Showing posts with label Christian fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christian fiction. Show all posts

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

BOOK REVIEW: Where Hearts Are Free

Where Hearts Are Free (A Darkness to Light Novel, #3)Where Hearts Are Free by Golden Keyes Parsons

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


If you like a good read that is gently inspiring, look no further, as this book will fit the bill. It is well-written with the exception that much of the dialogue sounds Victorian rather than early Colonial American. The author does include Quakers who speak properly for the time period, but other than these characters, I wasn't able to stay in the period all that well. Aside from that, the read is surprisingly quick and compelling, and the plot will keep you turning pages until the end. There is one disappointing scene that is bound to be controversial, which I mention only because it is not gentle and those wanting only truly light-hearted romance may wish to avoid on account of its inclusion. But I award the author five stars for a well-paced, smoothly flowing story; one I enjoyed more than her previous books.



View all my reviews

Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Healer's Apprentice



This is an upcoming book to be released in the Fall from my good friend, debut author Melanie Dickerson. As soon as you watch the fabulous trailer, I know you'll be hooked and want to read the book. : )


When destiny sleeps, it can only be awakened by true love’s kiss.

In this historical romance loosely based on the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale, a woodcutter’s daughter becomes the town healer’s apprentice. Rose’s job is to care for the sick and injured in Hagenheim Castle. But Rose gets sick at the sight of blood and is more suited to making up stories than sewing up wounds. She is determined to overcome her weakness and prove herself a competent healer, or she faces marrying a disgusting old merchant her mother has picked out for her.

Lord Hamlin, the future ruler of the region, is injured and Rose must overcome her squeamishness to save him. He is everything that is noble and good, but loving him is forbidden. He is already betrothed to a mysterious woman in hiding.

With two noble-born brothers vying for her affections, Rose learns that the people of Hagenheim are not always who they seem, and even her own heart can mislead her.


Melanie Dickerson
The Healer’s Apprentice … Fairy Tales Do Come True
YA Medieval Romance, Coming in Sept/Oct from Zondervan
Watch the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2m9-Ap4IZE

http://www.melaniedickerson.com

http://www.melaniewrites.blogspot.com

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

The Raven Saint

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. Enjoy your free peek into the book!







Today's Wild Card author is:





and the book:



The Raven Saint (Charles Towne Belles)

Barbour Books (January 1, 2010)

***Special thanks to MaryLu Tyndall for sending me a review copy.***



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:




M.L. Tyndall, a Christy Award Finalist, and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King’s Pirates series is known for her adventurous historical romances filled with deep spiritual themes. She holds a degree in Math and worked as a software engineer for fifteen years before testing the waters as a writer. MaryLu currently writes full time and makes her home on the California coast with her husband, six kids, and four cats. Her passion is to write page-turning, romantic adventures that not only entertain but expose Christians to their full potential in Christ.



Visit the author's website.

Visit the author's blog.







Product Details:



List Price: $10.97

Paperback: 320 pages

Publisher: Barbour Books (January 1, 2010)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1602601585

ISBN-13: 978-1602601581



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:







Outside Charles Towne, Carolina, October, 1718



Chapter 1





Black, menacing clouds snarled a warning from the Carolina skies.



Clutching her skirts, Grace Westcott trudged down the muddy path. A shard of white light forked across the dark vault, and she glanced up as thunder rumbled in the distance.



“I hope the rain doesn’t catch us, miss.” Alice’s shaky voice tumbled over Grace from behind.



“Never fear, Alice, we are almost there.” Grace pushed aside a leafy branch that encroached upon the trail. As the wind picked up and raindrops began to rap on the leaves above them, the wall of greenery arching overhead provided a shelter that brought an odd comfort to Grace.



“Look, miss. This plant. Isn’t it bloodroot?” Alice squeaked. “To heal afflictions of the skin?”



Grace huffed. Her legs ached from the mile-long journey from Charles Towne. She could hear the rush of the Ashley River in the distance. They were close to the Roberts’ cabin, to poor little Thomas, sick with a fever and in desperate need of the medicines they brought.



Whirling around, Grace examined the leaf in her maid’s hands. “Nay. ’Tis not bloodroot, as you well know.” She searched Alice’s eyes but the maid kept her gaze lowered. “Whatever is the matter with you today?”



The maid cast a quick glance over her shoulder and shrugged. “I am only trying to help, miss.”



“You can help by hurrying along. Thomas may be failing as we speak.” Grabbing her skirts, Grace turned and forged ahead. A drop of rain splattered on her forehead, and she swiped it away.



“But the rain, miss. Shouldn’t we return home and don some proper attire?”



“Mercy me, Alice. We are nearly there. A bit of rain will not harm us. We’ve been in far more dangerous situations.” Grace hoisted the sack stuffed with herbs, fresh fruit, and rice farther up her aching shoulder. “Besides we are going about God’s work. He will take care of us.”



Grace heard Alice’s shoes squish in the mud “Indeed, miss.”.



Her maid’s voice quivered—a quiver that set Grace’s nerves on edge, along with the dark tempest brewing above them. Something was bothering the woman, Grace couldn’t guess what.



Another flash lit up the sky. Releasing her skirts to the sticky mud, Grace pushed aside a tangled vine that seemed to be joining forces with Alice in attempting to keep her from continuing. Musky air, heavy with moisture and laden with scents of earth and life, filled her nostrils. Thunder bellowed, closer this time, and raindrops tapped upon the canopy of leaves overhead. Plowing ahead, Grace ignored the twinge of guilt at her most recent expedition. One of many expeditions she’d been strictly forbidden to embark upon—both by her father, before he set sail for Spain, and more recently, her sister Faith and Faith’s new husband, Dajon. But Grace could not allow anyone or anything to stop her from doing what God had commissioned her to do: feed the poor, tend to the sick, and spread the good news of His Gospel.



She glanced up at the dark clouds swirling like some vile witch’s brew. Perhaps she should have left a note informing Faith of her whereabouts. No matter. She would drop off the food and herbs, attend to Thomas, and be home before sunset.



Grace emerged from the green fortress into a clearing. Thunder bellowed, and she shivered as a chill struck her. In the distance, the wide Ashley River tumbled along its course. A cabin perched by the water’s edge, smoke curling from its chimney. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and quickened her pace. “Here at last. And, as you can see, Alice, all is well.”



A nervous giggle sounded from behind her.



Hoisting the sack higher up on her shoulders, Grace clutched her skirts and climbed the steps of the cabin, but before she could knock on the door, it swung open. Mr. Roberts, a burly red-faced man with unruly dark hair, stared curiously at her for a moment then cocked his head and smiled. “Miss Grace. A grand pleasure to see you.” His glance took in Alice standing on the steps behind Grace. His forehead wrinkled. “What brings you this far from home on such a rainy day? Helen, Miss Grace has come for a visit,” he yelled over his shoulder. The scent of smoke and some sort of meaty stew wafted over Grace.



“Why, we’ve come to help Thomas of course.” Lightning flashed, casting a momentary grayish shroud over Mr. Roberts’s normally ruddy face.



“Thomas needs help?” He scratched his thick, dark mane.



Alice’s boots thudded on the steps, and Grace turned to see her maid inching away from the cabin, her chin lowered.



Shaking her head, Grace faced Mr. Roberts. “Yes, you sent Alfred yesterday to inform us of Thomas’s fever and ask for my help, did you not?” The man looked puzzled. Grace slid the sack from her shoulder and set it down on the planks of the porch. “I’ve brought elder root and dogwood bark for his fever and some fresh fruit and rice for you and your family.”



Mrs. Roberts appeared in the doorway, her infant daughter cradled in her arms. “Grace, what a wonderful surprise. Henry, don’t just stand there. Invite her in out of the rain.”



“Thomas isn’t sick.” Mr. Roberts’ nose wrinkled. “And Alfred was here with us all day yesterday.”



Grace swerved about to question Alice, but the girl was nowhere in sight. Descending the stairs, she dashed into the clearing, her heart in her throat as she scanned the foliage for any sign of her maid.



A swoosh of leaves and stomp of boots reached her ears, then a band of five men materialized from the foliage. Armed with cutlasses and pistols, they stormed toward Grace. She tried to move her feet, but the thick mud clung to them like shackles. Mr. Roberts cursed and ushered his wife inside. The baby began to howl.



A tall, sinewy man halted before her. A burst of wind struck him, fluttering the green feather atop his cocked hat and the tips of the black hair grazing his shoulders. He shifted his jaw, peppered with black stubble, and gazed at her with eyes the color of the dark clouds churning above them. A slow smile crept across his lips, lifting his thin, rakish mustache. “Mademoiselle Grace Westcott, I presume.” His thick French accent turned her blood to ice.



Grace met his gaze squarely. “I am, sir.”



With a snap of his fingers, two of his men flanked her. “You will come with us.”



“I will not.” The men wrenched her arms behind her back. Pain shot across her shoulders.



The snap of a rifle sounded, drawing the man’s attention to Mr. Roberts pointing his musket in their direction. “Leave her be.”



