tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50157958862086910842024-03-12T21:26:42.061-04:00Eva Marie Everson's Southern VoiceEva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.comBlogger286125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-65054014897033771642014-12-30T17:49:00.000-05:002015-11-20T13:51:21.636-05:00Eva Marie Everson's Southern Voice is Moving!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFd7RSRmzB7owfj0KKQibEJ8hG5_spC6rx2wzAtgfK1yW-Bnj1M7sQGyYYY2vzqrlSXvpbkMc7isITCKBZSyd1sETfOInHRkJRsxrL-cdpaO6acjcZBx2obu28OyRzp7pvb-cwaCG6Upj3/s1600/moving-companys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFd7RSRmzB7owfj0KKQibEJ8hG5_spC6rx2wzAtgfK1yW-Bnj1M7sQGyYYY2vzqrlSXvpbkMc7isITCKBZSyd1sETfOInHRkJRsxrL-cdpaO6acjcZBx2obu28OyRzp7pvb-cwaCG6Upj3/s1600/moving-companys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Hello everyone!<br />
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I'm ... "moving."<br />
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No, no! You don't have to send a "new home" gift! But I do hope you will follow me to my new location. We'll start the new year (and the new blogsite) off right ... with a contest!<br />
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So, stay tuned. Come January 2nd, head over to EvaMarieEversonAuthor.com<br />
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Until then,<br />
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Happy New Year!<br />
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-59852583964469048292014-12-02T09:02:00.000-05:002014-12-02T09:02:05.385-05:00Merry Christmas (Day 2)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf1N321Dpg9quiQAILYxQbhAULBrTAfNtR2NQ7GxPdz9AqKv91eg1CBv6oGyJiPjikbbPvO32pPcuxiPSFQyLfvXwBeGFYJRQ1iiOGQP8S6AATbIdzlv-Q9y38k_hyphenhyphenFiP8wt3lIptENwl0/s1600/10410698_10152840450850295_704665865939273555_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf1N321Dpg9quiQAILYxQbhAULBrTAfNtR2NQ7GxPdz9AqKv91eg1CBv6oGyJiPjikbbPvO32pPcuxiPSFQyLfvXwBeGFYJRQ1iiOGQP8S6AATbIdzlv-Q9y38k_hyphenhyphenFiP8wt3lIptENwl0/s1600/10410698_10152840450850295_704665865939273555_n.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></div>
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Our family room boasts the "big tree." Originally my mother's, now ours. This is what we call the "Children's Tree." It is housed within the "Children's Room" as far as Christmas decorations are concerned (you'll see what I mean in days to come). This tree is filled with Santas and snowmen and anything we think will make a child's eyes grow wide with wonder. </div>
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This year, after I'd finished decorating the room, our 2-year-old grandson Vonche' came over with his mommy. As soon as he saw the tree, he ran over, pointed to this ornament and said, "Wooooooooow!" For the remainder of the evening, he'd periodically stop what he was doing, return to the tree, and stare.</div>
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Oh, to be a child at Christmas again!</div>
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This rather large ornament was found in a church's thrift store in a small town on the way to Cedar Key, Florida. I think I paid $2 for it, but for me, it's worth a million for the memory it now holds.</div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-21081857717288792152014-12-01T09:19:00.002-05:002014-12-01T09:19:37.446-05:00Merry Christmas (Day 1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpod3B1jU-dhugFpRpXCeFxyPmsHpO2UuG9TCcTPcUy7loGpL6-yfW8cV9R3w2_FPXhFQyRuUiGuvLo1jcpQWyPT0ondEePo9aU9gUHwzTEJ_BNeFrZXQaEYnTCEHqtTYrV95YeQenPLgv/s1600/10592654_10152838492705295_6917133246461416110_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpod3B1jU-dhugFpRpXCeFxyPmsHpO2UuG9TCcTPcUy7loGpL6-yfW8cV9R3w2_FPXhFQyRuUiGuvLo1jcpQWyPT0ondEePo9aU9gUHwzTEJ_BNeFrZXQaEYnTCEHqtTYrV95YeQenPLgv/s1600/10592654_10152838492705295_6917133246461416110_n.jpg" height="400" width="297" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Last year I posted the stories behind 25 Christmas carols. This year I would like to share some of our holiday "treasures" with you. This ornament is from our "family tree" (one of the two in the living room). It represents our miniature dachshund, Poods, who my constant companion. She even sits with me, in my office chair, while I work. (I should thank her in my acknowledgements at the beginning or close of every book.)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">We found Poods running down the road one evening at 10:30 at the end of a hot July day. She was starving, dehydrated, and bleeding from a few places on her body. We brought her in, fed and bathed her. She curled up in our daughter's arms and slept for a good long time. We posted a sign in the front yard but eventually took it down, then took her to the doctor for a once-over. He estimated her to be 3 to 4 years old. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">She is the most amazing pup, but fiercely protective of me. (And she's torn between being protective of our grandson and jealous of any time I give to him.) At the time of her joining our family, we had two other dogs and a cat. Now, it's just Poods and the two old folks. She is my "littlest love."</span></div>
<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-90718824426335712482014-11-17T09:39:00.001-05:002014-11-17T09:39:55.066-05:00And the winner is ....Susan Simpson!<br />
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Congrats to you ... look for an email with details on your Amazon gift card!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XARg3irPoF7zKeM_FcTDN3YFGRN0usPaAjVLxN12c14UaHtyoJ0FwvsV3RQ2hb893kDalN7FKnjgqCkAqQuouesF1Y7CPxS7O-apqx1ii877N4Dc4Qjj_g-eiTdXvl2Yn52fuGhMY2Qx/s1600/Amazon-Gift-Card-Creator-Logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XARg3irPoF7zKeM_FcTDN3YFGRN0usPaAjVLxN12c14UaHtyoJ0FwvsV3RQ2hb893kDalN7FKnjgqCkAqQuouesF1Y7CPxS7O-apqx1ii877N4Dc4Qjj_g-eiTdXvl2Yn52fuGhMY2Qx/s1600/Amazon-Gift-Card-Creator-Logo.jpg" height="116" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-36754692962592850202014-11-04T18:03:00.004-05:002014-11-16T21:24:49.230-05:00November Writing Contest (Repost)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;">THIS CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK13MbT9ZM1yMG2cHmXP86ArC5Mk7Z9L74DnJMfDdPyvfZUZCnBr_3aPxcugKs4vyTu1JYH5be9UF2OEbn6_U7SrDObtxPXp2RN4clbxd-yRfv_Mr0W-0sXhY-sFkLqEwgF3bXAxRy13mw/s1600/wedding+dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK13MbT9ZM1yMG2cHmXP86ArC5Mk7Z9L74DnJMfDdPyvfZUZCnBr_3aPxcugKs4vyTu1JYH5be9UF2OEbn6_U7SrDObtxPXp2RN4clbxd-yRfv_Mr0W-0sXhY-sFkLqEwgF3bXAxRy13mw/s1600/wedding+dress.jpg" height="249" width="320" /></a></div>
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"When You Find the One"</div>
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Original Oil Painting. Used with Permission of the artist.</div>
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c 2014 Karen Winters Fine Art</div>
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www.KarenWinters.com</div>
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We're excited over here at Pen In Hand about my upcoming novel, <i>Five Brides, </i>which will be released June 2015 by Tyndale Publishers. So excited, we're going to start looking at a few special painting between now and then, talk about your stories, add bits of trivia about weddings, etc.</div>
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<b>How to Enter This Month's Contest</b></div>
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<b>1. Share this on Facebook or Twitter and link my name to your shares.</b></div>
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<b>2. Write a 250 word (or less) story, poem, or song <u> based on the painting above </u> and submit in the comments section below.</b></div>
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<b>3. Be sure to put your name on the bottom of the submission in case your entry comes up "anonymous."</b></div>
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<b>4. Check back November 15, 2014 to read the winning entry. (Jot a note in your calendar! The winner may be <i>you!</i>)</b></div>
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<b>Example:</b></div>
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Mama slowed as we approached the storefront bay window showcasing the bridal gowns, like an apparition stood beyond the glass.</div>
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Or Daddy.</div>
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She neared it, drawing me with her. I looped my arm into hers, feeling the autumn air growing cold as winter around us. Mama let out a long breath, but I couldn't tell if this was a happy sigh or one of her weary ones.</div>
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"Mama," I said. "Did you wear a dress like this one when you married my daddy?" I allowed my eyes to scan upward to the red crepe balls hanging motionless but adding a pretty touch nonetheless. To the folds of the pale gold drapes and then back to those that swept the skirt of the dress Mama couldn't seem to take her attention away from. "Mama?" I asked again.</div>
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"Yes," she finally said. "Exactly like this dress. Nana and I shopped all one day and half the next until we found the right one."</div>
