Developing a Writing Life By Evelyn Kohl LaTorre

My parents had five children in rapid succession within the space of nine years. Living in a house with so many youngsters meant unending chores and responsibility for all of us, but especially for me, the eldest. My mother expected me to help cook and clean—and adhere to the many rules of the Catholic church to set a good example for my siblings. I think she hoped I might turn out as holy as the saints in the story books she read to us before bedtime each night. So, Mom didn’t approve when I veered from the righteous path and began writing about my sins in my memoirs.

In my early years, Mama read to us weeknights from The Lives of the Saints. I shivered as she read gory stories about martyrs. Visions of Saint Catherine of Siena starving herself or Saint Sebastian bleeding from arrows stuck into his bare chest, flooded my mind. I’d jump into bed and huddle under the covers for fear I’d see the ghosts of tortured saints milling about my dark room. Though Mama’s readings didn’t transform me into her ideal daughter, they did stimulate my imagination and instill a love of the written word. Reading and writing stories filled my early life.

In first grade I couldn’t wait to discover what new adventure Dick, Jane, and little Sally would have with their dog Spot. In later years, I absorbed the lessons of Aesop’s Fables that my teachers held as morals to live by—like “never give up” from The Tortoise and the Hare and “there’s always a way” from The Dog and The Shadow. When assigned to write my own story, I imagined a witch who hid in the rolling Montana hills we drove by on our way church each Sunday. Pioneers and witches populated the narratives I wrote.  In high school I won first, second, and third prize for three free verse poems I created about nature. Teachers read my tales in front of my English classes. My successes encouraged me to continue writing.

When I lived in Ismay, Montana in the 1950s, the only TV reception for the town’s 300 residents consisted of one snowy black-and-white channel. The programs about cowboys fighting Indians didn’t hold my interest. My hunger for story was fed by the classic movies like Singin’ in the Rain and High Noon, projected onto a small screen Sunday night in the school auditorium. I could also be found with my ear glued to the radio listening to the exciting plots of Sky King, One Man’s Family, or The Aldrich Family.  I rarely missed an episode. 

For several summers, to keep us entertained, my mother convinced the principal of the local school to open the library to my siblings and me. There, I read scores of masterpieces like Wuthering Heights, Ivanhoe, and The Robe. Novels that took place in other countries captivated my imagination. When I attended high school in a Montana town of 9,000, I had the city library at my disposal. I always had a book checked out—usually written by Samuel Shellabarger. A favorite was Captain from Castile that transported me to Spain.

In college, I wrote academic papers, which required research and logical treatises. When I studied for advanced degrees in social work and psychology, I composed practical papers. Completing a doctoral dissertation in multicultural education required several years of scholarly writing. As a result, when I retired and decided to pen a book about my early life, the first creations sounded pedantic. Stating and proving a thesis didn’t work for a memoir. To learn how to write readable narratives, I attended scores of workshops that taught the craft of dialogue and scene-writing and joined critique groups for feedback on my compositions.

I’d kept diaries in high school and journals when I lived in the Peruvian Andes in the Peace Corps. Besides critical incidents, my accounts listed the cost of items I purchased—a pair of heels, a bus trip, or food from the marketplace. Too rarely, I noted my feelings. Upon retirement, for the first time, I read these early records. Old sentiments came rushing back. I discovered a goldmine of memories to explore.  Recollections flooded in from my unconscious and my fingers typed out my adventures. 

My first memoir, Between Inca Walls, answers the question: How does a young woman go from wanting to be a nun to becoming pregnant before marriage? It relates stories of my upbringing in Montana and California and volunteer work in Mexico and Peru.  My mother and I disagreed about my desire to write about my peccadillos. She didn’t want the world to see and judge me—and her. Her fears were not my fears. The deeper I dug into my past, the more the burden of shame for the religious violations I’d committed lifted from my shoulders. The process felt like a cleansing. Mom passed away a year before Between Inca Walls was published, so didn’t experience my book’s favorable reception. By today’s liberal mores the memoir is not as embarrassing as my mother believed it would be, but it is truthful.

The second memoir, Love in Any Language, asks: How does a shotgun wedding turn into a bulletproof marriage?  I didn’t have journals to guide me for this book. But I discovered Christmas letters I’d written over the past 40 years that listed the highlights of each year. These yearly summaries helped me recall significant events from the past. I had saved employment stubs, old passports, letters, and assorted memorabilia that helped me weave together the threads of my life after my 1966 wedding in Peru. 

Having written the first memoir, developing a second one was easier and faster. The first book took me fourteen years to write and publish. The second one took a year. 

A third project about my travels in some 100 foreign countries is in progress. I have journals that will help me remember the highs and lows of living and loving from Africa to New Zealand. Writing is a satisfying habit that I don’t want to stop.

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EVELYN KOHL LaTORRE grew up in rural Southeastern Montana, surrounded by sheep and cattle ranches, before coming to California with her family at age 16. She holds a doctorate in multicultural education from the University of San Francisco, and a master’s degree in social welfare from UC Berkeley. She worked as a bilingual school psychologist and school administrator in public education for 32 years. Evelyn loves to explore other lands and cultures. To date, she and her husband have lived in and traveled to close to 100 countries. You can view her stories and photos on her website, www.evelynlatorre.com.

Evelyn’s first published book, “Between Inca Walls” about falling in love while serving in the Peace Corps, has won much praise and numerous prizes. Evelyn is often a featured podcast guest, lecturer and guest blogger. Her work has appeared in World View Magazine, The Delta Kappa Gamma Bulletin, the California Writers Club Literary Review, the Tri-City Voice, Dispatches, Conscious Connection and Clever Magazine.

Love in Any Language: A Memoir of a Cross-cultural Marriage

Love across cultures is tested when Antonio, a penniless university student, and Evelyn, a strong-willed Peace Corps volunteer, succumb to their attraction to one another at the end of her two-year commitment in Peru and Evelyn gets pregnant. Deeply in love, the twenty-three-year-olds marry in Cusco—and decide to begin their married life in Northern California.

Evelyn, like most wives of the ’60s and ’70s, expects her husband to support their family. And Antonio tries to take his place as head of the household, but he must first learn English, complete college, and find an adequate job. To make ends meet, Evelyn secures full-time positions, leaving their infant son in the care of others, and they both go on to attend college—she for two years, he for six. Then Antonio is offered a full-time professorship at the university he attended in Peru, and he takes it—leaving Evelyn a single parent. Parenthood, financial stress, the pull of both countries, and long visits from Antonio’s mother threaten to destroy the bonds that brought them together.

Clear-eyed and frank, Love in Any Language illustrates the trials and joys in the blending of two cultures.

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Category: On Writing