How You Can Win!

There is nothing quite like having a new book release. No matter how many times an author experiences it, each time is like the first time.

My newest novel, Things Left Unspoken (the first in a line of Southern Fiction from Baker Publishing), is soon to be released. I know because the author copy landed in my anxious little paws just two days ago. I've danced around the living room enough times to qualify for Dancing With the Stars. :) Or, So You Think You Can Dance.

Product Description: Jo-Lynn Hunter is at a crossroads in life when her great-aunt Stella insists that she return home to restore the old family house in sleepy Cottonwood, Georgia. Seeing the project as the perfect excuse for some therapeutic time away from her self-absorbed husband and his snobby Atlanta friends, Jo-Lynn longs to get her teeth into a noteworthy and satisfying project. But things are not what they seem, both in the house and within the complex history of her family. Was her great-grandfather the pillar of the community she thought he was? What is Aunt Stella hiding? And will Jo-Lynn's marriage survive the renovation? Jo-Lynn isn't sure she wants to know the truth--but sometimes the truth has a way of making itself known. The past comes alive in this well-written and thoughtful novel full of secrets, drama, and family with a hint of Southern drawl.

From the Back Cover: Every family--and every house--has its secrets. Jo-Lynn Hunter is at a crossroads in life when her great-aunt Stella insists that she return home to restore the old family manse in sleepy Cottonwood, Georgia. Jo-Lynn longs to get her teeth into a noteworthy and satisfying project. And it's the perfect excuse for some therapeutic time away from her self-absorbed husband and his snobby Atlanta friends. Beneath the dust and the peeling wallpaper, things are not what they seem, and what Jo-Lynn doesn't know about her family holds just as many surprises. Was her great-grandfather the pillar of the community she thought he was? What is Aunt Stella hiding? And will her own marriage survive the renovation? Jo-Lynn isn't sure she wants to know the truth--but sometimes the truth has a way of making itself known.

So!!! Would you like to know a way you can win your own personal copy PLUS receive a special gift from me? Here's how:

1. Gather your friends and...

2. Form a book club. (Already have a book club? Good ... you are two steps ahead!)

3. Pick Things Left Unspoken as your book of the month selection. (To hear more about the book, go to the author interview at Christianbook.com.)

4. Find questions for discussion at Christianbook.com.

5. Let Eva Marie know when your group is gathering. If her calendar allows, she will place a call (which you can put on speaker phone) to answer any questions your group might have and to participate in general. (Especially if you are serving chocolate!) OR: if you are in the Central Florida area, she'll try to pay you a visit!

6. Let Eva Marie know how many you are expecting. She'll pre-send autographed bookplates.

7. Send a photo of your group holding the book to Eva Marie at her email address (EvaMarieEverson@aol.com) for a special gift to the hostess!

That's it! It's just that simple ... and just that fun!

Writing Out of Experience

I am currently working on the final of the Potluck Catering Club novels with Linda Evans Shepherd. This is the third in a three-book series ... which is part of a two-part series of books:

1-a The Potluck Club

1-b The Potluck Club: Trouble's Brewing

1-c The Potluck Club Takes the Cake

2-a The Potluck Catering Club: The Secret's in the Sauce

2-b The Potluck Catering Club: A Taste of Fame (see photo at right)

2-c The Potluck Catering Club: (No additional title yet)

(There is also The Potluck Club Cookbook, to be released sometime this summer)

So anyway, all that to get back to the point at hand: I am working on the third of the second series of the books.

In this book, someone has died (for our fans, I won't say who) and someone is mourning that loss.

Grief is a personal thing; everyone responds to it in their own way. Some people appear to be handling the loss of a loved one as though their pet goldfish died. Others fall into a stoic day-to-day existence. Everyone, however, will experience the five stages of grief at some point, each in their own way.

The other night I broke down and dusted the master bedroom in our home. Goodness knows it needed it. The room stays clean -- don't get me wrong -- it was just dusty. Antique mahogony furniture gets both dusty and thirsty, so I choose a product for dusting that includes an oil, beneficial for the furniture's longevity. As I set about my task, I found two bottles of after shave that had belonged to my father. Two bottles that, three years ago, previous to his unexpected passing, had been taken with him to the hospital so he'd smell nice for the nurses (I suppose) :).