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I pondered a moment. "I guess that's important, huh? Finding the right one?"</div>
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"As important as finding the right man to marry," she said, "is finding the right dress to marry him in."</div>
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"Where's your dress now, Mama?"</div>
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"Had to sell it, little 'un."</div>
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This time I sighed too, squeezing her arm with mine. "I sure do miss him," I said. "There won't be another one like my daddy."</div>
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"Nope." Mama swiped at a tear. "He was one of a kind." ~~Eva Marie Everson</div>
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<b>Okay! Your turn! Have fun ... winner will receive a gift certificate to Amazon.</b></div>
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<b>~~~~~~~</b></div>
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<b>A note on the painting: It's for sale, so if you are interested, you can contact the artist at the website above. Karen Winters kindly gave permission to use this <i>once, </i>but not for anyone to copy it, change it in any way, etc. I'm so appreciative of her generosity ... let's all be respectful of this incredibly talented artist.</b></div>
<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-62600795794934376322014-10-13T11:00:00.000-04:002014-10-13T11:02:08.086-04:00And The Winner Is ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBBCuQ7eHWCSjKnh4tSN-fMTVLfSERXjQ-F02HzeWa1YlUNm_jhxhFsHJLwD9SaMkgN4I4GIeS6LvZm1KBnQABibDBxTVonaZCfTGo5m3nNv5dZpj8p4BcBTM0jzzKGthcCez2OIw-bFd/s1600/a-passing-storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBBCuQ7eHWCSjKnh4tSN-fMTVLfSERXjQ-F02HzeWa1YlUNm_jhxhFsHJLwD9SaMkgN4I4GIeS6LvZm1KBnQABibDBxTVonaZCfTGo5m3nNv5dZpj8p4BcBTM0jzzKGthcCez2OIw-bFd/s1600/a-passing-storm.jpg" height="269" width="320" /></a></div>
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ANNOUNCING THE WINNER OF THE OCTOBER WRITING CONTEST:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Bentham; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: justify;">Will he ever understand? John’s attentiveness is wonderful but it’s not enough. It’s not about tea and gorgeous views. It’s about opening up. It’s about letting me in. It’s about sharing all of him with me. It’s about true romance. Both of us becoming one flesh. I want—I need more than the smell of exotic spices when he holds me. More than the joy I feel at the sight of him. More than the beautiful words he whispers to me. I must be a part of him, all of him. I long to know the pleasures he derives from his work. My desire is to share what he feels whenever he’s conducting his business. Perhaps to join him in his enterprise as one who helps it thrive. This is what I want. To be his equal, his partner in marriage and business. To be his life-long companion in everything. ~~Bruce Brady</span>Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-85899002928764220042014-09-29T11:58:00.004-04:002014-10-12T17:22:18.274-04:00October Writing Contest<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCEylh5rQ8jFgc3uq3Sqw08KdLS9nFPwqpv69Yg76FOCZy3tC3KOc3go2I-x6LpfdZzAen5VDIjS3qddXHU33libaJgC07cFN3rfLbBgO0s-v71kzHQJuuoXFiJKiCs3c0orxJ6-tC8zD/s1600/a-passing-storm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCEylh5rQ8jFgc3uq3Sqw08KdLS9nFPwqpv69Yg76FOCZy3tC3KOc3go2I-x6LpfdZzAen5VDIjS3qddXHU33libaJgC07cFN3rfLbBgO0s-v71kzHQJuuoXFiJKiCs3c0orxJ6-tC8zD/s1600/a-passing-storm.jpg" height="336" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A Passing Storm" by James Tissot</td></tr>
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<b>HOW TO ENTER:</b><br />
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<b>1. Share this on Facebook or Twitter and link my name to your share.</b></div>
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<b>2. Write a 150-word story based on the painting above and submit in the comments section.</b></div>
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<b>3. Be sure to put your name on the bottom of the submission in case your entry comes up "anonymous."</b></div>
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<b>4. Check back on October 15, 2014 to read the winning entry.</b></div>
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<b>EXAMPLE:</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The tea had grown cold
but, after the storm, the weather remained humid. The heaviness in the air had
been born out of more than precipitation, however. My husband’s impatience had
sparked another argument; my words in return had done nothing to ease the turmoil.
Now, an hour later, the tea could no longer be enjoyed and, while I pretended
to sleep on the divan, Harry stood just outside our yacht’s living quarters, looking in. I
couldn’t see him, but I could sense him—the smell of his aftershave blending
with the scent of sand and seawater. I would, I decided, let him believe that I
had fallen to sleep easily, that his words had no effect on me. I would let him
believe that, like our final destination, my love remained just over the next
horizon. Then, perhaps, he would see things my way. Then, perhaps, my intense ardor for him might lessen. ~~ Eva Marie Everson</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Okay! Your turn! Have fun! Winner will receive a gift certificate to Amazon.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED!!! WINNER ANNOUNCED 10.13.14</span></div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-75467551004996052012014-09-01T15:07:00.001-04:002014-09-01T15:07:21.447-04:0014 Days, 37,209 words to goDon't panic! I'm writing away like a crazy woman!<br />
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And enjoying the research more and more every day.<br />
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So, what's happening now? Well, Betty just got a marriage proposal, which she accepted. Ah, romance.<br />
Evelyn <i>didn't </i>get a marriage proposal, which of course nearly broke her heart.<br />
Inga is still in a world of trouble and Magda has enjoyed New Year's Eve 1952 with Barry and his family.<br />
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And our Miss Joan? Well, she's headed off on a slow boat to Europe where she will meet the man of her dreams ...<br />
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"Love is in the air ... exciting and new ..."<br />
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Meanwhile, check out some of the websites I've been to today:<br />
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<a href="http://www.tvhistory.tv/1953%20QF.htm">1953 Quick Facts</a> (wait till you see the price of gasoline!)<br />
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<a href="http://www.oldcarsweekly.com/car-of-the-week/car-of-the-week-1950-buick-super">Car of the Week </a>(1950 Buick Super)<br />
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And, can you name the handsome gents in this photograph? This contest is harder than before, but it comes (again) with a free book when <i>Five Brides </i>releases to one lucky winner! The shot is from a movie released in 1952.<br />
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-79149530060364567972014-08-29T08:43:00.000-04:002014-08-29T08:43:03.460-04:0017 Days, 45,813 Words to GoI pretty much spent my birthday writing. That's okay. I'm so into the world of the <i>Five Brides, </i>I find it difficult to live in the present anyway.<br />
<br />
Night before last, I deliberately left one of my characters, Inga, at a crossroad so that I could be anxious to get up yesterday morning and write. As I made my breakfast I allowed the conversation she was having with Francis to play out in my head. Thinking I had it pretty much "down," I went into my office to type.<br />
<br />
Okay, so I knew that they would have dinner together and I knew that she would give him some important information at the dinner. What I didn't count on was them walking into a Middle Eastern restaurant.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvJVqwSMRCJbemuxy18q5NzXFL6qQvSBwepHdC2_rCBPEJso6CaK07sGysPj8MJl0ayDpRTZyvAZCewM2mpMtDnMt0tZGAspPqvtO4drJrP3VEjeEGQVjWSIxlzw7aAYy5kgyVn5JG-2X/s1600/1956anklepantsandboatnecktop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvJVqwSMRCJbemuxy18q5NzXFL6qQvSBwepHdC2_rCBPEJso6CaK07sGysPj8MJl0ayDpRTZyvAZCewM2mpMtDnMt0tZGAspPqvtO4drJrP3VEjeEGQVjWSIxlzw7aAYy5kgyVn5JG-2X/s1600/1956anklepantsandboatnecktop.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What Inga is wearing on the date.<br /><br /></td></tr>
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And that, my friends, changed the story.<br />
<br />
Crazy, I know ... but it did.<br />
<br />
