Interview with author Camy Tang

Welcome to my first-ever interview! I'm delighted to be able to spend a few
minutes with my friend, Camy Tang. I first met this woman at the Oregon Christian
Writers Conference last summer. She refers to herself as "that loud Asian chick"
and while that is true, I found her to be a warm, gracious lady.

Her second book,Only Uni, was recently released. I had the pleasure of reading it
last week. You have to realize that I'm a generation removed from Camy's target
audience, and yet I was still drawn into the story. The issues her main chaaracter
deals with are very real and gritty. And like any good book, the tension builds
as the story unfolds, leading to a satisfying ending.

If your name couldn't be Camy, what would you want it to be and why?

Confession time: when I was young, fanciful, and reading lots of
Sci-Fi/Fantasy novels, I wanted my name to be Silver. I really don't
know why except for the fact I liked have a V in my name and I like
the color silver, although I hated how it tarnishes.


How do you see your characters when you write? Do you find pictures
in magazines of what you want them to look like or do you see them
walking around in your head?

I don't actually visualize them, I usually see them as a certain
personality or even as a certain song. For example, for my character
Trish, I don't think of her as a visual picture--instead I see her
dancing around to the song, "Brave" by Nichole Nordeman.



I love the way you can write a humorous, chik-lit book and yet address
deep issues. Do you know what issue(s) you're dealing with before you
start writing, or do they just develop on their own?

The issues come out of the characters themselves, and I developed all
the characters before the first book in the series was even written.
The only issues that are more personal are probably Trish's issues
with liking herself and reclaiming who she is. Lex and Venus's issues
aren't really from my personal experience--they're more from what each
character is like and what their fears and weaknesses are.

Where's your favorite place to go or thing to do to relax?
My bed. When I got married, we got this nice futon bed with cherrywood
frame and a luscious down comforter. We also have an electric blanket
with dual control, and my side usually gets turned on more often than
my husband's. LOL. I love sitting in bed to read or write on my
computer.


If you were stranded on a deserted island, who would you want with
you--me or Christina? (Captain Caffeine is not an option!)

Hmmm, tough choice! I'd probably live longer if you were with me, but
Christina and I would giggle a lot together. No, but Christina's prone
to ACL injuries like I am, so if we both tore our ACLs, we'd
definitely die--so I'll choose Sherrie!

Good answer! Good answer! You should be on Family Feud. Thanks for
stopping by, Camy. It's always good to talk to you.

Readers, go out and buy a copy of Only Uni then settle in for a
good read.

The Lonely Walk

"No matter how many good friends I had, there were aspects of my life I needed to deal with alone - heart issues and attitudes that could not be wrestled with in a Bible study...They had to be confronted by the Holy Spirit in the privacy of my own soul."

~ "A Glimpse of Grace" by Mary Forsythe (with Beth Clark)~

I appreciated this quote I read the other morning on ShoutLife friend Bonnie Winter's site. It instantly brought to remembrance the months of soul darkness I experienced about ten years ago.

I had it all--a loving husband, grown children who were happily married, a job, an active role in the church where my husband pastored, a beautiful home. But something was missing. Something gnawed at me from the inside out, and the dark pit of depression swallowed me up.

I began to doubt the existence of God (and remember, I was a pastor's wife) and His work in my life. I lost joy in my family, job, church, and life in general. Desolation overwhelmed me. My husband gave up his pastorate, telling me I was his main ministry. But even that was not enough. I quit my job, thinking the stress of managing an Alzheimer's unit was the cause of my despair. If anything, things just got worse.

My turnaround came when I spent time by myself. We were empty-nester's by then, so I made one bedroom into my sanctuary. Only I was allowed in there. I wasn't interested in reading the Bible at the beginning of my journey, but spent hours reading through a book my Christian counselor recommended, journaling, and crying. Lots of crying. It was during those weeks of finding out who I really was on the inside, rather than what I portrayed to others, that the hard work of the soul was accomplished. I began to see that my Christian life was tied up with trying to earn approval from God and other people, rather than just resting in the mercy and grace of Christ.

Once I got that figured out the depression lifted. I now try to not accept responsibilities simply to please others, but to do ministry if I believe that is what the Lord is asking me to do. I'm living in freedom.

But as the opening paragraph stated, there was work that had to be done in private in order to have an authentic life to be lived in public. How thankful I am that the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus provides all I need to live in security rather than scrambling to earn God's favor.

