Robin E. Mason's Blog: Robin's Book Shelf, page 159
September 18, 2017
BLOGWORDS – Tuesday 19 September 2017 – TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – BOOK REVIEW – A RUSH OF WINGS BY KRISTEN HEITZMANN
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TUESDAY REVIEWS-DAY – BOOK REVIEW – A RUSH OF WINGS BY KRISTEN HEITZMANN
Memories don’t stay suppressed, not truly. They hover, lingering near the surface, emerging to protect us. Or to frighten us.
Trauma has wreaked havoc on those memories in Noelle St. Claire’s mind, driving her to seek refuge in an unknown place, with people who know nothing about her.
But past and present will collide, and Noelle’s life catches up with her, sending her spiraling further downward where the truth lies.
Ms. Heitzmann takes the reader into the shadows of dark memory, one fragmented piece at a time. Torment trolls across every page, even when Noelle is smiling. Something is hovering just out of sight, and Ms. Heitzmann skillfully draws the reader to that edge. I felt the panic, and press of anxiety, and I heard the wings as the hovered nearby. I cringed in the shadows. I championed Noelle from my safe space as a reader and I wept with her at the seeming hopelessness of it.
A daunting story of a hidden past, and hope that lies in unexpected places.
I purchased this book on Amazon. I offer my review of my own free will, and the opinions expressed in my review are my own honest thoughts and reaction to this book.
[image error]Kristen Heitzmann is the bestselling author of contemporary romantic suspense, psychological suspense, and historical novels, including Colorado Book Award finalist The Still of Night, Christy Award finalists Indivisible and The Tender Vine, and Christy Award winners Secrets and The Breath of Dawn that won both a Christy Award and Inspirational Readers Choice Award and was a finalist for a people’s choice award in the Netherlands. She is a fiction track and workshop teacher at writers conferences. An artist and musician, she’ll also be found hiking the Colorado Rocky Mountain trails near her home where she lives with her husband, pets, extended family, and wildlife.
www.facebook.com/kristen.f.heitzmann
www.facebook.com/KristenHeitzmann?ref=hl
https://twitter.com/KFHeitzmann
#Blogwords, Tuesday Reviews-Day, #TRD, Book Review, A Rush of Wings, Kristen Heitzmann
BLOGWORDS – Monday 18 September 2017 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
“We never did play tea parties like other girls. We played detective. Because that’s what Mercedes read, detective stories. And she was our Sherlock Holmes.
As children, our ventures were harmless enough. Until the day Simone fell in the river and disappeared.”
No words yesterday, after that word count, and it being a Sunday,
I gave my brain a break from the story. Going for 3K today.
“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”
https://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S
https://twitter.com/amythyst212
http://www.pinterest.com/amythyst212/
https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason
“the battle for identity, one story at a time”
#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemSepWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Woods of Spring
September 17, 2017
BLOGWORDS – 18 September 2017 – NEW WEEK NEW NO FACE – GUEST GHOST POST
NEW WEEK NEW NO FACE – GUEST GHOST POST
Just.didn’t.happen.this.week.ya’ll.
In light of Sunday’s post (09-17-17) Sanctuary, and writing deadlines, there is no post today. Please enjoy the music while you wait.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaia32TsPq0
#Blogwords, New Week New No Face, #NWNF, Guest Post, Sanctuary, Writing Deadlines, #amwriting, Colossians 3:17, Acts 11:23, Hebrews 13:15, 1 Peter 4:11, Psalm 69:30, Matthew 5:16, Psalm 100:2, Psalm 63:3, 1 Corinthians 10:31, Living Sacrifice, Signature Song
September 16, 2017
BLOGWORDS – Sunday 17 September 2017 – FRONT PORCH FELLOWSHIP – SANCTUARY
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FRONT PORCH FELLOWSHIP – SANCTUARY
Holy Spirit spoke to me the other night. “Stop fighting,” He said. Striving might have been a better word, but He used fighting.
I’ve lost track of the times I’ve seen a Scripture reference to “rest” in some form or another. Proverbs 3:5-6—you know, the one that says trust in Him?—has been in front of my face countless times.
And then… then there was the blog, oh so short-n-sweet, that talked about how the blog was suffering because its owner was on a writing deadline. See that? Writing deadline.
And the other blog, the one that was way too in-my-face about over commitment.