A flicker of relief eased over Grace, quickly fading when she examined the man before her. Instead of fear, amusement sparked in his eyes. The men on either side of Grace chuckled as if Mr. Roberts had told a joke.



“Quel homme galant, but I fear I cannot do that, monsieur.” The leader crossed his arms over his gray waistcoat and scraped a finger along his lean chin. “With a bit of fortune and a good aim, you may shoot one of us. Mais that would leave you and your family completely at our mercy. Comprenez-vous?”



Mr. Roberts stared at him for a long moment, obviously measuring the man.



“Toss your weapon to the ground, monsieur and go into your house. If you come out, we will shoot you. If you fire another weapon at us, we will kill your family.



A short, barrel-chested man beside the leader drew his pistol and leveled it at Mr. Roberts. The sneer on his face suggested he would love nothing more than to shoot the man where he stood.



The musket quivered in Mr. Roberts’s hands as he perused the band of ruffians, but still he did not relent. Grace shook her head, sending her friend a silent appeal. She would not allow him to put his family in jeopardy for her.



Mr. Roberts swallowed, threw his weapon into the mud, and gave her an apologetic look before slipping inside the cabin and closing the door with an ominous thud that echoed Grace’s fate.



She faced the leader. Thunder roared across the clearing. “What have you done with Alice?”



“Alice? Hmm.” His eyes lit up. “Votre servante? I merely paid her well for leading you to us.” He grinned.



The skies opened and released a torrent of rain upon Grace as if God Himself shed the tears that now burned behind her eyes. How could Alice have done such a thing? She had been Grace’s personal maid for the past five years—had traveled with her in the crossing from Portsmouth to Charles Towne.



The rain bounced off the cocked hat and the broad shoulders of the man before her. Drops streamed down Grace’s face, her neck, soaked into her gown, and befogged the scene before her. If only the fresh water from heaven could wash away these devilish creatures like holy water sprinkled upon evil.



The black-haired man turned and marched away as though her desperate wish had reached God’s ears. But then his two minions wrenched her arms again and dragged her behind him. Panic seized her. This couldn’t be happening! She dug her heels into the mud but her captors merely lifted her from the ground. Pain scorched across her arms and neck.



“Please, sir. Please. What do you want with me?”



But the only reply came from the rain pounding on the leaves and the thunder rumbling across the sky.



They plunged back into the thick forest. Grace struggled against the men’s meaty grips. Even if she did manage to break free from them, tree trunks rose like prison bars on either side of her holding her captive within the dense thicket. They trudged down the path for what seemed an eternity. Each step dug the knife of fear deeper into Grace’s heart. Silently, she appealed to God for her salvation, begging to hear His comforting voice, but her petitions were met with the same silence her captors afforded her. Finally, they emerged onto a secluded shore, and the men shoved her onto the thwart of a small boat then launched the craft into the rushing river. In the distance Grace saw a two-masted brig swaying with the rolling tide.



Lord, where are You? She clasped her hands together and tried to catch her breath.



The black-haired man locked a smoldering gaze upon her. He did not look away as propriety demanded but perused her with alarming audacity. Rain streamed off his hat onto his black breeches, and a smirk creased one corner of his mouth. Averting her gaze to the agitated water, she considered leaping overboard. She couldn’t swim. At least not well enough to fight the strong Ashley current. Besides, surely God would rescue her from these brigands. He was simply testing her faith by waiting until the last minute when things were at their worst. Lifting her chin, she cast a defiant look upon her captor, but it only caused his smirk to widen.



Within minutes, they reached the ship and thudded against its hull. Shouts pitched upon them from above as faces popped over the bulwarks to peer down at her. Grace glanced about for the rescuer God should have sent by now. The leader pulled her to her feet, and before she could make a move, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and climbed the rope ladder without effort.



Grace could no longer feel the fear or even the damp chill. Numbness gripped her, born of shock at her predicament. Blood rushed to her head, and she closed her eyes, breathing in the musky scent of the man’s damp wool waistcoat and praying for the nightmare to end.



Once aboard, he carried her across deck as he issued a string of orders in French, sending his crew scrambling in every direction.



“Welcome back, Captain,” a deep voice shouted, then a shock of brown hair appeared in Grace’s vision. “I see you found her.”



“Oui, bien sûr.” His tone carried the haughtiness that excluded any other possibility as he tapped her on the rump.



“How dare you!” Grace shouted and tried to kick her legs, but the captain’s arm kept them pinned to his chest. The two men shared a chuckle.



“Weigh anchor, away aloft, and raise the main, Mr. Thorn. We set sail immediately.”



Raindrops bounced over the wooden planks, pelting her from all directions. Her head bumped against his damp coat. His hard shoulder pressed into her aching stomach as he carried her down a ladder. She stretched her hand to grab the hilt of his rapier, but it taunted her from its sheath at his other side, out of her reach. She pounded her fists against his back. Muscle as unyielding as steel sent pain through her hands.



With a chuckle, he sauntered down a hallway and kicked open a door. Grace tensed, fearing the man would toss her to the floor. Instead, grasping her waist, he gently set her down inside the tiny cabin.



Gaining her balance, Grace wiped the matted strands of wet hair from her face and faced him. “Who are you and what do you want with me?” she said in a stalwart tone that surprised her.



He doffed his feathered hat and banged it against his knee, sending droplets over the floor. Tucking an errant strand of wet hair behind his ear, he bowed. “Captain Rafe Dubois at your service, mademoiselle. I welcome you aboard Le Champion. And regarding what I want with you”—he raised one brow and allowed his gaze to scour over her—“I am to deliver you to Don Miguel De Salazar in Columbia.”



“Columbia?” Grace took a step back and gripped her throat.



“Oui, he has promised to pay quite handsomely for you.”



“For me? But why? I don’t even know the man.” A shudder ran through her.



“Ah, but your father does apparently. The two men are not…how do you say? Agreeable? Don Miguel holds him responsible for the death of his son in a skirmish with a galleon. He thought you would be adequate payment for the transgression.”



“Payment!” Grace’s fear gave way to anger. “I am no one’s payment. How can you take part in such a wicked scheme?”



The captain shrugged as if her words rolled off of him. “Like I said, he’s willing to pay handsomely.” He offered her a devious grin then donned his hat and closed the door with a resounding thud.





Friday, March 6, 2009

Long and Short Romance Reviews Agree: She's Got Character

Just came in: a new review of, Before the Season Ends by Long and Short Romance Reviews.
They affirmed that Ariana Forsythe, the feisty heroine of BTSE, has character, alright. "Throughout, the strength and personal devotion of our heroine, as well as the peculiarities of the many characters will surprise and delight readers."
Strength and personal devotion--I like those qualities in a heroine, don't you?
Read on for more snippets of the full review, and you can even vote for my book (or others) by following the link at the end. Voting starts on Saturday 5/7 and only lasts until Sunday 5/8, so vote soon!
(PS: There's also information about a book giveaway and other contests there, so take a peek even if you don't want to vote for any book!)

Before the Season Ends by Linore Rose Burkard
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers
Genre: Historical; Inspirational
Length: Full (348 pages)
Heat: Sweet
Rating: 5 books
Reviewed by Snapdragon

...Jane Austen fans and readers of historical romance will love Before the Season Ends.


Those who do indeed love to read will saunter through Before the Season Ends by Linore Rose Burkhard and savor all the delights...


Ariana is dropped in the deep end of society quite abruptly, and she is from a provincial if genteel background. She is charming whatever her circumstances and of a stronger will than it first appears. Busy city life and high fashion do not turn her head. A myriad of diverse and interesting perspectives prove valuable to her. She is clever enough to detect subtle differences among the many classes – far from merely the lower and upper crust, London of the time clearly set apart ‘the beau monde,’ ‘the ton,’ – to say nothing of royalty. Distinctions were important, to some. The Aunt Bentley’s of this world are understandable, even if the object of humor, although Burkhard cleverly makes it easy to sympathize with her, too. Indeed, she toys with our emotions throughout.

Suddenly Ariana is in the ‘marriage mart’ but hardly taking it seriously. Instead, she turns up unsuitable friends, climbs trees, and barrels into all the wrong people. She manages to annoy some of the ‘right' people –and among those, there is no want for high-handed old busybodies in society, disagreeable countesses and soft-hearted admirers... There seem to be consequences to her most innocent actions: and even her parents will weigh in again before the end. Readers will revel in the unexpected, so I dare say no more.

Throughout, the strength and personal devotion of our heroine, as well as the peculiarities of the many characters will surprise and delight readers.

Unexpected action – and more unexpected consequences – keep things hopping throughout the 1813 London Season! The consequence of setting off on the first page of Before the Season Ends is to be held enthralled, tickled, and intrigued right to the end. 5 books, and this reader shall certainly remember and look for author Linore Rose Burkhard’s books again.


Thank you, Long and Short Reviews!


Want to vote for the book? (Voting starts tomorrow) Want to vote for a different book? (horrors!) Go here: LASR Weekend Vote

Thanks for your vote!

Sunday, February 1, 2009

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!