Let me share a few of the websites that helped me dress Inga and Francis in the pictures to the left and below. Okay, ladies, don't you LOVE the shoes? I mean, this is from a 1952 ad, but wouldn't you love to slip your feet into some of those right now? I know I would ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNStWF6IJT33lksu7lxKYfzDbk2ZfDcrhtt43Ha59n9p2SLj8D3iEFoJ0HZqk5ZQBeAeaWRCiG4okUaOj9gM1kUlo6hoiRFyggjh_UqrCMo9jbNhMD_jMcdC6xQ7P5gae-yprbTUgqZk77/s1600/S4107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNStWF6IJT33lksu7lxKYfzDbk2ZfDcrhtt43Ha59n9p2SLj8D3iEFoJ0HZqk5ZQBeAeaWRCiG4okUaOj9gM1kUlo6hoiRFyggjh_UqrCMo9jbNhMD_jMcdC6xQ7P5gae-yprbTUgqZk77/s1600/S4107.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When Francis buttons his suit coat over a plaid vest, this is what it looks like.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkaSrd-UZe55DmTd8iMN1WoI25Sm_bgNzH66wKLC_wcOGInhR5xht2eRSzyO77u_hvpNk9Xl-yV-nFvfBZRcp6RG3pY5ZS5WZpwb9mbjyjE6d4g4wD6d7MrVRmWtTnOzOqKXpG64Uml3K/s1600/1952-womens-shoes-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkaSrd-UZe55DmTd8iMN1WoI25Sm_bgNzH66wKLC_wcOGInhR5xht2eRSzyO77u_hvpNk9Xl-yV-nFvfBZRcp6RG3pY5ZS5WZpwb9mbjyjE6d4g4wD6d7MrVRmWtTnOzOqKXpG64Uml3K/s1600/1952-womens-shoes-02.jpg" height="320" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inga is wearing the black slipper shoes on the bottom left.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-28176903325000382502014-08-26T22:03:00.003-04:002014-08-26T22:03:33.374-04:0020 Days, 52,000 words to goYeah, that's right. The number of days has gone down; the number of words has gone up.<br />
<br />
Don't worry, this is the <i>good </i>news!<br />
<br />
I met my husband for lunch today at one of our favorite cafes. I arrived before he did so I took out my notebook and wrote down "what has to happen next" along with the number of words I had to accomplish it. By the time the huggy hubby arrived, I had ordered our meals <i>and </i>worked myself into a frenzy. There is <i>no way </i>I can write the rest of this story in 30,000 words.<br />
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I took out my iPhone and pecked out an email to my editor (cc'ing my agent).<br />
HOW MANY WORDS CAN I STRETCH THIS MS. TO? I asked her.<br />
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Then I waited. And ate my fries.<br />
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A few seconds later I heard the "bling" of my phone, indicating I had a new email. I opened it. Sure enough, my editor had sent back a reply.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjrUowq1Vy0bAwegLzBEbzKYsUTW7ecLZhP_IdIAdLLQgrL42F32pvagZyMkEsFoI5CW-6-h0ln2rLb5kyuMOAFTMXaMvxlQrHjxFgrfoQJRcS40Vk37NacCcc8WeCrCmG2-xw5s-exhA/s1600/1952dressysuit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjrUowq1Vy0bAwegLzBEbzKYsUTW7ecLZhP_IdIAdLLQgrL42F32pvagZyMkEsFoI5CW-6-h0ln2rLb5kyuMOAFTMXaMvxlQrHjxFgrfoQJRcS40Vk37NacCcc8WeCrCmG2-xw5s-exhA/s1600/1952dressysuit.jpg" height="400" width="146" /></a>HOW MANY WORDS DO YOU NEED?<br />
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The fries were <i>really good, </i>which meant I was in a pretty happy mood. So I wrote back:<br />
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250,000.<br />
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I giggled as I added: (ARE YOU BREATHING??) followed by: 100,000??<br />
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O, Happy Day! The reply came back: A lot of historical novels run up to 120,000. Try not to go over.<br />
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So now what you see if the <i>new </i>goal. I may or may not get to 120,000, but now the feeling of sheer panic is gone.<br />
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Meanwhile, I dressed one of my characters in this dress today. It's called a "dressy suit."<br />
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What do you think?<br />
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-20910149287335474342014-08-22T17:01:00.002-04:002014-08-22T17:01:11.295-04:0023 Days, 30,890 Words To Go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's the middle of the day and I'm far from done, but I had to share with you what's happening here in WriterWorld.<br />
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First, the last two days have been a struggle in the writing department. I wrote, yes, but I hated nearly every word. I couldn't seem to get away from the fact that I only had between 30- and 40,000 words left to tell my story. I know that for some of you, the notion of writing that number of words is tantamount to getting a root canal. But for the writer of fiction, as he or she dashes toward the end ... the finale ... the denouement ... it's horrifying.<br />
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I told my husband this morning that I could hardly sleep for worrying over it. He said, "You have five women and, let's say, 40,000 words. That's 8,000 per character."<br />
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I suddenly felt better.<br />
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Then I got an email from fellow author, Sandie Bricker, who penned: YOU CAN DO IT.<br />
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I got back into the story with new vigor!<br />
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Today I did a little research on what folks listened to on the radio in 1952 on a Sunday night. I came across <i>The Big Show </i>with Tallulah Bankhead as the lovely hostess. I also listened to some of the broadcasts. Check out #29 ... this is the one I "referenced" in <i>Five Brides. </i>It's all of 30 minutes and it'll make you want to go back to a simpler time. Check it out <a href="https://archive.org/details/OTRR_The_Big_Show_Singles">HERE</a>.<br />
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More tomorrow!Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-88905067401179940482014-08-20T20:40:00.003-04:002014-08-20T20:48:53.572-04:0025 Days to Go, 35,962 Words To Go<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgbNwpkXW0jNKY4EyfiM6I34gHS0-h4wHRHkAGwdeeay5S6i6LUYjBj-4ASXgTQ3kQsyjLbFNYwSD1jmbCuBaQ_tcenI8gVoHNIYeX8JsxATEajDPAiisojkea1J_mTk9LxN-vUPNCxRK/s1600/Inga.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgbNwpkXW0jNKY4EyfiM6I34gHS0-h4wHRHkAGwdeeay5S6i6LUYjBj-4ASXgTQ3kQsyjLbFNYwSD1jmbCuBaQ_tcenI8gVoHNIYeX8JsxATEajDPAiisojkea1J_mTk9LxN-vUPNCxRK/s1600/Inga.jpg" height="320" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inspiration for Inga</td></tr>
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Today I edited (down) some of what I'd already written and then charged ahead, writing about 1600 words by the end of the day. It's 8:34 p.m. and I'm calling it a night.<br />
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Gosh, I hate writing the "bad stuff," but Inga (Magda's sister) is about to make a big mistake. She's not the first in the world to do so, but it makes me sad when my characters take wrong paths.<br />
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She'll learn, though.<br />
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I just hope I can see it through within the next 36,000 words! Not to mention what must take place with Magda, Joan, Betty, and Evelyn.<br />
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Poor Evelyn ... talk about misguided!<br />
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I called my agent today. Rather, he called me after I sent a text that read: Call me. Told him I may have to try to squeeze in at least another 5,000 words. So, really ... this blog should be titled 25 Days to Go, 41,962 words to go. That's 1679 words a day. No slacking off.<br />
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I can do it ... as long as life leaves me alone. :)<br />
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By the way, that's Inga up there. Can you name the actress I've been inspired by? The first to do so will win a copy of this book when it releases!Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-8310763534848090342014-08-19T22:16:00.004-04:002014-08-19T22:16:36.782-04:0026 Days, 36,827 Words to Go<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFTR-KeDPgSoWTfqAXZVf0pfg8Yl3yznaaq7cPd6BOUsj7N4GtFvboqeflTP1tz5u-QGbmtmey2Psfm-IIA-u9y6kU28QTudGECEzOpzPTEo7O2H_WJNo_p9CKpPFbYQhFqctg5_MoNVV/s1600/Mitzi+Gaynor+1b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigFTR-KeDPgSoWTfqAXZVf0pfg8Yl3yznaaq7cPd6BOUsj7N4GtFvboqeflTP1tz5u-QGbmtmey2Psfm-IIA-u9y6kU28QTudGECEzOpzPTEo7O2H_WJNo_p9CKpPFbYQhFqctg5_MoNVV/s1600/Mitzi+Gaynor+1b.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MY INSPIRATION FOR MAGDA<br />(CAN YOU NAME THE ACTRESS?)</td></tr>
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Now, when I tell you that I only wrote roughly 750 words today, you'll think I failed in my quest to get at least 1,500 penned each day. But the truth is, I took part in an online <a href="http://www.word-weavers.com/">Word Weavers</a> critique group from 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m., then had a session with another writer at 11:00 ... then had an editing project to do ... then a private session with one of my coaching clients from 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. and <i>then </i>I listened in on a <a href="http://www.christianwritersguild.com/">Christian Writers Guild </a>webinar offered by Jeff Gerke from 8:00 p.m. until 9:00 p.m.<br />
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<i>And, </i>I edited 7,500 words of <i>Five Brides, </i>so really ... it was a banner day.<br />
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But, let's talk about the 750.<br />
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I realized this afternoon that I have five young women in 1952 who have yet to meet the men they are going to marry and only, roughly, 40,000 words to make that happen. I've got some <i>speed </i>writing to do!<br />
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Not that we want to rush love and marriage. Oh, no ... but ... don't panic, Eva. Do. Not. Panic. You <i>can </i>do this. You can. All you have to do is get off the roof without jumping and ... write.<br />
