Welcome, Deb. Tell us how much of yourself you write into your characters.
Probably more than I think I do. I’ve never been able to write a “gentle” heroine, though I’ve wanted to, because the women who helped form my character weren’t generally in that mold. Even Grandma, who led me to Christ, was a scrappy sort of woman – and totally sold out to the Lord. These have been my role models so I’m happy with how they made me the woman I am—and at one remove, my characters who they are.
What is the quirkiest thing you have ever done?
How long have you got? I don’t do conventional extreme stuff like base jumping or anything, but…in the writing, the quirkiest piece I’ve written so far was ANGEL WITH A RAY GUN. I wrote it due to a conversation with my husband: “Christians don’t get science fiction.” “They do, and I can prove it.” “How?” “Write a novel about ’em, of course.” To date, that book has been one of my most popular.
When did you first discover that you were a writer?
I was ten, and a “Bonanza” fan. It hacked me off that there was no ten-year-old girl on the Ponderosa with her own pony. So I made up Vanessa Cartwright and began writing her adventures, using a pencil and a spiral notebook. I’ve been writing ever since.
Tell us the range of the kinds of books you enjoy reading.
My tastes are eclectic. I enjoy sweet romance, science fiction, nonfiction, historical romantic fic and mysteries centered on the medieval period, the odd Regency sprinkled in. I like books that have a light touch, and use humor to good effect, and I try not to limit myself too much on what I read.
How do you keep your sanity in our run, run, run world?
I was supposed to keep my sanity? Who knew?
How do you choose your characters’ names?
Sometimes they just “come” to me and I know their names as soon as I start getting to know their personalities. At other times it’s a struggle. In some books, their names have a particular meaning and I try to make that significant as a subtheme in the story.
What is the accomplishment that you are most proud of?
Our daughters, whom I somehow managed to raise as young women of faith despite the fact I was busy recovering my own faith at the time. I respect and admire them.
It’s wonderful when out daughters grow up and become our sisters in Christ. If you were an animal, which one would you be, and why?
Probably a walrus. All they do is eat, sleep, and swim, and I love hanging out that way.
What is your favorite food?
Chocolate. If “you are what you eat,” I’m at least 10%.
I’d hate to say what percentage I would be. What is the problem with writing that was your greatest roadblock, and how did you overcome it?
I’m still overcoming it. My issue is that this season of my life doesn’t allow as much BICHOK time as I would like. I’m coping, but more than ready to pay much more attention to creating all these stories traipsing around in my head.
Tell us about the featured book.
PEACEWEAVER is the first of three tales about “the faith box,” a reliquary passed down through the women of one British lineage. Book one tells Anmair’s story. She’s given in marriage to serve her father’s ambitions for peace in tenth century
Wales and has
no choice but to obey. Cadell, her husband, urges her to accept their destiny
as he has, and work together to curb their clans’ warlike ways. When their
people are torn by Viking raids, English meddling, and treachery, Anmair struggles
to become worthy to hold the Faith Box, placing her trust in God and facing her
Love your cover. Please give us the first page of the book.
Anmair uerch Efan, daughter and treasure of Lis Caradoc, brushed a pesky fly from the sleeve of her long-sleeved linen gown. Though she would sweat in her long-sleeved linen gown, today promised plenty of delight. Chores, to be sure, but pleasant work in the midsummer sunshine. With a basket over her arm, she kept pace with Grandmother for the needful harvest of the Lord's bounty -- today, wild onions.
Her brother, brought along to help or at the least to protect, had other things on his mind. Thrusting his picking-basket at Anmair, on a snap of twig he sidled into the thicket and vanished.
"Bradan! Where do you go?" Grandmother called out.
"Anon, lady," his voice called, already from a distance.
Anmair gave a low chirp of laughter. "He strays off, as usual. Likely he seeks a Pictish burial ground or a broken spear from one of great Rhodri's battles." She raised her voice. "Bradan! Father will lift your hide with his belt. Come back! You promised to escort us."
"He is gone. Nay, give over, child. He has scant time for merrymaking these days."
"He is full sixteen, too old for childish sport." Anmair spotted a baby onion and pulled it from the earth.
"Have a little patience. Life will teach that boy to attend on one thing at one time."
Anmair smiled. She adored the indulged youngest of her five brothers. Two years younger than she, Bradan was not often denied simple pleasures. Aye, her brother had scant interest in young onions. He would remain close enough to keep them safe, but chores? Not for him. She and Grandmother Lisinwy would be filling all three baskets.
Looking down into her basket, she sighed. Try as she might, Anmair could never keep up with Lisinwy. Her basket already hung heavy with the best and ripest onions.
"Breathe, child. What soft air! The Lord Himself made this day just for us to go a-field." Grandmother's deft hands, wrinkled like she'd left them too long in hot water, could pick while she talked. Anmair loved the sound of her soft, low voice, so unlike Mother's higher tones. "Mmm, these will do fine in a pie. When we come home, mayhap we can cozen Cook into making one for the evening meal. It will taste of heaven with onions sweet as these."
Anmair heard a different note in Grandmother's voice and kept her counsel. Before they'd left the hall, Grandmother had hinted she would discuss weightier matters than onions and pie.
"But we came here for more than onions," the older woman said. "You and I have other things to speak of. While Bradan hares off about his business -- aye, I know it seems his lot is fun, while yours is work. But consider... boys do grow into men too early. Ever it is so, and they cannot wait to trade stick pony for war-horse. At least I still have you in my counsel. And aye, I would talk of duty."
Anmair frowned, at first hoping to distract Grandmother from such things. Why speak of duty on such a heaven-sent day? Before she could voice the thought, however, Bradan burst out of a bramble.
"Our lady mother calls." He swatted an insistent fly from his face. "There, on the headland. We must away--"
How can readers find you on the Internet?
My blog lurks at www.justtellthestory.blogspot.com .
My web site is www.debkinnard.com .
It's my pleasure and great blessing, Deb.
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The Faith Box Book One: Peaceweaver (TheFaith Box)
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