I am excited to collaborate with award-winning poet and writing teach Sarah Carson to teach LITTLE FRANKENSTEINS. In this five-week online workshop, students will bring short pieces to workshop at every class to find out how to accelerate the evolution of their work from potential to powerful.

This class is limited to ten participants, so register soon to reserve a spot.

It is appropriate for writers at every level. Beginners welcome!

Click here to contact me with questions.

Click below for more information.

Enrollment limited to 10 students.

Appropriate for all levels of writers

Tuition: $467

Now that my Memoir 902 class has been meeting for over two years, sharing stories of resilience and triumph written with honesty and care, we have decided it’s time to publish an anthology of our work. For a sneak peek into the collection… Please join us online Monday, August 21st from 6:30 to 7:30 PM for a reading of five short pieces.

Click HERE Monday night for Access to the Zoom Room

Artwork by Tricia Hughes

Erica writes:

I began writing with Catharine during the onset of the Covid19 pandemic.  As our class began unearthing stories that shaped our present lives, I remembered an event that showed me the face of justice, real-time.  The members of the class were helpful in providing edits and honest feedback without changing the tone of my work.  Being published was icing on the cake.  I never expected that my work would be accepted for publication.

Scroll down or click HERE to read Erica’s story of what is required when love turns to war.

Quiet Behind the Front Door

Humans of the World

A Bookworm’s Paradise

Quiet Behind the Front Door – Erica Urquhart

Fist to face. Swollen left eye watching him with fear. Is this the meaning of passion? Is this how one copes with frustration, trying, but not fitting in, running into roadblocks, in the pursuit of a better life? Is this the depth of insecurity changing his life can instill? Does a man take out his frustrations on those closest to him, his wife? Does he become the worst version of himself? Or does he run away?

Fist to face, the burst of excruciating pain, the sensation of blood leaving bone, tenting the barrier to the outside world. One punch was enough to bend the little girl still looking for a counterfeit, for the warm embrace of the father who left her too soon. A heart she knows could have been full like before, if death hadn’t come, lurking behind the front door. Because of death’s blow, her punctured heart was leaky, disqualified from filling to the brim, once again. Her heart in this partially-filled state, his fist bent the orifice that remained, cracking it open, threatening to shatter it to pieces creating a flask incompetent to retain, contain, absorb, or reassemble.

Had she met and married a sensitive, gentle, middle-aged man, I think her life would have been different. Unfortunately, she was drawn to someone just as confused as she. He may have been slightly older in years, but he was not sensitive, nor was he gentle. Her husband adored alcohol and he needed to be in control. My aunt failed to appreciate that having stability and being controlled are separate and distinct. Discovery of the former in the absence of the latter was a lifelong challenge for my aunt.

A few miles away in our living room, I was watching my mother frantically search for a listing. Her challenge brought to my awareness the fact that the San Diego County telephone book was a big book. Flipping through the thin pages loudly and hurriedly, I saw the moment my mother found what she was looking for in the gargantuan tome.

“Do you have any vacancies? A mother with two small children, ages 9 months and two-years… Yes, we need her identity to remain confidential.”

After the quick telephone call, while still hanging up the telephone, she both grabbed her purse and my hand, then we exited the front door of our apartment.

It was very dark outside. I wasn’t afraid because my small hand was cradled in my mother’s larger one. The drive to my aunt’s apartment from ours was no more than five minutes. After reaching my aunt’s front door, we waited. Walking around to her small patio, my mother said my aunt’s name and finally, the front door opened. I stared at my aunt as I waited for my mother’s piercing words, the predictable onslaught in response to the bruises on my aunt’s face. However, only two words were spoken.

“Let’s go.”

Just as my aunt and the boys exited their front door, my uncle appeared from around the corner, heading our way. Unlike any other time I had seen him before, his eyes were feral, fierce, and frightening. In response, my mother’s look was unfazed. She said nothing. Her silent dismissal instantaneously diffused his fire. He withdrew his ire, lowered his head and silently turned around.

Quietly, my aunt and baby cousins made their way to our car, my mother’s first car in California. The little yellow Pacer with black racing stipes was so small and there were so many of us. We three children squoze ourselves into the back. Marcus, the two year-old who I had taught to walk, sat next to me and I held Marlon, the toddler, in my lap. As the tiny car pulled out of the parking lot, I gave a pent-up little squeal. That night, the boys and I witnessed the power of a single person to make things right.

