On this page, ENGAGE with me personally. I’ll post articles I hope you find winsome, as well as bits of news and musing about my current activity. I welcome your comments.
GRAPE BUNCH (acrylic on canvas) by Lorenda Harder
My Interview with Author JOHNNIE ALEXANDER
DEB: Thanks for joining me today, Johnnie. You’ve published quite a few books, but your debut novel blew me away. Though I don’t usually read WWII stories, I loved your integration of fine art and the condition of the human heart. Please give my readers a thumbnail sketch of the plot.
JOHNNIE: Thanks for the invitation, Deb. In Where Treasure Hides, my Dutch-American heroine, Alison Schuyler, protects art and children from the Nazis while the man she loves fights his own battles against Hitler’s evil regime.
DEB: Your antagonist is chilling—and yet so accessible.
JOHNNIE: Yes, Count Theodor Scheidemann—a Nazi officer and art collector who is obsessed with Alison—is a multi-faceted character. He’s power hungry so he wants to be part of the Nazi elite, but he despises the brutality he witnesses. For example, he is sickened when interrogators break the fingers of a notable artist. This man will never paint again, and any future creations are lost to the world. That kind of loss angers me, too.
DEB: How do you see your message in this book—and in your fiction generally—encouraging your readers?
JOHNNIE: I think wise people have a long-term, even an eternal, perspective on the consequences of their words and actions. It can feel so empowering to exhibit anger or to make a snappy retort—but that’s a false power. The wiser option (and I’m not perfect with this though I try) is to take a longer view.
DEB: Johnnie, how does your Christian faith fuel your passion to write and the content of your writing?
JOHNNIE: Recurring themes in my stories revolve around a family’s spiritual legacy and heritage. I deeply believe in two seemingly contradictory ideas—that the decisions I make today affect my children and grandchildren and that, because of God’s steadfast love and merciful grace, the past does not define my future (a message of grace and hope for the hurting).
DEB: Lovely. I’m curious—is there anything in life you’d like to do that you haven’t done before?
JOHNNIE: I wanted to raise alpacas. Check. I wanted to take horseback riding lessons. Check. I wanted to learn to weave—took one class. Check. I wanted to be a Lothlorien elf . . . but I’m too short.
DEB: Haha! So you like Tolkien?
JOHNNIE: Oh yes. Even though his creation of Middle Earth is imaginary, I believe it exists and it’s where I should be living.
DEB: So if I asked you which novel in all the world’s vast library you wish you had written, would you say Lord of the Rings?
JOHNNIE: Actually, my favorite novel of all time is Les Miserables. I love the redemptive depth of that story. Jean Valjean confronts difficult, life-changing decisions several times during his life yet, after his initial conversion, he never wavers from his true purpose—to live for God’s glory. Through the years, he has different identities—he’s a prisoner with only a number, a respected mayor, an almost anonymous gardener, and a wealthy benefactor. But the identity that matters most is that he is a child of God.
DEB: I see you have eclectic literary tastes in reading. What is one difference that your own writing has made in the life of a reader?
JOHNNIE: This isn’t a dramatic difference, but one reviewer said she shouldn’t have taken Where Treasure Hides on her family’s camping trip. She couldn’t put it down and “ugly-cried.” (I love that story!)
DEB: Well, I empathize with her—it’s an excellent novel and makes me look forward to reading more of your work. Thanks for joining me today, Johnnie.
Johnnie Alexander creates characters you want to meet and imagines stories you won’t forget in a variety of genres. An award-winning, best-selling novelist, she serves on the Serious Writer, Inc. Board of Directors, co-hosts Writers Chat, and interviews other inspirational authors for Novelists Unwind. Johnnie lives in Oklahoma with Griff, her happy-go-lucky collie, and Rugby, her raccoon-treeing papillon. Connect with her at www.johnnie-alexander.com, Facebook, and other social media sites via https://linktr.ee/johnniealexndr.
2 responses to “AUTHOR INTERVIEW: JOHNNIE ALEXANDER”
GRAPE BUNCH (acrylic on canvas) by Lorenda Harder
My Interview with Author STACY MONSON
I’d like to introduce you to award-winning novelist Stacy Monson, who resides in the Twin Cities and is part of Mosaic Collection, the international author’s group I recently joined. Her contemporary, faith-based stories reveal an extraordinary God at work in ordinary life.
