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Author Interview with Jan Sikes
Where did your love of [books, writing, reading, and/or storytelling] come from?
I always love answering this question because it takes me back to my childhood. I can still remember the excitement I felt when I first learned to decipher words in the Dick and Jane readers. It’s a love I’ve never lost. I never planned on becoming an author. I just loved to read. But I had a true story that begged to be told and I realized one day I would have to write it, or else I’d have to tell the entire story to someone else. That began my writing journey.
How long have you been writing?
Long before I ever tackled writing a book, I wrote poems, songs, and short stories. I published my first full-length novel in 2013.
What kind(s) of writing do you do?
Besides working on books, I have an active blog that I enjoy creating new content for. I regularly blog twice a week and depending on if I have a guest or book reviews, it can turn into three times a week. But one of the most fun and satisfying writing jobs I’ve ever had was interviewing music artists and writing features for Buddy Magazine (The Original Texas Music Magazine). I’d say the most unique artists I ever interviewed was Kinky Friedman. He has no filters.
What was the hardest part of writing this book?
The hardest part of writing this book was staying true to the time period. I wasn’t born until the fifties, so I did a lot of research to make sure I kept it authentic. A good example is what they called their meals back then. It wasn’t breakfast, lunch, and dinner like we do now. It was breakfast, dinner, and supper. So, I had to keep on my toes and not write lunch. That word didn’t become widely used until the 1960s. When I was growing up, we called them breakfast, dinner, and supper. Little details like that help keep the story on track for the time period.
In researching this book, did you learn any unexpected, unusual, or fascinating information?
I took a trip to Missouri two years ago to conduct hands-on research for this book. I spent hours in the Dade County Library looking at old newspapers from the ‘40s via microfiche. One of the most interesting articles I found was a plea from President Harry S. Truman calling for all households in America to dedicate one day per week to have no meat. Even though the war was over, there were still shortages and the country was rebuilding.
Did you first experience rejections when submitting this manuscript for publication?
I queried agents for A Beggar’s Bargain for one full year and only got generic rejections that said the story didn’t fit what they were looking for. I swear they all use the same form letter. That’s when I decided to switch gears and go with a hybrid publisher, which has been a unique experience.
What projects are you working on at the present?
I am currently working on the second book in The Bargainers Series, A Noble Bargain. It differs totally from A Beggar’s Bargain, introducing new main characters. The story begins in Arkansas, and because of drastic circumstances, they start out on a road trip to St. Louis, Missouri. The car breaks down at Layken Martin’s farm and that intertwines the characters. I am close to halfway through the new story. Then, there will be a third book, and I don’t have a title for it yet.
Shahrazad’s Gift is a short story format with multiple characters in Cairo. Some are struggling to start fresh and others just struggling. I was drawn to read this book due to it’s short stories and tie to A Thousand and One Nights. When I was a girl, my mother would take out a tattered book filled with short stories of fables. She read about the different magical and strange myths from all around the world. With a missing cover, I never knew what that book was called but the mystery of it intrigued me and it became my favorite. Ultimately, because they highlighted something in common. Some say the human condition. While true, I find it’s the symmetry I gravitate towards. What makes us human and more connected but our flaws? The oddities we encounter and how we face them? I found this highlighted in this book very well.
The book starts right off with plenty of strange events and humor. I do advise readers that this book has mature themes and language. Though, it does play into quite a bit of the humor itself.
I’ve been reading more books with mixed perspectives and this one does a great job of immediately diving into their lives. I love characters that speak their mind like Batilda and found myself laughing to Keiko’s perspective. Especially the absurdity of situations and ‘inside thoughts’ that were sometimes completely out of the box.
Shahrazad’s Gift has a bit of mystery, sly humor, and ultimately the complicated and perplexing struggle of real life. It’s the intricacies of everyone’s day to day, the culture that shaped them, and the struggles they endure. All shaped in a colorful narrative that centers on human connection.
Overall, Shahrazad’s Gift was well-written and is robust in imagery. The characters are diverse and complicated in different ways. Though, I found them most to be likeable. I had a bit of trouble starting out but once I had a sense of all the characters, it flew by!
