All her life, Jane believes she is small-town ordinary. . . until she isn’t. Some people brand her a witch because of the cat while others believe she has a demon. Her family thinks she’s ready for the nursing home, and the down-and-out reporter assumes she’s a fake. But nobody, including Jane, can figure out how she does it: heal the sick. All the sick. All the time. Is it a gift of God? The Church is divided. Then, everything erupts when the foreigners arrive along with the government people and the scientists. Will Jane become a pawn or save herself?
I
Launch Party Success!
What a Character!
Quite a few “characters” have floated in and out of my life. I’m sure you could say the same. They are the colorful bits; they are the ones we remember for a long time.
Charlie rented one of our rooms on Park Avenue when I was a child. He had what I now know was a trigger finger, his ring finger, on his right hand. He was a heavy smoker and spent a lot of time hanging out on our porch. Gruff and grizzly, most of the time, he indulged a 2nd grader who had lots and lots of questions. And then he was gone.
Genres. Who Needs Them? Do You?
We are in a culture of labels.
We label people and attitudes and houses and neighborhoods and cities. And of course, books. In some cases, I’m aware that labels can be helpful. I certainly appreciate finding the right size clothing and I confess, if I’m at the used clothing store, I gravitate to familiar labels/brands. I’m glad that foods are labeled with nutrition facts and whether they are spicey. I’m grateful for the “skull & crossbones” to warn me of poisons and toxic materials.
But honestly, haven’t we taken this labeling a bit too far?Miracles as Viral News
Is This Book About Me?
When I give my little “elevator” speech about Sister Jane, I feel compelled to mention that she is, a) an older woman and b) grew up in a small town.
One friend immediately asked me, “what’s older?” I’m afraid to answer that. I know, whether I like it or not, that I am considered older. My worst birthday year was not when I turned fifty, but fify-five. At that point (although I think this category has since changed), I would be in the great miasma of fifty-five and up. I would be in that last check box. Now, if that doesn’t make a poor girl feel old, I don’t know what does. I’m curious what you all think? And although the last check box has changed, I’ve managed to grow into that one as well.