TT: Interview with Laura Benedict

Hi everybody! I’m excited to bring you an interview today with Laura Benedict, the talented author of Isabella Moon. Enjoy!

~Jane

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JJ: Hi Laura and welcome to Textyladies! I want to thank you again for doing this interview. Why don’t you start by telling us a little about you?

LB: I was born in Cincinnati, but spent much of my life in Louisville, Kentucky, so I consider both my hometowns. (And I’ve given birth to two Virginians to solidify my Southern creds!) I didn’t start out to be a writer—in fact, I have a degree in business administration. I’m a mother and wife, first, and my family is the most important thing in the world to me. (If it weren’t, I’d probably have way more than two books!) My fiction is dark, full of sex and secrets and suspense. I spend much of each day imagining disasters and crimes, making sure my doors and windows are locked, and warning my children about the dangers of talking to strangers and not washing their hands. But I’m actually a very cheerful person.

JJ: I read that you wrote fiction for nearly twenty years before selling to Ballantine books. What kept you from getting discouraged about being published? Obviously you never gave up

LB: Even though I consider Isabella Moon my third first novel, I don’t think I ever considered giving up being a published novelist. I had published essays, short stories, (bad) poetry, then book reviews for about twelve years—so I was published, just not widely. I think I just wanted it so badly, and I always suspected that the novel would be the form that suited me best. I have a hard time writing shorter! Also, my husband Pinckney is a terrific cheerleader. He wouldn’t let me give up!

JJ: Tell us about Isabella Moon

LB: IM is a kind of love story to small town life. Okay. Maybe it’s a creepy kind of love story. When the ghost of a little girl who has been missing for two years appears to a young woman with secrets of her own, it sets off a series of terrifying events that threaten to destroy the town.

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JJ: And Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts

LB: I’m tickled every time I read the catalogue copy that Random House put on Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts’s page! “The devil comes to Cincinnati in this dark and gripping thriller that is as scary as classic Peter Straub and as sexy as Nora Roberts.” (I think Nora Roberts is quite attractive, but don’t you thing they mean her work?) I hope it’s both those things. It’s the story of three young women who find their lives crumbling when the young priest whose career they ruined years before takes his deadly—and supernatural—revenge.

JJ: What was it like for you when you had your first novel published?

LB: It was totally surreal! I had no idea how to respond when my dream finally came true. So I spent several months promoting and doing the Happy Dance. The promotion was critical because I was a first-time author, but I needed to spend more time writing.

JJ: Who are some of your favorite authors?

LB: So many: Margaret Atwood, Patricia Highsmith, Joyce Carol Oates, Elizabeth George, Luanne Rice, Richard Matheson, Jim Thompson, Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Cormac McCarthy….

JJ: Do you remember the first thriller/mystery book you ever read?

LB: Nancy Drew’s Mystery of the 99 Steps.

JJ: Have you always written thrillers, or did it take you awhile to discover that this would be your genre to write?

LB: It took me forever to discover this—I’m such a slow learner and enormously hardheaded. I thought that I had to be a “literary” writer like my husband Pinckney, but my so-called “literary” books were terrible and didn’t sell. Then, one day, I discovered a Joyce Carol Oates story in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and it reminded me that what was important was that the quality of the writing be good whatever the subject matter. I had always loved Joyce’s darker work, and I’m a huge Shirley Jackson and Patricia Highsmith fan. Still, it was a kind of revelation to me that I, too, could explore that material. It only took me thirteen years of writing to get the clue!

JJ: Has your husband Pinckney, also a writer, influenced your writing?

LB: I had a very hard time accepting criticism from him early on, so he stopped looking at my work so we could stay married. But he is such a superb teacher; I’ve learned a lot just by watching him and taking in the critiques of his students’ work. He often bounces his theories about writing off of me as well. I love to read his stories, but we don’t critique each other’s work at all. He didn’t even read Isabella Moon until it was in galleys!

JJ: What are you working on now?

LB: Reading submissions and finishing up a short story of my own for Surreal South 2009, the next edition of the short fiction anthology series I edit with Pinckney, getting my new website together, and reading a lot in preparation for my next novel.

JJ: Do you have a writing schedule you stick with?

LB: I keep telling myself that I need to do this, but I never stick with one for long. I have to be flexible because my family comes first. Of course, it always happens that when I’m in the thick of a project we end up eating out a lot and the kids wander around looking for clean socks/jeans/underwear. (Note to self: Kids really need laundry lessons!)

JJ: What is different than you thought it would be about being published?

LB: I thought that with every publication, I would be satisfied. At first, I just wanted to have one story published—but when I finally did, the thrill only lasted for a day or so, and then I wanted to do it again. I remember feeling that way when I used to ride roller coasters as a teenager. I was always a little afraid, but I always wanted one more ride. I fear I may be addicted to seeing my work in print!

JJ: I’ve read that you’re shy; does that make it difficult to do book tours and signings and workshops and all the other public things you have to do?

