Interview with J. Boyce Gleason: ‘I always dreamed of writing a novel but like most people life got in the way’

Our guest today is J. Boyce Gleason, author of the historical fiction novel, Anvil of God, Book One of the Carolingian Chronicles. With an AB degree in history from Dartmouth College, J. Boyce Gleason brings a strong understanding of what events shaped the past and when, but writes historical-fiction to discover why. Gleason lives in Virginia with his wife Mary Margaret. They have three sons. Visit his website at www.jboycegleason.com.

What made you decide to become a published author?

I had always dreamed of writing a novel but, like most people, life got in the way. It was something I’d hoped to do “one day” but with a wife, three kids, a dog and a mortgage, “one day” became “some day down the road.”

Eventually I got to the point where I either made good on the promise to myself or let it go. I decided to give it a shot. But writing a novel is not something you can “try.” You have to commit to it. I told everyone I knew that I was writing a novel so that there could be no turning back (at least not without great embarrassment). After that, I just kept at it until it was done.

Would you consider your latest book, Anvil of God, Book One of the Carolingian Chronicles to be a one of a kind? How so?

I hope not. It’s the first of a series, so I hope there are several more coming down the pike. I do think Anvil is somewhat unique in that it explores a time period with which few people are familiar. It is also unique because the characters who drive much of the novel’s action are women. For historical fiction of this type, that is somewhat unusual.

Where is your writing sanctuary?

I like to write at the beach.

What do you believe a writer should not do as far as getting his or her book published?

Don’t rush. Get the story right. Get the writing right. Pay for an editor, get feedback, listen and rewrite. Make sure your book is ready for primetime before you try to sell it.

What inspires you?

To write? I’d have to say, great storytelling. I am always in awe of writers who can seduce you into their world and sweep you off your feet. People like Pat Conroy, John Irving, Herman Wouk and James Clavell are extraordinary storytellers. Sometimes I hesitate to read their work, because it is such an emotional ride.

What is one thing you learned about your book after it was published?

I learned that it was worth the wait.

Why do you love to write historical fiction?

I have always loved history. I’m fascinated by political ebb and flow of it. But while we know what happened in history, it’s much harder to ascertain why it happened. I write historical fiction to discover the “why.” To write a novel, the author must become an expert in each of the characters that people his or her book. In historical fiction, the characters are based on real people. You become experts in their lives, their motivations, their hopes, fears and dreams.

By writing their story, you see the history unfold through their eyes. You see the “why.”

You’re concocting a recipe for a best selling book. What’s the first ingredient?

Strong characters. A good character will drive the plot for you. Sometimes I have to wrestle with them to keep them under control.

What’s one fun fact about your book people should know?

I originally thought it would be a science fiction novel.

Did any real life experiences find their way into your book?

There are scenes that draw from experiences that move me. There is a scene in Anvil where Bishop Boniface tries to stop a battle from erupting during Charles the Hammer’s funeral. He drapes himself over the antagonist to keep Charles’s family from killing him. I drew that scene from Bishop Desmond Tutu’s effort to save a white South African from being killed by a black South African mob. He wore his ecclesiastical robes out into the crowd and draped his own body over the man being attacked to save his life.

Aside from writing, what’s your passion?

My family. No question.

What’s next for you?

I’m halfway through Book Two of the Carolingian Chronicles. It’s called Wheel of the Fates. I’m also working on a novel about young Ben Franklin called Sin of Omission.

 

First Chapter Reveal: I, Walter by Mike Hartner

Title: I, Walter
Author: Mike Hartner
Publisher: Eternity 4 Popsicle Publishing
Pages: 224
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0973356154
ISBN-13: 978-0973356151

Purchase at AMAZON

This is the life story of Walter Crofter, an English commoner who ran from home at the age of 11.  After two years living on the street, he ended up on a Merchant Mariners boat in the service of the Crown.

On his first voyage, he rescued a girl from pirates.  A very important girl, who stole his heart before she was returned to her home.

This is the story of his life.  What adventures he had at sea; what took him off the waters, and what happened to him as he lived his life and stayed true to his character.

First Chapter:

“I, Walter Crofter, being of sound mind….”  Bah, this is garbage!  I tossed my quill on the parchment sitting in front of me.  People may question my sanity, but they should hear the whole story before judging me.  I’m sitting here, now, at the age of 67, trying to write this down and figure out how to tell everything.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right, though.  Too many secrets to go around.  However, this is my last chance     to offer the truth before I die.  The doctors say it’s malaria, yet I’ll be fine.  Perhaps.     But if the malaria doesn’t kill me, my guilt indeed will.  Maybe if people know the facts surrounding my life, everyone will have a better understanding.

I dipped the tip in the inkwell again, and wrote:

I was born September 2, 1588, and named Walter.  I didn’t belong in this Crofter family, who were storekeepers in London and not farmers as our surname might indicate to those who study this sort of thing.  My parents were courteous and even obsequious to our patrons.  Yet they received little or no respect.  The ladies came to us to buy their groceries or the fabric for their dresses, but as seemly as they comported themselves, and some even called my father ‘friend,’ it was not out of regard for him.  I was forced to run.  Well, “forced” might put too harsh a point on it, like that of a sword, but others can judge for themselves.

By the time I reached the age of 12, I’d found another family that was more     “me”.  They weren’t rich, but they were comfortable.  The parents had several children, including a girl my age who was named Anna.  Within two years, we had come to know each other quite well, and were getting to know each other even better.  Her father caught us getting too close to knowing each other better yet, and showed up at my parents’ house with a musket in his hand, telling them if I ever came near his daughter again, he’d use    it on me–and then on them.

I paused to dip the pen and wipe my brow.  Even though I was wearing a light cotton shirt, it was bloody hot in early August in Cadaques.  My wife, Maria, entered    the room and looked at my perspiring face and what I had just written.  Between fits of laughter, she smiled at me with wide lips and said, “You can’t possibly write this.  You’re not the only boy a doting father ever had to chase away.  Nobody cares about this sort of thing.”

“It will at least give a pulse to this writing,” I replied.  “It’s too boring to say          that I left because I was mismatched with my own family, so much so that I was positive someone had switched me at birth.  Or that I thought I was ready for more in life than what I could find at home.  Nobody would read that, not even me.”

“I agree, so tell the story that really means something.  All of it.”  She sighed softly and placed the parchment she had been reading on the desk in front of me and kissed my cheek.  The gleam in her eyes shed 20 years off her age and reminded me of    a much gentler time.  God, how much I love her.

I said, “Before I met you, I spent my life like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole.  I’m just trying to make my story more interesting.”

“I’ve heard the accounts of your life before you met me.  Or I should say found me.  It was anything but boring.  So, if you insist on including in the story lines like those you just wrote, make sure they’re the only ones.  If you don’t, I’ll consider adding my own material.”  She winked.  “You know I’ve had good sources.”

She turned and walked away, laughing loudly as I called after her, “Yes, dear.”

I dipped the quill and put it to parchment again.

In my earliest days, I remember my father, Geoff, being a bit forceful with other people.  I also recall my brother Gerald, nearly five years my senior, and myself being happy.  Or at least as contented as two boys could be who were growing up in the late 1500s in England, and working every day since their seventh birthdays.  It was a time when boys were earning coin as soon as they could lift or carry things.  The money   could never be for themselves, however, but for the parents to help pay the bills.

