Writing On Angels’ Wings was a labor of love. I’d always been a fan of the 1940’s era, having watched 40’s movies (Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Abbott & Costello, etc.) on television while growing up, and although I was born in the 50’s, I felt like I was truly a part of the 40’s. When I began to write seriously, I knew a novel taking place during that time period was on the top of my list.

So in 1984 my first draft of On Angels’ Wings was born. A rather long novel, weighing in at over six hundred pages, it did well on my agent’s list, and was “almost” contracted by two major publishers at that time. After waiting almost a year for one publisher to decide, it was rejected at the last moment because they had taken on publishing another WW II novel that same year and didn’t want to take on another.

OAW was shelved for three decades, though it never left my thoughts. Then one day I took it out, dusted it off, and rewrote it down to two hundred some pages. My characters and a major part of the plot stayed the same, but it came out different this time around, better, more mature. I truly liked it far better than its original rendering. The years had softened it and mellowed it, allowing more emotion to shine through.

Since the original story was written before I had my second son, when he was born I named him Johnny, after my hero in the story. Lt. Johnny Morgan is a Navy flier in the tale and my son, at the ripe old age of seventeen, attained his pilot’s license. He is a private pilot with the goal to become a commercial pilot after college. I may have named him after my hero, but his love of flying was all his own. It was truly odd how it turned out that way.

On Angels’ Wings is my second release from Rebel Ink Press. I would be honored if you would read about my characters—Anne, Johnny, and Daniel—who have been so close to my heart for so long a time.

BLURB:

December 1940 found the world on the brink of a conflict greater than it could ever fathom but for Anne Miller, the days before Pearl Harbor find her world full of excitement and promise.  She’s left the comfort of family and friends back in Washington, DC to venture out into the foreign and beautiful Hawaiian landscape to make a new life for herself and her fiancé, Corporal Daniel Beiler.

Little did Anne know her perfect world was just an illusion.  She didn’t expect to fall in love with a Navy flier she’d meet at the USO dancehall on the eve of “the day that will live in infamy.”  Her love for Daniel is threatened while she fights new and strange emotions for the brave and reckless Lieutenant Johnny Morgan.  How can she love both men and remain true to either?  Will the outbreak of WWII tear their lives apart or pull them together on the rain-drenched islands of the South Pacific?    On Angels’ Wings is a story of desperation, hope, and fulfillment during the tumultuous years of World War II.

EXCERPT:

            Anne was dancing a fox-trot with a young man in a devil’s costume when she noticed a pair of crutches leaning against the side wall. They made her think of Johnny again and she sighed.

            Just then, a tall Robin Hood tapped the devil she danced with on the shoulder and said, “May I cut in?”He wore a green, half-face mask. The devil shrugged and released Anne.

            The green-costumed Robin Hood swept her up into his arms and pulled her close. Anne gasped as she looked into deep blue eyes. “Johnny?” she asked, breathlessly.

            “Robin.”

            She chuckled. “Johnny, you’re dancing.”

            “Uh-huh. I brought my crutches just in case.”

            “But you’re dancing without them. I’m thrilled.”

            The band signaled it was time for her to return to stage for the next set. Johnny released her then tipped his hat and strode away. She watched him go, noticing a slight limp, but otherwise he was walking without the aid of crutches. A strong sense of pride enveloped her and she almost flew up on stage she was so happy.

            She took the microphone and said to the group, “Excuse me, boys, I want to tell you a little story.” The commotion in the hall dimmed. “Someone I know has proven to me tonight he could move mountains and his courage is as big as his heart. When he was down and out with no hope, he said, ‘I’m not going to let this get me down,’ and today he’s accomplished his goal. Fellas, I give you Lieutenant John Morgan.”

            Clapping filled the room. Johnny sat in the rear of the hall at a table and shook his head, obviously embarrassed.

            “Come up on stage, Lieutenant Morgan. I have a song for you,” Anne said.

            Johnny gave up the ghost, pushed back his chair, and stood up. Slowly he made his way on stage and stood next to her. “I’ll get you for this,” he said good-naturedly to Anne.

            The band struck up the opening notes and moments later she was pouring her heart out to strains of Frank Sinatra’s Old Black Magic.

            “Sing, Lieutenant,” came a few shouts from the crowd.

            Johnny chuckled, but surprised Anne by belting out the lyrics to the song flawlessly, as though he’d practiced with her before. His baritone voice was loud and clear and they sounded good together. She sang happily, her eyes locked with his.

            He took her hand and held it as he sang, “For you’re the lover I have waited for.”

            “The mate that fate had me created for,” she sang.

