Emilie Richards's Blog, page 118

Fiction Friday: Final Excerpt of One Mountain Away,

Tuning in late? Since Friday, July 6th I’ve had the pleasure of sharing the beginning of One Mountain Away here at my blog.  Today the excerpts conclude because the novel is now at your favorite bookstore and you can read the entire novel.  Hurray!  You can still see prior excerpts by clicking on Goddess Anonymous under Categories at the right.  Start reading from the bottom.  The sequence is clear from each blog title.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this peek, just as I hope you’ll enjoy the entire novel.

Chapter Two, Final Excerpt:

There was nothing particularly ministerial about Analiese. Her nearly-black hair was shoulder-length, and she rarely pinned it up so she would look older or plainer. Her regular features added up to something beyond striking. While no one insisted a minister be attractive, her first career had been in television news, where physical beauty had served her well.

She opened her eyes and continued to breathe deeply, staring at the building just beyond her parking place.

The first time she had been driven to this spot by a member of the ministerial search committee, she had sat just this way, gazing at her future. With its arrowhead arches and multi-spired north tower–not to mention imposing blocks of North Carolina granite and stained glass from the famous Lamb Studios of Greenwich Village–she’d been certain that Asheville’s Church of the Covenant would withstand Armageddon and hang around for the second coming.

In any architectural textbook, the city’s most influential Protestant church was just a yawn on the way to more impressive renderings of Gothic Revival glory. The church paled in significance beside the ornate Roman Catholic Basilica of St. Lawrence downtown, or the Cathedral of All Souls in nearby Biltmore Village, the seat of the region’s Episcopal bishop. But Analiese had never quite gotten over that first punch-in-the-gut impression of the church to which she had later been called. Now, as then, she felt unworthy to be its spiritual leader.

One last deep breath propelled her to the parking lot. Before she locked the car she reached into the back seat for the colorful needlepoint tote bag her oldest sister had made as an ordination gift. With the bag slung over her shoulder, she hurried toward the church, avoiding the parish house and she hoped, the silver Audi’s owner, as well.

At the door, she saw Felipe had arrived first. For a moment she was glad she didn’t have to wrestle with the cast iron lock, which on a good day took the better part of a minute. Then as she was about to slip inside, she wondered if Felipe had unlocked the door, or if someone else had borrowed the key and was waiting for her inside.

Someone she wasn’t anxious to see.

Her brief burst of good humor disappeared.

She was happiest when the sanctuary was filled with people, and music echoed from the walls. Today the pews were empty, but that wasn’t necessarily the end of the story. Cautiously Analiese found her way along slippery polished tile floors to the transept, following it to the cozier side-chapel that had been added early in the twentieth century by an industrialist friend of the Vanderbilts.

Historically the chapel had been a place for quiet contemplation, but most often these days it was used for children’s worship services. Felt banners made by one of the Sunday School classes hung between two narrow stained-glass windows of contemporary design. Stylistically wrought jewel-tone doves and olive branches vied with wrinkled renditions of the Star of David, the Taoist yin yang, and multiple Buddhas, both smiling and glum.

The woman sitting on the front row staring at the banners was neither, but then Charlotte Hale was not a woman who often showed emotion. In the ten years of her ministry here, Analiese had learned that the Charlottes in a congregation were the members an alert minister should most fear.

She debated what to do. She couldn’t believe Charlotte had come for Minnie’s memorial service. Beyond that, the service didn’t start for almost an hour, so mourners could attend after work.

Analiese almost turned away, but something told her not to. Maybe it was the way Charlotte was sitting. Maybe it was the stillness in the chapel and the sanctuary beyond, plus the fact that Charlotte had entered this quiet place alone.

She walked through the doorway, making enough noise to alert the other woman. Charlotte was not dressed for a memorial service. She wore a casual lightweight turtleneck with three-quarter sleeves and a skirt of the same mulberry. Her auburn hair was windblown, and she hadn’t bothered with jewelry except tiny gold studs in her earlobes. She looked as if she’d run out for milk and bread and forgotten her way home.

“Charlotte?”