So, with that said, I hereby pull back from over commitment and over-blogging. And I, uh, rest in Him. Oh, and I’m writing. Lots.
#Blogwords, Front Porch Fellowship, #FPF, Sunday Devotion, Sanctuary, Proverbs 3:5-6
BLOGWORDS – Saturday 16 September 2017 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
“We never did play tea parties like other girls. We played detective. Because that’s what Mercedes read, detective stories. And she was our Sherlock Holmes.
As children, our ventures were harmless enough. Until the day Simone fell in the river and disappeared.”
[image error] had a couple of rough days this week, part of the RA I hate the most…
and since I missed posting yesterday, due to writing mode and other related tasks, Thursday wasn’t too shabby for coming out of malaise as I was…
*warning! teaser statement: Cover Reveal isn’t for a few weeks yet (early November – sorry) but my Photo Shop guru has Scarlett just about perfect – and she looks AMAZING on her cover!!!
“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”
https://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S
https://twitter.com/amythyst212
http://www.pinterest.com/amythyst212/
https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason
“the battle for identity, one story at a time”
#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemSepWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Woods of Spring
September 15, 2017
BLOGWORDS – Friday 15 September 2017 – FIRST LINE FRIDAY – GROWING IN THE WRITING CRAFT by MICHELLE GRIEP
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FIRST LINE FRIDAY – GROWING IN THE WRITING CRAFT by MICHELLE GRIEP
Reading is My SuperPower
Molly’s Cafinated Reads | Singing Librarian | Bookworm Mama
Faithfully Bookish | Radiant Light | Encouraging Words from the Tea Queen
| Fiction Aficionado | Bibliophile Reviews
Kathleen Denly | Lauraine’s Notes | Joy of Reading
A Baker’s Perspective | With a Joyful Noise | Romances of the Cross
Moments Dipped in Ink | C Jane Read
Reviews by Van Daniker | Iola Goulton
Christian Fiction Girl | A Brighter Destiny | Sprinkles and Pink
If you’d like to join us on your blog for First Line Fridays, shoot an email to:
Carrie @ Reading is My Superpower and/or Rachel @ BookwormMama and/or Beth @ FaithfullyBookish and/or Sydney @SingingLibrarianBooks
THE BLURB:
Are you a writer at heart? How can you tell? And if you are, how do you go about composing and selling the next Great American Novel? WRITER OFF THE LEASH answers these questions and more–all in an easy to understand, tongue-in-cheek style. This is more than a how-to book. It’s a kick in the pants for anyone who wants to write but is stymied by fear, doubt, or simply doesn’t know how to take their writing to the next level. Award-winning author MICHELLE GRIEP blows the lid off stodgy old-school rulebooks and makes it clear that writing can–and should–be fun.
THE FIRST LINE:
When I tell people I’m a writer, I immediately get “the look.
MY THOUGHTS:
A how-to written as only Michelle Griep can write it, witty and snarky, it lays out the basics of being an author.
GENRE:
Reference, Writing Skills, Research and Publishing Guides
STARS:
[image error]Five, of course
#Blogwords, First Line Friday, #FLF, Writer Off the Leash, Growing in the Writing Craft, Michelle Griep
September 13, 2017
BLOGWORDS – Thursday 14 September 2017 – CHAT THURSDAY – AUTHOR INTERVIEW – TOMMIE LYN
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CHAT THURSDAY – AUTHOR INTERVIEW – TOMMIE LYN
“Mountains in my heart…sand in my shoes.”
“As a Cherokee descendant and a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, it’s probably not surprising that some of my stories focus on that part of my heritage.”
rem: Hello, Tommie, welcome to my little nest. Tell us a little about yourself. Where were you raised? Where do you live now?
TOMMIE: I was born and (mostly) raised in Dalton, Georgia. I live in the Florida panhandle now, in Milton, near Pensacola.
rem: Oh my goodness!!! Irma came awfully close to you! Tell us three things about yourself.
TOMMIE: First of all, I’m a retired grey-haired great-granny. Secondly, I was a PK (preacher’s kid) and that has influenced my life in ways that I’m very thankful for. Thirdly, my husband was a career Navy man, and our travels gave me lots of varied experiences, plus, we met people who have become lifelong friends.
rem: I’m a granny and there’s nothing like it!! ❤ Tell us about your Cherokee heritage.