            They finished the remainder of the song in perfect harmony. All during their duet the audience cheered, clapping wildly. Then Burt, on his trumpet, played a slow, romantic ballad called Moonlight Becomes You.

            Johnny pulled Anne into his arms. A large mirrored ball suspended from the ceiling rotated slowly as they danced on stage, casting prisms of flickering, bejeweled light cascading around the darkened hall. It shimmered across Johnny’s hair and mask like moon kisses.

            She closed her eyes and like the flickering of a hummingbird’s wings, Johnny’s lips brushed her cheek. Her heart beat wildly and she blinked. Though his lips were warm, she shivered.

            He pulled her even closer and she felt the heat of his hard, muscular chest wedged against her breasts, the firm pressure of his hands at the small of her back. There was noise and music, song and chatter, but she heard nothing but the excited beating of her own heart in harmony with his.

            The song ended and he stepped back. “Thank you, Annie,” he said, bowing to her. Without another word, he went back to his table.

Purchase links:

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To visit Joanne – http://joannecberroa.wordpress.com

I had a wonderful time last night. The Mayodan Public Library hosted an author’s night. I saw it in the paper on Sunday and decided to go.  I never seem to make it over to Durham or Raleigh for their after work events, but this was almost in my backyard! Must admit I’m so immersed in the romance genre (though I read everything) that I was surprised there were no romance authors in the group. Instead I found a whole new group of authors to appreciate and follow.

One of the authors, Tilda Balsley, wrote children’s books. That’s an area I’m lax in these days, but I really enjoyed hearing what the industry wants for these readers. It was fascinating to hear her story of the journey to be published as well as writing Jewish books as a Presbyterian such as Oh No, Jonah!

Julia Ebel writes of North Carolina heritage in works like Addie Clawson: Appalachian Mail Carrier. Mentioning stories of the history of Boone and surrounding area made me think of Daddy and his stories of growing up in that area. Jean Rodenbough also wrote of the heritage in North Carolina as well as a collection of stories of rescued animals in Bebe & Friends: Tails of Rescue.

Daddy came to mind again while listening to Marilyn Swinson, who has interviewed WWII soldiers and published Scars of War sharing those stories of bravery and the true story of the horrors of war.

Dena Harris spoke of being the “cat” writer and had us laughing about her stories poking fun at humans through those cats, with such works as Who Moved My Mouse? A Self-Help Book for Cats. Almost made me wish I had one, except for that Hubby not breathing thing.

Benjamin Bragdon, a student of ancient and medieval history spoke of his new novel Message of the Medallion where he was able to fuse his love of history with writing to create a historical novel based on fact. The amount of research in such a work is incredible.

Athena Varounis left the FBI after 24-years and is now investigating paranormal phenomena which led to her book Franklin County Ghosts about real events in Pennsylvania. A combination of Mulder and Scully!! As the only Yankee in the group, we’re going to have to introduce her to North Carolina ghosts!

I’m going to have to stop by there more often, so I don’t miss the next evening of local authors!  So much to read . . .

I love them. I have a great job and I know how lucky I am to have my boss, ’cause as far as I know, he’s the best one out there. Definitely so where I work.

But weekends! Ahhh.

The alarm doesn’t go off, so I can wake up naturally from some wonderful dream and just lie there comfortable and warm and let my mind drift.

That’s when I’m my most creative. If I’m having trouble with a scene or idea, that’s when it crystallizes in my mind. And those are usually the best scenes in my story. I’m free to explore and visualize and listen to how the dialog sounds. It’s no wonder when I do finally rise from the bed, I’m racing to my computer to get it all down.

Yes, I do have a pad by the bed, but that’s for those nights when I know I have to jump up in the morning and run around to do everything I have to do to get out of the house on time. I jot notes down (usually in the dark) and hope that they’ll mean something in the morning. On weekends, it’s not necessary. I can just let the ideas solidify in my mind’s eye like a movie I can watch and rerun any ideas to work out the kinks (not that my stuff is kinky of course!)

Sometimes I feel like I slip a cassette (okay DVD) in and play the story for myself. It’s a great editing tool. When the scene doesn’t work, I can see what’s wrong and work on it. New ideas are easier to shake out.

I know there’s still housework to do, laundry, and so on. It’ll get done, eventually, but having that creative leisure is the best. When is that retirement coming?

How about you? When do you feel you’re most creative?

Holding the place for  Wraith’s Heart

Someone asked me why I always write good fathers – strong, supportive, there when needed even when it’s not always realized. That’s an easy one – it’s my Dad, over and over in different bodies and voices and professions.  But then Daddy was like that too. He’d been forced into the role of business man by his responsibilities, but there was an artist hidden inside.  He didn’t let that part show often until later when he had a little more time. He was a wonderful artist of pen and ink sketches and portraits.

