Emilie Richards's Blog, page 106

Fiction Friday: Lovers Reunited

Welcome to my new blog feature, Fiction Friday, where on Fridays–whenever I can–I’ll share a snippet from a novel I’m writing or have written. The snippets won’t always be the beginning of a story, like today’s, but they will always be something I hope you’ll enjoy.

Now for sale at all the major online bookstores.

Today’s excerpt is from my novel From Glowing Embers, reissued this week as an ebook but also part of an innovative promotion in which I was invited to participate several months ago. Since that time there’s been lots of behind the scenes activity and planning from a group called the Summit Authors, many of whom I’ve had the pleasure of knowing for years.

I can and will tell you all about the promotion tomorrow, but not before, so please check back then. I think you’ll be glad you did.

Meantime, let me introduce you to Julie Ann Mason, now  known to the world as Julianna, who has an unsettling encounter on an airplane which sets the stage for the remainder of the novel.

Put yourself in Julianna’s place.  Suddenly you’re face to face with the most important man in your life, a man you haven’t seen in ten years and hoped you would never see again.

Enjoy.

***

Dear God! The child sitting next to Gray Sheridan was only a little younger than Ellie would have been!

Julianna Mason took a step backward, as if putting additional distance between herself and the little girl sitting by the airplane window would somehow shield her from pain. Nothing could shield her now, however, nothing less than a magical return to the moments before she had stepped into the next cabin of the DC-10 carrying her to Honolulu and seen Gray Sheridan relaxing beside the brown-haired, brown-eyed pixie.

Brown hair and brown eyes. What color would Ellie’s eyes have been? They had been blue at birth; Julianna knew that much. Blue eyes in an impossibly tiny face. Blue eyes that had seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer with each faltering heartbeat. Blue eyes that might someday have been the deep tarnished silver of her father’s. If Ellie had lived.

Ellie.

How long had it been since she had let herself think about her daughter? The time between memories could be measured in weeks now. Sometimes even a month went by. But then, just as she thought she was learning to forget, she would awaken in the middle of the night to Kauai rain tumbling over the eaves of her house, and for a moment she would believe she was back in Mississippi. And Ellie…

Julianna pulled her eyes from the little girl to the man sitting beside her. From their position in the two seats by the window, and from Gray’s relaxed posture and closed eyes, Julianna guessed that the little girl was his. She wasn’t surprised he had a child, but one this old? How long had he mourned Ellie’s death? Six months? Three?

Julianna was almost close enough to touch him, although she had learned a long time ago that touching Gray wasn’t possible. Not really. There was no way to get to the man under the classically handsome facade, a facade that was aging just as flawlessly as she would have expected. Gray was what, thirty-one now? Thirty-one to her twenty-eight, ages when a woman passes the first flush of youth and a man comes into his power.

Of course power was an easy word to associate with the Mississippi Sheridans. Julianna had no reason to doubt that Gray had become a powerful man. Power was something he would feel comfortable with. He had grown up with it, seen it nurtured and twisted and used to his family’s advantage. She imagined Gray had become a man much like his own father, one who could stroll down any sidewalk in his home state and know that any man he met would inch toward the street, if necessary, to make room for him.

Gray’s daughter.

Julianna couldn’t define the feelings those words evoked. She was seething with feelings, and there was no separating them. She only knew that she hurt. She had to get away before she made a fool of herself.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Julianna heard the flight attendant’s words. Without turning, she knew she was blocking the progress of the beverage cart. She had to move, and yet, for a moment, she couldn’t seem to make her body obey her brain’s command. She wanted one more look at the child whose eyes were examining her. One more look at the child who should have been hers.

Brown hair and brown eyes and a smile that would live in her dreams forever.

Ah, Romance!

Now for sale at all the major online bookstores.

Right now many of my writer friends are getting ready to attend the Romance Writers of America conference in Atlanta.  In case you haven’t heard, romance novels are still selling well, generating nearly 1.5 billion dollars in 2012.  My old friends will greet other old friends and make new ones.  They’ll meet the professionals in charge of their careers and listen to workshops on how to enhance their publishing savvy and their writing skills.

Instead of attending RWA this year I’ll be spending that time editing romance novels.  MY romance novels.  And what a joy it’s been.

