tord the mountn, you'll know whudumean.

I WAS THERE:
I was there during the brief Sonny & Cher period of Modern American history. (Anybody remember? Babe---I got you Babe---) AND the Belushi-Ackroyd years of SNL.

PROFESSIONS THAT I'VE HELD PROFESSIONALLY:
I have experience (meaning actually receiving cash) in numerous professions including a Preschool Teacher, Administrator and a Church Administrative Assistant. In these, I have conducted myself in a flawlessly professional manner. Truly.

I also have over 10 years experience in the honorary profession (meaning no cash, besides the sticky coins that turn up while cleaning the crevices between the seats in the car) of stay-at-home mom.

In addition to these, I also know how to do an unbelievably large number of random, useless things. Like greasing the hubs and changing the oil in a '56 International Harvester Scout.

MY BIGGEST PET PEEVE:
Stinkin over-achievers.

MY ROOTS:
I've lived in Oregon all my life, grew up in several towns/cities including Eugene, Springfield, Reedsport, and Smith River. Which is not really a town, but a river, about 70 miles long, a tributary of the Umpqua River in southwest Oregon.

Although it's not a town, it is a community with a strong sense of pioneer history. It's cool to say you've lived there, especially if you lived there during the days when you had to take a boat to school. No joke! The old farmhouse my grandfather and my mother grew up in still stands, nestled into a narrow, pasture carpeted valley, complete with a swimmin' hole and its own 'crick'. It's going in my next novel.

As a child, I lived for a year in Gardiner, Oregon, across the road from a Weyerhauser paper mill and spent that entire year thinking the noxious odor I smelled every day was coming from my brother's bedroom. (I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't.)

One last root worthy of mention: there's a longstanding rumor that my ancestors had some connection with the Mafia back in Sicily. I used to fantasize during school about a big black limo with tinted windows pulling up and whisking me away.

Ahhh. THAT'S why I'm having so much trouble conjugating my dangling participles now.

Love Worth Fire - a Contemporary Women's Fiction with Romance

There was a natural, familiar bond that had developed over time. A bond that, until now, Ian had thought he shared with a wise, stout, tender-hearted little spinster nearing middle-age . . .

His his mind worked frantically to reconcile the Emily he knew from the letters with this one, and to accept the fact that this woman, this very lovely young woman, had been his pen pal for the past two years . . .

All widower Ian MacLean wants is peace. And a farm in the lowlands of Scotland should be the perfect place to find it. But he's too young for the life of a recluse, and he’s constantly plagued by an obstinate, mischievous grannie, bitter regrets, mislaid faith and worst of all—an ache for something he’ll never have.

Emily Chapman is a devoted caregiver to her frail great-aunt and lives a quiet life in a remote community in central Oregon’s high desert. Emily has also suffered loss and longs for a sense of belonging, of family.

When Ian travels to the States and meets his kind ‘old’ pen pal, he is surprised to find a lovely, tenderhearted young woman who shakes up what little peace he has and stirs up something in his heart he never thought possible.

But just when Ian and Emily’s dream of a life together is within reach, Emily discovers a devastating secret that crushes their hope for a future. Ian must relive the painful nightmare that scarred him once already. Can his heart withstand a second blow?

While Ian examines the strength of his heart and his renewed faith, Emily must decide if she has the courage to face her worst fears and truly leave those she loves in God’s hands.

****************************

CHAPTER ONE

Ian MacLean nearly escaped.

He made it to the edge of the lamp-lit street with only four hard strides bridging the gap between him and his freedom: Maggie’s farm truck. Even in the pallid streetlight, his grannie’s old rattletrap never looked so good.

“That’s far enough!”

A low growl rumbled up from his throat at the sound of Claire's voice, but instead of stopping, he sprinted across the road, digging into the pocket of his jeans for the key. He reached the truck and behind him, a car spattered up rain from the pavement, blaring the horn as it passed. At Claire, no doubt. Some things never changed. He had to be the only man in Scotland whose older sister still trailed him like a bullet if she thought he wasn’t sharing. Didn’t matter what it was.

With a sigh he turned, leaned against the fender and lowered his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes, usually dark like his, flickered with bright little sparks.

“You’re not leaving until I know what happened to my husband—that’s a dead cert!”

The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin, but that made no difference to her. Never had. He folded his arms loosely, hoping to hide his growing tension.

“What . . . you’re not happy he’s back then?”

“Are you daft? Of course I’m happy!” She frowned, but her voice softened. “This is where Davy belongs.”

“Good.” Ian shoved off and reached for the door. “That’s all that matters.”

“Nnnno . . .” She shot in before he could reach it and pressed her back against the handle. “I want to know how you got him to change his mind, Ian.” Claire gave her arms a brisk rub.


To the west, the lights of Glasgow cast a golden glow against the night sky, but the warmth of the sun had long since faded. Ian’s damp clothes took in the chill, pulling heat away from his skin.

“So what did you say to him?” Claire shivered, still rubbing her arms.

He shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“Ah! How can you say that? Do you know how hard I’ve been trying to get him to come home?”

As she stood there with fists planted on her hips, Ian’s eyes fell to the spot in the middle of her belly, right about where the door handle would be. Her arms poked out on either side like the handles on one of Maggie’s blessed teapots, almost begging him to toss her out of his way.

“Nothing I’ve said has made a bit of difference, Ian. Whatever you did . . . you just saved my family.” Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice fell to a low tone. “And you don’t remember how you might have done that?”

His gaze snapped across the street to her second-storey flat, to the home she shared with four remarkable kids and one lucky, blasted fool. He had to fight back the ache that rose in his chest.

“We talked about . . . loads of things, Claire.”

“Aye. I’m listening.”

Ian sucked in a deep, cool breath. What he had said to his brother-in-law had not come easy. The words stung then, and they would sting now; swift and sharp, like a cold blade to an old wound. He searched her face, hoping for a weak spot. She didn’t flinch.