Karen L. Turner

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News

The San Diego Public Library's 46th Annual Local Authors Exhibit has included the revised

Cottonland Songstress

by Karen L. Turner

on display through February 2012! 

Location:  Central Branch 820 E Street

downtown San Diego, CA 92101

Phone:   619-236-5817

 

I would be delighted to greet visitors to the Exhibit on Friday, February 10, 2012.  Meet me around the display cases between 11:30 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. PST, with your copy of the new Cottonland Songstress, and I will be glad to sign it for you! 

 

Revised Version of

Cottonland Songstress also available in

 e-book format!

 

Read new scenes and powerful drama on Amazon Kindle or Barnes & Noble Nook,* as well as travel-light softcover! 

 

 

*[The review for Cottonland Songstress now posted on Amazon and Barnes & Noble sites is from the book's earlier printing. The reviewer is not describing the newer version now available in softcover and e-book formats.]

 

 

Coming soon in softcover: 

 

Humility Before Honor

10 Short Stories Meeting Faces Through Scripture

 

Humility Before Honor  invites readers to witness dramatic events that shaped humanity!

 

Please visit web address

www.publishedauthors.net/klturner

for details and excerpts!

 

 

Excerpts from the Revised Version of Cottonland Songstress, Now Available:

 

Adorna turned the parlor into a Kaffeetafel — a sweet afternoon break for coffee and conversation. When Peter entered, Mrs. Woodley and her daughters brightened to see his joyful amazement.

 

“We hope you enjoyed your rest, Mr. Stohl,” Adorna put on the belle. “I understand that over in Austria, y’all pass the afternoon with a little coffee and cake!”

Peter beamed. He motioned for the women to select their cakes ahead of him.

Adorna chose a lemon crème and returned to the divan. Uzziah served her a cup of coffee when she sat. Livvy grabbed the chocolate fudge that had her name on it, but Eugenia lingered at one table, undecided. Peter stood beside her, also looking over the luscious slices.

“Haven’t made up your mind yet?” he asked.

“They all look delicious, don’t they, Mr. Stohl?” Eugenia looked up to watch his charming face turning from one cake to another. Peter’s eyes met her admiring gazes. “We seem to have other tables to choose from, as well,” he mentioned.

“Did you have a favorite in Vienna?”

“I can never seem to resist the richest chocolate, but my sweet tooth isn’t always that fussy.”

“There’s all kinds of chocolate here — I’ll pick the one you decide on!”

“You first, please.”

“That one’s chocolate with fudge frostin’ and bananas between the layers,” Livvy pointed from Peter’s other side. “I saw Biddy slice ‘em in!”

“Then I must try that,” Peter lifted the plate and offered it to Eugenia.

“Do you own much land in Vienna, Mr. Stohl?” Adorna probed.

“Please. Call me Peter.”

“Peter,” she echoed, under a rosy-cheeked tone that radiated to her tickled daughters.

“My land ownership consists mainly of the castle and surrounding property outside the city, which my parents left me,” Peter made humble mention.

“That castle again,” Livvy whispered to her sister.

“We’ve only seen castles in our storybooks,” Eugenia sighed. “Sure don’t see any around here! It must be exciting to own a real one.”

Adorna gushed. “What a fascinating history you have! I’ve always said, the Old World has it all over our little old nation for gallantry and elegance! That style sure comes through in that classy music of yours. I’m just as giddy as a gopher to hear you play the piano again, but I see you’re ready for some more cake! Just set your dish aside and help yourself to another.”

“Thank you.” Peter walked to the vast assortment. The two sisters got up to join him.

“What are you doin’ over here?” Livvy chided her sister. “You didn’t even finish your first piece yet.”

“I can stand here and look if I want to,” Eugenia’s glances moved from cakes to Peter.

“Now, which shall it be?” Peter’s eyes danced over the selections.

“You really liked that banana fudge,” Livvy searched beside him. “I’m gonna try this chocolate one with the coconut pecan frostin’.”