My career began with romance novels.  I wrote many of them before I branched out into what we now call “women’s fiction.”  But when I began, that term really hadn’t yet been coined.  There was no “special” category for novelists, like me, who wanted to write about women’s lives, women’s issues, social issues in general, and relationships of all kinds.  We slipped easily into the romance genre instead, which was open to bigger stories as long as the central plot revolved around a romance.

Cover from the first edition

I loved writing romance novels.  At the time there was very little I wanted to say that I couldn’t say between those covers.  I was (am) happily married, believed in happily-ever-afters (although not always, of course) and was delighted to try the many roads available to me in the genre.  Paranormal.  Suspense.  Melodrama.  History.  While I eventually moved away from romance a bit, anyone who reads my books knows there are still romances on my pages.  There probably always will be.  Even Aggie, my minister’s wife sleuth, has a wonderful romance with her minister husband and a flirtation (innocent) with the local police detective.

This year I discovered that the first twenty-four romances I’d written were now mine to put online as ebooks.  I can’t tell you what a welcome discovery that was.  While some of my first books will likely never see the light again, most of them are books I’m very proud of. Fast-paced plots, in-depth characters, problems galore and in the center of it all, a man and a woman falling in love.

When I was asked by fellow authors to participate in a promotion they were developing, I enthusiastically said yes. (More details about the promo later,when I’m allowed to tell.)  But my job was to get my novel then follow it as quickly as I could with the other three books in the Tales of the Pacific series.

Brand new cover for the ebook

I’ll confess I wasn’t sure what to expect. Many years had passed since I’d read these books. What would I find? I already blogged about much of that  here. First I had to rethink what bothered me and what didn’t, then consider what might bother my readers. What could I live with and what must be changed?  The changes are subtle. The story and characters are exactly the same, although I shortened anything that dragged. I’ll confess that the love scenes are not as detailed, but they still exist  because without them, the story loses much of its meaning and color. These are love stories, after all, and frankly I was delighted to see these people overcome enormous hardships and come together at last.

By the time I delved into the second book, Smoke Screen, I knew what to watch for. Only this time, I didn’t find it. In fact in the same way I found the story of From Glowing Embers a pleasure to read, I found Smoke Screen a pleasure, too, one that carried me along without much thought of editing.

The original paperback edition of Smoke Screen

Next came Rainbow Fire, which I finished yesterday. Again I was delighted. Again I tweaked to bring out the characterization and highlight the plot. What a joy.

Today I start in on Out of the Ashes, the final book of the series. How much editing will I do? Very little, if the other books are any indication.

I am so relieved I still love my Tales of the Pacific babies, particularly with their lovely updated covers, designed and executed by Tina McGee, graphic designer and fabulous daughter-in-law. Like any parent I had to nudge these novels into shape, but I think they grew up beautifully. I’m delighted and proud that they are every bit as entertaining as they once were. All four of the books will be up very soon, but for now you can find From Glowing Embers and Smoke Screen at your favorite online bookstore.

Sunday Inspiration: “Fear Nothing”

The bracelet says ‘Fear Nothing.’ It was given to me by my friends, and it was made for me and my friends during the period of time that I was going through chemotherapy. And I still wear it, because it’s a great reminder of friendship and how my buddies and others came together in my time of need. -Joseph J. Lhota

This week I’ve been highlighting charm bracelets in my blogs since one plays a significant role in my new book Somewhere Between Luck and Trust. I found this inspirational quote that may not be about charm bracelets specifically, but these words do speak to the power of such a simple symbol to connect us to those we love and to our deeper selves.

Have you been inspired by a bracelet of any kind?

Has one given you courage when you needed it?

Charm Bracelets: Road Map to a Life

Emilie’s High School Charm Bracelet

There I was in a shop on State Street in Santa Barbara, wandering through stacks of items old and new. In a display case I noticed a charm bracelet, replete with dozens of charms, so thick with them, in fact, that I felt I was looking at the story of someone’s life. Why was the bracelet there instead of in the owner’s jewelry box or that of a daughter’s or niece’s? If I asked the clerk behind the counter to let me hold it, what would I learn about the woman who had so thoroughly filled it? Could I actually trace her using the charms as clues?

Could I actually trace her?