Father lived as a crofter should.  He was an upright man and sold vegetables off   a cart like his grandfather did, and he also dabbled in selling fine fabric for the ladies of status.

One afternoon, when I was eight years old, my brother came home and got into a heated debate with my father about something.  When I ran to see what was the matter, they hushed around me, so I never got the full gist of the argument.  But whatever it was about, it was serious, and the bickering continued behind my back for five straight days.  When I awoke on the morning of the sixth day, Gerald was no longer at home.  And he never came back.

Soon afterwards, my father lost enthusiasm for his business and became generally passive.  I assumed this was because of Gerald’s leaving, and only on occasion would I see flashes of my dad’s former self.

At the start of my tenth year, our family moved closer to London.  We rented    the bottom floor of a three-story building in which several families lived in the upper floors.  My father said we relocated because he needed to be closer to more business opportunities.  But my mom didn’t believe he’d made the right decision, since he was  now selling food out of a cart and not inside a storefront.  One night, she greeted him at the door when he came home.  She was wearing a frown and a dress that had seen better days.

“Did you bring in any decent money?” she asked him before he had time to take off his coat.

“I told you, it will take some time.  It’s not easy to make good money these days.”

“Especially when you let the ladies walk all over you.”

“I know, I know.  But what am I to do when they aren’t running up to me to buy what I’m selling?”

“You at least bring home some food for us?”  My father had carried in a bag under his arm.

“It’s not much, a few carrots and some celery.”  He handed her the bag.

“What about meat?”

“We’re not ready for meat yet.”

“That’s true enough,” my mother said.  “But you should at least try to feed your family.  Walter’s growing, and so are our other children.”

“Leave me be, woman.  I’m doing the best I can for now.”  He sat in his chair, leaned his head against the wall, and fell asleep.

That same debate played out between my parents for the next two years.  Except for the summer months, when food was plentiful; then the arguments subsided.  But for the rest of the year, especially during the winter, the same discussions about money continued on a daily basis, and they were often quite heated.  I lost two younger siblings during those two years.  One during my tenth winter and the other during my eleventh winter.  Neither of the children was older than six months.  I always suspected hunger    as the primary cause of their deaths.

Just before my twelfth birthday, my father started taking me with him when he went to work.  My closest living sibling was nearly six and not feeling well most of the time, and the family needed the money I could bring in by helping my father, who was bland and wishy-washy, particularly when selling fabrics.  I had no idea what he was like before, but in my mind his lethargy explained why our family was barely making ends meet.  Our lives had become much harder since Gerald left, and part of me blamed him.  I’m going to thrash him if I ever see him again and teach him a lesson about family responsibility.

It took me less than a week to realize that the people my father was dealing with, as with those in Bristol, had no respect for him.  They regularly talked down to him.  Rather than asking the price, they regularly paid what they wanted to pay. And he took it without a quibble.  And when he tried to curry favor, he would never get it.  His customers looked upon him as a whipping board, at least that’s how it seemed to me.

I remember when we got home in the dark after a long day of work in late November, and my mother started in on Dad.

“Well?  Have you got the money for me to buy food tomorrow?”

“A little.  Here.”  He fished a guinea from his pocket.

“A guinea?  That’s it?  That won’t feed us for a day.  You’ve got to start working harder.  With what you earn and what I bring in sewing clothes, we can barely pay the rent, and there is nothing left over to heat this place.  And it’s going to get colder, Geoff.”

“I know, Mildred, I know.  I’m trying as hard as I can.”

“You haven’t worked hard since Sir Walter Raleigh left favor.  You can’t wait for him forever.”

“He’ll get favor back.  And when he does, I’ll be right there helping him.  You’ll see, we’ll be fine again.”

She groaned.  I was aware that this was not the first time my mother had heard this from my father.  It’s great talk from a man trying to get ahead.  But after several years of the same song, it loses its credibility.  She had enjoyed respectability in the early days when my father grabbed the coattails of the then revered Sir Walter Raleigh, and it was hard not having this luxury now.  She hadn’t planned to be satisfied with being a shopkeeper’s wife, and she wasn’t even that, at present.  She changed the subject, not her tone.

“I overheard the ladies gossiping on the street today.  They were talking about seeing Gerald’s likeness on a ‘Wanted’ poster.  A ‘Wanted’ poster, Geoff.  There’s a warrant out for our son’s arrest.  What are we going to do?  What can we do?”

My father stared at the wall.  “Nothing.  He’s an adult.  He’ll have to work it out for himself.”

I watched quietly as my mother cried herself to sleep, her head on my father’s shoulder.  No matter how bad things got, they loved each other and wanted their lives to be better, the way I was often told they were before my birth.  Maybe this is why I wanted to get away from them as soon as I could.

I didn’t usually watch my parents fall asleep.  But, that night I did.  And, after they were sound asleep, I left.  I had no plans.  I didn’t know where I was going.  I just left in middle of what was a dark, chilly night.

I could hear the dogs barking around me as I scurried along the roadside.  It felt as if they were yelping at me and coming towards me.  I began running, faster than I’d ever sprinted in my life, my speed assisted by my sense of fear.  Every time I heard a dog, or an owl, or any other animal, or even my own heavy breathing, my pace increased until I was exhausted and had to stop.  This continued throughout the night until the sky started to lighten and I found a grove of overhanging bushes and crawled inside for some sleep.

I scavenged for food during the day and swiped a few pieces of fruit from merchants along the way.  This became my means of subsistence.  I left a coin when         I could, as I’d pick up an occasional odd job, but I was always out of money.  I also tried begging, and while I did survive on the street, I found life difficult.  Yet for nearly two years I stayed with this vagabond existence before deciding to make my way to the sea.  Too bad my internal compass wasn’t any good.  Turns out I was moving more to the west than to the south.  But before long I was on the shores of Bristol.  And my life changed forever.

Book Excerpt from: Vinland Viking: An Original Saga by Gary L. Doman

The novella Vinland Viking is an epic fantasy-adventure, set at the time of the conversion to Christianity of Iceland and Greenland, about a young Northman who longs to lead the storied life of the pagan Vikings.  His opportunity comes with Leif Ericsson’s exploration in North America, but his fortunes change in a way and by a means that he could never have anticipated, and which will thrill the reader.

The richly-textured narrative incorporates history, nature, and mythology, along with plenty of action.  It is told from a Christian viewpoint, but can be enjoyed by a general audience, and, unlike so many other fiction stories, is acceptable reading for the young.

AMAZON paperback: http://www.amazon.com/Vinland-Viking-Gary-Doman-M-A/dp/1413763774/ 

AMAZON Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Vinland-Viking-Original-Doman-ebook/dp/B00AMV8KW2/ 

EXCERPT:

The pressing situation to which he was being called was the gathering of ugly weather off the Greenland coast.  Hoping to outrun the oncoming storm front back to Vinland, or at least to somewhere they could find shelter from the inclemency, Brand-Yngar directed that the prisoners be rounded up and secured, the knorr put in tow, and the Kraken be made ready to sail due south.

