The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky discussion

Ruth Jacobs lives a quiet life in a small village in Hertfordshire, England, which is quite a contrast from her teens and early twenties, spent rather waywardly in London. She is the author of In Her Own Words... Interview with a London Call Girl. I was tickled pink when she offered to interview me on her website.

And so, this morning I woke up to a surprise: having answered her questions only last night, the interview 'In the Booth with Ruth' is already up! 

Thank you so much, Angela! And I hope your writing is going strong, love your poetry!

Absolutely, it's my pleasure!

Ashley Fontainne is an avid reader of classic literature. She is also the author of Zero Balance, Accountable to None, and Ramblings of a Mad Southern Woman, and the host of a Blog talk radio show called the WriteStuff, which is coming to its close this weekend (to be replaced with a new show.) I have read Ashely's poetry, and trust me--her writing is no rambling, it is a full throated roar!

So I am truly honored that she brought me on her show for this special episode, to talk about Apart From Love, Home, my sculptures and paintings, the new possibilities of publishing in this new Indie era, and more.

Come take a listen to our conversation:
http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/12/no...

hmmm... Mental note to me: why does it happen?

But for you Angela, here is another link to the same conversation: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ashleyfo...

No problem... It happens.

Angela wrote: "Uvi, I have a question. Do you ever experience the sensation, in terms of writing, of simply having far too many thoughts and ideas pounding through your skull so that it is impossible to write a c..."

Yes, that sounds quite familiar... Especially when I go to sleep and my characters start chattering in my head... For me, only one thing to be done: focus on one voice, scribble it on paper, congratulate yourself for capturing the tail end of this voice, and forgive yourself for not having the luck to do so for the other voices.

How do you handle it?

As they say in my writing class, "write about it"...
Writing about impatience can be a lot of fun. You can even drop parts of sentences along the impatient stumble... lol
But the important thing is to put it on paper. For me, it seems to anchor the ship, even as it is rocking...

That is great. Exactly how I come up later with babbling characters... lol

So I bend over, putting my ear to his mouth.
He breathes, “Here—now—I could not have written it any better.”
And a moment later, “This is the most important day, the most important hour of my entire life. I can see things clearly, more than ever before, as if from a distance. You,” he takes a pause, “you have made your share of mistakes—but the whole thing started with mine.”
“Sorry, dad,” I say.
And he says, “It is my fault, and we both know it. Both of us have been paying the price. Don’t—don’t worry, son. I am going to fix it.”
These few words between us do me good, and my lungs expand and suddenly I can breathe so much easier than before—even though I am left wondering what he means by the whole thing and how exactly can it be fixed.

(Excerpt from Apart From Love)

Angela wrote: "Uvi wrote: "That is great. Exactly how I come up later with babbling characters... lol"

I so remember these lines in Apart From Love. the father, here, so selfish, yet willing to fix it. Will he? ..."

Yes, will he... That is the question.

Have you ever wanted to go back to your youth, to reverse the flow of time? For you, is it tempting thought? It would take some kind of magic, which I describe in my story A Heartbeat, Reversed. In it I use a silent movie projector as a device that allows my character, Edna, to make believe she can rewind time. And perhaps it is more than make-believe...

At first, it stirred into motion, casting a glowing, larger-than-life face into the darkness. The eyes sparkled, and from the lips came a laughter. It was giggly, yet utterly silent. Edna smiled back at this girl, the spirit of her youth. The eyelashes fluttered and then—with a sudden stutter—something took over the machine; for stuck on that single frame, it started rattling uncontrollably.

In this state of mind, Edna watches her long-forgotten wedding event flickering on the wall. The sequence, which is so formal we all know how it ought to be arranged, is reversed. Starting from the moment he carries her across the threshold, we go back through events:

Ethan gathered her to his chest, his face dark with effort, his brow dripping with sweat. He swept the bride off her feet, and carried her in his arms, walking backwards. He backed away from the living room, out through the corridor. Edna shouted, Look out! She sucked in her breath; somehow she was quite sure that in a snap, the veil would ensnare him.

And going farther and farther back in time, here is how the groom and bride place the rings and exchange vows. Seen in reverse, the meaning is changed, too. You realize that they are about to separate, perhaps even forget they ever met:

Ethan and the bride had just separated out from a kiss and stood still, facing each other. The silvery light could barely filter through the wedding canopy. Gathered around them were members of both families. They bore witness, in a serious and ceremonious manner, to the unravelling of this union.
Edna could see clearly how he kept tugging at that ring on his finger, as if it did not fit, no, it did not feel quite right, now did it. She caught herself hesitating, wavering there under the gray shade, between one nail and another. Finally the bride took back her vows and set him free. With great gentleness, she recovered his ring. Ethan, in turn, recovered hers.

