Julie Herman
Julie Wray Herman lives on a small organic farm outside Houston, TX, where she and her ever-patient husband ride herd on the ever-shifting population of the farm. At last count they had two retired quarter horse mares AKA the Lawn Goldfish, six laying hens, two indoor cats who desperately want to be jungle kitties, and the creature that lurks in the pond. Julie serves as a Chief Horse Management Judge for the United States Pony Clubs. Julie is an active member of SCBWI, MWA, SinC, and the Southern Literary Coalition and is a past board member of Writespace. She is currently enrolled at Vermont College of Fine Arts to pursue her MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults. Find her online at MysteryGarden.com.
Recommended Books for Aspiring Writers:
Teaching Philosophy
Each of us has stories worth the telling--all we need is a solid set of tools with which to craft the tale. I am a lifelong learner, attending at least one conference and class a year—often more if the budget allows. Being in the room with fellow writers fills up my energy well. I find that teaching is an extension of my learning. Often, the classroom is a place where students brings in an unexpected way of looking at something that breaks me out of a creative rut. I teach with a combination of lecture and active writing time. This allows a student to bring the lesson in through their fingers. Nothing makes me happier than to see a student’s inner light bulb spring to life when they “get” a concept. Houston has a strong, vibrant writing community. From the genre-specific organizations to community author groups to Writespace and InPrint, we are truly fortunate to have such a wealth of resources for emerging and experienced writers alike. I am especially honored to be involved with Writespace, where we actively include all genres of writing and the universal tools they provide us.
Excerpt from Julie's novel Burned
The crisp air of the late Maryland spring brushed my cheeks as I cued Cricket for her left canter lead. Making a balanced turn in the corner, I sighted on the freshly painted blue and green jump in the middle of the arena.
"Oxer," I called out to let everyone know which obstacle we planned to take.
Another rider circled to get out of our way. Cricket took it clear. It was only two foot-six, and the spread between the poles was not very wide. The size didn't matter. My heart beat faster every time I let go of everything but that one moment: the even strides into the jump, the pure joy of flying through the air on this amazing chestnut mare, and the rush of landing safely on the other side.
As we approached the next jump I mentally crossed my fingers. For some reason Cricket thought blue plastic barrels would eat her. Three of them lay on their side under the rail. Two strides out, the mare shifted her weight. A trickle of acid hit my stomach. Deep breath. Right rein tug-and-release to steer Cricket back into the jump.
"Stay straight." I heard myself say out loud.
And even had a chance to think it would work.
Then Cricket shied hard. My hope for a clear round dissolved into slow motion disaster. The impact with the jump threw me forward onto Cricket's mane.
The world went sideways.
Cricket screeched to a halt. I made like a monkey, clinging to the underside of her neck. I lowered my feet to the ground, glad I hadn't kissed the dirt this time. My mare's neck felt warm and scratchy under my fingers as I patted her neck to reassure us both that we were okay.
"You're getting better at falling with style, Sophie," my trainer, Queenie Ashe, said.
Recommended Books for Aspiring Writers:
- The Magic Words by Cheryl B. Klein
- Nate the Great by Marjorie Weinman Sharmat
- Clementine by Sara Pennypacker
- The Magnificent Mya Tibbs by Crystal Allen (Any of this series.)
- Song for a Whale by Lynne Kelley
Teaching Philosophy
Each of us has stories worth the telling--all we need is a solid set of tools with which to craft the tale. I am a lifelong learner, attending at least one conference and class a year—often more if the budget allows. Being in the room with fellow writers fills up my energy well. I find that teaching is an extension of my learning. Often, the classroom is a place where students brings in an unexpected way of looking at something that breaks me out of a creative rut. I teach with a combination of lecture and active writing time. This allows a student to bring the lesson in through their fingers. Nothing makes me happier than to see a student’s inner light bulb spring to life when they “get” a concept. Houston has a strong, vibrant writing community. From the genre-specific organizations to community author groups to Writespace and InPrint, we are truly fortunate to have such a wealth of resources for emerging and experienced writers alike. I am especially honored to be involved with Writespace, where we actively include all genres of writing and the universal tools they provide us.
Excerpt from Julie's novel Burned
The crisp air of the late Maryland spring brushed my cheeks as I cued Cricket for her left canter lead. Making a balanced turn in the corner, I sighted on the freshly painted blue and green jump in the middle of the arena.
"Oxer," I called out to let everyone know which obstacle we planned to take.
Another rider circled to get out of our way. Cricket took it clear. It was only two foot-six, and the spread between the poles was not very wide. The size didn't matter. My heart beat faster every time I let go of everything but that one moment: the even strides into the jump, the pure joy of flying through the air on this amazing chestnut mare, and the rush of landing safely on the other side.
As we approached the next jump I mentally crossed my fingers. For some reason Cricket thought blue plastic barrels would eat her. Three of them lay on their side under the rail. Two strides out, the mare shifted her weight. A trickle of acid hit my stomach. Deep breath. Right rein tug-and-release to steer Cricket back into the jump.
"Stay straight." I heard myself say out loud.
And even had a chance to think it would work.
Then Cricket shied hard. My hope for a clear round dissolved into slow motion disaster. The impact with the jump threw me forward onto Cricket's mane.
The world went sideways.
Cricket screeched to a halt. I made like a monkey, clinging to the underside of her neck. I lowered my feet to the ground, glad I hadn't kissed the dirt this time. My mare's neck felt warm and scratchy under my fingers as I patted her neck to reassure us both that we were okay.
"You're getting better at falling with style, Sophie," my trainer, Queenie Ashe, said.