Interview with Toni Andrews

Welcome Angel of Mercy author Toni Andrews. Toni hosts the new television show "Too Many Books," that features authors and their books.

Toni, I loved your website. The anecdote about changing focus was great.

What did you find the most difficult about being making this drastic change?

Two things: 1. Not getting a big, whopping paycheck every two weeks and 2. Not working with a team of people on most days.

I expected to have difficulty adjusting to an irregular income, but I don’t think I was aware that spending so much time alone with my computer and my cat would begin to drive me stark, raving crazy after a while. It didn’t help that I also moved from the bustling city of Miami to rural Connecticut , where the closest bar is attached to a miniature golf course and everything is closed about the time I used to go out! I had to look for opportunities to be around other people.

I see youʼre doing a show on public television. Tell us more about it.

The show is called “So Many Books,” and it’s a talk show for and about writers. So far, I’ve arranged to have it appear on stations in Connecticut , Massachusetts , and New Hampshire , and I’m working on other venues.

I like to call it “ Wayne ’s World for Writers.” With better production values.

Readers many not realize how difficult it is for “mid-list” writers – those whose novels are selling well enough in bookstores, but have not yet made it onto the bestseller lists – to get publicity. Contrary to common belief, our publishers do not arrange for appearances, set us up on book tours or get us on the radio and television. So I decided to produce my own TV show!

Public access means that it’s free, but in order to have it appear in an area other than my own, I have to get a local “sponsor.” Usually that person only has to fill out a form, attesting that they live in the broadcast area and that the material they’re submitting isn’t pornographic—which I promise it isn’t! If your readers want to appear in their area, they can contact me through my website: http://www.toniandrews.com/, and I’ll work with them to make it happen.

Also, your readers can always view the latest episode of my TV show by going to my website and clicking on the “So Many Books” link.


Whatʼs your newest title?

My latest title is Angel of Mercy, the second novel in the Mercy Hollings series, about a hypnotherapist with paranormal abilities. Technically, it’s Urban Fantasy, but it’s unique in that I don’t have any supernatural creatures, like demons or vampires. Mercy’s world is pretty normal...except for when it isn’t.

What prompted you to write this genre?

I love movies like The Sixth Sense and TV shows like Medium. Where people are living in an everyday world, but something happens that isn’t quite normal. To me, that’s a lot scarier than monsters because, in the wee dark hours, I can actually believe it could happen.

What is your least favorite genre? Would you ever consider writing it?

I’ll read about anything if the quality is there, but I don’t have much patience for the helpless woman, waiting for the big, strong Alpha male to rescue her and fix her life. My heroines have their own white horses, thank you very much!


All new writers want an agent. How and when did you find one?

I found mine at a writers’ conference sponsored by a local chapter of the Romance Writers of America. When I first started writing, I had a good job and a pretty decent income. I decided that all of my entertainment/vacation budget would go into attending writing conferences, meetings and other events, so that I could immerse myself in that world, meet people, and make contacts. It was the smartest move I ever made.

My first advice to any new writer is to join your local professional organization. I recommend Romance Writers of America, even if you’re writing in another genre—they have the best support and infrastructure for new writers.

Who has helped you the most?

My critique partners have been invaluable. They’re tough and honest, and make me better than I could possibly be on my own.

Do you have a favorite theme? Eg: love conquers all; good vs evil; How do you use it?

I think it would probably be “overcoming your greatest fears.” My novels almost always involve figuring out what my characters’ worst case scenarios are—then doing it to them (insert evil laugh here J).

What have you learned about yourself from your writing?

That I am one lazy b***h.

Seriously, I’ve learned that I need to learn! I was so very good at my corporate job, so comfortable with my skills, that I never felt like “Oh, my God, I have no clue what I’m doing!” Now, every time I hear a talk, attend a workshop, or open a book by a real master, I think, “Damn, can I ever learn to be that good?” For example, I just read James Lee Burke’s latest novel, and the opening paragraph broke every rule ever taught in any book about writing, and it absolutely took my breath away.