LB: Yes, it is a hard sometimes. Isn’t it funny that writers—who must spend most of their lives engaged in a necessarily solitary activity—must learn to be very social, visible people? But the first time I got up to read and speak in front of a group of readers I was stunned to discover how much I enjoyed it. I feel so blessed that anyone would want to meet me or hear what I have to say, and I always meet so many wonderful people. But it’s critical for me to balance that visible time with time spent reading, reflecting and, of course, writing.

JJ: What are you least favorite and most favorite parts about writing and being published?

LB: Least favorite—Being away from my family. Most favorite—Having the excuse to buy new clothes for when I go to conferences and on tour! (Did I say that out loud?!)

JJ: Give us five random facts about you

LB: I am a Project Runway junkie. My most vivid memory of hanging out with my favorite cousin was when we stuffed a clear-lidded plastic box so full of worms that they started to burst. I can’t whistle. I consider dark chocolate a necessary food group. I’ve never seen a dead person who wasn’t already embalmed.

JJ: Do you have any links you’d like to share?

LB: I love to have everyone check out my website: www.laurabenedict.com. I’ll have a whole new site with a trailer for Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts up very soon. (Though the Isabella Moon trailer that opens the site is awesome, too. I have great web guys!) But I’m at my blog, Notes From the Handbasket (www.laurabenedict.blogspot.com) nearly every day, and that’s the best place to know what I’m up to at any given time and to pick up some goodies, too! I have lots of fun things planned for Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts in January.

JJ: Is there anything you’d like to add?

LB: To all the budding writers out there: Have hope! Just sit down in that chair and do it every day and wonderful things will happen!

I’ve loved doing this interview, Jane. Thank you so much to all the Textyladies for having me here! And I love to hear from readers. My email is laura@laurabenedict.com.

JJ: I so enjoyed interviewing and getting to know a bit more about you, Laura. Thank you very much!

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Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts and the paperback version of Isabella Moon both go on sale on December 30th!

Buy Isabella Moon

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Laura’s First and Last Lines blog. Here you’ll find an excerpt from Calling Mr. Lonely Hearts, coming soon, and each day that she works on CMLH, she’ll post the first and last lines she writes. How cool is that!

Surreal South

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Review for Isabella Moon from Romantic Times:

This debut thriller shines, boasting evocative writing and a well-integrated mix of ethereal supernatural phenomena and gritty violence. Benedict employs that literary novel trademark of a somewhat ambiguous ending, but it works for this lush gothic-tinged potboiler.

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Review for Isabella Moon from Fresh Fiction:

Ms. Benedict’s debut is a darkly edgy thriller depicting small-town life. She creatively weaves supernatural elements as Isabella’s spirit drives the finely drawn characters to a startling conclusion. The effective combination of supernatural and thriller increases the suspense as layer upon layer peels away revealing the rotten core within the heart of the community.

Read the full review here!

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Excerpt from Isabella Moon:

Mary-Katie.

The voice is a whisper, calling a name that doesn’t belong to her anymore.

Mary-Katie.

Kate struggles as though she’s escaping from a troubled sleep, her movements slow and exaggerated, as in a dream. But if it is a dream, why does she slip some nearby shoes onto her feet as she gets out of bed? Who thinks of shoes in a dream?

The hillside outside her window is bathed in silver light, and there, beneath the hickory tree shading the back porch is a girl.

Mary-Katie.

The voice doesn’t seem to be coming from the girl, but from inside Kate’s own head. Her breath fogs the glass as she watches, knowing that the girl wants her to come outside.

Suddenly she is following the girl over the hill and across the open pasture on its other side. Her feet are light as she runs—yes, she is running!—through the brittle stubble of the winter grass. The few lights of the town are ahead of her. She doesn’t often go into town this way, usually preferring to stick to the familiar road that runs in front of her own little cottage. But the ground is firm and fast under her and she wonders why she doesn’t come this way every day.

The girl disappears into the dark stand of trees at the edge of the pasture but Kate knows she is still there, waiting. Even if she has run on ahead, Kate understands that she will find her. She is meant to find her.
There she is, standing in the street beyond the trees, her brilliant yellow coat vibrant as a balefire in the night.

Kate runs faster and the girl turns her back and leads her on toward the town, through the grounds of the old medical college, where the buildings stand mute and shuttered, through the backyard of the crumbling president’s house, where a single rusting bulldozer sits as testimony to someone’s forgotten plans.

As the girl runs out into Main Street without pause, Kate’s heart jumps, but there are no vehicles at all, not even a straggling log truck or sheriff’s cruiser. As they pass Main Street’s glassy storefronts, Kate is racing her own mirror image, but she can’t stop, won’t stop, because the girl will not slow now. They cross over to Bridge Street and follow it until it ends in a blinking yellow light. Will the girl go left or right?

When she goes left at the corner and disappears behind a tall hedge, Kate keeps going. As she passes the Methodist parsonage with its stiff wrought iron fence, Kate wishes that she had a stick to hit against its spindles and realizes at the same moment that yes, there is a stick in her left hand. But when she reaches out with it as she runs, there is no satisfying plunkplunkplunk of wood against iron. In fact, there is no sound around her at all except the sound of her feet striking the pavement: no dogs, no sirens, no night birds. She’s not afraid. She is certain once again that she is dreaming.