The homeward voyage began in the Davis Strait, to the west of the settlements on Greenland.  The southerly Labrador Current certainly had the potential to carry them away, even without the help of oar and sail, but it bowed to the superior force of the rising winds that were already wrecking the knorr.  Now gales, they wrenched the Kraken off her course and gave her quite a different heading; the crewmen could not even tell how far they’d been diverted.  When they weren’t cowering, they were praying to Thor for their deliverance, bailing rainwater and seawater out of the vessel, or saving each other from being washed over the sides.

Brand-Yngar stood resolute as captain.  Through his decision not to try to reach land immediately, he had saved the drakkar from the very worst of the storm; now, he had to guide them through its area of lesser strength to wherever it should capriciously deposit them.

The tempest poured and blustered for hours, driving the dragon ship as a godling might play with a bath toy.  Finally it blew the Kraken onto a shore.  Yet more time passed before the severity tempered enough locally so that anyone could move about on land; in the meantime, the occupants of the humbled watercraft huddled under the cover of their awning, peeping forebodingly at their unintentional port of call.
Gary L. Doman, whose (pen-)surname rhymes with “roman”, the French word for “novel”, was born in Syracuse (New York) and has spent the majority of his life in Connecticut.  He has degrees from Fairfield University and the University of Connecticut.  He has developed an interest in just about everything, especially history, geography, religion, language, and the natural world.  He began writing as a child and has never really stopped, although he does periodically need to eat and sleep, and also devotes considerable time to his other creative and intellectual endeavors; these include his “weblog” the Doman Domain and one of the items of interest found there, namely, “The Best Comic Strip Ever!”.  Further, he has taught himself to sing and founded his own political philosophy.  His greatest accomplishment may be remaining humble despite the preceding! 

Visit Gary online at http://domandomain.blogspot.com/

 Vinland Viking Tour Schedule 

Monday, August 5^th

Book review at The Book Connection

Tuesday, August 6^th

Guest post at Literarily Speaking

Wednesday, August 7^th

Interview at Blogcritics

Thursday, August 8^th

Guest post at Lori’s Reading Corner

Friday, August 9^th

Guest post and giveaway at The Busy Mom’s Daily

Monday, August 12^th

Interview at Between the Covers

Tuesday, August 13^th

Guest post for Cheryl’s Christian Book Connection

Wednesday, August 14^th

Guest post at The Story Behind the Book

Thursday, August 15^th

Book review at A Year of Jubilee Reviews

Friday, August 16^th

Book spotlight at The Writer’s Life

Book spotlight at 4 the Love of Books

Monday, August 19^th

Interview at As the Pages Turn

Tuesday, August 20^th

Book review at Vic’s Media Room

Wednesday, August 21^st

Interview at Examiner

Thursday, August 22^nd

Book spotlight at My Devotional Thoughts

Friday, August 23^rd

Book review at Found A Christian by His Grace

Monday, August 26^th

Book spotlight at Review from Here

Wednesday, August 28^th

Interview at Broowaha

Friday, August 30^th

Interview at Pump Up Your Book

Book review at Blooming with Books

First Chapter Reveal: I, Walter by Mike Hartner

Title: I, Walter
Author: Mike Hartner
Publisher: Eternity 4 Popsicle Publishing
Pages: 224
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0973356154
ISBN-13: 978-0973356151

Purchase at AMAZON

This is the life story of Walter Crofter, an English commoner who ran from home at the age of 11.  After two years living on the street, he ended up on a Merchant Mariners boat in the service of the Crown.

On his first voyage, he rescued a girl from pirates.  A very important girl, who stole his heart before she was returned to her home.

This is the story of his life.  What adventures he had at sea; what took him off the waters, and what happened to him as he lived his life and stayed true to his character.

First Chapter:

“I, Walter Crofter, being of sound mind….”  Bah, this is garbage!  I tossed my quill on the parchment sitting in front of me.  People may question my sanity, but they should hear the whole story before judging me.  I’m sitting here, now, at the age of 67, trying to write this down and figure out how to tell everything.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right, though.  Too many secrets to go around.  However, this is my last chance     to offer the truth before I die.  The doctors say it’s malaria, yet I’ll be fine.  Perhaps.     But if the malaria doesn’t kill me, my guilt indeed will.  Maybe if people know the facts surrounding my life, everyone will have a better understanding.

I dipped the tip in the inkwell again, and wrote:

I was born September 2, 1588, and named Walter.  I didn’t belong in this Crofter family, who were storekeepers in London and not farmers as our surname might indicate to those who study this sort of thing.  My parents were courteous and even obsequious to our patrons.  Yet they received little or no respect.  The ladies came to us to buy their groceries or the fabric for their dresses, but as seemly as they comported themselves, and some even called my father ‘friend,’ it was not out of regard for him.  I was forced to run.  Well, “forced” might put too harsh a point on it, like that of a sword, but others can judge for themselves.

By the time I reached the age of 12, I’d found another family that was more     “me”.  They weren’t rich, but they were comfortable.  The parents had several children, including a girl my age who was named Anna.  Within two years, we had come to know each other quite well, and were getting to know each other even better.  Her father caught us getting too close to knowing each other better yet, and showed up at my parents’ house with a musket in his hand, telling them if I ever came near his daughter again, he’d use    it on me–and then on them.

I paused to dip the pen and wipe my brow.  Even though I was wearing a light cotton shirt, it was bloody hot in early August in Cadaques.  My wife, Maria, entered    the room and looked at my perspiring face and what I had just written.  Between fits of laughter, she smiled at me with wide lips and said, “You can’t possibly write this.  You’re not the only boy a doting father ever had to chase away.  Nobody cares about this sort of thing.”

“It will at least give a pulse to this writing,” I replied.  “It’s too boring to say          that I left because I was mismatched with my own family, so much so that I was positive someone had switched me at birth.  Or that I thought I was ready for more in life than what I could find at home.  Nobody would read that, not even me.”

“I agree, so tell the story that really means something.  All of it.”  She sighed softly and placed the parchment she had been reading on the desk in front of me and kissed my cheek.  The gleam in her eyes shed 20 years off her age and reminded me of    a much gentler time.  God, how much I love her.

I said, “Before I met you, I spent my life like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole.  I’m just trying to make my story more interesting.”

“I’ve heard the accounts of your life before you met me.  Or I should say found me.  It was anything but boring.  So, if you insist on including in the story lines like those you just wrote, make sure they’re the only ones.  If you don’t, I’ll consider adding my own material.”  She winked.  “You know I’ve had good sources.”

She turned and walked away, laughing loudly as I called after her, “Yes, dear.”

I dipped the quill and put it to parchment again.

In my earliest days, I remember my father, Geoff, being a bit forceful with other people.  I also recall my brother Gerald, nearly five years my senior, and myself being happy.  Or at least as contented as two boys could be who were growing up in the late 1500s in England, and working every day since their seventh birthdays.  It was a time when boys were earning coin as soon as they could lift or carry things.  The money   could never be for themselves, however, but for the parents to help pay the bills.

Father lived as a crofter should.  He was an upright man and sold vegetables off   a cart like his grandfather did, and he also dabbled in selling fine fabric for the ladies of status.

