I find it fascinating to consider what the back story might have been of people whose lives are a well-known part of history. Ms. Poznansky does an excellent job of coloring in the intimate details of the lives of King David and his wife Bathsheba, which fits comfortably into the documented facts. While I believe this "man after God's own heart" experienced a more loving, trusting, personal relationship with Jehovah than is depicted here, I found the depicted perceptions and motives that the author intertwined into fostering the political climate and its resulting effects upon individuals and kingdoms alike, to be very plausible and added so much more realism and humanness to an otherwise dry historic account. Justin Harmer's luxurious accent was easy to listen to, with excellent timing and expressiveness. Poznansky is obviously one highly gifted writer, and I look forward to experiencing more of her exceptional work.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Just discovered this review for the audiobook edition of my historical fiction novel, A Peek at Bathsheba:
Friday, December 30, 2016
Giveaway! Claim your book:
The Wrong Girl offers samples from books in the Still Life with Memories series. These samples give a taste not of Natasha (the girl Lenny loves) but rather of another woman, Lana, who appears time and again, in several scenes in the books. She is flirtatious enough to stir suspicion, upsetting the course of his life time and again.
I hope you will find these samples not only delicious but also arousing an irresistible craving for more.
So, you ask, what is this series all about?
For a long time I had this idea of creating a series around the events in the life of a unique family. The characters had to have not only a compelling voice, but they had to see things in an entirely different light, which would create contrasts and conflicts, as each one of them comes from a different background and has different passions, needs, and aspirations.
Sunday, December 25, 2016
Thursday, December 22, 2016
I have fled as fast as my legs could carry me, far out into the Judea Mountains, to hide from Saul—only to find out this new reality: I can no longer go unnoticed. I cannot disappear whenever I feel like being alone, because my new admirers are close behind me. They follow me everywhere, no matter how cleverly I try to evade them.
“Shoo!” I wave my hand at them. “Go, go away! Look, your footprints leave a trail right here, in the dust, and guess what? It leads to me. The king’s spies are sure to spot it, and then... Then comes Abner, his first in command. He’ll sniff me out. I don’t want to imagine what he’ll do to me.”
“No, no But! You’re putting me in danger, really, you are. Go back, go sing your praises elsewhere, not to me—but to the king!”
In reply, my fans crowd around me even closer. My heart softens a bit as they start serenading me. “Saul has killed his thousands, and David his tens of thousands!”
“Enough already,” I say, but to no avail.
Boys and girls swarm all over the place, they come in droves, carrying bouquets of wildflowers, baskets loaded with fruit and baked goods, and bundles filled with dates, nuts, and raisins, in short, anything to help sustain me here, in the wilderness.
They lay these gifts at the mouth of my cave and expect me to smile upon them with grace and gratitude. I do, even though I have no use anymore for what they bring, because I figure it would take years to consume all that food.
Worst of all are the laurel wreaths, which my admirers insist on hanging over my head and around my neck. Usually I enjoy attention, but now, this is ridiculous! It has become overbearing, at best! Already, all this attention is beginning to choke me.
And yet, I am afraid I can no longer live without it.
Last night I told them not to decorate Goliath’s sword—but did they listen? By the time I fell asleep, the damn thing was covered with vines and jasmine blossoms up to the hilt, to the point that no one could recognize it as a weapon.
A tale of madmen and kings, youth and old age, prison cells and freedom's ring. It's drawn from Biblical history, enjoyed through the eyes of modernity, and it vividly recreates character and place.
-Sheila Deeth, Top 1000 Reviewer
-Sheila Deeth, Top 1000 Reviewer
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Here is a beautiful review for the audiobook edition of my historical fiction novel, A Peek at Bathsheba:
- Another breathtaking journey into the life of King David. Once again, Ms. Pozanski has given us a glimpse onto the life and times of this inscrutable near myth, turning him into a real man. Her language is his language making his thoughts, his desires, his ambitions vividly alive, beckoning us into his world from the onset..."A long time ago I used to think that my youth was to blame for failing to understand my wives. No longer can I use that excuse, because I know all too well, there is no youth in me anymore. Which leaves me as baffled as ever, especially when it comes to the one woman I adore: Bathsheba." And just like that we are swept into his world.
And though the book revolves around his love for Bathsheba, it is so much more, fraught with wondrous and sumptuous language..."The hours swell into a day, and the day drains into night, during which the shadow dissolves." He speaks of the familiar scent of soil, the intoxicating smell of jasmine blooming in the air, and the gleam of the setting sun as it runs down the curve of his steed's neck.
But my favorite parts are when he wonders about death, and
what will happen to his dreams when he is gone? "Will they fizz out, too? . . . What will last, when I am swallowed by the void? Who will be left to imagine her, rising from the foam?"