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Whew. So ... now I'm all about getting these five women to the man of their dreams. And to the altar. In one dress.<br />
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We begin with Magda. She's already met Mr. Right ... she just doesn't know it yet. :) Can't wait to tell her!<br />
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<i>Ah ... </i>Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-4361295977163212202014-08-19T07:44:00.000-04:002014-08-19T07:44:26.546-04:0027 Days, 37,553 Words to Go!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDe0g34I3Avn76_QBTCu74kRC2GtzlbSWhr6nfYdAI7WlfKJZk4RDwtGVE8I3GIVdPIuhjemtQZkf2WLgZg6J-qVli1obGcy9RYJiJTZYidDr54dPy2RjQ484gZrQ8WTSYvSzuJ09vjtz/s1600/Glenn_Miller.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHDe0g34I3Avn76_QBTCu74kRC2GtzlbSWhr6nfYdAI7WlfKJZk4RDwtGVE8I3GIVdPIuhjemtQZkf2WLgZg6J-qVli1obGcy9RYJiJTZYidDr54dPy2RjQ484gZrQ8WTSYvSzuJ09vjtz/s1600/Glenn_Miller.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
(For your listening pleasure, as you read the remainder of today's blog, go to: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xPXwkWVEIIw">GLENN MILLER, <i>In The Mood</i></a>)<br />
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So, yesterday Magda made a big decision, which will have great impact on her life.<br />
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She also made a great argument against Karl Marx's line: Religion is the opium of the people.<br />
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In the beginning of my planning and plotting, Magda had such a small, insignificant role and now she's carrying such weight. Her lines of dialogue are incredibly deep. I love her!<br />
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Here's another thing that happened ... Magda is having a conversation with her boss that is going to change her life, but she doesn't know it. Not yet, anyway. I do, but she doesn't.<br />
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Looking back on your own life, can you think of a time when foundations of the most significance were being laid, but you didn't realize it? Let's talk about it!<br />
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-72874161232274535132014-08-18T13:59:00.001-04:002014-08-18T13:59:24.077-04:0039,303 Words. 28 Days<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAsCCG7Ni-1hTUhYKNnWlfOGqmu-wtPX2yQcP6SDITWO1KQqb9JyHAlIDrmeYyqs8PdyXdb8_b-zB3QIYYRP_d0fEeLmg4xIYBifOs2vVtZvZ34qbRO9qxyJ9ZXhcKUHoRDXVxQ3SJRbU/s1600/ef173e1b3f919589f901e35a931a1c52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAsCCG7Ni-1hTUhYKNnWlfOGqmu-wtPX2yQcP6SDITWO1KQqb9JyHAlIDrmeYyqs8PdyXdb8_b-zB3QIYYRP_d0fEeLmg4xIYBifOs2vVtZvZ34qbRO9qxyJ9ZXhcKUHoRDXVxQ3SJRbU/s1600/ef173e1b3f919589f901e35a931a1c52.jpg" height="320" width="269" /></a>So here's the story.<br />
Back around June 30, I had two and a half months to re-write approximately 95,000 of my upcoming novel, currently titled <i>Five Brides.</i><br />
<i>Five Brides </i>is based on the true story of five women who met in Chicago after World War II. They became roommates for "a season" and during that short period of time they each put $60 in the "pot" and bought a beautiful wedding dress from the iconic <i>Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Each woman wore the dress on her wedding day.<br />
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I have had the joy and privilege of meeting one of those women. Joan is now in her early 80s and a woman of great influence. As far as we know, she is the only living member of the five. Because most of the women were only roommates and not friends, there is <i>no story </i>on the other four.<br />
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Which means, <i>this writer </i>gets to make it all up.<br />
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So, where am I right now in this re-write?<br />
<br />
I wrote over 4,000 words yesterday, which brought me to over 55,600 words.<br />
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My characters are: Joan (from England), Evelyn (from Georgia), Betty (from Illinois), and Magda and Inga (sisters from Minnesota). As of yesterday, Betty is about to right a wrong, Magda is about to make a positive decision, and Inga is heading head-first into a very, very bad decision. And Joan? Well, Joan has a new job which will, in time, impact Betty. Greatly.<br />
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For the next couple of weeks or so, I'm going to post my progress. Some of the sites I visit (after all, I wasn't even alive in 1952!) and some of the songs that inspire me.<br />
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Let's have some fun at my expense, shall we?Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-4910607071441761372014-07-13T17:09:00.001-04:002014-07-13T17:09:11.492-04:00And the Winner Is...<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wMOIqzWGA8datBDupiLkCsNJBlsieHulLzSzOzn0u2Z4r2v-70NgyrL7rEbbQZierFkDNL0VDIquM85cSmIY1zX-OG9Zmq1GxUcpsyZmcRrd_hFkOQalJLvVt7DL7YnLAi37Xqn3GLl_/s1600/winner-is.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wMOIqzWGA8datBDupiLkCsNJBlsieHulLzSzOzn0u2Z4r2v-70NgyrL7rEbbQZierFkDNL0VDIquM85cSmIY1zX-OG9Zmq1GxUcpsyZmcRrd_hFkOQalJLvVt7DL7YnLAi37Xqn3GLl_/s1600/winner-is.jpg" height="295" width="320" /></a>I've read all the entries ... <i>great job, everyone.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
But I've narrowed it down to first, second, and third place. Only First Place wins, but I wanted to acknowledge second and third.<br />
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So, drum roll please:<br />
<br />
Third Place goes to: Rona Jeanne Evartt!<br />
Second Place goes to: Stacie Salvo!<br />
<br />
and First Place goes to: Tina Hunt!<br />
Congrats, Tina! Email me at PenNhnd@aol.com with your preferred email address so I can send your Amazon gift card your way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-3870839670577251832014-07-01T08:33:00.002-04:002014-07-07T21:33:57.772-04:00Writing Contest for July 2014I haven't done this in a while, but it's time to do it again!<br />
<br />
Here's how the contest works:<br />
1. Look at the painting below.<br />
2. Write a story around the painting (<u>no more than 150 words</u>).<br />
3. Share the story in the comment section below.<br />
4. Be sure to share the contest with others on your social network. Let's make this FUN!<br />
5. <b>On July 14</b>, I'll read over the entries and choose a winner. Winning story wins a gift card from Amazon.<br />
<br />
Ready? Let's do it!<br />
<br />
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-17278944518763316662014-06-16T13:10:00.001-04:002014-06-16T13:10:48.589-04:00When God Jerks My Chain<a href="http://www.buzzdigital.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Women-chatting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.buzzdigital.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Women-chatting.jpg" width="320" /></a>Years ago--like, many, many years ago--my family and I were in the throes of very active lives. Socially. Within our church family. Within the civic community. We left not too many hours in the day or the week or even the month for just relaxing.<br />
<br />
Keeping the kids busy, I'd been taught, will keep them out of trouble. That much is true, but I failed to factor in that their being busy often meant <i>my </i>being busy.<br />
<br />
We had friends, lots of friends. And, I have to tell you, I enjoyed my friendships. Hanging out. Cooking out. Going to the beach together. Sitting next to each other at church. Sometimes my "friend" time (as in, only my friends) meant shopping trips or sitting down with a cup of coffee and a heart filled with things to chat about. Going to see a movie.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.worldoncampus.com/media/articles/article/woman_praying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.worldoncampus.com/media/articles/article/woman_praying.jpg" /></a>Then, one day, mysteriously, the phone stopped ringing. Calls I made were not returned. Hurt and perplexed, I went through my days as always--going to work, taking care of my kids, loving my husband. But my <i>friends </i>were no where to be found. <br />
<br />
Then, in a business setting, someone handed me a booklet titled, "How to Make Jesus Your Very Best Friend." As if God jerked my chain, I suddenly knew and understood what was happening to me. I had made <i>godly </i>relationship my focus instead of my <i>relationship </i>with God.<br />
<br />
I determined to right the wrong and did so. I placed more of my focus on my friendship with God and less on my friendships with people. Slowly, lesson learned, friends eased back into my life.<br />
<br />
I am a people person. I love being around them. Interacting. When we moved to Orlando, the most difficult part, for me, was in not having my friends around. Once I made <i>new </i>friends, I felt like I had finally arrived "home." But, once again, God had to jerk my chain.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkxQT2rnYJz9k_aZWGA3jR1IwrSvIfM6vY0egk7PPF8lxsXF02" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRkxQT2rnYJz9k_aZWGA3jR1IwrSvIfM6vY0egk7PPF8lxsXF02" /></a>More than once.<br />
<br />
And, wouldn't you know it. I've made my way back to Square One. God is whispering, "Draw to a quiet place, Eva Marie. Make it more about <i>me.</i>"<br />
