Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 181

What passed between us at that moment I cannot begin to describe to you

So instead, my mother decided to acquire stuff: Ornamental purses of different shapes and sizes; an assortment of extravagant fur hats, imported from her faraway birthplace; and numerous pairs of snakeskin shoes with high heels, which were ill suited to the desert sand—all of which caused a stir among the local people.
I can recall how, as a child, I got a rare permission from her to come into the inner part of her tent, behind the screen, and take a peak into her chest. It was overflowing with nose rings, bracelets, and flamboyant clothes. With hesitant fingers I touched one of her shirts, which at the time, was way too big for me. 
“Here, Yankle, try it on,” she offered. 
I did. I can still remember it: The trace of her jasmine perfume, the striped blue-on-white pattern of the weave, and the swooshing sound of the fabric as it flowed over my head and cascaded around my feet. I remember her laughter, her sudden embrace; and a heartbeat later—opening to me out of the shadow, right there behind her back—the watchful eyes of my twin brother Esav, who must have been standing there for a while, without making a sound. 
How my mother sensed his presence—by what quirk of intuition she knew he had been studying us—I will never be able to guess. Perhaps she saw him in my eyes. She looked at me then with an intense look, and in a flash I learned that the unsaid can be more forceful than words. What passed between us at that moment I cannot begin to describe to you. I could hear her heart beat, and at the same instant, the same hammer was pounding in my chest. 
With great calm, she gathered the garment from my hand. Then she folded it back into the chest with slow, measured movements, lowered the lid and with a clack, locked it. 
“Go out, Esav, go play,” she said, without even bothering to turn her head, without even looking at him; and then she added softly, “You too, Yankle.” 
In two shakes of a lamb’s tail we were outside. His hair was flowing, thick and wild, in the wind as he chased me, caught me, punched me down. 
All the while, I knew: I would never forget her love, her letting me wear that unusually beautiful, striped shirt. And neither would he.

Yankle in A Favorite Son


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"On a moral and ethical level the novel had a powerful impact on me."  -Christoph Fischer, Top 500 Reviewer

What about your little trunk, full of gold coins?

“Talking about a small fortune,” she counters, “what about your little trunk, full of gold coins?”“Being of a sound body and mind,” he says, “I spent it all.”“On what, in heaven’s name?”“What! On what, Becky? Here I go, heaping all those bracelets, all those nose rings on one woman, and one woman alone, only to find out, in the end, the real extent of her gratitude!”“Isaac my dear, you know well enough how grateful I am—”“Becky my dear,” he says, with a note of disdain. “What I know is this: Anyone else in my position would have at his disposal at least two or three legally registered wives, not to mention a respectably large harem, full of concubines—”Being a practical woman, she decides to ignore that. “Fine, then,” she says. “So now, dear: How about giving me some means of transportation? The rich women, I hear, those in the cities along the coast, in Ashdod and also in Ashkelon, they have started to buy new automobiles. And I, I live here in the desert but still, Isaac, I come from nobility, you know, from one of the richest families in the land.”“What kind of transportation?”“A camel, for instance,” she says. “Two humps, or more, as well as a driver or two, or more. And four leather saddles, the soft kind, of course. It would be but a small token, a token of prestige—”“For goodness sake,” he groans. “It’s a camel you’re talking about—not a Rolls Royce!”
Rebecca and Isaac in A Favorite Son

The image above is a detail from my watercolor painting, which I used for the book cover. Click the play button at the top of the image above, to listen to the amazing narration by David Kudler.


