Isabelle Gecils will be awarding a $30 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.
TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF.
What was your first book?
Leaving Shangrila: The True Story of a Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape is my debut memoir.
Describe your first break.
The prologue of Leaving Shangrila, which is also the excerpt for this visit, was the first turning point in my life. Having been the last pick on any sports team I was on, I dreamt about one day being chosen first. That dreamed seemed elusive when all my strategies to achieved them did not get me very far. But then circumstances led to a reframing. I played a different position, more suited for my skills. Was the first time I deeply longed for something that came true. That moment was so powerful in my story, that not only it is Leaving Shangrila’s first chapter, but also a mantra that I adopted for myself when at first I don’t succeed when I truly desire something. I ask myself “how can I become a goalie in this situation?” That is, there are often multiple paths to an outcome. It is just sometimes hard at first to figure out what it is.
What is your favorite genre to read? To write?
For entertainment purposes, I love historical fiction. That is, I enjoy more than just an entertaining story, I love to learn something when I read. That was true of my most recent reads, such as the Nightingale, that provided detailed information about life during WWII. More recently however, I read many book that would loosely be categorized in self-help. These are research projects that are grounded in real life. Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman is a fantastic example of that. I read it both for the information it provided, but assessed my life and my own level of emotional intelligence.
For writing, I believe memoir is the best option for me. I often said that if I had set out to write a fictional story about a girl growing up in a remote farm in Brazil, I would not have come up with half of the life events that actually happened to me. I often used the expressions “you just can’t make this stuff up.”
Are Happy Endings are must in your stories?
Because I write about life events that happened to me or people I know, I would much rather have happy endings. But the truth is, happy endings can be important where life lessons are part of the message. By definition, a memoir (or any story) requires some drama, or plot twist. If not, what would be the interest to the author in writing it and to the reader in reading it? Having said that, having the ability to overcome adversity gives a satisfying end to what can be a harrowing story. It is the ultimate triumph of good over evil. That is why I believe many movies end up with happy endings, it would not be satisfying without it (there are many, many exceptions to this). But an author’s job I believe is to evoke feelings in their readers. Happy ends (where they are true), achieve that.
What makes a protagonist interesting?
A relatable one. That is, one where the reader can see themselves in some aspect of the character. It makes them human, whether they are supposed to be emblems of good or evil. And even the evilest of characters has some redeeming qualities about them, usually.
What is the best thing about being a writer?
Having the ability to reach so many people. In my day job, I am a consultant. My reports have a limited audience, typically with a very narrow focus on an immediate, short term problem. But writing a book, that readers relate to and embrace, at all corners of the world, that is the best feeling.
What is the worst thing?
No matter how great the writing or the story, there are just some readers who do not relate to some part of it. And that’s OK, actually. I always say, what would be of yellow if everyone liked blue? But the issue when criticism is a reflection that the they were not the target audience for the story, rather than some inherently wrong with the writing or the story.
What do you see the direction of your future writing taking? What can we expect next? Give us a little taste.
I felt a strong calling to write Leaving Shangrila, and not necessarily a calling to become a “writer.” I am so humbled and honored to have gotten to this point, and to the warm welcome and positive feedback associated with this project. I hope to use this as a platform to help others. To give people the strength to overcome adversity, even when it seems that no one in the world will help them. To give others the courage to intervene and ask questions if they witness a situation that looks and/or feels wrong. Who knows? They may be helping defenseless people to find their voice or to extricate them from a bad situation.
JUST FOR FUN
Cat or dog person?
I thought for sure I was a dog person. I had a yellow lab, who I called my first baby, who I loved as any of the closest people in my life. But then my younger son developed an allergy to dogs. We had to give her up (that was sad). We were pet free for years, until my sons asked again that we have pets. So we went to a shelter and rescue a polydactyl cat: this breed has extra toes, so his paws are huge relative to his body. Now he is family. So that makes me a pet person!
Blueberries. The ripe ones from early season. I could eat them endlessly.
I have a few favorites… but if I have to choose one, it will be the one I watched the most, which is Mamma Mia. I love the message of girl power underlying the movie, the search for something that is missing, but then figuring out all along that you already have all you really need.
