Monday, March 4, 2019

#75 Backstory of the Poem "Shape of a Violin" by Kelly Powell



*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.
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*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7
***This is the seventy-fifth in a never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece.
#75 Backstory of the Poem “Shape of a Violin”
by Kelly Powell
Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? To begin at the beginning, (of this poem) I conceived this poem at my computer at home in or around 2007 while my child was attending an after school program. 
I had started to leave myself one half an hour a day leeway to allow for traffic and to dedicate to writing. The poem is about my child’s love of the violin at that time and all the lessons and bringing the violin (we ended up with two) back and forth between two blended families. At the time I was restoring a baby grand piano that I adopted from a neighbor who was moving. The piano had a French polish that someone had ruined by cleaning it with Windex, so it appeared to be ruined.
It took almost a year to write the poem and to finish the piano a little at a time, removing away the blackened polish with rubbing alcohol.
We lived in a small house, just the two of us sparrows in a nest, I like to think of us at that time. I was a single mom, working as a bookkeeper for an accountant, as I had done in different industries my whole life. The car business, mortgage business and supermarket, etc. 
I have written poems from these experiences also. Probably from the beginning my child had been angry that we had moved and would’ve started a year earlier in 3rd grade. Discipline in practice didn’t lead to a love of the instrument, however, but the knowledge and love of music remained. We switched to guitar and mandolin later.

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?  And please describe the place in great detail.  To begin at the beginning, (of this poem) I conceived this poem at my computer at home in or around 2007 while my child was attending an after school program.
What month and year did you start writing this poem?  The Year 2007
How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?) . I may have gone through a hundred drafts of this poem from beginning until now.
Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us?  I workshopped a lengthy draft of this poem at the Walt Whitman Birthplace with XJ Kennedy in 2009 , where they have a Master Class every year with a famous poet. 
I originally had a lot of explanation and language in the beginning of this, but at his suggestion, cut all that introductory and explanatory exposition and this was key to its transformation. This might have amounted to journaling about my feelings at the time of writing the original and I had tried my whole life to write longer poems, as one of my early teachers had said my poems wound down like a top. 
I also changed the form at that point to a Concrete Poem, in which the form of the poem resembles the subject of the poem or is connected in some way. The child in the poem is now 22 (from 13). Sometimes I would only change one word a year. 
The end comes from the style of Stephen Crane, one of my first loves as a writer of prose or poetry, where there is a melodramatic, philosophical twist almost one of anguish, at the end whether the poem is short or long. I just changed something from reading this article where I felt there was a transposition in the line ‘unlikely will be as fortunate as the boy in the Sudan’ but I like it both ways. In the final version of the poem it falls on two pages in the book version, losing some of the Concrete Poem form. But the choice was to choose a smaller font than the rest of the book as a whole. Poems sometimes have become so small on the page that they are more difficult to read or understand. Having worn glasses my whole life I am very sensitive to the struggle of reading with a handicap of a kind.

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? What I would like readers to take from this poem is a sense of life being a sculpture (https://collabcubed.com), and that the competition that we go through of whether someone is busier or hurting more or less is only understandable from our own experience and that you can have compassion for someone with a shared experience just by being a compassionate human being. That it is a process we are all going through and we all come from the same place and are going to the same place through our connection to the divine.  

Has this poem been published before?  And if so where? ).   I have only just had this poem published in my collected works, Posthumously Yours, from Local Gems Press.
The Shape of a Violin
My now 13 year old
complained we didn’t have
cable the entire
year I couldn’t
afford it. A source of
suffering, point of defiance.
I explained
our priorities—
the roof above us, our

hearts, minds, the suffering of others.
everything else becomes things of
history. I told him directly, showed him
through allegory and prayer. Never mentioned
the boy in the Sudan who wants to play violin.
unlikely will be as fortunate as this child—

even with twenty minutes of assigned,
determined practice each night on an
instrument he chose, but hasn’t
learned to love. Never watches—
the sunlight touch the space
where it opens to the air—
on either side of its strings. Subtle
breaks in the wood that allow its music
to leave in silent curves. Neither would he
recognize its shape through the waxy coat like
the artisan who chose a difficult French polish—
instead of a quick, light varnish. Who rubbed
and rubbed shellac into the wood, the shape of it

