Thank
you, Sue, for inviting me to post on your blog. Today, I’d like to mention how
“Tomorrow Blossoms”, the book you featured yesterday came to be. My college-age
daughter had come home on a break and mentioned that a classmate of hers who’d
been adopted as an infant had been contacted by his birth parents. That set in
motion a range of possibilities for my writer’s mind, the end result being
“Tomorrow Blossoms”.
Now,
I’d like to talk about my new release “The Mercy of Time and Chance” and its
evolution from idea to reality. Because the story is based on my grandmother’s
life, it’s very special to me, and there were times I wondered if it would ever
see the light of day. Especially since I originally wrote it shortly after her
death many years ago. It was my first attempt at writing, and it showed.
Consequently, it went in a drawer and stayed there for 30 years.
Aware
I woefully lacked the skills to do justice to Grandma’s story, I started
reading everything I could about creative writing. And then I started writing
another story, then another. While I started to attract agents’ interests and
even signed with one, the big boys in publishing weren’t interested.
Left
to my own devices, I submitted to a small publisher and was accepted. A year
later, I submitted a different book to another publisher and was accepted again.
By this time, indie publishing was gaining more acceptance, so I tried my hand
at formatting and publishing my own work. Now, I have six novels out in
paperback and e-book, and one short story collection in e-book only. I’m also
working on a light romantic series.
But
back to Grandma’s story. After I had some success under my belt, I began to
think about tackling the mammoth stack of papers gathering dust in a drawer. As
I reread it, my enthusiasm grew. Much of it had to be discarded because it
wasn’t important to the story and didn’t add anything but filler. What was left
needed a drastic pruning. Every verb was accompanied by an adverb, every noun
had an adjective, and no one ever “said” anything. Oh, no, they opined,
exclaimed, or shouted. You get the picture. After I corrected that, I felt I
had a credible story that would resonate with many different nationalities
besides the Italian-American families portrayed in the book.
The
story begins in 1902 and spans three generations of
an Italian-American family. The first generation is steeped in old world
customs and values, living in the manner expected of them by their church and
community. The second clings to the old and familiar while the world around
them changes. The third embraces the modern but reverts to the past when it
suits them.
Caught in the middle is Renie. Orphaned at two, she’s never known
a mother’s love. Weaned on rejection and raised on neglect by a bitter
stepmother, she’s unsure how to mother her own children, passing on what she
believes are the proper roles of men and women.
After
a life filled with tragedy and heartbreak, she realizes she may have created a
respectful, obedient daughter, but she’s also made her meek and submissive. Her
son, on the other hand, has been groomed from birth to assume his father’s role
as lord and master of the family. Unfortunately, he also inherits his quick
temper.
Here
is a short excerpt from the first generation, circa 1913.
In
the shadows of the darkened parlor, Tessa rubbed a coarse hand on the underside
of her swollen belly as she pondered the conversation to which she’d just been
privy. She’d noticed her stepdaughter’s figure developing a more womanly
roundness. Apparently Carmine also noticed. With firm, high breasts, a tiny
waist, and rounded hips, the girl reminded her of herself many years earlier.
Now, at thirty years of age, she couldn’t recall a time when her body was hers
alone. For the last ten years she’d been attached to, coupled with, or
inhabited by others, poked and prodded from without and within. Trapped in a
misshapen body for much of her adult life, she found it difficult if not
impossible to commiserate with the problems of her young, attractive
stepdaughter.
The
fluted horn of Tony’s Victrola issued a groan not unlike the dying moans of a
wounded animal. Tessa glanced at her sleeping husband, his fat cigar dangling
precariously from his gnarled fingers, and frowned. She plucked the stogie from
his hand before it fell and ground it out in the ashtray. Then she slipped the
glass of wine from his other hand before it, too, landed on the carpet.
She
drained what was left of his Chianti, then rested the empty glass on the crest
of her belly and refilled it. As she swirled the ruby liquid round and round,
an enigmatic smile played across her face. Then she downed the drink in a
single, satisfied gulp, as if adding the final ingredient to a prize-winning
recipe.
Links
to all my books can be found on my website http://www.joycedebacco.com
