My interview is featured today on the SummerStorm Press blog.
My interview is featured today on the SummerStorm Press blog.
I don’t remember who first told me about the author Naomi Novik. Perhaps, like one of the heroines from her novels Uprooted and Spinning Silver, her name came to me to on a breath of magic, a summer whisper during a paddle or hike in northern Michigan’s endless rivers and forests with trees hanging over me, edging ever closer.
Kingly white pines or witchy cedar, stubby and plentiful, stretching into swamp, would have surrounded me. Maybe mud sucked at my boots, choking the boardwalks meant to ease a rambler’s journey, or the river overflowed from winter’s runoff, making it impossible to tell where the water ended and woods began.
During those times, it would have been easy to picture a hovel waiting at the end of a brambly, hidden pathway and a voice muttering Naomi Novik’s name like an incantation. Then a portal would have appeared, tumbling into one of Ms. Novik’s enchanting stories, some as close to perfection as I have ever read.
But to whoever gave me her name, I owe a debt of literary gratitude. Since I first opened Uprooted in July and fell into the deceptively simple tale of a girl. a wizard, and an ancient evil lurking in the forest, I have devoured five of Ms. Novik’s books.
Three were about the dragon Temeraire and his Captain Lawrence and their adventures during the Napoleonic War. And now, just this morning, I have finished Spinning Silver, drawing out each word, repeating passages, simply because I didn’t want it to end, hoping that a drop of its magic would somehow drip around me, saturating a portion of my world so that the story would go on and on.
Because, like all exceptional storytellers, Ms. Novik creates a world in which the reader lives and breathes. And, although I have enjoyed everything she has written, Uprooted and Spinning Silver particularly resonated with me, probably due to the strong female protagonists and an old-world, fairy-tale aura, influenced by Ms. Novik’s Polish heritage. It is a background that my husband shares and thus has touched my life, making me recognize the Polish words in Ms. Novik’s writing, such as chrusciki or angel wings, a pastry light as air.
So now I wait for Ms. Novik to spin her magic once again. In the meantime, I have six more Temeraire novels waiting to fill my winter with the beating of dragon wings and transport me back in time to when Napoleon pushed at borders, insatiable in his desire for land, just as my desire for a good book will never end. I will always be listening for that whispered name with promises of a new author to discover and a fresh world to explore.
This morning, I made the first contribution from the royalties Quilting Cancer has earned–$250–to the St. Luke’s MSTI-Fruitland Respite House. From the St. Luke’s website: “Many of our patients and their caregivers travel long distances for cancer treatment… The Respite House will provide a safe and comfortable home away from home, helping ease some of the burdens of travel and allowing families to stay together.” Thank you all for purchasing the book and spreading the word! Also, Quilting Cancer will be featured in the April issue of Idaho Magazine. I was honored when the editor contacted me, and I’m so glad that Kelly’s inspirational message will reach a wider audience.
My family and I have been overwhelmed by the response to Quilting Cancer—thank you for the kind words, support, and enthusiasm. Kelly’s optimism, courage, and perseverance continues to thread people together and will have an impact for years to come.
But now I have a favor to ask… Everyone who has been touched by Quilting Cancer, the blog or the book, please take a few minutes to write a review–it only needs to be a sentence or two–on Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews will help Quilting Cancer reach a wider audience and make it available to a variety of promotional websites.
And, for those of you who purchased the Kindle edition, a new version is available on Amazon, with a Kindle table-of-contents, as well as other updates. If you sync your device, the updated version should automatically download.
A Reflection by Kate Chopin (1850-1904)
Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only enables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish in their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the significance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating the moving procession.
Ah! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its fantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the undulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are failing beneath the feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic rhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one harmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds–to complete God’s orchestra.
It is greater than the stars–that moving procession of human energy; greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! I could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the clouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of these symbols of life’s immutability. In the procession I should feel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march.
Salve! ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside.
Title: Foolish Bride
Series: Forever Brides #2
Date: March 28, 2017
Sadly ever after . . . unless some dreams really do come true?
Elinor Burkenstock never believed in fairy tales. Sure, she’s always been a fool for love—what woman isn’t? But Elinor knows the difference between fiction and truth. Daydreams and reality. True love and false promises. . . . Until the unthinkable happens, and Elinor’s engagement is suddenly terminated and no one, least of all her fiancé, will tell her why.