Charlotte turned to look at her. Her expression was blank, her cheeks pale, and she looked exhausted, which was unusual. “Reverend Ana.” She nodded, but she didn’t smile.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Analiese said. “Offer comfort or silence. You look like you might need both.”

Chapter Two continues at your favorite bookstore.

7 Things I’ve Learned after 70 Books

Today is the launch for One Mountain Away. Cue the trumpets and race to the bookstores.

One Mountain is the first of my new series, Goddesses Anonymous, and one of the more difficult novels I’ve written.  You would think, wouldn’t you, that after seventy books, I should be able to dash off a novel between pedicures and trips to the art museum?  Truth is, I don’t have time for either, because I’m still too busy trying to figure out how I should really do what I’m already doing.

Yes, indeed.  Writing really hasn’t gotten much easier over the years, sad to say.  I have learned some things, though, and today I’m sharing.  While these 7 points qualify as career advice for novelists, it’s possible they pertain to other careers, too.  What do you think?

Forget that old chestnut, “write what you know.”  If you only write what you know, you’ll quickly run out of things to say, and you’ll think you’re all washed up.  Instead write about the things that interest you.  Research is a joy, and the Internet’s made it so much easier.  Digging for details is as much fun as digging for buried treasure, and you’ll be more likely to strike gold.
While you may change genres, essentially every book you write is “your” book, filled with your own insights and feelings, whether the characters inhabit caves or space ships.  Do you know what messages you’re sending?  It’s a way to chart your own personal growth, if you’re willing.
Find writer friends, because at times they will be the only people on earth who understand why you spent an entire day staring out the window–except for the stretches when you played Spider Solitaire and whimpered.
Do not expect film deals, bestseller lists, starred reviews, publishers who fawn over you, or recognition at the grocery store.  That way, in the unlikely instance that any of those things happen, you will be genuinely surprised, and you won’t have to fake modesty.
Be willing to make changes in what you write, who you write it for, and the people who sell or market your work.  Remember #2 above.  Every book is yours.  Nobody else’s name is on the cover.
Listen, contemplate and forgive mistakes that others who work on your books may make.  But also pay attention and make sure the same things don’t happen again.  See #5 if they do.
Readers are special and precious.  Find ways to let them know.

In keeping with #7, let me stress it’s a privilege to get emails from you, to banter with you at my Facebook page, to answer comments left here on the blog, and to know that my books have meaning in your lives, even if, sometimes, that’s just a smile.  A smile is a wonderful thing, and I’m grateful for every one.

I think you’ll find smiles and tears between the covers of One Mountain Away.  You’ll find the book in the following places, if you can’t find it at your local independent bookstore.

Amazon.com

BarnesandNoble.com

Booksamillion.com

Sunday Poetry: New Dreams Every Night

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday poetry blogs here.

I’ve spent the weekend celebrating a “big” birthday for my husband.  All our sons and their families arrived to spend it with us here in NY, and it’s been wonderful.  Since birthdays are much on my mind, I found a wonderful birthday poem to share with you.  Crossroads by Joyce Sutphen isn’t simply about celebration, it’s about what she plans to do with the second half of her life.  Read and enjoy.

Remember, we read poetry together here for the pure pleasure of the experience. There are no quizzes, no right ways to read or contemplate the poem we share. Absolutely no dissecting allowed. Just come along for the “read.” What line, word or thought will you carry with you this week? If you’d like to tell us where the poem took you? We’ll listen.

Remember, too, there is a special giveaway in progress for those who comment on any Sunday Poetry blog before year’s end.  See the details here.

Fiction Friday: Part Four of One Mountain Away

Tuning in late?  Every Friday this month I’ve shared the beginning of One Mountain Away , and I’ll conclude next week on August 3.  By then the book will be at your favorite bookstore or better yet, on your personal bookshelf.  You can read prior excerpts by clicking on Goddesses Anonymous under Categories at the right.  Start reading from the bottom.  I hope you’re enjoying this advance peek.