THREE WINNERS: Two winners receive paperbacks. One winner receives the eBook of Shahrazad’s Gift. (US only; ends midnight, CDT, 4/12/24)
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William MacLeod has disavowed everything to do with his wife’s witchcraft, but it wasn’t always that way. In this scene we see a bit of their backstory at a Samhain celebration when they were just falling in love.
Scotland, 1716
Fiona felt heat on her face and a fluttery, empty feeling in her stomach as villagers walked their cattle between two bonfires to ward off bad spirits. She didna fear the spirits, just her vision of the future. Auntie Matilda had confirmed long ago this was the night her life would change.
William MacLeod smirked as he sauntered over, parting a sea of envious village girls eager for the young laird’s attentions. “Tisk tisk! A bonny lass standing alone on Samhain? Witches are wandering.”
“I’ve no fear of witches,” she said.
“I suppose Ewan will protect you,” he offered, glancing toward Ewan standing with her brother, Malcolm. She noted more than a wee hint of jealousy in his voice.
“If Malcolm likes him so much, he can marry him.”
A confident grin tugged at William’s lips, making a dimple in his left cheek. “Would you like a slice of Hallowe’en cake, Fiona?”
She nodded. Ushering her to the harvest table decorated with carved, candlelit turnips, a stout matron gave them a knowing smile and two slices of barmbrack. They made their way to sit on large stones.
“Are you sure your very proper English grandfather would approve of you sitting with your lowly Scottish tenants, my laird?”
“Considering he’s dead, he hasna much say in the matter. Honestly, he didna approve of my father in Skye, but in fairness my relatives there didna like that my mam was English and French. My family has always been at war with each other.”
“You’re Scottish, English and French? Why, Mr. MacLeod, you’re a walking contradiction,” she said, shivering.
“I huvnae mentioned that before? I thought I told you everything.” He draped his tartan over her shoulders and a flooding sensation of warmth came over her not remotely related to the plaid. After taking a bite of sweetbread, he started laughing, pulling a silver threepenny bit from his mouth.
“You’re going to be rich.” Fiona pricked the sweetbread, hoping desperately for a ring and not a thimble. A ring meant first to be wed, a thimble meant you’d be a spinster. Most slices held nothing.
“I ken that without the coin, but validation’s nice,” he said, thrusting out his chest as though he needed to. William MacLeod looked like a giant among men.
“Such humility,” she said, rolling her eyes. Tracing her finger over his open hand, she began to study its textures.
“Perhaps with a proper wife, I’d behave better. Do you see your name in the lines of my palm?”
Yes, she wanted to scream. Fiona frowned, dropping his hand. “Stop teasing me, Mr. MacLeod.”
“Call me William,” he said in a low voice, inching ever closer beside her.
“You have crumbs on your beard, William.”
A blush came to his cheeks, and he rushed to clean it, missing the mark. “Well, come Monday my beard winnae be a problem. One of the stipulations of my inheritance is that I attend Oxford to get my law degree. My grandfather desired I get a ‘proper English education.’ On Monday, it’s a clean-shaven face and breeches for me.”
“You’re leaving me?” Fiona wiped the crumbs for him, their eyes connecting. Perhaps she let her fingers linger over his lips a wee bit too long. “I mean, you’re leaving the village? When will you return?”
“When it’s time to collect the rents, I suppose. Unless you’d like me to come home earlier for a proper church wedding? My brother, Cam, will be thrilled to meet you. He was convinced I’d pursue a rich English widow.”
Fiona didna want to love him. Auntie Matilda warned her a rich man from Skye would try to take her magic away. Aching to touch William’s face, she forced herself to break her gaze. “Ambitious men dinna marry crofters’ daughters. Just because we’ve had a few interesting conversations since you’ve arrived dinna mean we should wed. You’d grow bored. Marry an English duchess. That’s the life you crave. I cannae even read.”
The skirl of bagpipes rang through the evening air and villagers began to dance. William glanced between his new tenants enjoying the festivities and his grandfather’s mansion high on the hill above the castle ruins.
“First to wed!” called a petite blonde lifting a ring from her slice of cake to cheers.
“Aye. I suppose you’re right. I winnae marry someone who cannae read. My grandfather would roll in his grave.”
A sour taste filled her mouth. My vision was just a magical fantasy all along. I’ll never marry a rich lad from the Isle of Skye. Auntie Matilda was wrong to think I had her gift of second sight, too.
