Author Uvi Poznansky, the Romance Reviews Readers' Choice Awards Winner for 2016

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.

Uvi Poznansky

Author of

The David Chronicles

and

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?

Author Links:

Blog 

Art site

Twitter

 

Google+   

Amazon page

Goodreads page  

PInterest  

Book Links:

The David Chronicles:

Rise to Power  Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, audio

A Peek at Bathsheba Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, audio

The Edge of Revolt Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo

Still Life with Memories:

My Own Voice Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, audio

The White Piano Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, audio

The Music of Us Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, audio

Dancing with Air Kindle, Nook, Apple, Kobo, audio

Marriage before Death Coming soon...

"Circle of Time" by Debra Shiveley Welch

History buffs will get a kick out of the latest novel by best-selling and award-winning author Debra Shiveley Welch. Borne of her frustration over the inaccuracies regarding Tudor history so often written into historical accounts, Debra decided to write her own book based on her several decades of study of the period, Wrapped in an intriguing fantasy involving time-travel of a contemporary woman, fantasy or no, the historical events set forth in the book are accurate. The following is a brief description of the book:  

When 21-year-old Bridget Littleton decides to borrow her father's yacht and sail off of the tip of Florida toward Bermuda, she discovers that the legends about the Bermuda Triangle are very true.

After seeing a face in the ocean waves, her next memory is of spinning water and blackness. She awakens in the town of Bristol England in the year 1532.

Rumors of her beauty reach the court, and soon Bridget, known as Bridge, finds herself in the court of Henry VIII and Lady in Waiting to none other than Anne Boleyn.

Will she get out alive? Will she accidentally change the course of history, or is she indeed a part of the history she has studied since she was a little girl?

“He Has as Many Gods as Stars”

In Good Company

My life as an author and an artist is highly rewarding in many ways that are essential to the nurturance and evolution of my Soul.  Among the rewards are the extraordinary individuals with whom I come into contact during the course of my artistic pursuits, persons who light my way through the products of their exceptional talents, at times the sharing of their expanded minds, and often, the offerings of their open hearts.    

My work as an interior designer also opens the doors to me of many homes of new people on a weekly basis, and now and then in that endeavor, hearts are opened to me as well, hearts full of treasures that inspire me, that astound me, that make the light of my journey brighter and clearer.

                Books, artwork, films, Mother Nature, among other things, support my journey, too.  Viewing the films of Turner Classic Movies for instance, especially stories of a historical nature, is one of my favorite ways of boning up on history.  Those old, black and white, story-driven movies speak to my storyteller’s heart.  The Great Depression and World War II are genres I especially appreciate.

I’ve created this blog as a means of introducing to you the individuals and activities in whom I hope you will also find aids in your journey.  It is my desire as well to give validation to the Luminous Souls and the Shining Creations in whose good company I am blessed to find myself.  I begin with Theodore “Ted” Waterfield:

“He Has as Many Gods as Stars”

My introduction to Ted and his lovely wife, Mary Catalano Waterfield, occurred when I was engaged in an interior design project with them.  Having chosen to remain in their home during their retirement years, they are making changes in it to accommodate that goal.  I was able to assist them in an aspect of that venture.  During our time together, Ted very proudly showed me three of his father’s superb paintings.  Two of them were prominently displayed on walls of the home of Ted and Mary, the third one featured on a little book of Ted’s poems he published several years ago, a book titled, “Sandusky Bay,” named for the area from which Ted hails.  Recognizing that here was a couple for whom art and books are central to their quality of life, I took the opportunity to invite them to an artist’s reception the following Sunday, the event to take place at a nearby gallery.  A number of my own paintings were exhibited there among works of art of several of my artist associates of the Grove City Arts Council, a group of artists, photographers, crafters and art appreciators active in the art scene of Greater Central Ohio.  I told them, as well, about my book, Guardians and Other Angels that is scheduled to be released in the coming weeks, explaining to them that it is my second novel.   Ted responded, “I’ve also written two novels, both of them very bad.  I’m actually much better at poetry.  I write a poem a day and post it on my website,” he continued as he discreetly slipped a business card into my hand.  I had the strong sense that I had just met a kindred spirit with whom I needed more contact for the good of my Soul, and I engaged him in a short conversation about the process of writing–about the process of creating any form of art.  My intuition about him confirmed, I slipped his card into my bag as I was leaving and was able to log onto his website a couple of weeks later. 