<br />
Okay, Lord. I am listening.<br />
###<br />
Making God your very best friend is done in the same way as making a best friend in human form. First, you have to make Him your <i>friend </i>friend.<i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
How do we do that? Well, in the same way as with people. Time. Talking. Listening. More time.<br />
<br />
Slowly, He becomes more important than anything or anyone until, one day, you realize ... <i>God </i>is enough.<br />
<br />
Everything else is gravy.Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-71380115733168842432014-06-10T12:46:00.000-04:002014-06-10T12:46:32.376-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFdVWny1SydnmAoziy-73dvo7HFKoNfLmaaxITS5dd35LZLMw5iNIYUHU3kmKja6DfbIp43a414AEHnhHtSLIwtdQ7DnSwQeQ5HLnG7gMi72EpcMs1HxgL72u1YN15Xv5jPlFO3wndD5S/s1600/Sun-in-tiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihFdVWny1SydnmAoziy-73dvo7HFKoNfLmaaxITS5dd35LZLMw5iNIYUHU3kmKja6DfbIp43a414AEHnhHtSLIwtdQ7DnSwQeQ5HLnG7gMi72EpcMs1HxgL72u1YN15Xv5jPlFO3wndD5S/s1600/Sun-in-tiles.jpg" /></a></div>
<i>Whew, dawg! </i>Summertime is here and what is it good for!<br />
<br />
I'll tell you ... a good book to read by the pool, at the beach, while the kids play outside under the large old oak ...<br />
<br />
I know ... how about in addition to the book, a summer hot sizzlin' new contest to help celebrate the success <i>The Road to Testament </i>is already experiencing?<br />
<br />
The weather is hot in Testament, North Carolina when Ashlynne arrives ... but that doesn't keep her from being cool. You'll think this contest is cool, too. Here's how it works:<br />
<br />
1. Repost THIS BLOGPOST on Facebook, Twitter, and/or Goodreads with #EvaMarieEverson attached. (That part is important beccause we want lots of folks in on the fun. What's a party without guests?") You can say something like: Hey! Check out this Summer Sizzlin' Hot Contest #EvaMarieEverson is having!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfTpWz6HktJohyphenhyphenHvb3PCVF66F9_oSvDtUUuZEVwmtF9PMrTdLvhBgn_LhS2tXQX1lnJeyzF_2xj6ueJhowZwY1lkZku69tR8GZ8YVyZP2LrWYI6pGi14hCzRoHaL9XRhOjExjTd94oaKQ/s1600/TRTT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfTpWz6HktJohyphenhyphenHvb3PCVF66F9_oSvDtUUuZEVwmtF9PMrTdLvhBgn_LhS2tXQX1lnJeyzF_2xj6ueJhowZwY1lkZku69tR8GZ8YVyZP2LrWYI6pGi14hCzRoHaL9XRhOjExjTd94oaKQ/s1600/TRTT.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>2. Go to your favorite walk-in bookstore or online bookstore and purchase <i>The Road to Testament. </i>If you've already read the book, you are a third of the way there.<br />
<br />
3. Write a review (whether you love it or hate it ... gosh I hope you don't hate it!) at Amazon, <br />
Barnes&Noble, Books-a-Million, and Christianbook.com (see below for links). You can cut and paste your review from site to site.<br />
<br />
4. On June 21 (the first day of summer), my publicist and I will draw a winner from the reviews (but you have to have the #EvaMarieEverson at social media to show you completed #1).<br />
<br />
What do you win, you ask?<br />
<br />
Wait till you hear ... you will win a copy of every future novel I write, autographed and mailed to your home.<br />
<br />
How does <i>that </i>sound for a summer sizzlin' good time? But you'd best hurry! You only have a few more days to "git-er-done"!<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Road-Testament-Eva-Marie-Everson-ebook/dp/B00IN5RONK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1402318928&sr=1-1&keywords=the+road+to+testament">Amazon</a></b></div>
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<b><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-road-to-testament-eva-marie-everson/1117075592?ean=9781426757983">Barnes and Noble</a></b></div>
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<b><a href="http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Road-Testament/Eva-Marie-Everson/9781426757983?id=6001103988928">Books-A-Million</a></b></div>
<div style="line-height: normal;">
<b><a href="http://www.christianbook.com/the-road-to-testament/eva-everson/9781426757983/pd/757981?product_redirect=1&Ntt=757981&item_code=&Ntk=keywords&event=ESRCP">ChristianBook.Com</a></b></div>
</div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-40451672565944057662014-06-09T08:57:00.003-04:002014-06-09T09:06:46.836-04:00More of the "Real" Testament<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg504us7OR3_q5En9SbtmDggBaDW_wPyDiK1B0MvZ8CgsHEdq6RZ1gFFNjWgk_tPqkFG00TBtAvZDQy8-L6GOqmlEbRxRP6GVQlIKbV0WJFBl-c7i5SFf6UZoQnUDfr35gaiJCKsEjVbSdR/s1600/230000_10150255806490295_6820912_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg504us7OR3_q5En9SbtmDggBaDW_wPyDiK1B0MvZ8CgsHEdq6RZ1gFFNjWgk_tPqkFG00TBtAvZDQy8-L6GOqmlEbRxRP6GVQlIKbV0WJFBl-c7i5SFf6UZoQnUDfr35gaiJCKsEjVbSdR/s1600/230000_10150255806490295_6820912_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
As a novelist, I am often driven by reality. What I see. What I touch. What touches me.<br />
<br />
What I hear.<br />
<br />
To be more specific, what I <i>over</i>hear. Or my eyes catch in passing.<br />
<br />
I've been driven to write out of "place" far longer than out of memory, whether mine or someone else's. I find myself somewhere and the stories that linger through the generations come to me. There are times when I "see" them clearly. Other times they come in dreams.<br />
<br />
Mostly they are "what if" moments. "What if" moments are something novelists know well.<br />
<br />
Such is the case of the part of the story in <i>The Road to Testament </i>that leads Ashlynne to her discovery of who is buried in the unmarked graves. She had to go to another graveyard--the kind you find behind an old church--to begin, however.<br />
<br />
<b>From the book:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Will stopped in
front of the decorative tombstone of Noah Swann, who had been a Captain in the
Civil War. His wife, Emily Todd Swann, lay next to him. “They died thirty years
apart,” he said, “and if you note the date, it’s not the war that took him.” <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlG7Ehos9IGFIDGSDXThCuPA0UzxnpnQ1gZxHmBFpyIY8po3rh8sYbXIbzCCsK5fvy-Rt0-nzuPC-QXyh8PFnzbX2Nx10YC8tEBI47hC79ctwxrY4psHVQnB4x-8aBJcT-Rx57NN7pclNH/s1600/228667_10150255807740295_2884115_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlG7Ehos9IGFIDGSDXThCuPA0UzxnpnQ1gZxHmBFpyIY8po3rh8sYbXIbzCCsK5fvy-Rt0-nzuPC-QXyh8PFnzbX2Nx10YC8tEBI47hC79ctwxrY4psHVQnB4x-8aBJcT-Rx57NN7pclNH/s1600/228667_10150255807740295_2884115_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Buried among the slaves)<br />
Mary, Consort of Michael R. Freeman<br />
followed by dates of birth/death<br />
"Her children rise up and call her blessed"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Do we know what did?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “His death certificate—and yes, I’ve
seen it—says pneumonia.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I nodded at the graves, as though
giving the souls of the “dearly departed” some form of approval for having lived
and died. “You said </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">something interesting</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Ah,” Will said,
stepping farther toward the tree line. “Check these out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Along the line, facing the trees,
were small stones with carved first names such as “Sallie” and “Isaac” and “Big
John.” Some had only initials. Some held the years of death, others nothing
more than the first name of the departed. “Are these … the graves of slaves?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “They are. And they go all the way
back to the Revolutionary War.” He pointed to a tall tombstone, arched along
its topside. “Now check this out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span>MARGUERITE<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">, it read, </span>CONSORT OF NOAH SWANN<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Then along the bottom, in script: <i>Her children rise up and call her blessed.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well, well …” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Notice the date of her death?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I did. Only a month previous to her
lover’s. “He must have loved her very much.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “In a day when such things were
known but never discussed.” He remained quiet for a moment. “I think,” he then
said with a light chuckle, “That Miss Emily over there lived so long out of
revenge.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b>End of book selection</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
The South is loaded with cemeteries and graveyards. I give those two separate names and places because, as someone who has researched her family tree to nearly the last branch, I can tell you many of my deceased family members are "buried by the side of Highway 46. Mile Marker 10. Forty feet into the thicket." </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxsukNEwUqUpylzvVbE3Av2vkm8LH_1U9j6IfGD9w49Rll8BaN9mAJWWz5L_0UmE4bq54oKuCgBy4IS3g-UCG56Z-Zm2y1BKstMNwPRfspHHL4vr4bnLd7X-Rqw8XFPN9hWsnIqXAf6J_/s1600/228057_10150255806035295_8074621_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIxsukNEwUqUpylzvVbE3Av2vkm8LH_1U9j6IfGD9w49Rll8BaN9mAJWWz5L_0UmE4bq54oKuCgBy4IS3g-UCG56Z-Zm2y1BKstMNwPRfspHHL4vr4bnLd7X-Rqw8XFPN9hWsnIqXAf6J_/s1600/228057_10150255806035295_8074621_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>I told the fabulous award-winning author <a href="http://www.davisbunn.com/">Davis Bunn</a> one afternoon that I enjoy walking through cemeteries. He laughed, his eyes dancing, and said, "Eva Marie, best not to tell too many people that." </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