entering its pores the way a Japanese monk rubs
the black away from his bowl to reveal its red
color beneath. Same way we each have our
own pain and caress it until
it becomes our own.
Kelly J. Powell is a poet native to Long Island. She is a graduate of the Literature and Rhetoric Program at SUNY Binghamton. She has been published and performed widely on Long Island and New York City. She has worked mostly as a bookkeeper in a variety of industries to support her ever-growing Poetry and Activism. 
She is the proud mother of a graduate of SUNY Stonybrook, Double Major, Honor Student. Longtime host of POETS ALOUD at bj spoke gallery in Huntington, now in its 8th year!!…and now an empty nester, she had time to finish this book!!!! Posthumously Yours coming soon to a theater (or library) near you. *Contact Kelly Powell via email at skellybean1966@gmail.com.
BACKSTORY OF THE POEM LINKS

001  December 29, 2017
Margo Berdeshevksy’s “12-24”

002  January 08, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher’s “82 Miles From the Beach, We Order The Lobster At Clear Lake Café”

003 January 12, 2018
Barbara Crooker’s “Orange”

004 January 22, 2018
Sonia Saikaley’s “Modern Matsushima”

005 January 29, 2018
Ellen Foos’s “Side Yard”

006 February 03, 2018
Susan Sundwall’s “The Ringmaster”

007 February 09, 2018
Leslea Newman’s “That Night”

008 February 17, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher “June Fairchild Isn’t Dead”

009 February 24, 2018
Charles Clifford Brooks III “The Gift of the Year With Granny”

010 March 03, 2018
Scott Thomas Outlar’s “The Natural Reflection of Your Palms”

011 March 10, 2018
Anya Francesca Jenkins’s “After Diane Beatty’s Photograph “History Abandoned”

012  March 17, 2018
Angela Narciso Torres’s “What I Learned This Week”

013 March 24, 2018
Jan Steckel’s “Holiday On ICE”

014 March 31, 2018
Ibrahim Honjo’s “Colors”

015 April 14, 2018
Marilyn Kallett’s “Ode to Disappointment”

016  April 27, 2018
Beth Copeland’s “Reliquary”

017  May 12, 2018
Marlon L Fick’s “The Swallows of Barcelona”

018  May 25, 2018
Juliet Cook’s “ARTERIAL DISCOMBOBULATION”

019  June 09, 2018
Alexis Rhone Fancher’s “Stiletto Killer. . . A Surmise”

020 June 16, 2018
Charles Rammelkamp’s “At Last I Can Start Suffering”

021  July 05, 2018
Marla Shaw O’Neill’s “Wind Chimes”

022 July 13, 2018
Julia Gordon-Bramer’s “Studying Ariel”

023 July 20, 2018
Bill Yarrow’s “Jesus Zombie”

024  July 27, 2018
Telaina Eriksen’s “Brag 2016”

025  August 01, 2018
Seth Berg’s “It is only Yourself that Bends – so Wake up!”

026  August 07, 2018
David Herrle’s “Devil In the Details”

027  August 13, 2018
Gloria Mindock’s “Carmen Polo, Lady Necklaces, 2017”

028  August 21, 2018
Connie Post’s “Two Deaths”

029  August 30, 2018
Mary Harwell Sayler’s “Faces in a Crowd”

030 September 16, 2018
Larry Jaffe’s “The Risking Point”

031  September 24, 2018
Mark Lee Webb’s “After We Drove”

032  October 04, 2018
Melissa Studdard’s “Astral”

033 October 13, 2018
Robert Craven’s “I Have A Bass Guitar Called Vanessa”

034  October 17, 2018
David Sullivan’s “Paper Mache Peaches of Heaven”

035 October 23, 2018
Timothy Gager’s “Sobriety”

036  October 30, 2018
Gary Glauber’s “The Second Breakfast”

037  November 04, 2018
Heather Forbes-McKeon’s “Melania’s Deaf Tone Jacket”

038 November 11, 2018
Andrena Zawinski’s “Women of the Fields”

039  November 00, 2018
Gordon Hilger’s “Poe”

040 November 16, 2018
Rita Quillen’s “My Children Question Me About Poetry” and “Deathbed Dreams”

041 November 20, 2018
Jonathan Kevin Rice’s “Dog Sitting”

042 November 22, 2018
Haroldo Barbosa Filho’s “Mountain”

043  November 27, 2018
Megan Merchant’s “Grief Flowers”

044 November 30, 2018
Jonathan P Taylor’s “This poem is too neat”

045  December 03, 2018
Ian Haight’s “Sungmyo for our Dead Father-in-Law”

046 December 06, 2018