DEB: Welcome to my corner, Stacy! I see you’ve published four books, with a fifth coming out soon. Was there a catalyst that launched your writing journey?
STACY: An Oprah Winfrey show on midlife opportunities! I’ve written stories my whole life, but always in secret. One day I was home early from work and Oprah was talking about changing our focus from midlife crisis to midlife opportunities.
DEB: Do you have personal experiences with any of the events in your novels?
STACY: Let’s see—one heroine was a supermodel, one lost a leg in a car accident, and one is dyslexic. I haven’t had personal experience with any of that!
DEB: That’s funny. : ) I read your book Open Circle, which you set in a southern Minnesota town where the social worker is struggling to keep the only adult day program open for the seniors she loves. It’s a homey read—gives me lots of good feels. What would be your favourite quote in that book?
STACY: “The sun is shining, the grass is growing, and the cows are giving milk.” It’s just such a simple way to look at the day and be thankful.
DEB: Yes, your voice comes through in even that short line. It makes me want to ask you about your personal life. I know you’re a long-married mother and grandmother but, come on, tell us something really personal about you that might not come up in casual conversation. Go ahead—get it off your chest!
STACY: Um, okay . . . I am a professional grade procrastinator, I am addicted to sugar and gobble down jelly beans when I know I shouldn’t, and someday I want to ride in a hot air balloon and a helicopter. Oh, and I love, love, love long bubble baths. While eating chocolate. And reading. With a candle lit.
DEB: Yes, I have a mental picture of you now, but you’re in the tub surrounded by foam! (Oops!) So tell me about how and when the idea of your first novel grabbed you.
STACY: Shattered Image (in the Chain of Lakes series) took root back in high school—when I was going to concerts and wondering about singers’ lives offstage. Also, I was a huge John Denver fan, and I loved the story about how he met his wife. I wrote that first draft in high school and then eventually threw it in the fire (literally) while my mom was saying, “You don’t want to do that. You’ll want to read it someday.” And I said no, I wouldn’t. And now I do. How do moms know so much? The final product is a take-off from that original story.
DEB: Tell me a bit about that novel.
STACY: Kiera Simmons’ career as a high-profile fashion model ends abruptly when a failed relationship nearly lands her in jail. Now she forges a quiet life helping teens understand their eternal value in a world saturated with the distorted messages of society. Peter Theisen is on the fast track to everything the celebrity life promises, with each step of his meteoric rise in the music world orchestrated by his ambitious manager. Their sweet, unexpected romance is threatened by her past and his future, a life-changing diagnosis, and financial devastation. As they struggle to find their way back to each other, and to the One who matters most, the allure of wealth and fame may jeopardize everything.
DEB: Sounds as though I need to order Shattered Image as my next Stacy read! Now that you’ve published so much, do you find an organizing theme to your body of work?
STACY: All of my stories wrestle with identity. Who are you when all you’ve been known for is your face in front of a camera, or you’re a dancer who has lost a leg? Who are you when all your life you’ve been told you don’t measure up, you’re stupid, unable to learn, won’t amount to anything? Who are you when you find out the father you adore isn’t your biological father? All of these are instances when that person’s identity has been formed by societal norms, or other people’s opinions, or who they think they should be. The underlying theme in every story is that our identity is based on who God says we are, who He created us to be. Trends come and go—God doesn’t. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
DEB: Let’s wrap up this interview with one last question. Can you give any hints about what you’re currently working on?
STACY: My first book in the Mosaic Collection (and the first in My Father’s House series) is the journey of a young woman who discovers that nothing she’s known about herself or her family is true. She leaves it all behind to search for the truth and discovers things about herself and those around her she could never have imagined. Again—it’s about identity!
DEB: Thanks for giving us a peek into your life, heart, and writing. Now, I need to go order that book of yours . . .
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(Andrei Rublev, 15th century Russia)
I love to sew. My latest wardrobe addition is a calf-length street kimono of black burn-out silk velvet brilliant with peacocks and flowers. It is striking, if I say so myself, and garners compliments from all my friends. Not that I made it for their approval; after all, I myself relish the petal-soft brush of the fabric on my skin, the glimpse of its luxurious hues reflected back at me from my mirror. But outward beauty allows me to communicate to my fellows how I feel and who I am inside. My urge to create beauty in order to be known is a shadow of the creative nature of Him who made me.
