The Story Behind the Story with Arts NB's Literary Art's Award Laureate and Author Valerie Sherrard of Miramichi, NB, Canada

 

We are beyond happy to have Valerie join us once more.

Valerie is the recipient of the prestigious Lieutenant Governor’s Award for high achievements in the Arts. 2024 Literary Arts Awards Laureate.

Her dedication to the art of writing is an inspiration for all of us.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

She is visiting today to share the SBTS of her newest novel.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

I’ve been writing books for young people for a couple dozen years now. I started writing seriously in my early forties, though I’d always wanted to create books. Having worked with young people for years, it was a natural choice to write for children and teens. I enjoy producing work for all ages, from picture books for young children, to young adult for teens, but my ‘sweet spot’ is middle grade. To date I’ve had 34 books published. I chose the traditional publishing route as that felt like the best path for me, and I’ve been happy with the results.

This year, I was thrilled to be honoured with this province’s Lieutenant Governor Award for High Achievement in Literary Arts.

Today I’m introducing my latest young adult novel – about which Kirkus reviews says: ““[The] first-person narration will ensnare readers immediately, sustaining their interest as this compact, strongly paced story navigates red herrings and subplots. … A fast-paced page-turner that explores moral gray areas.”

 

Title: An Unbalanced Force

 

Synopsis:

Ethan Granger isn’t sure what his father does for work, just that it’s lucrative enough to support their family’s privileged lifestyle, and that it often requires him to go out of town for business.

When Ethan catches his dad in a lie, it raises unsettling questions he can’t ignore.  Before long, this seemingly small fib reveals a clandestine and potentially illegal operation he’s been keeping from the family. Ironically, Ethan uses all the deceitful tricks his father taught him to find out the truth.

Hiring a private eye, sneaking into his father’s office, following him on his “business trips” — how far will Ethan go to expose his dad’s lies? What if the truth forces Ethan to make a choice that could throw his whole world off balance?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

This is one of my novels that grew from an idea for a title. Taken from Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, the phrase An Unbalanced Force drew me. While it generally relates to objects, I thought it would be interesting if applied to situations. In this story, the main character is faced with a decision that could create an unbalanced force that impacts his whole world.

 

 

Website: please go HERE.

Link to Valerie’s Arts NB  Award.

Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Valerie:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat? 

Valerie: I do most of my writing in my office – a small and somewhat crowded room off the kitchen. I prefer coffee and quiet while I write but welcome the sights and sounds that come from a bird feeder that hangs just outside my window. It’s a cozy arrangement, except for one thing!

My desk possesses a magnetic force for attracting clutter. This force is powerful enough to overcome all efforts to keep it tidy. I often come into my office in the morning expecting a nice, organized workspace, only to find there’s been an overnight accumulation of chaos.

 

Excerpt from An Unbalanced Force:

 

Chapter One: Ten Years Ago

 

When I was seven years old, my father saved me from certain death.

That is a truth that lives in me. It forms itself into the shapes and colors of my world, and rises with me every morning, as faithful as the sun.

I am here today, and not reduced to what is politely referred to as “remains” because of my dad.

For a number of years after that day, I had a great need to hear the details again and again. Often, I coaxed the story from my mother while she cooked dinner or folded clothes or when the two of us were running errands in the car.

There was something about hearing it told to me—something about the story itself that seemed strangely solid, as though it was a trophy I could display on a shelf. How or why words formed themselves into a kind of possession I can’t explain. They just did.  

 “You had just turned seven,” my mother would begin. And then, without fail, she would pause.

I wonder, looking back, what those pauses meant. It may be that she was giving me time to transport myself to that day in memory. Or, perhaps those few seconds were for her—a chance to steel herself against the emotions she was about to relive.

“We were living in the south end of the city,” she would say when she was ready to continue. “You remember the place, Ethan—the beige two-story house with white shutters at the windows. Your room was blue with beautiful white clouds painted around the top of the walls. The previous tenants left it that way and you never wanted us to change it.”