Sir Michael Rollins’s war-hero days seem far behind him when, after one last hurrah before his wedding, he gets shot and his injuries leave him in dire shape. He wants nothing more than to marry Elinor, the woman of his wildest dreams. But Elinor’s father forbids it . . . and soon Michael is faced with a desperate choice: Spare Elinor a life with a broken man or risk everything to win her heart—until death do they part?
A tear escaped down her cheek. She dashed it away, and the anger replaced her sorrow. “I don’t want your money, Michael.”
Hands fisted at his side, he finally met her stare. “What is it then?” She approached him and touched his arm.
He flinched, but she refused to back away.
“I want to know why? I need to know if you ever loved me. I demand to know if everything you told me was a lie.” There, she’d said it. She dropped her hand away.
He was pale and thin. Little of his robust figure shone through the robe. “I never lied to you.”
He turned away again. “I would have thought your parents explained that to you already.” She kicked at the rug, unsure of how to continue.
“Didn’t your mother explain?” Anger rolled through his words like an army.
In all the time they’d courted, she had never seen any signs of temper from Michael. He’d always been kind and loving. Through her fear, her own anger pushed her on. She stood toe-to- toe with a clearly dangerous man. “I was told that our engagement was dissolved because you cannot father a child. I will admit it took my mother quite a long time to get around to explaining that much, and I do not actually think she knew any more. What I want to know is what that has to do with you crying off?”
Then he turned. “I did not cry off. You did.” “I did no such thing.” She stomped her foot. “Then your father did.” His tone had gone flat.
“He had no right. If you did not end our engagement, then why were we not married today?” She tried to sound sophisticated, but tears pushed to the surface. His attitude was so changed. She didn’t know him. Maybe she never had.
“Your mother explained that.” He lumbered across the room and poured himself a rather large brandy. The smooth glide that she always admired was gone from his step.
“So if we had married, then we found that I was barren, you would have tossed me over?” She was rather proud of how rational she sounded in spite of her sorrow and raging temper.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He swallowed half the glass brandy. His shoulders slumped. “Then why would you think that I would care?”
“You don’t understand.” The second half went down in one swallow.
“Clearly. Perhaps you can explain it to me.”
A.S. Fenichel gave up a successful IT career in New York City to follow her husband to Texas and pursue her lifelong dream of being a professional writer. She’s never looked back.
A.S. adores writing stories filled with love, passion, desire, magic and maybe a little mayhem tossed in for good measure. Books have always been her perfect escape and she still relishes diving into one and staying up all night to finish a good story.
Originally from New York, she grew up in New Jersey, and now lives in the East Texas with her real life hero, her wonderful husband. When not reading or writing, she enjoys cooking, travel, history, and puttering in her garden.
The email arrived on February 22, 2016—a time of sickness and worry; fear and hospital visits.
“Erin,” the message read, “I have to say, I profoundly enjoyed your story: your style, vision, and command of atmosphere, irony, and character are tremendously effective. It would be an honor to showcase your enormous literary talent in this year’s journal.”
The email, from Michael G. Kellermeyer, Editor of Oldstyle Tales Press, went on to say that my short story, The Demon Inches, had been accepted for The Yellow Booke, an annual journal of original horror, ghost stories, and weird fiction.
I was flattered, of course, by Mr. Kellermeyer’s generous words. He certainly knew how to find his way into a writer’s affections; particularly when most authors receive many, many (get the idea?) more rejections than acceptances.
But what Mr. Kellermeyer didn’t realize, had no way of knowing, was that his email would become a beacon, guiding me through a bleak landscape. It reminded me of literature’s unique power, how healing can be found through emptying oneself onto paper. And that by getting lost between the pages of a story, one might emerge a better person at the end. Books can be both escape and redemption, lifeboats for navigating the restless seas of time.
It also made me think of the unknown effect we can have on others. A smile or compliment, sincere at the time then forgotten, often imprints on another’s psyche. Or, as in my case, a particularly kind acceptance letter, despite the writer suspecting the editor of exaggeration, arrives at the perfect moment.
So now Demon Inches, my own form of speculative fiction, has been published. It’s a genre I return to again and again. My mind explores the remote lakes, woods, and mountains of central Idaho and northern Michigan, the two states I call home.
I wonder what waits at the end of twisting two-tracks, disappearing into dusk, or the secrets contained within the walls of an abandoned cabin. And, like in Demon Inches, I question what resides within the shadows of our minds, and where the line between reality and imagination splits.
My stories may be speculative, exploring a world of fantasy, but I never speculate about two characteristics—bravery and hope, inspired by the people who surround me and embedded in everything I write. Horror creeps up on us, in novels but also in life, and without these core traits, we might find ourselves blinded by darkness.