How far will she allow this magic to take her? Will she lose control over it, and what are the risks, the repercussions of denying the normal flow of time? Will Edna go back to being a young woman? A girl? A baby? Will she lose her mind? You can reverse a sequence of numbers, but when you get to a single heartbeat, no longer in the context of a sequence, would it matter anymore which way it is played, forward or backward?

A Heartbeat, Reversed appears on the pages of my poetry book, Home.

"He lays there, having wrapped himself in my mother’s arms, his eyelashes still somewhat aflutter, his hands still shivering slightly over his heart, his face pale, nearly blue, and I know that if I would leave him at this moment to go look for Martha, the care giver, it would be over. Dad would be gone by the time I rush back.
So I draw closer and stand there, behind the head of the bed, over my sleeping mother. From this angle, his ribs seem to move—but I think it is because of her body clinging to him, and because of her breathing, which is so deep and so peaceful. I lean over her arms to take his hands in mine, absorbing his shiver, taking it into my flesh, until finally it dies down.
And the light, growing even brighter, washes his face, till all that is left is a smile, frozen."

http://www.amazon.com/Apart-From-Love...

Apart From Love is Unique and Spellbinding...here's my review on Amazon.


Author Uvi Poznansky is an artist! There is no doubt about it. As I read "Apart from Love", I was drawn into a masterfully created piece of artwork. This is no ordinary novel. It richly depicts the product of a dysfuntional family and how they are drawn together, yet so repulsed by each other.

There is a quality so deep and raw in "Apart from Love" that it's almost impossible to put this book down. In my opinion, Uvi Poznansky writes like a painter. She starts with a clean canvas and dabs a little paint here and a little paint there as she develops her characters and creates her masterpiece. Her strokes then become broader, more passionate, more vivid and vibrant as she continues to let her characters' stories unfold. She draws you in to a deeper level than you might actually want to go as she ignites the fire to your own love, passions, and fears.

Ben, the 27 year old son grudgingly returns home many years after the divorce of his parents, Lenny and Natasha. He finds that there is a mutual attraction between his father's young wife Anita, and himself. Their stories, along with Lenny's are related in a narrative as each person has the opportunity to share his side of the events that take place. "Apart from Love" reminds me of a movie I enjoyed many years ago...Cat on a Hot Tin Roof because it is a well-written drama that could take place on a stage similar to this movie. In "Apart from Love" Ben states..."In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive but so seldom do you give to others." There is defintely a great need for forgiveness both on the giving end as well as the receiving end in this novel.

Similar to any other work of art, the artist leaves so much of themselves in their work. Author Uvi Poznansky has done just that! Kudos to her on a job well done!

Thank you so much Dolores for posting your review of Apart From Love! Hugs and kisses!

Angela wrote: "Wonderful review! And so descriptive, Delores! Beautifully written and I fully agree- just exquisite!"

Thank you Angela! Dolores has magic flowing from her pen...

Contrary to popular belief, I see the brain working together, undivided between it left and right sides. It is overlaying its creative and analytical functions in every task. There are compositional problems to resolve, and color combination methods to gauge when you are painting a picture, at the same time that you are chasing your muse. The same is true for writing a story or composing a piece of music, with the added effect of time: a painting is perceived at once, more or less, while music and story unfold for the listener one note at a time.

So I say, paint with a pen, write with a paintbrush. My art strives to tell a story, and my stories strive to bring you into the scene being painted! Here is a good example of the mutual influences between art and writing. I painted this oil painting a few years ago, driven to do so by a recurrent nightmare. Then, earlier this year, I brought it to life in letters, and weaved it into my novel, Apart From Love (see excerpt below.)