But the truth is, old cemeteries and graveyards hold moss-covered, time-etched tombstones with more than just names and dates. These old relics include epitaphs sharing additions to "her children rise up and call her blessed." Through them, we often glean clues as to the legacy left behind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
So it was with the tombstone I found at <a href="http://www.stoppingpoints.com/north-carolina/sights.cgi?marker=Brittain+Church&cnty=Rutherford">Brittain Church</a> Cemetery in Rutherfordton, North Carolina (my Testament). One tombstone ... and my imagination was off and running!<br />
<br />
<b>If you'd like to read The Road to Testament and haven't yet, check out these easy ways to order from:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Road-Testament-Eva-Marie-Everson-ebook/dp/B00IN5RONK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1402318928&sr=1-1&keywords=the+road+to+testament">Amazon</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-road-to-testament-eva-marie-everson/1117075592?ean=9781426757983">Barnes and Noble</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Road-Testament/Eva-Marie-Everson/9781426757983?id=6001103988928">Books-A-Million</a></b><br />
<b><a href="http://www.christianbook.com/the-road-to-testament/eva-everson/9781426757983/pd/757981?product_redirect=1&Ntt=757981&item_code=&Ntk=keywords&event=ESRCP">ChristianBook.Com</a></b><br />
<br /></div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-89037308046714994482014-05-13T12:25:00.001-04:002014-05-13T12:25:14.789-04:00The Church<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LgrsGr03h1OnCKnsBFvPaoRt84tdtYkh2AApm_W1LVpTo90WUOWeLj1332I56akeO6i5MaGQokbzZmo3RtfL2wnTmqQumguHjVI8nMLE3BPv4pvxwdfTp5oK2NVrcl7mAbYWcLP-KIyf/s1600/552047_10151185738650295_591000264_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LgrsGr03h1OnCKnsBFvPaoRt84tdtYkh2AApm_W1LVpTo90WUOWeLj1332I56akeO6i5MaGQokbzZmo3RtfL2wnTmqQumguHjVI8nMLE3BPv4pvxwdfTp5oK2NVrcl7mAbYWcLP-KIyf/s1600/552047_10151185738650295_591000264_n.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
I stepped into the cool of the church's sanctuary, drawn by the stonework, the over-arching woodwork, the carved oak pews, the ornamental lectern and pulpit, and the stained glass windows, shaped like arched doorways.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMm6w5khAzANncoPHdgdq31Eq0m8MozqPB57tCGXLFHVXwLLzaizHBenVWKXHSR2Gn6FbdJ8GGBh70tGRGXOCPzbB-jrCgcqIElwj-l6zTdpAcyI3l5fqrq-RmX9I1ji8II21zAfgBVg1v/s1600/205944_10151185740790295_1600597425_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMm6w5khAzANncoPHdgdq31Eq0m8MozqPB57tCGXLFHVXwLLzaizHBenVWKXHSR2Gn6FbdJ8GGBh70tGRGXOCPzbB-jrCgcqIElwj-l6zTdpAcyI3l5fqrq-RmX9I1ji8II21zAfgBVg1v/s1600/205944_10151185740790295_1600597425_n.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><br />
If icons could speak, those in this room called me to sit quietly. To kneel in prayer. To become immersed in the presence of the Holy Spirit.<br />
<br />
And so I did, right here in St. Francis Episcopal Church in downtown Rutherfordton, North Carolina.<br />
<br />
Then, when the time came to write about Ashlynne Rothschild's first steps into the church she would visit while living in "Testament" (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1426757980/ref=s9_psimh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=0GSQ44SKSJZAP36FGXEN&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1688200382&pf_rd_i=507846">The Road to Testament</a> </i>Abingdon Press, 2013), I wrote:<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQw3RVIVaOcOmpahJK33rRj2qC8pMBtQyS59fyfLw42rTrKZ2hJLAubjfu1cdot5okC9sUZZdSKTeH6nHJrMESq18wU_rQCpjQDBJR-CpkWoW9kzY4bA1P3LxHKLvY4vtYDUX6ggQaL_kx/s1600/249784_10151185740215295_1539286076_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQw3RVIVaOcOmpahJK33rRj2qC8pMBtQyS59fyfLw42rTrKZ2hJLAubjfu1cdot5okC9sUZZdSKTeH6nHJrMESq18wU_rQCpjQDBJR-CpkWoW9kzY4bA1P3LxHKLvY4vtYDUX6ggQaL_kx/s1600/249784_10151185740215295_1539286076_n.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqUk2iztn4mNp-pCd11o6SSj-YATqolLRhEpYgH-3eeTQrMnhyqttVgZhKg-ha9W9P5B7V-HzFlDK19wSvJLb5oaDum75EnV2NR2gjw5w3svC8ptWfZ_XuQ-kYS-e0CX5epoMyq_V2Yhx/s1600/426636_10151185739085295_1877584774_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqUk2iztn4mNp-pCd11o6SSj-YATqolLRhEpYgH-3eeTQrMnhyqttVgZhKg-ha9W9P5B7V-HzFlDK19wSvJLb5oaDum75EnV2NR2gjw5w3svC8ptWfZ_XuQ-kYS-e0CX5epoMyq_V2Yhx/s1600/426636_10151185739085295_1877584774_n.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The inside of the church was not what I’d expected. The stonework and
arches gave the sanctuary a gothic appearance. Short pews—hard and shiny with
age—formed rows of moderate length. The end of each pew had been cut high and
carved like rolled scrolls. A center aisle, carpeted in red, led to a prayer
altar of dark wood. Beyond it, an ornate lectern, and beyond that a
floor-to-ceiling stained glass window. On both sides of the sanctuary, dimly
lit by antique brass chandeliers, arched stained glass windows. Some depicted
saints such as John, Peter, Paul, Francis. Others shared stories our faith is
established upon—Moses and the Hebrew children crossing the <st1:place w:st="on">Red
Sea</st1:place>, Ruth gathering wheat, David slaying Goliath, Jesus raising a
child from the dead. Jesus, Himself, ascending into heaven. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I inhaled deeply. The scent of lit candles and polished wood rushed my
senses. This was … <i>lovely</i>. Reverent
and sacred. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">~~~~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">But this was only the inside of the church ... the outside of the fictitious church, her history and the cemetery beyond ... <i>that </i>came from another location in Rutherford County ...</span></div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-66961110145904665902014-05-05T09:09:00.001-04:002014-05-05T09:12:31.660-04:00The Real Road to Testament (Are there really unmarked graves?)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYG66EzCaCPbdlxn9lJCdTR3hlb6Ee3WfLzEvPSJSjNjmPMPs6B40U4pVL4pXBSY2IUiM1ApdbhuqUiYvxaMM4fQwdXEWPi3mhNCVU_Yoi4kfcOT7YOSBBxwt8RumfeCFOq4-tpF1krSyK/s1600/191157_10151182913930295_577701666_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYG66EzCaCPbdlxn9lJCdTR3hlb6Ee3WfLzEvPSJSjNjmPMPs6B40U4pVL4pXBSY2IUiM1ApdbhuqUiYvxaMM4fQwdXEWPi3mhNCVU_Yoi4kfcOT7YOSBBxwt8RumfeCFOq4-tpF1krSyK/s1600/191157_10151182913930295_577701666_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
"How much of this book is based on truth?" is a question I get quite often, no matter the book.<br />
<br />
In truth, we fiction writers nearly always base some part or parts of our books on truth. Sometimes that truth comes out of a person we meet or only see across the way in an airport. Sometimes life happens, strangely enough, and we think, "That would make a good plot for a book ..." We alter things somewhat, and we use what we can.<br />
<br />
I was in Rutherfordton (part of the real Testament, NC) and I heard about these unmarked graves found out in the woods on Decker Ranch. Intrigued, I asked to see them. Sure enough, there they were--about sixty in all--sunken in some places by a foot or so, most of them marked by rough stones.<br />
<br />
As soon as I returned to The Cottage, I got to work on how to incorporate the truth behind the graves with the fiction in <i><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/The-Road-to-Testament?store=allproducts&keyword=The+Road+to+Testament">The Road to Testament</a>. </i>And so, I got to work:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We neared where
Garrison stood alongside a man I presumed to be Robert Matthews. He was tall,
slender, deeply tanned, and sporting a five o’clock shadow before 10:00 in the
morning. Dark hair tussled around his head as though he’d just gotten out of
bed. In spite of the heat, he wore a long-sleeved white tee stained by red mud
and dirt, jeans, and hiking boots. “Will,” he said. He approached us with his
hand out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDdyJjTfrYVE_NpO4PK9NicIe6E0nzifU-VuH6c7QuOb0cFCRLpGaK8vFhqp1loVDuz50zo8gcDNwEFQvKryZKNSsNkU_ZGJXd5tfRCB4R8KcspMgn3yAnxvgFQQWOhjfKlpDGq1KkH7wQ/s1600/242556_10151182912640295_843020309_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDdyJjTfrYVE_NpO4PK9NicIe6E0nzifU-VuH6c7QuOb0cFCRLpGaK8vFhqp1loVDuz50zo8gcDNwEFQvKryZKNSsNkU_ZGJXd5tfRCB4R8KcspMgn3yAnxvgFQQWOhjfKlpDGq1KkH7wQ/s1600/242556_10151182912640295_843020309_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Will shook his hand and released it before turning to me. “Rob, Ashlynne
Rothschild. She’s from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Florida</st1:place></st1:state>,
working here at the paper for a few months.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Rob Matthews smiled, sending crinkles around almond-colored eyes. His
hand shot out as naturally as if we were old friends seeing each other as we
always did. Out in the woods. Surrounded by swaying trees. Overgrown shrub.
