Book excerpt for mystery short story collection by Gregory Eaves

Today’s special feature is the collection of short stories, Curious Stories, by Gregory Eaves.

During is virtual book tour with Goddess Fish Promotions, Gregory will be awarding a $15 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card to a randomly chosen winner. To be entered for a chance to win, use the form below. To increase your chances of winning, feel free to visit his other tour stops and enter there, too. 

Author information:

Gregory Eaves was born October 18, 1950, in Indianapolis, Indiana. He attended Speedway High School and Indiana University. In his twenties, he traveled extensively throughout the United States, with an eight year stay in San Diego, California, where he studied and practiced meditation.

   

Gregory moved to Florida and completed a master’s degree in Library and Information Science from the University of South Florida.

   

Library school rekindled his interest in reading, which had been his favorite activity as a child growing up. Mysteries had been his first love, and he devoured his first mystery books with singular passion and zeal. Nothing else seemed to hit the sweet spot like reading The Hardy Boys, Sherlock Holmes, and Poirot. He later enjoyed authors like Raymond Chandler, John D. McDonald, Graham Greene, Patricia Highsmith, and others.    

   

Schism is Gregory’s first novel.  His prior experience with writing included poetry and short stories. One of his short-shorts won runner-up in a contest in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.

  

He now lives on the east coast of Florida, and when he isn’t writing, he enjoys playing guitar and collecting vintage stereo gear and vinyl records. He is a member of American Mensa.

Blurb about Curious Stories:  

If you like mysteries with a surprise twist at the end, then Curious Stories is for you. This is a small diverse collection of mystery short stories, ranging from the noir detective story to supernatural suspense. Neurotic characters and strange turns populate the pages of this quick and entertaining read.

Excerpt from Curious Stories:

THE EDITOR IS ALWAYS RIGHT

Marchand sat down and stared dumbly at his computer screen, not knowing where to begin. He had tried creating outlines and character profiles, but no ideas surfaced. He took his hands and buried his face in them. They moved up to his forehead and slowly began a descent over the mounds of his closed, bulging eyelids, then over his bulbous nose and rough, reddened cheeks. He shifted his oversize torso in the direction of a buzzing noise; his body felt heavy, leaden with humidity and the salty crust of baked-on sweat. With uncharacteristic speed and violence he smashed a fly with his flyswatter, then turned his attention back to the screen.

He made a few tentative stabs at the keyboard, trying to grease the wheels. Nothing. Then he noticed the smell again, the same stench from yesterday that hovered somewhere between sweet and putrid. It irritated him not knowing what it was. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Marchand got up and crisscrossed the room several times, sniffing the air, trying to home in on a location. The dusty books were possibilities; he walked slowly past them, examining the gold-striped and leather bound volumes the same suspicious way a Nazi commandant would inspect prisoners-of-war. Some of the books were very old, with yellowed pages and stitched bindings that disintegrated when handled. They were musty with age and produced a very intense odor, to be sure, but that wasn’t it. He stood over a bologna sandwich, considered it, but rejected that as the source of the smell.

Links:

Website | Kindle | Amazon author page | Barnes and Noble

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Interview with memoirist Sandra Hurtes

I’m happy to introduce you to memoirist Sandra Hurtes today.

She’s doing a virtual book tour with Goddess Fish Promotions for her book, The Ambivalent Memoirist.

During her tour, Sandra will be awarding a copy of her book in the winner's choice of either print (US only) or digital to a randomly drawn winner. To be entered for a chance to win, use the form below. To increase your chances of winning, feel free to visit her other tour stops and enter there too.

Bio:

Sandra Hurtes is the author of the essay collection On My Way to Someplace Else and the memoir The Ambivalent Memoirist. Her articles and essays have appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Poets & Writers, The Writer and numerous other publications. Her personal essay “The People We Love and Create” received an American Jewish Press Award. She is an adjunct assistant professor at John Jay College.

Welcome, Sandra. Please tell us about your current release.
My book chronicles my midlife journey to find purpose and meaning. After my parents, who were Holocaust survivors, pass away, everything inside me shifts. As a single woman with no children, my responsibility is solely toward enhancing my own life. This is both freeing and startling. I tentatively move through the world by leaving Brooklyn—the place I’d lived all my life. I set up my new home in Manhattan, only to wonder, where next? Where is my happiness?

Through my life as a teacher, writer and yogi, I seek answers as to how to continue to move forward.

What inspired you to write this book?
I was born into a family with a complex and brutal history. My mother raised me on stories of her pre-war life and on some of the horrors of Auschwitz. Most children of survivors had the opposite experience—their parents never spoke of the war. My mother often did; and so one day I took my place as storyteller to make sense of all she’d told me.

Excerpt from The Ambivalent Memoirist:

           My mother’s warm breath seems to tickle my ear; the scents of her Dentyne and dime-store lipstick rise up my nostrils.

