Getting Southern With Author Theresa Crater
As a Southern author myself, I always love connecting with other Southern authors. So I'd love you to meet Theresa Crater and learn about her recent book, The Star Family.
What's your favorite
thing about the South?
Grits. Seriously.
When I moved away from North Carolina, where I was born and raised, I
couldn’t get grits. I missed them. Polenta is just not the same.
I love the soft blue
Appalachian Mountains and the Piedmont. I love the riot of color in
the fall, the early spring flowers and roses blooming late.
I also love that
forthrightness of the South. People will tell you what they’re
thinking for the most part. And talking to strangers in public. Down
south, folks don’t stare at you like you’re maybe a bit nuts. In
the South, they talk right back.
How does the South
affect your writing?
I discovered some
fascinating things about my ancestors, the Moravians, who settled
Winston-Salem. My great, great—well, you know—grandfather came
over in 1727. I was raised in the Moravian Church, a small,
progressive Protestant sect, but recently discovered that the mother
of poet and painter William Blake was a Moravian. And—get this—in
the 18th century, they taught sacred sexuality.
Yeah, it stopped me
in my tracks, too. Did anyone tell my grandfather about this, I
wondered? I had to investigate. I discovered they were quite
metaphysical and their teachings way ahead of their time. All this
research turned into The Star Family.
What's your next
writing project?
I have a three-generation Southern Gothic to
write, about the friendship between an older African-American woman
who was born during reconstruction and a woman who hides her Native-American ancestry from her husband. I’m also doing the next book in
my Power Places series, this one set in Egypt.
A secret spiritual group. A recurring dream. A 400-year-old ritual
that must be completed before it is too late.
Jane Frey inherits a
Gothic mansion filled with unexpected treasures. A prophecy claims it
hides an important artifact – the key to an energy grid laid down
by the Founding Fathers themselves. Whoever controls this grid
controls the very centers of world power. Except Jane has no idea
what they’re looking for.
“The Star Family .
. . explores the esoteric aspects of a progressive Protestant sect
called the Moravian Brethren and weaves their history into a
fascinating piece of speculative fiction. What if the Moravians had
continued to observe some of their controversial practices in secret?
What if their rites and music have played a role in withstanding the
malignant forces that threaten to overwhelm modern society? What if
one woman who discovers her true ancestry could oppose dominion of
darkness through music and erotic spirituality? What if a town in
North Carolina holds the key to bringing harmony to the world?
Readers who enjoyed The Historian and The DaVinci Code will enjoy The
Star Family.”
Dr. Craig Atwood,
Moravian College, Director of the
Center for Moravian Studies
Read a sample, then look for more info below:
Prologue
Philip
Martin parked his Porsche in a strip mall in Alexandria several
blocks away from his destination and started walking up the hill. He
preferred the anonymity of a public parking lot. No little old ladies
peeking out through their curtains and calling the police to report
strange cars in the neighborhood. He passed neat brick houses with
tidy postage-stamp yards. Up the hill a few blocks, the houses grew
larger—eighties split-levels with deeper yards and more shrubbery.
Piece of cake to break into. Farther up, the lots expanded to
half-acres and the houses vied for attention. He passed a stone and
glass beauty set in trees, an English Tudor, a Frank Lloyd Wright
wannabe.
He
jogged ahead and waited until a Lincoln Town car arrived at the gate
of the Queen Anne he was headed for. He paused in front of the
neighboring house. The driver leaned out to identify himself to the
security man, and Philip took advantage of this distraction to slip
behind a large box hedge next to the drive. Unnoticed by the man at
the gate, he jumped a small fence and made his way to the side of the
house. He paused and straightened his jacket, wiped his damp shoes on
the mat and tried the kitchen door. It opened and he slipped in.
He
grabbed a couple of crab puffs off a tray and popped them in his
mouth. Then stepped into a hall bathroom, washed his hands and patted
down his hair. He cleaned some mud off his shoes with a hand towel
and tossed it into the cabinet beneath the sink, then slipped into
the front room.