I honestly don’t think I have one. I appreciate them all! Mostly because holidays are a time that I get to spend with family, doing something fun and relaxing. My life can get so hectic with my day job, writing and now promoting Leaving Shangrila, taking my sons to all their activities and engaging in their lives. Holidays are a chance to slow down and just enjoy the moment.
Would you rather be the princess or the villain? Why?
Must I choose? In writing Leaving Shangrila, I took great care to not portray myself as neither a victim nor a hero (not the same as a princess or a villain… but close). Every princess has a little bad side to them, and every villain has a little spark. But because I truly embrace living a life as honestly as I can, I suppose I’d have to choose Princess. But a low-maintenance one.
Who has more fun, orcs or hobbits?
Honestly, I think neither… orcs don’t appear to have feelings and are mindlessly conducting somebody else’s plan that don’t take them into account. Hobbits have to fight so hard for respect. But if I had to choose, I’d prefer to be a hobbit.
by Isabelle Gecils
Leaving Shangrila: The True Story of A Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape by Isabelle Gecils, is the captivating memoir of a charmingly complex heroine.
Isabelle paints a colorful world as she tells the tale of how she forged her own path in the midst of turmoil. The story, set in Brazil where she grew up, is populated with fascinating characters, both good and bad. From a narcissistic mother to her perpetually flawed lovers to three resilient sisters, Leaving Shangrila’s motley crew make for an endlessly intriguing storyline.
Leaving Shangrila begins with young Isabelle, trapped in a hellish world. Surrounded by lies, manipulation, and abuse, Isabelle is desperate to escape the adversity of this place. Filled with tremendous strength and an unyielding drive to survive, she begins her journey toward freedom and self-realization. Through the trials and obstacles along the way, Isabelle goes back and forth to balance who she is with what she must do to survive.
With themes of perseverance, self-reliance, and the resilience of the human spirit, Leaving Shangrila: The True Story Of A Girl, Her Transformation and Her Eventual Escape highlights the important character traits one discovers on the path to finding their self. Truly empowering and inspirational, readers everywhere will relate to this coming of age story.
My entire class staged a school play, except that, unlike everybody else, I watched it rather than act in it. Joining the theater troop required almost daily rehearsals at one of my classmates’ lavish colonial homes near school. I was not invited to join the group. They already knew I would not come.
At the school grounds, my classmates cracked jokes about what happened during their afternoons together. They perched on one another as they traded stories and exchanged hugs. I heard about the English classes they took after school, their boat trips around the bays of Rio de Janeiro, the excited chatter that accompanied field trips I was never allowed to join. When the entire class decided to spend a lightly chaperoned weekend in Cabo Frio, a town with white, sandy beaches and coconut trees lining the boardwalks, my jealousy meter spiked. For two months, that is all anyone talked about. Since I did not even receive an invitation, nobody spoke with me.
I felt lonely observing them. I longed to be as adored as were the two most popular girls in my class: Isabela and Flavia. Isabela, despite the discolored white spots all over her skin due to type 1 diabetes, was the reigning queen. The boys swooned over Flavia, two years older than the rest of us although she repeated third and fifth grade due to her poor academic performance.
I observed these two girls, searching for what it was about them that made them special. Yes, they were both beautiful. While their beauty may have helped with their popularity, it surely was not the main factor, as there were other pretty girls too. I decided that what they had in common, what nobody else had, was that they were the best athletes in my class, even perhaps the best in all of the school.
Isabela and Flavia were always the ones everybody wanted to have on their team and as their friend. They were either team captain or the first pick. They seemed to try harder than everybody else. So I thought that if I truly focused on sports, then I could be just like them. If only I could excel on the handball field—as girls did not play soccer, despite the madness surrounding the most popular sport in Brazil—then maybe, just maybe, my social standing could change too. I made a plan. One day, I would be just as great as these two. One day, I would be chosen first.
At the beginning of each week, the P.E. teacher assigned two captains. They, in turn, each picked a team for the week. We played handball on Tuesdays, volleyball on Thursdays. And every week, for the past three years, I was the captain’s last, grudgingly chosen pick. I knew why. Had I been captain, I would have chosen myself last too.