Today's Wild Card author is:


and the book:


The Valentine Edition

The Wild Rose Press (January 16, 2009)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR:


In Robin's words:

I am the Special Education Coordinator for Denton County Juvenile Justice Alternative Program. I work with at risk teens from fifth grade through high school. My husband and I have been married for thirty-one years and we have two grown children. The first two years of marriage, Rick and I traveled overseas as missionaries. Afterwards we served as pastors of a church in Illinois. Presently we live near Dallas, Texas. He is in business and I work for the school system. (My husband still makes yearly mission trips to India.)

To date, my literary works include approximately two hundred articles in magazines such as: Guideposts, Live, Lookout, Mennonite, Christian Reader, Decision, Breakthrough and Christianity Today. Other short stories appear in the books: A Match Made in Heaven, Stories from the Heart, The Evolving Woman, and the New York Times bestseller, In The Arms of Angels by Joan Wester-Anderson. Ann Spangler also used one of my stories in her book, Help! I Can’t Stop Laughing. Another two-dozen stories have been published in the Chicken Soup books. One story, Mom’s Last Laugh, was re-enacted for a PAX-TV program: It’s a Miracle. I co-authored a thriller, The Chase, for Revell. My second book, The Replacement, was released in June 2006. The Candidate was released July, 2007. I continue to publish short stories in magazines. Wildcard, a mystery, will be a spring 2009 release. The Christmas Edition released Nov. 20. The Valentine Edition released in January 2009.

Visit the author's shoutlife and website.


Product Details:

List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 248 pages
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press (January 16, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1601544847
ISBN-13: 978-1601544841

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:


January 2

Jodi Williams sighed for the hundredth time as she waved goodbye to the Chicago skyline, catching the last of the city in her car’s rearview mirror. Dreams of working at The Tribune were dead right along with drinking green tea latte’s at Starbucks anytime she wanted.

Hope behind her.

The unknown ahead.

She steered toward Wisconsin. An hour later, Jodi looked out the window at the open fields of frozen ground and cows standing along snowy fences. The comparison between her two lives—the previous and the present—were startling.

Jodi attempted to shift her body in the seat but was pretty well anchored into the one position with her belongings crammed into the compact car from the trunk to the front. The turn-by-turn directions she had printed out were hard to follow since not all the roads were actually marked in this neck of the country. She decided to refer to them as mystery turns. Finally, Jodi pulled over to the shoulder and unfolded the road map to try to figure it out one more time. According to her calculations, she was almost there.

She looked around again and there it was, the Welcome to Turtle Creek sign, less than five feet ahead. Snickering at herself, she put her car back in drive, turned on her signal and pulled back onto the road. Soon she passed Ma’s Diner on the left and zoomed past one block of storefronts realizing that was all there was of town. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

Watching for the turn that would take her directly to the newspaper, she nearly missed seeing the small-bedraggled dog that darted out right in front of her. Startled, Jodi swerved and hit her brakes as her heart palpitated hard in her chest. It was a foolhardy maneuver that nearly landed her in the ditch but she felt it was worth the risk since she didn’t feel or hear a thud against the tires. After she came to a complete stop, Jodi peered over her steering wheel. She frantically looked to her left and right. The dog wasn’t in sight. She had to find the little thing. It was unsafe for it to be running around loose like this. What kind of people let a little dog roam free anyway? Jodi caught her negative thought and softened. Maybe the dog was lost and the family was searching at this very moment.

Jodi checked both lanes of traffic. Then she pulled up hard on the door handle, swiveled in her seat and set both feet on the ice. Gingerly stepping out to search for the animal, she was thankful no vehicle appeared from either direction. She walked around the car feeling the snow and ice seep into her leather shoes.

She finally found what she was looking for; the dog sat shivering under a bush. Fearful-looking eyes studied her approach. With matted hair and sad eyes, it looked unloved and unwanted, pulling at her heart.

“Hey there little one,” Jodi bent down. “Don’t be afraid. Let me help you.” When she held out her hand, the dog took off like a rocket, past her and right for the road. From a blanket of snowy air, a car appeared. It careened down the road traveling much too fast for the conditions. Jodi frantically called to the dog, “Come to me, come to me!” But instead of obeying, it sat down. “Now is no time to be stubborn!”

Jodi couldn’t watch. She shut her eyes and turned away from the awful sound of squealing brakes, the thump of the dog and the whimper. When she opened her eyes, she saw the poor thing lying still on its side. Jodi ran to it as the angry driver rolled down his window and yelled, “Watch your dog!”

“Watch where you’re going!” Jodi shot back and ignored him as he drove off. Without thinking about the cold or the possibility of being bitten, Jodi yanked off her coat and carefully placed it around the injured animal. “It’s all right; I’m just trying to help you. It’s okay.”

Gingerly, she held the dog just as a pickup truck came rolling toward them. Oh, no, not again. The road was too icy for her to get out of its way in time. She gripped the dog to her chest, said a prayer and hoped for the best. The tires splashed icy muck on her skirt. To her surprise, the driver was able to slow and come to a complete stop within inches of her frame. On the side of the truck was written Veterinarian Clinic Turtle Creek, Wisconsin—Josh Thomas.

“Is everything okay?” The man inside rolled down his window.

“No, everything is just terrible. The dog was hit.” Jodi started to cry.

“I’ll help.” He checked his side mirrors before parking on the shoulder of the road and then got out of the truck. Jodi noticed the man was her extreme opposite. He stood at least six foot two, weighed about two-fifty, where she was only a couple of inches over five feet and half his weight. His hair was the kind a woman longed to run her fingers through—thick, black and straight.

Wind blew snow into Jodi’s face. She rubbed her eyes and then brushed her curly auburn hair from
her face, making sure the kind stranger wasn’t an illusion.

After grabbing a mid-sized crate from the back of his truck, he walked over to where Jodi stood shivering in the cold wind holding her bundle. “Let’s get the dog to my clinic. Do you want to put it in the crate, or should I?”

“I’ll do it.” Feeling protective now, Jodi put the dog inside, leaving it wrapped in her coat. Doing a double take, he asked, “I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Josh Thomas. Are you all right?”

He touched her shoulder. It felt reassuring and made her cry harder knowing someone was here to handle the situation. All she managed was a nod. He patted her again. “Follow me.” Josh opened the passenger side and placed the crate on the truck seat. “Hopefully your little pal will be just fine. I’ll do my best so he’ll be home with you in no time.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not my dog. I only stopped to help,” she explained, walking toward the truck.

Josh turned toward Jodi and gave her an appreciative smile. “So you’re the one? It’s nice to finally meet you. I heard about you in church on Sunday.”

“Me? On Sunday?” Her eyes widened.

“Yea you. We learned about the Good Samaritan. Let me shake your hand.”

Josh was totally disarming and made Jodi smile for the first time that day. When she took his hand, it felt strong and capable. She looked into his eyes where a collection of amber colors seemed to swirl together. “I’m Jodi Williams. I was trying to get the dog out of the road when he was hit. The driver didn’t stop to help.”

“I was on my way back from a farm call and in my daydreaming missed my turn to the clinic. Guess it was a good thing.” Josh explained as he climbed into his truck. “Don’t worry I’ll take it from here. Thanks again, Miss Good Samaritan.”

“Wait. Let me come with you.” Jodi looked at her car and again at Josh.

“Sure, just follow me. Back your car around and pull in behind me. I’ll wait for you.”

“Okay.” Jodi nodded to him as she opened her car door. Just as she scooted onto the driver’s seat a blast of wind slammed the door on her. Freezing to the bone, she cranked up the heater full blast. Then she turned on her wipers to move the snow off her windshield. Jodi found a safe place to turn around, and in no time, she was following Josh’s truck. A few turns later, they arrived at the veterinary clinic. The large sign read Thomas Veterinary Clinic and Animal Rescue. It seemed like an appropriate name since she and the dog had both been on the receiving end of that rescue. Jodi followed Josh into the building.

A pretty blonde-headed woman wearing brightly colored scrubs printed with playful dogs and cats, sat at the desk. “What do you have in there?” She looked at the small crate.

“An injured dog, hit on County O.” Josh turned to Jodi. “This is my secretary, Della Wheat. Della, this is Ms. Williams.”

“Jodi,” she corrected, hardly noticing Della. Her eyes remained fixed on the dog.

“Just fill out a card for me.” Della placed it on the counter along with a pen.

“She was trying to rescue the stray when it was hit,” Josh explained. “We don’t need the information.”

“I’d still like to fill out the card.” Jodi picked up the pen. Not knowing where she’d be staying yet, she only wrote her name and cell phone number. She put the pen back down and asked Josh, “Would it be all
right for me to go into the examination room with you?”

Josh shrugged. “Sure enough. Keep following me.”

They entered a brightly lit and predictably spotless small room. An aroma from the cleaning disinfectant was evident. They faced each other on opposite sides of the stainless steel examination table. Josh placed the crate on the table and slowly pulled out the dog on Jodi’s bloody coat.

“Hi, there, little guy. Will you let me see how you are doing?” Josh parted the folds of the coat and then lifted the dog out. It whimpered but didn’t try to snap.