TOMMIE: I have Cherokee ancestors on both sides of my lineage, but it is my daddy’s lineage that is documented. His ancestors are listed on various Cherokee rolls. The roll that’s important is the Dawes Roll. His great-grandmother is listed on that roll, which allowed me to apply for citizenship in the Cherokee Nation. I and my sons are all citizens of the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma.
My gr gr gr grandparents on my daddy’s side were marched off to Oklahoma on the Trail of Tears, along with their two toddler sons. They later sneaked back to the mountains, but the rest of their family stayed in Oklahoma. A cousin I met online has the letters they wrote back and forth from Tennessee to Oklahoma.
On my mother’s side, a Cherokee ancestor hid in a cave and was left behind during the Removal. A white family took pity on her and supplied her with food, etc. She later married Asa Thomason, my mother’s gr grandfather. I used this incident in my latest novel. An eight-year-old Cherokee boy was left behind when soldiers rounded up his family and marched them off to the stockade to be held there until the march to Oklahoma.
Alan survives because of his own tenacity and because people took pity on him.
rem: Oh, how awesome that you were able to gain your Cherokee citizenship. Coffee or tea? Sweet or un? Flavored or not?
TOMMIE: Coffee. And I like it black, no sugar, unless it’s iced coffee. I like my iced coffee with cream and DaVinci Sugar Free Vanilla Syrup.
rem: I drink mine black too, even when I drink it cold but that sounds divine. What do you do as a hobby?
TOMMIE: I write. Before I began writing (after I retired) I loved sewing, knitting, crocheting, macramé, tatting, gardening, orchid-growing…I had a wide range of hobbies. These days, I have one: writing.
rem: I hear ya! It is all comsuming! What’s your all-time favorite movie? Favorite TV show?
TOMMIE: Movie? “Overboard.” Television show? “Monk.”
rem: I love both of those! Your movie snack of choice?
TOMMIE: Popcorn
rem: Slathered with lots of melted butter of course! 
September 12, 2017
BLOGWORDS – Wednesday 13 September 2017 – WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER
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WREADING WEDNESDAY – FEATURED BOOK EXCERPT – THE LONG SHADOWS OF SUMMER
#WreadingWednesday is back! But with a change to the format—because I post reviews almost every week and participate in First Line Fridays, #FLF, #WreadingWednedsay is now dedicated to ‘wreading’ bits and excepts from my books!
Without further ado, I give you Mercedes and The Long Shadows of Summer.
She looked so familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her. Sitting on the bench as she was outside Hooper’s Market. Her hat was at a rakish angle, her cocoa colored hair perfectly coiffed. Seemed there were tears in her green eyes. I was certain I had never seen her before. But she reminded me of someone…
It couldn’t be her, though. She was dead, we had all watched her die. Floating away like that in the swamp. Her lavender dress billowed up like a balloon, her dark hair fanning out on the black water. We had made a pact, Pearl and Scarlett and me, never to tell anyone what happened.
>>> <<<
I was the oldest of us girls and we did everything together. As often as our elders would allow, at least. Ma mère worked for Simone’s grand-mère, Madame Antoinette Dubois. I helped Mamá most times, but sometimes I was allowed to play with Simone and her friend Pearl.
It happened in 1897, the summer I was eleven. Mamá didn’t make me help her as much in the summers and I was allowed to go outdoors with Simone and Pearl. Our friend, Scarlett’s Mamá, though, made her help with dusting the abovestairs rooms, but she was permitted to come outdoors after luncheon was served.
Simone always was most daring, walking atop fences and climbing trees and such. That summer, though, it seemed she didn’t have a care. She wasn’t just daring, she was indifferent. She climbed higher than we had ever seen her climb. She would swing from the branches, like the monkeys we read about in our lessons, and then drop to the ground. She jumped right in the black water of the Edisto River that day.
And floated away, pale as death.
>>><<<
I now worked for the Dubois family as housekeeper, which is where my mother had served. My mother died four years ago of consumption. I was young for housekeeper, but Madame Antoinette appointed me to the position. She had seen to it that Mamá had the best of care.
Lady Antoinette was a kind woman, and treated her staff most generously. There were always sweets for us children, and she would give us a penny if we sang her a song. She was wheelchair bound, though, and unable to get out without the help of her son, Gérard. Gérard did not share his mother’s benevolence. But neither was he cruel, as was Monsieur Fontaine. Poor Scarlett worked for the Fontaines.
