Welcome back,
MaryAnn. God has really been moving in your writing life. What do you see on
the horizon?
I praise God for moving in my life, in His own way and in
His own timing. My job is simply to be sensitive to His leading and to follow
Him wherever He wants to take me. That said, what I see on the horizon is
greater intimacy in my relationship with God as I focus above all on
worshipping Him and being in His Presence. From this place of vision, I see a
deluge of ideas for more stories that will glorify Jesus and point people to
Him. Many of these stories are already formulating in my mind, and three of
them I’ve already begun to write.
Tell us a little
about your family.
My husband Dom and I have been married for 47 years. Dom is a retired ER
physician who now helps me with my writing ministry. He does a lot of the
research for my historical novels and takes care of much of the business side
of my writing. Dom and I are blessed with two amazing adult daughters. Our
firstborn daughter, Lia, is a church musician and educator. She and her husband,
Peter, have five beautiful children ranging in age from 10 to 4. Our second-born
daughter, Gina, is a historian and a public policy specialist. She is also a worship
leader at her church, a runner, and an outstanding writer in her own right.
Has your writing
changed your reading habits? If so, how?
I have always been an avid reader and have especially enjoyed reading the
classics. The fact that I now write fiction has led me to read a lot more
contemporary fiction. Fiction written today is much different in terms of
technique than fiction written 100 years ago—even 25 years ago. Attention spans
are shorter today. Life is more hectic today. So, readers don’t have time for
long, descriptive narratives. They want to get into the story, and they want to
get into it fast. :) As a result, fiction writers have had to adapt
stylistically to these cultural changes in order to hook and retain reader
interest. At the same time, a good story defies time and place and has constant
elements that never change. So, I see my role as a writer of fiction as that of
combining the best of the past with the best of the present.
What are you working
on right now?
I will soon be starting the writing of Book 3, RETURN TO
BELLA TERRA, in THE ITALIAN CHRONICLES Trilogy. I am also
working on a stand-alone novel tentatively titled AN ITALIAN ROMANCE and a
book of poetry for children called POEMS FOR WEE ONES that I hope to release in
2018, Lord willing.
What outside
interests do you have?
I love to read, to draw, and to paint in oils, acrylics, and
pastels, as well as pen and ink and colored pencil. I love to play the
piano and cello, and I am currently learning how to play the mandolin, an instrument my
maternal grandfather played. I recently began crocheting hats and scarves for a church
ministry that ministers to the homeless. Of course, I enjoy spending lots of
time with my precious grandchildren.
How do you choose
your settings for each book?
I choose settings with which I am familiar, usually from having lived there
or, at least from having visited the location. Knowing the setting well enables
me to create a strong sense of realism that adds credibility to my stories by
virtue of my familiarity with the details of the location.
If you could spend an
evening with one historical person, who would it be and why?
I would spend an evening with Jesus Christ because He is not
only the central and pivotal point of all history, but also because
He is outside of all history and all history is defined by Him. Since He is the
Master Story-Teller, I would ask Him especially about the principles of story
and how He used those principles in pointing people to the Father.
What is the one thing
you wish you had known before you started writing novels?
Instead of viewing novel-writing as a glamorous activity, I wish I had had
a more realistic view. I wish
I had known that there are clear, well-defined principles of story-telling that
transcend time and place and that can be learned, and that knowing those principles
and applying them would result in stories that keep readers reading.
What new lessons is
the Lord teaching you right now?
The Lord is teaching me how to rest in Him more and more. He is showing me that
DOING flows out of BEING, and that as I spend time in His Presence, worshipping
Him, I will bear much fruit. He is showing me what it truly means to be
attached to the Vine and to BE in Him before I DO for Him.
What are the three best things you can tell other authors to
do to be successful?
1 – Put God first in all things, including your writing. (Matthew 6: 33)
2 – Listen to the voice of the Holy Spirit regarding your writing. (Romans 8:
14)
3—Obey the voice of the Holy Spirit regarding your writing. (Jeremiah 7: 23)
Tell us about the
featured book.
THE MADONNA OF PISANO is Book One in
my trilogy titled THE ITALIAN CHRONICLES. The idea for this story was sparked
by an incident that occurred in the life of my paternal great-grandmother. When
I learned of the incident during a genealogical search, I knew I had to write
about it in a story. While the seed of the story came from a true incident, the
incident has been fictionalized to accommodate the literary parameters of a
novel.
Please give us the
first page of the book.
Here is the first scene of Chapter One:
Pisano, Sicily, September 1891
She had no
other choice.
Maria
Landro led her little son by the hand as they hurried down the winding road from Bella Terra toward the village. Distant, dark clouds
gathered in the morning sky. Looked like a storm coming. The anxiety that had been churning
for days in the pit of her stomach now spread to chill every part of her body. It was
all she could do to keep herself from turning back.
Nico tugged
on her wrist. “Are we almost there, Mama?”
She
squeezed his hand in return, the hem of her skirt rustling against the pebbles
as it
swished along the cobblestone road. “Almost, darling. Are
you all right?”
He looked
up at her. He had her father’s eyes. Kind, deep, and probing. They always
made him so easy to love.
“I’m well,
Mama.” But his fingers fidgeted in her hand.
His
nervousness only fueled her own. She squeezed his hand more tightly. Please let
the village be kind to him. Regardless of what they believed
about her.
