Sunday, October 15, 2017

A Box of Joy (and Grace and Chastity)

Photo credit: Vince Laconte
Logic will get your from point A. to point B. Imagination will take you everywhere. --Albert Einstein

My siblings and I learned early on what all cats intuitively understand: empty boxes are are far more entertaining than the items they once contained. I can't count the number of times we kids set upon a discarded appliance box and let our imaginations run wild. All it took was a pocket knife and a box of crayons to transform that ugly carton into a rocket ship, a store or circus ticket booth.  Every new cardboard box was an opportunity to become a banker, a baker, a train engineer or anything else we dreamed up. 

I tapped into those childhood experiences while writing a scene for THIS I KNOW where Grace's sisters convince her to use her intuitive gift to predict the future for curious neighborhood children. Grace knows it's a bad idea, but the combination of getting to play dress-up and earn a little pocket change is too tempting to turn down. Here's an (edited for length) sneak peak of that scene:

As we round the corner behind the barn I can hardly believe my eyes. Joy has outdone herself this time. She and Chastity must have dragged a refrigerator box home from the hardware store. They painted it all swirly with markers and cut a square out for a window. A hand-lettered cardboard sign hangs above the opening: 

AMAZING GRACE! Fortunes Told: Twenty-Five Cents

Joy hands me Daddy’s paisley bathrobe and a blue bath towel.
“What am I supposed to do with these?”
“Wrap the towel around your head. You know, like a gypsy fortune-teller. The robe will make you look more authentic.” 
I stick my arms into the sleeves and Joy ties the belt at my waist. There’s a foot of leftover robe puddled on the ground. She wraps my hair in the towel and clips it with a brooch from Mama’s jewelry box, then snaps two earrings with silver balls dangling from them onto my ears. 
Joy takes a step back. “You look great!” She shoves a kitchen stool under my rear end, then picks up the refrigerator box and drops it over my head so the window is in front of my face. She claps her hands together and squeals. “Perfect!”
“I feel ridiculous.” The words echo against the cardboard walls of my tall, dark room. 
Chastity bounces up and down, her blond pigtails flouncing behind her. “Here come the first two kids!”
Joy leans in close to my face. “Okay, Grace. Just be yourself. Except with, you know, a little flair.” She winks at me and straightens my turban. "Ready?"


I'm not clairvoyant like Grace Carter  and yet I knew the minute FedEx pulled up they were delivering a very special package. A cat might find the cardboard box quite inviting but the contents are what made me audibly squeal. Inside are the Advance Reader Copies (Uncorrected Proofs) of THIS I KNOW. Most of them will go to indie bookstores, librarians, book bloggers and reviewers. But one lucky reader will win a shiny advance copy for themselves. ☺ Stay tuned for a contest to be announced on my Facebook Page this week!  In the meantime, drop a comment below to let me know you've shared this post. The first ten people who share this post will receive a signed dust jacket and a bookmark

Thank you all so much for sharing in my excitement and helping to build buzz about my debut novel. Want to keep up with contests, sneak-peaks and news about my upcoming release?

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Sunday, October 8, 2017

Daydream Believer

Every year on the first day of school I always tried to grab the desk nearest the windows. I knew it meant that I'd be in charge of opening them in the event of a tornado drill but I didn't mind. What mattered was having a direct sight-line to the parking lot where I'd witness parents bustling up the sidewalk to deliver forgotten lunches. I'd have a close-up view of the weather as it shifted (sometimes hourly) from rain to sleet to sunshine to blizzard. Toward the end of the day I'd watch buses roll under a flapping American flag to wait for their rambunctious charges. That glass was more than a view of earth and sky; it was a window into my daydreams as I watched clouds crawl across the livelong sky of seemingly endless school days. 

Don't get me wrong--I loved school. It was the place where I first fell in love with words, competing with Glen Burmeister and Keith Johnson as the only girl left standing during our weekly spelling bees. Reading and writing were my favorite subjects because I could lose myself in my imagination, which I often did, to the consternation of my teachers. "Doesn't work up to potential" or "Unfocused" or "Daydreamer" they'd write in my report cards. And it was true. I was often bored and that window was my salvation. But because I got good mostly good grades (I sucked at art and penmanship) my parents didn't balk that much. "Try harder," they'd ask, and I'd promise I would. But I didn't.

They always say you should write about what you know. Even as I tapped away at this post I stopped and started it several times, distracted by a bird on the wire, the sound of my neighbor yakking loudly in her driveway, then imagining that bird knocking the cellphone out of her hand. I suppose it comes as no surprise then that I gave my young protagonist, Grace Carter, the same penchant for losing herself in the world beyond her immediate surroundings. Because this? This I know.