God, the Eternal Three-in-One who enjoyed perfect and complete divine communion within the fellowship of Himself, yet wanted to be intimately known by humanity. And so the Father clothed His Son in the robe of flesh that the Spirit wove together in Mary’s womb. In His artistry, God projected the express image of Himself through Christ to show us His essence in something we could scarcely stand to glimpse—the promise of eternity transferred through the incarnation of His beloved Son.
I often think of how Jesus, leaving His home of heaven to tread upon our terrestrial dirt, must have suffered profound loss even while He gained the perspective of physicality. Wouldn’t He have just plain missed the Father in His great stoop earthward? I know it’s not quite the same but I, too, have recently suffered profound loss, although in human relationship. The velvety intimacy I once enjoyed, so integrated with my vision of hearth and home, has been tucked away in a drawer I can’t seem to open, out of my sight, its saturated colors invisible to me for a time. I just plain miss my loved ones.
In Hebrews 1:10-12 (ESV), the writer tells of a promise the Father made to His Son that, by extension through spiritual adoption and my sisterhood with Jesus, has implications for me as well:
You [Jesus] laid the foundation of the earth in the beginning,
and the heavens are the work of your hands;
they will perish, but you remain;
they will all wear out like a garment,
like a robe you will roll them up,
like a garment they will be changed.
But you are the same,
and your years will have no end.
One day, after folding up the worn-out cloak of creation and changing it for something new, the Son will reign as King forever. And I will be there for an everlasting future with Him in communion with the others He has likewise dressed in His robe of righteousness.
Human creativity is only derivative, and our brokenness is only temporal. The One who first brought cosmos out of chaos holds the warp and weft of the universe together by the power of His word. When our relationships in the earthly realm fall apart like moth-eaten garments, we can trust that He who dresses the fields beyond Solomon’s splendor allows no act in this life to go without ultimate meaning in His sight. That locked-up drawer will one day open, but this time we’ll put on perfect communion.
When my spirit, clothed immortal, wings its way to realms of day,
This my song throughout the ages: Jesus led me all the way. (Fanny Crosby, 1875)
This article first appeared over at Mosaic Collection Books. Please visit to read the blogs of other writers!
VAGABOND COME HOME
Mondays at noon hour I took piano lessons. On one particular Monday in 1966, I passed beneath the recently inaugurated Maple Leaf that flapped from the school’s flagpole, and I left behind the playground noise to cross the road and open the gate to the woodland pathway of my music teacher’s estate. Delicate lily-of-the-valley spring blossoms poked up through the Manitoba undergrowth, their tiny white bells giving off a luscious scent. Raindrops shook from the canopy above to tickle my hair. I mounted the steps of the two-story brick cottage and heard the footfall of Miss George—about the age of my maternal grandma but oh! so different—before she opened the door. Her sturdy legs were encased in beige stockings, and she tapped her toes to an internal rhythm.
My grandma had never greeted me at the door of her farmhouse; I’d never heard the floorboards squeak beneath her step. By the time I was born, the creeping paralysis had ascended from her non-tapping toes clear up past her shoulders, leaving her completely immobilized from the neck downwards.
“Go on through to the bathroom, Dear,” Miss George said, “and remember to pat-pat-pat dry.” I lathered up with a floral button of Yardley soap and dried as per instructions on a lace-trimmed guest towel that would never have withstood the rigours of my three brothers. This was a feminine household of two spinster sisters whose people hailed from England and whose parlour boasted a sepia photo of an elegant foremother disembarking a Victorian carriage.
In contrast, the most notable picture in my family was of Grandma in her wheelchair, fuzzy slippers showing unscuffed bottoms. It’s almost ironic that her own fleeing mother—my great-grandmother—traversed sea and soil by boat and train and Red River cart, chased by rising Russian nationalism from her home on the banks of the Dnieper River in 1874 to settle in a sod house on the banks of Manitoba’s Scratching River.
So Miss George’s British heritage seemed glamorous, unburdened as it was with wheelchairs and oxen-drawn carts.
I lined up my blouse buttons with Middle C and stumbled my way through “Baby Elephant Walk,” and then Miss George said, “I have something to show you. Follow me.” Curiosity flaring, I trailed behind her up the stairs to her enchanting antique trunk full of surprises.