One afternoon, when I was eight years old, my brother came home and got into a heated debate with my father about something.  When I ran to see what was the matter, they hushed around me, so I never got the full gist of the argument.  But whatever it was about, it was serious, and the bickering continued behind my back for five straight days.  When I awoke on the morning of the sixth day, Gerald was no longer at home.  And he never came back.

Soon afterwards, my father lost enthusiasm for his business and became generally passive.  I assumed this was because of Gerald’s leaving, and only on occasion would I see flashes of my dad’s former self.

At the start of my tenth year, our family moved closer to London.  We rented    the bottom floor of a three-story building in which several families lived in the upper floors.  My father said we relocated because he needed to be closer to more business opportunities.  But my mom didn’t believe he’d made the right decision, since he was  now selling food out of a cart and not inside a storefront.  One night, she greeted him at the door when he came home.  She was wearing a frown and a dress that had seen better days.

“Did you bring in any decent money?” she asked him before he had time to take off his coat.

“I told you, it will take some time.  It’s not easy to make good money these days.”

“Especially when you let the ladies walk all over you.”

“I know, I know.  But what am I to do when they aren’t running up to me to buy what I’m selling?”

“You at least bring home some food for us?”  My father had carried in a bag under his arm.

“It’s not much, a few carrots and some celery.”  He handed her the bag.

“What about meat?”

“We’re not ready for meat yet.”

“That’s true enough,” my mother said.  “But you should at least try to feed your family.  Walter’s growing, and so are our other children.”

“Leave me be, woman.  I’m doing the best I can for now.”  He sat in his chair, leaned his head against the wall, and fell asleep.

That same debate played out between my parents for the next two years.  Except for the summer months, when food was plentiful; then the arguments subsided.  But for the rest of the year, especially during the winter, the same discussions about money continued on a daily basis, and they were often quite heated.  I lost two younger siblings during those two years.  One during my tenth winter and the other during my eleventh winter.  Neither of the children was older than six months.  I always suspected hunger    as the primary cause of their deaths.

Just before my twelfth birthday, my father started taking me with him when he went to work.  My closest living sibling was nearly six and not feeling well most of the time, and the family needed the money I could bring in by helping my father, who was bland and wishy-washy, particularly when selling fabrics.  I had no idea what he was like before, but in my mind his lethargy explained why our family was barely making ends meet.  Our lives had become much harder since Gerald left, and part of me blamed him.  I’m going to thrash him if I ever see him again and teach him a lesson about family responsibility.

It took me less than a week to realize that the people my father was dealing with, as with those in Bristol, had no respect for him.  They regularly talked down to him.  Rather than asking the price, they regularly paid what they wanted to pay. And he took it without a quibble.  And when he tried to curry favor, he would never get it.  His customers looked upon him as a whipping board, at least that’s how it seemed to me.

I remember when we got home in the dark after a long day of work in late November, and my mother started in on Dad.

“Well?  Have you got the money for me to buy food tomorrow?”

“A little.  Here.”  He fished a guinea from his pocket.

“A guinea?  That’s it?  That won’t feed us for a day.  You’ve got to start working harder.  With what you earn and what I bring in sewing clothes, we can barely pay the rent, and there is nothing left over to heat this place.  And it’s going to get colder, Geoff.”

“I know, Mildred, I know.  I’m trying as hard as I can.”

“You haven’t worked hard since Sir Walter Raleigh left favor.  You can’t wait for him forever.”

“He’ll get favor back.  And when he does, I’ll be right there helping him.  You’ll see, we’ll be fine again.”

She groaned.  I was aware that this was not the first time my mother had heard this from my father.  It’s great talk from a man trying to get ahead.  But after several years of the same song, it loses its credibility.  She had enjoyed respectability in the early days when my father grabbed the coattails of the then revered Sir Walter Raleigh, and it was hard not having this luxury now.  She hadn’t planned to be satisfied with being a shopkeeper’s wife, and she wasn’t even that, at present.  She changed the subject, not her tone.

“I overheard the ladies gossiping on the street today.  They were talking about seeing Gerald’s likeness on a ‘Wanted’ poster.  A ‘Wanted’ poster, Geoff.  There’s a warrant out for our son’s arrest.  What are we going to do?  What can we do?”

My father stared at the wall.  “Nothing.  He’s an adult.  He’ll have to work it out for himself.”

I watched quietly as my mother cried herself to sleep, her head on my father’s shoulder.  No matter how bad things got, they loved each other and wanted their lives to be better, the way I was often told they were before my birth.  Maybe this is why I wanted to get away from them as soon as I could.

I didn’t usually watch my parents fall asleep.  But, that night I did.  And, after they were sound asleep, I left.  I had no plans.  I didn’t know where I was going.  I just left in middle of what was a dark, chilly night.

I could hear the dogs barking around me as I scurried along the roadside.  It felt as if they were yelping at me and coming towards me.  I began running, faster than I’d ever sprinted in my life, my speed assisted by my sense of fear.  Every time I heard a dog, or an owl, or any other animal, or even my own heavy breathing, my pace increased until I was exhausted and had to stop.  This continued throughout the night until the sky started to lighten and I found a grove of overhanging bushes and crawled inside for some sleep.

I scavenged for food during the day and swiped a few pieces of fruit from merchants along the way.  This became my means of subsistence.  I left a coin when         I could, as I’d pick up an occasional odd job, but I was always out of money.  I also tried begging, and while I did survive on the street, I found life difficult.  Yet for nearly two years I stayed with this vagabond existence before deciding to make my way to the sea.  Too bad my internal compass wasn’t any good.  Turns out I was moving more to the west than to the south.  But before long I was on the shores of Bristol.  And my life changed forever.

Author Interview: Michael Bowler & A MATTER OF TIME

Michael Bowler grew up in San Rafael, California. He attended St. Raphael’s School and Marin Catholic High School before attending Santa Clara University. Titanic and her tragic fate fascinated him for as far back as he can remember. He has a vast collection of artwork, memorabilia and virtually every book ever written about the disaster.

He majored in English and Theatre at Santa Clara and got a master’s in film production from Loyola Marymount University. He partnered with two friends as producer, writer, and/or director on several films, most notably “Fatal Images,” “Dead Girls,” “Hell Spa” (later re-edited and titled “Club Dead”), “Things” and “Things II.”

He has written a number of unproduced screenplays and is currently working on other novels he has outlined. He’s been teaching high school in Hawthorne, California for over twenty years.

He has also been a volunteer Big Brother to seven different boys over 28 years with the Catholic Big Brothers Big Sisters program and a volunteer within the juvenile justice system in Los Angeles for 27 years.  He is a passionate advocate for the fair treatment of children and teens in California, something that is sorely lacking in this state.

His first novel, A Boy and His Dragon, was originally written in the 1980’s before fantasy stories enjoyed a major renaissance, and has remained unpublished to this day. It is intended as the first of a trilogy.

A Matter of Time, his second novel, was originally written in the 1980’s and completed in the mid-1990’s as time permitted.

You can visit Michael on the web at www.michaeljbowler.webs.com.

Welcome to Between the Covers, Michael. Why was writing A Matter of Time so important to you?