Jodi removed her coat from the table. Josh kept looking up at her and down at the dog again. “You seem pretty shook up. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“That’s good to know. I thought you might need a doctor yourself, for a minute there.” Josh chuckled.

She took her first long look at him. Great smile that was burned into her memory from their first encounter on the road, but now she saw he was also quite handsome. What attracted her was his obvious tender spirit reflected in his soft eyes. She didn’t even know him but he suddenly made an imprint on her heart. The way he looked at her made Jodi wonder if he felt it, too.

The door to the examination room popped open. “Do you need my help, Doctor?” Della stood in the doorway.

“Sure, come on in.”

Della entered and began her work while lightly humming. She seemed like the kind of gal who was always humming even when she did things that should be done in silence, like calming animal nerves or cleaning up messes. At least that was how Jodi imagined her to be.

Jodi watched as Josh gently turned the dog on its side and stroked its head, talking low and soft, trying to bring comfort to it. Della quickly stepped in to hold the dog, making Jodi move back out of their way. The room was cramped with all them in it, so she moved to the corner to watch.

“The dog has some pretty bad abrasions, but I don’t see anything that would require sutures. It looks like he’s a little neutered male, so someone once cared for him.” Josh tilted back the dog’s head and parted his jaws to have a good look inside. “And he’s no older than two years.”

The animal held his left hind leg tight up against his body. When Josh gently tried to straighten it, the dog yelped in pain and then licked Josh’s hand. Josh responded immediately by stroking its head. “Ah, I guess the leg is probably broken. We won’t know how badly until I get an x-ray of it.” Josh felt along the side of the animal and examined each leg. “In fact, I want to get several x-rays on him to see what else we’re dealing with here.”

“I’ll get everything ready,” Della hummed. Jodi glanced discreetly at the wall clock. She was late for her first day at her new job. “I have to leave, but my cell number is at the front desk. Will you call me later? I’d like to know how he does.”

“Of course I will.” Josh smiled again. It was enough to make her want to stay right here with the dog and with Josh, but then Della opened the door for her and took the dog to the back.

Jodi walked from the room as she took a good look at her coat. It was stained with blood and her clothes had muck on them.

“There’s a dry cleaner about five miles from here.”

“No good. I’m starting my job at The Turtle Creek Newspaper today, and I can’t go in like this. I’m not sure what to do since I’m already pretty late.” Jodi fretted as she folded her coat over one arm.

Josh took a jacket from one of the wall hooks.

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but at least it’s clean. Here.” He held out the dark green jacket. Jodi managed with much self-restraint not to roll her eyes. The truth was she didn’t want to wear it, but under the circumstances, in near-zero-degree temperature, she didn’t have much choice. Besides it was clean and Josh was sweet to offer it. When she slipped into it, the coat nearly swallowed up her small frame. She pulled the right side over the left and laughed when it nearly went all the way around her back. The way Josh looked at her made her blush.

“It’ll keep you warm,” he said.

Della walked back into the room. She frowned. The humming came to a stop. “Why is she wearing that?”

Jodi noticed the young woman’s displeasure. It made her feel silly. “She’s right, I can’t take this.”

“Wear it. It’ll do in a blizzard.”

Jodi looked out the window at the snow coming heavier now. The wind seemed stronger. “The weather is getting worse. If I take this, what’ll you wear?”

“There’s another jacket in my truck.”

“Please be sure to call and let me know how that sweet little guy is doing, okay?”

“Will do,” Josh promised. “He sure is a little cherub.”

Jodi reluctantly put on the jacket, hesitating before heading out to her car.

****

Twenty-year-old Della Wheat held up her hand and sweetly waved goodbye to Jodi. Then she turned to Josh. “She seems nice.”

“Yep, that she is.” He walked to the windows and watched as she got into her car and drove off. He was quiet a minute and then turned to Della.

“While I get those x-rays taken, I need you to start on the invoices. They’re on your desk. I’d like them in the mail by the end of the work day.” Josh started toward the back.

“Sure thing, as soon as I organize the waiting room. You know how I am about messiness,” Della answered as she began her daily routine with military preciseness. She fanned out the magazines into attractive sections, then swept the floor and finished off her housekeeping with a bit of dusting.

Once the fish were fed, she straightened her desk. It was then she noticed something on the counter of her well-ordered room. Calmly, Della picked up the white card and read Jodi Williams’ contact information. Cute, she was the kind who marked a line through each of her sevens and wrote her name in fancy, curly script. Della smiled and hummed happily as she walked over to the shredder and buzzed the piece of paper right through it. Jodi Williams disappeared.

“All gone.” Della wiped her hands together.

Now that this new woman was out of Josh’s life, Della was ready to get to work. She went around her desk and sat down. From the top drawer, she took out the container of paper clips, the small bag of rubber bands, the handful of pens and removed a folder. Underneath all of that was a picture of Josh and her at last year’s Christmas party at the church. She caressed his face with her finger. Then she picked up a black marker with a thin point and used it to carefully write across the bottom, You’re the only woman for me. All my love, Josh. It made Della smile. Then she shut the folder and returned it to the desk, placing the office supplies back on top. Within the hour, a CLOSED sign was placed in the door of the clinic. Della assisted Josh in surgery.

She watched every move he made. Della had a hard time keeping her mind on what they were doing. She kept looking over at Josh, hoping he’d see her and give her one of those great big smiles of his. He didn’t smile, didn’t even give her a look. All his concern went to the animal he was working on. He was devoted. He would smile at her later. That was her affirmation.

“Isn’t he a sweet little thing?” Della commented on the dog, needing attention from Josh.

“He sure was lucky to come out of it with just one fracture and a few abrasions. I think the good Lord was smiling down on you today,” he told the sedated mutt. “Della, while I pin the leg, steady it for me by holding the bones together just so.” Josh demonstrated.

Della followed his instructions.

“Once surgery is over, I’ll attach the rigid bar on the cast. Within a day or two, he should be using that leg just fine,” Josh murmured.

“You inspire me.” Della’s hand brushed his as she took over positioning the leg. It made her heart race.

“Just doing my job.” Perspiration gathered along Josh’s brow. In a few minutes, he had accomplished stabilizing the leg. “Good. You did well. You both did.” He looked at Della and gave her a smile.

There it was! Her affirmation! It came true, washing over her heart; she nearly fainted from happiness, but remained vertical and stared down at the dog’s leg that Josh was closing.

“That should do it.” Josh laid his instruments to the side and looked at the dog one more time. “I’ll give Jodi a call. She’ll want to know how the dog is doing.”

“I’ll do that for you,” Della insisted.

“No, I’ll do it myself as soon as the dog is fully awake and eats something.” Josh carried the animal to a prepared kennel and laid him on a heating pad. Della’s heart palpitated with fear and self-doubt. Deep breaths, she told herself. It was time to listen to her affirmation tapes. Della returned to the waiting room, unlocked the door and put the Open sign back in the window. At her desk, she slid her earphones on and popped the next CD in her player. She pressed play. She moved her lips along with the words on the tape, “I am focused on finding love. I have found love. That is all that matters. I am having fun.”

Her headphones were suddenly lifted off her head as her hair caught in the earpiece. “Ouch!” She turned around. It was her love. “Josh, what are you doing?”

“Are you listening to those silly tapes again? There are messages that need to be answered. Don’t you see the blinking light?”

“Sorry.” Della’s face blushed.

“Also get Jodi’s number for me, please.”

“Uhm….” Della watched her love leave the room.

If there was ever a time she needed to listen to her tapes, it was now. However, she would do as Josh asked and put them away. She’d write out her affirmation instead. With a pen in hand, she began; I believe in myself. I believe in the power of love. I believe Josh loves me. I believe Josh and I are destined to be together. I believe Josh will ask me to marry him. I believe in myself. I believe in the power of love. I believe Josh loves me. I believe Josh and I are destined to be together. I will make it happen. I believe in the power of me.

Saturday, January 3, 2009




It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!


You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:











and the book:







Havah: The Story of Eve



NavPress Publishing Group (October 10, 2008)







ABOUT THE AUTHOR:








Tosca Lee is the author of the critically acclaimed Demon: A Memoir (2007), a ForeWord Magazine Book of the Year Silver Award winner, American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year nominee, and Christy award finalist. Her eagerly-awaited second novel, Havah: The Story of Eve, released October 2008 to high praise, including a starred review from Publishers Weekly.







A sought-after speaker and first runner-up to Mrs. United States 1998, Tosca works as a Senior Consultant for the Gallup Organization. She received her B.A. in English and International Relations from Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. She also studied at Oxford University.







In her spare time, Tosca enjoys travel, cooking, history and theology. She currently resides in Nebraska.







Visit the author's website and blog.







Product Details:







List Price: $ 14.99



Paperback: 368 pages



Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (October 10, 2008)



Language: English



ISBN-10: 1600061249



ISBN-13: 978-1600061240















AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:











Prologue







I have seen paradise and ruin. I have known bliss and terror.







I have walked with God.







And I know that God made the heart the most fragile and resilient of organs, that a lifetime of joy and pain might be encased in one mortal chamber.







