THE WINNER OF
THE ART OF MY LIFE
IS ANNE
CONGRATULATIONS ANNE!
Ann has graciously said she will give one free e-book of her book "The Art of My Life" to someone who leaves a comment. She will also give away an e-book of her first book "Kicking Eternity" to anyone who requests a copy. You don't want to miss out on this fantastic giveaway.
Interview with Author
Ann Lee Miller
Giveaway: Anyone
who leaves a comment with their e-mail address will receive a free e-copy of
prequel: Kicking Eternity. Or you may
request your free copy at AnnLeeMiller.com.
·
How much of your real life experiences show up
in your fiction?
As a writer, I’m a vulture, feeding off the carcass of my
life and other peoples’. Usually, it’s just bits and pieces—an experience here,
a personality trait there, a deeply etched emotion, a pivotal relationship.
·
For example?
In The Art of My Life
Henna shows up as a secondary character who grows pot in the back yard and has
obviously smoked one doobie too many over the years. She is a loveable, comical
character who fractures clichés much like my mother did in her waning years with
Altzheimer’s. I use a funny story that actually happened. Mom insisted that
while she was in the grocery store someone stole eighteen pair of her panties
out of her laundry basket which was setting in the passenger seat of her car. And the would-be thief replaced her
pristine grandmamma undies with eighteen ratty pair.
Starr, who has a more predominant role in the story is a
repressed ballet teacher. I took ballet as a child to correct my inward-turning
feet. I also struggle with repression. Starr and I rebelled from bohemian
upbringings into conservatism. Starr’s hyper-critical attitude toward her son,
however, I borrowed from my father’s personality. Both Starr and I heard from
our fathers, “I’ll give you something to cry about,” when we cried.
Cal went to jail, had a love affair with marijuana. Close
relatives have done the same. Aly fights my leftover Catholic guilt. Fish holds
grudges like I do. Aly falls overboard like I did as a kid. Leaf and my late
father were Willie Nelson look-alikes.
I, like my characters. have always inhabited the bottom rung
of the middle class. We all drive beater cars my kids call POSes (Ahem, you’ll
have to figure that one out yourself).
Because I am a spiritual person, my characters wrestle or
refuse to wrestle with issues of faith.
·
Are there recurring themes from your life you
revisit in fiction?
In The Art of My Life
I focus on an adult child overcoming diminished self-esteem due to a critical
parent, forgiving people who have deeply hurt us, overcoming self-condemnation when
we breach our personal moral code—all issues I have dealt with.
·
The Art of
My Life features a male main character. Where did you draw your insight
from?
I’ve been surrounded by guys my whole life. My closest
relationship growing up was with my father, toxic though it may have been. My
only sibling is male. Three of my four children are guys. My husband grants me
access to dive in and poke around in the male psyche. But I’m still learning.
This year’s big discovery is that most guys could care less about matching—they
don’t really give a flip whether they walk out the door with brown pants, brown
shoes, and a coordinating shirt. Just last week my sons told me you have to
“train” a beard. Who knew?
·
Tell us a little about The Art of My Life.
Here’s the back
cover:
Cal walked out
of jail and into a second chance at winning Aly with his grandma’s beater
sailboat and a reclaimed dream of sailing charters.
Aly has the business smarts, strings to a
startup loan, and heart he never should have broken. He’s got squat. Unless you
count enough original art to stock a monster rummage sale and an affection for
weed.
But he’d only ever loved Aly. That had to count
for something. Aly needed a guy who owned yard tools, tires worth rotating, and
a voter’s registration card. He’d be that guy or die trying.
For anyone who’s ever struggled to measure up.
And failed.
Bio: Ann Lee Miller
earned a BA in creative writing from Ashland (OH) University and writes
full-time in Phoenix, but left her heart in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, where
she grew up. She loves speaking to young adults and guest lectures on writing
at several Arizona colleges. When she isn’t writing or muddling through some
crisis—real or imagined—you’ll find her hiking in the Superstition Mountains
with her husband or meddling in her kids’ lives.
Blog: http://the-art-of-my-life.blogspot.com/
Twitter:
@AnnLeeMiller
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AnnLeeMillerAuthor
Chapter 1
July 15
Ever have a painting you’ve
stared at for years—and loved? Then, one day, you see something which alters
the way you view the piece forever. And you have to decide whether the art has
been irreparably marred or merely deepened.
Cal walked through
the tinted glass jail doors into the loamy scent of Bermuda grass, pine bark, and
freedom. The surf shorts and T-shirt he’d worn three months ago when the cop
clamped metal on his wrists hung loosely, misshapen, like a life that no longer
fit.
He scanned the
weather-bleached asphalt, the smattering of cars roasting in the Daytona Beach
summer. Sun glinted off the windshield of a silver Honda—Aly’s?—blinding his
eyes, yanking her last words to him into the whiteness. I love you, John Calvin Koomer. Usually he blocked out Aly’s
admission, but in jail the video had played over and over—the certainty in her
eyes, the tremor in her voice.
He squinted at the
Honda. Sweat slicked his armpits and tickled the side of his face.
Maybe he should have
slept with Aly when she offered. He shook his head, dissolving the idea. No. It
didn’t matter that protecting her from another guy taking what he wanted had
earned him two and a half years of looking at the back of her head. It had been
the right thing to do.
He’d smoked weed to
forget her, crammed Evie into Aly’s place inside him, but going to jail had ripped
away everything but the truth.
He loved Aly. Always
had. Always would.
And it was time to
do something about it.
The rumble of an
engine pulling into the lot jerked his head around. His mother’s minivan puttered
toward him, mowing down the stubble of his hope.
He glanced back at
the Honda. No college graduation tassel dangled from the mirror. No silhouette
of the Virgin Mary was rusted into the right front bumper.
The car was empty.
Like he felt inside.
Mom angled into a
parking space, her maneuvering as precise as everything she did.
His flip flops
scraped the blacktop as he shuffled toward her. As his hand closed around the
chrome door handle, heat branded his palm. He climbed into the stream of the
air conditioning blowing from the dash, and the door clunked shut behind him.
Mom reached for him,
and his breath stuttered.
When was the last
time they’d touched?
She wrapped awkward
arms around him. “I—I’ve wanted to hug you ever since the first day I visited
you at jail.”
His hand lit on the
fabric stretched across her dancer’s back. He sucked in gulps of human affection
and the talcum scent of childhood while his mind tried to solve the puzzle of his
mother. He coughed, searched for words to fill the silence, and found none. For
a heartbeat he was ten with tears pricking the backs of his eyes.
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4) to recieve your copy of Ann's "Kicking Eternity" please email her directly and I'll pick a winner for "The Art of My Life"
HAPPY READING!
