Writing Certificate

 

Luanne Castle is the author of Scrap: Salvaging a Family: A Memoir in Flash, which explores the stain of childhood fear and anxiety on the adult spirit and the experience of reconciling with an aging or dying parent. A daughter has grown up in a household with an angry and abusive father, who keeps the secret of his biological father’s identity from his daughter for decades. When the elderly man faces his mortality, he finally names his father. The more the daughter learns about her father’s early life and origins, the more she understands him which leads to forgiveness for the past. 

Prior to publishing this memoir, Castle has published four award-winning poetry collections. In addition to completing the Memoir Writing Certificate at Stanford Continuing Studies, she studied English and Creative Writing at the University of California, Riverside (PhD), and Western Michigan University (MFA). She lives with her husband and three cats in Arizona, along a wildlife corridor.

EXCERPT 

I came home early from school on Friday and found Mommy crying on the closet floor while pretending to organize our hats and mittens. Yesterday, she gave me a yellow folder with the scissors and tape and Saturday’s newspaper. I cut out articles about the shooting while I listened to Peter, Paul, and Mary singing sad about flowers and bombs. This morning Daddy went to work, but I bet he’s at the donut shop watching the news on the old TV in the corner while he smokes Marlboros and drinks coffee. Last time I was in there with him, he and Jake, the owner, complained about the president. I’m not at school, though it’s Monday, because school is cancelled. I’m wound up after hearing so much about what happened Friday while I was spelling e-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-e-d-i-a on the spelling test, but I know the funeral’s today, so I sit cross-legged in front of the TV. Mommy has a different idea. She tells me to put on my jacket and go outside. I don’t want to go out, I tell her. It’s gray and chilly. I look out the front window, and there aren’t any kids out there. But Mommy forces my arms into my lightweight jacket and shoves me out the door, even with me pushing my weight back against her hands. I wander up the street, but every house is closed like squinched-tight faces. I find some unused caps next door, still dry, and pick them up. Then I go back to the house and, on my tippy toes, see Mommy watching TV though I can’t see the screen from this angle. She’s got the waterworks going again and dabbing at her face with Kleenex. Now she goes to the kitchen and comes right back with the phone on the long cord and curls up on the chair. I’m pretty sure she’s talking to Aunt Jean. I go back to the garage and get Dad’s good hammer. Then I pound every last one of the caps on the driveway so it sounds like the last shootout on earth. The gray sky helmets me in gloom and drizzle beads up on my jacket. Even that nasty Chow across the street isn’t outside today, and he’s always on his chain. I wonder if Daddy knows I’m locked outside. I sit on the front step and wait.
 

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Tracey Lange

Tracey Lange is the New York Times bestselling author of the novel, What Happened to the McCrays?, as well as We Are the Brennans and The Connellys of County Down. She was born and raised in New York City. She graduated from the University of New Mexico with a degree in psychology before owning and operating a behavioral healthcare company with her husband for fifteen years. She completed the Novel Writing Certificate at Stanford Continuing Studies, and currently lives in Bend, Oregon with her husband, two sons, and beloved German Shepherd. 

What Happened to the McCrays? is about a man who skips town, abandoning people who depended on him, whom he has to reckon with after returning to care for his suddenly ailing father. Full of love and hope, the novel takes an intimate look at both sides of a failed marriage and two people who must finally confront the awful pain of their past or risk being consumed by it.

EXCERPT

Kyle was sitting by himself at a small corner table in the back of the sub shop when the four teenaged boys walked in. There was no one else in the place except the young woman working behind the counter, the friendly one who’d put together his foot-­long turkey and cheese. Her name tag read amy, and she looked about the same age as the boys, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Too young to be working in a lonely eatery in a sketchy neighborhood by herself at night. Kyle had been extra polite to her when he ordered, pulled the cap off his longish sandy hair, and he’d left his jacket on in case a lot of arm tattoos made her nervous. Right after serving him she’d started prepping to close up. He glanced over now to see her shaking her head at the new customers, likely wishing she’d already locked the door.