I have vivid memories of those clouds. As night fell, they seemed to swell and billow in the dancing shadows cast by a nearby streetlight. They weren’t part of the story, but Mom had her own way of telling it, and I never tried to hurry her.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the yard by yourself. Not ever.”

Sometimes Mom would look at me then. Look right into my eyes, as if she needed to reassure herself that I was actually there, that my disobedience hadn’t stolen me from her. Other times, she’d hurry on to the next part.

“And of all the places you could have wandered off to, you decided to make your way to the only empty house on the block.”

That big old empty house was like a seven-year-old-boy magnet. I’d discovered the place not long after we’d moved to that neighborhood and had already been there more times than I could remember.

“I don’t know what could have possessed you to do such a thing, but you actually went into the house!”

Reproach has crept into her voice at this point of the story and I’m not one hundred percent sure it’s all for me. Has Mom really never considered that I had probably been on the vacated property lots of other times?

Maybe not. To get there, she’d have to admit she was a stay-at-home mother who often had no idea where her kid was.

And then she’d tell the rest of the story—as she knew it. Mom’s version was soft and gentle, free of the terror of that afternoon. I wrapped it around mine like a bandage.

But half accounts will not do today. 

The empty house was faded brick, a tired looking place. In the heat of the summer it had a stillness that other homes—homes that are lived in, did not. That stillness gave it an air of mystery. It summoned me with its breathless, heavy silence.

It drew me in.

The windows on the lower levels were loosely boarded up, with spider-webs and bits of leaves and such in between the wooden slats that had been hammered in place. Whoever had nailed the boards on hadn’t taken many pains at the job. Otherwise, it’s doubtful the fingers of a seven-year-old boy could have pried off the single slat of wood that half-heartedly covered a small basement window at the back of the house.

Brushing aside the detritus I pushed my face close to the pane of glass and squinted through the film of grime that covered it. Except for a hulking shape I later discovered was the furnace, the basement was nothing more than a dark haze from where I squatted.

Oh, but it promised more if I could get myself onto the other side of that pane of glass.

The window was an old aluminum slider, seized up with dirt and inactivity. It moved an inch or two in response to my tugs and then refused to budge any further. I pulled and strained to no avail and was close to giving up a few times but the prize of getting into the house kept me going.

And then, quite to my surprise, the window yielded with a sideways jerk. Seconds later, with my heart nearly bursting, I had dropped to the floor inside and was tiptoeing through the deep grey shadows. The air smelled like dirty socks and swamp water and something sharp I couldn’t identify.

A quick scan of the room told me there was nothing worth exploring down there so I made my way up to the main floor, relieved to find the door at the top of the steps unlocked. There wasn’t much more on that level than there’d been downstairs—an old sideboard and a tall child’s chair with fold-out steps, which saved the day when I was ready to leave and found I needed something to climb on to reach the window I’d come in. The final object downstairs was a cracked mirror leaning against a wall in an open hallway closet.

I went from room to room. I walked around the perimeter of each one. As I moved about, a peculiar feeling grew in me which I can only describe as a sense of ownership. This feeling gained strength and seemed more real with each subsequent visit. I reveled in the thrill that I was alone and no one knew where I was.

I was in my house.

On the day of the incident—which happened after at least half a dozen visits there, I discovered the purpose of a pole that had been left in an upstairs bedroom closet. It was a plain wooden pole except for a metal hook on one end and I’d taken to carrying it with me, sometimes thumping it on the floor as I walked around, other times brandishing it like a sword.

On this particular foray I’d been exploring upstairs when I noticed, for the first time, a framed rectangle on the ceiling of the second floor hallway. I knew it had to be a passage to the attic and quickly realized the pole was the key to opening it. I fetched it and spent the next few minutes poking the pole’s hook at a metal loop until, suddenly, it took hold and a drop-down ladder descended.

For several seconds I could do nothing but stand and stare, trying to take in the incredible luck of finding a way to expand my explorations.

Then I climbed up and into the attic. There wasn’t the slightest chance that I could have done anything else.

 Thank you for being our guest this week. Congratulations on your recent Award.

We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

 

And another HUGE thank you to all our visitors and readers.