Interview With Author, Cynthia Mock Burroughs - Remember Della #vbtcafetour

Welcome! Ready to ride?

GR: Tell us about your latest release...

“Remember Della” is the story of Katherine, a sixteen-year-old girl who (on occasion) has been known to have “portentous” dreams. But the dreams she has begun to have of late are different from all the rest. Repetitive, disturbing dreams of a yellow scarf and Della, a girl she barely knows, quickly escalate into full-fledged nightmares. These nightmares not only invade her sleep, they begin to affect her waking life as well. So the question is - how far will sleep-starved Katherine go to salvage her sanity and make the dreams go away? And the answer is that she will resort to about anything to regain control of her life.

In her search for answers she discovers that Della, who seems to be all but invisible to everyone, has simply vanished; and no one, including the girl’s mother and step-father, recognizes—or will admit—the fact she has disappeared.

This story is told from the point of view of an older Katherine, who takes you back to the fifties and in turn introduces you to the colorful cast of characters who come to her aid.

GR: What inspired you to start your writing journey?

I began writing as a way to deal with my grief when my mother passed.

GR: Who have been some authors that have inspired you along the way?

I have always been a voracious reader and I would have to say that every author whose book I have ever held in my hand has been inspiration to me.

GR: What is one piece of marketing advice you can give to new authors?

I’ll share with you something another author told me not long ago. She said, “You must be your book’s advocate. Just as you were your children’s advocate when they were young - you must be your book’s advocate.” And then she went on to impress upon me how important both social media and book bloggers are to an author.

GR: If we went on the ride of our life, where is one place you'd like to be sure to stop along the way?

Maybe Antelope Canyon in New Mexico.

I’ve visited the southwest several times and quite honestly can’t get enough of it. I’ve been to the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park, to name a few landmarks, but there are so many sights out that way I have yet to see.

GR: Would you be afraid to ride on the back of my bike?

Depends.

I have said numerous times how much fun it would be to travel the open roads out west on a bike. You could talk me into that in a heartbeat! But I do quake at the thought of being on a bike in heavy traffic - say like in Phoenix for example.

GR: What can we expect from you in the future? Any new projects?

I am currently working on the sequel to “Remember Della”. In fact, there is a sneak preview in the back of the book.

But . . .

Would it surprise you to learn I have been working on a manuscript (which I am dying to get back to) involving a biker? One of the bars he frequents is a favorite biker hang-out.

This book is about the biker’s son, a young boy of thirteen, who commits murder and what drove him to that point. I’m not giving anything away here, since the book opens with young Marky on trial.

Thank you so much for chatting with me today. I wish you the best of success and to always leave your hair blowing in the wind!

I thank you!

And I will most definitely take your advice to heart - both my hair and I could stand a little more “blowing in the wind”.

Title: Remember Della
Author: Cynthia Mock Burroughs
Length: 274 pages
Publisher: Self published
Release Date: November 9, 2011
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Buy Here: Amazon|Create Space

Book Description:

Kat, a “slightly" psychic sixteen-year-old, begins having disturbingly persistent dreams. Dreams of a yellow scarf - with a seeming life of its own - which taunts her and haunts her every dream. Dreams about Della, a fellow classmate, who to this point has remained all but invisible to any and every one at school. Kat eventually comes to the realization that until she unravels the mystery surrounding that “dagblasted” creepy yellow scarf and this girl she hardly knows, she'll not have another night’s rest. What Kat soon discovers is that she is the only person in Della’s life (including the girl’s mother and stepfather) who recognizes - or will admit - Della has simply vanished, gone “splitsville"! And Kat is helpless as her life becomes indelibly intertwined with Della’s – so much so, that she will carry the emotional scars for years to come.

Kat is surrounded by an extremely colorful cast of characters. You will meet: long-time friend and recent love interest, Em; Kat’s precocious eight-year-old brother, Gordy; her feisty octogenarian neighbor, Mrs. Harper and a chain smoking waitress named Clovis. All who, for various reasons, join Kat’s desperate quest to help a girl she hardly knows and to find answers to questions that, with any luck, will bring her the peace she seeks – the biggest question on her mind being, “Why me?” 

“Remember Della” - which is predominately set in the South during the mid-fifties - is chock full of facts, trivia and slang from that era. While an entertaining read, I believe this book addresses bullying - both physical and emotional - in a fresh and unique way during a time before such issues were “labeled” as unacceptable or problematic.

Author Bio:

I was born and raised in the South and to this day reside in South Carolina with my dashing husband, crotchety cat and nimble Jack Russell. My first novel,Remember Della, definitely reflects that Southern upbringing; and like Katherine, my main protagonist, I am also a child of the fifties.

I have enjoyed reading my entire life and relish childhood memories of long, languid summers spent in lawn chairs beneath shady old trees—my best friend and I devouring one library book after another. I hope to be proof of the old adage that everyone has at least one good book in them—but suppose that remains to be seen. You, the reader, will be the judge of that. 

Drawing and painting have always been passions of mine, but I had never tried my hand at writing until my mother passed away several years ago. During my grieving process I found that painting was not keeping my mind as busy as I would have liked. Painting allowed me too much time to think. So in an attempt to ease my sadness, I decided to try a new creative outlet. The result was a 24,000 word children's chapter book (as yet unpublished) and a newfound love—writing! In fact, I am in love with the entire writing process, especially the part where I get to tell really tall tales—and get away with it . . .


