What can be more gratifying for an author than seeing her books in print? Seeing that readers appreciate her efforts.
Last Saturday marks my first book signing in 2017 at Reader’s World in Lee’s Summit Missouri. For those unfamiliar with this little book and gift nook, it’s a lovely, local alternative to its national competitor. Many thanks go to Christian Apodaca who is inviting and supportive to local authors.
Book sales went fairly well, thanks to three readers who bought the entire trilogy.
In addition to the joy of selling, was the joy of seeing some friends I haven’t seen for a while. One of the high points for me was reconnecting with Dawn Downey, fellow author who was one of my earliest mentors in the Kansas City Writers Group.
My husband, Jan was on hand to snap a few photos:
Reader’s World in Lee’s Summit
Happiness is seeing all three of my books on the bookshelf at Reader’s World.
Seeing author friend, Dawn Downey, was definitely a HIGH POINT!
Former coworker and good friend, Theo Tatum.
Amy Richardson…I’ve been blessed with friends and readers from all over.
Allison Banaka Herndon, whose back is seen, but not her front.
With good friends Mark and Donna Shinn. Donna and I were icing slingers together.
The Summerfords…Conja Summerlin and Marie Gail Stratford are always supportive.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
A tweaked excerpt from my first novelPLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME.
Word Count: 100
CHARNEL HOUSE
Havah gazed out the window. Snowflakes like milk-white dove wings glimmered past the streetlamp and floated to the sidewalk.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful, Arel?”
“We had snow in the old country. It’s all the same.”
She grasped Arel’s hand and held it to her belly. Their unborn child kicked against his palm with such force Havah flinched. Brushing her lips across her husband’s disfigured cheek she fought the stone forming in her throat. One by one, faces of those who had perished before her eyes drifted through her memory.
“No, Arel, nothing will ever be the same.”
***
*Reviews do help sell books. If you’ve read any of the three, would you do this author a favor and leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads or both? Thank you.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Alice took a final puff from her cigarette. “Certainly, Father.”
“Despicable, unladylike habit.” He waltzed her across the ballroom. “Mother asked me to speak with you.”
“Stepmother. Did Emily Spinach sneak into mumsy’s boudoir again?”
“It’s not about your snake. We’re disturbed by your public escapades such as gambling and jumping into swimming pools fully clothed. Must you insist on being the center of attention?”
“Moi?” Alice Roosevelt bristled. “You’re the one who wants to be the bride at every wedding, the corpse at every funeral, and the baby at every christening.”
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Not even a light breeze blew through the open window. As it did every night, sleep eluded Myrtle Reed. Sweat oozed from skin-folds under her ample arms.
“Why doesn’t this so-called windy city offer some relief from this fiendish heat?” She glared at the clock. “Eleven-thirty, August 17, 1911.”
She searched the street below for James. “He’s probably passed out drunk somewhere. I was so wrong. Love is not an orchid which thrives on hot air.”
Raising a bottle of sleeping powder to her lips, the young authoress swallowed disappointed dreams. “Insomnia be damned—forever. Happy anniversary my ‘model husband.’”
The following story is a rework of an old story. I thought perhaps the addition of fifty words might help it along. I also think this one will be lengthened at a later date. Still rolling it around my head.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
SWING SHIFT
On Black Tuesday Pop lost his Wall Street job.
He sold everything of any value except Mom’s prized antique vase, our phonograph and his clarinet.
We moved from our Park Avenue apartment to a shabby house in Buffalo. Pop found employment as a night janitor.
One Sunday afternoon, drawn by phonograph music, I wandered into his room. Hunched over, he held a gun to his temple.
I screamed and knocked it from his grasp.
It discharged. The bullet ricocheted off the wall, whizzed through my hair and shattered Mom’s vase.
“Forgive me.” He crushed me against his chest. “I’ve forgotten what’s really important.”
After that Pop found solace playing his “licorice stick.” He delighted our neighbors at backyard barbeques.
At Mom’s urging, he auditioned for a local swing band. From 1935 to 1962 they toured the Borscht Belt.
Note: You can call me crabby or controlling if you like, but…over the past few weeks some writers are going way over the word limit. No one will be kicked out for doing so, but the challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. While I don’t take issue with a word or two over, last week one of them went over 200 words.
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
Think you’ve seen this photo before? You have. It’s been pointed out that I posted this prompt in February. 😯 A repost was unintentional, but is what it is. If you have a story for it you were happy with, feel free to use it. 😉 Thank you Dawn and Suzanne for pointing it out. This is a first. What was I thinking?
Not exactly a flash fiction and not exactly an excerpt. Here’s a scene from AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN.
OLIVE BRANCH
Nikolai Derevenko and his father had hardly spoken in twenty years so Sergei’s sudden appearance in Kansas City for his grandson’s graduation mystified him.
Sergei rotated the crank on the front of the car, starting the motor, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “It’s a Ford. Almost new—Model N, made in 1906,” he shouted over the clatter. “My gift. Tomorrow you learn to drive it.”
Nikolai scowled. “Thanks, but no thanks. God gave us legs and there are streetcars. With all of your frivolous spending you won’t have enough for your fare back to Russia.”