Nancy Dafoe’s “Poem in the Throat”

047 December 11, 2018
Jeffrey Pearson’s “Memorial Day”

048  December 14, 2018
Frank Paino’s “Laika”

049  December 15, 2018
Jennifer Martelli’s “Anniversary”

O50  December 19, 2018
Joseph Ross’s For Gilberto Ramos, 15, Who Died in the Texas Desert, June 2014”

051 December 23, 2018
“The Persistence of Music”
by Anatoly Molotkov

052  December 27, 2018
“Under Surveillance”
by Michael Farry

053  December 28, 2018
“Grand Finale”
by Renuka Raghavan

054  December 29, 2018
“Aftermath”
by Gene Barry

055 January 2, 2019
“&”
by Larissa Shmailo

056  January 7, 2019
“The Seamstress:
by Len Kuntz

057  January 10, 2019
"Natural History"
by Camille T Dungy


058  January 11, 2019
“BLOCKADE”
by Brian Burmeister

059  January 12, 2019
“Lost”
by Clint Margrave

060 January 14, 2019
“Menopause”
by Pat Durmon

061 January 19, 2019
“Neptune’s Choir”
by Linda Imbler

062  January 22, 2019
“Views From the Driveway”
by Amy Barone

063  January 25, 2019
“The heron leaves her haunts in the marsh”
by Gail Wronsky

064  January 30, 2019
“Shiprock”
by Terry Lucas

065 February 02, 2019
“Summer 1970, The University of Virginia Opens to Women in the Fall”
by Alarie Tennille

066 February 05, 2019
“At School They Learn Nouns”
by Patrick Bizzaro

067  February 06, 2019
“I Must Not Breathe”
by Angela Jackson-Brown

068 February 11, 2019
“Lunch on City Island, Early June”
by Christine Potter

069 February 12, 2019
“Singing”
by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum

070 February 14, 2019
“Daily Commute”
by Christopher P. Locke

071 February 18, 2019
“How Silent The Trees”
by Wyn Cooper


072 February 20, 2019
“A New Psalm of Montreal”
by Sheenagh Pugh

073 February 23, 2019
“Make Me A Butterfly”
by Amy Barbera

074 February 26, 2019
“Anthem”
by Sandy Coomer

075 March 4, 2019
“Shape of a Violin”
by Kelly Powell


Saturday, March 2, 2019

#22 Inside The Emotion of Fiction's "Silk And Ashes' by Carol Johnson



*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright privilege by:  Public Domain, CCSAL, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law, or given copyright privilege by the copyright holder which is identified beneath the individual photo.

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre writers for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at
caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

****Carol Johnson’s Silk and Ashes is the twenty-second in a never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  All INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links are at the end of this piece. 


Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? Silk and Ashes. Previously The Sins of the Mother

Fiction genre?  Ex science fiction, short story, fantasy novella, romance, drama, crime, plays, flash fiction, historical, comedy,  etc.  And how many pages long? Mainstream novel, 400 pages

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? Started it right after my first one was published—so 12 years. And I don’t feel that it’s quite finished and may not be until I retire from teaching in a couple of years.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? 
I did almost all the work in my home office. I started it as soon as I sold Everlasting in 2006. I still lived in my little house in Mounds then. In 2007 we moved to Tulsa into a house I thought was terribly “writerly,” but I don’t think I got much writing done. I started an MFA program in 2011 and wrote a lot more, still in my home office. I graduated in 2013, and finished the book in that same office. In my current office, I’m working on a memoir, and I’ve written short stories and lots and lots of assignments. I share the office with my husband. His side is neat as a pen. My side is cluttered with books and papers and book bags and kicked-off boots and usually a couple of cats