I’ve always been fascinated by Titanic and writing this book, in a way, allowed me to board that Ship of Dreams for a short period of time and almost feel like I was really there. I also believed in the emotional resonance of this story and felt certain others would embrace it as well.

What was the experience like writing A Matter of Time?

It was stop and start for a long while because I was working full time. Also, as I got into the story I realized I’d violated my own cardinal rule about writing – I didn’t know how the story would end. Thus, I got probably three quarters into it and had to stop for quite some time until I realized how it had to end. Then everything fell into place.

How did you come up with the title?

The title is actually a line spoken by one of the characters. It’s a very innocuous line when delivered, but takes on portentous weight later on in the narrative.

Can you tell us more about your main character, Jamie Collins?

He’s a college student and aspiring writer. As such, he’s a bit shy and awkward in social situations since he tends to live within his own mind a lot conjuring stories he wants to write. He’s easy going, but also somewhat lonely, absolutely certain he is not destined to find his true love.

What are his strengths and what are his weaknesses?

He’s a young man of strong character, very honorable and loyal, but still filled with self-doubt. Thus he continually second guesses his decisions and has to be assured by others that he made the right ones.

Are there any supporting characters we need to know about?

Jay is Jamie’s best friend when the story begins, at least until Maggie comes between them. She is the sister of Jamie’s roommate, Dan. She at first dates Jay, but later decides she prefers Jamie. It’s Dan, outgoing babe-magnet and the polar opposite of Jamie in personality, who truly becomes Jamie’s best friend during the course of the story and who really gets him through the long and painful journey. There are also Jamie’s estranged parents and Dr. Denton, Jamie’s writing professor and mentor. All of them are dramatically changed by what Jamie goes through.

Can you open to page 25 and tell us what’s happening?

Jamie nearly passes out in the cafeteria, prompting Dan and Maggie to insist he go to the infirmary for a checkup. Unfortunately, Jamie already knows that whatever’s wrong with him can’t be helped by a regular doctor.

What about page 65?

Jamie tries to convince Dan that there is someone else inside of him, that he is either reincarnated or that he’s housing the soul of someone else, someone who’s rising to the surface. The ever pragmatic Dan doesn’t buy a word of it.

Now that A Matter of Time has been published, what’s your next project?

My next project is titled, Children of the Knight, which I hope to have out in the near future. I expect this one to generate controversy with its themes and conclusions and condemnations of our society. Here is a summary:

At any given moment there are hundreds of homeless, abused, abandoned or simply unwanted children wandering the dark, dangerous streets of Los Angeles. There are also thousands of young gang members wandering these same streets — undisciplined, violent, without direction or focus, many of whom would gladly leave the gang life if another, more favorable, alternative was presented. What if someone came along and presented them with just such an alternative? What if this same man also united the other unwanted children under the same purpose? And what if that man may or may not be the legendary King Arthur, himself?

This charismatic young leader, who claims to be the once and future king, wins over these children, young and teen, unwanted and gang member, and leads them on a crusade to establish a new Camelot within the City of Angels. They use the sheer weight of their numbers and the acquiredgood will of the people to take on the politicians, the police, the school system, and all the morally vacuous adults who have neglected and rejected them. If these people do not start doing what is right, Arthur’s powerful new Round Table may just have to force them.

Children of the Knight is a dramatic adventure tale that is exciting, funny, joyous, and tragic, yet always thought-provoking in its questions about right and wrong, about the value of children in our society, and about the use and abuse of power. Mostly, however, it is a moving story of lost kids in desperate need of adult love and guidance who ultimately gain a truer understanding of themselves and their own worth.

Thanks again for the interview, Michael.  Do you have anything else you’d like to tell us?

Anyone who is interested in my work, including an excerpt from Children of the Knight, can go to my website: michaeljbowler.webs.com. Thanks for taking the time to talk with me. I appreciate it.

Author Interview: Susan Spence & A Story of the West

Susan Spence has always been intrigued with life in the west in the 1880s. She researched historical accounts and first-person narratives as she prepared to write A Story of the West. A lifelong resident of the west, she currently lives in Montana on an old sheep shearing station with lots of furry critters and one partially furry critter. This is her first novel, and she is busily working on a sequel due out in late spring.

You can visit her website at www.writing-ranching.com.

Welcome to Between the Covers, Susan. Why was writing A Story of the West so important to you? 

Writing my book was, and still is, important to me because it was a huge accomplishment. I also found out that I am capable of telling an interesting story.

What was the experience like writing A Story of the West?

The experience of writing my book was a learning one. There were many lessons involved. Since I had never attempted writing a novel before, I really worked on becoming a better writer in order to effectively tell mystory. I also learned a great deal about myself by pushing myself to complete a novel. The learning continues as I figure out how to promote my book.

Can you tell us what a typical day is like for you?

 I don’t even own an alarm clock and since I don’t have a rigid schedule, the time I wake up varies. It depends somewhat on the time I went to bed the night before.Once I’m up, I like to take a walk and then do a crossword to get my brain working. When I sit down at my computer, I usually take care of any immediatebusiness before writing. Some days I go to town, others I stay home all day. Since I live on a ranch, there are things I do around here also. The weather affects my schedule as well, as when it’s nice out, that’s where I prefer to be. Some days I write into the night as the house is quiet at this time and I often stay up until midnight or so writing.

Can you tell us more about Matt Daly?

He is a typical hero in some respects, handsome and chivalrous. On the surface, he is honorable, but at the same time he fought with other ranchers over land that was stolen from the Indians.

What are his strengths and what are his weaknesses?

His strengths and weaknesses are much the same. He doesn’t back down from a fight, but that also creates problems for him.

What about Lavina Lavold? Can you tell us more about her?

Lavina is a young woman looking for adventure. At first life on the frontier is exciting. Soon she finds, as do many women, that the life of a housewife, with no close neighbors, can be filled more with drudgery and loneliness, than fun.

Are there any supporting characters we need to know about?

Kirsten Branson is a woman before her time. She is strong and can ride as well as any man. She is more able to balance being a wife with the more exciting aspects of cattle ranching than other women of her time.

Can you open to page 25 and tell us what’s happening?

On page 25, Matt has ridden all the way to town just to buy pepper. It seems odd to travel this far for something so trivial, except his real reason for the trip is to visit with Lavina. They had just met the day before and he wanted to see her again.

What about page 65?

Jeez, you picked another page about Matt’s and Lavina’s romance. He is riding home from visiting her and is planning a letter to her father, asking for her hand in marriage. The book is about a lot more, really.

Now that The Story of the West has been published, what’s your next project?

As I finished A Story of the West, I realized there was more to the story, so I began a sequel. It is set in more recent times and a fourth generation son owns the ranch. Cattle rustling and land grabs are no longer threats, but with the changing times, new challenges appear.

Thanks for this wonderful interview, Susan. Do you have anything you’d like to tell our readers that hasn’t been discussed?

Although A Story of the West is historical fiction, I have found that it appeals to a much wider audience. People seem to connect with the story even though they might not normally read this genre. That has been extremely satisfying to me.