Just yesterday—when I laid there in bed, bleeding all day, not even knowing where I was—that was when at last, the dream found me.
In it, I find myself in a public place, which is strange to me—even though I know, somehow, that I’ve already been here. I’ve visited this place, perhaps the night before.
It’s raised like a stage, and flooded with light: a harsh glare, which blinds me. For a minute I can’t see nothing in the dark, beyond that ledge—but I know that them faces are out there, blank and blurry. They’re all there, hushing each other, gazing at me.
I see myself standing there in front of them, naked.
Red-faced, I hunch up as tight as I can. I fold over my thighs, trying to hide, to cover my body, my shame—but my hands, they’re way too small, so my nipple slips out of my fingers. And there it is, circled by light, for all to see, and to jeer at me, and to lick their lips, which is like, glistening out there, tiny sparks hissing in the distance.
For a little while, my sleep is light. And so—even as I’m looking straight into that spotlight, or like, reaching down to touch the ledge of that stage—I can tell that all this is false, it’s nothing more than a dream. But then I fall deeper, even deeper into it, and now I really believe what I see:
Some thread is crawling on my skin. Laying across my knees is a strap of fabric, which is frayed and stained, here and there, with my blood. When I pull it in, trying to drape it around me, or use it for a blanket, it resists. It don’t hardly give in, ‘cause it’s tied to something—no, somebody—standing right here, directly over my bare back.
Me, I don’t want to turn, but I take a peek over my shoulder. Wrapped in layers of rags and straps and loose ends, all of which is tattered and like, drenched in reds and browns, the figure seemed shaky. He lifts one leg, and tries to balance himself, teetering—this way and that—on one foot. His hand tries to touch the back of my neck—and misses it, grabbing a handful of air, instead.
And his blood-red lips, they’re curled up, in something that looks an awful lot like a smile. A mocking smile, one that don’t change.
In my dream, my feet must have frozen. I can’t move, can’t run away from him, or even climb off the stage, because at that point I’m weak, and too scared to even breathe, and because of that thread, which binds us. And so, rooted to that spot, I look up at him. At this close range, our eyes meet, and my heart skips a beat, ‘cause at that second, his are empty.
Suddenly I catch sight of someone else, someone standing way over there, in the distance, behind him; behind the curtains, even. Except for her hand, which is caught in the light, it’s hard to even notice her, ‘cause at first she’s like, real shy, even modest, and keeps herself in the shadows, out of the spotlight.
But then, she changes. Her long fingers, they’re gathered, one by one, into a fist. And twisted around her little finger, you can find—if you focus—the ends of the rags, and the straps, and the thread, all of which extend from there to here, where he stands; all the way, to the joints of his wrists and his elbows, tying them like, real tight.
And from backstage, she’s pulling him—raising, dropping, tightening, loosening—making the puppet move, shake, jiggle, even dance on the tip of his toe, and like, bringing him, somehow, to life. I gasp, thinking: she can twist him around her little finger, if she wants to.
Me, I cringe as he puffs, breathing something in my ear. “Go, go back home, go,” says the puppet, in a voice that is not really his. “Go to the place, the place where you came from, you came from. Go back to your ma, ma, your mama.”

Uvi wrote: "Thank you so much Dolores for posting your review of Apart From Love! Hugs and kisses!"

My pleasure Uvi....

Angela wrote: "Wonderful review! And so descriptive, Delores! Beautifully written and I fully agree- just exquisite!"

Thank you Angela and Uvi for your kind words....hugs to you both!

Happy holidays to all! xoxox

Angela...you have made my day! I am honored that you are looking forward to reading my work. What a wonderful gift especially at this time of the year. xxoo right back at you!

A Woman's Voice ~ Volume 1

Here is an excerpt, especially for celebrating holidays, a flashback to Passovers past, taken from Apart From Love:

If I were to focus strictly on my parents, ignore the entire background of this place, and let the clutter and the smell of it just fall away, this could take me back to a different time, a time in my childhood, when our kitchen table was set for the Passover meal. What comes back to me first is the tinkle, as my father finished blessing the wine, and clinked his glass against hers, against mine.
I remember: the table was draped, all the way down to the floor, with mom’s best, rarely used tablecloth, made of the smoothest ivory satin you ever touched. Dad sat at the head of the table, mom to his right, I opposite her.
All day long she had been cooking, which infused the air with a wonderful aroma. In it you could detect a sharp whiff of horseradish and of gefilte fish and sweet brisket and red cabbage and roasted potatoes, all of which made my stomach growl. It went on growling until he finished reading the long, archaic text in the Hagadda, which meant little to me, except a vague notion of the utter futility of patience.
I remember: my mother ladled the clear, golden chicken soup and set it here, steaming before my eyes, with three matzo balls floating inside, which was her way of giving. “It’s hot,” she said. “Make sure to blow on it first.” Yes, the smell of her cooking was good, but then, the taste! Just wait till you took the first bite—

Uvi wrote: "A Woman's Voice ~ Volume 1"

Thanks Angela for asking for the link to A Woman's Voice and thanks to you, Uvi, for providing it! xxoo

My pleasure Dolores!