What were your writing habits while writing this work – did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I write at any time of day, whenever I have time. It’s hard for me to sit down and start, and once I start, I don’t want to stop. 
I listen to music a lot, and if I need to evoke a certain time or feeling, I play certain kinds of music—old country music from the sixties, classic rhythm and blues, classic rock, alternative country. I’m usually drinking diet Pepsi, sometimes wine. I always compose directly on the computer. I never use pen and paper. When I first started writing I got up an hour early. When I couldn’t do that anymore, I set aside all day Sunday. To finish Everlasting, I stayed in a cheap motel for a week—no cable, no stereo—in Chandler, OK. It was a gift from a friend. Now, my practice is haphazard. Teaching takes it out of me.
What is the summary of this specific fiction work? 8-year-old girl grows up with an alcoholic mother in 1920s-30s Tulsa and turns into a self-absorbed and selfish woman who cares way more about things than people but learns a few hard lessons.
Can you give the reader just enough information for them to understand what is going on in the excerpt? The girl’s mother has left her alone while she goes off with one of the many men who bring her liquor, and the girl fears she won’t come back.

Please include the excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer
Pp. 6-12
Leaning against the splintery post, I tried to focus on anything but my fear, and my thoughts turned to Granddaddy like they nearly always did. I’d spent more time with him than Mama because he was the one who was always there. He was like Mr. Shackleford in that wherever we went, he soon followed. I guess he worried about what would happen to me if he wasn’t there, and truth be told, if not for him I probably wouldn’t be sitting here today.
All our talks took place on some porch, somewhere. The places me and Mama had already left were so many and so similar I had trouble keeping straight what conversation we might have had on what porch—could’ve been Geary, Cloud Chief, Dill City. Lots of porches, and they were all rotten, like it was a law that they deteriorate before the rest of the place.
While I might have had trouble separating one bunch of splintered wood from another, I didn’t have much trouble recalling our conversations. Maybe not always the exact words, but the gist. I remember one day at a place where the porch had a hole in it, a board or two rotted away to nothing, and I liked to slip through the opening to the damp, earthy smelling place below. I don’t know where Mama was. No telling, really. Maybe off cleaning for one of the church ladies or doing their washing, or maybe just in the house recovering from a drunk.
It was just me, Granddaddy, and that old rotten porch. He sat on the edge of it while I busied myself scooping dirt into an old tin can and packing it down with my fingers. I’d turn it upside down and tap the bottom of the can to release a perfect, can-shaped mound, identical to the six or seven others I’d made. Somehow, the sameness of them, the straight row I created, soothed me.
       “Your mama’s got a burden, girl,” he said. Why Mama behaved like she did was a favorite topic of his, and even now I don’t know if he was trying to explain it to me or to himself.
       “You mean why she’s always sick?” I patted another mound of dirt.
       “Oh, she’s sick all right,” Granddaddy said, and I heard him spit. “That’s from the drink.”
       “Yeah. From the drink.”
       “That ain’t her main hindrance.” He spat again. “Problem is, she’s got the look, like her mama before her. She can’t run from it, and the more she tries, with the whiskey and the men and ever what, the more it’s going to dog her.”
       I stopped in the middle of a mound. Standing, I poked my head through the hole in the porch. “Does Mama got a dog?”
       Granddaddy laughed until the laugh turned into a cough and the cough into a choking, phlegm-filled spasm.
       I scrambled up through the hole and whacked him a few times between the shoulder blades. When the coughing fit subsided, he gripped the edge and supported his weight on both thin arms, struggling to regain his breath. I plopped beside him and let my skinny legs dangle.
       He stroked my hair with a gnarled hand. “No, there ain’t no dog. It’s like I said. She’s got the look.” He tilted my chin up. “You’re the lucky one. That springy red hair and them blue eyes, ain’t nobody going to take you for no Indian.”
“What’s wrong with Indians?”
Granddaddy spat in the dirt and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, ain’t nothing wrong with them. It’s ever’body else, treating them like they ain’t human. Make anybody take to drink.”