Before my aunt and cousins moved to California where I was born and where my mother and I lived, they were living where my aunt and mother grew up, in Mississippi.

Circumstance and life events brought my mother’s family from a position of relative plenty to a place where my grandmother, who had never worked, became a housekeeper to make ends meet. With my grandfather’s illnesses- diabetes, hypertension, and their sequelae- the savings they had left were not enough for my mother’s university tuition and expenses. As was my grandfather’s last wish, my mother was in her final semester at Jackson State University. The only child still living at home, my aunt was my grandparents cherished child of later life. A teenager with parents in their sixties and seventies inherits both freedom and responsibility.

For my aunt, the identities of her parents, their assets and losses, had determined in great measure the foundation of her own life experience. The specters of death, racism, segregation, poverty and self-doubt in a moment of crisis are all plagues that can, if experienced too early fracture one’s soul in an irreparable way.

“I was the one who found him.”

Although several years had passed, in the telling, my aunt had a haunted look in her eyes. She told me she was her father’s friend, partner-in-crime, fishing buddy, and caregiver.

“Usually, I would come home from school and cook lunch for Daddy. My, no, our mother, your grandmother, usually worked late, so I would help with some of the household chores. Having older parents is different because they aren’t as strict as they were with their grown children. I was only 14 when I found Daddy that way.”

I’ve always viewed my aunt as fragile, frail and mischievous. Cherubic cheeks, tiny teeth and a loving smile, my aunt is very kind, sweet, actually, and a fantastic cook. She liked to tell me family stories while preparing a meal. A fighter, she is not. She will tell you herself that something intangible broke inside her that day in February when the eerie quiet greeted her boisterous opening of the front door.

“Daddy! Daddy! I am home…” Her voice trailed off as she saw him slumped over in his favorite chair, the remnant of a smile on his face.

Why did he have to go while she was at school, all alone? Always seeking protection, for my aunt it was choices- husband, career, where to live- from that fateful day forward, that would be elusive, tedious tasks. Loneliness and memories would occupy too much space, squeezing out the more mundane essentials of daily life. Her older sister, my mother, was away, finishing her studies, in college. Her brothers were married adults, miles away with their own families. Her mother was working non-stop to make ends meet. Not only did she lose a father, she came home to an empty house everyday wondering how she could continue to walk through the same door, re-live that moment and pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it always did. Behind the front door, during those quiet afternoons, a gremlin-like hunger for a love that could not be replaced was born.

Kate writes:

I came to Catharine’s class with the hope of finding my voice again, and I found so much more than that. In that first class two and a half years ago, we came together as strangers with a desire to tell our stories. With each session we encouraged each other with unconditional support and attention,  and we opened ourselves to each other and allowed our vulnerabilities to show in the safe and caring environment Catharine created. It was healing. Catharine’s guidance in my writing, along with the feedback from my classmates, has shown me the writer I can be.  I can see my own growth, but I find joy in the growth of my fellow writers as well. We have come so far together and achieved more than we thought possible. I am so fortunate to have found this class.

Scroll down or click HERE to read Kate’s essay at Memoir Magazine on being a girl with a body the world takes too much notice of too soon.

Walking Home

Memoir Magazine

Walking Home by Kate Zobel

October 1975 

3:30 PM 

I move along with the flow of students exiting New Ulm Junior High for the day. The speckled, stone floors of the old hallway amplify our footsteps and conversation, and the noise echoes against the rows of lockers.  I am wearing my cheerleading outfit – a short purple and white pleated skirt, a tight, itchy purple sweater with a big NU sewn on the front, and purple and white saddle shoes. We had a pep fest today over the lunch hour. My smooth, straight brown hair hangs to the small of my back. The golden highlights from too much time in the summer sun still linger. 

I pause just outside the doors and lift my face to this beautiful, warm autumn day, but my enjoyment doesn’t last long. I look around to make sure that Mark Peterson and Joe Swenson are nowhere in sight. They like to punch my chest as I walk past. They think it’s flirting. They also ride my bus. Too often I am trapped in my seat when they begin calling my name and suggesting I move back to sit with them amid the chuckles from some of the other kids. The bus driver pretends he doesn’t notice. I turn in the opposite direction from the bus zone to walk home. 