“That’s another of my favorites from home.” Peter handed her the plate. “I’ll try fudge icing on a yellow cake this time.” He and the girls walked back to their seats. Adorna glowed to have him beside her again.

“You’ll be wantin’ some more coffee too, Peter. Uzziah! Now where did he go? Uzziah! Oh, there you are! He moved a lot faster when Daddy was here. Come back and serve our coffee. Get Tybalt to help you. A fresh cup for Mr. Stohl! I’m sorry, Peter, these old coons are slower than winter sap.”

Uzziah served Peter’s coffee. It was a savory match for the sumptuous yellow cake.

“Would you like more whipped cream on your Kuchen, Mr. Stohl?” Livvy offered.

“Only if you promise to dollop it yourself, Obsttorte,” Peter murmured.

I’ll do it,” Eugenia intercepted her sister at the serving bowl.

“He said me,” Livvy grabbed Eugenia’s hand clutching the spoon.

The older girl squeezed back. “Livinia, you shameless flirt! When did you learn to say ‘cake’ in German?”

“If you spent more time studying than you spent getting your new dresses altered, you’d know he just called me his little fruit pie!”

“Are you sure he didn’t say ‘fruit fly,’ the way you been buzzin’ around him!” They gripped each other’s wrists, wrestling for the spoon.

“Here now, you girls sit down and hush!” Adorna scolded. The daughters paid no attention.

Me buzzin’ around him? You been throwin’ yourself at the man ever since he walked into this parlor!”

                                                  * * * * * * * * * * *

A staggered D’Orleans took the box, her head reeling from the dizzying events surrounding her.

Back in the changing room, she flipped off the box lid. A sparkling half-crown headpiece rested on folds of a satin lavender garment. The hurried singer threw off her coarse dress and scarf, keeping her braids pinned up. She lifted the tiara, viewing it at all angles from her hands. A bonnet fluffed out bigger, but this fanciful round push-on had a lighter, shinier elegance. It made those Woodley gals look like milk maids in their hats. D’Orleans clasped the tiara on her head and picked up the floor-length gown.

No buttons, no shoulders, just two thin straps at the top. Making the safest guess on the front from the back, she slipped it over her head. The satin garment contoured to her trim figure and fondled her skin. D’Orleans turned to the narrow mirror, studying her sumptuous self with mixed reaction.

Her eyes lingered along the gown’s smooth pastel shade, and how the glittering headpiece made reflections in shimmering hues. The fabric held her in a softer cling than dumpy field hand cotton. But did women in that country walk around with naked shoulders?

 * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Peter helped D’Orleans out of the carriage, and escorted her to the platform. Within moments, another notion hit him.

“D’Orleans, in all your Deutsch lessons, you haven’t forgotten your spiritual songs from the fields, have you?”

“I just crammed a slew of ‘em into my head for that giblet-scramblin’ carriage ride!”

Peter’s hands embraced the girl’s cloaked shoulders. “Bless you, dear one! We’ll rehearse your entire catalog from Clokey. We’ll honor our French audiences with concerts beyond compare!”

D’Orleans failed to see what got him all goosey. She looked over his shoulder to see if any of the rioters had caught up, waving whips and blackjacks. Marsa Woodley’s voice throbbed into her memory, threatening to string her up by her feet in the smoke house.

                                            *         *         *        *        *

D’Orleans sang from an anguished heart, bonded in total harmony with her tormented character. Peter studied her, his senses fighting to stay in teacher mode. That young woman’s voice, tender and forceful, never let him go. He reflected on the moment that voice first called to him, pure in its rawness. A Spirit-touched voice, nourished with wisdom to learn a new language — his language. Peter watched and heard her deliver his language back to him, her way. 

 

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

Contact:

PublishAmerica

PO Box 151

Frederick MD 21769

240-529-1031

support@publishamerica.com

 

  

YOU'VE GOT A TWO TIME PUBLISHED AUTHOR IN TOWN!

