The Passion for Writing Series: Author Heidi M. Thomas

Heidi M. Thomas grew up on a working ranch in eastern Montana with a love of books and a grandmother who rode bucking stock in rodeos. Describing herself as “born with ink in her veins,” Heidi followed her dream of writing with a journalism degree from the University of Montana and later turned to her first love, fiction, to write her grandmother’s story.

Heidi’s first novel, Cowgirl Dreams, has won an EPIC Award and the USA Book News Best Book Finalist award.

Follow the Dream is the second book in the “Dare to Dream” series about strong, independent Montana Women and is a WILLA Literary Award winner.

Heidi is a member of Women Writing the West, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Western Writers of America, and the Northwest Independent Editors Guild. She is also a manuscript editor, and teaches memoir and fiction writing classes in the Pacific Northwest.

Learn more about Heidi at/on: [Her website] [Her blog] [Facebook] [Twitter] [LinkedIn]


The Passion for Writing - From Heidi's Pen
Where does your passion for writing come from?
I’ve always been an avid reader and I love creating with words. I want to tell the stories of the strong, independent women who were my foremothers.

If your passion for writing was a color, what color would it be and why?
Sometimes it is red and sometimes it is teal. Sometimes my creative passion burns bright and other times it is calm but steady.

How do you keep the passion burning in your relationship with storytelling?
I wish I knew how to keep it red-hot, but maybe it’s good that I don’t, because I might burn out. Starting a new project gives me that excitement. Deadlines and discipline help keep it on an even keel.



[Buy your copy of Follow the Dream today!]
Nettie Moser’s dreams are coming true. She’s married to her cowboy, Jake, they have plans for a busy rodeo season, and she has a once in a lifetime opportunity to rodeo in London with the Tex Austin Wild West Troupe.

But life during the Great Depression brings unrelenting hardships and unexpected family responsibilities. Nettie must overcome challenges to her lifelong rodeo dreams, cope with personal tragedy, survive drought, and help Jake keep their horse herd from disaster.

Will these challenges break this strong woman?

This sequel to Cowgirl Dreams is based on the life of the author’s grandmother, a real Montana cowgirl.

Excerpt from Follow the Dream

Sunday, July 14, 1929
Spring rains never came this year. The little bit of grass that came up is
nearly gone. Used up rest of the hay already. Jake’s not himself. I’m really
worried....

When they watched the skies now, it was with a tingling sense of hope and dread. The clouds built up over the rims, dark and angry, then dispersed as the hot winds blew them to nothing.

In June, Jake had only shrugged when the thunderheads passed over and splattered just a few hard raindrops like bullets into the dust. There was always a chance that the next storm would dump its load and the grass would come back, resurrected from its hardpan grave.

Each time the sky grew dark, Nettie ran to gather clothes from the line, shut the windows in the house and bring four-year-old Neil in. While their son played cowboy on a saddle in the kitchen, she and Jake prepared themselves, anticipating the long, drowsy afternoons of gentle rain when they could rest without guilt as the earth replenished itself. But disappointment always followed one brief, hopeful interlude after another. As summer wore on, the clouds produced nothing more than a frightening display of heat lightning, the air so charged with electricity that the hair on Nettie’s arms stood up. She thirsted for a view of something green, the smell of new grass. A silent vigilance overtook their lives.

She watched the tension pull at Jake, his hopeful expectation as the sky darkened, the half-smile when he heard the first clap of thunder, and then the slump of his shoulders when the storm again passed them by. Her heart ached for him, and fear built inside like the thunderheads on the hills.

He no longer whistled in the mornings. It had been weeks since she had seen him joke and wrestle playfully with Neil. He rode out every morning, but more and more often he returned with nothing. The drought had killed or driven off the coyote’s food supply, too.