That’s how novels get their start.  I fiddled with that notion for days, imagining how I might use it, wondering if the idea was plausible. When I got home from my trip I dug out my own charm bracelet, last added to in my senior year of high school. It wasn’t nearly as informative as the one in California, but looking at it even a stranger would see that I had liked music, most notably the piano, that I liked horses, too, had graduated from a high school with the intials BCHS and gold and white colors, was a member of the National Honor Society, and even that I had been a hospital volunteer.

Really?

You can guess the rest. My newest novel came from that shop in Santa Barbara straight to your bookshelf, with a pesky year of writing in between. If you’ve already read Somewhere Between Luck and Trust , you’ll recognize the importance of a charm bracelet to the story, and perhaps, even the hospital pin–which is still being marketed, I discovered. A bracelet like the one I saw in the display case makes all the difference in the life of a woman named Georgia Ferguson.

I have wonderful readers. When I asked them to send me photos of their charm bracelets with something about them, I received three to share. If you would like to send photos of yours with comments, we’ll do a second installment. You can email me at my website under “Get In Touch” at the top.

From Kay Myhrman-Toso a wonderful recap:

Kay’s charm bracelet complete with gift box

“I doubt anyone could piece together my life from the charms on my bracelet, even if a Lucas or a Christy unleashed their powers of reasoning and observation. My charm bracelet was started in 1966 as a gift from my aunt and cousin, on the occasion of my confirmation, hence the cross as the first charm. That was followed by charms representing a dog, “Sweet 16″, graduation cap, and National Honor Society. Of those, my life-long love of dogs and learning (NHS) are probably the clearest link to my present self.

This bracelet has resided in its department store glossy pink-topped and black-bottomed box since that last charm was added and I went off to college, fall of 1969. I think this says much about the times: the Vietnam War, Kent State, Watergate, rising feminism – “Women’s Lib”, and increasing environmental awareness – remember the Cuyahoga River fire? – did not seem in sync with displaying a wrist full of charms.”

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Leigh’s “new” charm bracelet. She says she has an older one, too.

My writing friend Leigh Shaheen said this:

“My Pandoras are the story of my life since 2001. That’s when my grandson Evan was born, and that’s when I started collecting Pandora charms. I have one for each of my eight grandchildren, and others from highlights of my life.

My littlest grandchildren love to have me tell the story of every single charm. They get especially excited when I come to “Their” charms. I think they feel cherished that I wear these little symbols of them every single day.

I know I feel especially blessed every time I look at them.”

And finally, all the way from Australia, a reader with a bracelet so brimming with charms, she sent me two photos.

Half of Josie’s wonderful charms.

Josie Valese said:  “There are 51 charms on my bracelet and they each have a story. The story I like to tell the most is when I took the ships wheel to my jeweler to be attached to the bracelet I was very excited at my purchase only to be told that it was not gold. As you can imagine I was disappointed!

And the other half.

Several months later my mother was at a garage sale and purchased a lot of matted together jewelry for $60.00, and in the middle of it was the war mine and the charm that is a moon with a star in the middle. So, off to my jeweler again I go, thinking these are probably not gold either – and to my delight he told me that not only are they gold but the stones are semi precious and both of them worth much more than $60.00.”

Charm bracelets tell many stories, don’t they? Thanks to everyone who told us theirs.  Now we’ll be waiting to hear yours.

Sunday Inspiration: “It is in giving…”

I have lived with passion and in a hurry, trying to accomplish too many things. I never had time to think about my beliefs until my 28-year-old daughter Paula fell ill. She was in a coma for a year and I took care of her at home, until she died in my arms in December of 1992.

Paralyzed and silent in her bed, my daughter Paula taught me a lesson that is now my mantra: You only have what you give… The pain of losing my child was a cleansing experience. I had to throw overboard all excess baggage and keep only what is essential.

Because of Paula, I don’t cling to anything anymore. Now I like to give much more than to receive. I am happier when I love than when I am loved. I adore my husband, my son, my grandchildren, my mother, my dog, and frankly I don’t know if they even like me.

But who cares? Loving them is my joy. Give, give, give―what is the point of having experience, knowledge or talent if I don’t give it away? Of having stories if I don’t tell them to others? Of having wealth if I don’t share it?