I did not score any goals in handball. My throws were either too weak or out of bounds. Knowing this, my team did not bother passing the ball to me. I spent the game playing defense, barely succeeding at blocking the other team’s powerhouse players as they demolished the team I was on. When an opponent charged towards me dribbling the ball, I got out of the way. In volleyball, I removed my thick glasses for fear they’d be broken, and as a result, I could not see the ball coming to hit me in the face.
I did not particularly enjoy playing sports. However, to change my standing in the team-selection pecking order, I practiced with a purpose. During games, I became more aggressive. I wore my glasses. I reached for the goal, whereas before I simply stood on the sidelines. I blocked more aggressively too—even if it meant pulling my opponent’s shirt or hair—no matter that this often led to a penalty against my team. During these early weeks, I returned home with two broken eye glasses, earned a couple of red cards, and made my teammates angry.
At home, after completing my homework, I begged my two sisters to play ball with me. They did play, but not for long. When they grew tired, I threw the ball against the wall, attempting to increase my arm strength. When my arms felt tired, I ran around the farm to increase my speed and reflexes by dodging a pretend ball. At night, as I drifted to sleep, I prayed silently so that my sisters would not hear me plead: “God, please, make me be chosen first.”
As weeks turned into months, I became quite adept at catching the ball as it ricocheted from the wall towards me. I was no longer chosen last. That horrible fate was bestowed on a shy and almost as awkward classmate who had the extra disadvantage of being overweight, which slowed her down compared to me; I was slight and scrawny. Yet, despite months of effort, I did not score any more than before, did not throw the ball any harder or more accurately, and hardly touched the ball at all. Since I often increased the penalty count with my new, more aggressive tactics, the coach had me sit out whenever there was an odd number of players.
A year into this futile attempt, I felt a deep sense of disappointment but realized the foolishness of pursuing an utterly impossible dream. Maybe one had to be content with their lot in life, I concluded. Any attempts to try to change who one was, or what one wanted, were futile. Feeling defeated and deflated and knowing that, despite any effort, the sports court was not a place for me, I talked myself out of my goal. I stopped practicing in the afternoons. I removed my glasses again during games. I accepted that I was not meant to be popular and that the world where my classmates lived did not belong to me.
I hated my life. I hated going home where there was nothing to do and nobody to play with. I hated how different we were—with our round house, with our religious meetings, with our inability to do anything other than go to school. Not knowing what to do to change any of it, I returned to my routine, finding friendship in books and getting all my validation from my grades.
Two months later, I felt sick.
My head and muscles hurt; my nose was running; and I coughed uncontrollably. I barely slept. My mother suggested I stay home. No matter how sick I felt, I would never choose to stay home with my stepfather lurking around. Anywhere was better than home. Despite my illness, I dragged myself to school that day. It was a Tuesday, which meant handball day. That morning, I walked to the handball court, hoping my swollen eyes and drippy nose would help me avoid playing at all.
“Coach, I am sick,” I said with narrowed eyes. “Can I sit out the game today?”
“Being sick isn’t enough reason not to play,” the P.E. teacher said, not even bothering to look at me. “So, go play.”
Although students never questioned the decisions of a professor, I protested feebly.
He dismissed me again, treating me as a little pest who could not be taken seriously.
“Here is what you will go do,” he told me. “Your team needs a goalie. Go defend it,” he said, pointing towards the goal. The regular goalie was also sick that day, but unlike me, she had the good sense to stay at home.
Off to guard the goal post I went, grateful at least that I did not have to run or be pushed around on the court. I hoped that a strong team defense would prevent me from having to exert much effort. My teammates groaned and shook their heads in disbelief as they saw me standing in front of the goal, mumbling that the team had already lost. The opposing team congratulated themselves before the whistle blew. “This will be easy,” they bragged within earshot, ensuring I knew they considered themselves to have already clinched victory. Having me guard the goal was the same as having no goalie at all.
A surge of anger and despondency bubbled up within me upon hearing their snickers. I felt tired of always being at the bottom of the totem pole, tired of feeling ridiculed and different. I puffed my chest as if this would make me larger, ignoring how painful it felt to take deep breaths.
