I’ve been given the opportunity to be interviewed on The Writer’s Block Radio Show. It’s a weekly program that, according to the creators, brings writers and readers together every Thursday night. My interview is scheduled for Thursday, November 17th at 7:00 PM Pacific Time.
Interviews can be done over the phone or live depending on the location of the interviewee. However—for me a big ‘however’ since we don’t have a landline—LA Talk Radio strongly discourages the use of cell phones as they tend to drop calls.
Television Interview on Fox 4 KC in April 2016.
With that little piece of information tucked away, I contacted my son, Travis who lives in LA. When I asked how far the studio is from him he answered, “Pretty close.”
Perhaps Olive and her Bubbe will do some artwork together. (I hope so.)
What better way to plan an unprecedented visit with my one and only grandchild? I’m pleased to announce that I’ve purchased my airline ticket and am looking forward to seeing my kids as well as doing the interview. Hm. Perhaps I’ll be able to schedule a book signing while I’m in the neighborhood?
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.
I’m not sure at this stage of the game when my next novel As One Must, One Can will be released. However this prompt is perfect for the following excerpt. The operative is excerpt and, admittedly, it is not a complete story. It is set in Kansas City, Missouri in the year 1908 where Arel Gitterman makes his living as a tailor.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 99
EXCERPT FROM AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN
Two electric fans only circulated hot air, thick with machine oil and chalk dust, in the tailor shop. Arel’s rigid collar irritated his neck and he pushed his wet hair from his forehead. His sewing machine hummed and afternoon light glinted off the bobbing needle as he guided a shirtsleeve under the presser foot. A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek and dripped onto the cuff.
Whipping the linen shirt off the table, he hurried to wash it before the stain could set in. A wave of nausea swept over him and a sharp pain seared his chest.
.
.
.
Thank you to our own GAH Learner for such a lovely review blog of PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME. (Click title to read.)
My journey continues, putting one foot in front of the other. When I began to write PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME I knew I had a story to tell. I pitched it as “The Dark Side of Fiddler on the Roof.” I wrote, rewrote and edited Havah Cohen Gitterman’s story, thinking I would stop with this one book. However, the voices in my head compelled me to continue the saga with FROM SILT AND ASHES.
At a point where I thought I’d completed the first two books I began to write AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN. However, I had to stop to go back to the first book..and the second book. For five years the third book languished in an unopened Word doc. file. When I returned to my 60,000 word, unfinished manuscript, I found that my characters had grown, changed and gone in different directions than I’d originally anticipated. Not to mention that, after ten years I had also grown and changed as a writer. Perhaps 20,000 of those original 60,000 words survived the overhaul.
My agent, Jeanie Loiacono and W& B Publishing turned up the heat this summer by giving me a July deadline with the promise of a contract. Setting aside all writing time to devote to Havah, I sent Friday Fictioneers into reruns.
COMING SOON!
My story has a happy “ending.” The manuscript has been submitted and approved. Contracts with both agent and publisher are signed. Artwork for the inside of the book is complete and I await the proof copy to make any last minute edits.
Below are the divider pages for AS ONE MUST, ONE CAN to whet your appetite.
Four times a year a group of writers from all over the Midwest and beyond gather to share writing and marketing tips. Often agents and editors are invited to share their expertise and take pitches from aspiring authors. The conferences are free to members, save the motel fee and food costs.
With fellow authors Caroline Giammanco and Diane Yates
Madison Woods, OWL friend and creator of Friday Fictioneers.
My first time at a conference was in the summer of 2007. I’d “completed” PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME and was interested in finding an agent. I really didn’t expect to find anyone in an organization with the word Ozarks to be interested in my Jewish historical novel.
How wrong can a person be? I found not only interest but a group of generous mentors. Each time I went to a workshop, I learned something new which precipitated a rewrite. One of the most significant classes was on how to pitch a book to an agent in five sentences.
Jeanie Loiacono and Me
The panel: Publisher Duke Pennell, Publisher Lou Turner, Editor Alex Hess, Agent Jeanie Loiacono
Over the years I’ve made some good friends and met people who have been instrumental in changing my life. The first is Lou Turner, founder of High Hill Press. In 2010, after I’d submitted short stories to ECHOES OF THE OZARKS and VOICES, two OWL publications, she invited me to compile my own anthology for HHP. In the process I learned a lot from her short story editor, Delois McGrew.
I’ve had the opportunity to pitch to and be turned down by a few agents until I met Jeanie Loiacono at the May 2012 conference. She now represents my two novels and is reading my third.
When I joined OWL in 2007 I was in awe of the authors with their tables. Now in 2016 I’m blessed to have three books of my own and one on the way.
Visiting old friends and meeting new ones made for a pleasant weekend. I was thrilled to see Lou and Delois. Jeanie was also one of the speakers. Hugs all around.
