Getting down to the end of final corrections and rewrites for Annie’s Book, Blessed With a Gift, I can see the end in sight, but how do I stop the tears? Will they be happy or sad tears? Does it matter?
Yes, I suppose it does. You’ll just have to read it to find out. Information on how you can get a copy due to be posted by August. Wish me and Annie luck, love and laughter.We’re both gonna need it.
Deborah A. Bowman, author
Annie comes from the past, but will live forever in your hearts.
Annie Doll on my desk.
Annie’s from mid-1600s America. She is Blessed With A Gift or is she cursed? How do you know for sure? I think her love for animals says much about her love for everything.
Read about the treatment of children and women in The British Colonies. You may not be prepared for the treatment of children born with birth defects. ‘Twas sad, when wee Annie had so much love and healing to give. But what if she is misunderstood? Superstition ruled the land, but who ruled the people, especially during the 19 years when England, Scotland, and France were involved in an atrocious civil war. The colonies were forsaken. Turmoil ruled. The documented history you probably weren’t taught in grade school. Can Annie be saved when everyone loves her? Is love enough? I truly hope so.
Annie lived 40-50 years prior to the Witch Hysteria. Annie should be safe, but …
Enjoy Annie’s happiness and spirit as a healer and herbalist. She’s a happy little girl. She’s a savant and a telepathic receiver, and above average in some aspects of her life, but she canna’ count or read. Annie is special.
Deborah A. Bowman.
Annie’s Story, Blessed With A Gift
I have just started a second beta reader on my upcoming book–Historical Fiction Based On Fact, Past-Life Hypnotic Regression. I wanted to share what my reader, who had asked me to beta read the book after seeing my last blog on “Annie”. This is what she had to say after reading just the first two small chapters where Annie’s parents die of the dreaded fever prevalent in early Colonial America:
OK, they died and passed to another dimension…got that. Don’t leave me hanging; what’s next?!?
Obviously I am hooked. And that is not easy because from all my years proofreading, grammatical errors, etc., become very distracting to me. Your writing has none of those. Plus it reads fast ( if you know what I mean). I hate reading where I have to stop and focus on every single word.
Frankly, I am picky about what fiction I read and I find yours intriguing. Your characters are beautifully brought to life (which you promptly killed-off) without excess verbiage — kudos.
You made me cry. Not because she died but understanding the utter despair he must have felt conscious enough to ken what was coming.
This is where the magic begins, blends, comes together, and ends
I take no blame and express no shame
In the fact that Annie’s existence has inspired me with no resistance.
This is where the characters come alive and strive
To capture my attention and create an intervention
They cry, laugh, giggle and speak to compete
With all the books waiting to be complete
They seek meaning and life through my acting and reacting
The doll’s name is Annie and she is Blessed With a Gift
Due to be released this year
Annie will share her fears and tears
Her love, happiness, and sadness
But most of all, she wants to share her love
Blessed With A Gift of white light healing
She gives her life and her strife
As a child, mother and wife
It’s so sad she will never hold her daughter
But she will live on in verse and historical fiction
Annie is the character who caused the most friction
Her voice will be heard…
In my story and my words…
God Bless Annie from the mid-1600s
In a Colonial America
Continue to follow bowmanauthor.com
For excerpts, reviews, comments, and songs
About Annie’ s Story, Blessed With A Gift
And the upcoming release as my spirits lift
Why is it that when we conjure up the term “adult fairy tale” the erotic comes to mind rather than the esoteric, classical, or mystical? Do naught legends and myths for all age groups, sung by repetition and rhyme for centuries by traveling Bards, have a certain moral code and morale?
Being whimsical and child-like by nature, I dream that I’m talking, dancing and singing with the wee people, ethereal spirits, and creatures of the forests in the most dignified and respectful manner possible. I am so delighted by “Tales From The Garden” because author Sally Cronin depicts her characters with utmost courtesy and responsibility. These are truly the fairy tales of folklore from long ago, telling their ancient stories up to and including the modern era in which we live.
Such are the stone guardians of a Spanish garden where the statues have watched over and protected the fairy kingdom of Magia under the expanse of a regal magnolia tree for countless decades and centuries. Cronin richly tells how each masterpiece was created, some shaped and carved by craftsmen, artists and masons; some flesh-and-blood lost, dismayed or ill-treated humans, animals, and birds as well as long forgotten mythical creatures magically transformed by the fairies.
Sally Cronin’s creative little book packs a huge message on life, love, respect and honor.