His radar went on high alert. The kids were obviously intoxicated—unsteady on their feet, flushed faces, far too loud. But there was also a menacing aura to them, to the way they’d thrown open the door, the numerous f-­bombs and caustic laughter, how they yelled over each other and disregarded anyone around them. They were the kind of kids he had disliked even when he was their age. They all wore flat-­brimmed caps and expensive ski jackets and sneakers. Likely wealthy kids from the South Hill looking for trouble in downtown Spokane on a Wednesday night.

They stayed near the door, staring at phone screens and passing around an aluminum water bottle that no doubt contained something other than water. Kyle was done eating, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving Amy alone with them, so he stayed put, sipped his soda, and kept his head down. He had time before he had to leave for the airport for his red-­eye flight. Or flights, actually. It took stops in Seattle, Atlanta, and Washington, D.C., to finally get to Potsdam, New York, by tomorrow afternoon because it was so far upstate. Ask ten New Yorkers where upstate began and they might offer ten different answers, but they’d all agree Potsdam was as upstate as it gets.


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Jacquie Walters

Jacquie Walters’ second novel, Turn Off the Light, is a dual-timeline supernatural mystery. The narrative is told from two perspectives: Edith in 1630 and Claire in the present-day. They are living in the same house, though 400 years apart, on the isolated Eastern Shore of Virginia. In the excerpt that follows, Claire, a single mother, has recently returned home to help her sister, Tilly, care for their dying father. 

Walters is also the author of Dearest, and is an Emmy-nominated writer who has sold five pilots in the last three years. She is currently adapting Melissa de la Cruz's bestselling book series Blue Bloods for television and has placed projects at Apple TV+, ABC Network, Paramount Plus, iTV, CJ Entertainment, and others. In all, she has written and produced over 100 episodes of television. Walters graduated from the Novel Writing Certificate at Stanford Continuing Studies and is passionate about layered mysteries, psychological anomalies, and characters with everything to hide. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two children, and beloved Golden Retriever.

EXCERPT 

Claire thinks about her dad. The last time she saw him was when Julia was born; he flew to Los Angeles and slept on an air mattress for an entire week. He did little to care for the baby, but he cared for Claire with a kindness that makes her teary to think about now. Preparing her meals, warming up her coffee when it would inevitably sit cold for hours, washing burp cloths and dishes.

Not long after, he was diagnosed with dementia. Things deteriorated quickly. About a year ago, Tilly and Peter moved in to help care for him. And Claire, in the craziness of newborn life and then toddler life, had been in touch with her father only via a weekly FaceTime. No trips back to the East Coast, no support for Tilly in her new role as caretaker other than gifting her takeout and housekeeper services.

The sisters have grown apart. Lately, their conversations revolve solely around medical decisions and end-of-life logistics. The longer Claire is away from the Eastern Shore, the more she feels that life disappear. Like a rug that loses its color after years in the sun. A fading, a slow letting-go.

Which somehow makes it seem even harder to return. Going back is like stumbling for a light switch in the dark; in a room she doesn’t know; in a house she isn’t even sure has electricity at all.

 

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Jessie Weaver

Jessie Weaver’s second YA thriller, Lie Until It’s True, has been described as, “A Good Girl's Guide to Murder meets Knives Out.” To redeem herself, true crime TikToker Amanda Pruitt spends the summer in Colorado investigating a murder that seems open and shut. But when two crimes—one past, one present—intertwine, Amanda becomes the main suspect.

Before writing about flawed, funny teens with big hearts, Jessie Weaver spent ten years teaching them English. She completed the Novel Writing Certificate at Stanford Continuing Studies in 2019. Though she’s an East Coast girl at heart, originally from Baltimore, MD, she currently lives just outside Denver, Colorado with her husband and two daughters. 