Author Interview: Valerie Stocking & ‘The Promised Land’

Valerie Stocking was born in Waterbury, Connecticut, and wrote her first short story when she was five. When she was eight, she won a short story contest in Jack and Jill Magazine. She wrote her first play at the age of ten. In 1966, when she was twelve, she and her mother moved to a small town in Florida where they lived for a year. During this time, Valerie experienced difficulties with the public school system, tried a Seventh Day Adventist school briefly, and then dropped out altogether. It was her experiences during this year that inspired The Promised Land. Later, she would finish high school, graduate from college and earn a Master’s degree in Cinema Studies from NYU.

For nearly 30 years, she wrote and edited in various capacities, including copywriting, newspaper articles, and short stories. She wrote nearly 20 full-length and one act plays over a ten year period, which have been performed throughout the U.S. and Canada. She edited books for audio, abridging over 100 novels in a 6-year period. In 2010, she published her first novel, A Touch of Murder, which is the first of what will become the Samantha Kern mystery series. It was nominated for a Global eBook Award in 2011 for Best Mystery.

Valerie lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico with her dog and cat, and is working on her next novel.

You can visit her website at www.valeriestocking.com.

About The Promised Land

It’s 1966, just two years after President Lyndon Baines Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act into law, and twelve-year-old Joy Bradford’s life is changing dramatically. Born and raised in the white suburbs of Connecticut, Joy is moving to Willets Point, Florida, to live with her mother Jessica because her parents are divorcing. Hoping it really is the Promised Land that her mother describes, she joins in Jessica’s enthusiasm only to find out how horribly wrong that vision is.

Unfortunately for Joy, the move does nothing to change her mother’s emotional and mental instability, resulting in a continuation of the physical and verbal abuse she is all too used to receiving. Her new school is years behind her old one, the kids dress and act differently, and on just the second day, Joy has a run-in with her geography teacher. Things are going from bad to worse until Clay Dooley, a mixed-race boy from that same geography class, offers his friendship. The two become close, sending shockwaves that dovetail with a growing sense of tension and unease in the community as a whole. Clay’s father Clytus, a well-educated black man, attempts to open his own clothing store in the white section of downtown Willets Point. This causes Jessica’s new lawyer cum boyfriend and leader of the local Klan chapter, Bill McKendrick, to join with other white citizens in using great force to block Clytus’ dreams. Tempers flare and emotions run high when Clytus refuses the Klan’s subsequent demand that he and his family move out of the white neighborhood they live in, setting off an explosive confrontation that will change them all forever.

An absorbing and suspenseful coming of age story set against the tumultuous backdrop of racial tensions in mid-1960’s America, Stocking’s blend of historical fact and fiction is as relevant today as it was during the explosive Civil Rights era. Probing the human psyche for the deep-seated fears that fuel the fires of racism and bigotry, she expertly builds characters who feel their very lives are at stake by the changing times. Full of insight and intensity, The Promised Land is a spellbinding journey you won’t want to miss.

Welcome to Between the Covers, Valerie. Why was writing The Promised Land so important to you?

Certain things happened to me in a small town on the Gulf Coast of Florida in 1966-67 that I thought were important to talk about.  Specifically, those things pertaining to the education system in Florida at that time, as well as alcohol and drug abuse among adolescents. I also wanted to reveal some of the “characters” in my life at that time for what they were.  My main goal was to tell the truth, even about the parts that are fiction, if that makes sense

What was the experience like writing The Promised Land?

It was the easiest thing I have ever written.  I knew most of the characters in the story, and those that are fictitious seemed to just come out wholly formed.  I didn’t do any character synopses or anything like that, which is very unusual for me.  I wrote this book out of sequence, and the hardest part was putting it together in the right order.  I knew certain things that actually happened at certain times, but there were other things I made up that had to be interwoven in there.  Altogether, it was a very satisfying experience, writing this book.

You lived in Florida in 1966, which provided you the background for writing The Promised Land. Can you tell us what that was like?

It was very similar to the way I described it in the book.  It was a small town that smelled like algae, with palm trees that were all on the verge of dying.  We lived in a lower-middle-class neighborhood, in a seedy little house that was decaying, and I went to a terrible school.  I would like to say positive things about this place, but I just can’t.  It was a very negative experience for me, the year that I lived there.

Can you tell us more about 12-year-old Joy Bradford?

She is a misfit.  She looks differently, acts differently, and thinks differently from her peers. She has always been a square peg in a round hole, and accepts the fact.  The few friends she’s had have also been outcasts.  As the story opens, she is traveling to a place where she knows no one, aside from her family, with whom she basically does not get along.  She yearns to find a friend, someone she can confide in.  When Clay approaches her, she realizes he is the one.

Her mother has quite a few emotional and mental problems.  What happened to her to get that way?

Her mother has undiagnosed bipolar disorder.  Actually, the character of Jessica is based on my own mother, who was originally classified as schizophrenic.  But that was during the time when anyone with unusual behavior was called schizophrenic.  It was a kind of catch-all for people with mental illness.  In reality, my mother was bipolar.  She came from a very violent household, and she propagated this violence when she became a wife and parent.  She had everything she could possibly want materially from the time she was 16, and went to live with her aunt and uncle, which is documented in the book. As a result, she expected to be given nice things for the rest of her life.  The idea of her working and earning money to buy these things was completely foreign to her.  She would cajole, bully, and if necessary, physically fight to get what she wanted.  Her identity as a woman was completely wrapped up in being sexually attractive to men.  When she lost this masculine approval, she fell apart, which is also documented in the book.

Can you tell us about Clay Dooley?

He is basically a very nice kid, a bit on the cynical side based on all that has happened to him, being biracial.  He desperately wants Joy’s friendship.  In a sense, he is anxious to please, because like Joy, he doesn’t fit in and wants to find friends.  Like Joy, he is also advanced for his age, but in different ways.  They compliment each other very well.

Can you open to page 25 and tell us what’s happening?

Aunt Margaret has told Jessica, Joy’s mother, that Jessica and Joy will have to leave Margaret’s house and find their own place to stay.  Jessica is hurt and outraged.  Margaret has tons of room, she’s a millionaire, she can certainly afford to let them live with her.  But Margaret makes up a lame excuse about needing the space in her house for clients who are coming from Europe.  Jessica stumbles into her suite, reaching for the ever-present bottle of antacid, which she chugs down as she thinks some pretty strong thoughts about her aunt. She knows Margaret is doing this because she disapproves of Jessica’s divorcing Joy’s father.  Margaret thinks this will drive Jessica back to Mike.  Well, Jessica thinks, Margaret has another think coming, because that will never happen.

What about page 65?

Joy and Jessica are house hunting, since they are being kicked out of Aunt Margaret’s home. They are in a lower-middle-class house with a broken front door, cigarette scarred and scratched furniture, a leaking sink, a wheezing toilet, and stains on the refrigerator door.  Joy is silently begging her mother to turn the house down so they can leave.  The realtor with them, however, tells Jessica she won’t find a rent this cheap that is this close to the junior high that Joy will be attending.  Jessica agrees, and rents the house.

Now that The Promised Land has been published, what’s your next project?

I have a completed draft of “Seen of the Crime,” which is the sequel to my first published book, “A Touch of Murder.” I need to do one more rewrite on it before it goes off to an editor.  Next up will be a ghost story.