           “You’ll zug gurnish, mámala, tell no one, you hear?”

           The years go by like a train speeding through stations. 1957. ‘56. ‘55. We’re seated on the wide bulky chair in the apartment on Union Street.

           “When Hitler came to our village, he sent us on a train to Auschwitz,” my mother said, only she sounded like this: trrrain to Ausch-vitz.

           “There were two lines formed. One for death, one for labor. I was on the selection line with my sisters Surika and Sharika. They were so skinny, like little sticks, like nothings. And I was plump. What would the Germans need my sisters for? They couldn’t work, they couldn’t lift heavy machinery.

           A few feet away from us is my parakeet, Pokey. Unwitting witness to the unfolding of my mother’s life, his yellow-gold beak twitching forward and back.

           “You know what would become of them? Death.”

           A square dirt yard, the circumference of a schoolyard, a row of women dressed in rags, barefoot, hairless. Another row of fleshy women, their bodies bulging with life.

           “The SS looked up and down the lines, knowing that the skinny ones with their ribs protruding were useless. But the SS didn’t know who they were dealing with. You understand, mámala?”

           My mother has ways of getting through the worst circumstances.

           “My mother didn’t give birth to a nar, a fool. Surika’s name was called. She was so skinny I knew what would happen to her. I pulled her back and stepped off the selection line in her place. One look at me, with my fat cheeks, and he shouted ‘Labor!’ I pushed Suri in the direction of the labor line.

           “Then he called out for Sharika. Again, I stepped forward before he could send her to death. ‘Labor!’ he said, barely lifting his head. I pushed her to stand with Suri.

           “What did he know? With a quick look, all of us with no hair, we looked the same. Then he called me.

           “‘Rifka!’

           “I came forward. I stood as still as I could, although I was shivering in the cold. This time he looked at me from my filthy bare feet to my face.

           “My sisters were huddled together watching. Then when he was good and ready, he gave his order. ‘Labor!’

           “If not for me, Símala, my sisters would be dead.”

           My mother’s head on my shoulder. I tap her on the back the way she taught me. Soft touches as her mother did for her.

           Tap tap tap.

           “Símala scheina, you are my reason.”

What exciting story are you working on next?
I recently heard someone tell a story that began: “To make a long story short…” I loved that opening. And so while my students were doing an in-class writing, I began, “Long story short, I didn’t kill my husband.” My protagonist is in jail, waiting for her court-appointed lawyer and remembering when her marriage began to fall apart. I don’t have a plot outline or know who the murderer is. I’m just writing and will see where the story takes me.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

I was a model student as a child; I wrote short stories for extra credit. I loved to write, but thought of writing in the way I thought of other things I enjoyed like drawing and playing with friends. In my mid-twenties I went through a divorce. I was in a lot of pain and wrote poetry to alleviate my feelings. I began to feel I had an affinity for writing. I wrote only for myself through my thirties. That was because I didn’t have the confidence to call myself a writer. In my early forties, I became driven to publish my work. That meant working much harder—revising, getting critiqued, researching the markets. I loved every second, every task, even going to the post office to buy stamps for manuscripts I mailed. A voice inside kept saying, I love this! That’s when I knew.

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?

Writing full-time was a dream, but never a reality. When I was in love with writing, I wanted more than anything for that to be my day job. I looked for a corporate job as a staff writer, but couldn’t find one. I freelanced quite a bit, but never enough to earn a living. I write and research slowly and am not a good marketer. I have the writing skill and talent, but am terrible at sales.

I went back to school several years ago to get my MFA in non-fiction. My goal was to be able to teach college. That’s what I do now. I’m an adjunct at two and sometimes three colleges, teaching Composition. Sometimes I get an Intro to Fiction class, which is my favorite.

In terms of finding time to write—by 4:30 a.m. I’m at the computer. It’s my favorite time to write or simply have my coffee and think about life and the world. My mind is like putty then. I don’t think about form at all; I just put sentences on the page. But when I’m into a writing project, finding time is easy; I write between classes, on the subway, while waiting for a bus, anywhere. I don’t need to coax myself to the page.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

I write best when surrounded by noise. I know that contradicts my early a.m. writing; both have their place. But I’m most productive when in the midst of activity, like at a noisy cafe. I tune it out and completely focus.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
I was asked to act out this answer when I took an acting class many years ago. Without thought, I crossed my arms and rocked them, as if a baby lay atop. I was raised to be a traditional Jewish housewife—not Orthodox—but traditional in the sense of the 1950s role for women. My parents didn’t realize that might be limiting; that was what they knew, as they’d lived impoverished lives in Czechoslovakia. They had little education there, and didn’t study English in America.

As it turned out, I divorced young and don’t have children. Much of my life’s journey has been filling in the gaps in my younger self’s goals. I went to college, discovered I was smart enough to have a career (and wanted one), figured out what I could do in this world.

