I am so pleased to welcome award-winning artist and author Uvi Poznansky on my blog today. Uvi doesn’t know this, but over time I have become so impressed with her work, as well as the way she presents herself and her work in cyber space, that I have adopted her as one of my mentors. In addition, she is to be commended for being such a generous supporter of her fellow authors.
Before we begin, let me offer my sincere congratulations to you, Uvi for winning The Romance Reviews Readers' Choice Awards for 2016.
The David Chronicles
Still Life with Memories
Name two personal details about yourself that may surprise people?
First, I taught myself to swim breast stroke, so my style is rather unusual to observe, but I do my laps for a whole hour, twice a week.
And second, I cannot sing to save my life, which is just the reason why I adore anyone who can! Perhaps that is why my characters have musical talents. I would like to think that I have a feel for rhythm, which expresses itself in my poetry, but music is more than a beat, it allows you to soar over the notes.
Tell us a little about yourself as writer and as person.
I am an artist, poet, and author. In the last two years I have published several novels, novellas, a poetry book, and two children’s books. My art and my writing are two sides of the same coin: I write with my paintbrush, and paint with words.
I earned my M.A. in Architecture at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, and then, taking a sharp turn in my education, earned my M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan.
I write across a variety of genres: Literary fiction, historical fiction, historical romance, biblical fiction, poetry, horror, and children’s books. Thanks to the readers who love the romance novels in this boxed set, A Touch of Passion has just become the 2016 WINNER of The Romance Reviews Readers' Choice Awards.
Tell us about your writing history. When was the first time you decided to write and when was the first time you did?
My creative drive in poetry, storytelling, and art, started early in life. Before I knew how to hold a pen in my hand, I would tell stories that my father (a poet, writer and artist himself) would write down for me. He would also ask me to help him rhyme his lines, which introduced me to the music of words and the intricacies of writing. Just before he passed away, he sent me an entire notebook full of these early endeavors, written in his beautiful, calligraphic handwriting.
Today I strive to stretch the envelope of what I create. In art, I use different mediums, which enriches my designs: I sculpt (in bronze, clay, and paper); I draw in charcoal, ink, and pencils; I paint in watercolor and oils; and I create animations. Similarly, in my literary work I write in different genres, which enriches my thinking.
What are you most proud of in your books?
At the end of every chapter in every book I write, you will discover that having faced a challenge, the character has undergone some change. Taken together, these chapters give you a story of a profound transformation.
In my series, The David Chronicles, I find it amazing--and I hope you will too--to live in the skin of the character through an entire series of novels, and to experience his life from youth to old age.
Here is the voice of old David, wary of his son who may overthrow him:
At my age I should expect nothing but respect. But when my own son walks away from me, my resolve immediately falters. To spite me, he smiles flirtatiously at Abishag, my lovely new concubine, till she tightens her robe around her waist and turns her head away, hiding her blush from him, and perhaps from me, too. Then with a youthful vigor, Adoniah bangs the heavy iron door deliberately behind him, which makes Goliath’s sword clang against the wall, right here over my head.
The rattle shocks me into trying to overcome the fright, the sudden quaking of my bones.
I adore my son, which lures me into seeing myself—my own image, only more invincible—in him. So what if he is rebellious? I must have been the same way at his age. Back then, did I not leave my father, exchanging the safety of his home for something unknown, for adventure? Did I not defy his charge for me to remain there, in Hebron, and support him in his time of need?
And here, his voice in childhood, coming to the palace for the first time:
I am pushed a step or two backwards, so as to maintain proper distance from the presence of the king. My name is called out in a clunky manner of introduction, after which I am instructed to choose from an array of musical instruments. I figure they must be the loot of war. So when I play them, the music of enemy tribes shall resound here, around the hall.
I pluck the strings of a sitar, then put it back down and pick up a lyre, which I make quiver, quiver with notes of fire! Then I rap, clap, tap, snap my fingers, and just to be cute, play a tune on my flute, after which I do a skip, skip, skip and a back flip.
It is a long performance, and towards the end of it I find myself trying to catch my breath. Alas, my time is up. Even so I would not stop.
Entranced I go on to recite several of my poems, which I have never done before, for fear of exposing my most intimate, raw emotions, which is a risky thing for a man, and even riskier for a boy my age. Allowing your vulnerability to show takes one thing above all: a special kind of courage. Trust me, it takes balls.
What are you working on now?
I am working on my next novel in the series Still Life with Memories. The title is Marriage before Death, and it takes my characters, Lenny and Natasha, to France during D-Day and beyond. While the previous novels in the series are love stories, this one is turning into a thriller.
Here is an excerpt:
This being a back road, there were no German patrols, nor were there roadblocks. It was in bad need of repair. Driving over rocks, dirt, and cracks jerked us all back and forth, forth and back, which lolled the SS guards into becoming drowsy.
Unable to relax into this incessant, repetitive motion, I knew it would not take long until the beret fell off the head of the slumping man, exposing his bruises. I prayed that our captors would fall fast asleep before that happened. Already I could see a drop of blood slipping down his forehead, dripping into his eyebrow, pooling into the socket of his eye.
It was then that he opened it. At first, there was something blind about his look. Did he even see me?
Then, in a snap, his gaze cleared. The traitor pointed a wobbly finger at me, but before he could utter a word—before the SS guards could hear him, let alone clutch their guns and aim them at me—something else happened.
Boom! There came a huge, ear-splitting blast.
Particles were shooting in the air. Out of nowhere, a wave of heat wrapped around us. In my confusion I forgot to breathe. Instead I gasped, was the truck hit? Was it falling apart under us?
The David Chronicles:
Still Life with Memories:
Marriage before Death Coming soon...