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”.
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¬if_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 . . .
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