I still recall my first moment of consciousness—an awareness I’ve never seen in the eyes of any of my own children at birth: the sheer ignorance and genius of consciousness, when we know nothing and accept everything.







Of course, the memory of that waking moment is fainter now, like the smell of the soil of that garden, like the leaves of the fig tree in Eden after dawn—dew and leaf green. It fades with that sense of something once tasted on the tip of the tongue, savored now in memory, replaced by the taste of something similar but never quite the same.







His breath a lost sough, the scent of earth and leaf mold that was his sweaty skin has faded too quickly. So like an Eden dawn—dew on fig leaves.







His eyes were blue, my Adam’s.







How I celebrated that color, shrouded now in shriveled eyelids—he who was never intended to have even a wrinkle! But even as I bend to smooth his cheek, my hair has become a white waterfall upon his Eden—flesh and loins that gave life to so many.







I think for a moment that I hear the One and that he is weeping. It is the first time I have heard him in so long, and my heart cries out: He is dead! My father, my brother, my love!







I envy the earth that envelopes him. I envy the dust that comes of him and my children who sow and eat of it.







This language of Adam’s—the word that meant merely “man” before it was his name—given him by God himself, is now mine. And this is my love song. I will craft these words into the likeness of the man before I, too, return to the earth of Adam’s bosom.







My story has been told in only the barest of terms. It is time you heard it all. It is my testament to the strength of the heart, which has such capacity for joy, such space for sorrow, like a vessel that fills and fills without bursting.







My seasons are nearly as many as a thousand. So now listen, sons, and hear me, daughters. I, Havah, fashioned by God of Adam say this:







In the beginning, there was God . . .







But for me, there was Adam.



















The Garden



















Chapter 1







A whisper in my ear: Wake!







Blue. A sea awash with nothing but a drifting bit of down, flotsam on an invisible current. I closed my eyes. Light illuminated the thin tissues of my eyelids.







A bird trilled. Near my ear: the percussive buzz of an insect. Overhead, tree boughs stirred in the warming air.







I lay on a soft bed of herbs and grass that tickled my cheek, my shoulders, and the arch of my foot, whispering sibilant secrets up to the trees.







From here, I felt the thrum of the sap in the stem; the pulsing veins of the vine; the beat of my heart in euphony with hundreds more around me; the movement of the earth a thousand miles beneath.







I sighed as one returning to sleep, to retreat to the place I had been before, the realm of silence and bliss—wherever that is.







Wake!







I opened my eyes again upon the milling blue, saw it spliced by the flight of a bird, chevron in the sky.







This time, the voice came not to my ear, but directly to my stirring mind: Wake!







There was amusement in it.







I knew nothing of where or what I was, did not understand the polyphony around me or the wide expanse like a blue eternity before me.







But I woke and knew I was alive.







A rustle, a groan practically in my ear. I twitched at a stirring against my hip. A moment later, a touch drifted across a belly I did not yet know I owned, soft as a leaf skittering along the ground.







A face obscured my vision. I screamed. Not with fear—I was no acquaintance of fear—nor with startlement, because I had been aware of the presence already, but because it was the only statement that came to lips as artless as mine.







The face disappeared and returned, blinking into my own, the blue above captured in twin pools . Then, like a gush of water from a rock, gladness thrilled my heart. But its source was not me.







At last! It came, unspoken—a different source than the voice before—the words thrust jubilantly to the sky: “At last!”







He was up on legs like the trunks of sturdy saplings, beating at the earth with his feet. He thumped his chest and shouted to the sun and clapped his hands. “At last!” he cried, his laughter like warm clay between the toes. He shook his shoulders and stomped the grass, slapping his chest as he shouted again and again. Though I did not understand the utterance, I knew its meaning at once: joy and exultation at something longed for suddenly found.







I tried to mimic his sound; it came out as a squawk and then a panting laugh. Overhead, a lark chattered an extravagant address. I squeaked a shrill reply. The face lowered to mine, and the man’s arms wrapped, womb-tight, around me.







“Flesh of my flesh,” he whispered, hot against my ear. His fingers drifted from my hair to my body, roaming like the goat on the hills of the Sacred Mount. I sighed, expelling the last remnants of that first air from my lungs—the last of the breath in them not drawn by me alone.







He was high-cheeked, this adam, his lower lip dipping down like a folded leaf that drips sweet water to thirsty mouths. His brow was a hawk, soaring above the high cliffs, his eyes blue lusters beneath the fan of his lashes. But it was his mouth that I always came back to, where my eyes liked best to fasten after taking in the shock of those eyes. Shadow ran along his jaw, obsidian dust clinging to the curve of it, drawing my eye to the plush flesh of his lips, again, again, again.







He touched my face and traced my mouth. I bit his finger. He gathered my hands and studied them, turning them over and back. He smelled my hair and lingered at my breasts and gazed curiously at the rest of me. When he was finished, he began all over again, tasting my cheek and the salt of my neck, tracing the instep of my foot with a fingertip.







Finally, he gathered me up, and my vision tilted to involve an altogether new realm: the earth and my brown legs upon it. I clutched at him. I seemed a giant, towering above the earth—a giant as tall as he. My first steps stuttered across the ground as the deer in the hour of its birth, but then I pushed his hands away. My legs, coltish and lean, found their vigor as he urged me, walking far too fast, to keep up. He made for the orchard, and I bolted after him with a surge of strength and another of my squawking sounds. Then we were running—through grasses and over fledgling sloes, the dark wool of my hair flying behind me.







We raced across the valley floor, and my new world blurred around me: hyssop and poppy, anemone, narcissus, and lily. Roses grew on the foothills amidst the caper and myrtle.







A blur beside me: the long-bodied great cat. I slowed, distracted by her fluidity, the smooth curve of her head as she tilted it to my outstretched hand. I fell to the ground, twining my arms around her, fingers sliding along her pelt. Her tongue was rough—unlike the adam’s—and she rumbled as she rolled against me.







Far ahead, the adam called. Overhead, a hawk circled for a closer look. The fallow deer at a nearby stream lifted her head.







The adam called again, wordlessly: longing and exuberance. I got up and began to run, the lioness at my heels. I was fast—nearly as fast as she. Exhilaration rose from my lungs in quick pants—in laughter. Then, with a burst, she was beyond me.







She was gone by the time the adam caught me up in his arms. His hands stroked my back, his lips, my shoulder. I marveled at his skin—how smooth, how very warm it was.







“You are magnificent,” he said, burying his face against me. “Ah, Isha—woman, taken from man!”







I said nothing; although I understood his meaning, I did not know his words. I knew with certainty and no notion of conceit, though, that he was right.







At the river he showed me how he cupped his hands to drink, and then cupped them again for me. I lowered my head and drank as a carp peered baldy from the shallows up at me.







We entered the water. I gasped as it tickled the backs of my knees and hot hairs under my arms, swirling about my waist as though around a staunch rock as our toes skimmed a multitude of pebbles. I wrapped my arm around his shoulders.







“All of this: water,” he said, grunting a little bit as he swam toward the middle of the river where it widened into a broad swath across the valley floor. “Here—the current.”







“Water,” I said, understanding in the moment I spoke it the element in all its forms—from the lake fed by the river to the high springs that flow from the abyss of the Mount. I felt the pull of it as though it had a gravity all its own—as though it could sweep me out to the cold depths of the lake and lull me by the tides of the moon.







From the river I could see the high walls of our cradle: the great southern Mount rising to heaven, and to the north, the foothills that became the long spine of a range that arched toward the great lake to the west.







I knew even then that this was a place set apart from the unseen lands to the north, the alluvial plain to the south, the great waters to the east and far to the west.







It was set apart solely because we dwelt in it.







But we were not alone. I could see them, after a time, even as we left the river and lay upon its banks. I saw them in sidelong glances when I looked at something else: a sunspot caught in the eye, a ripple in the air, a shock of light where there should be only shadow. And so I knew there were other beings, too.







The adam, who studied me, said nothing. We did not know their names.







The first voice I heard urging me to wake had not been the man’s. Now I felt the presence of it near me, closer than the air, than even the adam’s arms around me.







I returned the man’s strange amazement, taken by his smooth, dark skin, the narrowness of his hips, his strange sex. He was warmer than I, as though he had absorbed the heat of the sun, and I laid my cheek against his flat breasts and listened to the changeling beat of his heart. My limbs, so fresh to me, grew heavy. As languor overtook me, I retreated from the sight of my lovely, alien world.







Perhaps in closing my eyes, I would return to the place I had been before.







For the first time since waking, I hoped not.







I slept to the familiar thrum of his heart as insects made sounds like sleepy twitches through the waning day.







When I woke, his cheek was resting against the top of my head. Emotion streamed from his heart, though his lips were silent.







Gratitude.







I am the treasure mined from the rock, the gem prized from the mount.







He stirred only when I did and released me with great reluctance. By then the sun had moved along the length of our valley. My stomach murmured.







He led me to the orchard and fed me the firm flesh of plums, biting carefully around the pits and feeding the pieces to me until juice ran down our chins and bees came to sample it. He kissed my fingers and hands and laid his cheek against my palms.