When he engages in repartee with his advisors, especially the religious ones, and when he questions Abiathar regarding a military prophecy, I was in stitches... "Circle around behind them and attack them in front of the poplar trees.” said Abiathar, "Really? God mentioned poplar trees?” asked David. “He did,” said Abiathar..." the whole conversation between them is almost as it would have been lifted from my own brain, as David continues to wonder at the precise instructions, but hesitates to ask, “Really?” again, because "The last thing I wished to do was clash with an extremely devout person." I know that the last thing I WANT TO DO IS ARGUE WITH AN EXTREMELY DEVOUT PERSON!
I love when he wonders at how a woman, " is likened, in our culture, to an ox or donkey." Then declares, "If I were a woman, which— thank God!— I am not, I would riot in the streets over this."
And how, "As a poet I play with flowery expressions. As a politician I arm myself with them to achieve my goals." He also likes to use poetic language to skew and manipulate the truth just a bit, especially when dealing with his wives. It makes him so much more real.
I could go on and on, but I won't because you must experience this for yourself, bathe yourself in this exotic world and take A Peek at Bathsheba.
I LOVE this audible version. Justin Harmer's voice is like molten chocolate, lending a rich and evocative tone to Ms Pozanski's gorgeous prose.
MOST HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Three years have passed since that day, and my spies tell me that Absalom is now living out of my reach, in the only place he considers safe: the palace of his grandfather, Talmai king of Geshur, who is certain to protect him. Despite being my ally in every other respect, old Talmai is known for being stubborn. He will undoubtably refuse to hand him over to me.
But for now I make no such request. Why? Because if Absalom were to be brought back here, to Jerusalem, how should I deal with him? Should I throw him behind bars—or else recognize him, as some of my advisors suggest, as my heir, a man of privilege whose crime deserves nothing more than a symbolic slap on the wrist?
I am faced not only with a political problem but also a deeply personal one. By now I am consoled concerning Amnon, yet I am afraid of my own reaction at that critical moment, when I first lay eyes on the man responsible for his death.
Will I be overwhelmed by rage—or else, love? Will I hug my son, who has been long lost to me—or else, will I fly madly at him? Either way I doubt I will be able to control myself, and hide from Absalom how dearly I have longed for him.
I am a father. This role has changed me: when he was a child I may have looked strong in his eyes—but now I am vulnerable.
No one but me knows how these doubts gnaw at me. I carry on with matters of the state, and to all appearances I am a happy man. I attend plays, sheep shearing feasts, sword fights, hunting trips. I laugh at official parties. I make love to my wives. I send gifts to my daughter, Tamar, who keeps returning them back to me.
"She writes with exquisite prose and elegant style, yet delivers piercing truth and insights into the human psyche on the way. A wonderful read."
Monday, December 19, 2016
This diary, I now realize, is a precious, unintended gift she left me. If I go back far enough through its entries I can put her together again. I can resurrect the woman lost to me. Her ghost may then become more real to me than the closeness of her body.
I turn the page, and hear her voice rising from its rustle even as she tosses fitfully in her sleep, down there in our bedroom.
I avoid telling the cop that as I recall, the shadow is climbing up, ever so stealthily, into the apartment building, suggesting a hint of the stairs. And I avoid telling him that when you lift your eyes to the window, up above on the first floor, you can see that the embroidered flowers have faded in the sun, especially near the bottom edge of the curtain, where the fabric is straightening out of its folds.
This is where we live. This is safety. It is the place I must find.
And once I am there, I will sit at my white piano and give a little nod to the bust of Beethoven, which is always smiling to me. Then I will lift my hands over the keys, in wait for that perfect moment, when music comes.
★ Love reading? Treat yourself to a gift ★
"Uvi touches us with a tenderness that unites her skill as a writer with her gifts as a visual artist and once swept into her fictional account of the 'us' of this book the story will long be remembered."
- Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Edna grew sleepy. The scene went blank before her eyes. She could hear, faintly at first, the mechanical hum of the projector. It went on faster and faster, spinning its reels—but at this point she could not make up her mind whether she was dreaming or not. There she was, lost in the middle of a strange story; her life, rewinded.
It felt like evening, noon, morning, and suddenly night again; winter, fall, summer, and suddenly spring again. Edna touched her body. It seemed more agile, more slender. A change was upon her; she could sense it despite her drowsiness. She turned over. By some strange twist, she fancied that she was suddenly flat chested.
Curiously, the sleepier she became—the more her body awakened. It ached with desire. She must have boxed up this feeling and now, it could no longer be denied. To her surprise, there was a certain tenderness in her nipples, such as she had not felt in a very long time—ever since her early teenage years, come to think of it.
Edna could hear the sound, the maddening sound of celluloid sliding across and over itself; like air sucked in, whistling between the teeth. It made her head reel. Scenes raced through her mind in quick succession. This was no longer a game: She was helpless to stop this mad rush, a rush towards something unknown, towards the beginning.
People came in and out of her life: Men, women, children, all of whom she had long forgotten. They were not the least bit embarrassed about walking in reverse, like circus acrobats on a tightrope. For the most part they managed to do it without bumping against each other or taking a fall.