Anything additional you want to share with the readers?

I have many creative outlets. I used to have a hand-knit sweater business and knit all the time: on the subway, at the movies (yes, in the dark), while waiting for an appointment, and in bed, promising myself “just more row.” By 3:00 a.m. I finally went to sleep

I then taught myself how to make hats and bows. I became as wrapped up in it as I had with knitting. I love color and texture. I sold a few pieces; simultaneously, my writing life took off. I had to focus and so I went one-hundred percent into writing. Now, twenty years later, I’m taking watercolor painting classes.

Creativity and expression are most important to me, regardless of the mode.

Website | Blog

Thanks, Sandra!

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Book excerpt for mystery/thriller novel The Eyes of Vengeance by Teri Riggs

This special book excerpt for The Eyes of Vengeance by Teri Riggs is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Terri will be awarding a $25 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card to one randomly drawn winner.

To be entered for a chance to win the gift card, use the form below. To increase your chances of winning, click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour, visit any stop, and enter there, too!

Someone is methodically killing past members of The Consortium, a defunct group of ruthless businessmen who made their fortunes buying and selling prime Las Vegas real estate during the era that saw the beginnings of the mega casino and luxury hotels. Homicide Detective, Kennedy O’Brien, and her temporary partner, Reno Homicide Detective Hunt, race to stop a deranged predator who claims a new victim every forty-eight hours. The killer drugs his victims, slashes their wrists, and leaves a playing card with the body. As the clock continues to tick, the search for clues seems easy—too easy Kennedy suspects.

While chasing the killer, Kennedy must also try to control hotheaded Detective Hunt, who is hell-bent on finding out who killed the first victim—his best friend’s father. At the same time, she has to deal with a jealous Nick Campenelli, whom she may or may not be in a relationship with. Nick is unhappy with Kennedy spending so much time in close contact with the very smitten, Detective Hunt. Tossed into the mix are her retired cop grandfather, her self-appointed personal domestic slave, Elvis, and a boss who is demanding answers.

Is it any wonder that Kennedy doesn’t do relationships?

Enjoy an excerpt from The Eyes of Vengeance:
Kennedy pulled in behind the cruiser she imagined was Charles’ ride home. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Charles, a scary looking nurse, and Officer Colder drifting toward a bench.

“What the hell are they doing out here in the open? I told him to stay put. Damn rookies.”

Kennedy put her car in park and got out, prepared to rip the kid a new ass. In the same instant, Kennedy caught a quick flash of reflected light coming from behind the shrubbery to the left of the hospital entrance. She knew immediately what the reflection was and pulled her weapon.

“Gun!” Kennedy ran towards the bench. “Everybody down!”

Shots rang out. A bullet struck the wheelchair and pinged off the metal frame. A shot hit the window, shattering glass everywhere.

A sickening thud she recognized all too well came next. A bullet hitting flesh. A loud groan came from the group. Then a scream.

Kennedy saw movement in the shrubbery. She stuck her gun outward in a two-handed hold, and spread her feet apart.

“Freeze! Police!” She kept her hold steady.

There was more movement and the shooter fired off another five shots. Kennedy fired back. She felt a sharp sting, followed by a burning sensation in her left upper arm. Behind her, she heard another gun fire off several rounds.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the squad car’s driver was out and firing in the direction of the bushes. He emptied his revolver and was still firing the empty chamber. Click, click, click. No bullets—only empty clicks.

“Stop firing, Smitty. The shooter’s gone.”

Smitty re-loaded his gun and took off in the direction the shooter ran.

Another squad car and an unmarked pulled in, parking behind the Mustang. Detectives Sparks and Tenuta jumped out of the unmarked.

“Thank god.” Kennedy reached with her right hand and covered her left arm where blood was gushing out like an oil well. “The shooter took off that way.”

“Let’s see if we can find the motherfucker!” Sparky yelled to the two officers in the newly arrived squad car. Sparky followed Smitty.

Jimmy grabbed Kennedy by both arms. “Let’s get you inside and let a doc have a look at that arm.”

“I’m fine. Check on Killgrew and the nurse. Tim Colder is with them.” Jimmy hesitated. “Go on. I’m fine.”

Kennedy bent over and took a deep breath. Her vision blurred and little white fuzzies floated before her. She stood up slowly, inhaled one more time, and walked slowly towards the bench. The nurse was still screaming. Charles was pale and looked like he was in shock. Officer Tim Colder lay in a rapidly growing puddle of blood. He’d been shot in the chest.

Kennedy knew from the gray color of Tim’s skin, the kid was beyond help. Still, Jimmy administered CPR.

Jimmy was right. Kennedy dropped to her knees next to Tim. “Oh, no you don’t. Not on my watch.” She worked with Jimmy. Together they tried desperately to bring the young cop back. Soon three ER doctors and a code team rushed through the doors and took over.