Their
host, Henry Coche, stood in the foyer greeting one of the last
guests, Valentin Knight. Philip stood with his hands behind his back,
not drawing attention to himself by craning his neck and looking
around like some rube. A group milled around the formal living room.
A few were seated, receiving homage from those standing around them.
No hors
d'oeuvres had
been served yet. Those were for later. Philip ran his tongue over his
teeth to clean off any tell-tale bits of food, then took up a
position just to the side of a cluster of people so that he looked as
if he were part of the group. From this vantage point, he surveyed
the room.
The
head of the Grand Lodge of D.C. sat in a high-backed Wedgewood blue
chair near the window, his clipped grey hair neat above a white shirt
and blue tie discreetly decorated with the compass and square. Beside
him stood a senator, the head of an important lobbying group and the
assistant director of an intelligence organization. Across the room
seated on chintz sofas on either side of a marble fireplace, Philip
recognized two other heads of different lodges, each attended by
equally powerful men. No women were present.
The
front door closed and Henry Coche followed his last guest into the
room. Coche stood an easy six feet, his brown hair graying at the
temple. Dressed in a blue, boardroom suit, he was unremarkable in
appearance. But, it would be a serious mistake to underestimate him.
Coche owned the most powerful conglomerate in the world, aside from
the Saudi family, of course.
His
guest, however, did stand out. Elegant and cultured, Valentin Knight
gathered the attention of the room. He wore a designer suit and a
silk ascot decorated with a small winged Isis pattern. His neatly
trimmed hair was a venerable silver. The most revered mystic in
America.
Conversation
stopped and those standing turned to face their host. Coche waited
until every eye was on him, then said, “I am so pleased to have you
all here for this very special evening. I’m sure you have heard
about the recent prophecy.” A few heads nodded. Coche paused and
looked around the room, acknowledging a few of the more eminent
guests.
“Ordinarily,
we would conduct such an event in one of our temples, but discretion
is of the utmost importance, especially if there is any veracity to
these predictions. Our prophet—” he placed a slight emphasis on
the word to suggest this was a question still to be decided “—awaits
us in my private sanctuary.” He stepped aside and extended his arm
toward two young men who turned and began to lead the group through a
corridor and down a flight of steps of polished wood. Lapis blue
carpet runners softened their steps.
On
the bottom floor, Philip followed the group down a long hall of
Italian tile, avoiding notice for now. Nooks held marble statues of
various Egyptian and Greek deities. Philip didn’t know all their
names. They were ushered into a long room, this one tiled in black
and white squares. More statues dotted the sides at intervals. Simple
wooden chairs lined the spaces in between. A flat wooden table stood
in the middle surrounded by three candelabras. At the far end of the
room, steps led up to a raised platform flanked by a black and white
marble pillar on either side. A row of what Philip would describe as
thrones lined the dais. He found a seat near a statue of Venus—this
one he recognized—between two inset lights so his face was in
shadow while the group sorted itself out according to their notions
of who was more important. The heads of the various lodges took their
places on the platform on either side of an elaborately carved chair.
Knight entered last and took this seat. No one wore robes or regalia.
After
a few minutes, Coche came in accompanied by two people, a paunchy
middle-aged man and a young wisp of a fellow, his hair like spun
gold. This man carried something wrapped in dark blue velvet. Coche
called over the two attendants who’d led them to this room,
whispered to one, then gestured for the two guests to join him at the
altar. The paunchy man produced a three-legged silver holder and
placed it on the gleaming wood. The younger one, who Philip had
surmised was the alleged prophet, unwrapped his burden. It turned out
to be a large, perfectly clear crystal ball.
Philip
hid a smile behind his hand. Could they be more stereotypical? But
the others in the room watched these proceedings with serious faces.
Philip turned his attention back to the altar in the middle. The
attendants brought a chair for each of the guests and they settled
near the crystal that reflected the light from the candelabras
surrounding the table.
Coche
walked to the dais, taking the throne next to Knight’s. Valentin
Knight surprised Philip by leading the group in a brief meditation.