Thanks, Valerie, for this wonderful interview. Do you have anything you’d like to tell our readers that hasn’t been discussed?

Yes, just one more thing.  You can find out more about my plays, my books and me at my website, http://www.valeriestocking.com.  I publish 2 blogs a week: Mondays is nonfiction, and the subjects range from writing/publishing/marketing, to 1960’s memories, to paranormal experiences.  Thursdays is fiction.  Right now it’s a serialized story featuring the detective in “A Touch of Murder,” Samantha Kern.  This novel is called “Color Me Dead,” and you can read it for free from the beginning on the blog at http://www.valeriestocking.com/blog/.

Book Excerpt: Telegraph Island by John Milton Langdon

Title: Telegraph Island
Author: John Milton Langdon
Genre: Historical Fiction
Paperback: 279 pages
Publisher: Tate Publishing & Enterprises
Language: English
ISBN-13: 978-1598867145

Step back in time to the Victorian age. The industrial revolution in Britain is in full spate and electronic communication is in its infancy. Based loosely on fact author John Milton Langdon weaves a tale of romance and adventure on the high seas and in the Orient.

Jason Smiley Stewart — My Life Story describes the life of an average man. Although he is born in humble circumstances, he shows how a combination of perseverance and intelligence aided by a little good fortune, can help any child overcome the disadvantages of a lowly birth status and poor education.

In Telegraph Island, the second of four novels chronicling the life of Jason Smiley Stewart, the young man’s continuing adventures are described. He has his share of failure and success but once again demonstrates that his poor origins are no bar to fame and fortune when he leaves the life of a sailor to join the communication revolution.

Book Excerpt:

“- – – – – I felt on top of the world and ate a hearty breakfast and as I did so I noticed that Joanna was neither eating very much nor looking very happy.  After a time she stopped moving bacon and eggs around her plate, put down her knife and fork and looked at me with a strange and wondering expression.

She said sadly “You seem very happy this morning, Jason.  Are you pleased to be leaving me so soon?”

“No of course not, Joanna” I replied and went on “If I seem happy this morning it’s because I am in love with a most wonderful person and she loves me too.  I can barely believe that I’m really awake and not locked in a wonderful dream.  I don’t want to leave just as we have found each other”.   I held her hand and said “I must go Joanna as I cannot change the arrangements now.  I know that I will be desperately unhappy until we can be together again”.

“Haven’t you forgotten something, Jason?” she asked obscurely.

I did a quick mental review of my packing and replied “I don’t think so Joanna, thank you.  I’m sure I have packed everything”.

She let go of my hand.  “Oh!  Men can be so obtuse at times” she said with some asperity and then asked angrily “Don’t you remember what you said to me in the night?”

“Yes of course”.

“Do you remember my response?”

“Yes of course I do” I said still puzzled by her questions.

And then realisation struck.  She was angry because I had been thoughtless in my misplaced cheerfulness and what was worse I had said nothing about my suggestion that she should be my wife.  It was so much worse that Joanna had found it necessary to remind me about something that should have been my first priority.

What a fool I was.  My euphoric mood drained away like water down a plug hole and at least mentally I kicked myself around the room.

I tried to take her hand but she was still angry with me and moved it out of reach as I said “Darling Joanna, please forgive me for being such an insensitive clod.  I was so happy this morning that I just didn’t think beyond the here and now.   I said last night that I would like you to be my wife and this morning I still feel the same, but I will have to ask your Mother’s permission before I can propose to you”.

“So why just sit there eating breakfast, when my mother is sitting in the next room reading,” was Joanna’s tart reply “She intends to go out shortly”.

I jumped to my feet, left the breakfast room and knocked on the door of the morning room.  I went in when I heard Mrs. Evans call out.  She was sitting in an armchair reading and I stood in front of her chair feeling a little like a child in front of the headmistress.

“Good morning, Jason, I hope you enjoyed a good night’s sleep?”

“I did thank you, Mrs. Evans and I hope you did as well” I said, then paused, not at all sure where to start or what to say.  She looked at me, put her book on the side table and waited patiently for me to continue the conversation without saying a word herself.  I collected my thoughts and failed totally to remain calm as I said without ceremony or preamble “I would like to have your permission to ask Joanna to marry me.  I know it must seem sudden to you, but as I am just about to leave for India I would like to know that Joanna feels as I do and will wait for me to return”.

“Over the tribulations of the past few years I have come to know you quite well, Jason, and I think you will make my daughter a good husband.  I think you have a good future and know that you will provide for her to the best of your ability.  You have my permission to ask her”.

“Thank you Mrs. Evans.  You cannot imagine how relieved I am” I responded formally and returned to the breakfast room where Joanna was waiting.

As I closed the door and walked towards her she said in a worried voice “What did my Mother say?  You weren’t very long.  She didn’t refuse did she?”

I smiled at her, then went down on one knee and asked simply but very seriously “I should be honoured if you would consent to be my wife Joanna.  Please will you marry me?”

Excerpt from: The Queen’s Gamble by Barbara Kyle

Title: The Queen’s Gamble
Author: Barbara Kyle
Genre: Historical fiction
Hardcover: 448 pages
Publisher: Kensington
Language: English
ISBN-13: 978-0758238566

Young Queen Elizabeth I’s path to the throne has been a perilous one, and already she faces a dangerous crisis. French troops have landed in Scotland to quell a rebel Protestant army, and Elizabeth fears that once they are entrenched on the border, they will invade England.

Isabel Thornleigh has returned to London from the New World with her Spanish husband, Carlos Valverde, and their young son. Ever the queen’s loyal servant, Isabel is recruited to smuggle money to the Scottish rebels. Yet Elizabeth’s trust only goes so far—Isabel’s son will be the queen’s pampered hostage until she completes her mission. Matters grow worse when Isabel’s husband is engaged as military advisor to the French, putting the couple on opposite sides in a deadly cold war.

Set against a lush, vibrant backdrop peopled with unforgettable characters and historical figures, The Queen’s Gamble is a story of courage, greed, passion, and the high price of loyalty…

BOOK EXCERPT:

Chapter One

Isabel Valverde was coming home. The brief, terrible letter from her brother had brought her across five thousand miles of ocean, from the New World to the Old, and during the long voyage she thought she had prepared herself for the worst. But now that London lay just beyond the next bend of the River Thames, she dreaded what awaited her. The not knowing – that was the hardest. Would she find her mother still a prisoner awaiting execution? Horrifying though that was, Isabel could at least hope to see her one last time. Or had her mother already been hanged?

The ship was Spanish, the San Juan Bautista, the cabin snug and warm, its elegant teak paneling a cocoon that almost muffled the brutal beat of England’s winter rain on the deck above. Isabel stood by the berth, buttoning her cloak, steeling herself. The captain had said they were less than an hour from London’s customs wharf and she would soon have to prepare to disembark. Everything was packed; three trunks sat waiting by the open door, and behind her she could hear her servant, sixteen-year-old Pedro, closing the lid of the fourth and last one. She listened to the rain’s faint drumbeat, knowing that she heard it in a way the Spanish passengers could not – heard it as a call, connecting her to her past, to her family’s roots. The Spaniards would not understand. England meant nothing to them other than a market for their goods, and she had to admit it was a backward place compared to the magnificence of their empire. The gold and silver of the New World flowed back to the Old like a river with the treasure fleets that sailed twice a year from Peru and Mexico, making Philip of Spain the richest and most powerful monarch in Europe. Isabel felt the tug of both worlds, for a part of her lived in each, her young self in the Old, her adult self in the New. She had left England at twenty with her Spanish husband and almost nothing else, but he had done well in Peru, and after five years among its wealthy Spaniards, Isabel was one of them. Money, she thought. It’s how the world turns. 