In my novel Apart From Love, Ben refuses, for the longest time, to give up on his mother, who has been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. But in the later part of the novel he is finally facing the moment of truth:

And this, this is the moment when the truth comes to me, clear and naked in its full ugliness, and I cannot deny it, cannot ignore the horrific meaning of what she who used to be my mother does next:
Sensing a presence next to her, she stirs back, as if by instinct, and for a split second smacks her lips. He may think this is a sign, perhaps of gratitude. I can see the sudden relief, the surprise in his smile. His eyes start closing, as if in anticipation of a kiss.
And then, then she opens her mouth, like some animal—a lizard comes to mind—hungry for its prey. She stays there, seemingly lazy, utterly motionless, jaws dropped, chin hanging, waiting for her feed. Waiting, waiting, waiting for more. Waiting without a word. Waiting with a need that can no longer find its satisfaction, the need of a body, an empty shell of a body whose mind has finally left it. Waiting, because mom will never be able to give.
At once I let go of the double doors so they swing, and come to a close. And I turn, and I run, run out of that place as fast as I can, so as not feel her eyes, looking at me without taking me in.
I am still running. I have to, because I find myself held still in that moment, when the truth has come to me, damn it. Who can be so brazen as to deny it, and who wants to take a second look.





In this charcoal sketch you can see how I study the features of the face at the moment of shock, when in a flash, you are facing that which you would not face before. A moment of truth can be a personal one, which you experience in private, or a communal one. Which is why I used this sketch also in my large oil painting, Earthquake.

Angela wrote: "I loved this part of the book, as I have a great friend who has invited me to Passover for many years"

Thank you so much Angela!

The minutes are ticking till midnight
Let's dance them away; let's take flight
It's the end, the beginning, time once again
To raise a glass and uncork the champagne!



I invite you to join my book launch event: Favorite Figures

Uvi....what a beautiful cover. I love it! <3

Dolores wrote: "Uvi....what a beautiful cover. I love it! <3"

<3 Thank you Dolores!

"When I sprinkle my secret blend of spices; here, take a sniff, can you smell it? When I chop these mouthwatering sun-dried tomatoes, add a few cloves of garlic for good measure, and let it all sizzle with lentils and meat—it becomes so scrumptious, so lip-smacking, finger-licking, melt-in-your-mouth good!

There is a certain ratio of flavors, a balance that creates a feast for the tongue and a delight for the mind; and having mastered that balance, with a pinch of imported cumin from the north of Persia, a dash of Saffron from the south of Egypt, I can tell you one thing: When the pot comes to a full bubbling point, and the aroma of the stew rises up in the air—it would make you dribble! Drive you to madness! For a single bite, you would sell your brother, if only you had one! "

This is the voice of Yankle, in my new ebook, A Favorite Son. It came out just a couple of days ago! You can take a look at it here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AUZ3LGU

Modeled on the biblical story which is truly fascinating to me, this is a present-day twist. At this point in the story he is preparing a lentile stew for his brother, Esau, who comes home so hungry from a day of hunt, he is prepared to throw away up his birthright for a bite of that stew.



Later in the story Yankle will resort to cheating his father, who is lying on his deathbed, to steal away the inheritance. Here is a ceramic sculpture of Jacob preparing to wear the hide of a kid on his arm, so that if his father will touch him, he will mistake Jacob for his hairy brother Esau. In this piece, I focus on the moment of contemplating the crime, rather than the moment of action. He is about to make a choice: is the inheritance truly worth the price of losing his honesty, his soul?

To those of you who are unfamiliar with my work, here is a way to introduce myself. I feel honored that RDW Creations (which provides freelance creative writing, publishing and literary services) introduced my work on their site. In the article they show my two books Apart From Love and Home, and--get this-- a link to my art site, check it out!
http://www.rdwcreations.com/Author-Sp...