Miss George had already let me hold a bone china teacup so fine my finger shadows showed through. And last week I’d blasted away on the fox-hunting horn after she prompted me to purse my lips—a thrilling cry that summoned my imagination to distant fields. Today she pushed aside tissue paper and withdrew a mass of crinoline netting and an emerald green gown.
“It’s silk taffeta. My aunt brought it over on the steamer.” She shook out the wrinkles and held it up to my shoulders, the smell of moth balls making my eyes sting. “It would fit you if I laced it up tightly.”
“I can try it on?” My voice squeaked.
She corrected my grammar. “You may. And then we’ll run on the lawn.”
She coached me in the proper method: I was to sprint while lifting the skirts, then stop abruptly and drop the hems to trap the air as I sank into a sitting position. That taffeta billowed out about me like the royal robes of a princess in some foreign land. The word “immigrant” began to hold more magic for me.
Soon I was a teenybopper wearing fishnets and groovy go-go boots. During the summer of 1967, hippies in transit between Yorkville and Gastown overran Winnipeg’s streets and parks. They strummed guitars and sang their songs of freedom—of four strong winds and seven seas that bound them to move on. A little too young to be swept along in the momentum of their pilgrimage, still I wore their love beads and dreamed of hitching a ride on the open road.
Maybe I was rebelling against my grandma’s enforced stillness. Or maybe my genes were imprinted by my great-grandmother’s journeying, initiated generations before her in the Low Countries of Europe during the Reformation. Patriotism had gained no foothold in my pacifistic ancestry of wayfaring conscientious objectors. None of my uncles (unlike those of my classmates) had served militarily in Italy or landed at Dieppe; no war photos of decorated officers sat on my piano.
My parents encouraged my growing wanderlust. Dad spun tales of running away to join the circus and of riding the rails with the last of the Great Depression hoboes; Mom shared newsy bits about shirttail relatives in Belize. I was primed for travel, and before my teens were over I’d already crisscrossed Japan from Tokyo to the southern tip of Kyushu: I’d slept on tatami mats in a millennium-old monastery, negotiated the sacred tea ceremony, and plucked out a tune about cherry blossoms on a koto. Since then I’ve tramped thirty nations—touring wineries in Chile and avocado plantations in Mexico, rambling the streets of Barcelona, trekking the Garden Route of South Africa. Amazed, I’ve wended my way through twisted alleys in Istanbul and promenaded broad boulevards in Paris.
Something about the familiarity of home makes “away” so alluring, but something about the contrast of the foreign brings home racing back to the heart. And so increasingly my affections have turned to the geographical majesty of my own land, Canada offering exotic adventure within her expansive borders and leaving me agog at our own inheritance.
Indeed, my very first pen pal was an Inuit from Inuvik who mailed me an ookpik. It matched my hand-stitched Arctic sealskin mukluks and foreshadowed a flight I made years later when co-ferrying a Cessna aircraft up to Pine Point on the edge of Great Slave Lake. We soared over Peace River country, over muskeg and boreal forests and the mighty Hay River, navigating by way of waterfalls and lakes.
I’ve strolled Pacific Ocean beaches collecting sand dollars brought in by thundering waves off Vancouver Island, and I’ve meandered beneath stands of great cedars that West Coast Aboriginals used to carve into totem poles. I’ve stood on glaciers, and climbed Rocky Mountain paths, and clambered up hoodoos in the Alberta Badlands. I’ve pushed my way through grain fields blowing in the prairie winds and slept beneath the stars on the walking dunes in the Great Sand Hills of Saskatchewan. I’ve paddled and portaged, like the voyageurs, on waterways emptying into Hudson Bay. I’ve hiked the Niagara Gorge to the roaring of the falls and sauntered beneath scarlet maples that shook me like a cry of bugles going by, then eaten my pancakes with the Quebec syrup bled out of those trees. I’ve dabbled in the tidal pools of the Atlantic Ocean near the pier in Halifax, where my own great-grandmother first set her sole on Canadian turf after her long passage—the passage of a people in transit.
And though I continue to vacation in far-off places, my own soul has found sojourn, my restless wandering satisfied in settling itself into home.
7 responses to “VAGABOND COME HOME”
WIN YOUR SIGNED COPY!
I can’t believe it’s been five years since my debut novel was published, and to celebrate I’m giving away THREE postage-paid, signed copies (with gold-foil award seal) to readers who most creatively answer (at “Leave a Reply” below) the following question: If you were going to Paris this spring, what would be your first tourist stop and why?