Disappointment pooled inside Nettie like the rain puddles she craved. One evening in the deepening shadows of dusk Nettie saw Jake sitting on the rock by the corral, his face buried in his hands. Cold fear swept her, stopped her from calling out. Her feet felt too heavy to move. Her strong, invincible cowboy seemed beaten. If he had no hope, what was left?

Spotlight on Author Saundra's HER SWEETEST REVENGE

Saundra Jones grew up in Cleveland, Mississippi and as an adult now resides in Indiana. Saundra works as an assistant property manager for a government agency in the public housing sector. She is married with two daughters ages 11 and 5. Originally, she started writing screenplays at the age of twelve, and as an adult, her need to create intensified. This intensity produced her first self-published novella titled Owning Up. Unable to stop there and with the voices and emails of fans requesting more, she penned two more novels. Her journey as a published writer began with Delphine Publications in 2012. She is currently working on her next project.

[Available at Amazon]
Mya Bedford is a seventeen-year-old daddy's girl from the Brewster Douglas Project in Detroit. When her father is sent to prison, and her mother suddenly develops a drug habit, making it her number one priority; it is up to Mya to raise her younger brother and sister. Alone and aware of the grimy hustle of the streets, Mya hopes to find another path for survival. But when the leader of the a notorious gang severely beats her mother for stealing money from him, Mya vows revenge on his crew by robbing them at gunpoint and hiding her identity behind a mask. Mya successfully pulls off her first robbery against one of them, but then she meets and falls in love with the very person who is attached to her enemy and is now determined to keep her secret a secret. However, when Mya's secret starts to unravel and death knocks at her door, things go horribly wrong. Mya learns that hurt and happiness are one and the same, but you have to have blood on your hand first.

Excerpt

After the visit with my dad I headed straight back to the Brewster feeling a little relieved and trying to figure out what he was talking about. As I approached my building I could see Li’l Bo standing in the hallway. Before I got to him I could tell that he was upset.

“What’s up, Li’l Bo? Why are you standing out here?” I questioned him as I felt myself getting nervous.

“Momma!” Li’l Bo eyes were filled with tears. “One of these suckaniggas beat her. And she won’t say who,” Li’l Bo said in short, hurried breaths.

“What!” I screamed. I pushed past him and rushed up the ten flights of stairs to get to our floor since the elevator was broken again. Shit is always broke in these damn projects. I’m so tired by the time I run up all those stairs I can barely breathe. The door was wide open to our apartment, and the living room looked like it’s been tossed.

“Ma!” I shouted out heading straight to her room. “Oh, GOD!” I screamed but I didn’t even hear the words as they left my mouth. One look at her face sent rage through me. Her naturally red bone face was black and blue, her right eye was swollen shut, and her bottom lip was covered in crusty dried-up blood. “Come on, Momma, we gotta get you to a hospital.” I reached down and tried to lift her off the bed.

“No, Mya. I’ll be OK.” One single tear rolled down her already soaked face.

“I’ve been trying to get her to go to the hospital, Mya, but she won’t listen.” Monica tried to speak through her choked up voice. Her face was also swollen from crying.

“You need to go to the hospital, Momma. Something could be broken, and why are you holding your arm like that? Can you move it? Do you think it’s broken?” I reached over to help her lift the arm up, but she quickly pushed me off.

“Ugh, ugh, Mya, don’t touch it.” She tried to lift it herself. “AGGHH!” she screamed in agonizing pain.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but it hurts like hell.” She bent over in pain.

“Fuck all this, I’m calling the cops.” I rushed over to grab the phone off the dresser, but the cord got caught under my shoe and it fell to the floor.

“No, no, Mya!” she shouted. “Don’t do that. You’ll only make it worse. I’ll be OK,” she begged me.

“Well, tell me who did this. Who did this to you?” I shouted again.

“That doesn’t matter. I’m OK,” she tried to convince me.

“Monica, leave the room.” I pointed toward the door.

“But—” Monica tried to protest.

“Monica, leave the room. Now!” I screamed.

Monica got off the bed slowly and walked out. I slammed the door behind her. In a quiet voice I demanded answers from Momma.