La Daughter by Daddy

My fathers have small parts but they are as important as anyone else in anything I’ve written. They add to the depth of the heroines and give them the stability to become the strong women they are.

Exerpts –

Rth Rising

Da tried hard to make things more pleasant once Mem was gone. He asked for Kat’s help with planning meals and they shared the little necessary housekeeping. He seemed constantly amazed at how fast Kat was maturing.

He began asking more in-depth questions about her studies and fellow students. In fact, more conversation swirled around the dinner table than in years. Kat began to realize that the relationship between her parents wasn’t what she, as a child, imagined it to be. They’d lived in a contract, whereas Gramma Lil and Grandda Chi loved each other.

They didn’t discuss Mem, but they talked about everything else. To her astonishment, Kat learned that Da had wanted to be an electrician even less than she wanted to be an enforcer. A good electrician, programming had always been his dream vocation, to work with Puter like his father and sister. That had been an eye-opening conversation, to be sure.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she stared at him in shock.

He shrugged. “I hoped you’d never have to know what it was like. When you had to live it too, I didn’t see how it would help to know that I felt the same way.”

“Does it still hurt?”

His smiled seemed far away for a moment. “This is just between us, right?” Startled, she nodded. “It would, but I, well I found a way around it.”

“You did what?”

“I wanted to write programs and I do.”

She sat silent for a moment. “You do?”

He nodded and smiled. “You remember Roge?

“Yes, he lives a couple of floors up, doesn’t he? He’s the one with a different woman every . . .”

“Uh, yeah. Anyway, he doesn’t like writing code nearly as much as I do, and after he’s been with those different women, he’s not always at the top of his game. We have an arrangement.”

Kat sat with her mouth fallen open. “You’re doing his work?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s not exactly what Puter wanted, but the work’s getting done and Roge and I both get what we want. Da taught me a lot, like Mem did with you. Of course, Roge enters everything through his gimp, so . . .”

“So you’re not interested in spending time with a lot of different . . .” Kat teased him.

Da laughed with her.

“Who knew my Da was such a rebel? I’m really impressed,” she said, looking at him with new eyes.

“I’m not sure ‘impressed’ is the right word, and here I am confessing to an enforcer.”

She laughed at that. “Don’t worry. You’re talking to a rebel enforcer, who equates medical information into her cases.”

Learning Trust –

Becca closed the door and turned back to her father. “I really messed up your evening, honey. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t mess up anything. I’m so glad to see you.”

“This guy must be the real deal.” It wasn’t quite a question, but Becca ducked her head.

“Let me put away the food and we’ll talk.” Together they cleaned everything away and then took seats on the couch. Jason had a small glass of brandy while she helped herself to another glass of tea.

“Go ahead, bring me up to date,” he demanded, leaning back and watching her. “You’re healing?”

She gave him a rueful smile. “Yes, physically I’m doing very well. I’ll be on antibiotics for a couple more days, but no more pain medication. They did a very good job on the scar. It should be small, but I’m afraid my bikini days are over.”

“I doubt it. Give it a little more time, baby. You said ‘physically’?”

She took a deep breath. “Yeah, about that.” She wasn’t sure of her expression, but he straightened up, reaching for her.

“What?”

“It’s gone.” She shivered as she said the words, the first time she’d spoken of it aloud. How scary allowing someone to see her fear for the first time. “I can’t feel things. I’m not psychic anymore.”

He sat there quietly, holding her hand for a long moment. She knew he had no clue what to say but the pressure of his hand steadied her.

“I’ve self-diagnosed PTSD,” she finally said with a shrug. “There aren’t a lot of professionals to go to about this kind of thing.”

“Of course you’d have post trauma,” he assured her. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be permanent.”

“Daddy, I woke up in the hospital with Suzanne holding my hand. Touching me, not just nearby and I felt nothing. I didn’t even know Suzanne stood there until she spoke. I think that scared me more than being shot.”

“Did you hear what I said, baby? You’ve got to give yourself more time.”

“I keep telling myself that. But maybe I should be happy about this. I mean, hey, I’m normal. Suddenly I’m not a freak.” She still couldn’t say the word her mother used—abomination.

“Stop. You’ve never been a freak and I won’t listen to it.” He squeezed her hand. “You know that.”

“Mother thought so.” Damn, had she ever spoken that thought out loud before?

“Your mother was a very complicated, intolerant woman. Not being in your life was her loss. You’ve helped people, remember that. You’ve been there for hundreds of people, starting way back in grade school with Jean. Do not dismiss what you’ve done.”

He remembered Jean’s name. It had been an important moment for both of them. Still she shrugged.

Yes, Fathers can make all the difference.