I picked up one of the bottles -- I'd almost forgotten it was there -- sat on the floor and gingerly twisted the cap. I held it to my nose but I held my breath, unsure if I was really ready to inhale its fragrance. I waved the bottle back and forth, back and forth, until -- when I thought my lungs would explode -- I took in the scent of the after shave.

The scent of my father.

I closed my eyes. For a brief moment, Daddy was in the room. He was still with me. If I had so wanted, I believe I could have spoken and he would have heard me.

Maybe.

I have long come to the fifth stage of grief: acceptance. But my character has not. She is somewhere between three (bargaining) and four (depression). After the dusting of my room was finished, I walked back to my home office and wrote a scene in which "Name Here" (for I will NOT give her name away!) finds a bottle of after shave, opens it, and breathes in his scent. As a writer, I felt every moment of this chapter. I had -- by opening Daddy's after shave bottle -- experienced for myself the emotions of the character. Now, as a writer, I pulled on those emotions. I depended on them totally for expression.

Sometimes we writers can write out of an experience we have not had or have yet to have. But for the most part, I think, this is why we hear that real writers are born after their 40th birthday. We have to have experienced life in order to write about it with any deep sense of emotion.

When we do, we take readers to the deepest part of themselves. They experience -- again and again -- their own life moments as they walk them out with our characters. This is, what I call, bleeding on paper for the sake of our reader. It has to be done. It's rarely easy. In fact, I would have to say that it is never easy.

But it's worth it when we read -- and our readers read -- the end result.

Reflections of God's Holy Land: Mount Arbel

Miriam had pointed it out earlier that morning. We were standing on the plain below the Church of the Beatitudes. She pointed forward, toward a range of mountains, one with a rocky face on its edge. "See that tree waaaaay up there?" she asked me.

I said that I did. It was hard to miss, in spite of being so tiny against the gray of the early morning sky.

"That's Arbel," she said. "Tonight, at sunset, we'll be up there."

"Will we drive?" I asked, already aware that for all the walking I'd done for exercise, it obviously hadn't been enough for treking all day in Israel.

Miriam laughed (or maybe she sighed...). "We will drive part of the way."

For the rest of the day, I kept my eye on that cliff, excited to know I would see the sun setting from its heights. Finally, the end of the day began to descend around us. Miriam and I were in the car, whipping around curves on roads leading upward. Along the way she pointed out various sites and places. After arriving, we parked the car near several others -- apparently being here at sunset was a popular thing to do -- and then began to walk the steep backside of the mountain. My heart pumped pretty hard. Every so often I had to stop. But, not wanting to miss the sunset, I kept pushing myself upward and onward.


The climb was worth every moment once we arrived! The sun was a fiery red and yellow ball, dropping lower, casting pink hues over the countryside, the Galilee. Families stood in clusters. Lovers hugged and kissed. I dared myself to look down. Miriam said, "Along here we can imagine the path Jesus might have taken as he walked from Nazareth to the Sea of Galilee, toward the discipes and his ministry."

Wow! I'd never thought in terms of Jesus getting from Nazareth to the Galilee! I don't know how I imagined him getting from A to B, but walking along the way, wasn't it. Sure, I'd pictured him walking from the Jordan to the desert, from Galilee to Jerusalem ... but I'd never thought about those miles between home and heart.

As I thought about it -- as the sun contined to set and families continued to gather and lovers continued to hold each other close -- I contemplated my own ministry, recalling the days in which I prayed to God, asking him to open the doors for me, should it be his will. I remembered the day I, as a 12 year old 7th grader, told my class and teacher I wanted to be a writer when I grew up and how I'd been laughed at. I thought of the days as a church-going teenager who wore her faith on her sleeve (in spite of her shortcomings) and about the sneers and jeers I received time and again. I thought of the often rocky road I'd walked as an adult -- a road not unlike the one below, stretching and curving from Nazareth to the sea. Somehow I'd always known, deep down, that God would bring me here. To this ministry. To this place. To this cliff.

"Miriam," I said. "Take my picture." I handed her my camera.

Miriam aimed my Canon toward me. Joy flooded over me. I threw open my arms -- stretching them as far as the east is from the west (or at least in my heart) -- and grinned as wide as the land behind me and the sky around me.

As the camera snapped my photo, I thought, "This is one of the happiest moments of my life."
And it was true. So very true. The climb had been worth it. Has been worth it.

Will always be worth it.