"I knew it the very next morning, and I still know it now: My brother hates me. He has removed me from his mind, stricken away any thought, any memory about me. I am dead to him. The scary part is, that being dead will not stand in the way of him killing me, if ever he lays eyes on me again.
It is an odd feeling. Have you ever faced it? Being dead to someone you envy; someone you miss, too; someone who knows you intimately and, even worse, has the chutzpa to occupy your thoughts day in, day out. It grinds down on your nerves; doesn’t it?
Trust me, being dead to your brother is not all that it is cracked up to be, but it does set you free—oh, don’t act so surprised! It frees you from any lingering sense of obligation. Brother, you say to yourself. What does it mean, Brother? Nothing more than a pang, a dull pang in your heart.
You have betrayed him. Accept his hate."

Yankle, in A Favorite Son



My retelling of the biblical story of Jacob and Esau takes the time to concentrate on two things: the contemplation of the crime, and the mental anguish afterwards. Here is another view of my Ceramic sculpture of the character. It is called "What if my father touches me."

Memory
Written by Zeev Kachel
Translated by Uvi Poznansky

When the past becomes your present
And follows you everywhere
Like a hunting dog, it's so intent
Then memory becomes despair

Memory, by a sudden spell
Then becomes your daily routine
Reality turns into hell
A crazy race to the unseen

You set your ladder on a ripple
No wonder that you fell, you cripple



The original Hebrew text of this poem appears in Ropes, Separation, Tear which was published by me in February of 2012, in tribute to his memory. I used my pencil-on-paper drawing of a twisting rope as the basis for the cover of that book. The word Ropes in Hebrew has an additional meaning, beyond the obvious one: it means pain (as in growing pains or pain during childbirth.)

The English version of this poem, along with an entire collection of my father's work, is now included in my poetry and prose book, Home.

This morning I woke up to discover my 'book brief' on the Indies Unlimited site. It gives you the bare essentials of my novel, Apart From Love. Check it out here: http://www.indiesunlimited.com/2013/0...



One more piece of good news: thanks to the readers, Apart From Love is rising up the ranks in the competition Best Independent Novels on Goodreads (a social network for readers. So if you are a member of Goodreads, and if you have read the book and think well of it, please cast your vote:
http://www.goodreads.com/list/show/12...

Angela wrote: "vote cast, por supuesto, Uvi!"

Thank you so much Angela!

Oh what is there to say
Come Valentine's day?

You bring a dozen blood-red roses
She thinks, Is this how he proposes?

With a bottle of wine
You whisper, Be mine

You offer a big chocolate heart
She thinks, Well, that's a start

She loosens your tie
And gives a deep sigh

The fire is burning, the music is on
But all you can see on her face is a yawn

Then from your pocket you pull out the ring
She shakes her head, No, I want one more thing

What does she want, come Valentine's day?
In cupid's name, what should I say?

She smiles, Bring me Home, Apart From Love
Then I'll be yours, like a hand and a glove

And you say, Give me A Favorite Son
Now let's blow off the candles, one by one

What more is there to say
Come Valentine's day?

Deliciously devilish, no? And more to come... Thank you Angela!

Now I will try on a little red dress
Lick chocolate-dipped strawberries, and let you caress
All of me... Oh let me kiss you, my sweet valentine
With lips that are glistening with rosy red wine

Let me fill your glass full, up to the rim
And clink it with mine, for such is my whim
When this evening is over, when dawn rises in glory
Let the magic transform. Then tell me a story

Whisper it, play out the music of words
Let them rise from this leaf, flocking like birds
Going back Home, turning one by one
Across the pages of A Favorite Son

My sweet Valentine, if you enchant me
Apart From Love we will never be.

"I gaze across the ceiling and along the walls, trying to pick out every shade, every hint. And there, opposite the bed I spot my wedding dress which—now I recall—I’ve hung on the coat rack, right there in the corner.
The corner of the bedroom is the only place here which I reckon is truly mine. Strange, no? I still feel that way, despite having slept here with him, on and off, for like, the past ten years. I keep telling myself that I must claim this space, claim it as mine, right away. And maybe I will one day, when the baby’s born.
Staring at that corner I know one thing, and I know it real clear, at once: this lovely dress, made of heavy satin and trimmed with lace and beading and what not, which I’ve dyed, the morning after the wedding, orange at the top and purple at the bottom, so it can still be used in the future—like, at dances and parties and stuff—this dress isn’t gonna to fit me no more.
Up to now I’ve pictured it in my head, shining awful brilliant, just like a rainbow, and swirling all around me; and with every step, billowing between my legs, and like, making me adorable, so adorable in Lenny’s eyes—but now that I touch my belly and feel the beginning, the very beginning of change, right here around my waist, what’s the point of all that."