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"Her prose is beautiful; she paints intricate, emotionally resonant pictures with words"

In a moment he would reach for her hand, smiling as if nothing bad could happen

And over that threshold down there, she could somehow read the shape of the shadow. How it appeared suddenly, spilling out of nowhere, was quite beyond her, but she could tell, couldn’t she, that there was no floor. This time, perhaps because of starting to fall asleep, her diary seemed heavier than usual. Getting up, she brushed her fingers over it and could feel the raised spine, and rough spots where the gold lettering spelling ‘Love’ had peeled off. If she were to take it with her, the book might slip. It might drop from her hands. It might then continue dropping, farther and farther away from view through the empty elevator shaft, releasing letter after letter into the air, filling its darkness with white feathery pages, rustling, whispering what she had written such a long time ago, what had been clamped—until now—between the front and back covers, as if it were a flower meant for drying.Her longing for him.She wiped her face, and now her sight cleared. With every step toward that door, she could see his eyes shining brighter and brighter across from her, as if David—yes, as if he were right there, hanging in midair, framed by the hollow. By what twist of imagination did this happen? How did this outline of his jaw suddenly appear, how did it open now, as if he was just about to call her name?In a moment, she thought, he would reach for her hand, smiling as if nothing bad could happen—
From 'The Hollow' in Twisted


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"It is virtually impossible to resist being mesmerized"

Here is what to expect, coming home

The days are short, the sun a sparkSo faint the shine at the edge of darkYou shiver in the grip of iceHome seems far, as under glass.
The road is slippery, your sleigh may slideCome to the door, it’ll open wideInside it’s warm by the fireAnd our stories may inspire 
A memory from the distant pastThat lets you feel at home, at last

Hi everyone! Can't wait for the  Come  HOME  event to begin Can you?Here is what to expect:
Friday, December 5 at 4:00pm PST - Sunday, December 7, 2014 3:00 PST Come meet us We invite you to listen to our storiesHave you joined the event? If so, your name is already written in our holiday cardsWant to increase your chances to win our audiobooks? Then like, comment, or share the stories that catch your fancy
Grand Finale Sunday, December 7, 2014 4:00 PDT Come  HOME We will open our holiday cardsAnd announce who won our audiobooks

Cover reveal for The Edge of Revolt

About the art:The cover art for my new novel, The Edge of Revolt, is my watercolor painting inspired by a quick charcoal sketch which I have drawn while listening to music--several pieces of music, each with a different rhythm and mood, reflected here. I imagined that these rhythms are taking me to a magical landscape, which I am yet to explore, and that the edges describe rocks and mountains faraway, and sweeping waves underfoot. Here and there I imagined a figure of a traveler who, like me, is on a journey--but I could not tell if his journey is one of giving chase or one of escape. The more I gaze upon this view, the more detail I find in its edges, which are open to interpretation.
I drew it while in the process of writing about David, reflecting upon the conflicting emotions filling his heart during his escape from his beloved son, Absalom, who has mounted a revolt to topple him from the throne. While the landscape of his journey is that of the mountains of Judea and the Jordan river, the landscape here is abstract, because it reflects the journey you may take, given a great turmoil in your life.
About the text:The font selected for the title—The Edge of Revolt—depicts a regal, dynamically slanted, and rather grandiose handwriting style, just the way I imagine David’s penmanship in his private diary. At the top, the letters are bathed in golden light, which fades gradually towards the bottom. Down there, they are soaked in a blood red color, as befits this drama of love, betrayal, and war.
By contrast to the title, the font style selected for the name of the trilogy—The David Chronicles—is a more formal, stable one, and it is presented all in capitals. This adheres to the font scheme for the cover of the volume I, Rise to Power, and volume II, A Peek at Bathsheba. 

Together, they are connected both in their art and in the voice of David. I find it amazing to be in his skin from childhood to old age. It has been quite a journey for me, and I hope it would be for you, too.

 

 Volume I of the trilogy: 
Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt★  Ebook  ★
"I am so enamored with the sensual style and delicious delivery
 that this review is a purely emotional response as I have just put it down. 
I feel like a devotee."