I don’t know whether to refer to Cronin’s delightful, endearing tales as Literary, Poetic Prose, or the Songs and Lyrics of the wind, the sun, and the moon as each and every glorious sunrise and sunset allows the stones to come to life at night. They flourish under the last emperor and old master, Moyhill Royal Flush, or Sam as the stalwart wardens call him, whom they respect and adore even long after the master’s lifespan is over; it being so much less than their own. But Sam has his own royal stone plaque.
I’ll cite but few of Cronin’s Creatures so as not to spoil the stories of the eloquent, meaningful cast of characters. Just keep your eye on the dwarf band with the pearly girl vocalist and rabbit backup singer, who are prone to be devilish tricksters as surely as modern musicians. All in good fun, of course. Be ever watchful of the witch who feeds the ducks and swans, only to have them end up in her large pot to be deep fried. ‘Tis said she has a new broom. Before you depart the spacious garden pay homage to the Queen of the fairies and her new young prince husband. The Queen will tell you all about her previous wayward King. Her majesty finally giving the stone-frozen, banished King happiness and love in the modern world after eons of silent reflection, transforming him and his ever-watchful paramour to our lot with warmth, breath and death as humankind. And be sure not to miss the summer Fairy Ball!
The book concludes with the history of the garden and its family, bringing reality home.
All may not live happily ever after, but you as readers most assuredly shall. Whenever the mundane or sadness beckons at your door, reach for this volume and let your imagination soar to lofty heights. We all can be whimsical and child-like to the end of our days. I highly recommend you indulge in this Tome of Enchantment.
I am so thankful and overwhelmed by the helpful comments and suggestions I received on my blog, facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and emails regarding the cover for my book, “Annie’s Story: Blessed With A Gift.” This has been a difficult task for me because in many ways, I am Annie. Therefore, I’m way too close to be objective.
This is a version of the very first cover and a dozen tries later I have come back to it because it shows what Annie sees and how her mind works.
From the FOREWORD:
“… Annie was mentally slow, stunted in growth, and lacking in social and emotional development… Annie couldn’t read or write, … but … was an incredible savant, reciting songs, rhymes, recipes, and medicinal incantations… She was a natural [telepathic and white light] healer, blessed with a special gift from the Spiritual Universe.”
Coming in early 2016, I will share precious Annie with all of you.
Deborah A. Bowman, author
I see the trinkets that surround me
But do I really see?
These are so precious to me
They inspire and capture my creativity
But not today
I have no words to say
But those that get in the way
My inspiration does not shine
In silence I seek the divine
And all will be well in time
My Annie doll will speak her mind
And tell me of her trip from Ireland
When she came alone to Ellis Island
The castle will sing its tune, the dancer spinning
And a new story will be beginning
To weave its way into my soul
The faerie pixie will rise and flow
Through ancient dreams and glowing scenes
Dancing on the sun’s rays, amidst the colors of the rainbow
The Kindle will light with fire: reds and yellows; golds and blues
I’ll slip on my glasses so I can see true
The beautiful forests and haunted hills
I’ll experience thrills and wills and chills
As a new world comes alive inside my brain
Some of you may think me insane
As the keyboard beckons and calls my name
Not all the words have gone up in flames
I just had to write them to know their game
Of hide and seek, catch me if you can, find me if you dare
The words will scatter unless you show them you care.
NOW THE STORY LOST IN TIME…
HAS RETURNED TO SPARKLE AND SHINE!
I do not know exactly where I come from or why I am so sad and dramatic
There are times at night that I see a different world…by candlelight, draped in shadows
I lift the feather and dip it into the pitch black, thickened ink
I watch the fluid drip like blood from the glare in darkened windows
It is always storming, the candle flame flickering from cracks in the ancient mansion
The fire in the hearth has expired and the chill is almost unbearable
But I turn my thoughts inward in a closed fashion
To ponder on the melodramatic and scenes that are terrible
Murder whispers through the night and I continue to write
Each scratch upon the tanned skin of an animal
Reminding me of death, of ruin, of horrific sights
I think that I am safe within, yet I am so gullible
As I live my poem within my mind, my body racked with pain
I hear footsteps in the empty room and chuckle at my absurdity
It’s just the rain beating unmercifully against the leaden panes
I glance up, expecting nothing, but emptiness and levity
A figure looks down at me, standing tall and broad
How did “she” get in here, soaked with blood and shivering?
I did not hear the latch open the door; no one spoke aloud
The look on her face is horrific, and I begin quivering
I look down at myself. I’m totally reconstructed
From a modern woman of the 21st Century
To a man, dressed in finery, frightened–reluctantly
Wondering where I am and what kind of monster I must be!
I saw this graphic, literally smelled and felt the texture of the books, and had to share my feelings.