And the book doesn’t nip OR bite your ankles!
It’s been a long time coming but it’s finally here!
If you like family drama, mystery, or knowing more about the “roaring” Prohibition era, I’d love to share this story with you. You can find it:
On Amazon here.
Barnes and Noble here.
Also, Goodreads is hosting a giveaway for the novel!
Thanks, all!!
Carolyn
Seventeen-year-old Emma June believed her mother’s new friend, the citified Betty Bedford, breathed life into their small town of Holly Gap, Texas, with her flapper dresses, fancy flasks, and progressive ideas. But when her mother goes missing after fighting with Betty on carnival night, Emma June fears that all of Betty’s words were filled with lies.
Trying to piece together the events of that dreadful night, Emma June sets out to find her mother and warily accepts the help of the town’s mysterious newcomer named Frank, whose sudden appearance in Holly Gap raises her suspicions. Yet behind his easygoing attitude and passion for jazz, Frank conceals many secrets of his own.
Teaming up in their investigation, Emma June and Frank uncover the presence of a wanted mobster who threatens the stability of their community and may be the key to finding Emma June’s mother. Even as their search leads to danger and Betty’s life-shattering lies come to light, Emma June will stop at nothing to bring her mother home.
A thrilling mystery set in the social tumult of the Prohibition era, Distilling Lies reveals what real crimes occur beyond the moonshine thicket.
You may find it here:
I didn’t know James “Slim” Hand had died until recently.
In 2011, when my first novel came out, he played at my book release party. His rich voice belted out songs he had written as well as my requested, “Home on the Range.”
In the short time I knew him, I found him to be a kind, gentle soul who wore his heart on his sleeve and an easy smile on his face.
My newest novel will be released on May 9th and I think of him now. This round, I will not have an official release party (although I’m dancing in private.) But if he were still around, I know he would gladly pose with my newest book in hand, have his photo taken, and later, enjoy my efforts in painting him. Rest in Peace, Slim.
Distilling Lies will be available on May 9th. You may find it here:
Case in point – As a teenager, I got my first job as a telephone solicitor. I sat at a table with a phone and a script of what to say to random strangers. The script included a section for “what to say if they resist your sales pitch and could care less about buying a subscription of the Austin Citizen Newspaper. ” I never got that far. If they said “no,” that was that. I had bothered them enough and wanted no part in wasting their time any further. Needless to say, I was fired after three days. As the saying goes, I couldn’t sell a Bible to a Baptist preacher. And now, many, many year later, still can’t.
So, I have a new book coming out this May. “They” say I need to promote it. Ha! And, oh no.
Now, to change the subject without changing the subject.
Who doesn’t like cute animals? So, without further ado, here are a few to ooh and ahh over.
Aren’t they adorable?
We do it from time to time. Right?
I’ve seen you do so (when I wasn’t disappearing).
“WordPress? Blogging? Later …” you’ve said.
Well, here’s a quick re-emergence, a brief “shout out” to say,
GIVE ME A MINUTE. I’M ON A ROLL.
Not everyone does, you know. Some adults think that those little human “beans” should sprout somewhere else, anywhere but in their close proximity.
Yes, children are loud and can irritate and inflame every nerve to the point where anti-inflamatories don’t work.
Children are curious to a fault – “How come?” “Why do I haf-ta?” “What’s that?” Those questions sometimes makes us grown-ups feel stupid because we don’t always have the internet at hand for research.
But I know that children are magic.
They help us remember what our long-ago years were like.
They remind us of that feeling of satisfaction when the “ah-ha!” moments pop out of nowhere land.
They refill our imagination bucket with all kinds of sweet nuggets of creativity.
Three years ago and four grandchildren later, ribbons of creativity, once hidden in my DNA, have sprouted again. Thanks to those growing “beans,” the product of their influence is now available here.
The first day of school, I’m sitting in the back hoping she won’t see me. But she does.
“Cono,” she says, “Sit on up here in front, where I can keep’n eye on you-uh.”
I hate it when she says “you-uh,” like it’s two words instead of one.
Mrs. Berry doesn’t like anything I do. She doesn’t like the way I look, the way I walk, the way I smell, the way I put on my shoes. Well, I don’t like her neither. She stares at me with the corner of her crinkled up eyes, just to find something else she doesn’t like.
