http://www.amazon.com/Destination-Wedding-Sheryse-DuBose-ebook/dp/B00M9XPIYE/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1-fkmr0&qid=1417330726 As Maid of Honor, it is Maia’s job to make sure that her sister, Marissa’s Daufuskie Island wedding goes off without a hitch. Clay, the groom, has the difficult task of reining in his flamboyant family before they cause catastrophe to this otherwise dignified affair. Maia and Clay find their duties to be challenging as there are problems with the dresses, bridesmaids, girlfriends, nosy relatives, and a rapidly approaching storm. If that is not enough to make an already high-strung bride call off everything, there is the family secret that threatens to ruin the entire wedding. Will Clay and Marissa make it down the aisle, or will their Destination Wedding just be an expensive party?
Check out the Palmetto Author’s Blog Tour! I had the priviledge of being interviewed by Evolving Elle, who did a wonderful job of outlining my writing journey. Check it out as well as other blog topics.
These are just a few words that describe novelist Sheryse Noelle DuBose. With always having dreams of being a writer, Sheryse decided to hit the ground running when she stopped teaching to pursue her dreams of writing full-time. Her upcoming book, Marshland, will be released this Friday, which also happens to be her birthday. “My newest novel is fictional, but I received the inspiration from my family’s story,” Sheryse states. “Marshland is set during the Civil War and tells the story of a slave family that escapes the mainland (of South Carolina) and flees to Pickney Island then to Hilton Head Island. The family meets various people along the way-some who are friendly and some that are not.” As a native of Hilton Head Island, SC, Sheryse has always been fascinated with life in the Lowcountry. While teaching U.S. History, Sheryse discovered the…
Mostly, I blog about my life growing up on Hilton Head Island. Sometimes, I throw in a couple of posts about planning, architecture, and history because those are my passions and basically that’s what I write about. Today, I think I just want to talk about my writing experiences in general.
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be an author. I say “author” rather than “writer” because I have always written something, whether it be a creative writing assignment or scribbling a tragic entry in my journal. While growing up, I used to have this narrative of my life in my head, mapping out who said what and oddly enough, describing the scenery around me. I knew that someday what I had formulated in my mind, I would put down on paper professionally and that would make me an “author.”
Yesterday one of my favorite authors, Eric Jerome Dickey requested that his fans post pictures of all of the books we have that had been written by him. I was certainly up to that task and by the time I enthusiastically pulled all of my books from storage, I had about fifteen books written by EJD that I owned. So as I was taking pictures of my books, I found myself wondering how long would it be until I had enough books written to ask whatever fans that I may fortunate to have, to pull out all of their books that I have penned, to take a photograph to post on my page. While I do not yet know the answer to that question, I do know that I have to be patient and recognize that this particular author, as well as others, took time to build their fan base of loyal readers. And in spite of what some may say (or post) there is plenty of room for all of us writers. I know this for a fact because of the boxes of books in my garage by countless authors of different genres and I’m always adding to my “To Be Read” list.
So anyway, the pictures that I had taken and posted on Twitter of my fifteen books written by Eric Jerome Dickey was actually retweeted by him and I could have just passed out from happiness. Will I ever have that affect on my readers someday? Time will tell. And that’s the point – It will take time.
Three bloody holes quickly soaked the blue uniform of the fallen union soldier and spilled onto the hay covered floor. It was an unexpected end to his life. Not on a battlefield, but in an abandoned barn.
“Papa, is he really dead?” Eleven-year-old Jane asked her father.
Instead of answering her, Luther turned to his older daughter, who was fifteen and urgently whispered, “Diana, take your sister back to camp.”
Traumatized and disheveled, Diana could not move a muscle. She just stood there staring at the bloody body. Luther needed to work quickly because he knew that someone would soon be looking for this white man. The only way he and his family could survive was if he made the body disappear. But he couldn’t do it in front of his little girls. They had already seen too much.
“Diana!” Luther snapped. “Go now!”
Diana suddenly came back to attention, grabbed her sister by the hand and the two rushed out into the dewy morning. Luther waited until his daughters were out of sight before he grabbed the dead man by his feet, which were covered with worn and holey shoes, and dragged him out of the barn towards the marsh several yards away. He selected a spot beneath a grove of Palmetto trees near the creek. Luther stared at the body for a moment with contempt. His whole life he encountered people who thought that everything belonged to them. His freedom. His father’s land. His daughter’s virtue. This man was no different. Today, for a change, something was taken from him. His life.
Luther snapped out of his reverie and got to work. Luther hurried back to the barn to grab a shovel and the pitchfork to take back to the grove of palmetto trees. Once back at the body, Luther dug up the sandy soil of the makeshift burial site. After digging for almost an hour, the hole was finally deep enough. Luther dragged the corpse to the grave and dumped it in. The dead man hit the earth with a solid thud. After covering the hole, Luther took the incriminating pitchfork that served as the murder weapon and tossed it into the marsh. Then he took the palmetto leaves from a nearby tree and used it to wipe away his and the girls’ footprints, as well as the drag marks. Hearing the rustling movement of the underbrush, Luther sensed that his time was up. He needed to get his family out of there immediately. The consequences of being caught were too frightening to think about.