Author: February Grace
A dark fantasy romance from the author of GODSPEED and OF STARDUST…
Don’t stay a moment longer than you have to. Don’t say too much. Don’t pollute the timeline.
When nineteen-year-old college library page Keigan Wainwright is sent to pick up a private donation of books for the school’s collection, he has no idea where one of those books will take him, or what it will take from him.
Retracing a powerful man’s footsteps through the past, Keigan finds himself caught in the same dangerous trap: falling in love with a woman he was never meant to know, and uncertain he will ever find his way home.
February Grace is an author, poet, and artist from Southeast Michigan. In previous novels, she has introduced readers to characters with clockwork hearts, told of romantic modern-day fairy godparents, and reimagined a legend, centuries old. Now, in her fifth novel with Booktrope, readers will board the special at WISHING CROSS STATION and embark on a trip through time. She is more than mildly obsessed with clocks, music, colors, meteor showers, and steam engines.
Author Website: http://februarywriter.blogspot.be/
Amazon (Paperback): http://www.amazon.com/Wishing-Cross-Station-February-Grace/dp/1620158434/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432628660&sr=8-1&keywords=wishing+cross+station
Amazon (Kindle): http://www.amazon.com/Wishing-Cross-Station-February-Grace-ebook/dp/B00XMNYKGM/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1&qid=1432628660
By February Grace
There is a lot of talk these days (as I am sure has been true as long as people have been writing stories and trying to promote the books) about “writing for the market”. This a market that changes almost daily: what is a hot trend today will most likely languish sooner or later on tomorrow’s remainder table, whether physically or virtually.
In a time when readers have more choices than ever as to what they spend their time on, how they do it, and (with the vast availability of free books) even if they pay for it, writers are often left scratching their heads and wondering why they didn’t know that dinosaur romance was going to become a Thing and how they possibly missed getting in on the ground floor of that one.
I’ve never been a writer who was able to write for the market.
Either I just have terrible timing and am perpetually one step behind the trends (which could be true) or, the more likely reason, is the fact I can only write what is in my heart. As unthinkable as that idea may be for many, for me, it is my truth. It is the only way I can write.
Sure, there have been times when I tweaked a book (or two) in a way I thought might be more pleasing to an audience, and in some cases that was true, it was.
But those aren’t the books that I’m most pleased to have written.
The ones that matter the most to me are the ones that are like little glass bottles holding a share of my soul… a sigh of longing, a deep affection for a thing or person or place, or a memory.
The memory that inspires a story may not actually be in the book at all, but somehow transformed from what actually happened in fact into something dramatic that happens in fiction only. But the drama of the emotions I felt in real life that I associate with the event in the book are every bit as real as any feeling can be.
Will I sell as many books writing my heart and not for the market, specifically? Too soon to tell. Maybe so, maybe not.
Maybe I’ll sell as many books as I was ever meant to sell, no matter which path I took to publication or promotion. Because in the end, even if a certain type of story may be in style at the moment, I am incapable of strategy when it comes to telling a story. The characters are living, breathing creatures to me. They whisper in my ear, tell me their troubles and their triumphs, and trust me to be the voice to tell them to the rest of the world to the best of my ability. I can’t let them down no matter what may be popular at the moment in the world of book marketing.
It’s the books in which I feel I’ve done those characters justice that I think of with the dearest affection.
Wishing Cross Station is one of those books.
My heart is in it. My soul is in it.
It is my hope you’ll give it a chance, and that it just might touch your heart, too.
Thank you for hosting me today.
“I’m a page at the campus library, sir,” I replied.
“Oh, I see. And you spoke to Donahue’s kid?” His expression was thoughtful. It was clear though his body was failing, his mind was still processing quickly.
I stifled a smile at the thought of elderly Mr. Donahue being called a ‘kid’, but I supposed to this man, he would be. “Yes, sir. He is donating his father’s books to the College. Fourteen boxes in all. Most are going to the Wishing Cross research department to be identified and tagged, and then either sent to us at the library, displayed at the museum, or added to the permanent historical archives. Thing is, there is one book in particular—”
“Silver book. Onion-skin pages, individually typed. Bound by someone who had the money to have it done privately,” he answered before I could finish. He looked at me again, a flame igniting his wise, deep brown eyes. “You don’t have to tell me which book. I know it well. Described it to you, did he?”
I realized he was confused on the finer points. “He did more than describe it to me, sir. He gave it to me.”
I took the wrapped book from my backpack, set the sweatshirt on top of another pile of schematics on the desk, and uncovered it slowly.
The look on his face changed from curiosity to one of stark terror.
“No,” he gasped, taking an uneven step backwards. He almost tripped over his cane and I rushed to steady him. “No, that book isn’t supposed to be here. He promised me he was going to take it back. He promisedme!”
“Is there a problem, Mr. Sanderson?” A nurse’s aide poked her head into the room. She gave me the evil eye, and I cringed. The last thing I had wanted, or expected to do, was upset the man.
“No, thank you, dear. Just a surprise visitor. I’m fine,” he assured her, after a long moment’s pause. “I’m fine.”
“Okay…well, if you need anything, you just buzz for me.” She looked at her watch, then back at me, and frowned. “Visits are limited to fifteen minutes, you know. You’ve got about ten left.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
I knew I had better figure out if I were just wasting my time, or worse, disturbing him for no good reason.
After she’d gone, Sanderson reached out and stopped short of touching the book’s cover. “You don’t understand, it’s not supposed to be on this side.”
“This side of what?”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Just hearing a man his age use a term like ‘wormhole’ seemed ridiculous, let alone the thought this mystery book could have anything at all to do with one.
“I’m sorry, I thought you said wormhole.”
“I did.” He turned and slumped down into the desk chair. It squeaked beneath him, as lightweight as he was. “You see all these schematics?”
“Well, I worked in the roundhouse at Wishing Cross Heritage Railroad for forty years. I was not there to work on the trains. Not really.” He sized me up, taking stock. He appeared to be having a hard time deciding whether he could trust me with what he was about to say.
“J. Howard, you raving lunatic, what did you do?” he mumbled, shaking his head. “What have youdone?”