 

  

Frederick, MD -- 8 June 2003-- PublishAmerica is proud to announce that it has acquired the rights to publish Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway, by Chula Vista's Karen Turner. PublishAmerica expressed confidence today that Ms. Turner's second book will quickly resonate with an audience. "We were already familiar with Ms. Turner's work from her first book, Cottonland Songstress. Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway is another well written and crafted work of contemporary fiction. PublishAmerica primarily publishes works by, for or about people who face a challenge in life, and who overcome it by turning stumbling blocks into stepping stones. We believe that Ms. Turner is an accomplished talent in this field."

 

Most of PublishAmerica's books are written by new and previously undiscovered talent, such as Chula Vista's two-time discovered author. A traditional publishing company, PublishAmerica pays advances and royalties while offering a distinct alternative to authors who would most likely be overlooked by larger, more commercial publishers simply due to their lack of experience in the industry. More details about book and author will soon appear at www.publishamerica.com. When released, the book will be available through all local bookstores as a trade paperback.

 

For more information, please contact PublishAmerica at support@publishamerica.com. You may also contact Karen Turner at scribl@pacbell.net.

 

 News

Featured author "In The Spotlight," San Diego Christian Writers' Guild monthly newsletter, Your Royalty Note - April 2004

Excerpt from Interview:

Three years ago, novelist K. Lynn Kazi read about the San Diego Christian Writers Guild in The Christian Times. She joined and attended her first Fall Conference last year, trusting that the knowledge gleaned and friendships made would compensate for missing a day’s work as a medical transcriptionist.

Kazi discovered the Chula Vista critique group where she learned “to hear what readers respond to and writing techniques that readers are looking for.” “My critique group has been genuinely supportive, instructive, and their written samples are thought provoking adventures,” she said.

Kazi grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her father, a city police officer, kept the bills paid while her mother stayed at home and cared for K. Lynn and her older brother. When she complained about the commercials in her morning cartoons, her mother encouraged her to write to the station. When an apologetic reply appeared in the return mail, the second grader realized the influential power of well-crafted, written words. “I connected with my third-grade creative writing class and, on occasion, noticed my mother etching words onto a notepad, which she called her ‘manuscript.’” Soon thereafter Kazi started manual typing her own book of quirky fiction, with a side series of sassy critter tales.

Two months prior to Kazi’s elementary school graduation, her mother died. After finishing high school she enrolled in a local community college and took a part-time job in the campus library. She soon switched from full-time student to full-time public library employee. There, she learned to love opera through the audio recordings. She continued to write and her poems appeared in the city bookmobile’s monthly collection of submitted verses.

Thirty years after her mother’s premature death, “the Lord humbled me into submission,” she said, “directing me into His Word for daily replenishment and bold revelation of His infinite wisdom and my total depravity.” She moved to San Diego in 1994 and now fellowships at the Covenant Reformed Chapel of San Diego.

She returned to her childhood pastime of story writing and completed a first person novel paralleling her quest for a new career. Her search for an agent or publisher yielded repeated rejections. By her tenth rejection she had already started her next novel.  She now has two published novels: Cottonland Songstress (PublishAmerica—2001) and Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway (PublishAmerica-2004).

Kazi would love to write another novel involving an early rock-n-roll performer. She also has a raw draft of a sequel to Cottonland Songstress stashed away and has queried various magazines with an expanded version of a tribute to her mother’s influence on her writing.

 

  Interview

Karen Turner (pseud. Lynn Kazi)

 How did you get the idea for Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway?

 

The idea came from a general observation that African-American tenors were scarce on the dramatic stage as the romantic hero.  Also, I read disappointing interviews by performers maintaining that “luck” or the “music gods” boosted their labors toward success, claiming not to be “fanatic” about faith.  The Swordsman character Keldrik Devancer represents a hero of conviction and courage, both on stage and off, who kicks superstition through the uprights and enters each battle a confident warrior in Christ’s army.

 

Are you a musician?