Sirens screamed into the night’s air as more cops arrived. CSU team would be on scene in a matter of minutes. Two cops had been shot. Internal Affairs would make a showing, too.

Sparky was back and breathing hard. “Sorry, Kenny. No sign of the motherfucker. Bastard gave us the slip.” For the first time, Sparky noticed Tim and the code team working over him.

“Oh fuck.” Sparky crossed himself. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” he mumbled. The conflicting gesture following Sparky’s stream of obscenities, did not go unnoticed.

Time seemed to move in slow motion. She whispered, “Please, God, don’t let this happen.”

Kennedy shook herself out of her increasing shock and panic. “Sparky, take a couple of uniforms and get Mr. Killgrew home. Don’t let him out of your sight until I get there.”

Kennedy pointed to the nurse, who was still screaming, and said to Jimmy, “Get her the hell out of here before I do something stupid.”

Jimmy shoved the hysterical nurse inside the hospital doors, passed her off to another nurse, and returned to Kennedy’s side. He tried to pull her away. “Come on, Kenny. Let’s get you checked out. We can’t help Tim now.”

Tim’s partner, Smitty, stood with another of the uniformed officers. He was weeping. Smitty was in charge of training the young cop. Guilt was gonna eat away at Smitty for a long time to come. “Join the crowd,” Kennedy said quietly.

Kennedy stood firm and watched as the doctors called the code and pronounced Officer Timothy Colder, age twenty-three, dead.

With a heavy heart, Kennedy shook her head and said, “Dead of stupidity.”

Jimmy said, “What’d you say, Kennedy? Couldn’t hear you over all the noise.”

Kennedy didn’t repeat the comment, but instead asked, “Why didn’t he wait for me? I told him to wait. Five minutes, that’s all. Five fucking minutes.”

About the author:

As a child, Teri made up her own bedtime stories. When her children came along, Teri always tweaked the fairy tales she told her daughters, giving them a bit more punch and better endings when needed.

Now she spends her days turning her ideas into books. She lives in Marietta, GA with her husband.

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Interview with mystery author Joan C. Curtis

Today’s special guest is Joan C. Curtis. We’re featuring her new mystery/suspense novel The Clock Strikes Midnight.

During her virtual book tour with Goddess Fish Promotions, Joan will be awarding a randomly drawn winner with a $50 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift certificate. To be entered for a chance to win, use the form below. To increase your chances of winning, feel free to visit her other tour stops and enter there, too.

Author bio:

Joan Curtis authored four business books published by Praeger Press. She is also published numerous stories, including:

•           Butterflies in a Strawberry Jar, Sea Oats Review, Winter, 2004

•           A Memoir Of A Friend, Chicken Soup for the Working Woman’s Soul, 2003 and Flint River Review, 1996

•           Jacque’s Story in From Eulogy to Joy, 2002

•           The Roommate, Whispering Willow Mystery Magazine, April 1997

•           A Special Sort of Stubbornness, Reader’s Digest, March 1997,

•           My Father’s Final Gift, Reader Digest, November 1994

Her first place writing awards include: Best mystery manuscript in the Malice Domestic Grants competition, best proposal for a nonfiction piece in the Harriette Austin competition, and best story, Butterflies in a Strawberry Jar in the Cassell Network of Freelance Writer’s Association.

Other books:

Hire Smart and Keep ‘Em: How to Interview Strategically Using POINT, Praeger Press, an imprint of ABC-Clio, Santa Barbara, CA 2012.

The New Handshake: Sales Meets Social Media, Praeger Press, 2010, an imprint of ABC-Clio, Santa Barbara, CA

Managing Sticky Situations at Work: Communication Secrets for Success in the Workplace, 2009, Praeger Press, an imprint of ABC-Clio, Santa Barbara, CA.

Strategic Interviewing: Skills for Savvy Executives, 2000 published by Quorum Books, Greenwood Press.

“I write about characters who remind me of myself at times and my sister at times, but never fully so. My stories are told from a woman’s point of view. Characters drive my writing and my reading.”

Having grown up in the South with a mother from Westchester County New York, Joan has a unique take on blending the southern traditions with the eye of a northerner. She spent most of her childhood in North Carolina and now resides in Georgia.

What have you got coming soon for us to look out for?

The Clock Strikes Midnight released on 11/25. My cozy mystery series will debut in the Spring 2015.

Blurb about The Clock Strikes Midnight:

The Clock Strikes Midnight is a race against time in a quest for revenge and atonement. This is a story about hate, love, betrayal and forgiveness.

If you found out you had only 3 months to live, what would you do? That’s the question Janie Knox faces in this fast-paced mystery full of uncertainty and tension that will surprise you until the very last page.