Part Four: Chapter Two, Part Two  

The Reverend Analiese Wagner was thinking about food, which was not unusual. She always thought about food when she was worried, or when she had five things to do at once. Maybe that’s why she was picturing double cheeseburgers in her mind and double scoops of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. This afternoon she was doubly stressed.

“If I make it through the memorial service, double cheese on my next pizza,” she promised herself out loud, although she hadn’t eaten pizza for years because it was as impossible to stop eating as salted peanuts. Even now at thirty-eight, after years of adulthood as a willowy size ten, the fat little girl inside her was still clawing to get out. For the rest of her life she would be forced to watch every bite and exercise without mercy.

Someone had parked in the slot against the side fence reserved for clergy. To be fair, the driver hadn’t exactly parked in the slot. She–and Analiese knew it was a she–had parked beside it, but not well, so the silver Audi was actually taking up two places, one of them Analiese’s. She recognized the car.

“Charlotte Hale.” Mentally she thumped her palm against the steering wheel of her ten year old Corolla, the very same Corolla that Charlotte Hale had asked about several months ago, just before she handed Analiese the business card of a car dealer who could arrange a low-interest loan and a trade-in.

Analiese couldn’t recall seeing Charlotte at services or meeting in the past month or so, but that was likely to mean that today Charlotte had a list as long as her arm of problems she wanted to comment on.

Analiese found another spot at the end of the row, but once she turned off the Toyota’s engine, she sat quietly and closed her eyes.

“Please, Lord,” she prayed softly, “help me mind my tongue, my manners, and while we’re at it, today please give me an extra spoonful of compassion, no matter how bitter it tastes.” She hesitated. “A slice of no-cal pizza would be good, too, but I know better than to push.”

Out of habit she put two fingers against the hollow of her throat to loosen her clerical collar–until she realized she wasn’t wearing one. In half an hour she would be changing into her robe for the service she was here to conduct, so she was wearing a simple round-necked navy dress. Right now anyone who didn’t know her would assume she was one of the mourners come to honor Minnie Marlborough.

A Sneak Preview of One Mountain Away

Shhh. . . Don’t tell anybody, but I’ve just updated my website and added all new pages about the upcoming release of One Mountain Away.  You can find an overview, my inspiration, praise from fellow authors and reviewers, an excerpt, book discussion questions, even a recipe.  We had hoped to have an entirely new website to launch this book, but moving put quite a kink in that plan.  So my webmaster has updated my original site and will tackle the new one later in the year.  Meantime enjoy all the new content, with more to come this week.

And speaking of things to enjoy?  Don’t forget that my Seventy Book Giveaway, celebrating the launch of this, my 70th book, is still in progress.  It’s not too late to enter, but one entry per reader, please, and only North American addresses because of postage expenses.  Congratulations to Emily Murphy and Linda Sullivan, who won book packages this past week.

Since I hate limiting giveaways to North America, readers everywhere can enter another giveaway for a signed copy of poet Billy Collins’s new volume of poetry, Horoscopes for the Dead.    Rules for that one here.

I’m nearing the end of my first draft of the second novel in the Goddesses Anonymous series, Somewhere Between Luck and Trust, with my deadline a bit too close for comfort.  So back to those pages.  Don’t forget to return here on Friday for the next sneak preview of One Mountain Away.  If you’re ready for the real thing, don’t forget the book will be waiting for you on August 1st, at your favorite bookstore.

Sunday Poetry: A Penny Cheaper

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday poetry blogs here.

I’m spending the summer at Chautauqua Institution, which sponsors morning lectures each week on a different theme. This week’s theme was Water and we were fortunate to have the talented resources of National Geographic with us to speak and share their spectacular and life-changing photographs. The message of the week was that we must protect our water resources. I, for one, came away with a new appreciation for the necessity of doing so, beginning with eating a lot less fish since 90% of all large fish have disappeared from our oceans since the 1950s. Sad, but all too true.

As my own contribution to the week’s theme I found this poem, The View From Cedar Key, by poet Lola Haskins, and found it visually powerful and thought-provoking. Ironically she wrote this before the Gulf of Mexico oil spill.