The literary landscape in which I navigate also reinforces my optimism, finding endless comfort in the written word. It illuminates everything I do and has become a lifelong travel companion, as a well-timed email from a kind editor reminded me not so long ago.
The Yellow Booke: Demon Inches, The Old House, The Little Madness: and Other Terrors
A compendium of original horror stories (some written in the vein of classic supernaturalists such as M. R. James, J. S. Le Fanu, H. P. Lovecraft, Ambrose Bierce, and William Hope Hodgson, others written to push, test, and redefine the boundaries of the postmodern horror tale) “The Yellow Booke” is an original publication from Oldstyle Tales Press, whose annotated and illustrated critical editions of classic horror have piqued international interest from fans and scholars alike. “The Yellow Booke” contributes to Oldstyle Tales’ mission of invigorating interest in the classial past of the horror genre, while inspiring and encouraging those who would participate directly in its future. In these pages you will find mystery, weird fiction, body horror, science fictions, ghost stories, dark fantasies, and other strange tales written by living authors — some professional, some amateur, and all deeply talented in conveying what Monty James called “a pleasing terror…” Featuring the imaginative, powerful talent of Ever Dundas, G. L. McDorman, Joseph Burt, Silvia Barlaam, Columbkill Noonan, David Groveman, Erin Fanning, Greg Howes, Thomas Olivieri, M. Grant Kellermeyer, Daniel Pietersen
Author Kari Lemor grew up as one of those kids who read all night under the covers. Once she had her first glimpse of a romance novel at age 12, it was all over. Romance was in her blood, but it would be many years before the stories that ran rampant in her head finally drove her to put words to paper. Luckily, though, for readers she eventually did, and the result is Wild Card Undercover – the first in the Love on the Line series and the perfect cure for the winter blues.
All that glitters in Miami is not gold…
Lured in by a bad ex-boyfriend and the moonlight of Miami, Meg O’Hara is trapped in a nightmare situation, waiting tables for a crime boss and fearing for her life. When undercover FBI agent Christopher Shaunessy offers her a way out, she seizes it. Getting the goods on Salazar Moreno might not be easy, but she’ll do anything to be freed from her servitude and Moreno’s sexual advances, even if it means moving in with the charismatic agent.
Chris Shaunessy pretends to be Meg’s lover in order to keep her safe, but he steels his heart against further involvement. Passion has no place in the sordid world of organized crime. And yet, the closer they get to cracking the case, the stronger his feelings for the spirited waitress shine. It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, and taking Meg in his arms for real could prove a fatal misstep . . .
All buy links can be found here: http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/book.aspx/34406
“Does that man never have a day off?” Margaret Kathleen O’Hara grumbled, grabbing her tote bag and sarong to move surreptitiously along the chairs by the pool. If the hotel manager saw her here again she’d be toast. He’d more than toss her out. Threats to call the police had been thrown at her for months now. Although in her case, that might be a better deal.
With her eyes trained on his location and the Miami sun beating down on her exposed skin, Meg backed along the water’s edge attempting to leave the area before he spotted her. She needed to shower the chlorine out of her tangled hair and change for work soon. He looked in her direction and she rushed behind the closest object. It was six-foot-plus of blond-haired gorgeousness. The man’s eyes were glued to something on the upper deck. Her boss was sitting there with one of his expensive bimbos. Did Blondie like that type? Maybe he wouldn’t notice her little game of .
She leaned around him, ducking back when she saw the Pool Nazi still present. Getting caught was not an option. She already owed more than she could ever repay.
“Are you okay?” Forest green eyes stared down at her, puzzled. Would he buy that she was simply looking for shade? He was big enough to provide it.
With strong hands, he reached for her shoulders and Meg reflexively batted them away. She got enough of people groping her at work. Scorching curses froze before erupting from her mouth as the hotel manager moved, staring in their direction. Her mind kicked into overdrive, scrambling for a way to hide in plain sight.
“Sorry,” she squeaked. Grabbing the man’s head, she planted her mouth solidly on his. Short, thick strands of hair tickled her fingers. Firm lips yielded no resistance to the increased pressure of her mouth. Better make this look good.
An electric current skittered over her skin causing her heart to race. Maybe too good? Slowly he pulled her closer with his muscular arms. Her eyes flew open and she broke the connection. His hair-covered chest was too close for comfort. And much too tempting. Distance, she needed distance.