Monsieur Dubois seemed not to have grieved the loss of Simone—his niece. Indeed, he had seemed to rejoice that his brother in law’s new wife had fled the same day.
My packages were delivered, and I had a bolt of blue linen for a new dress. I had it in mind to go straight away to Bastille House—the Fontaine home—but I knew Scarlett was not permitted to receive guests. I would have to bide my time until Sunday next to speak to her. If she was permitted to attend church.
Pearl, however, comes and goes as she pleases, and I made my way briskly to the Marchand townhome on Congaree Road, the pram jostling along the cobbled stones and Ferdie chewing on his wooden teether.
“I’m sorry, Madame Renaldi.” Pearl’s butler nodded to me at the door. “But Mademoiselle Marchand is not available at present. Would you care to leave a message?”
A message? No, I could not. I could not risk prying eyes snooping about my confidential thoughts, my fears. No, what I had to say was for Pearl and Scarlett’s ears only.
“Thank you, Mr. Abbott.” I turned to go then paused. “When do you expect her?”
“She has gone pheasant hunting with Monsieur Marchand. They are not expected back until late this afternoon.” He paused. “Shall I tell her you called?”
“Yes, if you would be so kind.”
My daily routine was on its head. I could not put the image of the woman from my mind. She looked so like Simone. Well, what Simone would look like as a young woman. Her jade green eyes. Her fine bone structure. Her poise. If I could but hear her voice.
I sat at my desk staring at the calendar and the menu for the upcoming dinner. I was never more thankful than at this moment that my task was such a mindless one. If I were out in the kitchen, cooking a meal, I cannot imagine what would end up in the soup pot.
Over and again my mind played out that horrific day. Over and again, I watched her jump. Over and again I saw her float away.
And then I saw little Violet’s horrified face, and watched as she fled back to the house.
Violet was Simone’s small sister, not more than two years old at the time. She and Suzette were not supposed to follow after us even though Suzette had just celebrated her seventh birthday. She, too, had witnessed their sister’s daring-do, her final act of bravery.
Suzette, though, just stood there, staring at the spot where Simone had just been. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t believe her eyes, or if perhaps she, too, might wish to jump and float away. I turned to my friends and when I turned back again, Suzette was gone. She was frightful that way, suddenly she would be there and the next moment, indeed the next breath, she would vanish.
I prayed the girls would not speak of what had happened. Of what we all had witnessed. But of course they would. They must.
I did wonder though, what exactly little Vi would tell. How much could she truly convey at such a tender age? Suzette, well-spoken as she was, might be able to relate the event to the minutest detail.
But she would not. For her eloquence, Suzette was selective in her telling. And this she chose to keep silent.
Violet never spoke again after that day.
>>><<<
My mamá’s family had worked for the Dubois family for generations, as had my papá. Madame Dubois maintained a formal household. She and Monsieur Dubois had been kind masters, even when the tea and sugar cane fields were still worked by slaves. The Negroes of Saisons House had always been treated well, and afforded every generosity. They were educated, and allowed medical attention, and Sundays off. Not all masters were so charitable.
Slavery, of course, had ended, although some still treated their servants as property rather than free men. Monsieur Fontaine was one such man. He was harsh and cruel to his servants, black as well as white. None earned a decent wage—if they earned a wage at all.
My mother’s family had been house servants, and therefore lived in the big house. As children, we were permitted to play with not only other servants’ children, but the former Negro slave children too, as well as the Dubois children.
It was in this manner that Simone Dubois and I became such dear friends.
When we were quite young, four or five years of age, we paired off, seeking each other out to play scotch-hopper and escargot, and skipping rope. I had but one rag doll, whom I had named Beatrix, but Simone had seeming countless dollies, and she invited me to the nursery often to play. No other servant did she ever invite abovestairs.
Madame Dubois was Simone’s grand-mère, and she spoiled Simone with anything she asked for. Simone fancied tea sets, and whenever Madame Dubois travelled to Atlanta or Charleston, or to Paris, she brought back a new tea set for us to play with.
There were a table and chairs, too, in the nursery, and shelves filled with the tea sets. Outdoors, on the front lawn was a gazebo with another table and chairs, and when the weather was pleasant, we had tea parties there.