I had never heard anybody refer to my mother as Indian and haven’t to this day, but like I said, whatever Granddaddy said was gospel to me. Once I became a mother, I understood that maybe she drank because she was treated poorly was a story he told himself, one of the many, to explain why she acted the way she did.
I slipped back through the gap in the boards, then popped back up to look at Granddaddy. “I wish I looked like my mama,” I said. “I want to look just like her when I get grown up.”
“No you don’t. Wouldn’t nothing come of that but misery, and Lord knows there’s misery aplenty in this world without lookin’ for more.” He sighed and stroked my head. “When I’m gone, you got to take care of your mama. You ain’t but a young’un, but nobody ‘sides you can do it.”
“Where you going, Granddaddy? Can I go?” Last time, he took me to town with him and the lady at the dry goods store gave me a hoar hound stick. Maybe this time she’d give me real candy. “Can I go, Granddaddy? Can I?”
“I ain’t going nowhere right now.” He gave my shoulder a poke. “Get on down there. There’s still some dirt you ain’t dug up.”
. . .
I must have dozed. When my eyes fluttered open, I peered around me, looking for Granddaddy, but as I moved further from that muddle-headed confusion of sleep, the closeness I’d felt dissipated, leaving nothing but me on the splintered porch, surrounded by the red dust of the barren yard. The distant orange and violet streaks of sunset and the everywhere and nowhere song of tree frogs signaled the coming evening. I remained slump-shouldered against the rough gray porch post, orienting myself to the here and now. Mr. Shackleford. The wagon, the whiskey. Mama gone.
What if this was the time she stayed gone? Trying to pin down that thought produced a shudder. She had to. That’s all. She had to. I clenched my fists and forced myself to breathe, to not cry, to be the big girl Granddaddy had always told me to be. The tightness eased but the sound of my rapidly beating heart drowned out even the tree frogs. I slowly released my fingers, allowing them to straighten. Mama would come home. She always had, though she tarried longer sometimes than she did others. I’d not been so conscious of her absence back then, though, because Granddaddy stayed steady, making me forget there was such a thing as alone. The warmth of his love had been jerked away, like a warm blanket, and all that was left was a cold world, bigger and emptier than I ever dreamed it could be.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye when he left. I just woke up one morning to voices and the creaking sound of wheels moving away from the shack. Rolling from under the holey wool blanket, I ran to the window and saw the back end of a cart heading toward the road, most of the bed occupied by a bundled shape secured by a rope.
Mama stood in the yard, watching it go, her breath a cloud before her. When the wagon was no longer visible, she turned and came slowly back inside and sat at the table, the one rickety chair protesting her weight. She stared into space, eyes red and nose running. I went to her and touched her icy hand.
“Who was that?” I asked. She pulled me close, burying her face in my neck. “Who was it?” I asked again.
She raised her head and stared at the wall, eyes dull. “Mr. Seligman.”
“Who’s Mr. Seligman?”
“The undertaker.”
“What’s an undertaker?” She didn’t answer. “Why was he here?”
She made a hitching sound in her throat. “He came for your Granddaddy.”
I hadn’t seen Granddaddy. Maybe he was crouched down on the floorboard at Mr. Seligman’s feet. “Where did he take Granddaddy?”
She pushed me away. “Down the road a piece.”
“When is he coming home?” I asked.
“He’s not. He’s not coming home.”
“But where’s he going to live, Mama? Are we going there?”
“No. He passed on. He’s dead.”
“But where is--
Mama slapped the table. “Good Lord, Amy, why do you always have to ask every damned question God ever thought up?” She started removing her coat. “He’s gone. Dead and gone. He ain’t here, he ain’t going to be here, and that’s all there is to it.”
       I knew what dead was, but “gone” stumped me. Where had he gone? I’d come across a possum once, on my way to the outhouse. The ugly thing bared its teeth and hissed when it saw me, then fell over like it had been hit with a shovel. I poked it with a stick, tried to pry it from its inward-curled position, but the pointy-faced thing with the human-like hands just laid there, stiff as a brick. I’d killed it just by looking at it. I couldn’t wait to show Granddaddy.
I sat on the front steps, waiting for him to come back from town. Occasionally, I’d run around the house and poke the possum with my stick. When I finally saw Granddaddy’s shape, recognized his loose-limbed walk, I ran up the road to meet him. I dragged him around the house to see my prize
It was gone. Not just dead, now, but dead and gone. “It was here, Granddaddy. It was.”
Granddaddy laughed hard and slapped his knee at my bewilderment. “It was a possum, girl. That’s what they do—play dead till you quit poking at ‘em, then run off.”