 

No.  I used to think my voice gave winning harmony in a choir, but now I know that was a lie.  These days if I'm visiting a congregation, the person singing the hymn beside me in the pew may compliment me, but it's all my testimony of conviction.  As a lifelong music lover -- R&B, rock, blues, concertos, and symphonies -- I have great respect for musicians trained in the ability to read notes, compose with honor, and perform melodies that have lasting appeal over time.

 

When did you begin writing?

 

I was about 6 or 7 years old, creating cartoon characters at home, and shaping stories around their wacky adventures.  At school a teacher started a Creative Writing segment to our studies, and I learned somewhat about rhyming schemes.  But it was my mother who offered the best instruction and encouragement.  Before I even started school, Mom had been giving me a superior education right at home, multiple materials handy, while Dad earned the living. 

 

Can you describe your novel in 50 words or less?

 

Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway involves a soulful Gospel tenor following his childhood dream for center stage heroic leads, leaving a lovely fiancée behind until her neglect is soothed by a brawny, stylish executive's office promotion pitch, testing talented Keldrik’s faith against suspicion and mocking co-stars in on-and-offstage warfare.

 

What is your favorite scene in the book?

 

I like the outburst between Keldrik and his father disputing a black man’s station on the dramatic stage, as well as scenes involving Keldrik’s actual stage confrontations.  I’m also partial to the dialogue between Keldrik and his fiancée Iresha, whether in romantic bliss or a heated argument.

 

Who are other notable African-American dramatic tenors?

 

Thomas Bowers, a Philadelphian on tour in the 1850s – Bonanza built an episode around him starring William Marshall in 1964.  Roland Hayes, a Fisk alumnus with a distinguished career in the early 20th century.  More recently, George Shirley,  Francois Clemmons, Thomas Young, Roderick Dixon, Lawrence Brownlee, Paul Williamson, many more.

 

What would you want your readers to take away from the book?

 

New friends in the persons of these gifted, tested, gutsy charactersA stimulated interest to explore classical drama set to music.  An encouragement for our stage and studio performers to hold onto a commitment to drama, and our motivation to support them.  Perseverance toward respectable goals in or out of the arts can transport you far from familiar territory, so never travel without your Bible.

 

What satisfies you about writing?

 

I love getting into my characters’ heads, creating dialogue, setting up situations that paint pictures and pull the reader into the scene -- senses they can feel, food they can taste.  To me, my characters are real folks even when the story is fiction.  Some of them are sure-enough sour company and get on my nerves, but that's how rotten they are, in word and deed.  On the other hand, I miss my heroes when I'm not writing about them.  They have something to prove, in a style that defines what shapes their character.  But in the process, they've got to get touched up, too.  It hurts when I have to hurt them, but that's how they learn.  I like the opportunity to reach a reader dealing with conflict, and bring at least one hero's testimony of direction, answers, courage and trust.

 

Can you describe your journey to publication?

 

I used the Literary Market Place directory at the library to contact agents for Cottonland Songstress who did not charge a fee and accepted first-time authors.  After several rejections, I sent for Sally E. Stuart’s Christian Writers’ Market Guide and found PublishAmerica listed, then contacted them with a query letter introducing my novel.  They requested first three chapters, then the entire manuscript for review.  To my stunned surprise, Cottonland Songstress was accepted and published in the fall of 2001.  Two years later I submitted another query letter to PublishAmerica for Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway.   They asked to review the manuscript, and two weeks later accepted it for publication, released in January, 2004.

 

What did it feel like to see your work in print?

 

First I was struck by PublishAmerica’s impressive cover design for Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway, because they used dignified insight in representing Keldrik and Iresha in a happy moment.  Their pose is likely early in their relationship.  Iresha had just graduated, glowing with anticipation of her man laboring close to home. Keldrik was in love, holding down a steady job, wondering how to break the news to his lady about taking the next step toward fulfilling a childhood dream.  Plenty of conflict awaited them, concealed behind their contented smiles.  Then, I realized my responsibility to present quality drama to readers.  It’s a hopeful, humbling experience.

 

What was the best writing advice you received?

 

From Writers’ Digest:  Show-don’t tell, revise, revise, revise, writing is re-writing, never give up.