What about you? Were you a daydreamer? Did you like school? Share your thoughts down yonder. ;)

Monday, October 2, 2017

And Then There Were (Still) Six

I was five years old when my mother lost her seventh daughter. I don't remember my mom being pregnant. I only remember my exhausted dad lining up the six of us girls and telling us that our baby sister had been born with a hole in her heart so she went to be with Jesus. They named her Lori Lee and she was laid to rest in a tiny cemetery in New Era, Michigan. I never got to see her. Fifteen months later my mother had another baby, her only boy. He weighed thirteen pounds. That one I remember.

One day, while snooping in my parents' closet, I found a pair of tiny white booties, a lock of hair, and a photo of a ruddy-faced infant lying in a silk-lined casket surrounded by bouquets of flowers. I wanted to ask my mom about the stillborn baby but it seemed a box tucked that deep into a closet was a thing she might prefer to stay hidden, so I left it there. Every once in a while I'd sneak back into the closet to visit the box and study that photograph. The baby looked like she was sleeping; the casket, like a tiny doll bed. I'd whisper her name over and over, as if by doing so she'd recognize me someday if I ever bumped into her in heaven. Even after all these years, the image of that baby remains frozen in my mind's eye.

My mother died when I was thirty-one and I regret not asking her more about how that was, losing a child. I imagine people might have tried to reassure her with clumsy words about how lucky she was to have six healthy children. I doubt those words soothed her pain. I wish I'd talked with her about it, felt the full weight of the sorrow she must have endured. Maybe I'd have been better equipped to console friends who've miscarried or given birth to stillborn babies. Maybe I'd have navigated my own episode of postpartum depression with more self-compassion. And maybe I'd have understood my mother better than I thought I did.

I can't go back in time, but in writing THIS I KNOW I was free to imagine what it might be like to endure such a loss. The book opens with twins communicating their last thoughts to each other in the womb before being pushed into the outside world. What follows is the story of a prescient child who longs to harvest the pit of sorrow from her mother's heart and replace it with seeds of hope. Something we could all use a little of right now, yes?

Friday, September 1, 2017

It's Not You, It's Me: Five Reasons We Choose to Date That Book

Shopping for a book is a little like Tinder, isn't it? Before we swipe right invest our hard-earned money and all those hours, the book has to look good and the profile needs to promise worthy entertainment. Authors spend years, sometimes decades, writing, editing, and revising a book. But it only takes a few seconds for a reader to say yeah or nay. 

Someone recently posed a question in a readers' group about what influences members to choose a book. The answers varied from reader to reader, but came down to five considerations that moved folks from simply looking at a cover, to shelling out hard-earned dollars. Most noticeably, although a factor in the buying decision, price didn't make the the top five. 

1. COVER.  I can't describe exactly why a cover beckons because it varies tremendously. All I know is that something hits me in a sweet spot, urges me to look closer. It might be as simple as a gorgeous font or as complex as the hidden message behind intriguing images in the cover art. But it always starts with the cover.  Which is why I am over-the-moon THRILLED with the striking cover that Kensington came up with for my debut novel, THIS I KNOW. Yeah, it's my baby and all mothers think their babies are beautiful, but come on, just look at it. Sigh

2. TITLE. If I'm intrigued by a book cover, I study the title, roll it around on my tongue. Is it clunky? Is it mysterious? Does it hint at my favorite themes? A bad title can ruin a good book. Conversely, a good title can sometimes trick me. Whoa. This sounds really good! Only to find out twenty bucks later that the title was the best line in the book. I happen to be fond of three-word titles. The Last Suppers. Bird by Bird. Out of Africa. Running With Scissors. Over The Plain Houses. Okay that last one is four words but it's a damn fine title and the writing is simply stunning. 

3. DESCRIPTION. I'm drawn to stories about community--the places we live, the families we're born into, and the tribes we gravitate toward. I prefer hometown settings peopled with recognizable characters from the grocery store, a neighborhood cafe or noisy schoolyard; books that explore the bigger questions of one's purpose, and the overlapping consequences of our choices, good and bad. If the description hints at a balance of humor, even better. It probably makes sense that these are also the kinds of stories I like to write.

4. BLURBS/REVIEWS. I don't buy a book because I think I'll agree with the reviewers who've written them, but I can often tell if a blurb is authentic. You can't fake genuine, organic enthusiasm. There's nothing more satisfying than seeing how geeked an author is for another author's work. 

5. THE FIRST PAGE. I always save reading the first page for last. Those first few words are ultimately the deciding factor  when it comes to whether or not I will read a book. More important than the cover, the title, the description, and the blurbs combined. Because for me, it always comes down to voice. From that very first sentence I know if I'm going to keep reading the next and the next and the next. Even if I'm hooked by the characters and story, I need to be convinced that this particular author is the only one to tell it.

