Monday, July 18, 2011

Hawthorne - The Backstory, by Sarah Ballance

Please welcome Sarah Ballance to my blog as she tells you about her inspiration for her absolutely amazing paranormal romance, Hawthorne.

If you haven't already read Hawthorne, or know about it, you're in for a treat. All the proceeds from Sarah Ballance charity short story go to benefit the victims of the Japan earthquake. So be sure to check it out!

Now, without further interruption, Sarah Ballance!

Hawthorne - The Backstory, by Sarah Ballance

When Elaina approached me about writing a short story for charity, I very politely ignored her for a good day, maybe two. (And she noticed, too, LOL!) Honestly, I didn't know what to say. She totally had me on the charity aspect, but short stories and I do not get along. I'm a new author, but moreover, not a reader of short stories. I didn't feel I had the experience to create a compelling story readers would care about in the space of 10,000 words, and I'm too slow a writer to have even thought about trying to make it longer. As for a plot that would hold interest and not be too much for a short? I had nothing. But the deadline was an utterly harmless two months away, so I told Elaina I was in.

Then a month passed, and I panicked.

With no choice but to do it, I started writing. About 500 words in, I stalled. I liked my beginning but had no idea where to go with it. Then, in the midst of my woeful "What was I thinking?" babbles, my husband made a simple suggestion: write a ghost story. He probably has no clue how brilliant his words were—even I can't explain the impact—but with them something clicked in me. Shortly thereafter, the end of HAWTHORNE hit me like a truck. At that moment, I was 100% sold on this short story gig.

But … I still needed a plot. The aforementioned husband had to sit through another round of "AK!" before I pieced together the rest of the story. (I'd like to give him more credit here, but I'm pretty sure he did the "smile and nod" thing—lucky for him, it sufficed.) Once I went back to the beginning and tweaked it to meet that end, the rest of the words just flew. (Then Elaina plucked me in the forehead over a couple and I had to fix them, but they were stellar changes she called for!)

As for the conclusion of HAWTHORNE—the true inspiration behind the whole story—it may be an understatement to safe to say it draws a strong reaction. In that sense, I think I accomplished my goal of reaching readers on a personal level. What I didn't expect was the one or two (thus far) ready to hunt me down, pitchforks in hand, but clearly they connected with my characters and—thanks to those pitchforks—I have the scars to prove it. And that … that's inspiring.

About Hawthorne -

Excerpt -

After a terrifying encounter with the unexplained, it took ten years and the news of her grandmother’s passing for Emma Grace Hawthorne to return to her childhood home. She sought peace in saying a proper goodbye, but what she found was an old love, a sordid family history, and a wrong only she could right.

Living in the shadow of Hawthorne Manor, Noah Garrett never forgot about Emma Grace. In a house full of secrets, his search for missing documents revealed a truth that could cost him everything. What he found gave Emma the freedom to walk away from the mansion, her heart free and clear, but at what price to Noah?

Blurb -

The car slowed to a stop and a decade's worth of memories tumbled onto the sun-blanched asphalt.

Hawthorne Manor.

The hand-painted sign hadn't changed in years. In the thick, damp air filling the Louisiana landscape, the wood display remain inexplicably unaffected. There it sat—every meticulously scripted letter as crisp and clean as the stark white walls of the manor it lauded, oblivious to the passage of time.

Emma Hawthorne tensed in the seat of the Mustang convertible, staring at her past with ice sluicing her spine Anywhere else, the view would have been gorgeous. The drive, lined on both sides with live oak laden with Spanish moss, was the South personified. At the end, Hawthorne Manor held court. Pristine, proud, the boastful antebellum home beamed, lording over its acreage.

But it harbored the unspeakable. No amount of time could erase what happened to her on the other side of the expanse of green lawn. Nothing could change what she'd seen there. Some might say she was crazy—that she'd imagined or invented the whole ordeal—but her scars were all the proof she needed. Whether the shadows lurking behind the fa├žade of the picturesque plantation were real or born of an overactive imagination, there was no way she was going back into that house.

Especially not for a dead woman.

Sparing a glance in the rearview, Emma steeled herself against a trembling in her hands that threatened to overtake her body. She released a pent-up breath, her heart settling into a less acrobatic rhythm at the thought of leaving. She didn't have to stay here.

Let the South win this one. She was going home.