OWL art and photo contest winners.
My paintings took first and second place in the annual art contest.
Alex Hess, an editor from Skyhorse Publishing in NY spoke to us about the ever changing face of the publishing industry. I hope to implement some of her suggestions on using social media in the not too distant future.
President of OWL, Diane Yates, asked the two biggest hams in the group to open Friday night with entertainment. Ronda Del Boccio captured us on video.
“More pogroms. And so close.” Rabbi Yussel Gitterman’s sightless eyes filled with tears.
Eighteen-year-old Arel Gitterman pulled his coat around his ears and shivered, partly from cold and partly with rage. What had they done to make the Christians hate them so much? “We should retaliate. We should gather all of the young men—”
“Shah! Such nonsense!”
“Ouch! Papa, is it unreasonable for men to protect their homes?”
“Remember, my son. A soft answer turns away wrath.”
“How can you say that, Papa? Last night innocent people were murdered in their beds all over the countryside. Did they have time to make an answer—of any kind?”
Hershel Levine’s green eyes flashed. “The lad makes sense, Yussel. There is much cruelty in the world. Sometimes one has to wonder what the Almighty is thinking.”
“So, Hershel, my old friend, do you think the three of us, an old cantor, a blind rabbi and a boy who’s barely able to squeeze out a whisker are going to seek revenge on those animals with their guns and Czar Nicolas, may his name be blotted out?”
Arel gritted his teeth. “Reb Pinkas said he heard the Christians burned down a synagogue. A rabbi died trying to protect the sacred scrolls. Papa, it could just as easily have been you.”
“Reb Pinkas is up early bearing his tales. Yes, it could have been any Jew in this land, my Son.” Yussel patted his shoulder. “It’s dangerous to be a Jew in this Pale of Settlement. But now let’s tend to matters at hand. It’s Shabbes, the Sabbath, and we have a synagogue to prepare for morning services.”
“Yes, Papa.” Arel knew from experience arguing with his father would not accomplish anything. Still his anger boiled because they were Jews who lived in poverty under the tyranny of the Russians. Prisoners in their own country, unable own land and denied education beyond their Hebrew schools.
For the next few moments Yussel’s cane tapping along the frozen ground was the only sound. Each man lost in his own thoughts, they approached the synagogue, the largest building in the Jewish quarter of Svechka.
To call a backward village “The Candle” was a contradiction. Arel supposed at some point in time the Russians considered it a place of enlightenment.
~~Taken from Please Say Kaddish for Me by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
To the best of my knowledge, the shtetl or village known in Please Say Kaddish for Me as Svechka only exists in the author’s imagination. Like Anatevka in Fiddler on the Roof it represents the many villages scattered throughout Eastern Europe during the 19th and early 20th centuries.
Shtetl is Yiddish for “little town.” These villages ranged in size from several hundred residents to several thousand. The Jews usually lived within the town while the Gentiles tended to live on the outskirts. Central to the Jewish community was the Synagogue and Kahal, the community council. Most of the shtetl Jews were artisans and shop owners while the scholars were the revered minority. Both Arel and Havah, the children of rabbis, have grown up in their respective shtetls, Natalya and Svechka, as members of the elite part of their societies.
Enjoy a little taste of what their world was like.
Note: If you’ve read and enjoyed either or both of my books, please leave a review on Amazon.com and any of the other sites. I ask for Amazon primarily because of the scope of influence. Thank you.
With his elbow on the counter, he [Arel] rested his chin on his hand which he used to cover his left cheek. He waved his other hand over an official looking sheet of paper in front of him.
“What’s that?” Havah asked.
“It’s an indictment from His Honor Judge Wallace. I could go to prison.”
“What crime did you commit?”
“I’ve opened my shop on Sunday instead of Saturday.”
“And this is a crime?”
“According to him and his Sunday labor law, we’re required to observe the Christian Sabbath or pay a penalty. We may open our shops but if we sell anything we are in violation.”
“I don’t understand this man. Ulrich and Dr. Florin call themselves Christians and even go to church on Sunday. They are kind and gentle—nothing like that judge.”
A lump formed in the pit of Havah’s stomach. “Arel, you don’t suppose…” She envisioned the police smashing the window. They beat Arel with their clubs while he pled for mercy. Next they came after Rachel.
Havah shook off her grisly daydream and remembered her chance meeting with President Roosevelt at Ellis Island. Imagine—the ruler of the United States taking the time so speak with a Jewish peasant girl from Moldavia. Such a man would never allow another Kishinev or Odessa to happen in his great country.
She took the indictment in her hand and crumpled it in her fist. “Every ass likes to hear himself bray.”