“Cono, you’re pressin‘ down too hard with that pencil, you’re gonna break it.” “Cono, I can barely read what you’re writing, it looks invisible.” “Cono, you-uh got something to say or don’t ya?”
She thinks that she’s higher and mightier than God Jesus himself. She walks with her nose so far up in the air that, if she were a turkey, she’d drown. Turkey’s do that. They’re so stupid that if it starts raining, they look up to see what’s dropping on them and sniff!. That’s all it takes. They’ve plumb drown in a drop of rain. You’d think they would have caught on after a while. Like they would have seen their loved ones plop down dead after looking up, that they’d be onto something. No way. They ever look up just to see the pretty stars? Nah. They only look up when it’s raining. Sniff!
The only thing dumber than a turkey is the man that owns them and he’s dumber than a box’a hammers. Just like Mrs. Berry and Principal Pall.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
image credit
via Invisible
It’s Sunday, revival time at the Baptist church. I don’t like it much, but the punch and cookies are good, that is if I can hold my patience until the end when all the “amen-ing” is done.
I stuff those cookies in my mouth two at a time. “Gracious me, Cono,” says Mrs. Allridge, “looks like you ain’t eaten anything for a month.”
Almost every time I get to one of those revivals, the grownups say, “Cono, don’t you want to be saved?”
“From what?” I say.
“Why the Devil hisself,” they say and then they add a bunch of amen’s to go along with it.
Unless they’re thinking about my Dad being the Devil, I just say, “No thank you.”
“But what are you waitin for? We could baptize you right now and all your sins would be forgiven and you would have eternal life.”
As far as sinning goes, I guess I’ve done my fair share of it, Amen.
“What’s eternal mean?” I ask.
“Well, it means you’ll live forever with Jesus right next to you.”
I picture Jesus standing right next to me, while I was thunk, thunk, thunkin’ on a woodpile forever and ever into eternity. And it doesn’t appeal to me one iota. Last year when we lived with Aunt Nolie, I didn’t have much chopping to do. But now, I have to chop all the time, Chop, chop to make sure Mother has enough wood for the cookstove at the Tourist Court. Chop, chop so Dad won’t lay into me.
Anyway, I’ve heard stories about how some churches take a poor person’s last dime, so they can put more gold up by the Jesus statue. Then, a penny-less old woman with only one shoe and five starving children crawls away with her head all covered up, as if she’s ashamed of being broke.
It doesn’t make no sense to me whatsoever. It seems to me that Jesus would want you to keep most of your money, so you don’t have to starve and die and can at least make it to church to pray. What gets me is watching them churchgoers and knowing that they talk all big about Jesus, but when they get home, they just keep doing their sinning anyway, like they’d forgotten every word they’d learned.
Maybe all you have to do is say you believe in Jesus and then you’ll be saved no matter how you act. But what do I know? I ain’t been saved yet.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
image credit
via Patience
Dad is slumped over on me now; half of his weight is on my right side, my right arm under his. I walk him to his side of the bed hoping Mother won’t wake up and see how drunk he is, see the blood I didn’t get the chance to wipe off his face. He lies down and is out cold. He’s good for the night.
I go into my room and see Delma asleep on her bed. I lie down on mine and stare up at the ceiling. A dim light comes through my window. The half-moon pays me a visit, casts shadows of a kid named Cono who never could beat Hicks Boy.
Well, I guess Dad has met his own Hicks Boy.
I can’t believe I’m not jumping up and down, celebrating. I feel kinda sorry for him, my dad beaten by a cue stick. The same man who, to my knowledge, never lost a fight except for in the boxing ring with Shorty Houghton when I was three years old.
I also feel pretty good that I was there for him, did something for him that maybe he’ll remember. But it doesn’t really matter if he remembers. I will. For the first time, I felt useful to him.
I hear Mother scream. I snap back into the present, out of my daydream. Maybe she’s woken up, has seen blood on her sheets reflected in moonlight, seen the blood on Dad’s face.
I start to get up but the quiet has taken over. I think I might just go back to sleep but the silence only lasts for a moment.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
Image credit
via Dim
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 