Book Description: What would it take to convince you that the woods you just left is a hundred and forty-four years distant from the one you entered?
Ten years have passed since the Civil War broke up John Bartley’s family. Living with his aunt and uncle in the tiny village of Greendale, Vermont, isn’t filled with excitement for a seventeen-year-old.
Until John walks into the woods one day and stumbles into 2009…
Fortunately, he chances upon the outspoken Tess McKinnon. To earn her trust, he must first convince her that he is neither a lunatic nor a liar. The proof he needs is buried at the end of a mountain road, where the ruins of Greendale lie just beneath a layer of dead leaves and moss.
What became of his home? Why is there no record of its existence?
Guest Post by Rodney James:
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Question: What is the inspiration behind your
writing?
Disappointment was my inspiration. I knew from early on what
I’d end up being when I grew up. I had my mind pretty much set by the age of
seven. The earliest memory I have of declaring my ambition dates back to the
summer of 1961. Every summer, my parents made the trip from our home in Selma,
Indiana, to my grandparents’ farm in Oxford, Michigan, and then abandoned me
and my siblings there for a five or six week stretch. This was fine with us, as
we all worshiped our grandparents.
I recall the drive north dragging on for half an
eternity—damn near the whole day. This was before the interstate highway was
completed. It seemed to take hours just to get through Detroit and Pontiac,
both of which were in their prime at the time—dense with cars, endless miles of
traffic lights, and road construction. I’d be interested in the sights for a
while, but inevitably they’d grow tiresome. The summer of 1961—I was busting
with excitement as our car finally came up over the hill before my
grandparents’ farm. I remember greeting my grandma with a hug, then running
down to the barn where my grandpa was feeding the cows. He asked me about
school (my first year), then asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I
told him, “An artister.” He grinned, then laughed. I recall being puzzled by
his reaction, wondering why my ambition to be an artister was so funny. But I
didn’t let my bewilderment stop me.
I grew up with a talent for art and a disconnect for verbal
expression. All through school I struggled with language, particularly writing.
I was a slow reader, terrible at spelling, and had only a vague idea about
grammar and sentence structure—I just couldn’t see it, couldn’t get my mind
around it. All I cared about was art. I was in my early twenties when I read my
first novel. The Crystal Cave by Mary
Stewart. I remember it taking me forever to get through that book—me with my
dictionary close at hand, looking up at least one word per paragraph. I kept at
it because I was enthralled by the story. From there I slowly progressed into
avid reader.
About two decades later, at the book store, I picked up a
sci-fi novel, among the best books I’d ever read. I recall the ending of the
story leaving me hoping a sequel would follow. And then, several years later,
it did. I was very much in the mood for another great story by this excellent
author. I rushed out and bought the book, eagerly dove into its pages, made it
a few chapters in, and began to realize how dull and two-dimensional the
characters were, and how unnatural the dialogue sounded. I couldn’t finish the
book. It annoyed me. I remember thinking I could probably write a better story
myself, and I’d never written anything before. This ridiculous idea turned into
a challenge, which I found impossible to ignore. I was not inspired by
greatness, but I was pushed to write by my own ignorance and arrogance.
Perhaps it wasn’t inspiration that started me writing, but
I’m certainly inspired to continue.
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Enter the giveaway for the tour at this link!
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