That evening we lay in a bower of hyssop and rushes—a bower, I realized, that he must have made it on a day before this one.







A day before I existed.







We observed together the changing sky as it cooled gold and russet and purple, finally anointing the clay earth red.







Taken from me. Flesh of my flesh. At last. I heard the timbre of his voice in my head in my last waking moment. Marvel and wonder were upon his lips as he kissed my closing eyes.







I knew then he would do anything for me.







That night I dreamed of blackness. Black, greater than the depths of the river or the great abyss beneath the lake.







From within that nothingness there came a voice that was not a voice, that was neither sound nor word but volition and command and genesis. And from the voice, a word that was no word but the language of power and genesis and fruition.







There! A mote spark—a light first so small as the tip of a pine needle. It exploded past the periphery of my dreaming vision, obliterating the dark. The heavens were vast in an instant, stretching without cease to the edges of eternity.







I careened past new bodies that tugged me in every direction; even the tiniest particles possessed their own gravity. From each of them came the same concert, that symphony of energy and light.







I came to stand upon the earth. It was a great welter of water, the surface of it ablaze with the refracted light of heavens upon heavens. It shook my every fiber, like a string that is plucked and allowed to resonate forever.







I was galvanized, made anew, thrumming that inaugural sound: the yawning of eternity.







Amidst it all came the unmistakable command:







Wake!











Thursday, December 11, 2008

Interview with Author Bonnie Leon


Today, Bonnie Leon answers a few questions about herself and her latest heroine in her historical fiction book, Longings of the Heart. Read on to see why, in both cases, "She's got character!"


1. Bonnie, what is the most feisty thing about you?
Those who know me well also know that I can be spirited. I believe in speaking the truth, which has gotten me into trouble from time to time. And I try to be transparent. With me, pretty much what you see is what you get. I figure if I pretend to be someone I’m not then people won’t know the real me and that would be dishonest.

2. What is the most fun thing you offer in your books?

If you love history you’ll have fun when you read my stories. I research thoroughly and do everything I can to create scenes that are true to the time and place of my stories. I often hear from readers who say that while reading my books they feel as if they are actually planted in the story. That means I’ve done my job. 
I’m a true romantic and so I always include some romance in my tales along with a bit of adventure. Although some of my books look into dark places the journey is also entertaining.
And the bottom line for me is that I present a story that has something to say, something that glorifies God. I do my best to share Godly truths in my tales.

Questions for your heroine:
1. What makes you a feisty female character?

Although I’m constrained by society I believe in standing up for myself. It has gotten me into difficulty a time or two, but I shan’t pretend to be something I’m not. I also work alongside my husband, even riding astride whilst making trips to purchase sheep for our farm. Some are shocked to see a woman riding that way, but it’s the only sensible thing to do.
Most women in Parramatta are spirited. We must be if we’re to survive.

2. Why would readers want to be like you?

I’m not at all certain anyone would want to be like me. I am lucky to be educated. Most women in my station are not, but Mum believed in education and made certain I attended school at a church near our home in London.
I’ve done some dreadful things in my life and have endured unspeakable hardships. I’m only now beginning to understand God’s forgiveness and love. I dare say, many have experienced the same miseries that I have, and they’ve lived with the shame of sin and wondered how God could forgive such wickedness.
I do possess something truly grand, and that is the assurance that God’s love is steady and enduring. No matter my past or my future he offers grace to me.

3. What is a one-liner of advice you can offer your readers?

There is no sorrow, no sin, nor any kind of trouble too difficult for God.

Thank you, Bonnie! Your heroine sounds spirited but grounded. I look forward to "meeting" her in your book!

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Anne Rice--She's Got Character! A Real Life Heroine to Note

Writer Darlene Oakley posted this on one of my groups and I wanted to pass it along.

NEW ORLEANS, Louisiana(AP)-- It's Halloween, and Anne Rice has a new book -- a memoir, in
fact -- that's climbing best-seller lists. Everything is normal, then.
Anne Rice
says she hopes to take her skills writing vampire books and "redeem
myself."
Normal
if it were 1994 -- the height of Rice's megaselling fame as a queen of Southern
Gothic pulp.
For those who haven't been paying attention lately to vampire lit,
America's most famous chronicler of bloodsuckers doesn't live in New Orleans
anymore -- and hasn't since before Hurricane Katrina hit -- and she's riding
new waves of enthusiasm: the memoir and Christian lit.
Her memoir, "Called Out of Darkness: A Spiritual
Confession," is the latest piece of evidence that Rice is reinventing
herself in an attempt to build a reputation as a serious Christian writer.
In the memoir, the 67-year-old writer doesn't disavow the two
decades she spent churning out books on vampires, demons and witches -- with a
batch of S&M erotica thrown in -- following the breakout success of her
first novel in 1976, "Interview With the Vampire."
But she's clearly moved on.
In a telephone interview from her mountain home in Rancho Mirage, California , Rice laid
out her goal:
"To be able to take the tools, the apprenticeship, whatever I
learned from being a vampire writer, or whatever I was -- to be able to take
those tools now and put them in the service of God is a wonderful, wonderful,
wonderful opportunity," she said. "And I hope I can redeem myself in
that way. I hope that the Lord will accept the books I am writing now."
The memoir follows the release of two books in a planned
four-part, first-person chronicle of the life of Jesus.
And in this new 245-page memoir, Rice presents her former life as
vampire writer as that of a soul-searching wanderer in the deserts of atheism;
as someone akin to her most famous literary creations -- Lestat, her "dark
search engine," Louis the aristocrat-turned- vampire and Egyptian Queen
Akasha, "the mother of all vampires."
"I do think that those dark books were always talking about
religion in their own way. They were talking about the grief for a lost
faith," she said.
In 2002, Rice broke away completely from atheism -- nearly four
decades after she gave up her Roman Cat holic
faith as the 1960s started. It happened when she went off to college and found
her peers talking about existentialism -- Martin Heidegger, Albert Camus,
Jean-Paul Sartre. Religion, she writes, was too restrictive to the young Rice.
Too out of step.
Yet, religion had to come back into her life, she writes. For her,
it was something she'd have to face up to again like an absent parent or a
long-lost love child or Banquo the ghost in "Macbeth."
By the late 1990s, when she went back to Mass, Rice -- the author
whose books sold in the tens of millions and who had recharged Hollywood 's appetite for
vampire-inspired horror -- had fallen on hard times.
Her husband, poet and artist Stan Rice, died of a brain tumor in
2002. And she had become victim to diabetes.
Always over-the-top and beyond the rational, she writes that her
return of faith was preceded by a series of epiphanies -- many while on travels
to Europe's cathedrals, Israel and Brazil. In one episode, when she visited the
giant Jesus statue above Rio de Janeiro , she writes that she felt "delirium"
as the clouds broke and revealed the statue.
Her professed revelations recall the religious intoxication she
describes of her childhood.
When she was 12, she had her father turn a room on the back porch
of the family's Uptown home in New Orleans into
an oratory modeled after St. Rose of Lima
-- the saint Cat holics believe
turned roses into floating crosses. She wanted to be a saint, she writes.
In the memoir, Rice describes a familiar Cat holic
upbringing imbued with opulence and mystery. The incense. The statuary. The
stained glass. The darkness. She learned the world, she writes, through her
senses, through a "preliterate" understanding of the world. She
writes that she possessed "an internal gallery of pictorial images"
that, lamentably, was replaced "by the alphabetic letters" she
learned later.
"You might call it the Mozart effect, but it was the Cat holic effect on me," she said.
In a sense, the memoir also is a confessional about her struggle
as a writer to be a reader, a thinker and an author with a distinct literary
style. Her stories often are reveries with no end in sight -- and all too often
ugly with pedantic unwinding, numbing in detail and overly simplistic, a
pastiche of cliches.
Her turn in direction -- from vampire fiction to Christian musings
-- still isn't winning the critics over.
In The New York Times, Christopher Buckley slammed Rice's memoir
as "a crashing, mind-numbing bore. This is the literary equivalent of
waterboarding."
And the bar is high when it comes to writing about Jesus.
"The best may be Nikos Kazantzakis' 'The Last Temptation of
Christ,' " said Jason Berry, a novelist and journalist who has written
extensively on the Cat holic priest
sex abuse scandal. "But also (G.K.) Chesterton, Norman Mailer. ... A lot
of narrative artists in both literature and film have taken on Jesus, so to
speak."
Rice isn't out to impress the critics, though.
"My objective is simple: It's to write books about our Lord
living on Earth that make him real to people who don't believe in him; or
people who have never really tried to believe in him," she said.
She pressed the point: "I mean, I've made vampires believable
to grown women. Now, if I can do that, I can make our Lord Jesus Christ
believable to people who've never believed in him. I hope and pray."
For her devotees, whatever she writes invariably goes down like a
smooth bloodbath, that favorite Goth beverage sometimes made with raspberry
liqueur, red wine and cranberry juice.
"There are so many people dedicated to her. They want her to
write more vampire books," said Marta Acosta, author of the popular
"Casa Dracula" series, a "comedy of manners" that plays on
vampire themes. She also runs the Vampire Wire, a book blog for fans of gore
and the undead.
As for her, Acosta couldn't care less if Rice sinks back into the
vampire vein.
"People think it's sexual, but it's not. It's suppressed
stuff. Southern Gothic," Acosta said. "How many centuries is Louis
(played by Brad Pitt in the movie 'Interview With the Vampire: The Vampire
Chronicles') going to whine?"
Never again, it seems.
Rice is busy writing about Jesus as a minister. And that's a
tall order, Rice said.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

In this book, SHE'S GOT CHARACTER

Today, I pass on a book review from Author's Choice Reviews because it sounds like a great read, with a fictional infusion to a REAL female character--Eve--that promises a huge payoff to readers. I'm putting this on my TBR (TO BE READ) pile for sure. Even wanted to know, "All About Eve?" I have. This is likely the closest we'll get this side of heaven!