You might imagine how scary it is to think about potential readers of my debut novel moving past the title, the cover, the description and the blurbs of my book and opening to that very first page. So I'm going to take a deep breath and give you a sneak-peek, right here, right now. What follows is the first two sentences from my eleven-year-old protagonist, Grace Marie Carter, in THIS I KNOW.

I make people nervous, even Daddy. Especially Daddy...

If those sentences sound like something you'd definitely keep reading, answer one or both questions below in the comments here or on my FaceBook page to be entered into a giveaway for an ARC (Advance Review Copy) of THIS I KNOW when it becomes available next month.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

I Only Know What I Don't Know

When the eye becomes the heart, the heart becomes the eye. -- Wasif Ali Wasif

Grace, the young protagonist in my upcoming novel THIS I KNOW could be described as clairvoyant, empathic, psychic or simply mischievous, depending on which character you ask. She senses things that have happened, intuits events that are about to occur, and enjoys deep conversations with her deceased twin. 

I like to think of myself as a balanced individual situated midway on the wide spectrum between woo-woo-hookey-doo and black-and-white certitude. As a veteran massage therapist and left-behind flower child living in California I definitely fit the New Age profile, but I don't necessarily subscribe to esoteric ideas steeped in seductive promises of self-actualization. I am, however, very curious about such things. So much so that intuition, telepathy, the afterlife, alternative medicine, and Eastern philosophy are recurrent themes woven into my stories. 

Like young Grace, I was raised in a conservative Christian family. And also like her, I began to question everything I'd been taught as I came of age. Over time my spiritual beliefs have evolved significantly. More than once in my life I've experienced a supernatural event that I couldn't completely defend with logic and reason. One that stands out occurred when I attended massage school. The students were taking turns practicing techniques on each other. I called the the instructor over because I was concerned about a young girl crying a couple of tables away from my massage partner and me. I couldn't understand why this child was in our classroom. The instructor was incredulous, "That's not a girl; don't you recognize Barbara?" The "girl" I saw was a fifty-year-old classmate. I later learned that her massage had apparently triggered repressed memories of abuse from her childhood. 

Maybe the room was dark and I imagined I saw a child. Maybe the pitiful sobs made her look like a little girl. Or maybe there's no logical explanation for why I saw a child in the face of a woman remembering abuse by her father when she was only twelve. I've had other inexplicable experiences as maybe some of you have. Is it wild imagination that drives these stories? Or could it be that there are some things we just can't understand? I don't have all the answers, but I really enjoy exploring them through the lens of my characters. I hope you will too.  #ThisIKnow 

***MARK YOUR CALENDAR!*** Timed to coincide with National Sister's Day, August 6, 2017 is the COVER REVEAL date for my debut novel THIS I KNOW (Spring/2018).  Follow me on Facebook to be one of the first to see this stunning depiction of my precocious young Grace Carter in all her glory. 

From the publisher: "Set in a small Midwest town in the late 1960s and helmed by an unforgettable young protagonist—compassionate, uncannily wise Grace—This I Know is a luminous coming-of-age story from an astonishing new voice." 

Advance Praise for Eldonna Edwards and This I Know
“Simply magical writing. Eldonna Edwards is a true storyteller. She tossed me straight into her book and there I stayed until the last word on the last page.” --Cathy Lamb, author of No Place I’d Rather Be
"In THIS I KNOW, Eldonna Edwards has crafted a compelling allegorical tale about the fear of otherness in this coming-of-age tale set in the late 1960's and early 1970's in midwestern America. Readers of all ages will find an unlikely hero in 11-year-old Grace Marie Carter, who was born with a type of clairvoyance she calls the "Knowing" - as she bravely forges her own path in a world that is constantly trying to silence her voice." --Amy ImpellizzeriAward-winning Author of Secrets of Worry Dolls and The Truth About Thea



Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Nevertheless, She Persisted

The sky is not my limit. I am. --T. F. Hodge

A couple years ago this nasturtium crawled across our yard, into the neighbor's yard, and over their walking path. Sadly, the gardeners cut it down. Not to be deterred, the plant snaked into the foundation, twined up a basement wall, and found its way back to the light through a tiny crack in the siding. From my window the plant appeared to be floating like one of those gurus who levitate above the ground. But this isn't an illusion.  This flower succeeded simply because it persisted. It was not in its nature to give up.

Eighteen years ago I started a novel about a psychic little girl born into an Evangelical Christian family who is shunned for her intuitive gifts. I queried and found an agent who liked my other, more contemporary work-in-progress better. She shopped it around but she didn't sell it and eventually stopped communicating. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. But I was facing other challenges and my writing suddenly took a back seat to Life. I got sidetracked by a divorce, a move, my busy massage practice and being a single parent.

Both of my earlier manuscripts languished in a desk drawer for several years. I continued to facilitate journaling workshops but it wasn't until I donated a kidney to a stranger that I fully returned to writing, publishing a memoir in 2014 about my experience as a living donorLost in Transplantation did pretty well for an unknown self-published author but relating one's experience in book form is a lot different than creating setting, characters and story from scratch. I wrote the memoir to educate people about living donation.