EXCERPT

When the first shot rang out, followed by a shriek, Vince was in the fourth-floor hallway, close enough that the shot made his ears ring. His first instinct was to drop to the ground and cover his head like during a tornado drill at school. Instead, he ran to hide in the closest room, leaving the door open a crack so he had a view. From where he crouched behind the door, thin electric light from the ballroom and lobby spilled up the dark stairs, so the mirrors on the wall seemed lit from within.

He wasn’t sure why he was still playing Bloody Werewolf when his life was falling apart. He’d never argued with his mom like that. Or maybe that’s exactly why he couldn’t stop playing. The game was the game. Unlike life, it had rules, and he and his friends followed them.

It should have been dark outside, but through the window at the end of the hallway, the moon glinted off fresh snow so it became its own light source. Just enough that if he crept out of the room, someone might see him, and as much as he hated to admit it, after the shot, he was terrified.

Vince cursed under his breath. Who had screamed? Lillia? Mallory? Was someone hurt?

Below him, running feet pounded the stairs. Someone bolted past the closet door—one set of footsteps or two?—then a door creaked open.

Then, at 9:01 p.m., the second shot.

And in that moment, Vincent’s life splintered into Before and After.

 

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Roger Mills

Roger Mills is the author of the novel, Everything’s Under Control, which will be released by Bankroft Press this summer. Luke Mallory, an aging retired surgeon, divorced, then widowed, moves to an independent living facility after he’s laid off from his second-career consulting job. He loses his temper with a crooked lawyer, survives a near-fatal shooting, reconnects with his family, and finds happiness with an adopted Corgi and a new lady-friend. 

Mills graduated from Culver Military Academy, Amherst College, and the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine, and trained in internal medicine at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. After two years active duty in the Navy, he worked as a cardiologist for most of his career. His previous books include Nesiritide, The Rise and Fall of Scios, and a posthumous memoir assembled from the papers of his college friend and double sculls partner, Bernie Witholt, titled 240 Beats per Minute, Life with an Unruly Heart. 240 Beats is listed as an “Amazon Bestseller in Doctor-Patient Relations.”

EXCERPT 

Colby’s going to get a blister on his finger if he keeps twisting his wedding ring.

“So, how does Brookfields sound to you?” he asked.

“Like a disaster waiting to happen.” I said, taking a sip of my caramel-colored ice water.

“And this place isn’t?” he said. He raised an eyebrow and looked around, at the dog-scratched leather couch and well-worn oriental rugs.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I said.  

“Pops, You’re all alone here. Things go wrong all the time. It must cost you a bundle to keep this old house up, never mind insurance and taxes. If you move, Brookfields takes care of everything. You’ve got no worries about repairs, maintenance, none of those hassles. And you’ll have people around. People to talk to.” 

“Yes. And I’ll have to deal with those people. Including your mother.” 

He’s right. If I were honest, I would admit how lonely, abandoned, I feel in this house.

“You afraid of her?” He raised his eyebrows, surprised.

“No,” I said. “But I don’t think she would be happy to see me. She hates me. I mean, neither of you have forgiven me, but she hates me.” 

Of course I’m afraid of her. I’ve seen her angry. She makes Medusa look like the gracious hostess of the month in Martha Stewart Living. 

“Dad, you’re wrong!” Megan said. “She doesn’t hate you. She always asks about you. She wants to know how you’re getting along.”

“I’m afraid I can’t believe you,” I said. 

“It’s true.” She pulled her eyebrows together, forming twin vertical wrinkles on both sides of her nose. She’s done it since she was a kid. It’s a tell, for whenever she’s choosing her words carefully. “I mean, she says, as a couple, you two never learned to give and take. You got more bitter. She got more angry. She didn’t know any other way to get your attention.But she moved on. She and Dennis had a good life together, until, well….”

Megan’s exegesis of her parents’ emotional dynamics must have made Colby uncomfortable. He shifted toward me said, “Dad, you remember Grandma Betty?”