Take A Peek
Hi, my name is D. V. Stone. I am a multi-genre author who also enjoys reading across genres. On this page you'll meet a great group of writers and get an insider's view into their lives and books. I hope you enjoy this special peek and find new and exciting reads.
A little self promotion before we get to today's special guest. Rock House Grill is in the Rocky Mountain Cover contest. Here's the link https://forms.gle/pjorup1h9WnfWaXC8 The cover artist, Tina Lynn Stout, did an amazing job. Also don't forget to sign up for my Newsletter. https://mailchi.mp/23c28f1b6477/dvstoneauthorcom
Now without further yapping from me, let's 👀 into the life of my guest.
Welcome! Who are all these people peeking in through my window? No matter. I’m pleased to see you. Authors sometimes live rather isolated lives, and that’s especially true these past few months. But if you look through the glass here, and past my lacy curtains, you’ll see I’m not so very different from other folks. My husband and I live in Western New York, in a tiny ranch house (that thinks it’s a country cottage) some ten miles south of Lake Ontario. Nearly half of our four acres is covered by trees that we harvest, since we heat our home exclusively with wood in the winter. No frills, here, and not a lot of conveniences unless you count the internet, which I definitely do. I don’t even have a dishwasher, other than my husband who, since he retired, often performs that chore for me. Oh, and here on the sofa right next to me? You’ll see the center of our world—our rescue dog, Lacy, whom we adopted almost two years ago.
Inspiration. What inspires me? Day to day, it’s the beauties of the world around me. Just look over your shoulder at that gorgeous, wild garden there! I am fortunate to inhabit this little pocket of bliss in the country. I’m always watching the face of nature, be it in the wide, ever-changing skies, the wildflowers that bloom along the road or a glimpse of a mother deer with two fawns heading into the woods. I can hear nature’s voice in the rustling of the trees, or the squeaky violin music they play on a windy day. When it comes to inspiration for my writing, that frequently comes via music also—a song or a phrase I overhear. Most often, it comes when I ask myself the question, “What if?” What if a Viking berserker fell in love with his captive? What if a woman thought she saw her dead husband on a rainy night? What if the characters in fairy tales told their own stories, and defied the old tales we know so well? More than anything, I love answering that question, especially when it challenges me.
Necessities. As you can see by looking around the modest furnishings of this little house, I don’t need much. My computer of course, so I can type up and submit my stories, as well as communicate with my fellow authors and other friends. Electricity and running water are great, but in the past we’ve survived out here without both. Music’s a requirement. I need to hear Jethro Tull while I’m writing Steampunk, and Frifot when I’m consorting with Vikings. At the moment, my stereo is broken so thank goodness for Pandora! These past few months have brought another need to glaring light. Though I’m an inveterate introvert, it turns out I need contact with those I love—to see the face of my sister across a restaurant table, to comfort a colleague with a touch on the arm, to hug my daughter. To hold my new born granddaughter. No, a glimpse of someone on Zoom just isn’t the same. Turns out we’re social creatures after all.
Decisions. When you think about it, our decisions define our lives. Peering through my window, you can see the results of my choices everywhere. Years ago, I decided to purchase mostly brown carpets and furniture, since I had a brown dog at the time. (Call me lazy, go ahead. It’s better than constant vacuuming.) I decided to buy a laptop and so my lap became my office. Though I have a supposed work room, I never work there but station myself on the sofa—it’s near the woodstove, and Lacy can cuddle up next to me. Because we decided to live in the country, my work is punctuated by the passing of rumbling manure trucks, from the dairy farm down the road. Because we value the presence of our animal neighbors as much as the human ones, no one will ever hunt on our land. Moment by moment, you might say our choices create our existence.
Origins. If you look carefully around this little house, you’ll see my origins on display. There are pictures of my Newfoundland ancestors on the wall, and other beloved folks crowding the bookshelves. There’s a throw pillow that says, Newfoundland, my heart…my home. Here, over the sofa, is a huge painting by Edmund Sullivan called Landfall Erin, reflecting my Celtic roots. In this other wall grouping, there are tributes to all my dogs loved and lost—for they are in large part the origins of my patience and ability to love. There are favorite books, that taught me how to write. There are copies of my own books, each of which also taught me something, and carries a piece of my heart.
Wonder. When you come to visit me, bring your sense of wonder. Please leave dispassion and practical discrimination at the door—or window. This is a zone of magic, of the ever-possible, of what may be. Just as the imagination has no limits, neither does this realm have boundaries. When we sit and talk, we may range from far, mystical kingdoms to the brick streets of Steampunk Buffalo, to the depths of Sherwood Forest. Here, you may take off your overcoat, but in its place I would have you don the enchanted cloak of a child who believes, just because it’s so much fun to invest in wholehearted wonder.
My latest release is RapAnn’s All, part of my Fairy Tales Retold series.
Surrendered to a powerful witch at birth, RapAnn doesn't know her parents. When she resists becoming the mistress of a lecherous roué, her guardian imprisons her in a tall tower as punishment. There, she has only the music of her voice and the company of the birds for comfort.
Prince Kenzie, hearing her song, vows to free her, but the tower lies in the grip of the witch's dark magic. Even if their love survives the spell, how can RapAnn, deceived by illusion, ever see the truth in Prince Kenzie's eyes?
Ways to connect with me