And, somewhere close by—did I mention?—dead people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I slipped my hand into his and felt the dryness, the calluses along the
base of his fingers. A working man’s hands. “Nice to meet you,” I said, pulling
back as quickly as I could without seeming rude. I waved away pesky creatures
buzzing around my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Robert nodded once. His eyes sparkled and his mouth broke apart in a
picture-perfect smile. “You, too.” He returned his attention to Will. “Man,
you’ve got to see this,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder and
turning him around. “I’ve been trying to get some of this thinned out back
here. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it once I get it all cleared, but
it needed to be done.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Garrison and I followed behind. I flipped open my notebook, clicked my
pen, and started taking notes, straining to hear as Rob continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdbm61K-8oaeUd-tAfbsucHp_iBCU2PRtgr9KTXIoBAFvycxBPpyTbrAIFdSadm8Q57E4zBNrnZOl7-5yiDdR4YMgZGEzTj2UZaBxAb4wNaEVUdNFDudMftTTaAJKc11_vPgP8CsF8c8-/s1600/472033_10151182915400295_357518126_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqdbm61K-8oaeUd-tAfbsucHp_iBCU2PRtgr9KTXIoBAFvycxBPpyTbrAIFdSadm8Q57E4zBNrnZOl7-5yiDdR4YMgZGEzTj2UZaBxAb4wNaEVUdNFDudMftTTaAJKc11_vPgP8CsF8c8-/s1600/472033_10151182915400295_357518126_o.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Right here,” he said, pointing to the ground, “is I noticed the first
stone.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We stopped, gathering in a circle around a lump of granite in the
ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“I didn’t think a whole lot of it,” Rob continued, “until I took a few
more steps …” He pointed to our left. Sure enough, another stone marked the
spot. “And then,” he said, drawing us along with his words, “I came up on
this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">A larger flat piece of granite rose out of the ground at the base of a
thick pine. “That’s when I realized what all this was.” Rob squatted and we did
too. He pointed and we followed the line of vision his finger provided. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh, my goodness,” I said. “You can actually <i>see</i> the outlines of graves.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Some have sunk about four to six inches, I’m thinking. Other’s deeper
than that.” He looked over at me. “Be careful where you step, now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-48138460597391494472014-05-01T09:01:00.000-04:002014-05-01T09:01:42.684-04:00The "real" Road to Testament (Day 3)I went to the <a href="http://www.mounthermon.org/event/212">Mount Herman Christian Writers Conference</a> years ago as a faculty member and, having a break in my schedule, decided to meander over to <a href="http://www.karenballbooks.com/index.html">Karen Ball's</a> class on fiction writing. I don't necessarily remember a <i>lot </i>that she taught, but I do remember her saying that <i>all </i>of her books have animals, such as a pet dog, cat, etc.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1lMFFoU-o4Xev7SlOJP0UwLX-d75wvVZqFI9A8Q_mBVXriuPBeSg_L4HMpX47wpqY4r1YhwGdyA7Cb9aQXh1jgnZMYApIbBpX6WMvo0P7xiNcZBVi2elbJaqq-92vdoJRLTUAwRqKAXC/s1600/turtles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1lMFFoU-o4Xev7SlOJP0UwLX-d75wvVZqFI9A8Q_mBVXriuPBeSg_L4HMpX47wpqY4r1YhwGdyA7Cb9aQXh1jgnZMYApIbBpX6WMvo0P7xiNcZBVi2elbJaqq-92vdoJRLTUAwRqKAXC/s1600/turtles.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>Gold fish? I don't remember ...<br />
<br />
Since that time, I've noticed when I read books with "pets" that I get a little warm fuzzy, so--whenever I can--I incorporate the pup or kitty or ... gold fish.<br />
<br />
After all, didn't Rocky become more lovable after we met Cuff and Link?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFRTvmTO2SSy2B8OGAYOBhca6E2j8doE8cyYzXv7on9GxVxhbHCFn973JOhnkXB_fhd4ZycMGaE4oa7oeHMDfbmE_qtZ2cix6_gR2uuschl8m6zCgVQh5yoZIKk6M4DfHhZxN5dpWahlq/s1600/284607_10151186751500295_714241042_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKFRTvmTO2SSy2B8OGAYOBhca6E2j8doE8cyYzXv7on9GxVxhbHCFn973JOhnkXB_fhd4ZycMGaE4oa7oeHMDfbmE_qtZ2cix6_gR2uuschl8m6zCgVQh5yoZIKk6M4DfHhZxN5dpWahlq/s1600/284607_10151186751500295_714241042_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>How delightful that, years ago during my first trip to Decker Ranch, I met "Buddy" and "Sis" as Sharon calls them (because this is not their real names). During my trip to the ranch and to that little paradise area of God's country called <a href="http://www.rutherfordcountync.gov/">Rutherford County</a>, North Carolina, Buddy and Sis came to see me every morning while I took a walk or when I sat in the Adirondack chairs reading my devotions.<br />
<br />
One afternoon, Sharon called me. "I can't find Buddy," she said. I smiled and said, "Hold on." I took the photo you see here and sent it to her. Buddy had taken over "guarding" the writer within.<br />
<br />
Here's what happened, exactly as it happened, one morning during devotional time ... and then I wrote it into <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1426757980/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d1_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=1470CYA1HXJTJ1MNMJZA&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=1688200382&pf_rd_i=507846">The Road to Testament</a> </i>as happening to Ashlynne (with some obvious modification).<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~~~</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I sat in what had
become my favorite place to sit and read. Behind me, the sun made its slow
ascent, casting shades of gold and ash across the lawn and the river rocks. A
sliver of glitter in my flip flops caught one of the rays and shot back a
brilliant reflection. Overhead, birds had already begun their morning song. The
notion that we were becoming friends fluttered across my mind, and I smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> As I crossed my legs and took a
leisurely sip of tea, I caught a glimpse of my two furry friends from between
the red-tipped bushes. They sauntered up the path. Over the past few days we’d
formed a morning ritual whereby I drank tea and read; they sat and watched. Our
actions, when done together, worked out beautifully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I’d also learned their names. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “Good morning Buddy,” I said as the
black dog reached me. I placed the mug between my thighs, extended my hand; he
eased his head under it. His tail swished back and forth before looking back to
see how close his constant companion had come to stealing my attention. “Come
on, Sis,” I said, using the nickname Bobbie gave Kelsey. “Come on, old girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Kelsey easily pushed Buddy out of
the way for her love pat. Buddy’s dark eyes stared at me for a moment. Unfazed
by my shift in attention, he walked over to sniff a decorative garden stone
with “</span>DREAM<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">” carved into it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6XORC612UJAakP2vc4xYZzdCH0AlI_T6UyZfLX7zGposPTolwgeHeOjied9lR76FZIBnHSJujUmG7rWSY93lz_D-nuUiDWzGl6lqkEB7djn1ITXdF1hOMcrhUnzJ_t9Lf7lMYsWGtwPc/s1600/TRTT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6XORC612UJAakP2vc4xYZzdCH0AlI_T6UyZfLX7zGposPTolwgeHeOjied9lR76FZIBnHSJujUmG7rWSY93lz_D-nuUiDWzGl6lqkEB7djn1ITXdF1hOMcrhUnzJ_t9Lf7lMYsWGtwPc/s1600/TRTT.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I continued to rub Kelsey’s head,
scratching behind her ears. I laid my head back against the glossy slats of the
chair and closed my eyes. “Ah, Sis,” I said. “Do you know what I’d be doing
right now if I were back in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Winter
Park</st1:place></st1:city>?” I opened my eyes. Sis now sat, her long tail
wrapped around one hip and leg. Her pink tongue dropped between sharp teeth,
and her mouth formed a smile. “I’d be rushing off to work, that’s what.” Buddy
rejoined us and I shifted my hand to his head. “You see,” I continued, “back
home, when I get up—I get up very early—and I do my reading inside my
apartment. I have a settee that once belonged to my grandmother—ah, you
probably don’t want to hear about <i>that. </i>But
I don’t get to go outside and sit under the trees and feel the breeze on my
skin when I do my reading.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Both dogs stared at me, looking at
me as intently as Gram and Mom when I bare my soul to them. “What I’m trying to
say,” I continued, “is how special this is becoming and how much I will miss it
when I leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The dogs blinked in unison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well, then.” I raised the book with my free hand. “I guess I’d better
get to reading so I can shower and go get my nails done.” Kelsey panted deeply
as though, being a girl, she understood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> I propped my mug on the armrest