“I want to know who did this to you and why. I won’t leave this room until I know.”

“Why does it matter, Mya? I ain’t shit but a prostitute and crack ho,” she said calmly while looking off into space. “This type of thing is bound to happen to me . . . or worse. I’m lucky every day if somebody don’t rape me and leave me for dead in an alley.”

Not trying to hear a word she was saying, I broke her trance when I got directly in her face and started screaming at her. “Do you think it’s okay for someone to do this to you? And then you try to protect him? Tell me now, goddamit!” I screamed again. “Who did this to you?” The look in my eyes had to be raging because my insides felt like they were on fire.

I think I surprised her with my rage because she had shock in her eyes. “Mya, I’m still your mother regardless of my fucked life,” she said, her voice still calm.

“Right now you are acting like a teenager, Ma, but you don’t have to tell me who did this to you. I already know. This got Squeeze’s name all over it.” I turned to leave the room, but before I did she started talking.

“He came over while y’all was gone, okay? Is that what you wanna hear, Mya?” With agonizing pain written across her face she repositioned herself on the bed. “We had sex. When we were finished he went to the bathroom to take a shower. He came outta the bathroom and started getting dressed, and then he went into his pants’ pocket and started counting his stack. All of a sudden he starts accusing me of stealing from him. I told him I didn’t touch his stuff. And, Mya, I swear I didn’t.” She looked me straight in the eye convincingly.

“I didn’t move out of this bed when he went into that bathroom. I would never steal from a crazy-ass nigga, but he wouldn’t listen to me, Mya.” She started to cry. Seeing my momma cry sent me into more tears. “The next thing I know he was punching me. I must’ve passed out sometime during the beating. I don’t know what happened after that. When I woke up, Monica was standing over me screaming.”

“I knew he did this.” I broke down on the floor. “I hate living here. I hate our life.” At that moment everything my dad said to me suddenly seemed clear. These streets were grimy, and the only thing that was free in the street was hurt and pain. I stood up, wiped my face, and walked toward my mother’s bedroom door.

Mom jumped off the bed and grabbed me with her good hand. Unable to see straight because of that swollen eye and the pain she stumbled. “Mya, don’t tell Li’l Bo. I’m afraid for him, and if knows he might try to kill Squeeze. I don’t want to see him locked up or shot up by the Boone Squad. I just couldn’t take it.” She reached out and wrapped her good arm around me. For the first time in four years I felt like I had my momma back.

I quickly released myself from her embrace. “Even though Squeeze deserves exactly what he’ll get one day, I won’t tell Li’l Bo. But only because I love my brother. I don’t give a fuck about Squeeze or what may happen to him.”

I opened the door and left her room with a calm feeling that for some reason sent chills down my spine.

5-Latte Review of Liz DeJesus' FIRST FROST

[Available in print at BN and Amazon]
For generations, the Frost family has run the Museum of Magical and Rare Artifacts, handing down guardianship from mother to daughter, always keeping their secrets to “family only.”

Gathered within museum’s walls is a collection dedicated to the Grimm fairy tales and to the rare items the family has acquired: Cinderella’s glass slipper, Snow White’s poisoned apple, the evil queen’s magic mirror, Sleeping Beauty’s enchanted spinning wheel…

Seventeen-year-old Bianca Frost wants none of it, dreaming instead of a career in art or photography or…well, anything except working in the family’s museum. She knows the items in the glass display cases are fakes because, of course, magic doesn’t really exist.

She’s about to find out how wrong she is.


5 out of 5 lattes


I've been a fan of Liz DeJesus and her mystical, fantastical tales for years, and she has only improved her game and skills with First Frost. I thoroughly enjoyed the novel: the characters, the situation, the tension, everything. DeJesus gives us a wonderfully complex and cool character in Bianca, and her development of First Frost's other major players and the fantasy world that Bianca journeys through kept me locked into the story. As I read, I could easily see this story as something to be seen on the big screen. DeJesus' imagination always keeps me on my toes, giving me something unique and interesting to read. I look forward to seeing what she does next in this adventure.