Remember, we read poetry together here for the pure pleasure of the experience. There are no quizzes, no right ways to read or contemplate the poem we share. Absolutely no dissecting allowed. Just come along for the “read.” What line, word or thought will you carry with you this week? If you’d like to tell us where the poem took you? We’ll listen.

Remember, too, there is a special giveaway in progress for those who comment on any Sunday Poetry blog before year’s end.  See the details here.

Fiction Friday: Part Three of One Mountain Away

Tuning in late?  I’m sharing the beginning of One Mountain Away today and every Friday through the end of the month when it makes its debut at bookstores.  You can read prior excerpts by clicking on Goddess Anonymous under Categories at the right.  Start reading at the bottom.

Part Three,  Chapter Two, part one:

Charlotte Hale tried to obey the law. She paid strict attention to street signs and rarely risked a yellow light. She only drove in the passing lane on the interstate if she absolutely had to. She was a decent enough driver, except for one flaw. She had never learned to park.

Knowing her limits, most of the time she improvised. She was guilty of lingering in no parking zones, and leaving her car in a traffic lane with the blinkers on. If she was lucky enough to find adjacent spaces so she could park along the curb, she fed meters well past the time limit, and even in less challenging slots she rarely avoided the lines meant to separate her car from others. Consequently, despite being a perfectionist in every other way, she had learned to live with scrapes on her side panels and tickets on her windshield. Through the years she had paid enough citations to fund a personal meter maid.

Today when she stepped out of her car and into the lot behind Asheville’s Church of the Covenant, she saw she was taking up almost two feet of the space beside her. Since there were still plenty of other spaces available, she decided not to try again. She had no sense of entitlement. It was just better to stay where she was than risk a worse landing.

The late afternoon breeze was as soft as azalea petals, and the only sounds were cars passing on the street and birds high in towering trees. She turned toward the church. Her heels clattered against the stone path, which looked as if it had been newly washed by their diligent sexton, Felipe. Apparently Felipe had also taken to heart the grounds committee suggestion that the boxwood lining the path needed more severe pruning. This afternoon the hedge looked as if it had recently squirmed under the hands of a boot camp barber.

Luck was with her. Felipe or someone had unlocked the front door and wedged it open, perhaps to let a touch of sunshine inside. She was heartened she didn’t have to go next door to the parish house to beg the key or wait for the secretary to unlock the door for her.

If the air outside was warm and mountain meadow fresh, inside it was neither. As always the sanctuary felt faintly damp, and old smells lingered. Women’s perfume, the moldering pages of hymnals, candle wax and Sunday’s lilies from the chancel.

The sanctuary was voluminous, with massive ribbed vaults overhead and wide aisles flanking the nave. Perspective wasn’t easy to come by here. Sometimes the room felt like a cavern, sometimes a crypt. Usually, though, even Charlotte, whose head was normally filled with other things, felt a sense of peace, as if fragments of prayers that had been whispered for more than a century still fluttered overhead.

Today she just felt dwarfed by the empty sanctuary, smaller than a speck of dust. And while humility before God was important–and in her case, overdue–this afternoon she needed warmth and comfort and hoped God wouldn’t begrudge her either.

She found herself moving toward the side-chapel, where light streamed through brilliantly colored windows, and she could hear the birds beyond them.

In a pew at the front she bowed her head. She hadn’t stepped foot in a church in weeks, nor in those weeks had she mumbled even a pre-packaged prayer. Since childhood, church attendance had always been a given, the need for it drummed into her by a grandmother for whom prayer had been the only barricade against defeat. Now, as she tried to formulate a prayer and failed, she realized how odd it was that at a crossroads in her own life, when most people turned to God, all outward manifestations of her faith had simply vanished.

Charlotte closed her eyes, hoping to connect with something larger than herself, but instead she felt herself falling into a void as dark and limitless as a night sky without stars. Her eyelids flew open, and she could hear her own heart beating. Perspiration filmed her cheeks and dampened her hair, and even though her hands were folded in her lap, they trembled.

The stillness of the chapel seemed to close in around her, as if to ask why she was there. She couldn’t find words, and her mind fluttered from image to image with no place to land. But there was something else the church could offer.