My team’s defense did not keep its end of the bargain. The balls from the opposing team flew towards the goal at unreasonable speeds, from what appeared to be impossible angles. Yet, I blocked them out. I blocked every single ball that came towards me. I shielded that goal as if my life depended on it. At the end of the game, my team won by a landslide.
Not used to the taste of victory, I did not distinguish the elation I felt from the confusion at this unexpected turn of events. My dumbfounded classmates looked at me as if they saw me for the first time, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
They, and I, were in awe.
My feat as the goalie made the gossip circuit and by the following week, despite some lingering doubt about my abilities, I was picked third in the line-up. I had jumped seven places in one week! This was better than an improvement; it was a major victory!
At the sound of the whistle, the players moved. I tried to concentrate. Not feeling as angry as I did the previous week, my confidence waned even before the game started. But I wasn’t playing for the game. I was playing for my dream, my rank in the social pecking order, and my desire that for once, people would pay attention to me.
Nobody pierced my defense of the goal. My team won again.
Two weeks later, the captains planned the team selection for the school’s annual Olympic Games. The teams played together for two months in preparation for the week-long competition, held at a sports complex where all the parents—and the large, extended families that most Brazilians had—watched the games. The Olympics was the talk of the school.
My class split the girls into teams; these teams would play both handball and volleyball. The P.E. teacher selected the team captains. To my utter surprise, Isabela was not one of them. Thus, there was a possibility that Flavia and Isabela, the two best players, could be on the same team together. And that, I was sure, would lock in victory for whichever team they were a part of. I hoped that I would be chosen, even if last, to the better team. It was obvious to me that the opposing team would have no chance and would simply be crushed.
There was an air of excitement and nervousness at the school playground as the captains readied themselves to make their picks. Flavia was one of the captains. Ana Cristina, a strong but not stellar player, was the captain of the opposing team. After a coin toss, Ana Cristina was first to select players.
“I want Isabelle,” she said pointing at me.
She clearly meant Isabela, with an “a”, and not me, with the French spelling of a name most Brazilians did not get right. It made no sense to me that she would have chosen otherwise. So I did not budge.
“You heard her, Isabelle,” the coach said, tapping me on my shoulder. “Hurry up and move to Ana Cristina’s side.”
I was too stunned to hear the loud murmur emanating from the cluster of the other girls at this unexpected choice. This could not be right. I thought Ana Cristina had been crazy to select me. This choice guaranteed that Flavia would pick Isabela next. Ana Cristina’s team would be decimated. No team could win against the two stronger players.
I looked at Ana Cristina with panic in my face and shook my head. “Don’t do it,” I whispered. “Pick Isabela first.”
She looked at me, puzzled.
“Why?” she asked
“Get the next strongest player. Don’t let them be on the same team. Worry about the goalkeeper later!” I stated, with a modicum of desperation in my voice.
She stared at me with a serious frown on her face and gestured impatiently, beckoning me.
“Isabelle, just come over here.”
As I walked, she spoke loudly enough for all the other girls to hear. “If I do not choose you, Flavia will. Then my team will not ever have the slightest chance. Nobody can score when you are defending that goal. You are the most important player here and the one I want on my team.”
Still stunned, I moved next to Ana Cristina as the selection continued until all girls were sorted into teams. Once I got past my horror that we would now face Flavia and Isabela together, I remembered my wish made months earlier, the one I gave up so easily, about being chosen first. Yet, even in my wildest dreams, I had never expected that it would happen during the most important and visible athletic event of the school year. I felt an unfamiliar feeling of elation fill my chest. I felt I could burst. A broad smile spread across my face. I went home, screaming with joy: “I was chosen first! I was really chosen first!”
And for the first time in my life, I believed I was good at something.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Isabelle Gecils grew up in Shangrila, a remote farm in a lush jungle in Brazil. But who really knows where she hails from? Her immediate family hailed from 6 different countries: France (dad), Egypt (mom and grandma), Turkey (grandpa), Lithuania (grandpa) and Poland (grandma). There is a freedom in belonging nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
Leaving Shangrila is the story of Isabelle’s journey from a life others choose for her to one she created for herself. To support the writing of this memoir, Isabelle completed the Stanford Creative Nonfiction Writing certificate program. She currently lives in Saratoga, California, with her husband, four sons and two territorial cats.