I don’t intend to be cremated with any of it! It is in giving that I connect with others, with the world and with the divine. It is in giving that I feel the spirit of my daughter inside me, like a soft presence. -Isabel Allende

Have you had a devastating experience that has transformed how you see the world?  This inspiring story reminds me there is hope, even in the depths of grief, that life is worth living, especially when we learn to give of ourselves.

How have you been changed by grief?

Somewhere Between Luck and Trust: Cristy Haviland

On Thursday I introduced you to Georgia Ferguson, one of two major characters in Somewhere Between Luck and Trust.  Georgia was familiar because she was a minor character in One Mountain Away, the previous book.

Now, enter Cristy Haviland, a fresh face in the series and a young woman fresh out of prison whose own background rivals Georgia’s for drama. Cristy was a blank page just waiting for me to write her story.

And what did I know about Cristy?  Here’s the beginning of her autobiography.  Remember, this is what I wrote for myself:

Sometimes, when I lie on the bottom bunk in my quad at NCCIW, listening to women sobbing or caught in the grip of unspeakable nightmares, I try to find the turning points in my life. I have succeeded with some, but not all, and perhaps not even the most important.

The most primary eludes me still. At what point did my parents decide I was beyond hope? When did whatever natural love a parent feels for an infant seep away so completely that today, I am less to them than even the most troubled or troubling member of my father’s congregation?

I think I see the edges of that still-fuzzy picture. I remember happy moments in early childhood. A doll I’d yearned for under our Christmas tree. A favorite chocolate cake on my birthdays. An Easter dress that was the exact replica of my sister Clara’s, and even better, our pretty young mother’s. Clara, older by four years, invited me to tea parties under the magnolia tree in our front year. Mama brought us buttered toast and fresh raspberries. Daddy took photographs they may not have thrown away, although it’s unlikely.

I believe the picture altered subtly over time. I was a pretty child, with long blond curls and rosy cheeks. While my parents never encouraged vanity, my mother liked to show me off. Clara, sturdier, plainer, was never slighted, but I was the child strangers exclaimed over. In later years, of course, that changed when it became clear I wasn’t as smart as my sister, that while Clara began to read in kindergarten, I went to school without recognizing my ABCs.

There was renewed belief in me when my first grade teacher entrusted me with a long solo at our Christmas program. The room grew silent as I sang in my high, clear little girl voice, and the applause was loud and long. My parents promptly bought a piano and hired a teacher. I could pick out melodies, and play whatever the teacher demonstrated for me, but unfortunately for them, I had no interest in learning to read music.

No interest, of course, was the way my parents saw my problems with letters and musical notes. I was lazy. As a young child they had spoiled me with praise, and now they had to undo the harm. Rebellion would not be tolerated in our home. Charts appeared. I had to earn every privilege. Dessert after meals. The toys I had taken for granted. Play time outside and television inside. The charts were a blur to me, words I didn’t understand, lines that seemed to wave at me from the page. Clara, who is a kinder person than the people who raised her, would explain the lines to me each time they changed while I stood beside her memorizing them.

Memorizing was my savior. I remembered almost everything that was said to me. And while I still couldn’t read, I paid attention in class and learned whatever I could, enough, most of the time to get by. The teacher told my parents that some children just took longer than others to catch on, and that I was perfectly bright. But I know Mama and Daddy didn’t believe her.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this peek into the two major characters in my new book, as well as the way I begin to understand their stories and where they’ll go from there. Even though most of what I’ve written for myself has already occurred in my characters’ lives, this background is really where my story begins.

Sunday Inspiration: “Literacy is a bridge…”

“Literacy is a bridge from misery to hope. It is a tool for daily life in modern society. It is a bulwark against poverty, and a building block of development, an essential complement to investments in roads, dams, clinics and factories. Literacy is a platform for democratization, and a vehicle for the promotion of cultural and national identity. Especially for girls and women, it is an agent of family health and nutrition. For everyone, everywhere, literacy is, along with education in general, a basic human right…. Literacy is, finally, the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realize his or her full potential.”

― Kofi Annan

Today’s quote is probably more informative than inspirational, but isn’t this a wonderful tribute to the power of education, and particularly to teachers, who can change the world just by teaching the basic skills most of us take for granted and shouldn’t?  I am always inspired by those whose everyday actions can change our world for the better.