Author Links - 

Website http://www.cynthiamockburroughs.com/ 
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/authorcynthiamockburroughs?ref=notif&notif_t=page_user_activity 
Twitter @cmburroughs 
Pinterest http://www.pinterest.com/cmburroughs/ 
Linkedin https://www.linkedin.com/pub/cynthia-burroughs/7b/a80/107
Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/23826688-cynthia-mock-burroughs
Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Remember-Della-Cynthia-Mock-Burroughs/dp/1500199346/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1420753436&sr=1-1&keywords=remember+della

Excerpt One

I sat at the kitchen table while Momma contemplated what to do

with the ground beef thawing out on the counter. She settled on

goulash and was checking the pantry to see if she had all the ingredients

when it occurred to her she hadn’t heard a peep out of Gordy.

The quietude must have alerted her to his absence.

She turned to me, “Where’s Gordy—up in his room?”

I shook my head no. “He’s not home yet.”

She checked her watch and asked, “Did you hear his bus come

by?”

“No’m. It’s probably running late.”

“Gordy should be home by now, Katherine.” She gave me a doubtful

look and asked, “You’re sure his bus hasn’t come by?”

The look of concern on her face was fleeting, and we both cringed

as Gordy heralded his arrival by slamming the front door so hard the

house shook. Momma yelled at the top of her lungs, “Gordy!” When

he came barreling through the doorway she asked, “How many times

have I told you not to slam the door like that? You’ve already taken a

minimum of ten years off my life!”

He never even heard a word she said because he was talking louder

and faster than his customary mile-a-minute. His words practically

ran together as he said, “You shoulda seen it! Sammy Spellman

throwed up all over prissy ol’ Becky Taylor on the bus! We had beets

for lunch an’ Sammy ate a whole bowl of ‘em. I bet that’s what made

him throw up. He says he likes ‘em, but I don’t believe it for a minute.

I think he just eats ‘em to show off. But the really good part is

Sammy’s throw-up was all red—like he was throwing up blood! Then

ol’ Becky started crying an’ everything, and Cindy Walker started

gagging ‘cause throw-up splattered all over her shoes an’ then she

throwed up. It was so cool! They were sitting across the aisle from

me, an’ I got to see it all. And Becky, with her weirdo-self, told Mikey

Olson she was gonna wipe throw up on him ‘cause he laughed

at her. And the bus driver had to stop the bus an’ calm everybody

down. It was Coolsville!

I could see Momma was trying to keep a straight face as she said,

“Gordy that’s enough—there’s nothing cool about someone throwing

beets up all over the place.”

“Well I couldn’t be sure, but from the smell of it I think Sammy

must’ve been sick at both ends. I tell–”

“Gordy!!!” Gordy was treading on very thin ice.

“It’s the truth! It was gross I tell ya. Gross enough to gag a maggot!

Everybody sitting around ‘em looked like they were gonna

puke—’cept me. The bus driver made everybody get off, and

the monitor had to go to somebody’s house to call for another

bus and for Sammy an’ Becky an’ Cindy’s parents to come and

get ‘em.”

“Dear Lord, I hope Sammy’s not contagious.” And in spite of the fact

we weren’t Catholic, Momma crossed herself.

Excerpt Two 

I HATED THAT despicable clock. I hated the way those two nerve-jangling,

damnable bells blasted me so urgently from sleep

every morning. I snatched the clock up, shut off the alarm

and slammed the offending thing back onto the nightstand.

Throwing the covers back and my legs over the side of the

bed, I stood unsteadily a moment before aiming my body at

the door leading to the hall. Destination—the bathroom. But as

my fingers touched the doorknob the clock began its shrill intonations

again. Oh dear Lord! That sound, so early in the morning,

was the equivalent of fingernails screeeking down a chalkboard.

Hadn’t I just turned the dad-blamed thing off? Maybe I

jarred the lever into the ‘on’ position when I, perhaps a little too

vigorously, delivered the clock back to its pocked resting place.

I retraced my steps and after turning the alarm off, again,

placed the clock on the nightstand—a little more gently

this time. And for more reasons than one, I moved a wee

bit faster for the bedroom door. I reached it a second time

and stopped cold—the God-forsaken clock was, once again,

clanging for attention! With the strangest mixture of anger,

fear and foreboding I walked back, turned the alarm off a

third time and buried ‘Baby Ben’ not only under the covers,

but both pillows as well. Then I ran back to the door, jerked

it open and took off through it.

Instead of the hall outside my bedroom door, I found myself

out on the street in front of my house—still dressed in baby

doll pajamas and walking toward my bus stop. There wasn’t

time to go home and change. The school bus had arrived

and it sat idling as a half-dozen students climbed on. I waved

and yelled for them to wait, but no one seemed to hear.

Running for the bus wasn’t even an option, for it was suddenly

as if my feet and I were slogging through knee-deep

mud. I could only watch as the door closed and the bus

pulled off without me. Oddly, I felt thoroughly and utterly

bereft—as if all my hopes and dreams had taken off with that

big yellow bus.

As the bus lumbered down the road something yellow flew

out an open window. Even from where I stood I could see it

was a scarf—a yellow scarf—lifting, floating and fluttering in

the early morning breeze.

My legs came unglued and I began running after that scarf

like my life depended upon reaching it before it touched

the ground. I caught up to it, but each time I attempted to

pluck it from the air a breeze would whisk it away, lifting it

just beyond my reach over and over again. I soon began to

tire of the game and was about to abandon the chase when

the wind picked up and blew the scarf toward me instead of

away, pressing it against the lower half of my face. Slowly,

almost as if caressing me, the scarf began to move along my

skin. It slid over my mouth, under my chin, and down my neck.

Snaking round and round my throat, it became longer and

longer, tighter and tighter—and I began struggling for air . . .