Writing a novel is a whole 'nother ballgame with different rules, a different audience, and a much more competitive playing ground. This plant, though. Just look at it. Somebody cut it down and it defied that somebody in ways that confounded and amazed me.  The more I stared at it, the more I wanted to be like it. I eventually found the courage to show my original ms to my editor/beau. And then I held my breath while he read it, knowing he would be kind but he'd also be brutally honest. 

Turns out he loved it. And he worked with me to make it even better. Several months later I queried a list of reputable agents and in December of 2015, signed with one who sold the ms in a 2-book deal. THIS I KNOW releases around Mother's Day of 2018, a timely coincidence for a story with a mother who features prominently in this emotional story of a family torn apart by fear and judgment but ultimately, the redemption of acceptance and forgiveness. 

A few weeks ago my publisher sent me a sneak-peak at the cover and I admit that I succumbed to shiver-me-timbers of joy when I saw my protagonist captured on the cover image. Grace Carter is no longer a figment of my imagination. My precocious little redhead now belongs to the world. Coincidentally, I just finished the next book and sent it to my agent for notes. Now the process starts all over with a new cast of characters, a distinct landscape, and a very different story. The work doesn't get easier but for the most part, fear and self-doubt have transformed into anticipation and optimism.

My point is that persistence pays off.  To those of you struggling with uncertainty or who feel like quitting: Don't. Why choose to stunt your creative pursuits with self-limiting beliefs? Tunnel your way into the center of your dreams and plant yourself there with vigorous intention. Manifesting is awesome but it isn't magic. It's a combination of dreaming, surrounding yourself with people who support your dreams, a lot of work, and a little bit of good luck.  The march to success is a team event. Each triumph, no matter how small, finds me jumping up and down in solidarity with every one of you. Without each other, without our mentors and believers and champions, this journey would be a lonely road. And so I remain deeply grateful to all you wonderful humans who continue to be my cheerleaders. Believe me when I say, I am also yours. 

#amwriting #encouragement #persistance #selfdoubt

Thursday, April 20, 2017

On a Swing and a Prayer

I thought about years. How they take so long. And they go so fast. --Beth Nielson Chapman

We threw our tennis gear in the back of the car in hopes of getting a couple sets in before the sun went down but first we needed to stop for a quick look at a patio swing I'd found on craigslist. Brer and I were already cutting it close time-wise but I didn't want to risk losing the swing to another possible buyer. We're moving at the end of the month and it looked perfect for that sweet spot on the back deck with a view of the ocean.

Google maps led us to a twin home in Arroyo Grande with a stucco fence and an open garage door where the owner of said swing greeted us with a firm but cheery handshake. She led us to the back patio, flowered flip-flops clapping along under tanned sturdy legs. At one end of the fenced-in patio sat the swing, compete with custom cushions molded to a human being who'd spent a lot of time in that swing, namely her late husband, Ed*. The rest of the area was set up like a lanai with decorative ceramic fish, tinkling chimes and brightly colored pillows. We later learned the patio was a reflection of the many years she and Ed had spent living in Oahu.

We never made it to tennis. Over the next hour my beau and I gently swang in the canopied glider as Helen* talked about her beloved, their shared sense of humor, and a deep loving friendship. He was a hard worker, handsome and athletic, taken down in less than a month by an aggressive melanoma. The swing was his favorite place to relax after working on their property a few miles away where they grew avocados and other fruits and veggies. It sat in front of the hot tub, shielding neighbors from a view of the naked couple still very much in love in their 79th and 81st years.

In addition to our love of sunny California, we learned that the three of us shared a common upbringing in the Midwest, a trifecta of South Dakota, Minnesota and Michigan. "Did you say wash or warsh?" she asked, the true test of a Midwesterner. I think we passed the test. Not because of our shared former dialect but because she felt safe enough to drop the Midwestern stoicism and reveal more about his illness, her grief and loneliness, how she'd held her beloved's hand as he took his last breath and promised him she'd never leave. How they lost their only daughter five years before. How after nine months she's learning that she can keep the memories alive without clinging to all the stuff that's weighing her down. Little by little she's starting to let go of things. Like the patio swing where we sat, having earned the honor of becoming the new owners.

As we drove past the tennis courts on our way home my beau squeezed my hand and smiled. Funny how what you think is important suddenly pales in comparison to sitting with someone as they transform from a craigslist stranger into a human being with a story that's now a part of your story. I can't wait to set up the swing on our new porch and raise a toast to Helen and Ed. I've already dubbed the swing Harriet so I can sing "Swing Low, Sweet Harriet" because I think Ed would laugh at that.

*Names changed to protect the individual's privacy