Can it turn Mother’s fate? She had clung to that hope for the voyage, and now, listening to the English rain, she was seized by a panicky need to have the gold in her hands. She heard her servant clicking a key into the lock of the last trunk. She whirled around.

“Pedro, my gold,” she said. She grabbed his arm to stop him turning the key. “Where is it?”

He looked at her, puzzled. “Señora?”

“The gold I set aside. In the blue leather pouch.” She snatched the ring of keys from him and unlocked the trunk. She rummaged among her gowns, searching for the pouch. The soft silks and velvets slid through her hands. She dug down into the layers of linen smocks and stockings and night-dresses. No pouch. Abandoning the rucked-up clothes, she unlocked another trunk and pawed through her husband’s things, his doublets and breeches and capes and boots. The pouch was not here either. “Open that one,” she said, tossing the keys to Pedro. “We have to find it.” She went to the brocade satchel that lay at the foot of the berth and flipped its clasps and dug inside.

“Señora, it’s not in there. Just papers.”

“Look for it!” she ordered.

He flinched at her tone, and she felt like a tyrant. Not for the first time. He was a Peruvian with the small build of his Indian people which made him look more like a child than a lad of sixteen. He had the placid nature of his people, too, and a deference to authority that had been bred into his ancestors by the rigid Inca culture. When the Spaniards had invaded thirty years ago they had exploited that deference, easily making the Indians their slaves and themselves rich. Isabel hated slavery. Pedro was her servant, but a free person nonetheless. English justice said so. But his docile ways sometimes sparked her impatience, goading her to take the tone of his Spanish overlords, and when she did so she hated herself.

“Take out everything,” she told him, less sharply. “Look at the bottom.”

“Si, Señora,” he said, obeying.

His native tongue was Quechua. Isabel’s was English. Neither of them knew the other’s language. They spoke in Spanish.

Excerpt from The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb by Melanie Benjamin

Title: The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb
Author: Melanie Benjamin
Genre: Historical fiction
Paperback: 448 pages
Publisher: Delacorte Press (July 26, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-13: 978-0385344159

In her national bestseller Alice I Have Been, Melanie Benjamin imagined the life of the woman who inspired Alice in Wonderland. Now, in this jubilant new novel, Benjamin shines a dazzling spotlight on another fascinating female figure whose story has never fully been told: a woman who became a nineteenth century icon and inspiration—and whose most daunting limitation became her greatest strength.

“Never would I allow my size to define me. Instead, I would define it.”

She was only two-foot eight-inches tall, but her legend reaches out to us more than a century later. As a child, Mercy Lavinia “Vinnie” Bump was encouraged to live a life hidden away from the public. Instead, she reached out to the immortal impresario P. T. Barnum, married the tiny superstar General Tom Thumb in the wedding of the century, and transformed into the world’s most unexpected celebrity.

Here, in Vinnie’s singular and spirited voice, is her amazing adventure—from a showboat “freak” revue where she endured jeering mobs to her fateful meeting with the two men who would change her life: P. T. Barnum and Charles Stratton, AKA Tom Thumb. Their wedding would captivate the nation, preempt coverage of the Civil War, and usher them into the White House and the company of presidents and queens. But Vinnie’s fame would also endanger the person she prized most: her similarly-sized sister, Minnie, a gentle soul unable to escape the glare of Vinnie’s spotlight.

A barnstorming novel of the Gilded Age, and of a woman’s public triumphs and personal tragedies, The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb is the irresistible epic of a heroine who conquered the country with a heart as big as her dreams—and whose story will surely win over yours.

BOOK EXCERPT:

[ ONE ]

My Childhood,

or the Early Life of a Tiny

I will begin my story in the conventional way, with my ancestry.

About the unfortunately named Bumps, I have little to say other than they were hardworking people of French descent who somehow felt that shortening “Bonpasse” to “Bump” was an improvement.

With some pride, however, I can trace my pedigree on my mother’s side back through Richard Warren of the Mayflower Company, to William, Earl of Warren, who married Gundreda, daughter of William the Conqueror. This is as far back as I have followed my lineage, but I trust it will suffice. Certainly Mr. Barnum, when he first heard it, was quite astonished, and never failed to mention it to the Press!

I was born on 31 October, 1841, on the family farm in Middleborough, Massachusetts, to James and Huldah Bump. Most people cannot contain their surprise when I tell them that I was, in fact, the usual size and weight. Indeed, when the ceremonial weighing of the newborn was completed, I tipped the scales at precisely six pounds!

My entrance into the family was preceded by three siblings, two male and one female, and was followed by another three, two male and one female. All were of ordinary stature except my younger sister, Minnie, born in 1849.

I am told that I grew normally during the first year of my life, then suddenly stopped. My parents didn’t notice it at first, but I cannot fault them for that. Who, when having been already blessed with three children, still has the time or interest to pay much attention to the fourth? My dear mother told me that it wasn’t until I was nearly two years old that they realized I was still wearing the same clothes—clothes that should already have been outgrown, cleaned and pressed, and laid in the trunk for the next baby. It was only then that my parents grew somewhat alarmed; studying me carefully, they saw that I was maturing in the way of most children—standing, talking, displaying an increased interest in my surroundings. The only thing I was not doing was growing.

They took me to a physician, who appraised me, measured me, poked me. “I cannot offer any physical explanation for this,” he informed my worried parents. “The child seems to be perfectly normal, except for her size. Keep an eye on her, and come back in a year’s time. But be prepared for the possibility that she might be just one example of God’s unexplainable whims, or fancies. She may be the only one I’ve seen, but I’ve certainly heard of others like her. In fact, there’s one over in Rochester I’ve been meaning to go see. Heard he can play the violin, even. Astounding.”

My parents did not share his enthusiasm for the violin- playing, unexplainable Divine whim. They carried me to another physician in the next town over, who, being a less pious man than the previous expert, explained that I represented “an excellent example of Nature’s Occasional Mistakes.” He assured my increasingly distressed parents that this was not a bad thing, for it made the world a much more interesting place, just as the occasional two- headed toad and one- eyed kitten did.

In despair, my parents whisked me back home, where they prayed and prayed over my tiny body. Yet no plea to the Almighty would induce me to grow; by my tenth birthday I reached only twenty- four inches and weighed twenty pounds. By this time my parents had welcomed my sister Minnie into the world; when she displayed the same reluctance to grow as I had, they did not take her to any physicians. They simply loved her, as they had always loved me.

“Vinnie,” my mother was fond of telling me (Lavinia being the name by which I was called, shortened within the family to Vinnie), “it’s not that you’re too small, my little chick, but rather that the world is too big.”