There were steps on two of the eight sides of the gazebo, with benches lining the other six. Fancy fretwork hung like lacy curtains above matching railings behind the seats. A cupola with brass roof and tiny windows always made me think of a tiny doll house, and I sometimes wondered what it might be like to live to high up in the sky. Although it was but perhaps fifteen feet it seemed like a castle turret to me as a child.
Hemming the gazebo in were viburnum, which with its fat puffy flowers, looked like snowballs—the only time we’d see “snow” in Saisons. Petunias flirted with the shrubs, balancing the snowy white blossoms with vibrant color. Just a few yards away, between the magical world of the gazebo and the austere formality of the house stood a covey of magnolia and dogwood trees, with skirts of azaleas and slippers of lilies and snapdragons and marigolds.
My favorite garden, though, was the daisies. Apparently, Madame Dubois had agreed, because there was ample space devoted to the friendly sunshiney flower. Tall and proud, the white blossoms waved with every breeze, and stood strong against stormy winds. Surrounded by greenery, the flowers were their own showcase.
Simone had baby buggies and prams, and she would let me swaddle Beatrix in one of her downy dolly blankets, and lay her in one of the buggies as we strolled through the gardens together. I owned no ladies’ hats, but borrowed one of Simone’s for play; her mother bought new hats each season, then gave her old ones to Simone, and Suzette and Violet, to play with.
Of course, once I was old enough, I went to work alongside Mamá. She was upstairs maid when I was a girl, and when I was older and Mrs. Beck retired, Mamá was made Housekeeper. Once I was old enough to understand, I was grateful that we worked for the Dubois’ and not Monsieur Fontaine. Scarlett was working by the time she was five, and only permitted away from the kitchen and the scullery for school, and then only because the law required it. Sometimes even that did not deter Monsieur Fontaine.
I was a good worker, Mamá always said she was proud of me. My brothers both had worked with Papa in the stables, and later in the garage. Édouard now was their chauffeur, and drove Monsieur Dubois to Charleston of a morning sometimes, on Fridays. It was not for business, he told us.
“Excusez-moi, Madame Renaldi.” Brooks’s baritone voice ruptured my reverie. “This was left for you.” And he handed me a small crumpled envelope.
I thanked him, and mused at the curious communique. I was housekeeper, but did not typically receive mail abovestairs. Personal letters, and household accounting and the like all were brought to the kitchen entry.
The ivory blade of the letter opener slipped easily through the fragile parchment, and I retrieved a small scrap of paper, folder over once.
Meet me at Versailles.
#Blogwords, Wreading Wednesday, Featured Book Except, The Long Shadows of Summer, Seasons, Chapter One, Seasons, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Winds of Spring
BLOGWORDS – Tuesday 12 September 2017 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
“We never did play tea parties like other girls. We played detective. Because that’s what Mercedes read, detective stories. And she was our Sherlock Holmes.
As children, our ventures were harmless enough. Until the day Simone fell in the river and disappeared.”
[image error]See that??? That’s over 5K yesterday!!! AND I hit 75K total!! WOOP!!! WOOP!!!
“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”
https://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S
https://twitter.com/amythyst212
http://www.pinterest.com/amythyst212/
https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason
“the battle for identity, one story at a time”
#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemSepWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Woods of Spring
September 11, 2017
BLOGWORDS – Monday 11 September 2017 – SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
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SPECIAL EDITION – REMSEPWRIMO
“We never did play tea parties like other girls. We played detective. Because that’s what Mercedes read, detective stories. And she was our Sherlock Holmes.
As children, our ventures were harmless enough. Until the day Simone fell in the river and disappeared.”
“I’ve always had voices—er, stories in my head. I once said I should write them all down so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!”
https://robinsnest212.wordpress.com/
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Robin-E-Mason-Author-Artist/224223274404877
http://www.amazon.com/Robin-E.-Mason/e/B00MR5IQ9S
https://twitter.com/amythyst212
http://www.pinterest.com/amythyst212/
https://plus.google.com/u/0/108929134414473292325
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7808042.Robin_E_Mason
“the battle for identity, one story at a time”
#Blogwords, Special Edition, #RemSepWriMo, Seasons, The Long Shadows of Summer, The Tilting Leaves of Autumn, The Silent Song of Winter, The Whispering Woods of Spring
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