Hiding behind the façade of a normal life, Janie keeps her family secrets tucked inside a broken heart. Everything changes on the day she learns she’s going to die. With the clock ticking and her time running out, she rushes to finish what she couldn’t do when she was 17—destroy her mother’s killer. But she can’t do it alone.

Janie returns to her childhood home to elicit help from her sister. She faces more than she bargained for when she discovers her sister’s life in shambles. Meanwhile her mother’s convicted killer, her stepfather, recently released from prison, blackmails the sisters and plots to extract millions from the state in retribution. New revelations challenge Janie’s resolve, but she refuses to allow either time or her enemies to her stop her from uncovering the truth she’s held captive for over 20 years.

Excerpt from The Clock Strikes Midnight:

“Daddy, when I get my kitty, can I name him Davy?” she had asked, yanking Marlene’s Davy Crockett mug full of M&M’s from her grasp.

The colorful candy spilled all over the backseat of the car.

“Mama, tell Janie to—”

“Janie, behave,” Daddy said, admonishing her for an instant with his eyes from the rearview mirror.

“Malcolm, look out—!” Mom screamed.

Janie slammed into Marlene. Pain. The world tumbled topsy-turvy. The mug flew across the interior of the car, colors of the rainbow falling all around her.

Then, everything went black.

When she opened her eyes, Mom’s blood-streaked face rose in front of her out of the darkness.

“Wrap your arms around my neck, honey.” Mom lifted her from the wreckage.

Janie clutched her doll by the dress while the rain beat her curly hair flat.

Marlene stood on the side of the road.

“Try to walk,” Mom said, toppling her from her arms.

Her head pounded and blood trickled down her leg. She leaned on her good leg and limped in the direction of her sister.

“Mama, where’s Daddy?” Marlene asked between sobs.

Mom took Marlene’s hand and yanked her forward with Janie in tow.

Marlene lurched back toward the smashed Oldsmobile with smoke billowing from its hood and a big tree lying across the roof. The Davy Crockett mug lay shattered by the back tire.

“Daddy! We can’t leave Daddy!” Marlene yelled, picking up pieces of the broken glass.

They had left Daddy that day and piled into an old Chevy pick-up truck with a bashed in headlamp, belonging to a man with carrot-red hair. Mom pushed them inside the truck and ordered the man to get help. But by then it was too late for Daddy.

It was too late for all of them.

Can you describe your dream home?

I’m living in my dream home, but I’d just pick it up and move it to Tuscany or Umbria. It is very open, with lots of windows and beautiful gardens (that I don’t have to tend) outside. The rooms are spacious with high ceilings. And, there’s a marvelous screened in porch with a cat door. Oh yes, and a swimming pool.

What is the first curse word that comes to mind? How often and why do you use it?

Shit. I don’t use it often, but I do if something really horrible happens—like losing something I just created on my computer.

How would you spend ten thousand bucks?

I’d give part of it to my nieces and I’d spend the other part on our river cruise to the Danube.

What are 5 things within touching distance?

Cat photos, books, okay—a Rolodex, can I count my laptop? Printer, telephone glasses, Italian language DVD’s and books.

Social media links:

Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter |  MuseItUp Publishing Author’s page 

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Interview with memoirist Linda Appleman Shapiro

Today’s special guest is Linda Appleman Shapiro. She’s in the midst of a virtual book tour with Wow! for her memoir She’s Not Herself: A Psychotherapist’s Journey Into and Beyond Her Mother’s Mental Illness.

During her tour, Linda will be awarding a lucky commenter on this blog post an e-copy of the book. To be entered for a chance to win, leave a comment below!

Bio:

Behavioral psychotherapist/Addictions Counselor/ Oral Historian/ Mental Health Advocate and author, Linda Appleman Shapiro earned her B.A. in literature from Bennington College, a master's degree in human development/counseling from the Bank Street College of Education, and a master certification in neuro-linguistic programming from the New York Institute of N.L.P. She has further certifications in Ericksonian hypnosis and substance abuse/addictions counseling.

Linda is a contributing author in the casebook, “Leaves Before the Wind: Leading Applications of N.L.P.”

In private practice for more than thirty years, Linda also served as a senior staff member at an out-patient facility for addicts and their families. As an oral historian, she has documented the lives of many of New York's elderly.

Her first memoir, Four Rooms, Upstairs, was self-published in 2007 and named Finalist in the Indie Next Generation Book Awards in 2008. Her blog of three years, “A Psychotherapist's Journey,” named Linda Top Blogger in the field of mental health by WELLsphere.

Married to actor and audiobook narrator George Guidall, Linda and her husband live in Westchester County, New York. They have two adult daughters and two grandchildren.

Welcome, Linda. What inspired you to write She’s Not Herself?

In the 1990s when self-help books were burgeoning and I was recommending them to my patients at a clinic for recovering addicts and their families, I realized that few if any were written for adult children of the mentally ill. The great majority were addressing the effects of growing up with a parent or sibling who suffered from one addiction or another. The template was there and I started to write my self-help book. But, only three pages into it, I decided that would be an easy way out for me. Others could write such a book and write it well. I had a story to tell, and it was my story.