 

Which authors have inspired your writing?

 

Charles Spurgeon was a master at metaphors, his daily devotionals flow with them.  Charles Dickens used killer description.  Richard Wright was gifted for graphic assault.  Ernest Hemingway gets a mention for his technique with perspective.  Erle Stanley Gardner excelled in dialogue, and August Wilson’s brand stirs home-cooked regional roots into his characters’ distinctive voices. 

 

What advice would you give to other aspiring writers?

 

Don’t be cheap with your language.  Develop an extensive vocabulary, so that your narration and characters express attitude in unique, colorful terms.  Script writers  of radio dramas from the 1940s and 1950s (audio available online) couldn't take license with laziness.  Confined to rules that respected their audience, they had to finesse a technique that dodged profanity.  It worked, and their characters never lost a shred of intensity.  Successful examples are The Adventures of Philip Marlowe by Raymond Chandler, Suspense, The Whistler, Mr. and Mrs. North, and Tales of the Texas Rangers.  These programs are rich in metaphors that pull you into waves of human conflict.  Build a home collection of favorites your library offers:  biographies, dramas on CD, screenplays in print.  Even classic serial comic books from the past.  Learn to write a good query letter.  A subscription to Writers Digest is helpful.  When you send a query letter or a manuscript by ground mail, always enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope, and make sure you stick enough stamps on the SASE.    

 Do you have another novel planned?

 I’m working on a novel about an early rock-n-roll performer.

 How can readers get a copy of your book?

Details at PublishAmerica.com  (see Favorite Links below).  

e-mail at lynnkazi@publishedauthors.net  or

 

            klturner@publishedauthors.net

 

Ask your favorite book store to order ISBN 1-4137-0949-4 for Swordsman on the Narrow Pathway!

Excerpts from SWORDSMAN ON THE NARROW PATHWAY

Yuri Putyatin’s four-band party in a posh Los Angeles ballroom proved to be his rowdiest yet. The irrepressible baritone was feeling particularly feisty after strutting his 25th performance as the lustful Don Giovanni. With exhausted laughter after the final refrain, Yuri collapsed into a plush sofa, hauling his female companion down with him. She stroked his alloyed-sand hair, close-cropped to a familiar wide peak,while he quaffed his brew in three gulps. Bearing a ruddy tone to his fair, boyish features, Putyatin made a misleading villain, his charm an ally for shaping deception.

Emerging from the deep mug, he slurped the foam off his mustache and launched into effervescent criticism of all other singers, particularly acclaimed tenors:

“They built up Giusti’s anniversary year, but he’s through! He better enjoy all that attention they’ve been heavin’ his way, ‘cause it won’t last long. They’ll throw those flowers on his tomb tomorrow if he keeps tryin’ to match my pace today! You notice those featherweight baritones they’re pairin’ him with. He couldn’t last one scene toe-to-toe with my Iago. That’s why his manager keeps tryin’ to push him down into the pit. Everybody sees his hulkin’ butt draggin’ on that stage! I’ve seen the puppeteers up in the rafters, too,pullin’ his strings. Do you think the audience doesn’t see his forced movements? When his strings got clipped in that fourth act, he took a hard drop, like to popped his dentures loose!”

“Yuri, careful,” his lady friend hushed. “There are reporters here!”

“Hey, the more the merrier, especially the cuties I already got my eye on. You keep tryin’ to shut me up, I’ll tell ‘em how your buttocks festered with flab before the lipo job. Now zip your hole till I need it! Whose party is this, anyway?”

“What’s your next appearance, Yuri?” a local reporter asked.

“I’m next appearing between this heifer’s knees, then this one, that one … Don Giovanni has risen from his fiery condemnation!"

 “Is Giovanni your favorite role, Yuri?” probed another news scribe,smelling meaty quotes.

“I’ll always hate that theoretical brimstone ending, but it’s a blast up to there, so I give it my all. Same for Scarpia, but worse – he gets blazed on by a bush, and has his best payback as an off-stage stiff.