He supposed Coche was softening the old man up. Knight asked them
first to relax their muscles, then breathe rhythmically. Philip had
always found these exercises practical, clearing the mind of clutter
while in the field. He’d grown accustomed to doing them regularly.
After a series of energy flows which Philip found rather fanciful,
Knight spoke, his voice soft, but easy to hear with the well-designed
acoustics of the room. “Our guest will go deeper into trance and
tell us what he finds.”
The
young man had scooted his chair up to the altar and now sat with a
hand on either side of the crystal. He peered into the sphere,
occasionally humming vowel sounds. After about two minutes, his eyes
seemed to lose focus. Then, as if an invisible string were attached
to his shirt, his back straightened. The air around him seemed to
glow. He raised his head and looked around. His energy had shifted,
become somehow imperial, commanding, even haughty. Entirely different
from the soft young man who’d started this ritual.
“I
bring you greetings from the White Brotherhood.”
Philip
bit his lip to keep himself from laughing, almost drawing blood.
The
young man frowned at him, even though Phillip knew he’d made no
outward sign. The prophet turned his focus back on Knight. “The
time of the great shift is upon us now, and so it will be in each
power center on the Earth, for the time spoken of has arrived.”
A
shudder passed through the man’s frame. “In the center of the
grid laid down by your ancestors lies an eight-petaled figure, just
as there is another where the lost treasure is kept. There are those
who would control it to stop the feeding of the grid. This will block
your leadership from the new guidance.”
The
young man paused and cocked his head as if listening, but said no
more.
What
the fuck does that mean? Philip
thought. Weird
syntax and vague generalizations anyone could interpret to fit their
preconceived ideas.
The
young man slumped as if he’d run a long race. The paunchy assistant
leaned over to steady him so he wouldn’t slip out of his chair. A
stir rustled through the group. They glanced around at each other,
some perplexed, some obviously in awe, but no one broke protocol.
They remained silent. Eventually all eyes returned to Knight, who
made a curious gesture in the air, then said, “We thank you for
your message, Lodge of the White Brotherhood.” He seemed perfectly
serious. “Is this all?”
The
young man remained slumped in his chair. His assistant leaned over
and whispered something in his ear. The prophet shook his head and
his assistant stood and intoned in a sanctimonious voice, “The
White Brotherhood has concluded its message.”
They
might as well have said nothing in Philip’s opinion, but he wasn’t
paid for that. He was paid for action. He’d receive his
instructions later. At least he’d enjoyed some excellent crab
puffs.
The
assistant wrapped an arm around the prophet, tucking a hand under the
other’s arm pit, and lifted him from the chair with an audible
grunt. Philip drew back at the sound. The paunchy man led the prophet
from the room, leaving behind his crystal ball, silver stand and a
length of blue velvet. So they weren’t departing yet.
Philip
waited for the buzz of conversation that usually followed group
events so he could slip out and wait in an empty room, but it never
came. Instead they all rose, allowing their dignitaries to walk out
first, then followed in single file. Philip blended in as best he
could. Each man seemed absorbed in his own thoughts about the display
they’d just witnessed. Halfway down the hallway, the group began to
break into clusters, talking amongst themselves.
Philip
slipped into a dark bedroom farther down and waited for the group to
move on. After a few minutes, the hallway grew silent. Now he could
sneak out. Just as he reached for the door, it opened inward. He
stepped back into the relative darkness deeper in the room. The light
switched on and two table lamps on either side of the bed illumined
his hiding place.
One
of the young attendants who’d led them into the temple stood facing
him. “Mr. Coche asked that you wait for him in the library.”
The
attendant stepped aside and gestured toward the door, then walked
beside Philip up the steps. The buzz of conversation and clink of
dishes grew louder. To his relief, the assistant turned a sharp left
and they climbed another flight, leaving the group behind to
speculate about what the White Brotherhood’s message meant.
The
assistant opened one of a set of double doors and stood aside. Philip
entered a large library filled with leather bound volumes, the
classics, English and American literature, gleaming and untouched by
the look of them.
“May
I get you some refreshment?”
Philip
started to say no, but then thought he’d like some time alone
here—to pick the lock in the desk across the room. “Please. I
missed dinner.”