So now, Granddaddy was gone, as gone as that possum, and Mama was gone, and I was sitting here on this rotten porch, wondering if she was ever coming back. I hated that it mattered, but it did, and I knew she’d never stop leaving, and I’d never stop caring. I sighed and picked at my scab some more, then pulled the skirt of my dress over my knees and hugged my legs.
I could wish Cy Shackleford dead till a stone bled, but I knew in the back of my mind that if it wasn’t him dragging Mama off somewhere it’d be another man with a bottle. Sometimes Mr. Tuttle showed up, or the Bushyhead twins—at least till Milt shot Willard in a drunken disagreement while frog gigging. Then it was just Milt. He brought me candy sometimes. But Mr. Tuttle. Looking at him made me feel like I was going to pee my pants. I had never seen him hit Mama, but once she came home with a swollen lip and a missing tooth. She’d still go with him, though, if he had liquor.
I sighed again. It didn’t matter if she left with a Bushyhead or a Tuttle or the man in the moon. I was always scared she wouldn’t return. She laughed at my fears. Hadn’t she always come back?
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? It was emotional because of my childhood, and I can’t really talk about that.



Carol Johnson is associate professor of English at Tulsa Community College. She received a B.A. in English from Northeastern State University, an M.A. in language and literature from the University of Tulsa, and an M.F.A. in creative writing from Oklahoma City University. She served on the editorial board of Nimrod International Journal for almost 20 years. 
A nonfiction book, Autism: From Tragedy to Triumph, was published in 1993 and her first novel, Everlasting, published in 2006, was a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award. Her short fiction has appeared in The Red Earth Review, Red Truck Review, Foliate Oak, Tulsa Review, and Clackamas Literary Review, among others. She is an unrepentant blogger and has upwards of 20 followers. Seriously.
vadasmaker@gmail.com


INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links

001   11 15 2018 Nathaniel Kaine’s
Thriller Novel
John Hunter – The Veteran

002   11 18 2018 Ed Protzzel’s
Futuristic/Mystery/Thriller
The Antiquities Dealer 

003   11 23 2018 Janice Seagraves’s
Science Fiction Romance
Exodus Arcon

004   11 29 2018 Christian Fennell’s
Literary Fiction Novel
The Fiddler in the Night

005  12 02 2018 Jessica Mathews’s
Adult Paranormal Romance
Death Adjacent

006  12 04 2018 Robin Jansen’s
Literary Fiction Novel
Ruby the Indomitable

007  12 12 2018  Adair Valerez’s
Literary Fiction Novel
Scrim

008  12 17 218 Kit Frazier’s
Mystery Novel
Dead Copy

009 12 21 2019 Robert Craven’s
Noir/Spy Novel
The Road of a Thousand Tigers

010 01 13 2019 Kristine Goodfellow’s
Contemporary Romantic Fiction
The Other Twin

011 01 17 2019 Nancy J Cohen’s
Cozy Mystery
Trimmed To Death

012 01 20 2019 Charles Salzberg’s
Crime Novel
Second Story Man

013 01 23 2019 Alexis Fancher’s
Flash Fiction
His Full Attention

014 01 27 2019 Brian L Tucker’s
Young Adult/Historical
POKEWEED:  AN ILLUSTRATED NOVELLA

015 01 31 2019 Robin Tidwell’s
Dystopian
Reduced

016 02 07 2019 J.D. Trafford’s
Legal Fiction/Mystery
Little Boy Lost

017 02 08 2019 Paula Shene’s
Young Adult ScieFi/Fantasy/Romance/Adventure
My Quest Begins 

018 02 13 2019 Talia Carner’s
Mainstream Fiction/ Suspense/ Historical
Hotel Moscow

019 02 15 2019 Rick Robinson’s
Multidimensional Fiction
Alligator Alley

020 02 21 2019 LaVerne Thompson’s
Urban Fantasy
The Soul Collectors

021 02 27 2019 Marlon L Fick’s
Post-Colonialist Novel
The Nowhere Man

022 03 02 2019 Carol Johnson's 
Mainstream Novel