Her eyes darted around, seeing no signs of the manager. A sigh escaped. Time to make her exit as well.
“Sorry,” she mumbled again, looking up. Big mistake. The stranger’s curious eyes captivated her. They were soft and tender and filled with something she could…trust? If she still had any of that left in her. His hands were gentle as they held her. A tiny smile played about the full lips she’d brazenly kissed. She couldn’t believe she’d done it. Her mother would be appalled. But it had worked.
The chlorine scent from the pool faded into the background as sweat and suntan lotion wafted off the man’s damp skin. Her stomach did cartwheels followed by a few back flips. Dangerous.
“Let me go,” she hissed as reality returned. She gave a swift shove at his well-defined pectorals, rushing to get past, to escape from this distraction and the possibility of being caught. Her head whipped around at the sound of a splash and water droplets from behind. Gorgeous was just breaking the surface of the pool. Had she pushed him that hard?
“Oops.” No time for apologies. He looked like the forgiving type. She had to blow this joint before the Pool Nazi came back. Grabbing her fallen sarong, she ran across the deck to hustle inside the luxury hotel.
The manager stood sentry near the front door. A crowd appeared at her back making that way impossible. The stairwell to the left would have to do. She’d go up a few floors then down to the side entrance. She wrapped her sarong around her as she carried out her plan to avoid being seen…and caught.
Meg should stop coming here to use the pool: this proved it. Sneaking in was adding to her already hellish life but swimming always helped work out the stress and the pool here was more accessible than any other on the strip. Pretending she had money to stay in a place like this, rubbing elbows with all the beautiful people, yeah, that got her through too. She’d learned the best times to come and not be seen. Well, for the most part. It was well worth the risk to get away from her dump of a room and its enchanting neighborhood. She’d leave this all behind her soon. She kept telling herself that. Had to believe it for her own sanity.
Footsteps behind her pushed those thoughts away. Her bare feet padded silently along the lushly carpeted hallway. Heart racing, she ducked into the ice machine alcove, her sigh echoing in the silence. She glanced down. Her bag? She must have dropped it as she rushed off. How had she not realized? It couldn’t have been the threat of being arrested. Or the crooked smile of the handsome stranger she’d kissed. The one with the kind eyes and gentle hands. No, she couldn’t allow herself to be led astray by a pretty face. Not again.
She continued down the hall, her trip cut short when someone grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.
Find Kari online
Follow Kari Lemor on her website: http://www.karilemor.com/
During times of sorrow, I find solace in the written word, escaping into novels whose authors create characters and settings as vital and vibrant as the real world, yet with a dash of the unexpected, a sense of lyricism or a character so believable I wouldn’t be surprised if she walked through my front door.
This fall in particular has been a time for comfort literature, seeking wisdom from favorite authors like Rosamunde Pilcher and her gorgeous prose, as well as debut authors like Emily Deibel and her imaginative world of Cinderland.
In Cecilly in Cinderland, Emily retells the classic story of Cinderella, but with her own creative and original spin. The reader journeys from a city of towers and turrets to the magical world of Cinderland, inspired by Yellowstone National Park, deep within the earth. Here, the protagonists find all their wishes come true; but, as the cover implies, wishes won’t protect them in Cinderland. (Read a full plot description and excerpt here.)
As soon as I encountered Cecilly, the main character, I could see and hear her, as if she were a lifelong friend inviting me on an adventurous excursion, and that ability is one of Emily’s strengths. She offers the reader a few details—a bit of dialogue, a gesture, or even simply a collection of buttons—and weaves them into three-dimensional characters.
The same can be said for both worlds she creates, from the everyday to the fantastical land of the Cinders. I immediately saw the towers and turrets of Cecilly and her sisters’ dress shop, as well as the wall that separated their district from the rest of Havenshire. When she and her sisters descend to Cinderland, the creatures and landscape are described with equal precision, coming alive as Cecilly converses with a ghost or flies on a pygmy dragon.
And in each location geysers feature prominently, lifeless in Havenshire, bubbly and colorful in Cinderland. The mystery of the geysers connects both worlds, and before Cecilly can resume her life in Havenshire, she must make a sacrifice to the geysers, which Emily reveals in a clever and surprising climax.
But like Cecilly and her sisters, I eventually finished the adventure and had to return to reality. I closed the book with sadness, yet I realized I was able to step back into my life with more ease, a bit of Cecilly’s courage rubbing off on me, making me grateful for Emily’s imagination and an escape to Cinderland.