                As I read some of his poems, it was as if the energy of the Universe, the entire spectrum of its vibration coalesced in his words and sang to me through my computer screen.  This man knows things that everyone needs to know, I said to myself.  I decided then and there that Ted just had to be my first guest on my blog.

When we talked by telephone to schedule the interview for this posting, I suggested a morning hour on an approaching day.  “Oh no!  That won’t work!   I exercise religiously six mornings a week.  You see I’ve had three stents put in my heart and I think the exercise is keeping me alive,” Ted replied.  With this statement Ted revealed to me that here is a man intimately engaged with his own mortality.  I wondered if it was the motivation behind his drive to write a poem a day.  When a few weeks later, we met at his home, I, with my tape recorder and tablet, Ted, with his big and wide, open heart ready to tell me “His truth,” as he calls it, he confirmed to me that my hunch about his motivation was right-he doesn’t want to leave this life with all of his words still inside of him. 

I asked Ted what message he would like to impart in this treatise.  “Think like an angel and not a brute.”  It might also be the title of one of his poems.  He added, “If I’m loved, I want people to get something from it.  I want it to be a very happy experience for them.”  He ended our interview by saying, “Judge me by who I became, not by what I went through getting there.”  Read on and you will experience in Ted’s poems what he has gone through, and where he is now, a place anyone would envy.  These poems are published with the permission of their author.   

Bread on the Water

I shove longings into crevices

and they grow flowers.

I reach for clouds

and snowflakes fall.

Wind gushes

over the brim of goblets.

Stories open

their beginnings and ends

in beautiful pauses.

I am made whole,

allowing night

to begin and end,

and dawn to return

with yellow hands.

                                                                      Theodore Waterfield

Life is Long

One day, I thought,

life is short.

And then a rain began

to fall in me.

A wind began to blow

and tear the world apart.

The dirt pulled on my feet

and the life I had lived

became a stranger’s life,

a life I had led long ago,

somewhere else,

and in a twinkling,

in a flash of a smile,

I knew I had outgrown time.

I could never hope to know my life.

It was too huge,

too mysterious,

too sweet and sad,

and comes to me like riptides,

flashbacks into falling,

as if someone asked,

is life short?

I would tell them,

it is long,

terribly distant,

and full of notes to myself,

not to forget,

no matter the cost.

                                                               Theodore Waterfield

The Light of St. Peter’s

It was a basilica of marble and light.

My feet hurt,

but not as much as my heart.

Beauty is a giant spear.

It is lightning in the eyes.

On the steps

I looked across the great plaza,

to buses, cars,

streets running like tributaries

from a glowing lake.

People wandered,

solitary,

in pairs,

or like tribes crossing a desert.

What had I expected to find?

The hollowness of hills?

It was here.

The sound of a shore

and the sighting of a sea?

It was here.

A bazaar of people looking for their souls,

taking pictures,

murmuring like the wind in the trees?

It was here.

Or my own unexpected sense

of looking behind a door,

and finding the faces of mysterious beings,

Michelangelo,

Peter

the remote faces of Jesus and Mary?

It was here.

And they said nothing,

letting the words be my own,

their vision

whatever I brought

from the valley of my life,

into this vast church,

the soaring dome,

an arcade of hope

of unquenchable thirst

in stone, paint, mosaic,

showing the arms of God

looking for his children

like a father,

hopelessly in love.

                                                                Theodore Waterfield

Where Are the Poets

Why do scribblers write poetry and poets write nothing?

Because there’s death in confronting beauty.

Wounds no one can bear.

A search confronting inevitable loss.

Poets hide lest they be eaten,

thrown in the sea,

consumed by the flames of the faithful,

ridiculed by fools and realists.

They are fragile beings

who whisper, I am fog looking for shape.

Laughter looking for joy.

I have as many gods as stars.

Words fly from my heart

like birds looking for a country

where they are not hunted.

I write poems of air,

and die without remains.

Words drowning in silence.

                                                                                                                                         Theodore Waterfield

   http://www.theodorewaterfield.com

By the way, Mary and Ted came to my artist’s reception.  It was so sweet of them considering we had only just become acquainted.  Happy Valentine’s Day to all of you, and especially to Mary and Ted Waterfield.

To view the online gallery of my artwork, log onto www.gallery-llgreene.com