The girl reappears in the light from the streetlamp at the next corner.

Isabella! Kate calls.

How does she know the girl’s name? She hadn’t seemed to know it when she looked out her bedroom window to see the girl standing in beneath the hickory tree like someone’s lost shadow.

The girl pauses at her voice, but doesn’t turn around. Kate sees that her dark hair is shot with glimmering strands of silver. But she knows the girl can’t be more than ten years old and the silver is just a trick of the light from the streetlamp’s broad halo.

Isabella!

The girl begins to run again.

Kate drops the stick, thinking it might speed her progress. In the next block there is a Rottweiler who growls when she passes on her regular evening walks and she has often carried a stick as a sort of talisman, thinking she would use it on him if she had to. But still there are no animal sounds, no lights on in any of the houses she passes, no cars slowing down to see why a woman is running through the streets in the middle of the night in her pajamas, wearing a scuffed oxblood loafer on one foot and a tan and white nubuck slip-on on the other. She is safe from the dog, at least.

They approach Birchfield Avenue, where Kate’s friend Lillian lives. But instead of going down Lillian’s street, the girl enters the first road, one where there are no streetlamps. This road—Kate doesn’t know if it even has a name—twists through a set of woods for a distance to finally end at the town’s water processing plant. No one lives back here in this no-man’s land, the unofficial divide between Carystown’s small black community and the rest of the town. Amazed that she is not winded—it’s a dream, after all, so why should she be?—she catches up with the girl, who has finally slowed. Without streetlamps, the road is black at their feet and the trees around them are like walls reaching to the sky. But Kate can see well enough; the silver in the girl’s hair is its own light, and Kate follows her easily.

Isabella must want her near. As they slow to a walk, Kate realizes that the girl is as silent as everything else around them. If it weren’t for the scuffing of her own feet, Kate would think she’d gone completely deaf.
Without warning, the girl leaves the pavement and heads across the road’s shoulder.
Wait! Kate calls after her.

As Isabella pushes her way through the brush, Kate tries to keep up. But the girl seems unhindered by the brambles and tangle of slender branches that whip against Kate’s arms and face. The brambles sting and Kate laughs to herself that it must be a pretty pitiful dream if she can’t even keep from getting scratched up in it.

Now they are in a clearing that Kate can’t remember ever seeing before. Part of its ragged circle is made up of an expanse of brick that shines a brilliant white even in the dim moonlight. Kate has the feeling that if she were to put her hand against the wall and push, ever-so-lightly, that it might disappear. She has that feeling, too, about the tall cedars that rise around them, their uppermost branches drawn together in soft, wavering points against the sky. Beneath her feet the ground is spongy and she is surprised to realize that the clearing, though silent, has a distinct smell. She covers her mouth with her hand.

She thinks about those times when she wakes herself to use the bathroom in the night, turning on the light, even pinching her thigh as she sits down to urinate to make sure that she is not dreaming, that she is not about to drench herself and her bed. Now, she resists pinching herself because she has begun to suspect that she is not dreaming. She knows that if she rests her fingers against her thigh and squeezes, the pain will be just as real as the smell of decay filling her nostrils.

She calls to Isabella, who stands in the center of the clearing. But the girl only sinks to her knees, her silvered hair falling forward over her yellow coat.

As Kate approaches her, the wind picks up around them and the smell intensifies. Unafraid, Kate reaches out thinking to touch the girl, to stroke her young head, to reassure her that someone is there, that someone wants to help her. But her fingers touch nothing and Kate is alone in the clearing.

She stands there for a moment as the sounds of the woods and beyond reveal themselves: a screech owl in some distant barn, a rabbit or raccoon hurrying through the brush, a truck downshifting out on Route 12. Suddenly cold in the pajamas that had been fine for a March night spent beneath a down comforter, Kate wraps her arms around herself as though it will make a difference and begins to think about the long walk home.

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What’s being said about Isabella Moon:

“ISABELLA MOON is a book of secrets and dark miracles. Laura Benedict writes with such tender power and understanding, filling the pages with characters whose mysteries and longings will matter to every reader. She has written an exquisite, closely observed novel that happens to be a great thriller.  It captivated me instantly, and haunts me still.”
–Luanne Rice, Bestselling Author of THE EDGE OF WINTER

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“Like digging up an unmarked grave in the gloaming, ISABELLA MOON is a tense and creepy hunt for the truth about what lies beneath.  With a missing child, a reluctant medium hiding secrets of her own, and a picture perfect Southern town resting on a foundation of sex, drugs and lies, Laura Benedict’s debut will definitely have readers sleeping with the lights on — if they sleep at all.”
–Lisa Unger , New York Times and internationally bestselling author of BEAUTIFUL LIES and SLIVER OF TRUTH

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“Told with intelligence, precision, and an essential artfulness, Laura Benedict’s haunting and sharp ISABELLA MOON is not unlike THE LOVELY BONES, but bigger, faster, and with a much broader scope.  You won’t forget these characters, nor the story that fuels them. A joy to read from first to last.”
–Fred Leebron, author of OUT WEST and SIX FIGURES

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For more, go here

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Tags: author, Ballantine Books, Benedict, Interview, writer