The Passion for Writing Series: Author Shewanda Pugh

Shewanda Pugh is a native of Boston’s inner city, though she now lives in sunny Miami, Florida. She has a bachelor’s degree in Political Science from Alabama A&M University and a Master’s in Writing from Nova Southeastern University. Fueled from a young age, her passion for crossing societal boundaries like race, class and culture, is the inspiration for both her cluttered bookshelf and her writing. When she’s not busy obsessing over fiction, she can be found traveling, nursing her social networking addiction or enjoying the company of loved ones.

Learn more about Shewanda at/on: [Her website] [Facebook] [Twitter] [Her blog]


The Passion for Writing - From Shewanda's Pen
Where does your passion for writing come from?
From within. It's innate and fed by a constant need to read, communicate, and create.

If your passion for writing was a color, what color would it be and why?
Red. Red's the color of passion and fury; it's the color that draws the eye.

How do you keep the passion burning in your relationship with storytelling?
I write everyday, 365 days a year, no matter how I feel, no matter what else is going on in the world.


[Buy your copy of Crimson Footprints at Amazon]
When an insecure, bi-racial woman begins a cloak-and-dagger love affair with a Japanese American man, she is intent on keeping her bigoted family in the dark—albeit with devastating consequences. On the night of her brother’s murder, Deena Hammond stumbles upon Takumi Tanaka, lost and on the wrong end of a .32. After rescuing him from the certain fate driving through the hood in a Porsche will bring, a sweet kind of friendship begins. A balm for her grief. Maybe, Deena likes to think, it happened the day her white mother killed her black father. Or maybe, it was always a part of them, like DNA gone bad. Whatever the case, Deena knows that her family would never approve, hell, never acknowledge her fast-growing love for Takumi. And had he never made love to her that way, in that unraveling, soul-searching sort of way, she could’ve done the same. But love’s a devil that way. So, their game begins. One where they hide what they are from everyone. Anyone. And Tak understands this—for now. After all, Deena’s career hinges on the favor of her mentor and boss, his hard-ass of a father. And the Hammond family is already stretched thin with grief. Yet, each step Deena takes toward family and career brings her closer to an acceptance she’s never had. And away from him.

Excerpt from Crimson Footprints

“I wish that I didn’t want my family’s love so bad. I wish I could be one of those people who wore leather jackets and didn’t give a damned.”

Tak shot her a look. “You’d be musty if you wore a leather jacket in this heat.”

Deena grinned. “You know what I mean.”

He shrugged. “Who doesn’t want a decent family, Dee? It’s not much to ask for.”

Tak paused to pluck a seashell from the sand. Chipped and polished by time, it shone under the glint of a fast setting sun. “I don’t know the answers,” he said. “But they seem to be in things like this,” he held up the shell.

She frowned. “I don’t follow.”

He shrugged. “Well think about it. What’s a shell? It’s just a—a hard, protective outer layer.” He hurled it in the ocean. “The same is true with family. They’re an outer layer, a protection from the world. At least that’s what they’re supposed to be.” He paused. “Think about what happens when you screw with an animal that has one of those hard shells. What does he do?”

“He goes into it.”

“Right. He retreats.” He thumbed the shell thoughtfully. “Now imagine if you were to rip the shell off a turtle and expose him. What do you think you’d find?”

Deena cringed. “Something soft and hurting.

“And dead, if not close to it. So, our hypothetical turtle, who’s able to stand our shell transplant, needs another shell, another form of protection. And so do you.” Tak handed the grooved and sand-polished subject to Deena. She looked down at it.

“So, how’ve I been surviving all this time? What’s my shell?”

Tak grinned. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know when I crack it.”