HAVAH-The Story of Eve
By Tosca Lee
ISBN 978-1-60006- 124-0
NavPress
Reviewer Cynthia Hickey

Eve, or Havah, as Adam called her recounts the story of her life from
the moment God whispers "Wake", to her last breath. From the Garden of
Eden through exile and the birthing of a world, Havah recounts her
struggles, her hopes, one son's murder by his brother, and the turning
from God of her descendents.

A sensual, passionate love story of the first woman for, not only her
mate, but for God. From the first bite of forbidden fruit, Eve spends
her life trying to get back to the verdant valley of her birth. Into
exile, she brings God's promise of hope, her bitterness toward a
husband who blames her for his eating of the fruit, and a searching to
see God's face again. Oh, the wonders Havah saw come to fruition, the
despair she battles with, and the hope she carries through her life.

Tosca Lee has crafted a story so real, so full of detail, the reader
will feel as if they know Adam and Havah intimately. The reader will
catch a glimpse of God so rich they will take it with them far beyond
the last page. This novel is a ten, not only on the faith scale, but
in a well-written story.

Monday, October 27, 2008

New Fiction Feature





It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!



You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:





and the book:



Diamond Duo

Barbour Publishing, Inc (October 1, 2008)



ABOUT THE AUTHOR:




Marcia Gruver is a full time writer who hails from Southeast Texas. Inordinately enamored by the past, Marcia delights in writing historical fiction. Her deep south-central roots lend a Southern-comfortable style and a touch of humor to her writing.



Awarded a three book contract by Barbour Publishing for full-length historical fiction, Marcia is busy these days pounding on the keyboard and watching the deadline clock. Diamond Duo, the first installment in the trilogy entitled Texas Fortunes, is scheduled for release in October 2008.



Marcia won third place in the 2007 ACFW Genesis contest and third in the 2004 ACFW Noble Theme contest. Another entry in 2004 finished in the top ten. She placed second in the 2002 Colorado Christian Writer’s contest for new authors, securing a spot in an upcoming compilation book. “I Will Never Leave Thee,” in For Better, For Worse—Devotional Thoughts for Married Couples, was released by Christian Publications in January 2004.



She’s a member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Fellowship of Christian Writers, and The Writers View—and a longstanding member of ACFW Crit3 and Seared Hearts, her brilliant and insightful critique groups.



Lifelong Texans, Marcia and her husband, Lee, have one daughter and four sons. Collectively, this motley crew has graced them with ten grandchildren and one great-granddaughter—so far.





Visit the author's website.



Product Details:



List Price: $ 10.97

Paperback: 288 pages

Publisher: Barbour Publishing, Inc (October 1, 2008)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1602602050

ISBN-13: 978-1602602052



AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:





Diamond Duo by Marcia Gruver, Chapter One





Jefferson, Texas, Friday, January 19, 1877





With the tip of a satin shoe, the graceful turn of an ankle, the woman poured herself like cream from the northbound train out of Marshall and let the tomcats lap her up. In the beginning, an upraised parasol blocked her visage, but no lingering look at her features could erase the impression already established by pleasing carriage, a lavish blue gown, and slender fingers covered in diamonds.



Bertha Biddie waited with stilted breath for the moment when the umbrella might tip and give up its secret. All about her most of Jefferson had come to a halt, as if the whole town waited with her. Without warning, the woman lowered and closed the sunshade.



Enchanted, Bertha followed the graceful lines of her form to her striking and memorable face. At first sight of her, Bertha thought she was the devil’s daughter. She bore no obvious mark of evil. Just smoldering eyes and a knowing glance that said life held mysteries young Bertha had yet to glimpse.



Her hair sparkled like sunrays dancing on Big Cypress Creek. Her lashes were as black as the bottom of a hole, and her lids seemed smudged with coal. Delicate features perched below a dark halo of hair, and a pink flush lit her fair cheeks. Her expression teemed with mischief, and her full ruby lips curled up at the corners as if recalling a bawdy yarn. She turned slightly, evidently aware of the gathering horde for the first time. With a tilt of her chin and barely perceptible sway, she cast a wide net over the men in the crowd and dragged them to shore.



Bertha watched them respond to her and realized Mama had been less than forthcoming about the real and true nature of things. Forgetting themselves and the women at their sides, they stared open-mouthed, some in spite of jealous claws that gripped their arms. Even the ladies stared, the looks on their faces ranging from admiration to envy.



The reaction of the men only slightly altered when the lady’s escort stepped out of the Texas & Pacific passenger car behind her. Though his clothes were just as spiffy and he carried himself well, the man who accompanied that gilded bird lacked her allure, bore none of her charm. Yet despite her confident display of tail feathers, the bluebird at his side clearly deferred to him as though he’d found a way to clip her wings.



With great care, the porter handed down the couple’s baggage, the matched set a rare sight in those parts, then held out his hand. Her companion tipped the man, gathered the bags, and walked away from the platform without offering a single word in the bluebird’s direction. She cast a quick glance after him but stood her ground, her demeanor unruffled in the face of his rebuke.



As was the custom, The Commercial Hotel, Haywood House, and Brooks House, three reputable hotels in town, each had transport standing by to haul incoming passengers from the station. Dr. J. H. Turner, landlord of Brooks House, waited on hand in the conveyance he called an omnibus.



The woman’s friend secured passage with Dr. Turner and helped him load their belongings then turned and crooked a finger in her direction. She pretended not to notice.



“Bessie!” he barked. “For pity’s sake.”



She lifted her head, reopened the parasol, and strolled his way without saying a word—giving in but taking all the time she pleased to do so. He handed her up onto the carriage, climbed in beside her, and settled back to rest a possessive arm around her shoulders.



Dr. Turner eased onto Alley Street and trundled away from the station, breaking the spell cast over the denizens of Jefferson. In slow motion they awoke from their stupor and returned to their lives.



Bertha released the breath she’d held and gripped her best friend’s arm. “What was she, Magda? I’ve never seen anything like her.”



When Magda shook her head, her curls danced the fandango. “Me neither. And we never will again. Not around here, anyway.”



She leaned past Magda trying to catch another glimpse. “She’s no earthbound creature, that’s for sure. But devil or angel? I couldn’t tell.”



Magda laughed. “She’s human all right, just not ordinary folk.” She pressed her finger to her lips. “Could be one of those actresses from a New York burletta.”



Bertha gasped. “From the Broadway stage? You really think so?”



“She’s certainly stylish enough.”



Bertha squinted down Alley Street at the back of the tall carriage. “That man called her Bessie. She doesn’t look like a Bessie to me.”



“Further proof that beneath all her fluff, she’s a vessel of clay like the rest of us.”



“How so?”



“Who ever heard of an angel named Bessie?”



Grinning, Bertha leaned and tweaked Magda’s nose. “Oh, go on with you.”



Of all the souls wandering the earth—in Jefferson, Texas, at least—Bertha Maye Biddie’s heart had knit with Magdalena Hayes’ from the start. They were a year apart, Magda being the oldest, but age wasn’t the only difference between them. Magda easily reached the top shelves in the kitchen, where Bertha required a stool. And while big-boned Magda took up one and a half spaces on a church pew, Bertha barely filled the remaining half. Magda’s russet mop coiled as tight as tumbleweed. Bertha’s black hair fell to her waist in silken waves and gave her fits trying to keep it pinned up. Nothing fazed self-possessed Magda. Bertha greeted life with her heart.



Magda nudged Bertha with her elbow. “Earthbound or not, I can tell you one thing about her. . .”



“What’s that?”



The look in Magda’s big brown eyes said whatever the one thing was it was bound to be naughty. She leaned in to whisper. “She knows a thing or two about the fellas.”



Bertha raised her brows. “You can tell that just by looking at her, can you?”



“Not looking at her, smart britches. I can tell by the way she looks at them.” She fussed with her curls, her eyes pious slants. “No decent woman goes eye to eye with strange men in the street, and you know it.”



“I guess some decent woman told you that?”



“Bertha Maye Biddie! Don’t get fresh with me.”



Bertha tucked in her chin and busied herself straightening her gloves. “Maybe she’s fed up with their scandalous fawning. Ever think of that?”



“Any hound will track his supper.”



The words made Bertha mad enough to spit, but she didn’t know why. “A pie set out on a windowsill may be a fine display of good cooking, but not necessarily an invitation.”