Anita, in Apart From Love.



This is my charcoal drawing titled The Wedding Dress, inspired by the sight of a wedding dress that a friend of mine inherited from her mother. In it I contrast the loveliness of the dress, and all the dreams it invokes, with the nakedness of the figure, who at this point is left without illusions.

This is such a lovely interpretation, Angela! Thank you!

Angela, you should avoid, at all cost, reading what you wrote! lol

:)

"I hear the slight rustle of her skirt, and her soft voice saying, “Wait, Isaac—” just before it becomes muffled. So sharply, so unexpectedly does it happen, that it makes me giddy with curiosity; and so, I do what I have to do: I lift the flap of the tent, allowing light in, to peek in on them; and what I see leaves me dumbfounded.
There she is, kneeling down before him amidst ripples of silk. She wraps her arms around his frail shoulders, draws closely and kisses him, long and full, on his mouth. And then, when she rises up, you can see that his face is confused, and his hand is trembling a little."

In this excerpt Yankle describes his mother Becky, modeled after the biblical figure of Rebecca. Her husband Isaac is lying on his deathbed. He is blind, and waiting for his firstborn son Esav to come back from the hunt, so he can give him the blessing. Becky plots to deceive the old man. In my story, A Favorite Son, she goes into his tent to say her last farewell, and just before sending Jacob in to execute her criminal plan, she kisses her husband. Watching this from a distance, Yankle says:

"I have to wonder: What was that kiss? Her way to say farewell? Was it inspired by some old memory, some image of their younger days—or else, was it designed to make him vulnerable, make him ready for me, just in time for my entrance? I agonize, I puzzle over that kiss. Was it act of love—or of deceit?"



Yankle, in A Favorite Son

"I try to avoid looking at her body—but still, I can see the ticklish point under her chin, and the long line of her neck, which is plunging into the collar, and the jugular vein fluttering there, and the nipple, half of which is peeking out from the shadow, down there under the opening of the shirt.
Her ribcage starts flaring up now with rapid, disorderly breathing, as if to escape a nightmare. This, I figure, is something she must face alone..."

Ben in Apart From Love



I painted this watercolor with yellows and greens that I rarely used before, because I wished to give this figure a glow. Her fleshiness is accentuated with the perspective I chose, looking up at her from a vantage point at the level of her knees. I named her 'Butterfly' because despite being heavy, she has a twisting, swinging motion across the paper.

Angela wrote: "Absolutely enchanting and gorgeous!"

Aw... Thank you so much Angela!

Here are the news: today and tomorrow you can meet me here. http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/1...

Would love if you joined the conversation!

To celebrate this, I have reduced the price of my Kindle ebooks to 99 cents.

They are:
Apart From Love (a novel: romantic suspense/family saga)
A Favorite Son (a story: biblical fiction)
Home (poetry)

Morning everyone! I am so excited to invite you, later today, to join me for my interview on The Author's Corner with host of the show, Elaine Raco Chase. The show will air at 5pm PST, and you can listen live or come back later for a rerun.

My Interview at the Author's Corner with Elaine Raco Chase:
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/triangle...

Head over to Amazon at the stroke of midnight,
To find my books free! Oh what a delight...

http://uviart.blogspot.com/2012/07/cl...

Did you hear the great news? I am so excited to tell you: my novel, Apart From Love, is now in production, soon to become an audiobook! As you may already know, the novel is told in two voices, Ben's and Anita's, and the interplay between the two of them is the essence of the story. In the coming weeks I will tell you everything about the voice auditions, and about the two amazing narrators I have chosen. Today, I will start with a different aspect of the production: the cover art.

Of course, the image is the same as for the print edition--with one exception: the dimensions. The cover art for the audiobook must be square, which means that I spent my time extending the folds of the red fabric left and right of the image. So, it went from the rectangular image of the print edition to this:



So here you can see layers and layers of red, shimmering fabric, in which the main character finds herself tangled more and more, losing herself in a knot of passion. The ends of the strips of fabric are falling away from you, disappearing gradually into the mist of distance. The depth of the picture and its layering effect are both symbolic of the story: each on of the characters has a depth of memories going back to their childhood, and a rich layering of conflicting emotions, love-hate, guilt-blame.

Over this art I will float the text: the book title, author name, and the names of my two fabulous narrators. Stay tuned... Will show it to you soon...