In this last book of the trilogy, Havah finds a formidable nemesis in Judge William H. Wallace who was described by the Kansas City newspapers as a crusader for the Sunday Blue Law. During his tenure as criminal court judge, he handed out over a reported 7,000 indictments. At odd times his deputies arrested cigar dealers, druggists and even music conductors in the midst of performances if they fell on Sunday. No one was exempt.
One article quotes him as referring to the Jews as evil for their observance of Sunday on Saturday. It was only natural for Havah to fear a pogrom in her new country. She had experienced Antisemitism at its worst and recognized the signs.
***
This article, as written below, appeared in The Kansas City Journal, October 3, 1908
NOW HE TARGETS THE JEWS.
Judge Wallace Says Jews Must Keep
Their Stores Closed on Sunday.
Not only is Judge Wallace going after the theater managers, pool hall proprietors, barber and tobacco dealers, but from now on his righteous wrath is to be visited upon the wicked citizens of Jewish extraction who keep their second hand clothing stores open on Sunday. According to his special prosecutor it makes no difference to Judge Wallace that the religious belief of these dealers does cause them to observe Saturday as the Sabbath and that their places of business are tightly closed that day — they will be prosecuted just as vigorously if they open on Sunday. When the Wallace Sunday closing crusade was started a statement was authorized by the court to the effect that provided the Jews of the city observed Saturday as Sunday they would be exempt from prosecution, but it is now stated that there has been a misconception as to this statement. Why the misconception has not been corrected before does not yet appear. “Under the law,” said the court’s spokesman, “if the Jews observe Saturday as Sunday they are exempt from prosecution so far as labor is concerned, that is, they may work on Sunday; but this exemption does not allow them to sell goods and they are to be prosecuted if they do. Already two indictments for this offense have been found by the grand jury and the offenders will appear in court the first of next week.” Therefore, if the Jew merchants of the city are so disposed, they may keep their stores open on Sunday, but if they sell anything the heavy hand of the law will be laid upon them. The explanation of the law as interpreted by Judge Wallace in this matter does not include a clear view of the fine distinction between what is called “work” and selling second-hand clothes. That this new interpretation of the law will work a distinct hardship on the Jew dealer whose religious scruples will not allow him to do business on Saturday goes without saying for it effectually shuts him off from selling his goods on two days out of seven. “I think the Sunday law will be pretty generally observed tomorrow,” said the special prosecutor. “In fact, I think 98 per cent of the places which have heretofore been in the habit of doing business on Sunday will be found closed. The grand jury will proceed with its work Monday morning, at which time the rest of the theater managers whom we did not have time to arraign this week will be brought into court.
Note: If you’ve read and enjoyed either or both of my books, please leave a review on Amazon.com and any of the other sites. I ask for Amazon primarily because of the scope of influence. Thank you.
Twelve years ago I began a journey. I really had no idea where it would lead, I simply put one foot in front of the other and wrote. PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME began as an exploration of my own Eastern European background and Polish roots. I quickly detoured and ended up in Kishinev, Moldova, the scene of the first internationally recognized pogrom. This is where I met Havah who took my hand and told me her story.
When our journey began, I had a dream and rudimentary knowledge of how to put my thoughts into words. Along the pathway I had the good fortune of meeting those who guided me to workshops, conferences and critique groups to learn the craft.
When I think of those who wrote their manuscripts in longhand or on a typewriter, I’m grateful for the such wonderful tools as backspace and copy and paste. Without which my novels might never have happened.
My paternal grandmother, Miriam Reuben Wisoff who was a published poet.
Wonder of wonders, the dream that I considered a lofty one has been realized and I have two novels in print and one on the way. Many thanks go out to my agent, Jeanie Loiaconao who believed in Havah and worked hard to find a home for her at Argus Books.
So begins the next leg of the journey. Marketing. Book Signings, interviews and social media are all part of the modern world of marketing. The author must become the promoter.
Having said all that, I come to conclusion of this blog post. One thing that sells a book is a great review. Goodreads, Barnes and Noble and Amazon are good places. Currently PLEASE SAY KADDISH has 48 reviews on Amazon and FROM SILT AND ASHES, 9.
If you’ve read and enjoyed (naturally I hope for positive reviews) please consider taking a few minutes to leave a review. This author humbly thanks you in advance.
Note: For overseas friends, please copy your comments into Amazon.com in addition to leaving them on the UK or other sites. I’m not sure why this doesn’t carry over. I think it should.
Wednesday, May 11 with Arlo Guthrie singing “City of New Orleans” in my head, I boarded the Am Trak headed to Chicago. There I planned to connect with friend and author of BANK NOTES, Caroline Giammanco, for the BEA 2016, Book Expo. Our publisher, W&B Publishers had included our books with six other titles on the indie book display.
Selfie on AmTrak
One of the bright points of my journey was a stopover to change trains in St. Louis. This gave me the pleasure of catching up with long time friend, Kent Martin. Thirty minutes sped by and it didn’t seem like over thirty years since we’d last seen each other.