Behind my back, you’ve been bold enough to entertain the worst of my enemies

He starts pacing back and forth, from one end of the balcony to the other, as if putting siege to a city. “Ha! You think I don’t hear things, even if I’m not here in person?”
“I have no secrets from you,” I say, brazenly. “Perhaps I should have.”
He seethes at me. “Behind my back, you’ve been bold enough to entertain the worst of my enemies, the one who has the blood of my brother, Asahel, on his hands.”
I move away from the railing, leaving him standing there, alone. “You’ve been in the business of war long enough to know better. One can’t hold a grudge forever.”
“You’re quite wrong about that,” he says, with a note of bitterness. “I can.”
“Then, stop it. Vengeance clutters the mind.”
“Wrong, again. It sharpens it.”
“There are casualties on either side,” I argue, “some of which may be unintended.”
He stammers. “How, how dare you say that to me?”
I cross him on my way back into my office.
“Careful now,” I warn him from in here. “Don’t you raise your voice in my presence.”
Joav plucks nervously at his mustache. Then he follows me, making an effort to lower his voice. “You weren’t there, were you?” he hisses at me. “You didn’t bear witness how ‘unintentionally’ my brother was slain.”
“It was my mistake, sending you on that mission, in the first place,” I must admit. “Had I been there, that silly game you played with the lives of their boys and ours would never have been played. And as for your brother—”
“What about Asahel?” His voice reaches a new high. “Are you accusing me for his death?”
“I’m accusing no one,” I assure him. “Not a thing is to blame but this sorry state of war.”
“I’m not my brother’s keeper!”
“Who says you are?”
“It wasn’t my hand that thrust the butt of a spear straight through his stomach, till it came out through his back, was it? Every man stopped when he came to the place where Asahel had fallen, where he died. Not one of them moved—except me.”
“A horrific sight it must have been.”
“I can still see him lying there, convulsing in a puddle of blood, mouth open as if to call my name.”

David and his first in command, Joav, in A Peek at Bathsheba

Uniting the tribes of Israel is a delicate mission. To achieve it David negotiates with the military leader of the enemy, but his ruthless first in command, Joav, does everything in his power to oppose him, because he is driven by ambition and by an urge to avenge his the death of his brother, who has been slain on the battlefield.

(The image at the top is a detail from the cover art, based on my watercolor painting. Click the 'Play' button to hear the wonderful narration of the Audio edition by Justin Harmer) 


★ Love giving gifts? Give the trilogy ★
Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt★  Ebook  ★
"The miracle of Uvi Poznansky's writing is her uncanny ability to return to old stories and make them brilliantly fresh"-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame reviewer

Let me introduce you to my author friends

The wind is singing winter bluesWhispering with her is a museLet her notes take you awaySwifter than a reindeer sleigh 
Home awaits... Before you travelTake a moment to unravelOur story, our plotAnd the gifts that we have brought
Let me tell you who we areCome to us from near and far   Come  HOME And join to win!
Uvi Poznansky
"I paint with my pen, and write with my paintbrush"@UviPoznansky

Donna Fasano
"Romance that warms the heart"@DonnaFaz

Barbara Silkstone
"There is no second chance at first love."@barbsilkstone
Aaron Paul Lazar
"Addictive, award-winning fiction. You'll fall in love with the characters and love to hate the villains.”@aplazar
Libby Fischer Hellmann
"Author of compulsively readable thrillers"@libbyhellmann
James DiBenedetto
"What would you do if you could see other people's dreams?"@JJDiBenedetto
Charity Parkerson
"Be careful what you lust for..."@CharityParkerso
Stacy Juba
"Mystery, Romance, and YA featuring Characters at a Crossroads"@stacyjuba
Janet MorrisBestselling author of novels from historical to fantastical.
@uvmchristinePerseidSacred Band
Seb Kirby"Author of thrillers exploring crime, conspiracy and duplicity."@Seb_Kirby

My announcement of the day: The Edge of Revolt is here!