Stick It To Me!

Those of you who were readers of my blogspot postings before I joined ShoutLife know that in October I started acupuncture treatments. I won't post the picture again of a foot being invaded by needles, as it made some people a wee bit queasy!

I sought out this alternative medicine due to decades of insomnia and Restless Leg Syndrome, as well as developing peripheral neuropathy in my feet a few years ago. Medication helped with the first two conditions, but was very expensive as our insurance doesn't cover them.

Acupuncture treatments became part of my schedule once a week for the first couple of months, but then I was able to lengthen it to two weeks between sessions. I'm here to say I've had fantastic results with the insomnia and restless legs and rarely have to use any medication. The neuropathy has been more resistent, but at least it hasn't got any worse.

I was very sad when my acupuncturist left her practice in January. But her replacement, Dr. Lise Harrington, has been awesome. Not only does she load me up with needles, but also does chiropractic adjustments and massage! It's like a one-stop, full-service office visit. When she's through working on me I feel like I'm just a melted mass of relaxation and can hardly slip off the treatment table and drive home!

Who me? Housebroken?

This past weekend I had the privilege of being the retreat speaker for the women of my church. We journeyed over to a beautiful beach house on the Oregon coast. The view was spectacular, with nothing but a little sand between us and the ocean. Thirty of us gathered together as we learned more about how to tame our emotions. Have you ever wondered if that's even possible?

As women, we have a myriad of emotions to deal with, including those brought on by PMS or peri-menopause. The dictionary defines tame as "reduced from a state of native wildness especially so as to be useful to man." And don't our emotions sometimes make us feel like we're in a state of native wildness? Where we have this primal urge to go running through the jungle (or down your block) screaming at the top of your lungs?

The thesaurus gives other word possibilities such as subdued, submissive, harmless, civilized, and housebroken. Housebroken? That's really not such a bad idea. When you have a puppy or kitten that's not housebroken, what do you end up with? Yep, and we can do the same thing when we're not housebreaking our emotions. We can leave stinky, messy piles of anger or discontent or worry in the corners of our house. Other people may not even be aware of them, but if they spend much time with us, the stench will show up.

We spent time looking at the topics of fear, worry, depression, disappointment, and anger. These all interact and often one leads to the other and we end up in a vicious cycle. It was exciting to remind these women that we always have a choice to make--either going by our feelings or by the truth of God's word.

Wacky, Wonderful, Writer's Weekend

What a fun weekend we had when multi-published author Donna Fleisher (middle of back row) put together a writer's weekend for a small group of us. In the back row, left to right, you see me, Donna, and Miriam Cheney. Across the front row is Kristen Johnson, my daughter Christina Berry, and Judy Gann. We stayed in a lovely suite at the Sandcastle Beachfront Motel in Lincoln City, OR, about ninety minutes from where Christina and I live. Poor Donna lives right across the street from the motel, with the boring view of crashing ocean waves always available from her living room window! It's a shame the way some people have to suffer!

Our weekend consisted of talking about the various aspects of writing, eating, talking about how we'd eaten too much, critiquing some chapters, eating, complaining about how full we were, sharing life stories, seeing anew God's presence in the whole writing process, eating...

There is something special that happens when a group of authors get together. It must be that quirkiness gene one needs as a writer, and non-writers just don't quite understand us. They don't get what makes us tick and why we're so driven to pursue this life. (Sometimes I wonder myself!)

It was an invigorating weekend, while at the same time, relaxing. You don't often get that combination. Here's to many more such occasions.

The Final Goodbye

My heartfelt thanks to those of you who have expressed sympathy at the loss of my dear mother-in-law two weeks ago. Your email notes, cards, and prayers have meant a lot.

Mom would have been pleased with her going away party. She had lived most of her life in Phoenix, AZ, until we brought her to Oregon three years ago when her Alzheimer's became so bad. She was laid to rest back in AZ beside her first husband, John's dad.

We were surprised at how many elderly friends of hers came out to the viewing that Monday evening. Most of them were from her old church, which has now disbanded because they had no young blood to carry on. They said the only time they get together now is at funerals. Sad.

I was moved watching my grandkids walk through the whole ritual of death. Both Andrea and Joshua were able to be in Mom's room and watch the proceedings when the mortuary came to remove her body. Not many American children are able to experience the reality of death at that level. They were in Phoenix for the viewing and then the graveside service the following day, sorrow evident in their tears and demeanor. This is something they will not forget.

