The PP Gals welcome Rayne Golay, guest author of The Wooden Chair. Hi, Rayne!
How did
you get from your day job to writing romance? When offered early retirement, I jumped at the chance.
Now I was finally free to pursue my lifelong dream to write. I procrastinated
for a couple of years during which I traveled extensively with my late husband.
I had all sorts of excuses why I wasn’t writing, among them that I didn’t have
the right tools. Instead of going out to buy myself a PC, I complained that I
didn’t have the right means with which to write. Part of the reason for why I
dragged my feet was fear of failing at the thing I’d always wanted to do. When
my children gave me my first lap top as a birthday gift, they removed my last
obstacle. Now I had to do it, write.
“The Egyptian” by Mika Waltari
“The Senator’s Wife” by Sue Miller
As the doorbell rang, Mira’s brow furrowed in several horizontal creases, irritation vibrant inside at being disturbed. She glanced at the meat-and-vegetable soup simmering on the stove.
After she turned off the gas and wiped her hands on a towel, she took a deep puff of the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray and crossed the small sitting room to the entry hall.
Mira sucked air into her lungs at the sight of the child and fought the urge to slam the door. She glared at the woman who clutched the child’s hand. Leaning over Leini, Mira grabbed her arm.
Leini winced and tried to pull away.
“You hopeless number,” Mira hissed. “Where have you been?”
Leini twisted her arm back and forth. “Mamma, you’re hurting me.”
Letting go of Leini, she turned to the policewoman and made a supreme effort to paste a pleasant smile on her face.
“I’m Mira Bauman. Thank you for finding my daughter. She wanders away. Does it often.”
Tuula introduced herself. “Yes, she was alone, singing at the marketplace. I took it upon
myself to bring her home. Your daughter is lovely.”
“You don’t know the half of it. She’s a little monster. In the company of people she’s all right. At home with me she’s quite a handful.”
The look in Tuula’s eyes told Mira that she’d said too much. Using a more pleasant tone, Mira apologized for Leini’s behavior.
“No trouble. We enjoyed her singing, but she’s much too young to be in the streets on her own.” Smiling at Leini, Tuula bent to touch the child’s cheek with the back of her hand. “There could be a bombardment any minute. Then what would she do? She doesn’t seem to know where she lives. I looked in the phone book for your address.”
“She’d manage. She always does,” Mira said, a slight quaver in her voice.
Find Rayne at:
Web site
Blog
Untreed Reads Publishing
What are your three favorite books of all
time?
“Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides“The Egyptian” by Mika Waltari
“The Senator’s Wife” by Sue Miller
Morning,
afternoon, or evening person? I love the evening hours when all the have
to’s are out of the way. It’s happened
that I get up in the middle of the night to write. There’s something both
peaceful and exciting about the late hours when all is still, and I’m alone,
just me and my characters.
Music--with
or without? What kind? Quiet, quiet, genius at work! (LOL) Much as I love
music, chiefly classical like Beethoven, Sibelius, Bruch, it intrudes on that
space inside where my characters live.
First
or third POV? Third. I tried my hand at first person, but had to
rewrite the dratted thing, because I couldn’t get the right depth and scope and
vision on the whole thing.
How's
tricks? Do you juggle multiple projects? While my soul dances from
joy my mind puzzles on the next disaster. Outside of writing, I’m a multi-tasker,
but a full length novel (100.000 words isn’t unusual for me) takes all my
concentration.
What's harder: beginning, middle, or the
end? I call it The Beginning, The Muddle and The
End. I think that says it all. When I
start a new novel, I know the beginning and end very well. I usually even have
a title, which was the case with both LIFE
IS A FOREIGN LANGUAGE and THE WOODEN CHAIR. The middle is a sorry bog.
Revisions: Love 'em or hate 'em? With a good
critique partner, I love revisions. It’s wonderful to see how, with the help of
a pair of objective and constructive eyes the story takes shape, sets to flow.
How did you come up with that title? Best advice anybody every gave you? Meaning THE WOODEN
CHAIR? Leini, the protagonist is four years old early in the book. She tries to
cuddle in her mother’s lap, but mother is stiff and unwelcoming. Leini finds
mother’s lap as hard and uncomfortable as the wooden chair in their kitchen.
There it is, right there, in mother’s lap, THE WOODEN CHAIR. Apparently my
publisher, Untreed Reads Publisher, liked it as well because we never discussed
the title.
Fill in
this blank: My ideal fictional hero would think me gorgeous no matter… Despite some wrinkles, age spots and what once was a
cleavage, but now is a peach pit.
What's
your favorite dessert? Would you believe cheese? Yes, cheese. I don’t care for sweets.
Do
you write at home or someplace else? I’m such a creature of habit,
LOL. I write at home, by my desk. Sometimes, weather permitting, I write by the
pool with a can of caffeine free diet soda within easy reach.
What's
your favorite type of hero/heroine and why? My favorite hero is
Ralph de Bricassar in Colleen McCullough’s “The Thorn Birds.” All his live he’s
so very much in love with Maggie, but his love for the church is strong as
well. True to himself, he does what his conscience dictates.
Female heroine is the protagonist in Daphne du Maurier’s
“Rebecca,” inexperienced, used and lied to, but who’s love for Maxim gives her
strength. I find her intriguing, not least because she has no name, other than
“Mrs. de Winter” or “The second Mrs. de Winter.”
Excerpt from The Wooden Chair:
As the doorbell rang, Mira’s brow furrowed in several horizontal creases, irritation vibrant inside at being disturbed. She glanced at the meat-and-vegetable soup simmering on the stove.
After she turned off the gas and wiped her hands on a towel, she took a deep puff of the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray and crossed the small sitting room to the entry hall.
Mira sucked air into her lungs at the sight of the child and fought the urge to slam the door. She glared at the woman who clutched the child’s hand. Leaning over Leini, Mira grabbed her arm.
Leini winced and tried to pull away.
“You hopeless number,” Mira hissed. “Where have you been?”
Leini twisted her arm back and forth. “Mamma, you’re hurting me.”
Letting go of Leini, she turned to the policewoman and made a supreme effort to paste a pleasant smile on her face.
“I’m Mira Bauman. Thank you for finding my daughter. She wanders away. Does it often.”
Tuula introduced herself. “Yes, she was alone, singing at the marketplace. I took it upon
myself to bring her home. Your daughter is lovely.”
“You don’t know the half of it. She’s a little monster. In the company of people she’s all right. At home with me she’s quite a handful.”
The look in Tuula’s eyes told Mira that she’d said too much. Using a more pleasant tone, Mira apologized for Leini’s behavior.
“No trouble. We enjoyed her singing, but she’s much too young to be in the streets on her own.” Smiling at Leini, Tuula bent to touch the child’s cheek with the back of her hand. “There could be a bombardment any minute. Then what would she do? She doesn’t seem to know where she lives. I looked in the phone book for your address.”
“She’d manage. She always does,” Mira said, a slight quaver in her voice.
Find Rayne at:
Web site
Blog
Untreed Reads Publishing
Thank you, Rayne, for being with the PP today!
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