Copyright by Shewanda Pugh

5-Latte Review of Dr. Lonie McMichael's TALKING FAT

[Available in print at BN and Amazon / Also available for Kindle]


5 out of 5 lattes


As a full-figured woman who constantly struggles with her weight and with societal beliefs about weight, about being fat, I was intrigued to read Dr. Lonie McMichael's Talking Fat: Health vs Persuasion in the War on Our Bodies. There is a prejudice against fat that runs rampant throughout the country. McMichael states early in her book that this prejudice is "based on two faulty premises: that fat people are fat because they eat too much and exercise too little, and that fat in and of itself is unhealthy." From here, McMichael argues that the war with fat people in America is not about health. What is it about? To name a few, prejudice, money, and scapegoats. This book is personal, it's critical, and it's expansive. It's about a scholar adept in rhetoric and communication looking from the outside in to understand how America talks about fat, how people are persuaded to think about fat and related terms, and what consequences arise when people believe the rhetoric and do not question it and its purposes. Personally, reading this book was liberating. It helped to unshackle rigid thoughts and beliefs I held and gave me a new vocabulary to discuss this topic. This is definitely the type of book we need to be reading so that we can have some real, authentic conversations about fat acceptance and weight issues in America.

What Not to Eat ~ Blog Tour Stop of Author Julia Press Simmons

I have known Julia for a long time now, since her first book, Strawberry Mansion. She is a strong-willed chica, an in-your-face writer, a real writer, and in her latest project, Fuck It, I'm Fat: My Weight Loss Journey..., she let's it all hang out as she gets even more real and personal. Her story is one that others on the road to healthier living and breaking of food addiction should hear. I'm honored to have her on CLG as she marches through her FIIF Blog Tour.


Everyone, meet Julia!

|||||

Hello everyone. My name is Julia Press Simmons. Welcome to the third stop on my Fuck It, I’m Fat Blog Tour!

MY BIG AND SEXY HAS BECOME BIG AND DEADLY Well, actually, it has been deadly for quite some time. I was diagnosed with diabetes in 2005, but I've been fat-as-fuck since forever. I've lived a hard life, and food has always been my source of comfort. Whenever I'd go through something, anything, I'd eat, and eat, and eat. It didn't matter if I was full, I didn't eat to get full, I ate to feel better and it never ever worked. Dear Readers, I must have started this book hundreds of times over the last few years, but could never bring myself to complete it until now. I'm no longer afraid to face the truth. I'm 34 years old and I have a wicked food addiction and a serious lack of impulse control. They say the first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Whoop, here it is. Thank you all so much for the love and support.

Yours truly, Julia

[Available at Amazon]

TODAY’S TOPIC, WHAT NOT TO EAT

In 2009 I came home penniless, heartbroken, and really sick. I was eating myself into a deathbed. I started looking into various diets, until I realized I needed to change my lifestyle. I knew that certain foods were bad for me, but I didn’t know why.

“I have a love-hate relationship with McDonald’s. Before I started writing full time, I worked twelve to sixteen hours a day. I got used to eating at fast food restaurants several times a shift. One of the nurses that I worked with told me that I was slowly killing myself. She said that one meal from McDonald’s was about the total amount of calories that I should have for the entire day.”

I hit Google and the library with a vengeance. I wanted to demystify all the usual weight loss terms such as: metabolism, processed foods, calorie consumption, the list goes on and on. I needed more understanding because nothing I did was working for me. I’ve learned that for me, it is easier to stay away from certain foods when I understand the impact on my health.

In Fuck It, I’m Fat, I outlined the foods that I am avoiding with brief explanations of why. Take, for example, Processed Foods – every single person who tried to stage an intervention for my junk food addiction has warned me about the dangers of eating processed foods. But how the hell do you do that when almost all food is processed these days? I have found that the answer lies in the ingredients. There are levels to food processing, and you can figure out the level by checking the label. The closer the food is to its organic state, the better. If the ingredients contain a bunch of chemicals that I can’t pronounce, I don’t put it in my mouth.