My announcement of the day: The Edge of Revolt is available for preorder! The third volume of the trilogy The David Chronicles will be released on December 19, 2014, just in time for the holidays. I am designing the cover as we speak, but for now, you can already see the title page.
Here is the book description:Struggling to find the right balance between loving his sons and upholding justice, David is silent when Amnon rapes his daughter, Tamar, and when Absalom lures Amnon to his death. These crimes go punished, because a mysterious change has come upon the king, which his court scribes note even before he does. In the past he had to explain his actions, such as the affair with Bathsheba, to them. Now, they want to understand the opposite thing: his lack of action.In families other than his, such matters may be a mere matter of gossip. Yet when assault, incest, and murder occur in the king’s family, they affect matters of the state. David is toppled from his throne, and must escape from the son he adores, Absalom.Even as he finds a way to quell the revolt and come back to the City of David, the road ahead seems unclear. How will he find the right successor amongst his remaining sons, the one who will connect to him and continue his legacy?This is volume III of the trilogy The David Chronicles, told candidly by the king himself. David uses modern language, indicating that this is no fairytale. Rather, it is a story that is happening here and now. 

★ Love giving gifts? Give the trilogy ★
Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt★  Ebook  ★
"The miracle of Uvi Poznansky's writing is her uncanny ability to return to old stories and make them brilliantly fresh"-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame reviewer

Coming home, he is unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him

If I wanted to, I could just extend my arms and hug her, because there she is, opposite me, and the distance... The distance, you see, is so close—but I hold myself back. She is looking out the window. Perhaps she is immersing herself in the grays and purples quivering there, on the other side of the glass, reaching a blur in the cold October sunlight. Perhaps, with great patience she is waiting there, waiting for the night, for the darkest hour, which is when her image may finally appear. It will come to the surface in front of her as if it were a sunken spirit, rising from the deep. Out of nowhere. For now she seems lost, searching for something—perhaps her reflection—in vain. I worry about mom, about the little things, which to someone else—someone who does not know her as I do—may seem trivial, insignificant. I worry she is missing her pearl earrings. I must find them for her. The little hole in her earlobe has shrunk away, turning somehow to flesh. In a whisper I say, “Mommy?” and wonder how the air vibrates over the tender membrane of her eardrum, how it changes into noise, how she gets it when pitch rises, when it falls. Can she sense the change? 
At what point does it translate, somehow, into meaning? By what path does it penetrate, going deeper? Does it excite the nerves, fire signals up there, between regions of her brain?
Ben in Apart From Love

Coming back to his childhood home after years of absence, Ben is unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him: his mother, Natasha, who used to be a brilliant pianist, is losing herself to early-onset Alzheimer's, which turns the way her mind works into a riddle. 


★ Love giving gifts? Give this book ★  
Apart from Love★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★ "A feast for the armchair psychologist. Reveals insights that can touch and frighten each of us"

Unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him

If I wanted to, I could just extend my arms and hug her, because there she is, opposite me, and the distance... The distance, you see, is so close—but I hold myself back. She is looking out the window. Perhaps she is immersing herself in the grays and purples quivering there, on the other side of the glass, reaching a blur in the cold October sunlight. Perhaps, with great patience she is waiting there, waiting for the night, for the darkest hour, which is when her image may finally appear. It will come to the surface in front of her as if it were a sunken spirit, rising from the deep. Out of nowhere. For now she seems lost, searching for something—perhaps her reflection—in vain. I worry about mom, about the little things, which to someone else—someone who does not know her as I do—may seem trivial, insignificant. I worry she is missing her pearl earrings. I must find them for her. The little hole in her earlobe has shrunk away, turning somehow to flesh. In a whisper I say, “Mommy?” and wonder how the air vibrates over the tender membrane of her eardrum, how it changes into noise, how she gets it when pitch rises, when it falls. Can she sense the change? 
At what point does it translate, somehow, into meaning? By what path does it penetrate, going deeper? Does it excite the nerves, fire signals up there, between regions of her brain?
Ben in Apart From Love

Coming back to his childhood home after years of absence, Ben is unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him: his mother, Natasha, who used to be a brilliant pianist, is losing herself to early-onset Alzheimer's, which turns the way her mind works into a riddle. 


★ Love giving gifts? Give this book ★  
Apart from Love★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★ "A feast for the armchair psychologist. Reveals insights that can touch and frighten each of us"