Someone else.

There were no confession booths at Church of the Covenant, and Charlotte’s minister was younger than she was, stylish and outspoken. They had butted heads on so many occasions that now Charlotte wondered if deep in her heart, Reverend Analiese Wagner would find pleasure in her turmoil.

Yet where else could she go? Who else could she talk to?

For a woman who had always had answers for everybody, she was surprised to learn how few of them really meant anything.

The Little Picture or the Big One? What’s Your Pleasure?

After knee surgery in the spring, I began taking walks each morning. Little by little I’ve increased the distance and speed that I walk, most of it up or down hills, until I’ve gotten back to what’s always been my regular route. But this past weekend I must have exercised with too much resolve, because the knee began to hurt again, and this morning I realized my walk needed to be shorter. A lot shorter.

The knee will improve. It was just a reminder that these things take time. But the shortened walk itself made me realize that suddenly, since I was moving slower and with more care, I noticed everything. There are three kinds of day lilies in front of the Women’s Club, the colors as bright and iridescent as lollipops. A yellow swallowtail was at home in one, and why wouldn’t he be? The flower was designed by nature to attract him.

Then there was the bat sculpture just down the hill from our cottage. Bats are a blessing here. They eat the mosquitoes and are nearly worshipped for their contribution. The sculpture is a reminder and a thank you. Why hadn’t I noticed it this season?

And the rain garden at the foot of the hill? What a terrific idea. Since runoff pollutes Lake Chautauqua, the institution (an odd title for such an interesting place) is planting these gardens to reduce runoff. Now the water flows into the ground. Plus the rain gardens are lovely. I hadn’t really noticed that before.

I slowed down, and suddenly there was an entire world to take notice of.

Of course, novelist that I am, I immediately realized how much this insight applies to books. Some move quickly. They don’t linger over scenery. They don’t take time to meditate on lessons learned. They move to the next event, the next big plot point, the next spurt of character growth. Everything in between is dealt with quickly or left to the reader’s imagination.

Some, of course, move slowly. They paint luxurious pictures. They detail feelings, carefully chart character’s changing insights. No thought goes unexplored. The canvas is smaller. The entire novel might detail one event. And yet if they’re well done, the reader isn’t bored. She is immersed in that life, and when she emerges, she may even be surprised to find a different world.

I love both kinds of walks. And with reservations, I love both kinds of books. I want a story to move fast enough and cover enough ground that I feel I’ve been somewhere. On the other hand, I don’t want it to move so swiftly that I don’t learn to love the characters and root for them. I don’t want the story to zip at lightning speed so I don’t care what happens, or I’m confused by the course of events. I want anticipation to build slowly enough that when it peaks, I’m right there in the palm of the author’s hand.

Readers differ. For some readers my novels move too fast. Others–more often–find my books move too slowly. All these years later I’m perfectly comfortable with that. In the immortal words of Ricky Nelson, “You can’t please everyone, so you have to please yourself.”

So which kind of reader are you? Do you want a plot to zoom by like a teenager on a skateboard? Or do you want to amble along a winding path, admiring the flowers and butterflies and thinking about life and everything it means?

Let us know.

Sunday Poetry: Like Pointed Shoes Too Cheap for Elves to Wear

Welcome to Sunday Poetry. If this is your first visit you can read about the purpose and inspiration of my Sunday poetry blogs here.

More poetry today about the charms of summer. John Updike’s Chicory certainly brought back a wonderful memory. Years ago my first summer in Virginia followed a spring of new and spectacular beauty for me. Daffodils and moss phlox, followed by dogwoods, redbuds and azaleas.

Little did I know more new favorites were to come. There, by the roadside as the weather warmed, were stalks of bright blue flowers of a type I had never seen in Florida or California, cushioned by clouds of white, like bouquets set there to tempt me and make certain that gawking, I drove off the road and into any available ditch.

After that summer chicory and its Queen Anne’s lace companion became favorites for me.