My greatest wish is that once you read this book, you will have a general understanding of food addiction and a working knowledge of what causes obesity.

The book is available on both Kindle and Nook.

Watch this video below for a chance to win a copy of the book and another gift!



Julia Press Simmons is the CEO of QMB Publishing and the author of five novels: Strawberry Mansion, Begonia Brown, Violet, Fornication Volume One & Two. She currently has a miniseries called Dawn of Destruction running on Amazon and BN.com. She is an award-winning spoken word artist, and playwright. She has recently been nominated for poet of the year by AAMBC. Her play Down There was selected by the Shades of Black Festival Emerging Playwright’s Series in Nashville, Tenn. Down There also received a staged reading by the African American Playwriting Exchange in New York City. She lives in Pennsylvania with her family. Julia is currently working on her next novel, SM4: A Hustler’s Heart.

Follow Julia on on Twitter.

Subscribe to her on Facebook.

Visit Julia's blog.


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Lattes, Location & Writing - ChickLitGurrl Talks

[freecodesource.com pictures]

Back in February while I was still in Lubbock, I dreamed about being back home in Lake Charles, LA and all the time I would spend in cafés, sipping on the decadent lattes I love and writing.

I moved back to Lake Charles on March 1.

I have been in no cafés since my return.

I have had no decadent lattes.

Just the sexy coffee I make at home.

Why?

A lot of things, mostly being tired from the move, dealing with a lot of emotional, mental, spiritual, physical baggage in the transition from TX to LA. Mostly being from trying to get my mind to work so that I could focus on my dissertation. Mostly being from trying to find ways to supplement my income.

But the truth, the real truth?

I had no desire to write.

Cafés have always been inspirational places for me. I think to be a writer is to be nosy, and I am a nosy person. LOL. I like to sit in a corner of a café, laptop on, latte hot, and watch and hear the people around me. There is something about the grinding of coffee and the frothing of milk and the mundane snippets of conversations and eyeing the books people carry back to tables to peruse and seeing how people dress and interact that excites me and revvs my creative energy to perform.

But it had been ... and has been ... a long time since I felt the urge to write. Since I finished Into the Web back in December 2011, there has been little creative writing. A short story here or there, but no novel and no desire to write one either.

I don't call it Writer's Block. I don't believe in Writer's Block. I believe there's a time to write, and it's either there or it's not. Yes, I could make myself write, but I know me, and I know it would be crap, and though people constantly say that writing is more about rewriting than the actual initial writing of a book, the front-end excitement and preparation I do before I ever put a word on the page helps me to not have to do 100 revisions of a work.

I know that life has a way of getting in the way and keeping me (and others I know) from writing, but as a fiction professor once told me while I was part-time teaching and working on my creative thesis, "If you can't find the time to write NOW, you will never find the time to write." At the time, I laughed and thought, When would I ever be a writer, student, teacher, and thesis writer? Enter me being a writer, doctoral candidate, full-time teacher, and dissertation writer. Good words to live by: you should never think of or wish for something that can come back and bite you on the arse!

Life has gotten away from me. Even while in the midst of this, I never thought, Perhaps I'll go to the café and be inspired to write as I thought I needed to be sparked first to write before I went to the café.

Fortunately, in the last week or two, while I've been writing little 79-word stories daily that originated after I submitted one to Esquire's Short Short Fiction contest, I've felt that passion churn in my belly and in my heart and in my mind.

But I shouldn't ... and you shouldn't ... wait until you get the spark back to go to places, to do the things that can inspire the writing to come forward. Lattes and cafés have always been a part of my writing world. Even while in Lubbock, I noticed I was more apt to write (creatively and academically) if I was up early in a café, spending my morning around caffeine and books. Those two things should have never left my life because writing IS a part of my life.

If there are places, things that are integral to your writing life, take part in them, experience them as much as you can, especially when you feel the lull in your writing spirit, for they can provide the literary nourishment you need to put fingers to keys and CREATE.