“So, I’ll have to teach you to read before we wed,” he whispered. “If you’ll have me.”
Fiona’s mind raced, searching his face to see if he was serious. His finger lifted her chin and her breath quickened.
“You’re witty, bonny and you dabble in magic. That’s a lass who can hold a man’s attention. To hell with my grandfather’s notions. I love you, Fiona, and no brute will keep me from you.”
When did it get so warm outside? Her hands shook as she cut into the barmbrack to give her time to process what he had said. A ring dangled from her fork. “But the other lass found the wedding ring in her slice.”
William shrugged. “I had my own ring snuck in. I dinna take chances with important matters.”
Throwing her head back, she laughed, and he kissed her, right there for the whole village to witness. Her brother, Malcolm, crossed his arms over his chest, with Ewan scowling next to him. “Let’s take a jaunter,” she said, slinging her satchel over her shoulder.
“Come. Let me show you my castle ruins.”
“Reap the Wind is a bold, bracing and blisteringly original take on the legal thriller form. Joel Burcat has fashioned a seminal tale focusing on the nightmare of all road trips in which a storm raging outside the car is matched only by the storm raging within. Burcat dares to tread on the hallowed ground of John Grisham and Scott Turow and ends up blazing a fresh, daring literary tale of his own. Not to be missed!”
—Jon Land, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
EXCERPT PART TWO
FROM CHAPTER 14 OF REAP THE WIND
BY JOEL BURCAT
Click to read Part One on the March 10th stop with Lone Star Book Blog Tours!
***
I thanked him and rolled up the window. I drove about twenty miles per hour. When we reached the opening for the bridge the winds, which were already roaring, picked up and the car rocked violently. The bridge wasn’t long, maybe a quarter mile, flat, cement, four lanes with a divider, and a rail on each side at about waist height. A red sign with big white letters at the entrance to the bridge read:
The sign was whipping back and forth like it wanted to unscrew from the ground and fly off. I was sorely tempted to step on the gas and rocket across the damn bridge.
I started venturing across tentatively, slowing to maybe ten mph. When I was a few dozen feet across, the wind picked up even more and the car began to rock. I mean serious rocking. I glanced at Geoff. He was holding the above-head grip with one hand and had his other on the dashboard. I glanced in the rear view. Diane had put down her work and had her hands on my seat to brace herself.
I tapped the gas and sped up to thirty. The rocking eased a bit. When we were about half-way across, a big gust coming down stream hit us from the side. The car began to go up on two wheels. The front and back wheels on my side felt like they weren’t gripping the deck. The wind was like a giant fist, pushing us off the bridge onto the narrow shoulder. As my wheels were pushed, the noise from the concrete corduroy strip on the shoulder warned me we were approaching the edge of the bridge. The car felt like it was going to roll onto its roof and over into the river.
“The hell with it,” Geoff shouted over the wind. “Get off the damn bridge.”
I stomped my foot on the gas and the car shot ahead. It was all I could do to keep the wheels on the bridge. I turned the steering wheel hard to the left, as though I was making a left-hand turn, to keep from getting blown off the bridge. The tires squealed on the wet pavement above the noise of the wind. When I got to the other side, just a few seconds later, I quickly had to correct the wheel and the car swerved wildly as we rocketed onto the highway doing at least seventy. A seagull shot past the windshield. Not flying. It was like it had been launched from a canon.
“Holy shit,” Geoff said.
I must’ve looked insane. As I pumped the brake Geoff said, “You should see your face, bro, you look mad. I mean crazy-mad.”
There was a pull off on the other side of the bridge surrounded by scrubby trees. It looked like someone’s driveway. I braked hard and pulled way over, almost in the grass away from the travel lane, and put the car into park. The Town Car purred quietly. A gust of wind buffeted us from time to time. We rocked back and forth with the trees.
On the southbound lanes, a line of trucks waited for the opportunity to run the gauntlet of wind. The deputy monitoring the traffic looked at our car and shook his head. His expression told me all I needed to know about what he thought of us.
“Just give me a second,” I said looking at Geoff. “Man, I could use a drink.”
Geoff immediately pulled a small metal flask from his jacket. He smiled at me and wiggled the bottle back and forth. “Seriously? You want some Makers?”
I shook my head. “Nah. It’s just a figure of speech. I need all of my wits for the rest of the drive…”