Cate Touryan writes short fiction, creative nonfiction, and novels that reach for the story beyond the story and for the beginning beyond The End. She writes for anyone who loves a good story well told, lacing her work with humor and heart.
Cate lives on California’s foggy but beautiful central coast with her husband, her Yorkie, and a rafter of turkeys—as in both a whole bunch of them and in the rafters.
Cate’s Creed
Whether writing for young adults or for adults still young, Cate Touryan strives to tell the truest story she can. Her writing often contains themes of faith, but these themes are usually one thread of a complex, realistic story meant to entertain and enrich. She does not write gratuitous violence or profanity, and any romantic elements remain clean, but neither does she falsely sanitize the real of the world.
If true that those who read live a thousand lives, as says George R.R. Martin, then it’s equally true that some of those lives might be different from our own. Cate invites you to journey through the lives of those she writes about to better uncover your own story beyond the story and an end with hope.
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About Cate
Other Writings
‘‘To be born Armenian is to become a remnant,” my grandfather once told me. I sat on his shoulders as we walked through the highlands. “What are remnants?” “Autumn flowers. The reds and browns of dead seasons.” He picked a flower, crushed the rusted petals, and held . . .
She lives next door, in a house where words vanish, the wind slipping through cracks to steal, sweeping syllables from the cobwebbed corners, shooing phrases out from behind gauzy drapes, stripping thoughts bare. She does not recognize the theft at first. A stumble, a pause. “What . . .
Within the pages of newspapers, spun across seemingly disparate facts, unseen threads spool out, span and tangle, weave stories that glisten into sight only rarely. And usually without poetic aesthetic. Take this: two items reported three months apart but occurring on the same . . .
The crash jolts me from my desk, the thwack and rattle of glass. A bird has collided with the window, perhaps a robin or mourning dove. I scan the balcony, the tree tops, the yard below. On the window, tufts of feathers quiver. I see . . .
Tribes crashed down the rocky slopes, a landslide of death. “Grandfather!” The boy gripped the gnarled hand. The old voice gurgled, a bayonet. “They cannot kill the soul.” A horse reared, the gendarme snatching the boy’s sister, slinging her to his saddle, and with her, locked . . .
Time ran out when the night faded and dawn crept into the bedchamber, slicing across the bride’s ashen face. “Take her!” the king shouts, though he need not, the story the same. Today the king will marry again. Tomorrow the bride will die. The only story he knows: a woman’s . . .
Dad said, “Do not look inside that place!” Every day on the way to school down the long boulevard, I walked by that place. The door was always closed. Every day on the way home from school, I walked by that place. The door . . .
The child on the doctor’s table lay motionless, her eyes wide, her breaths shallow, not unlike her father now, eighty years later, lying in a hospital bed, seeing again that dimly lit room. Now . . .
Against the window pounds the first winter storm of northern California, pelting rain, the rush of wind, a sharp crack. Tomorrow’s news will tell of downed power lines, toppled trees, a crumpled radio tower. But tonight, I sit curled in robe . . .