A sudden
gust of wind caught the edge of her headscarf, pulling it back past her
temples. “My, the wind is getting stronger. Let’s hurry
before the storm breaks. We don’t
want you to arrive at school soaking wet on your very first
day, do we?”
“No, we
don’t, Mama. I would look silly.” He laughed, and an arrow pierced her
heart.
If anyone
hurt him …
A
hay-filled wagon rumbled past them, its wooden wheels creaking against the
pebble-strewn road. The driver turned his face away as he
passed.
She winced,
pulling her son closer to herself to hide him.
“Will the
storm carry us away, Mama?” Nico laughed again. “Maybe the wind will
pick me up, and I’ll fly like a bird and land on the school
windowsill, and my teacher will
laugh.”
She tensed.
Nico’s teacher. No, Don Franco would never laugh. If only she could
have chosen someone—anyone—else to be his teacher.
But not in
Pisano.
The tiny
village had only one schoolhouse and one teacher.
As they
turned a bend in the road, she caught a glimpse of her family’s large tan
stucco house. It sat majestically atop the hill, like a
queen on her throne, surrounded by
sloping fields of fragrant orange and lemon groves,
purple-red vineyards, and golden
wheat fields. Nestled among a cluster of tall poplar trees,
would the queen soon be forced
to give up her throne?
Was the
farm’s failure Maria's fault as well?
She looked
down at her little boy, all dressed up for his first day of school. She’d
made him the pair of navy-blue cotton britches the school
uniform required, topped by a
white, short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue ascot. His new
black leather shoes, though a bit
too big, would soon fit his rapidly growing feet.
As they
approached the village, she recoiled at the sight of the medieval church
steeple reaching toward the gray morning sky. The church
stood in the middle of the
village as a sign of God’s central position in the lives of
the villagers.
She hadn’t
stepped foot in it for nearly seven years.
Pinwheeling
out from the church, little pastel-colored stucco houses lined dirt roads
framed by borders of yellow pansies and russet daylilies.
Next to the church stood the
rectory, its burnt orange tile roof in much need of repair.
She averted
her eyes.
A few drops
of rain splashed against her kerchief and sprinkled her face. She looked
up just as a streak of lightning slashed the eastern sky.
Then, with a loud clap, the clouds
broke loose, dumping their reservoir of rain. Why hadn’t she
brought an umbrella?
Gripping
Nico’s hand, she started running. The rain pummeled her head and her back
as she tried to guide her little boy around the puddles.
“Oh, Mama.
My new shoes. They’re covered with mud.”
So much for
showing off her son. After six years of hiding him, she would see her
bold, triumphant moment ruined by mud. “Don’t worry. As soon
as we get to the school,
I’ll wipe them off for you.”
Just as
quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. She took out the handkerchief
she’d
shoved into her large canvas bag, next to the fresh fruit
and nuts she’d brought for Nico’s
snack, and wiped her son’s wet face. Wet from the rain, she
hoped, and not from tears.
She
couldn’t take tears. Not from him. Not from herself.
As they
entered the village square, shouts of haggling customers caught her ear.
Young
mothers with babies on their hips bargained with shopkeepers over the price of
peppers, eggplant, and squash. At the far end of the square,
old women dressed in black
shuffled out of the Church of the Holy Virgin, fresh from
hearing daily Mass.
Nico pulled
at her hand. “Mama, so many people. I never saw so many people.”
He seemed like a new puppy let loose from his cage. “Yes, my
son. The village is
full of many people.”
Her eyes
scanned the bustling square where she’d once spent many happy moments
at Luigi’s outdoor café, eating pasta and sipping espresso
in the company of family and
friends.
Deftly
skirting farmers pulling wobbly carts laden with lemons and oranges, she
guided her child through the market crowd. Small groups of
old men, their heads covered
with flat-topped coppola hats, huddled at little round
tables, chewing on long pieces of
fennel while playing chess. A young mother, dressed in the
black attire of year-long
mourning for a deceased loved one, held onto a toddler with
one hand while, with the
other, she sorted through artichokes, cucumbers, and leeks.
The smell of freshly caught
tuna, squid, and mussels, fruit of the nearby sea, turned
Maria’s empty stomach.
She led
Nico through the square. Her face grew hot as neighbors and one-time
friends raised their eyes to her. Old women shook their
heads, while younger ones
scanned her from head to toe, then turned away with uplifted
chins. Men of all ages
scraped their eyes over Nico then leered at her.
The skin
prickled on the nape of her neck. “Come, Nico. We must hurry so we won’t
be late.”
“Yes,
Mama.”
Wide-eyed,
he drank in the new sights. Poor child. He’d been sequestered on the
family farm his whole life. He knew nothing of this world
beyond Bella Terra.
Whispers
grew into mumbles and then into shouts, roaring in her ears as she hurried
through the gathering crowd.
“Can it be?
Maria Landro? And that must be her bastard child.”
She
stiffened.
“What are
they saying, Mama? What does ‘bastard’ mean?”
Keeping her
eyes straight ahead, she guided her child toward the school just beyond
the square.
“Bastard!
Bastard! Bastard!” The word echoed after them.
“Mama, what
does ‘bastard’ mean?”
Her stomach
tied itself into a tight knot. Lowering her head, she quickened her pace.
“I’ll explain at another time. Right now we must get to your
school, or you will be late.”
Thank you, MaryAnn, for sharing this book with us. I'm eager to read it.
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