Like prunes in water, old men lost their wrinkles and gained back their plump skin. They spat out their medicines, and were instantly healed. They promised her love—love for eternity—but soon after, started to backpedal. Middle-aged women became young again, detaching themselves, in the process, from one boyfriend after another until even the first one backed away. Then they found themselves turning into wide-eyed virgins.
Children became smaller. They forgot all their words, cried longer, the pitch of their voice rose higher and higher until finally slapped by a nurse; at which time—guided by an umbilical cord—they disappeared into a void, into their mother’s womb.
The prospect of finding the end of life at the beginning seemed contradictory at first; but then, she figured, it was so much better than finding it at the proper end. It would be scary, either way—but when time draws near, you need all the help you can get. At least, as a baby you are cute, irresistibly so; which makes people want to take care of you. Not so when you are old.
Edna slipped to the floor and cuddled herself. The machine kept on humming above her—but at this point she had no idea how to stop the thing. She turned her attention to that other sound, which echoed around the room: The beat, the wild beat of her heart. A heartbeat, reversed.
"This radiant book is an exploration of the bond between a daughter and father and the book overflows with some of the most eloquent poetic moments in print. HOME is an invitation, a very personal one, and should not be passed over."
-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer
-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
In a matter of seconds my entire world changed, and it was then that I stopped living and simply began the struggle to exist.
There was blood on my knees, my elbows and hands, but for now, thankfully, I felt little pain. It must have failed to register in my brain, even as I saw the torn clothes, the wounds.
First, I tried to head back down to help those who were trapped. The cave was lit—just for a second—by a burst, as a few boxes of ammunition rattled nearby. I saw that the explosion had taken the roadway with it and caused the rest of the pit to collapse.
That was when I knew that I had to fight for my own survival. Half-crawling, half-clawing my way up, I was nearly choked by smoke. At last I reached the opening, where boxes of incendiary bombs, which had been jolted by the blast, were blazing.
Once there, a soldier gave me a hand, pulled me up to my feet.
“You look as if you were thrown against a wall,” he said. “Wait here, a rescue team is just around the corner, they’ll put you on a stretcher.”
“No, no,” I said, sensing that to him I must sound incoherent. I coughed, which cleared my throat, and went on to say, “Let’s go down together, people are dying there, in the mine—”
“No! Others will, but we can’t,” he said. “I’m told we should go inside only with rubber boots.”
“These boots aren’t rubber,” I pointed at mine, “but they’re real sturdy, with these metal studs in their soles. They’ll do just fine—”
“No,” he said, sternly now. “A single spark from them could cause the whole site to go up in flames all over again.”
I obeyed him and stumbled, somehow, into walking away, no—not walking—running, that’s what it was, running, despite the growing soreness of my limbs. With every step, the swirl of dust and particles around me was lifting, ever so gradually. Then, just as the meadow came hazily into view I heard a tremendous roar down there, behind me.
A mushroom cloud rose over the village of Hanbury high into the sky. And with a guttural sound, mounds of earth were lifted up, then hurled back down into the ground.
Meanwhile, from the meadow came the sound of bleating, followed by gunshots. A bullet grazed my ear.
“Hey,” I screamed, into the mist. “Stop it! What on earth are you doing? You nearly killed me!”
“Didn’t mean to,” said an RAF regiment, now coming into sight, gun in hand. “I was aiming at the sheep, they’re running wild with terror!”
He climbed over some mound—a dead cow—and came nearer to see if I was alright. Then he gave me a pat on the back, which started me coughing again.
“What happened in the mine,” I asked. “It was so sudden! Was it a German attack?”
“Who knows,” he said. “Either that, or something else.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as someone careless or improperly trained.”
I raised an eyebrow—not that it could be noticed, with all the soot on my face—and he went on to say, “Yes, someone who tried, perhaps, to remove an exploder pocket without the right tool. It can be something as simple as that, you know, causing a spark to set off a reaction.”
With that he went off, pointing his gun into the dust.
Then—just over the plaintive bleating of the sheep and the chaotic blasts rocking the mine—came a different sound. I listened to it in disbelief. It was the most wonderful sound in the entire world: a hum, the low, familiar hum of my Harley.
There it was, a silhouette of the beast, with Natasha astride on top of it, hair unfurling in the wind.
I wanted to tell her how I admired her courage, the risk she took, riding it all by herself, without my guidance, to get here. I wanted to tell her she should have stayed away. But by now I knew that for me, she would dare take any chance, come what may.
“Oh Lenny,” she said. “You look... I have no words for it.”
Overcome with sudden joy I staggered towards her.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
In confusion I asked, “Where to?”
And Natasha said, “Anywhere, my love. Anywhere but here.”
Lenny in Dancing with Air
In this passage, Lenny describes a real event--the horrific explosion in RAF Fauld, an underground munition depot in WWII England. Having escaped death by the narrowest of margins, this is the point where he gains a new appreciation of Natasha. To him, she now becomes more than simply a love interest. From this point own, he owes his life to her.
★ Love romantic suspense? Treat yourself to a thrill ★
The complete series: