Today I have an interview with historical romance author DL Larson as she tours her novel Promises My Love.
As part of her tour, DL will be awarding a
copy of one of her previously published books, hardback (US only) or e-book
format, to two randomly drawn commenters during the tour. To be entered to win, leave a comment below. To increase your chances of winning, visit other tour stops and leave comments there, too.
Bio:
DL Larson
always thought she’d be a city girl, but instead, she has spent the last 40
years surrounded by corn fields. She lives in northern Illinois and enjoys the
outdoors, especially gardening, and hanging out with her family that continues to
grow.
Reading is a
big part of DL’s life, both professionally as a writer and as a Children’s
Librarian. She likes being in the know,
seeing firsthand what folks like to read. Going back to school as an adult
rejuvenated her desire to become a novelist. The writing awards she received
lifted her up and reinforced her drive to tell the best story she could. Her
second novel, Promises To Keep was a
2008 Reader’s Choice Recipient.
DL's books are also available on Amazon.com
Email DL through Facebook at: deb.larson.73@Facebook.com
Welcome, DL. Please tell us about your
current release.
Promises My Love is a love story and family saga, set
in 1840s Kentucky. Francis Frailey's tortured past leaves him not knowing how
to love his young family. His past rears its ugly head and he no longer worries
over his family as he aches for revenge. It takes his wife Christine, his
brother-in-law Joe and his father to help him see he can have a future full of
love and hope if he will only let go of his past.
What inspired you to write this book?
When I
worked at Northern Illinois University in the Dept. of Children and Family
Services, we sponsored educational classes and symposiums for professionals in
the DCFS field. I was writing my historical series at the time. One of my characters
was not very forthcoming and I wrote around him for quite awhile. As time went
on, I listened to the many professionals talk of family abuse at these classes,
and I realized my character, Francis Frailey, was an abused child. It was the
key I'd needed to understand him and from there he has not stopped talking to
me.
Excerpt:
A
thousand images raced through his mind, all too many of his uncle. Then those
of his wife, hurt because of him when he’d lost control several years ago. His
own senseless cruelty had harmed the one person he adored. And now, just two
days past, his temper had lashed out again and Christine had been the one to
pay for his lack of restraint. Self-hate filled his aching lungs as his fists clinched
with the need to hurt himself for such a despicable crime.
"Son?"
Jonathon’s voice cracked with concern.
His
father’s words drew him to the present misery and he shivered. “Don't call me
that," he croaked as weariness washed over him.
"You're
my son. I've always been proud to call you my son."
Francis
swished a hand through his hair. "That doesn't matter."
"Of
course it matters. Just as it matters that you want your uncle to rot in hell. Why?"
"It's
not important any more," Francis muttered before he gave his father his
back.
"The
hell you say," Jonathon said. "If it's not important, then tell
me."
Francis
walked to the door that would let him escape his uncle’s stench.
"Don't
run away again. Damn it, Francis, talk to me."
He
paused at the threshold. "I've nothing to say."
"How's
my grandson?" Heavy-lidded eyes flooded with a need to hear about family.
"Fine."
He shrugged.
"The
baby?" Misery mingled with hope settled on the old man’s face.
Francis
nodded, barely. It was all he could do.
"And
that lovely little wife of yours, how's she?" Jonathon inquired softly.
The
words were too much. Francis slipped out the door without saying anything about
Christine. He made it down the long dimly lit hall, fell on the bed where he
and Christine had stayed the one and only time they had visited. Only one small
lamp on the mirrored bureau kept the room from being closed in by the dark of
night. He hoped oblivion would come as he stared at the ceiling. It was a
useless thought, sleep was impossible as long as Edwin remained in the house.
Bile burned his throat. His collar restricted his muscles as he gagged. Yet he
refused to throw up his fear. The bastard wasn't going to win, but he always
did, and the sour contents of his stomach rolled back up. Francis stumbled to
the chamber pot he’d set by the open window.
Too
many hours had been spent hanging over a bucket. Too many days were lost to
useless fear he couldn’t shrug away. His past life mocked him, made him shake
as if he was once more a little boy locked away and the only way out was
through the arms of a demented uncle. Sweat soaked his shirt as he slumped
against the wall, the cold plaster a balm against his back. The inside of his
eyelids danced a collage of swirling colors, blocking out the images of his
past. The dampness of his shirt stuck to his ribs as he forced air from his
lungs.
His
muscles tightened stiff as death. Someone stood watching, the feeling grew all
too familiar. He'd kill the sonofabitch. His eyes opened, and his father stared
back at him from the open doorway. The light in the hallway behind him cast
black shadows across the dim floor.
Jonathon
hobbled in and settled on the edge of a chest at the foot of the bed. His hands
clasped the tip of his cane as pity twisted his wrinkles. "You're drenched
in sweat," he rasped. Apprehension filled his father’s eyes as they
assessed him sitting in a heap on the floor.