Somewhere Between Luck and Trust: Georgia Ferguson

For an author, part of the fun of a series is choosing which characters to feature in upcoming books. With the Goddesses Anonymous series (debuting in 2012 with One Mountain Away) a handful of women are introduced in book one, each to theoretically have her own story as time passes.

Almost immediately after One Mountain Away was released readers began to question who would be the major character in the next book, Somewhere Between Luck and Trust. They were anxious to hear more about Harmony, or they wondered if I was going to further redeem Taylor, who had plenty of problems to overcome in the first book.

I, on the other hand, was fascinated by Georgia Ferguson. Georgia is a no-nonsense educator, who suffered at the hands of Charlotte Hale, the main protagonist in One Mountain Away. While Charlotte does what she can to make up to Georgia for her part in having Georgia fired years before, Georgia’s life is not an easy one. Not now, nor did I think it had been ever.

I’m a sucker for women with difficult pasts and difficult circumstances. I was on my way.

Do you wonder how much I know before I begin a book?  Truthfully I know a lot.  I’m not what my friends call a “pantser” (plotting by the seat of my pants.)  I like to do work up front so when I finally dive in, I can surface again fairly quickly.

Here’s the beginning of the bio I wrote for Georgia.  Remember, I wrote this just for me, to help me think this through.

I was abandoned at birth. My mother gave birth to me, then she left me in the sink of a hospital rest room wrapped in a dark blue sweatshirt before she left the building. These are my most positive thoughts about the woman who gave birth to me, and they were hard won. She cared enough not to leave me on the more precarious counter, and she was willing to brave the cold that night without the oversized sweatshirt that had hidden her pregnancy, because she wanted me to survive.

I very nearly didn’t. I weighed less than three pounds and was probably two months premature. Luckily for me when the missing rest room key was noted, a nurse with a copy went to investigate and found me crying feebly. Nobody could describe the woman who had asked for the key. Young, they thought, perhaps a teenager. No one had thought to ask her why she was there, or take a closer look. They had been in the midst of a shift change. The key had been handed over without a thought.

The police searched. The newspapers had a field day with the story, because the town was small and news was scarce. My progress, or lack of it at first, was a daily human interest story. Offers came in from surrounding states to adopt me, but not only was I premature, a valve in my heart was faulty, and I couldn’t leave the hospital until it was repaired.

By the time I left, new valve in place and accustomed to shift changes and the sounds of hospital machinery, I was much less desirable and no longer newsworthy. The couple who was sure they could cope with the obvious trauma of my first two years was wrong. When I was five they returned me to the custody of the state, and I was in and out of treatment programs and foster care until at eleven, an elderly woman who had made a career of raising society’s cast-off children, took me in, told me the only thing that would end that placement was her death, and invited me to make a list of all the things I planned to do to prove her wrong so she could explain why none of them were going to work.

You can see that I wanted to know what had made Georgia the woman she was.  And now, can you imagine what it must have been like to grow up with that kind of a beginning?  That’s where the next big chunk of work comes in.

On Tuesday I’ll share some of Cristy Haviland’s story.  I hope you’ll enjoy this bonus peek into the lives of my characters.

Somewhere Between Luck and Trust: Lucas Ramsey’s Pasta e Fagioli with Shrimp

Lucas Ramsey, a major character in Somewhere Between Luck and Trust, is a gourmet cook and the author of a mystery series featuring Zenzo, a police detective whose cooking rivals Lucas’s own.

Lucas invites Georgia to share a simple meal, pasta e fagioli with shrimp, which he has devised and hopes to use in a cookbook of Zenzo’s favorite recipes. He also hopes to get to know her better.

This yummy version is adapted from several incarnations, including ones on about.com and Simply Recipes online, because Lucas, like the good chef he is, refused to share his version with me. Still, I bet this one’s close, and the shrimp is a welcome addition to this Italian classic.  We love it.

I must add, too, that the first time I was introduced to Pasta Fazool was on the HBO television series, The Sopranos.  The dish was a favorite of Tony Soprano’s, and seems particularly fitting to feature today after the death  of James Gandolfini, who brilliantly played the part.