John was strong as he arranged flights for the extended family to get to Phoenix, rented a house that all fifteen of us could stay at, and officiated at his mother's service. But I was glad to see him be emotional at times, not trapped in his role as her pastor, but able to experience it as her son.

This past Sunday we led a memorial service for her at the care facility here in Oregon. We were touched by the number of staff who came in on their day off to participate in honoring her life, who shared memories of their time with her. They don't often get a chance to say a final goodbye to residents they lose, so we were blessed to provide that opportunity to them.

This has been my first experience with the loss of someone so close to me. I know I've been fortunate in that respect. It has given me an even greater appreciation for salvation, family, and faith. That's a good thing.

Safe in the Arms of Jesus

Tuesday, January 15--The call comes during breakfast. John answers it, only to find his mother is non-responsive. They think we'd better come. The day is spent at her bedside, watching for any signs of improvement, but seeing none.

And the morning and the evening were the first day.

Wednesday, January 16th--Her frail shoulders rise in quick, shallow jerks with each gurgly breath. Her ninety-one-year-old cheeks glow a soft pink, the color naturally applied by the brush stroke of fever. Her eyes are closed, always closed.

"Mom, we're here. John and I are here." Our kisses elicit no response. I stroke her hand, the skin on the back of it tissue-thin, barely protecting the veins that form the relief map of the life she's lived.

Thus begins Day 2.

Thursday, January 17th--It's 2 AM and the vigil continues. She's working hard for each breath as she enters her third day of actively dying. Each exhalation sounds frothy--like a child blowing milk bubbles through a straw. Her lower cheeks are sunken around her mouth, giving her the high cheekbones of a model.

And that's what she is. The model of a godly Christian woman walking the final steps down the runway of this disease called Alzheimer's. She has walked it with grace, never losing her trust in God, love of family, or sweetness of character.

Sweet. That's the refrain that has run through each story the caregivers and hospice nurses have shared with me these past two days. "She is the sweetest lady I've ever known." "She's always so sweet. Not a mean bone in her body."

They are all shocked by the sudden change in her health. One by one, or sometimes in groups of three, they come to love on her. They gently bathe her, carefully reposition her arms and legs, and cover her face with kisses. "I love you, Marjory," I hear them whisper before they leave.

Hours pass. A thin hint of daylight sneaks through the fog outside as the thin hint of her spirit lingers in the room. When will it happen--that nanosecond when she leaves our presence and is immediately in His?

She tip-toes through yet another day, her footsteps so light they can hardly be heard, her spirit poised on the edge of eternity, patiently waiting for her body to catch up.

Family has once again been in to tell her goodbye; to spend precious hours with her. They reluctantly leave for home. I alone am left to stay at her side throughout the night. Her breathing, though still rapid, quiets. I scoot the chair as close to her bed as possible, place my head on a pillow next to hers, my hand resting on her shoulder. Surely I will feel if there's a change. Thirty minutes later I awake with a start, realizing the noise in the hall is louder than any Mom is making. I go around to the other side of the bed to make certain my suspicion is valid. Only her shell remains.

I tell her once again what a precious woman she is to me; what a wonderful mother-in-law she has been. I make phone calls to family before leaving the room to inform the staff of her passing. I listen to Beethoven for the next hour as I sit beside her, my palm resting on her cooling forehead. I hold myself together. It's not until an hour later, at 1:08 AM, that the tears come, brought on by the simple action of me removing a pillow from under her legs.

I place a praise CD in the player and cry through every song, the words impacting me in a different way than ever before. When I think of Mom standing in the very presence of God, gazing into the eyes of Jesus, it's almost more than I can bear. There's such an intensity to my sense of awe at what she is experiencing.

I sit beside her for eight hours, continually resting my hand on her forehead. Through the tears I talk to her as I have for the past three days. My pain is outweighed by joy, but nevertheless, very real. I will miss her. I already do.

Through the window I see the rest of the family pulling into the parking lot, ready for one last visit before her body is removed. As I leave her room to meet them I turn to say, "Now you're the 'you' you've never been, but were always created to be."

Her life has been a gift to me and all who knew her.

In loving memory of
Marjory Ashcraft Peterson
October 25, 1916--January 18, 2008