My house is only about a mile away, so the distance isn’t a problem, but I dread the attention. I am twelve years old and, between fifth grade and seventh grade, I have gone from flat-chested to a Double D cup. Some girls envy me, and gossip, but they don’t understand what it’s like — teachers that stare at my chest while they talk to me; boys who call out “Cadillac!” when I walk by (I am told it’s because Cadillacs have big bumpers); rumors that fly about who I went all the way with last weekend, though I have never even been kissed;  the Thompson triplets’ threats to beat me up because I did it with one of their boyfriends; high school boys who stop by our house after supper to flirt with me. I am confused. I may be twelve, but I look seventeen. In some ways I like feeling wanted. It is the mid-seventies, and the message society is sending to young girls is that your main value is your looks. You are supposed to be popular, to want a boyfriend, and to have lots of men notice you. You are also supposed to be sweet and not cause a fuss. At the same time, I am filled with fear. This attention is too aggressive, and I have no idea how to handle it. I shrink with bewilderment and self-loathing. My parents have noticed the way men and boys act around me, and they yell at me for calling too much attention to myself. It is my fault that these things happen. 

Now the walk home looms before me. For the first few blocks as I walk along Center Street, I feel mostly safe. The buses, cars and trucks move by quickly on the four-lane road, and the trees lining the street help to hide me from sight.  

When I reach Center Street hill and begin to climb though, there are no trees. Cars zoom past. A semi blows its horn. Cars full of high school kids fly by. From one of the cars, I hear “Tits!” shouted at me. I am entirely focused on the turn I will make halfway up the big hill. 

When I turn onto Summit Avenue, I begin another climb. I walk past the small, conservative Lutheran college above me. A few girls are sitting on the stairs or lounging on the hillside, but they ignore me.  This road leads home. It is also the road to the country club. I see a large white town car drive past, and then I hear the sound of it turning around behind me, and I brace. The Lincoln creeps beside me and keeps pace with me as the driver’s window glides down. I see a man in his fifties wearing a dark suit and tie. He has salt and pepper hair, and his jowly face is grinning at me. 

“Hi there, Honey,” He smirks. 

“Hi.” I have been raised to always be polite. Still, I don’t look at him, hoping he’ll drive on. 

“Hey . . . Hey, Baby – You want to go for a ride?” 

“ No.” I speed up, but he doesn’t go away. “No thank you.” And then, “No, please,” as the car continues to purr beside me. I stare straight ahead and push myself to an even faster pace. I am helpless. For several tense seconds he lingers. From the corner of my eye I can see that he has one arm propped across the top of the steering wheel. His other hand holds a cigarette near his lips. Suddenly the car revs and pulls away, and I feel lightheaded. I’m about four blocks from home.  

It is not always the men from the country club in the cars that creep beside me. Once it was a young man with long, curly, dark hair and a thin beard wanting me to go for a ride. He had a baby in a car seat in the back. 

Finally, finally, I turn into our driveway, and breathe in relief. I go inside and settle at the dining room table where I can focus on my homework. It is something I can excel at, and I am proud of my grades. Later I will sit at the piano and practice for my solo at the upcoming choir concert. I am good at that, too. I do my best to hold fast to the positive things about me. I am more than just my body. 

Still, my world is changing. I am not safe, I am not protected, and there is no help. 

Dear reader, I am sorry for the long silence on my blog entries. I have been busy channeling much of my creative energy into my work with students and clients and what is left into writing the next memoir.

So many exciting things are happening with my classes that I have decided to share some of them. First I want you to have a chance to read some of the stories that my students have had accepted for publication. I hope seeing the variety of content and platforms will inspire you, not only to write, but also to share YOUR work with the wider world.

The value of writing, for me, is in the act itself, far more than in being published. At the same time, having our words read and responded to can help us realize that we are indeed an important part of a global community and that our voices do matter. In the coming weeks, I will post links and short statements from featured writers I have the privilege of teaching.

Look for the next post coming soon.

Enjoy!