STORY TIME AT THE VILLA MARIA, AND WHY I WENT OUT OF GENRE
What success
I have as a novelist has come about because I’m known to write Gothic mysteries.
And please don’t get me wrong – I like writing them. And I like reading them. I
like suspense and ghosts and supernatural events and cold, drafty English
estates and heroines on the edge and all the elements that make up the category.
But, I had a
story nagging at me: I kept thinking of it as a love-letter to the senior
generation and to all the people who made/make up that group.
Background: I was born and raised in South Philadelphia
and grew up listening to the parents and grandparents and neighbors tell
endless stories about how they “came to America” and what they did to survive
and how serious they were about how to be good citizens.
On hot summer
evenings, after dinner, after the dishes were washed and dried and the kitchen
straightened, neighbors would gather outside on their porches and on the steps
and then the stories would begin. About their day, their work, who they met and
spoke to … and then, inevitably about World War II. They spoke endlessly about “those
times.” The men told about “the war years” – what they did while serving their
country either in the military or on the home front, where they were stationed,
what they saw. And their voices always dropped to a near-whisper when they
spoke of their comrades who fought beside them but never made it back home. There
would be quiet for a moment and those who were Catholics made the Sign of the
Cross while the other neighbors gently bowed their heads. It was an image to be
remembered.
Then the
women would try to lift the memory and tell how they “made do” with rationing, the
improvised meals made without hard-to-get items, and they spoke of blackouts
and curfews and mended clothes and all the little facts that were important to
them. These were minute bits of information about another time, and to me and
the rest of the children who sat and listened, this was “real” history and I
was fascinated by it and I was fascinated by those who spoke.
I listened
and I remembered and every once in a while, after I became a writer, I’d think
about them and the thought kept popping up -- as though something/someone was
saying, “write their stories, write their stories.” I knew, then, that I had to go out-of-genre. I
had to take the chance that other people would remember the seniors in their
own lives and want to hear their stories. And so, STORYTIME AT THE VILLA MARIA
came into existence and, while none of the characters in the novel are real,
they all have attributes of people I once knew…once cared about. These were
proud people – of themselves, of how they achieved, and how they served their
country.
I’m back to
writing Gothics now – I’m half way through a new one already -- but I hope
you’ll like to read about the Villa Maria residents and I hope you like them.
Why I went
out-of-genre? I listened and I
remembered.
CONSTANCE WALKER
STORYTIME AT THE VILLA MARIA
BY
CONSTANCE WALKER
Meet…
Dominick, who married “the most beautiful woman in the world”…
Sophie, who is haunted by terrifying memories of the Holocaust…
Ella, who made “sweet apple pies” for her war veteran husband…
Tom, whose music lured women into his arms…
Artie, who is plagued by the ghosts of long-dead soldiers…
Frank, who can't let go of his yesterdays, though a better tomorrow beckons…
Join them and others as they gather every Monday night in the library at the Villa Maria Senior Citizens Apartment House to share their memories, their fears, and their dreams.
* * *
STORYTIME AT
THE VILLA MARIA BLURB:
South Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1939
South Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1939
The tuxedoed emcee pointed to the last couple
on the dance floor and motioned them forward. “And your winners of tonight’s
Pavilion Dance Hall contest – Miss Mae Agnes Adams and Mr. Dominick
Ricci.” Dominick and Mae Agnes accepted
the envelope containing the two one-dollar bills and bowed first to the other dancers
and then to the audience and then Dominick’s eyes searched and found the table
where the beautiful redheaded girl was sitting. “I wish I had won you, instead,” he thought. The redhead looked at
him with her sad brown eyes as if she heard the words and then quickly looked
down at the table.
“And now everyone on the dance floor,” the
master of ceremonies said and the girl’s face disappeared behind the crowd of
eager dancers.
* * *
STORYTIME AT THE VILLA MARIA—the unforgettable book about life lived and still to be lived, and about the mysterious threads of joy and heartache and love that are woven into every life—including your own!
A charming novel of senior citizens, storytelling, nostalgia, and a world gone by but not forgotten."
* * *
LINKS:
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BIO: Constance
Walker is the author of THE SHIMMERING STONES OF WINTER'S LIGHT, LOST ROSES OF
GANYMEDE HOUSE, IN TIME, and WARM WINTER LOVE among other works of Gothic and
contemporary fiction.
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