If you’ve made it this far down the page I hope you’ll take the time to watch the short video. Perhaps this is the reason I’ve been impressed of late to write so many Holocaust themed stories. I plan to post my picture on Twitter and Facebook. When push comes to shove there is one race…THE HUMAN RACE #WeRemember
Several times over the past few years, as I’ve painted “portraits” of my characters, someone has asked who I used for models. As a rule the answer is, “no one in particular.” In fact, I’ve often thought if I ever need a regular job, I could apply for one as a police sketch artist since I’ve become adept at composites: the eyes from one model coupled with a nose and mouth from another. “Oh, and that’s the perfect hairstyle.” I admit to using a few celebrity photos, although I try not to make them look like portraits. On the other hand, if it’s meant to be a portrait I’m a little more particular.
Google images and Pinterest are wonderful places to find vintage photos for the dress and hairstyles of the day. All great fun for the girl who used to get in trouble for daydreaming in class while drawing pictures. Of course those daydreaming episodes were practice for my future storytelling career. 😉
From my first chapters of PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME I’ve had a mental image of Havah Cohen.
Last week I had lunch with some friends. One of them brought an American history book he thought would come in handy for my research. It’s a lovely hardbound coffee table book with lots of pictures.
He opened it to a bookmarked page and pointed to a photo of a young Russian Jewish immigrant and said, “I thought you might know this lady.”
I suddenly felt like Karen Eiffel, (Emma Thompson) the author in the movie “Stranger than Fiction” coming face to face with Harold Crick (Will Ferrell). There she was, the girl whose voice I heard in my dreams. Do you agree?
This week Pegman has gone to Moscow. Many thanks to K Lawson for graciously hosting. To choose your own photo click here. Write your own flash fiction of 150 words or less. Click the blue frog to add your own link.
Here’s the photo I chose:
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 150
POETIC INJUSTICE
“I adored the stage,” said Bubbe Gittel of her time in the Moscow State Jewish Theater. “I had a crush on the director, Shlomo Mikhoels. What a performer he was!”
I switched off the TV. My grandmother’s stories beat summer reruns. Even in her 80’s she could still recite Shakespeare—in Yiddish.
“During the war Mr. Stalin kept us safe from Hitler and made Shlomo the head of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee. The show would always go on. So I thought.”
Bubbe’s smile faded. “The war ended and with it, Stalin’s favor.”
“What happened, Bubbe?”
“They called it an accident, but I saw it with my own eyes. A KGB monster shoved Shlomo in the path of a speeding truck. Other members of the committee were arrested for treason—poets and writers they were. Four years later, they were executed. Their real crime? We know what that was, don’t we?”
The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
I’ve gone ‘there’ again. When the muse leads, I follow. But as EagleEye so aptly coined last week, “It’s a time too horrible to remember, too vile to forget.”
THE SONG’S STILL HEARD IN SELVINO
“It’s almost sundown,” said “Uncle” Moshe Ze’iri.
Clenching his fists, David followed the others to the huge Sciesopoli dining room. The familiar aroma of chicken soup filled his nostrils. It stirred memories of home and his parents, slaughtered before his eyes. After three years of lice and torture, why should he trust this smiling stranger or the Italians who had allied themselves with the monster?
“Shalom aleynu,” sang Uncle Moshe, his face aglow in the Sabbath candles, his voice tender and melodious. “Peace upon us…”
In that sweet moment the stone in David’s chest softened and beat once more.
NATALYA, MOLDAVIA, THE PALE OF SETTLEMENT, EASTERN EUROPE, NOVEMBER 1899
Gunshots and screaming woke sixteen-year-old Havah Cohen from a sound and dreamless sleep. She ran to her window and saw flames shooting through the roof of the synagogue. Dense clouds of black smoke poured through the windows as men with shovels and rocks smashed the stained glass. By moonlight she could see her older brother lying beside the road in a bloodstained night shirt. Her other brother, a few feet away, lay face down.
“Papa!” She screamed when she saw him run from the inferno clutching the sacred scrolls.
~~From PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Above is the opening paragraph to my first novel PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME. To my knowledge, a shetl called Natalya, Moldavia never existed. On the other hand, the 1930 census lists my grandfather Sam Weiner’s birthplace as Rosinia, Poland which doesn’t seem to have existed either. I’ve searched the internet for every imaginable spelling. Then last year a Holocaust survivor from Poland confirmed what I’ve suspected for some time. Rosinia was probably one of those villages destroyed by pogromists.
I’ve often wondered how close to Havah’s story Grandpa’s came. All I know of his background came from my mother and a cousin. According to Mom, he came over from a part of the country that went from being part of Poland to being part of Russia. It was part of the Pale of Settlement in any case, the Jewish ghetto of Eastern Europe. Grandpa came to America at the age of 19 “with nothing but the shirt on his back.” He didn’t know his own birthday because those records that were kept in the synagogue had been destroyed. He taught himself to be a tailor.
Sam Weiner circa 1940-Something
History tells many stories of rabbis who sacrificed their lives to save the Torah scrolls. Havah’s father, Rabbi Shimon Cohen does just that as PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME opens.
At that moment Havah’s idyllic childhood ends and her journey begins. PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME, FROM SILT AND ASHES and recently released, AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN follow Havah, her friends and family from that night in 1899 to 1908.
Before the completion of AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN, my publisher asked if I would be interested in compiling a coffee table companion book that would include the character studies I’ve posted. It took a split second to answer that one! Presently I’m hard at work on this book which is due out this spring to be entitled:
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 