Get your creative juices going and check out Google to drool over the wonderful City of Lights! I can tell you right now that MY first stop (after a bakery for a raspberry tart and café crème–YUM!) would be to . . . let’s see . . . maybe Sainte-Chapelle because of the way, the last time, the multi-colored sunlight fractured the air above my head, the stained-glass kaleidoscope surrounding me like a halo of rubies and sapphires and emeralds (as it did to the novel’s main character in chapter 18). Or maybe I’d visit the Louvre to gaze upon the statues that became the novel’s icon (chapter 19). Or tromp though (chapter 14) the basilica of Sacré-Coeur or glory in the sheer decadence of Opéra Garnier or . . .
I can’t decide! HELP ME!
29 responses to “WIN A COPY”
Maybe it’s because I talk a lot that I feel my words are cheap. They slip out between my flapping lips in copious quantity, some to enter the ears of intended hearers and many to slide into oblivion. Add to this the fact that I myself often ignore what I’ve just said (causing me to repeat it) and you have a recipe for blather. The idea that my words lack worth was reinforced by the constant shushing I encountered as a chattering girl and, incidentally, still hear on occasion. Maybe my disdain for my blabbermouthery taints my estimation of my writing, too, so that I think what’s been read once is done and gone and should be laid to rest.
I don’t assign this judgment to others’ words, spoken or written. I treasure and revisit the expressed thoughts of my friends and mentors, of strangers I want to know, of icons who’ve proven wise. Why don’t I extend this gentlewomanliness to my own words? After all, the same God of these people is likewise recreating me in the image of His same Son, bringing me into maturity and granting me wisdom, equipping me to serve through words.
I’ve learned over time that my underlying (fleshly) motivation in communicating has been my need to feel I’m heard and understood; publishing brings validation. So I’ve tended not to submit a once-published work for reprint or to excerpt a passage for reapplication. After all, it’s been read already; that is, an audience has heard and understood me on that particular subject, so my immediate need is assuaged.
However, God allows me a compulsion to speak or write not in order to satisfy my own agenda but to bring Him glory.
This has led me to rethink my strategy on recycling work. My written words are much less copious than my casually spoken ones—more closely edited, weighed, and checked for meaning and impact. I don’t write off the cuff; rather, great deliberation goes into the crafting. Why would I abandon these valuable stories to float in cyberspace or (in paper) to line the bottom of some old lady’s drawer?
And so, fingers crossed, a couple of years ago I entered the highly subscribed Tom Howard/John H. Reid contest with a short story that a decade before had won recognition from the Canadian Church Press after its publication in Faith Today Magazine. Along with this vintage tale, I sent in a more recent one that had received the Graham Greene award from Athanatos, an apologetics organization. That is, I knew both published pieces had been judged as literarily worthy. Lo and behold, I received honourable mention for both stories (and subsequently have reissued them yet again through Kindle under a lovely book cover as a gift bribing readers to sign up for my newsletter).
These wins for older work, then, are personally encouraging to me and beneficial for promotional purposes. However, reusing previously published stories is possibly even more important on a ministry level. After all, as Paul pointed out in Romans 10:14, how will people call on God unless they believe in Him, and how will they believe without hearing, and how will they hear without our telling and retelling His story?
Published words, though years old, have as much life left in them as they have truth conveyed by them. Tastes change and trends bring new connotations, so some of my stories need revision. But a well-written, once-printed piece often has more timelessness and timeliness than I first intend, and God’s truth is always applicable.
“IF YOU’RE AFRAID OF BUTTER, USE CREAM”
I myself could have uttered these famous words attributed to Julia Child, who brought France to the tastebuds of America. Now, Germanic genetics have often been blamed for my own love of high-fat dairy products, but Julia’s quote makes me suspect that untraced Gallic blood might run in my veins.
I recently found a local supplier of 52% BF cream, which is almost too thick to pour. I use it in moderation (smirk); it’s possibly the reason my doctor has put me on cholesterol medication. But when it comes to food, the French are never wrong.
Two decades ago, my daughters and I spent a few months in the Rhône-Alpes area of eastern France—my first extended visit to that country. We tucked ourselves into a furnished flat set on the shores of Lac du Bourget (not too far from Mont Blanc and the Swiss border) and attempted to fit in with the locals—especially gastronomically.