Magda narrowed her eyes. “What on earth are you talking about?” Before Bertha could answer, she stiffened and settled back for a pout. “Why are you siding up with that woman anyway? You don’t even know her.”



The truth was, Bertha’s head still reeled from the first sight of Bessie. And the way men reacted to her flooded Bertha’s young heart with hope and provided an opportunity, if she played her cards right, to fix a private matter that sorely needed fixing.



She knew a few things by instinct, like how to toss her long hair or tilt her chin just so. Enough to mop the grin off Thaddeus Bloom’s handsome face and light a fire in those dark eyes. But she was done with turning to mush in his presence and watching him revel in it. If Bertha could learn a few of the bluebird’s tricks, she’d have that rascal wagging his tail. Then the shoe would be laced to the proper foot, and Thad could wear it up her front stoop when he came to ask for her hand.



One thing was certain. Whatever Bessie knew, Bertha needed to know it.



She tugged on Magda’s arm. “Come on.”



“Come on where?”



Already a wagon-length ahead, Bertha called back over her shoulder. “To the hotel. We’re going to find her.”



“What? Why?”



“Save your questions for later. Now hurry!”



Bertha dashed to the steps at the end of the boardwalk and scurried into the street.



“You planning to run clear to Vale Street?” Magda huffed, rushing to catch up. “Slow down. It ain’t ladylike.”



“Oh, pooh. Neither am I. Look, there’s Mose. He’ll take us.”



Just ahead, Moses Pharr’s rig, piled high with knobby cypress, turned onto Alley Street headed the opposite way. The rickety wagon, pulled by one broken-down horse, bore such a burden of wood it looked set to pop like a bloated tick. When Bertha whistled, the boy’s drowsy head jerked up. He turned around and saw her, and a grin lit his freckled face.



“Bertha!” Magda hustled up beside her. “If your pa gets word of you whistling in town, he’ll take a strap to your legs.”



“Papa doesn’t own a strap. Come on, Mose is waiting.”



She ran up even with the wagon and saw that the mountain of wood had blocked her view of Mose’s sister sitting beside him on the seat. They both grinned down at her, Rhodie’s long red hair the only visible difference between the two.



“Hey, Rhodie.”



“Hey, Bert. Where you going?”



“To Brooks House. I was hoping to hitch a ride.”



Mose leaned over, still grinning. “We always got room for you, Bertha. Hop on.”



Magda closed the distance between them and came to stand beside Bertha, breathing hard. When Bertha pulled herself onto the seat beside Rhodie, Magda started to follow. Mose raised his hand to stop her.



“Hold up there.” He looked over at Bertha. “Her, too?”



Bertha nodded.



Mose cut his eyes back at the wood and then shrugged. “Guess one more can’t hurt. But she’ll have to sit atop that stump. Ain’t no more room on the seat.”



Magda adjusted her shawl around her shoulders and sniffed. “I refuse to straddle a cypress stump all the way to Vale Street.”



“Suit yourself,” Bertha said. “But it’s a long walk. Let’s go, Mose.”



Mose lifted the reins and clucked at the horse. Magda grabbed the wooden handgrip and pulled herself onto the wagon just as it started to move. Arranging her skirts about her, she perched on the tall stump like Miss Muffet. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked. “Let’s go.”



Laughing, they rolled through Jefferson listing and creaking, ignoring the stares and whispers. When the rig pulled up across from Brooks House, even the spectacle they made couldn’t compete with Bessie and her traveling companion.



The couple stood on the street beside their luggage, the carriage nowhere in sight. They seemed at the end of a heated discussion, given his mottled face and her missing smile.



When Bertha noticed the same sick-cow expression on the faces of the gathered men and the same threatened look on the women’s, she became more determined than ever to learn Bessie’s secret.



The man with Bessie growled one more angry word then hefted their bags and set off up the path. Not until Bessie followed him and disappeared through the shadowy door did the town resume its pace.



Mose gulped and found his voice. “She looked as soft as a goose-hair pillow. Who is she?”



Bertha scooted to the edge of her seat and climbed down. She dusted her hands and smoothed her skirt before she answered. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”



“Roll up your tongue, Moses Pharr,” Magda said from the back, “and get me off this stump.”



Mose hopped to the ground and hurried around to help Magda.



Rhodie, twirling her copper braid, grinned down at Bertha. “What are you going to do, Bert?”



Magda answered for her. “She’s going to get us into trouble, that’s what.”



Bertha took her by the hand. “Stop flapping your jaws and come on.”



They waved goodbye to Mose and Rhodie then hurried across the street, dodging horses, wagons, and men—though their town wasn’t nearly as crowded as it had once been.



Jefferson, Queen City of the Cypress, lost its former glory in 1873, when the United States Corps of Engineers blew the natural dam to kingdom come, rerouting the water from Big Cypress Bayou down the Red River to Shreveport. Once a thriving port alive with steamboat traffic, when the water level fell, activity in Jefferson, the river port town that had earned the title “Gateway to Texas” dwindled. To that very day, in fits of Irish temper, Bertha’s papa cursed the responsible politicians.



But through it all, Jefferson had lost none of its charm. Brooks House was a prime example of the best the town had to offer, so it seemed only right that someone like Bessie might wind up staying there.



Bertha and Magda positioned themselves outside the hotel and hunkered down to wait—the former on a mission, the latter under duress. It didn’t take long for the girls to learn a good bit about the captivating woman and her cohort. Talk swirled out the door of the hotel soon after the couple sashayed to the front desk to register under the name of A. Monroe and wife, out of Cincinnati, Ohio.



The gentleman, if he could be counted as such, addressed the woman as Annie or Bessie, when he didn’t call her something worse. The two quarreled openly, scratching and spitting like cats, and didn’t care who might be listening. By the time the story drifted outside, the locals had dubbed her Diamond Bessie due to her jewel-encrusted hands, and it seemed the name would stick.



Bertha shaded her eyes with her hands and pressed her face close to the window. “I don’t see her anymore, Magda. I guess they took a room.”



“Of course they took a room. Why else would they come to a hotel?”



Bertha ignored her sarcasm and continued to search the lobby for Bessie. Still catching no sight of her, she turned around. “Isn’t she the most glorious thing? And even prettier close up.”



“That she is.”



“Did you see the way men look at her? I never saw that many roosters on the prowl at one time.”



“And all for squat,” Magda said. “That chicken’s been plucked. The little banty she strutted into town with has already staked a claim.” She grinned. “He wasn’t all that hard on the eyes himself.”



Bertha frowned. “That strutting peacock? Besides his flashy clothes, she was the only thing special about him. Don’t see how he managed to snare a woman like that. He must be rich.”



Magda arched one tapered brow. “Did you see the rings on her fingers?”



“I reckon so. I’m not blind.”



Magda stretched her back and heaved a sigh. “I guess that’s it then. Let’s go.”



Bertha grabbed her arm. “Wait. Where are you going?”



“Home. This show’s over. They’ve settled upstairs by now.”



Lacing her fingers under her chin, Bertha planted herself in Magda’s path. “Won’t you wait with me just a mite longer?”



“She’s not coming out here, Bertha. Besides, you’ve seen enough for today.”



“I don’t want to see her. I need to talk to her.”



Magda drew herself back and stared. “Are you tetched? We can’t just walk up and talk to someone like her. Why would she fool with the likes of us?”



“I don’t know. I’ll think of a way. I’ve got to.” She bit her bottom lip—three words too late.



Looking wary now, Magda crossed her arms. “Got to? Why?”



“Just do.” Bertha met her look head-on. She wouldn’t be bullied out of it. Not even by Magda.



Resting chubby fists on rounded hips, Magda sized her up. “All right, what does this have to do with Thad?”



No one knew her like Magda. Still, the chance she might stumble onto Bertha’s motives were as likely as hatching a three-headed guinea hen. Struggling to hold her jaw off the ground, she lifted one shoulder. “Who said it did?”



Magda had the gall to laugh. “Because, dearie,” she leaned to tap Bertha’s forehead, “everything inside there lately has something to do with Thad.”



“Humph! Think what you like. I am going to talk to her.”



Magda glared. “Go ahead then. I can see there’s no changing your mind. But I don’t fancy being humiliated by another of your rattlebrained schemes, thank you.”



Bertha caught hold of her skirt. “Don’t you dare go. I can’t do this on my own.”



“Let go of me. I said I’m going home.”



“Please, Magdalena! I need you.”



Magda pulled her skirt free and took another backward step. “No, ma’am. You just count me out this time.”



She turned to go and Bertha lunged, catching her in front of the hotel door. They grappled, tugging sleeves and pulling hair, both red-faced and close to tears. Just when Bertha got set to squeal like a pestered pig, from what seemed only a handbreadth away a woman cleared her throat. Bertha froze, hands still locked in Magda’s hair, and turned to find the bluebird beaming from the threshold—though canary seemed more fitting now that she’d traded her blue frock for a pale yellow dress.



“What fun!” Bessie cried, clasping her hands. “I feared this town might be as dull as dirt, but it seems I was mistaken.”