You might remember my chicory tale along with another poem, by Wendell Berry, featured last year on July 10th. A Timbered Choir is yet another ode to chicory, and of course, there can’t be too many. Why not read them both?

Remember, we read poetry together here for the pure pleasure of the experience. There are no quizzes, no right ways to read or contemplate the poem we share. Absolutely no dissecting allowed. Just come along for the “read.” What line, word or thought will you carry with you this week? If you’d like to tell us where the poem took you? We’ll listen.

Remember, too, there is a special giveaway in progress for those who comment on any Sunday Poetry blog before year’s end.  See the details here.

Fiction Friday: Part Two of One Mountain Away

Tuning in late?  You can discover what we’re doing and why here as well as read the first section.

Part Two of Chapter One from Charlotte Hale’s First Day Journal:

One of Maddie’s friends is on her way to the dome right now to make sure Porter doesn’t push her. This child, olive-skinned and lean, is named Edna, which surprised me the first time I heard another child call her name. Of course names are a circle. They come into favor, then go. Today’s young mothers probably never had an Aunt Edna who smelled like wintergreen and mothballs and chucked them under the chin at family reunions. They find the name filled with music, the way my generation never did.

The child Edna is filled with music. She’s a girl who dances her way through life. I think if she and I ever spoke she would sing her words. Edna certainly sings her way into the hearts of other children. She’s powerful here in a way none of the others are. Edna can rescue any situation. She’s tactful when she needs to be, forceful when that’s required, and a mistress of the best way to avert trouble before it begins, which is what she’s doing today. If no one beats her to the honor, Edna may well be our first woman president.

Edna waltzes her way up the metal bars with a quick, natural grace, and she’s swaying at the top before Porter can work any mischief. From here it’s obvious she’s talking to him. Talking, not lecturing, because after a moment, I hear him laugh. Not derisively, but like the child he is. I bet Edna told him a joke, because now, Maddie’s laughing, too. Maddie’s a courageous child, and she shows no fear. If Porter knocked her to the ground, she would pick herself up and start the climb again. I think Maddie refuses to let anything get in her way. Better yet, she doesn’t seem to hold grudges or rail against obstacles. She simply finds a way to go around them.

I rarely cry. When I was younger than Maddie, I realized how futile tears were. But today my eyes fill as I watch the three children divide the world among themselves. Here’s the future, right in front of me. Edna will lead, efficiently, carefully, fairly. Porter will try to disrupt everything around him, but if Edna can influence him, he may find a better place. And Maddie? Maddie will struggle with whatever life throws at her, but she will always prevail.

For the moment, though, the three are simply children, laughing at Edna’s well-timed joke while I wipe my eyes on a park bench thirty yards away. When I look up, I see Maddie’s grandfather, Ethan, start across the baseball diamond beyond us to fetch his granddaughter.

I turn away quickly to make sure he doesn’t see me. I wonder, though, if he did, would Ethan feel a glimmer of sympathy? Would he understand why I’m sitting here, watching a child I’ve never spoken to? Would he join me on this narrow park bench and tell me about the granddaughter we share, the granddaughter we haven’t discussed since that terrible night ten years ago when we stood at the window of a neonatal intensive care unit and broke each other’s hearts?

As I gather my purse and sweater, and slip my heels back into my shoes, I contemplate what to do next. I’m struck by how many possibilities confront us each moment of our lives, possibilities we rarely notice. We move on to the next decision by habit, then the next, and we never look around to see all the paths leading to other places, other lives. Right now I could meet Maddie’s grandfather halfway across the diamond and ask him to talk to me, even to introduce me to the young girl who is so much a part of both of us.

As always there are too many choices to contemplate fully, but as I stand and turn in the other direction, I know I’m making the only one I can.

***

Congratulations to Cheryl Rasmussen, Janet Warren and Sandra Baker who won packages of books this week from my 70 Book Giveaway.  Janet, who rates all her books said: “. . .you are one of the few authors who rate all excellent.”  Cheryl said:  ”When I pick up one of your books, I never put it down until it is done.”  Sandra said: “I always enjoy reading your well written books with great plots.”  My thanks to all of them.