The Passion for Writing Series: Author Ruthie Lewis

Ruthie is an author, speaker and life coach. She resides in Edmond, OK and is the mother of two amazing grown sons, and a daughter who was a life-long dancer and brought light into the lives of everyone who knew her, and now dances with Jesus.

Think avalanche! — Unstoppable devastation; loss; reshaping of the entire landscape - a GPS repositioning. That’s what happened to Ruthie’s “perfect” life. Just when life was getting good, devastation and tragedy quaked, burying her.

Only a mother’s love encapsulated her with the strength to dig out, gasp for breath, and seek the fire to comfort and warm.

Peace and abundance was the fruit that bloomed, as she never took her eyes off the sometimes, tiniest spark of light, enabling her to take the next breath. Would she, or even could she follow that spark - or lay down and die?

Choices — there’s always a choice. Now, that spark of inner light is a flame, brighter than any firefly’s glow, emanating through Ruthie’s writing, speaking and Life Coaching, empowering others to connect with their inner light, that will survive an avalanche. You see, though the landscape is drastically altered, the majestic mountain stands.

Learn more about Ruthie at/on: [Her website] [Facebook Fan Page] [Twitter] [LinkedIn]


The Passion for Writing - From Ruthie's Pen
Where does your passion for writing come from?
It’s hard to put any passion into words. It’s a part of who you are. I knew very young that I loved words and loved stories, and began writing them very young. In my mind, it was just something fun. Unfortunately, like most women, it wasn’t until middle age that I realized it was a passion and a part of who I was. In fact, most women never realize their passion. That’s why one of my favorite questions is: “If asked what your passions were as a child, would you even know now what they were?” The world’s expectations rob us of who we are and of the fulfillment our passions are meant to bring to our lives. Even after I began to realize writing was a passion, I didn’t acknowledge it as my calling until faced with devastating life circumstances. I made the choice to pursue the truth facing me and the result, years later, was “Fireflies”, and the impact it is meant to have on others.

If your passion for writing was a color, what color would it be and why?
Purple; no doubt! It’s my favorite color, but there’s something about purple that seems to encapsulate every color of the universe.

How do you keep the passion burning in your relationship with storytelling?
Your passion is always a part of who you are. Keeping it burning is actually why I wrote Fireflies and what I speak about. It’s all about keeping in touch with your inner light. We are all beckoned from a very young age to conform to what the world expects from us and consequently, most choose to follow that mandate instead of the light we were born with, and allowing it to light our way to the fulfillment of our passions.


[Fireflies is available for pre-order at RuthieLewis.com]

I’m so different now, so different from the naïve high school senior full of heart and dreams.
Like a firefly whose very being lights up a summer night like a Fourth of July sparkler,
my soul’s light was at its brightest.

Tammy and Charla have been friends since childhood, but lost touch when life took them separate directions. In their time apart, both women have found themselves in situations far beyond their control.

Tammy Trovich had been full of dreams, but had sacrificed and forgotten them all. Truth collides with her head-on when she realizes she’s been caught like a firefly in a proverbial jar, living a life of have-to and supposed-to, when all the while, freedom was only inches away.

Despite many obstacles, Charla Calibrisi thinks she’s living her dream as a news anchor, but when her husband’s aggressive behavior mirrors her dark past, will she allow the truth she has buried to be excavated, or will she be buried with it?

Trapped in a jar with their lights dimming, both women wrestle with their devotion to the sanctity of marriage. To what limit will Tammy and Charla let their lives grow fainter before their light is extinguished—unable to emanate even the faintest glow?

Excerpt from Fireflies

Prologue

I’m so different now, so different from the naïve, high school senior full of heart and dreams. Like a firefly whose very being lights up a summer night like a Fourth of July sparkler, my soul’s inner light was at its brightest.

My love affair with books had caused me to fall in love with the words happily ever after.