"So my favorite’s gotta be the gonads tower who lasts to the closing scene, even if he’s haulin’ it to the hills! Throw in Iago,and I can personify a collection of guys who come so natural, they’re hardly work at all! Verdi shoulda went with his gut to re-title Otello after the real star – Iago – but I guess his hard for the bard won out."

“Word has it,” a third Caucasian male reporter noted, “that Keldrik Devancer could be the next African-American tenor to portray Otello, possibly opposite to your Iago.”

“If that stooge decides to quit hidin’ in Europe and come hit the boards with me, he better bring his shoeshine kit. Then, if he can see his sooty reflection while he’s kissin’ my boots, he’ll recognize a real loser! Meanwhile, the spade can kick up the Harlequin shuffle over there in walk-on land in his card-deck tights! Those’ll be the only diamonds that chump’ll ever wear!"

  *      *      *      *      *       *      *     * 

    Fifty push-ups in an East Side New York gym hardly began to release Keldrik’s pent-up tension. He bounded upright on his magnetic-walker sneaks and sent his wrapped fists hammering a windmill battery into the overhead beanbag. Steaming rivulets cascaded from his frowning head, rolling streaked branches through his tank top and spreading down into spot-stained sweat pants.

His fierce flurry could not be missed by the surrounding athletic clientele, even while engaged in their own individual workouts. The other pore-beaded black men watched him with mounting interest, looking up between sparring rounds, rope skips, arm curls, and bench presses.

Gradually, each man laid a piece of equipment aside, and moved toward Keldrik, who was now pounding the sand bag in a focused spot where he mentally pasted Klaus Bruner’s face.

“Y’all get a swimmin’ pool in here yet?” he asked between sweat-splattered punches. “I’d like to get in a few laps.”

“Naw, ain’t no swimmin’ pool in here, man,” a dubious athlete replied.

“Lose your job, my brother?” a towel-draped boxer speculated.

“Nigger throws down that heavy, gotta be a job, his woman, or both,” deduced another athlete.

“You step up to the interview, slam dunk,” Keldrik’s words jabbed with his sharp blows. “You skate with their sanitized formalities, ‘cause that’s how the deal goes down. But their minds are already made up.  Ain’t nothin’ but a played-up auction block.” Keldrik’s salted commentary drew affirming nods from his brother athletes.

“That’s the reason I don’t go down Paddy Peckerwood’s road no more,” said the rope-skipper. “My woman works for the state, and my momma won’t let none of her boys go hungry.”

For the first time, Keldrik lowered his fists and looked squarely in the direction of that last comment. “A man’s gotta have his own,” he barked. “Cribbin’ outta Momma’s pocket-book don’t make you a man. Manhood starts above the belt; in your heart, your head.”

“Who is you, nigger? Derek Jeter?”

“He’s too black to be Derek.”

“Hold up, y’all. I seen this slick-talkin’ nigger in here before,” recalled the brother doing arm curls. “Comes in and out every year. Ain’t from around here, likely.”

“Pittsburgh,” Keldrik declared.

“Yep, that figures,” scoffed a boxer. “Wouldn’t hardly nobody admit that out loud. What you be comin’ up to New York for, to see some real women?”

“After what I seen across the big dip, these New York females couldn’t carry a Moroccan sister’s slop bucket.”

“You been to Morocco?”

“Thought I’d hop down to check it out while in Europe.”

“You in the military or somethin’?”

“My agent gets me gigs over there to sing.”

The brothers weren’t sure which question to ask next.

Finally, the hefty bench-presser broke the silence: “Sing somethin’.”

Reflecting on the past several hours, Keldrik cranked into action those remaining muscles daring to rest.

Folks walking along the block turned curious heads toward the gym, startled that the customary crunch-chorus pouring into the street – grunts, curses, barbells’ klatunk, beanbag blappidablappida, gloves pounding thoop, thoop, rope-skipping skoltikskoltik – yielded precedence to soaring richness radiating a majestic refrain as familiar as barbeque after Sunday School.