Pasta e Fagioli with Shrimp (aka Pasta Fazool)

Ingredients:

8 oz ditalini pasta (or any small pasta appropriate for soup)
3 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 Tbsp minced garlic
1 cup chopped onion
1 large carrot peeled and chopped into ½” pieces
1 stalk of celery chopped
3/4 cup dry white wine (or water)
2 cups vegetable stock (you may substitute chicken or seafood stock)
1 can chopped tomatoes drained, or 1 cup fresh, peeled and chopped.
1 teaspoon thyme
1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
1 can (19 oz) cannellini beans (white beans or navy beans will work, too)
8 to 16 oz peeled and deveined (uncooked) shrimp, bite-sized are best
1/4-1/2 tsp salt
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese (optional)

Preparation:

Cook the pasta in salted water according to directions on the package. Drain and set aside.

Meantime heat the olive oil in a large saucepan or saute pan. Stir in the onions, celery and carrots and cook, stirring frequently, over medium heat for 5-7 minutes. Add garlic and cook another minute.

Add wine, tomatoes and stock. Stir and bring to a simmer and cook until vegetables are tender but still crisp.

Add the thyme, Italian seasoning, salt and beans. Simmer 5 minutes, then turn up the heat to a slow boil and add shrimp. Cook only until the shrimp change color, which they will do almost immediately. They’re done once they change color, unless you like your shrimp rubbery. Trust Lucas.

Stir in the pasta; taste and add more salt if needed.

Serve with freshly grated Parmesan cheese and fresh Italian bread to sop up the juices.

Makes 3-4 good sized servings

*****To make ahead, don’t cook the pasta first. Do the remainder of the steps right up until time to add the shrimp. When you’re ready to eat, cook the pasta, then bring the soup back to a strong simmer and add shrimp. Add the pasta once the shrimp are cooked–but not overcooked. This also gives the flavors a chance to blend. Yum!

Lucas’s mother’s version is thick and rich. His grandmother’s is thin and soupy. His is somewhere in between. You can add more broth or even water at this point to make it soupier, if you prefer. We like it just as it’s written.

Sunday Inspiration: Kwan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy

If you’re just beginning my Goddesses Anonymous series, you might wonder where the title “Goddesses Anonymous” comes from.

In One Mountain Away, the first book of the series, Charlotte Hale, the major character, tells her minister Analiese Wagner how meaningful the legend of the Buddhist goddess Kwan Yin has become to her.

In Somewhere Between Luck and Trust, the second book, which arrives at bookstores this week, Charlotte’s friends, who call themselves goddesses anonymous in her honor and who together support and maintain the Goddess House in the mountains above Asheville, North Carolina, have willingly, purposefully taken on the mission of Kwan Yin, by reaching out to women who need their help.

But what of Kwan Yin, herself, who is often referred to as the female Buddha and whose name is spelled many ways in many cultures? Although the stories about her life differ widely, many have noted her resemblance to Mary, the mother of Jesus, to whom many people pray for assistance and mercy. Others say that in some ways Kwan Yin brings to mind the goddess Isis, of Greco-Roman empire and Egypt, or Goddess Hariti of ancient India. What we do know for certain is that in  many religions a compassionate woman who ministers tirelessly to those in need is a  powerful symbol of femininity, and hope.

In one popular version of the legend, used in my novels, Kwan Yin was a beautiful Indian princess who refused marriage and wealth to live in a convent so that she could become an enlightened human being. In that way her life story is much like that of the historical Buddha, Prince Siddhartha Gautama. Both struggled to become merciful, spiritual beings, who sought to alleviate mankind’s sufferings.

After a difficult life Kwan Yin had earned the right to enter Buddhist Heaven or “Nirvana”, but the story says that at Heaven’s gates she heard the cries of the suffering back on earth. She turned around and came back, vowing to stay and serve mankind until there was no more suffering.

Kwan Yin’s name means “The one who hears the cries of the world.”

So many women in so many faiths, nations and cultures have taken on the goal set by Kwan Yin. Their lives are the greatest inspiration of all.

Thanks to values.com for this image of Mother Teresa, whose mercy was a beacon in our time. The Values.com billboards are always such a joy to see on a long stretch of highway and a reminder of what each of us can achieve despite every obstacle.