farthest from the dogs and opened the book to: </span>SING AND DANCE.<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> The artwork on the corresponding mirror tile was of a
woman with her mouth open and of a ballet shoe with wide pink ribbons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “<i>Sing
to him,</i>” I read to Buddy and Kelsey. “<i>Sing
praise to him; tell of his wonderful acts.</i>” I looked at the dogs, both curled
near my feet. “That’s from First Chronicles, chapter sixteen, verse nine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Buddy groaned as he rested his head
on his front paws.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> “I take it you’ve heard me sing,” I
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"> Kelsey followed her companion’s
motions. Her eyes rose to meet mine as though to say, “Uh … yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">~~~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Don't just read bits and pieces of <i><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-road-to-testament-eva-marie-everson/1117075592?ean=9781426757983">The Road to Testament!</a> </i>For heaven's sake, call your favorite bookstore and go to your favorite online bookstore <i>right now </i>and purchase it so you can read the whole thing and ... my dog can get a new collar. (insert big cheesy grin here)</span></div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-1163316479737388312014-04-29T12:07:00.003-04:002014-04-29T12:07:57.530-04:00The "Real" Road the Testament (Day 2)The first time I went to the <i>real </i>Decker Ranch, I was taken with what Sharon Decker called "the cottage" out back and up the hill. A converted barn, this now two-bedroom two-bath comfort zone had been Sharon's place of refuge after her mother's passing.<br />
I could easily see why.<br />
Sharon has a good eye when it comes to decorating, and--as The Cottage soon became my own hideout and writing haunt--I didn't want to lose the home-effects she'd created when making it a character in my book, <i>The Road to Testament.</i><br />
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Remembering how I felt the first time I saw her, I wrote the following:<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I’d found it. My new home. There’d be no turning back now saying I
couldn’t find it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Heaven help me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO53v7hl9WArMAlM_PuNJDcZcf7xB536Xby1UzwBlAr4ZAFQAOSeLpEp3M0AI5XsFalXGZ8vbHJBDCUxNAxqLZFhIMx0jLIQMMNELaYGoE39TsZ1CSQdjAOh5lzj7lqCsahXmhK__DN-Ou/s1600/The+Cottage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO53v7hl9WArMAlM_PuNJDcZcf7xB536Xby1UzwBlAr4ZAFQAOSeLpEp3M0AI5XsFalXGZ8vbHJBDCUxNAxqLZFhIMx0jLIQMMNELaYGoE39TsZ1CSQdjAOh5lzj7lqCsahXmhK__DN-Ou/s1600/The+Cottage.jpg" height="274" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I made a hard left off the asphalt road into the rutted narrow driveway,
which disappeared under a canopy of skinny-trunked, green leafy trees. My car
rocked back and forth as it tilted upward, upward, past deep ravines on both
sides. I crossed a manmade stone bridge built over a lazy stream flowing atop glossy
river rocks. Just as I despaired my car would simply topple backward and I’d be
found upside down in the little creek, the landscape cleared. A sloping yard
led to a white-brick house on one side and a shimmering blue swimming pool and
pool house on the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I followed the driveway to the back of the U-shaped house, stopping
beside a classic Jeep, an Acura, and a rather decrepit looking Dodge truck. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wow,” I said. I felt a brow arch. A two-story unpainted cottage stood
farther up the hill and at the end of the drive. Sky-blue <st1:place w:st="on">Adirondack</st1:place>
chairs, a settee and footrests had been arranged on one side and oversized
planters spilling over with flowers on the other. The entire setting was both
grand and primitive. “Wow,” I said again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">~~~~~</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Have you ever found a place like "The Cottage"? Somewhere you found comfort, as if the house or place itself were giving you all that you needed to get through? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Tell me about it! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">And stay tuned ... I'm going to offer a contest soon, and you'll want to be a part of it (I hope).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5015795886208691084.post-25233766832926719302014-04-28T09:42:00.000-04:002014-04-28T09:42:13.870-04:00The "REAL" Road to TestamentIn my book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Road-Testament-Marie-Everson/dp/1426757980/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1398692349&sr=8-1&keywords=the+road+to+testament">The Road to Testament</a></i>, the make-believe town of Testament, North Carolina becomes a character in and of itself, full of Southern-style streets, shops, and people.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcz1MhSTHLQHrGTIPTwSzig8fwbOgi-dcv84XvoWmYgKnbQ6XweS9NMlyyIXDumvQyhSM3jZz0gww2wjjACtux9RKFuAIq2cRHisD3FwTKK1AyQs0H1WIwcHPGFoQw8xWoepnLwaqTiUN/s1600/576958_10151185735515295_750523270_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZcz1MhSTHLQHrGTIPTwSzig8fwbOgi-dcv84XvoWmYgKnbQ6XweS9NMlyyIXDumvQyhSM3jZz0gww2wjjACtux9RKFuAIq2cRHisD3FwTKK1AyQs0H1WIwcHPGFoQw8xWoepnLwaqTiUN/s1600/576958_10151185735515295_750523270_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spindazzle and The Spinning Bean, Spindale, NC<br />
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</tbody></table>
"Testament" is a composite of Rutherfordton, Spindale, Forest City, and Tryon, North Carolina.<br />
<br />
Over the next few days, I'd like to share with you some of the <i>real </i>places that, and people who inspired the book.<br />
<br />
Spindazzle is a <i>fun </i>shop full of goodies in Spindale, North Carolina. Right next door is the Spindale Drug Company, and next door to <i>that, </i> is The Spinning Bean, where you can get great food and the most delicious cup of coffee! During one trip to research and write the book, I became downright addicted to one of their flavored coffees! If you go there, I bet you will too!<br />
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When Ashlynne first comes to "Testament" she notes the charming look of the small Southern town from the driver's seat of her Jag (This is also the first time she sees William Decker). Here's what she observes: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6XORC612UJAakP2vc4xYZzdCH0AlI_T6UyZfLX7zGposPTolwgeHeOjied9lR76FZIBnHSJujUmG7rWSY93lz_D-nuUiDWzGl6lqkEB7djn1ITXdF1hOMcrhUnzJ_t9Lf7lMYsWGtwPc/s1600/TRTT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6XORC612UJAakP2vc4xYZzdCH0AlI_T6UyZfLX7zGposPTolwgeHeOjied9lR76FZIBnHSJujUmG7rWSY93lz_D-nuUiDWzGl6lqkEB7djn1ITXdF1hOMcrhUnzJ_t9Lf7lMYsWGtwPc/s1600/TRTT.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Brick storefront facades ran tall and
short on both sides of the road, offering old-world appeal. Many of the stores
had been renovated, converted to shops and restaurants. Wrought iron and wood
benches separated by large pots of multihued flowers stretched between the
doorways. The few people who meandered the sidewalks wore walking shorts, tee
shirts and colorful flip flops. They tended to stay close to the shade afforded
by scalloped awnings. Two children, who walked ahead of adults I assumed to be
their parents, wrapped their cherub lips around ice cream stacked high in sugar
cones. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip, wondering where they had purchased
such delight. I contemplated rolling down the window and asking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A glance at the traffic signal showed
the light had yet to turn green. I lowered my window to see if I might find an
ice cream shop. Just as I did, the driver’s door of a parked and battered
pickup flew open. I cocked a brow at the cowboy-wannabe who jumped out, scuffed
boots landing firmly on the asphalt. In spite of the heat, he wore jeans I’d
bet hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in weeks, a crisp short-sleeved
denim shirt, and—I’m not kidding—a cowboy hat wrapped with a sweat ring. He
caught me staring—or perhaps it was the other way around. His eyes pierced
through to mine—screaming as if he knew I were some intruder stepping on his
hallowed ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Or as if he knew me … and we were
arch enemies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I powered my window up. The light
turned green. Feeling awkward for reasons I couldn’t understand, I pushed the
gas a little too hard. My car jerked but I managed to gain control before I’d
caused an accident. A peek at my side mirror confirmed my fear; Mr. Cowboy had
taken it all in. He pulled on the rim of his hat and turned away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Eva Marie Eversonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15159409003924304308noreply@blogger.com0