Welcome, Kimberly! Tell us about The Haunted Purse.
Buy links: Amazon ~ Barnes and Noble
The Haunted Purse is a YA paranormal novel about fifteen-year-old Libby Dawson, who buys an old purse at the local thrift store. Almost immediately, strange things start happening. Her personal possessions disappear from the purse and later reappear. And unfamiliar items keep turning up inside, including an old photograph of a teenage girl carrying the same purse. Libby comes to realize that these items are clues to a cold-case mystery, and she sets out to solve it. Unfortunately, digging up the past puts her own life in grave danger.
Tell us about your experience with the publishing process.
Six or seven years ago I self-published three middle-grade novels. I’d queried a few agents, but with no luck, and I was feeling pretty discouraged. I decided to self-publish, mainly for the satisfaction of bringing the books into the world in some sort of tangible form. My friends and family members bought copies, but that was it. I didn’t even try to market the titles. To be honest, I didn’t know how. Moreover, I was aware of the stigma attached to self-published works. Anybody can publish books on Amazon. It can be hard to distinguish the good from the bad, so a lot of readers won’t take a chance on a self-published novel.
After I wrote The Haunted Purse, I decided to give traditional publishing another try. One of the publishers I queried was The Wild Rose Press, and they ended up giving me a contract. Having that stamp of approval from a traditional publisher has made all the difference. When a publisher accepts a novel for publication, they’re essentially saying it meets a certain standard of excellence. And that has given me a sense of validation I lacked before, which has made me feel more confident about marketing my novel. Also, as a traditionally published author, I had help from professional editors and a proofreader in revising and polishing the novel. The cover was created by a graphic designer. I wouldn’t have had access to those services if I’d published on my own, unless I paid for them myself.
Words of advice for fellow writers in the trenches:
I’m still so new at this, I wouldn’t dare give anybody else advice!
What was the hardest part of The Haunted Purse to write?
I’d have to say the parts that couldn’t actually be written. The behind-the-scenes stuff. In any novel, the words on the page are only part of the story. A whole world of detail exists beneath the surface, unexpressed and yet very much there.
My messy desk…
Libby lives in the inner city. She was born to an unwed teen mom who resents her existence and has since abandoned her to move in with a boyfriend. Many girls in Libby’s situation would have dropped out of school by now. They’d be teen moms themselves. But Libby is a sensible girl who works hard at her studies. She doesn’t do drugs or run with a bad crowd. How is she managing to turn out so well? That has to seem plausible in the context of the story.
In my mind, there are several explanations for Libby’s success in rising above her circumstances: nature versus nurture, her determination to avoid ending up like her mother, the emotional support she’s received from other adults in her life. But I couldn’t explicitly state those factors, because the story is told from the POV of a fifteen-year-old, not a licensed psychologist. Libby wouldn’t have the self-awareness or the clinical know-how to articulate those things. All I could do was hint at the factors that shaped her and hope they’d be apparent on some level.
AUTHOR SPEED ROUND!
Check out the TRAILER: The Haunted Purse
Excerpt from The Haunted Purse:
There was a social hierarchy in Ms. Eckhart’s classroom, and every student knew their place. I wasn’t in the cool crowd, but I was still on Ms. Eckhart’s favored list as one of the top students. As a teacher, Ms. Eckhart probably felt she had to acknowledge academic ability. But generally, she looked down on the not-so-popular kids. The meek, quiet kids. The poor kids, like me.
I was pretty sure I’d just lost my spot on the favorites list. All I’d ever had going for me was my status as a first-rate student, someone who aced every test and delivered every homework assignment on time. I’d just blown it by acting like a deadbeat.
A brick of despair settled in my chest. There would be no more cheery greetings: “Hey, Libby! How was your weekend?” No more cross-eyed smiley faces on my A-plus tests. No more getting to wear Ms. Eckhart’s very own cardigan sweater when she saw me shivering in a threadbare tee shirt on a forty-degree morning.
The bell rang, signaling the end of class.
I shoved my physics book into the middle compartment of my purse. There was a crunch as the book hit something papery. Baffled, I withdrew the book and peered into the gaping mouth of my purse. There was my physics report. Two pages folded in half, slightly crumpled from the assault by my physics book.
The classroom emptied out around me. I caught Ms. Eckhart peeking at me, but then she hastily went back to writing in a notebook. I knew she was hoping I’d leave without speaking to her.
I approached her desk. She didn’t look up until I cleared my throat.
“Oh. Liberty.”
The fact that she didn’t call me Libby said a lot.
I thrust the report at her. “I found it. My report. It was in my purse after all.”
“Oh. Well.” She took the report from me. Her eyes moved back and forth like she was reading it, but I think she was just trying to decide what to do.
“Technically it’s still late,” she said.
“Just barely.”
“Why couldn’t you find it earlier?” she asked, as though this mattered.
I shrugged, my lips pressed tight. She moved her eyes back to the report, like she couldn’t stand the sight of me. “Okay,” she said. “I won’t lower your grade this time.”
“Thank you.”
“But this can’t happen again.”
I needed to get to algebra class, but I stayed where I was. Ms. Eckhart shifted in her chair and said in a tight voice, “Was there something else?”
Yes, I wanted to say. Something weird is going on with my purse. Something supernatural, and I don’t know what to do about it. Can you tell me what to do?
But because we weren’t friends anymore, I said, “No. There’s nothing else.”