"Fear,"
Francis corrected quietly. The pain behind his eyes flashed bright, worse than
lightening on a dark night. It left him breathless and nearly blind in the
faint light.
"You've
surely faced death before," Jonathon decided with his simple logic.
“Prayed
for it even," he croaked which brought a perplexed look to his father's
face.
"You
wished yourself dead?" The feeble voice rose in concern.
"On
occasion." His eyes came up enough to see Jonathon rock with anxiety.
"But
why? For God's sake, why?" Jonathon shook his head. "You have a
lovely family, a wife who adores you." Francis sneered and his father
leaned closer. "She does love you, I can tell from your letters."
"When
she's not afraid of me," he mumbled.
"Afraid
of you? Why would she be afraid of you?" Uncertainty mixed with hesitancy
filled Jonathon’s voice.
"The
usual reasons," he said. Disbelief crept across his father’s face.
"Don't believe me? Ask Edwin about my temper when and if he ever wakes
up." His forehead throbbed and he massaged it, hoping to ease the pounding
in his head. "He could tell you a thing or two about that."
"I
want to hear it from you."
Francis
clamored to his feet, feeling awkward at his father’s staring. Restless hands
moved through his hair as he dismissed the fact Jonathon wanted to converse
with him. An apologetic forlornness creased his features before he left the
room.
Jonathon
followed him back to Edwin's death bed.
"Rot
in hell, you bastard," Francis hissed again and stumbled away.
What exciting story are you working on
next?
I'm working
on book three of my werewolf series - where the werewolf and his soldiers are
in league with the Almighty. Their job, their mission and way of life is to
cleanse the universe of evilness. While on Earth they suffer from memory loss,
which is no big deal since they rely on instinct to solve any problems that
come up. Except when a human reporter figures out Wade Axelman, the protector
to the werewolf prince, is an alien. Fun and absurdity ensues with a good dose
of excitement, evil fighting and romance that is not supposed to happen. The
first book is called: The Warrior Priest, The Werewolf Prince and The Trials of
the Black Universe. (as you probably guessed it's a three part book!)
When did you first consider yourself a
writer?
My first
inkling was in fourth grade when my teacher, Mrs. Wheeler, had a reading chart
for us. It was her way to encourage reading and although I was quite a tomboy,
I enjoyed reading. For every review we wrote on the books we read, we received
a star on the reading chart. It didn't take long to realize I was a fast reader
and had more stars than anyone else.
Then in
fifth grade, Mrs. Mattan, also did a reading chart and I excelled as before,
but what I didn't realize, but she did, was I critiqued the books instead of
writing what happened. I remember once writing how I didn't think the ending
was very good and told how I thought the story would improve if rewritten to
include my ideas. She wrote back, 'someday maybe you will write your own
stories.'
It took
another twenty years for me to get started on that!
Do you write full-time? If so, what's
your work day like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find
time to write?
I used to
write every morning, but my schedule no longer allows me to do that. Or I've
just gotten lazy and prefer to sleep in before I leave for work. I write in
chunks mostly. I'm a goal setter, write in scenes sequence and when that is
finished, even roughly, I feel I've reached my goal. Then I move on, setting
another goal. I do the same thing when I edit.
As for
finding time to write - it has become harder over time because my family has
grown and free time never stops to visit me anymore. I steal time now. I'm
stealing time right now. I need to have lunch, run at least a few of the dozen
errands I have. I have two meetings tonight to prepare for, but wanted to
finish this, so I'm stealing time I allotted for something else. I've become a
pretty nifty thief. Readers beware!
What would you say is your interesting
writing quirk?
I write free
hand for the first draft. That's not so unusual, but I need 6 sharpened #2
pencils, and prefer yellow notepad paper, but will settle for white. I become
distracted when my last pencil grows dull. Mostly I hate the dent it puts in my
finger, but if I write on the computer, I sound like a secretary taking notes,
which is exactly what I was for years, so I stick to my pencils the first time
around.
As a child, what did you want to be
when you grew up?
Not what,
but who - Lois Lane, of course. I believe it was my two worlds colliding even
then. I wanted to write, but not about ordinary things. I believe my werewolf
series came from my Lois Lane fetish. And I just couldn't give up on my
character Francis until I figured out his secret.
Anything additional you want to share
with the readers?
Stop by and
visit me. Don't be afraid to write what is on your soul. I never dreamed I
would write about child abuse - I had a pretty ordinary upbringing, but long
ago I asked God to give me a story with grit. So be careful what you ask for!
Thanks so
much for having me as a guest blogger.
My pleasure, DL. Readers, don't forget about the giveaways! Leave a comment if you'd like a chance to win.
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