As I saw the problem of mental illness hitting close to home for so many of my private patients and those at the clinic, I felt an unexpected urgency to share my story . . . but it was a labor of love and tenacity teaching myself how to do just that . . .show my story without telling it.

I wrote and re-wrote, peeling away at the layers within my memory cells, spending the better part of 20 years, when not working full time, raising a family and living life. Some memories danced in and out of consciousness rather playfully, but, with many, as one memory presented itself others emerged . . . and there were many times when a memory was so horrific that I questioned if what I was remembering actually happened. But it did all happen . . . and as one witness to human vulnerability and human strength, I know how much it would have meant to my mother to know that in taking secrets out of our family’s closet, I am encouraging others to put their own shame aside, knowing that they are not alone, that they can reach out for help and gain insight into their own dark stories and, as a result, be better equipped to enter places of light.

Please tell us about She’s Not Herself.

It’s all too easy for any of us to play the blame game when talking about our past and/or our current problems. I had no desire to do that or to write a “woe is me” story when I started to write this memoir, She’s Not Herself: A Psychotherapist’s Journey Into and Beyond Her Mother’s Mental Illness. Of course, how I was affected by my mother’s mental illness and how generational dysfunction trickles down to each of us is very much a part of my story. . . but, in the end, I trust mine is a story about much more than that. It is one about love, loss, loyalty and healing.

In a New York Times interview last year, author Jeannette Walls was quoted as saying: “If you’re to discuss what you’ve been through, people become unashamed of their own secrets.” I share those sentiments. I believe that when lives are personalized readers are more able to identify with their authenticity and associate with the universal truths that we all recognize and which most of us share.

As I write about parts of my life, I take readers into my childhood home and give dimension to each of my family members, re-creating scenes and dialogue that include the everyday, mundane, and often times loving and tender moments of family life exclusive of the trauma that caused each of us to suffer silently (in the 1940s and 50s) while it joined us inextricably together. In doing so, I hope to touch the hearts and minds of all who have suffered or are suffering today and may be in need of feeling hopeful. I trust, too, that those who lived through or are living with one secret or another invading their lives will be inspired from identifying with me and finding solace and hope for themselves. Additionally, I hope I am offering inspiration, in general, about what it means to be human and to believe in the possibility of moving through life meeting all of life’s challenges – both the ones that are expected and the one’s that catch us off guard – with dignity and resiliency.

Excerpt from Chapter 7 – FIREWORKS

(an example of never knowing what was just around the corner . . . and not having permission to ask, when societal ignorance, personal confusion, and fear reigned)

“The air hung heavy from the day’s heat and humidity, and the sky’s pale blue still held lingering shades of pink in it. Right after dinner, we joined the crowds crossing Brighton Beach Avenue. We walked beneath the elevated train tracks, then down another block to the stairs leading up to the boardwalk. A block beyond the El, we could hear the surf, a reminder of the Atlantic Ocean’s endless horizon, with the brush of its waves against the sand hinting at a constancy in the world, a dependability I could trust.

“The moment the Fourth of July fireworks began, we broke into choruses of “oohs” and “ahs” that followed each new pattern that flashed across the sky, visible from our end of the boardwalk in Brighton to the other end in Coney Island. The grown-ups, too, were like children. The spirit of the night was contagious; the world seemed wondrous, filled with color and all sorts of possibilities.

“The splendor of the night’s stars couldn’t compete with the man-made magic of the fireworks, which made the sky seem a painted canvas.

ξ

“I awakened the following morning to the gentle warmth of early summer, still feeling the glow and the thrill from the night before. Moments later, I was startled when my father suddenly entered my bedroom.

“Get up, Linda,” he said, his voice tense. “Mama needs to go for a treatment today. Find a friend to come along for the ride.

“I was eight years old. I didn’t know what treatment Mother received. I only knew that when she wasn’t feeling well, that’s what Father said she needed. I assumed, in fact, that all mothers got “a treatment” when they needed to feel better.”

What exciting story are you working on next? Where will your writing go from here?

I intend to revive a weekly blog a wrote for three years – “A Psychotherapist’s Journal” – which I’m proud to say named me Top Blogger in the field of Mental Health by Wellsphere (an on-line site whose mission was to “to help millions of people live healthier, happier lives by connecting them with the knowledge, people and tools needed to manage and improve their health).

With regard to writing another book:

In spite of the fact that I know how difficult it is for authors who are not well known to get a book of essays published, that is, in fact, my next project. I started it a while back, but now that my memoir is out, I have every intention of returning to it.

I have always been fascinated by the power of myths within families, cultures, and religions – all of which influence our choices, affect our beliefs, and color our biases.