We breakfasted on yoghurt that came in little glass jars, produced at a family-run plant just down the road. We lunched on heavenly fondue savoyarde, dipping pieces of baguette into melted Comté, Beaufort, and Gruyère perfumed with regional white wine and a whiff of garlic. We gorged on traditional Reblochon and ancient Tomme de Savoie. We learned the terms chantilly (whipped cream) and crème fraîche (slightly fermented cream fabulous in coffee). And we couldn’t wait for the Saturday market, where local farmers laid out pucks of chèvre—goat cheese dusted with ash, marbled with mould.
A century ago, Englishman G.K. Chesterton observed,
Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese [but] Cheese is the very soul of song.
Sigh. Writing this post has made my mouth water, but France has brought more to my heart than to my lips (or hips!). I’ve felt a metaphysical connection since the first time I visited Paris in 1989, where I finally understood why people eat Roquefort (long before I was introduced to that heavenly crème fraîche). Over the years and through my travels, I’ve made several sound friendships with French women whom I consider my soulmates partly because, I admit, of their love for high-fat foods.
So now, at the risk of spiking my cholesterol reading, I’m going to brew a cup of coffee and add a dollop of my 52% cream. It’s the only thing that will stop me from drowning in saliva and tears of yearning.
2 responses to “BUTTER FAT”
Last week I held a little giveaway on Facebook, awarding this red leather journal to the third person who signed up for my new quarterly email newsletter (see the first edition of that newsletter here) telling about what’s happening in my writing life. This generated a bit of excitement among my friends—a dozen of them responded by clicking this link and filling in the simple form with name and email addy. The journal has been sent to the winner, but so many nonwinners expressed disappointment that I ordered a couple more for future giveaways. In this way I’m slowly building my list and am mindful of not abusing the trust of my subscribers; I promise them I’ll write only four times a year (or when I have exciting news). That’s their gift to me—a listening ear. Everyone needs an audience, right?
A regular email list, I am told, is what convinces publishers to take on new books. And I have a book to publish (my second novel–read more about it in my newsletter)! I chose the specific giveaway item of this red journal because it suits the plot of my novel (now in the hands of my literary agent). The manuscript’s working title is The Red Journal (though who knows what the official title will be!); the Victorian anchor and compass symbols on the gift hint at elements of my plot.
People love to receive gifts, but I’ve been realizing how much I love to give gifts! So I’ve decided to make a habit of ensuring that my newsletter recipients are rewarded. The first thing I give all my subscribers is an e-copy of Wet Thaw, a little collection of two award-winning short stories—so if YOU would like a taste of my writing style, sign on up! Then I also plan to give all those on my subscription list a chance to receive some special treat (postage on me)—a signed copy of one of my books, maybe, or a frame-worthy piece of original artwork, or a vintage item that speaks about a character’s personality. I’m having FUN dreaming up possible items that would delight my readers.
What would YOU like to see in my “giveaway” box? Feel free to offer me ideas in the comments below.
13 responses to “JOURNAL”
Isn’t this a cool book cover?
The art issues from the paintbrush of talented Lorenda Harder and is meant to entice readers, of course. But my little, two-story ebook is so cheap (under a buck U.S.) that I wonder if it will just melt into the massive pool of other cool-looking books.
I had to put a price on it for Amazon browsers wanting a quick taste of my style. But my real intent in publishing this very brief book was as a free gift I can send those interested in subscribing to my email newsletter. This short email will appear quarterly or so–just a catch-up to let interested friends know what’s going on in my writing life and to offer other fun, free things that I dream up (mailable art or antique hankies–something surprising).
I’m quite proud about getting through the Kindle publishing process, as I don’t consider myself technologically savvy. (I hear my children snorting at this understatement.) It certainly challenged the little grey cells and offered all the potential for a real flop. I had to design and upload the cover, ensure the stories were worthy, decide on a publication date to coincide with my first newsletter (that was a whole other challenge!), convert the document into a couple of different formats, and preview, edit, tinker . . . It took a while.
In the story “Wet” Beth faces a life-changing decision when she returns to the rainy island of the childhood home she abandoned as a troubled teen. In “Thaw” two touring girlfriends from radically different traditions experience the haunting atmosphere of Istanbul under the rare cover of snow. Check out a few reader reviews here.
I’m pleased with the result–a gift to send interested friends. Are you interested? If so, do subscribe.