A split second after she decided to go, something caught her eye. She blinked, trying to see through the swaying canopy of leaves and moss, certain a figure stood atop the widow's walk straddling the roofline of the house. But no one—

Something brushed the car, rocking it. Swallowing panic, Emma tried to tear her focus from Hawthorne Manor, but fear kept her from looking anywhere else. Time and distance hadn't done her any favors; she was a fool for coming anywhere near this place, much less with the ragtop down.

The car rocked harder. The something refused to be ignored.

Fighting the grip of panic tightening her throat—fighting the ghosts of her past—Emma forced herself to look away from the house, toward the intrusion over her left shoulder.

The first thing she saw was an aged set of gnarled fingers resting on the door, blue automotive paint showing through an ugly translucence.

The second was the face—withered, centurion, and expressionless. Haunting.



Emma screamed.


It couldn't be her.

Noah Garrett tore down the drive, slapping through a muggy afternoon haze comprised of mosquitoes and humidity. He couldn't know that scream, but he felt the connection the moment the sound of her fear pierced the thick air.

Emma Grace.

The one reason he allowed himself to stagnate on the old plantation, long after life and reason moved on without him. Long after she had.

A blue Mustang sat at the end of the driveway. He wondered if it could be hers—even as he knew it impossible—but she was nowhere in sight.

He slowed to a trot. The sprint left him drenched with sweat and not entirely disappointed his imagination had gotten away from him. His dream of one more chance to see Emma Grace had never included himself as a dripping mess. He wiped the moisture from his brow, fast concluding the car must belong to a tourist. They often parked at the end of the drive and took pictures of the condescending mansion most thought beautiful. He assumed the intrusion seemed small to their frequent guests, but the constant ding of the hidden bell announcing a visitor could drive a man to the edge.

As if losing Emma Grace hadn't already accomplished that.

Noah closed in on the convertible, giving the nearby grounds a cursory look. The lawn was meticulous, the beds overflowing with sprays of purple garden phlox which trailed around the bend in the road and disappeared. A riot of white and rust-red irises backed the smaller purple flowers, their leaves deep green and glossy. Overhead, Spanish moss swayed only occasionally atop a maze of live oak, more likely a result of a passing swarm of insects than an actual air current. The land was still. If there were tourists snapping photos of the historic plantation—or doing anything else—he didn't see them. But someone had been there, the seemingly familiar scream so real.

Wasn't it always?

Resigned to another night alone with his memories, Noah pivoted.

And found himself nose to nose with Emma Grace.

Astounded, he opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to reach for her, but his arms refused the notion; they hung uselessly by his sides, the effort futile. His mouth wasn't much on cooperation, either. Finally, he found his tongue. "Em—"

Her expression cut him off. Green eyes wide, skin pale, her small frame shaking, she spoke. "I saw her, Noah. She's back." The words, nearly soundless, seemed to catch in the thick air. Lingering. Threatening.

And ripping the heart from his chest.

Want to know what happens next? Make your donation now to find out! Astraea Press

I'm over at Sarah's blog today sharing the inspiration behind To Urn Her Love as well! Be sure to swing by! Sarah Ballance's Blog

Also, as part of Sarah and I's blog tour, your comment qualify's you for an entry into our contest to win a $10 gift card from Amazon or Barnes & Noble. Also, if you've purchased either Hawthorne or To Urn Her Love, Sarah and I have a special thank you gift we'd like to mail you for FREE! Just send either of us an email.

Thank you so much for your support!



  1. Yes I must the ending was def a pitch fork moment !! Heart wrenching and oh no !!! what have you done !! or should I say oh my what a twist .. A well manifested story, that certainly had you thinking way past the end !!!
    Both stories you ladies wrote were fantastic and even though they where short !! They were full of goodness !!

  2. Yes, Hawthorne stuck with me for DAYS, it was truly an amazing read. :-)

  3. *BLUSH* Thank you both so much. I experienced quite a bit of angst over how to make a story memorable in 10k words ... and without sex! LOL. Your feedback means the world to me, even if it comes on the heels of a stabbing. ;c)

  4. Headed out to buy Hawthorne and To Urn Her Love. Thanks for donating proceeds to such worth causes.

  5. Thank you so much, Karen! I hope you enjoy both stories!!

  6. Just purchased - can't wait to read!!

  7. Thank you, Melissa!!! I hope you enjoyed it. I know I was blown away by Sarah's story, it was so good!