"In The Winter Of Her Season"
by Joan Robertson

INTERVIEW:

DT:  I absolutely loved, "In The Winter Of Her Season" please explain your purpose for writing the book, then give a brief synopsis.
JR: My purpose of writing In The Winter Of Her Season was to use literature as a transforming power for healing. I believe that "serious" fiction can change lives just as much as nonfiction. In The Winter of Her Season is about Sandra Hamilton, a young businesswoman, who travels to Massachusetts to help care for her ailing father, Reverend Doctor Trevor Hamilton, Junior. Upon arriving, Sandra is haunted by the ghosts of her childhood, stemming from secrets only she knows, but does not address. After her father's initial crisis is over, Sandra finds her journey just beginning. And this journey that begins as a physical one is transformed into a spiritual one, causing Sandra to rise above repressed memories and rediscover faith in her life, love, God, and self.

In The Winter Of Her Season by Joan Robertson

DT: How long have you been writing? Why did you start? What motivates you?
JR:  I've been writing creatively since I was sixteen years old. Believe me, that's a very long time ago! Then, many of my poems were published in anthologies and university presses. Life is what motivates me to write. I'm very observant, so life provides much food for thought when I develop character-driven stories.

DT:  Who is your target audience? The book seems as if it has, "crossover appeal" have you found this to be true?
JR:  My target audience is women between the ages of 25 through 55. However, the book has proven to have crossover appeal in that many men have read it and related to the book's message. Additionally, many people of various ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds have enjoyed the book, from Asian, Caucasian, African-American to people of Caribbean descent, as well as doctors, lawyers, secretaries,stay-at-home moms, college students, and corporate executives. Why? Because the book has a universal message in that we all have been through trials in life. You live long enough, you are going to go through something--nobody escapes it!

DT: What do readers and reviewers have to say about, "In The Winter Of Her Season"?
JR:  The common statement among readers and reviewers is that In The Winter Of Hers Season is a well-written story with remarkable realism and in-depth characters.

DT: What's next for Joan Robertson? Any new books on the horizon? Any book signings? Upcoming conferences?
JR: Right now, I'm looking for a new publisher for my second novel that I've completed: Race Til Midnight. My goal is to write in various genres; therefore, this second novel is vastly different from, In The Winter Of Her Season, in that it's romance suspense. In The Winter Of Her Season is an inspirational literary novel. Right now, I do not have any set dates for events. However, I am actively selling to book clubs at the moment.

DT: Please share an excerpt with us!
JR: I would be happy to.

In The Winter Of Her Season

(PROLOGUE)
She resolved to walk into her father's bedroom, fling open the window, wait, watch. His hollow eyes would fly open, acknowledging the horror. Her hand pressed against the doorknob. Oh, how she'd waited for this moment, hoping the event would be as satisfying as she'd imagined. The yellow glow of the nightlight crept from the bottom of the entryway. She opened the door, pushing forward on the balls of her feet, a creak underfoot. She stopped, listened, moved forward again--no turning back, not even if she wanted to. Then, the voice came.

Sandra knew the morning was unusually blustery, yet she hadn't stepped outside to witness violence against bare branches or the awful whipping the trash bin endured the night before. Truth was, Sandra hadn't stepped outside in months, but she heard the wind slap its palms against the windowpane, trying its best to come in--then the voice. The voice called her name, so soft and soothing, soothing as the sight of a steeple to a man who'd strayed from faith too long. This voice made Sandra think about her father, Reverend Dr. Trevor Hamilton Jr., and love and hatred overwhelmed her.

The wind died down, as did the voice. But Sandra was certain she would hear it again the next morning; she heard it every morning. No one else knew. Sandra would have told her brother if he'd been alive. Certainly, she could have told Lilly, but the admission would probably prove the strain of the past few years had been far too great.

Sandra released the curtains and slipped back into bed, her kinky hair flattened from sleep and neglect, ears now glued to different sounds: the solemn tick of the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall, Lilly's hum in the next room, the hiss of the radiator. Then the spongy thud of rubber-soled footsteps on carpeted stairs--a new nurse who'd come to work the day shift to care for her father. The nurse was a constant tug on Sandra's shoulder that he'd outlived her mother and brother, and heavy sorrow settled beside her beneath the patchwork quilt. Her bleary eyes slowly closed again. Drowsy. Still.

Her mother's face appeared behind her eyelids: dainty nose turned upward, thin pink lips, skin almost devoid of color. Sandra's face: dark, sturdy, mighty brow, high chiseled cheekbones. As early as Sandra could remember, people made a distinction between her and her mother. Even first grade classmates--yellow-haired little girls with plaid pleated skirts and crisp white blouses and already preoccupied with color--asked, "Why don't you look like your mother?" As always, Sandra would reply, "Just don't."

The heat in the room became stifling and the cottony fuzz of her flannel gown stuck to her sweaty neck. She kicked back the sheets, quilt, and the scent of herself suddenly sprung to her nostrils. She thought to wash, but the thought was as heavy as the malaise descending upon her like a shadow, a shadow not produced by light. So Sandra relaxed against the dampness, content with small things. It was effortless, like listening to the sound of the wind that began to stir again, stirring Sandra to think of the events that led her captive to this house in Cambridge. Her mind searched for an opening, navigating her to the night when she'd received that phone call in January 1990.

"Sandy," her mother said, "they think your father has non-Hodgkin's lymphoma!"
"Lymphoma?"
"Cancer in the lymph nodes." Her voice broke, followed by sobs and incoherent words--something about a biopsy. "What are we going to do? Oh God!"
Then Sandra heard a distant voice, and identified it as Lilly's. "Now, now, now. You done gone and upset yourself." Her voice suddenly amplified: "Sandy, your mama has to get some rest. I'll call you tomorrow." The dial tone. Deafening.
Sandra stared at the receiver with her hand over her mouth and then quickly dialed her brother's number. It was busy. Damn! A few minutes later, she dialed his number again.

DT:  Any final words for new or aspiring writers?
JR:  My advice to new or aspiring writers is to continuously hone your craft, strive to become better at what you do.

DT:  Thanks so much for your time, Joan! We surely wish you all the best.

Website:
http://www.joanrobertsonnovelist.com