With Kent Martin in St. Louis
All together the trip took over ten hours with all of the stops. I enjoyed sightseeing and unfettered writing time on my netbook. Not only that, I didn’t have to use up battery power since the trains are equipped with outlets and free wifi.
My son Christian and his sweetheart, Sarah, opened their home in Evanston to Caroline and me which saved us a lot of room and board. Since I don’t see my kids as often as I’d like, this was a joyful bonus for me.
Enjoying some family time with my youngest son.
We bought three-day passes for the CTA and Sarah gave us instructions. We would take the purple line, transfer to the red line on the way and visa versa on the way back. We pretty much had the hang of it by the end of the first day.
With author and friend Caroline Giammanco
From Evanston to downtown Chicago is an hour commute. However, with two chatty women, it never seemed that long. Friday brought us a surprise when we found ourselves on the purple line express which stopped sooner than the day before.Not being familiar with streets and stops we were unsure of what to do. A young man came to the rescue and told us we could indeed take the red line from that stop to our destination.
When I thanked him he said, “Shabbat shalom.” I wondered how he knew I was Jewish until I remembered my ubiquitous Star of David around my neck. I returned the greeting and he showed me his Star of David, a locket with a picture of his parents and another of his son. He asked where we were from and I took a copy of PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME from my bag to show and told him about the expo. His face lit up. He told me he was looking for gifts for his family and my books would be perfect. After we boarded the train, I gave him my card. He generously shared some of his life story in which his Jewish faith played a huge part. I hope one day to hear from him again. At any rate, I won’t soon forget him.
The expo was a great place to make connections and develop a feel for the industry. There are so many facets to it and I have so much to learn.
With author Gregory Solsrud
In addition to my own book, my artwork is on the cover of Douglas Cameron’s book, Wings of a Butterfly.
Seeing PLEASE SAY KADDISH FOR ME on display gave me a surge of pride.When I started writing the story, I had an idea and what I considered a lofty dream. Would anyone really be interested in my Havah and her trials? Nonetheless, I kept at it—writing, rewriting and pitching to various agents, until Jeanie Loiacono found the story worthy of publication.
Other trips, conferences and book signings loom large on the horizon as Havah’s journey continues in FROM SILT AND ASHES and the third book in progress. The title of it has become my motto, AS ONE MUST ONE CAN.
The following photo is the PROMPT. Keep in mind that all photos are the property of the contributor, therefore copyrighted and require express permission to use for purposes other than Friday Fictioneers. Giving credit to whom credit is due is proper etiquette. This week the photo is one of mine.
Quinnon’s drunken accusations reprised like a canon in Ulrich’s head. How could Quinnon accuse his own sister of murder? No one could deny she had a fiery temper—but murder? Surely not!
Ulrich stood on the ship’s deck beside her. The moon’s reflections flickered on the waves like radiant sea creatures. A salt laden breeze ruffled his hair and chilled him through his thin shirt. Despite his raging mind, he relished the cool ocean spray on his face.
Catherine leaned her head on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Ulrich?”
Sol Mayer was born in Moldavia. When he was a child he moved to Poland with his parents who became successful shop owners. There he met and married his wife Zelda. Together, they immigrated to America where he owns Mayfair, a profitable dry goods store in Kansas City.
By most standards the Mayers are wealthy. While Zelda enjoys all that money affords and is wont to put on airs, Sol never forgets his humble shtetl beginnings. Although he owns a mansion on Quality Hill, he would be happy in a shanty as long as he had his wife and daughter, Wendy, at his side. He is known by the community for fairness, generosity and a quick wit.
***
In the following scene, Havah and Arel’s daughter Rachel is not quite two years old.
The long narrow shop smelled of leather, licorice, and chocolate, but for the most part, it reeked of Sol’s cigars. Havah moved between rows of shelves filled with dolls, toy trains and stacks of canned food until she found the tooth powder.
Behind the counter Sol Mayer smiled at her, his cigar clenched between his teeth. Smoke tendrils framed his bulldog jowls. He took a peppermint stick from a glass jar and held it out to Rachel who wriggled in her pram.
“Looks like the little maideleh needs one of these.”
“What she really needs is an n-a-p. But c-a-n-d-y might keep her quiet for a while.” Havah opened her coin purse.
“Put your money away, Mrs. Gitterman. My treat.” Sol walked around the counter and knelt. He handed the candy to Rachel who popped the tip of it into her mouth.
“What do you say to the nice man, Rukhel Shvester?” Havah snapped her purse clasp shut.
“Senk oo.”
“Amazing!” Sol patted the child’s head. “Wendy didn’t start talking until she was almost three. Of course she hasn’t stopped to take a breath since. Just like her mother.” He brushed his hand over his balding head and winked at her. “I had a full head of hair when I married Zelda.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 