He was my first love. I remember the butterflies tickling my innards uncontrollably, every sight and sound swirling around me. I loved his thick, Beatles-style, blonde hair. His medium height was tall for me. His thin body carried broad shoulders. Something about broad shoulders makes a guy appear so strong, and I suppose ignited a feeling of being protected.

The first date came complete with the first red flag. It was so confusing, the way he was barely acknowledging my presence. It was a school event, and as we approached the entrance, Eric swung open the door and walked in, allowing it to swing shut right in front of me. Not only had he not opened the door for me, he entered with an arrogant demeanor, not even holding it open long enough for me to grab it. It wasn’t just a slip up. But typical of my nature, combined with sweet-Christian-girl teachings, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, followed right behind him, and pretended it didn’t happen.

Time passed and red flags continued to herald my attention, but hidden in the shadows of his enticing words: “Tammy, we’re meant to be together,” and “No one will ever love you like I love you.”

I desperately wanted to believe it was his heart and chose to paint each red flag the attractive color of love.

Or were they painted with my quest for approval by becoming what I was taught I should be?



“Now I pronounce you man and wife.”

And with a kiss, Mr. and Mrs. Eric Trovich paced back up the isle with smiles, accompanied by The Carpenters; “We’ve only just begun, white lace and promises.” My ticket to happily ever after.

I just didn’t know that one of the most devastating decisions in the world is to walk into a marriage you’ve gambled your very being on.

One of my favorite things as a little girl was running barefoot, chasing elusive fireflies, toes feeling the cool, freshly mown grass in my grandparents’ backyard. The flashing lights, magical, twinkling from their being, sparked dreams emanating from my own light.

In the moment again, seeing the lights, smelling the grass, feeling it between my toes, hearing the crickets; I see it—the perfect picture of the soul light in each of us, ignited by the mere finger of God, the essence of who we are, our purpose meant to light the world.

One of the first things I discovered about fireflies was how easily their light could be removed. Hardly a day goes by now that I don’t think about how I marveled as my mother showed me how to delicately remove the tiny but bright light and pretend it was a diamond. I placed it just right on my finger, sparkling like a diamond wedding ring.

I chased the fireflies, gathering them one by one into a mayonnaise jar my grandmother had saved. I punched holes in the top and watched the lightning show as they circled, flickering lights hitting the glass wall over and over, slowly dimming, desperate for oxygen, life.

One evening, I couldn’t watch the desperate captivity any longer. I unscrewed the lid to see how fast they would escape the jar. I was mesmerized by how they continued circling and slamming into the glass, oblivious the lid was off.

I so wanted to tell them, the lid is off; fly, fly, you’re free! Then I noticed one’s light becoming brighter again. It seemed as though she made a couple of rounds whispering to the others; the lid is off, the lid is off, then following her rekindled light to freedom, out she flew.

The rest scampered at the bottom, succumbing to the lie they could not free themselves, and eventually their sad death—freedom only inches away.

It took the near death of my own light to recognize the invisible jar that held it captive—made of distorted limitations. Just as I had watched each firefly’s light slowly dim as it accepted its plight, I also succumbed to false limitations by a slow ingestion of half-truths, dictating my role as a woman instead of illuminating the inner light of who I am, forming the lid on my captive jar.

There was no greater purpose than to become a submissive wife and perfect mother. There was no way I wouldn’t live my happily ever after—Love never fails, right?

It was up to me, because I was his wife and that was my job. So I relentlessly continued to try.

My journey walked me through the doors of mid-life when the whole truth caught up with me, banishing half-truths as I soaked in a tub of lavender bubbles. I couldn’t squelch the tormenting voices that whined, Whatcha gonna do now? Whatcha gonna do now?

Doubts, grief and fear tangled tight around me. Tears cratered into the bubbles as truth seeped through the scars of my heart like water finding a pinhole—like the holes on the lid of my jar.

I called Charla. “We have to talk. I know what I have to do.”