Although many people associate the word “myth” with Greek Mythology, Webster defines a broader usage of myth to include “any invented story, concept, or idea.” It’s this broader sense of “invented stories” and how they affect us that I will be addressing in my essays. Whether we believe or don’t believe the constructs that have been passed down to us, we continue to tell ourselves stories to create other myths to heal old scars or enhance current joys. . . and it is only when we work to change negative behaviors do we create new realities. Such new realities help us identify the myths we’ve chosen to sustain us and allow us to discard those that have harmed us.

Questioning and exploring the role myths play in our lives, the essays will address a wide range of subjects, most of which are not nearly as whimsical as the working title I am now using, “Unicorns Eat Strawberry Ice Cream.” Whether that title will ultimately work or not, I’m not certain. But it gives me pleasure in knowing that I have taken it from an essay written about how I marvel at a child’s ability to enjoy the luxury of imaginative play because, only as children can, she perceives her world to be safe and loving.

Since I grew up not knowing how to be care-free and spontaneous but was, instead, always on guard and hyper-vigilant, never knowing when the “black clouds,” (as Mother referred to the times when she was overcome by her demons) would descend . . . I was overwhelmed with joy when I spent an evening with my granddaughter (when she was 3½) and she asked me – when playing with a soft, cuddly stuffed unicorn – if I knew that unicorns ate strawberry ice cream. She couldn’t have been more serious on the one hand and more playful on the other. That ability left me awe-struck.

>Hearing her laughter and knowing how secure she felt about going to sleep at night were not luxuries afforded to me, and for those of you who may have lived through family traumas or are living through them now, such luxuries are, no doubt, absent from your lives as well.

Yet, while anything can happen to any of us at any time, we can’t afford to allow the news of the week – the multitude of disasters around the globe – to deny ourselves the sheer pleasure of appreciating a child’s delightfully trusting and magnificently magical imagination. Even though such times may be too few and too fleeting, they are always precious.

That is why when we have the privilege of being with children reflecting the safety of the world as they know it, reveling in their playfulness enriches our lives. Learning from their ability to feel free enough to think creatively, encourages us to be open to all sorts of new possibilities. It serves us well to know that if we allow our innocent children to captivate our attention and in so doing inspire us, offering the opportunity to share in their gaiety, knowing that – even while they are aware that they are weaving a yarn, making up a story such as one where unicorns really do eat strawberry ice cream – so much more is possible. 

More often, however, I address the serious implications of myths as they impact 21st century life – including our need to understand relationships; the effects of failing economies; the changing priorities and new definitions of what constitutes a “family;” the attitudes toward mental health and the health care system itself; bullying in various arenas, and our changing attitudes towards toward age and aging. 

Throughout this book, my mission is to disempower outdated myths that impede progress. I’ve been told that this book of essays is the first book written by a psychotherapist addressing how the myths we absorb over time affect our present-day lives. If we become aware of them, we might then replace them with new stories – myths, if you will – that reflect our current realities, promote healthy growth and help to fully realize our potential. In order to move forward, we need the freedom to allow our imaginations to be more expansive, our attitudes towards people and cultures to become more inclusive. It’s a path toward the development of a saner, more civilized world.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

After reading Anne Frank’s Diary when I was eleven, I did start to journal, something I’ve continued to do intermittently throughout my life, but I never thought of myself as a writer. During college and throughout various graduate programs I wrote critical papers but shied away from even taking creative writing courses because my brother was the writer in the family, and with that role taken, I pursued other careers. So, the truth is that I never considered myself to be a writer until I began this journey of writing my memoir, which I followed by writing a weekly blog which addressed psychological and cultural issues of our day (and which I intend to revive in 2015).

And I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit to the newly discovered excitement I feel about the process of writing where, at times, it seems that the writing writes itself and I’m just a bystander reaping the rewards of words that sometimes sound lyrical in how they manage to flow from somewhere that my hand is channeling and other times have a clarity that surprises even me. Writing allows me to feel transported to another state, a far more interesting and creative one than I have experienced in any other endeavor. A true gift at this stage in my life!

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?

Now that I have reduced the size of my private practice, I do spend a good deal of time writing. Some days I find that I am most productive late at night, and other times the thoughts that come to me in the dead of night (often awakening me from sleep) find themselves being transcribed in the early hours of the morning.

Now, in my 7^th decade of life, I am very conscious of TIME and am committed to using it productively . . . but never, I hope, at the expense of my involvement and enjoyment of spending time with loved ones. Participating in cultural and religious activities enrich my life and also offer me sustenance and great pleasure.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

Growing up in the shadows of my mother’s illness, always fearing that disaster was around the corner, I never afforded myself the luxury to dream about my future and/or what possible fantasies or realties might be available to me. It was only after I left home and entered college that my world began to expand and for a time I did aspire to becoming an actress . . . but, for a variety of reasons, not least of which was being turned off when I realized that a life in the theatre was not just that of having talent but that it was a business which had built into its very nature the need to be tough enough to receive more rejections than acceptances and often depended more upon who you knew than whatever talent you might possess. That alone was enough for me to discover I was not meant to enter show business. As it turned out, I chose to be an educator, editor, oral historian, psychotherapist/addictions counselor, and author . . . who just happened to marry an actor!