The
attendant stepped to the door and pushed a button in a panel on the
wall, spoke into it, then stood back. “Your food will be up
shortly.”
“Thank
you.” Philip hid his disappointment. “How long have you worked
for Mr. Coche?”
The
man paused a moment, then said, “My orders are to wait with you.
I’m afraid I’m not to answer any questions.” He inclined his
head apologetically.
“I
see.” Philip studied him a moment. “Mind if I look around?”
His
guardian extended a hand in invitation. “Please.”
On
the wall across from the bookshelves hung a painting that depicted a
winding stair with elegant, rather Art Deco looking women who carried
pitchers and platters upwards. Two angels descended with books, their
heads bent in conversation. Higher up more women walked hand in hand.
The blue stars at the bottom gave way to gold, then a round disc with
rays. He leaned forward and found a plaque—Jacob’s
Ladder
by William Blake.
Philip
moved to the first shelf and started reading titles. Biographies of
political leaders, political commentary—these spines seemed to have
been bent at least once. He took one down at random and found a
signature on the title page. “Thanks for everything, George W.”
Before
he could scan another shelf, his food arrived and he sat in one of
the chairs and made a show of eating with relish. “Eat when you
can,” his father had told him many times during his spare
childhood. “You never know where your next meal is coming from.”
Philip worked out enough that he didn’t need to worry about
occasional rich food, so he downed more crab puffs, spicy tuna sushi,
beef sandwich wedges, vegetables and cheese on fancy crackers. He
washed it all down with an excellent red wine. He’d have to ask the
vintage. Just as he sat back and the assistant took his tray, the
door opened and Henry Coche walked in.
“I
was finally able to get away.”
Philip
stood.
Coche
nodded at the assistant, who left, closing the door behind him.
Philip didn’t hear any more footsteps, so he assumed the man had
taken up his station just outside. Coche sat in the chair across from
Philip and gestured for him to sit back down. “I wanted you to
observe the event tonight and see who was involved.”
Philip
sat up a little straighter. “I noted the more important guests.
Would you be willing to give me the full roster?”
Coche
hesitated a second before agreeing. “We need to figure out what
this prophet means by the eight-sided figure, but what I want you to
focus on first is finding the painting.”
“You
think the treasure he mentioned is a lost painting?”
“We
think there’s a connection.”
Philip
stopped himself from shifting in his chair. He didn’t want to
telegraph his attitude. “The comments were quite vague. Do you have
any more details?”
“We
have reason to believe that the lost painting is one by William
Blake.”
Philip
glanced at the one hanging above the mantel.
Coche
smiled. “Yes, another Blake.”
“How
did you reach this conclusion? Are you sure you aren’t letting your
own taste affect your judgment?”
“From
other sessions, plus historical records. A few groups in North
America had contact with William Blake and his family.”
“And
you think the message is referring to this continent?”
“Nobody’s
certain, but the plan is to investigate possibilities close to home
before extending the search.”
“And
the grid? Any thoughts on that?”
Coche
pointed to the bookshelves farther along the wall. “Lots of people
have written about energy grids being laid down before buildings were
started. More grids are supposed to exist around the world, but we
think these messages are aimed at the U.S.”
Coche
reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. “About the
painting. The occupant of this house has family ties back to Blake.
She might have originals. We—I want you to start here. Then we’ll
focus on the grid problem.”
Philip
wondered briefly the identity of this ‘we’. He’d find out. He
took the slip of paper and glanced at it. He kept his expression
neutral, concealing his surprise. Definitely not a place he’d been
expecting.
Get The Star Family here, along with how to connect with Theresa!
Purchase links: www.crystalstarpublishing.com
Smashwords--https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/367671
Website –
http://theresacrater.com
Thanks for stopping by!
I love this book...it's fascinating! Great interview...and applause for forthrightness!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for stopping by, Cynthia!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for stopping by, Cynthia!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for stopping by, Cynthia!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Cynthia. And thanks to Bella for hosting me. (Finally got my comments to post!) Happy Halloween, everyone.
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