Anything additional you want to share with the readers?

Yes. I think it’s very limiting when any of us pigeonhole ourselves and describe who we are by, saying what our professional title(s) may be. So, while I am proud to describe the many professional hats I’ve worn over the years, and am now able to feel the excitement and the pulse beat of a writer, I feel it’s as important for me to say that being a loving and loyal daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother and friend is every bit as important to describing my sense of what I believe is of lasting importance and meaningful to living a full life.

Social media links:

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Thank you for being here today, Linda. Readers, don't forget to leave a comment below if you'd like a chance to win a copy of the Linda's book.

Book excerpt for contemporary romance "Entangle" by Entangle by Veronica Larsen

Today is a special promotion for Veronica Larsen’s contemporary romance novel, Entangle.

During this 1-day virtual book blast with Goddess Fish Promotions, Veronica will award a $20 Amazon give card PLUS a digital copy of Entangle to a randomly drawn winner. To be entered for a chance to win, use the form below. To increase your chances of winning, feel free to visit her other tour stops and enter there, too.

Blurb about Entangle:

Don’t judge me for what I’m about to say. I tried to do things the right way. I wore the big white dress and rode off with Prince Charming. Then Charming changed his mind. See, that’s the part they don’t tell you; he can change his mind. These days, I don’t put my heart in anyone’s hands because I don’t even know where I’ve left it.

Enter Leo. Blue-eyed specimen of a man, stirring me awake in ways I never thought possible. I think I should indulge myself for once. Because one time is all I need. Then he goes and weaves simple, deliberate movements into pure, gilded pleasure. And I’m hooked. I’m so blinded by desire I barely notice the gaping hole opening underneath me, the one that’s sure to swallow me entirely. Because every time I’ve dared to get close to someone, they’ve cracked me wide open.

Why should this time be any different?

Excerpt from Entangle:

I don’t say anything. We fall into a warm silence, listening to the muffled sounds of the road. I guess I doze off to sleep at some point, because the next thing I know, I’m jolting awake.

Leo turns off the engine. I squint, a number of things coming to me at once. I don’t recognize our surroundings. We are parked in an empty lot but I hear the occasional car swooping past a nearby road. The windows are cracked open and the air that drifts in smells of cool saltwater. But there’s something else, too. I look down at the cup holders.

“Oh my God, is that coffee?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The rich roasted scent envelops me and nearly lifts me from my seat. My mouth instantly waters as I snatch up the cup and press my lips to the opening to taste the scent.

“You’re amazing. Thank you.” I drink some and shut my eyes as the taste explodes on my tongue. Before Leo, coffee was my drug of choice. I examine the embellishment on the cup. “Starbucks? Where’d you find one open this late?”

“Found an all-night drive-thru,” he says, pulling open his car door. “Come on, those weren’t meant to be drank in the car.”

By the time he comes around to my side, I’m already out. I look around the empty lot and start piecing together our location. We’re by the ocean; Torrey Pines beach is down the hill.

Leo must notice the realization dawn on me because he says, “I hope you don’t have objections to sand in your shoes.”

This feels like a date. I know I said no dates, but this feels so right that I forget to be stubborn about it. Because the moon disarms me with its pearly glow, peering through the overcast sky. The ocean conspires as well, luring me in with the faint but discernible soundtrack of crashing waves. I’m instantly at ease. I forget that I’m tired and a bit sad. The cool breeze has a slight bite to it, enough to stir my senses awake.

“Leo—Thank you. I needed this.”

His lips twist up when I say that.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

His kiss takes me by surprise. I nearly drop the coffee but he wraps a hand around the cup and places it somewhere overhead. On the top of the car, I think. He does it without breaking our kiss. Our hands free, he tastes me like it’s the first time and he’s burning from the inside out with a craving to know what lays beneath my clothes. He’s grazing, pulling, tasting, breathing me in. I’m sure he could take me right where we stand, against his car.

I’m breathless when he pulls away; the breeze swoops in between us and tinges my swollen lips. He grabs his cup of coffee from behind me and hands me my own.

“Come on,” he says, and he guides me hand in hand toward the beach.

Author Bio and Links:

Veronica Larsen is a novelist who enjoys writing emotionally rousing stories laced with potent sexuality. She particularly enjoys writing about intelligent and independent women who give the male lead a run for their money. When Veronica isn’t writing, she is working on graphic design projects. She enjoys losing herself in a good book and spending time with her husband and young son.

                              

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