I’ve also learned that there’s no such thing as writer’s block. There’s just a lack of focus. When you think you’re blocked, turn off the TV, the email, and the telephone. Ignore your unwashed floor and your pile of laundry. Hire a babysitter, or velcro your toddlers to the wall, take your Alpha Smart and head to the library—do whatever you have to do to eliminate distraction. Then, put your butt in the chair and your hands on the keyboard and WRITE!

Excerpt/

Here’s an excerpt from Cry Mercy, the next book in the Mercy Hollings series, available June 1, 2009 from Mira Books. Readers of the first two books witll know that Mercy was abandoned at birth, then later became a ward of the state when her adoptive parents gave her up. In the following scene, Mercy, who has the ability to compel others to obey her, had driven to Tucson , Arizona to confront Tom and Roberta Hollings, the adoptive parents who had the adoption dissolved when she was eleven.

Note: The following sample consists of uncorrected page proofs. Please not any quotes for review must be checked against the finished work.


The front door was recessed, with one side against the garage, which jutted out a good six feet from the front of the house. An iron grill had been installed and was locked, making it impossible to reach the door to knock. They probably went in and out through the garage, because it didn’t look like the front door was opened very often--withered leaves were blown up against it, adding to the general bleakness. There was a button mounted next to the grill’s hinges, and I pressed it. If it rang a bell or buzzer within, I couldn’t hear it.
I held very still, trying to discern whether there were sounds of movement behind the impenetrable windows. I couldn’t even tell if there were curtains, never mind if someone was pushing them aside. I hesitated, unsure of whether to try the button again. Again, the urge to flee rose hard and strong in my chest. But I’d driven eight hours to be here, and spent at least eight hundred hours talking myself into it.
I pressed it, holding it down for a few second. Wake up, dammit. I considered trying to project my thoughts, but didn’t know how to do it without a familiar target. The Hollings had ceased to be familiar a long time ago.
I considered what I’d do if no one answered the door. The obvious move would be to return to the hotel or find someplace to walk around, then come back later. They had to come home sometime. But I was afraid if I got back into the car I’d drive straight to the I-10 and head west, even with the prospect of a second day under the crushing desert sky to daunt me. As for walking around, it was already at least 85 degrees out, and this was November. What must August be like?
I jumped when the door opened with a sucking noise, as if coming unstuck. It opened maybe ten inches.
“Yes?” The woman’s voice didn’t strike a chord of familiarity, and I could barely make out the figure in the gloom, standing in dazzling sunlight as I was. “What is it?”
“Bobbie, is that you?” I asked.
“Who are you? What do you want?” It wasn’t an answer, but the tone of voice was sharper, and I felt a frisson of recognition. It was Bobbie, all right.
“It’s Mercy,” I said flatly. “Come on out, Bobbie, and let me in.” I resisted the urge to press her, but I would if I had to. The idea was distasteful, for some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
There was an intake of breath, followed by a beat of silence. I expected the door to slam shut, but instead it opened a couple of inches farther. “M-mercy?”
“Yes, Bobbie, Mercy. Are you going to let me in?”
This time the hesitation lasted a little longer. I took a deep breath, ready to command her to open the door, and then she said, “Just a minute. I have to get the key.”
The door closed, and in the silence that followed I could hear my heart beating. Stay calm. Remember to breathe. After a few seconds, the door reopened and Bobbie Hollings stepped into the sunlight.
She was smaller than I remembered, no more than five-feet, four inches. Her hair was dishwater blond and tied back with a rubber band, and I could see a good half-inch of salt and pepper roots as she leaned forward to insert the key in the lock on the iron gate. How old would she be now--fifty eight? Fifty-nine?
The door opened on squeaking hinges, and she stepped aside to let me pass. She didn’t look at me.
I walked through the entryway and into the dim interior beyond. There was a short hallway leading into a small living room. There was a matching chintz sofa and loveseat in a faded rose print, and I only hesitated for a minute before sitting down on the latter. The magazines and full ash tray on the table at the opposite end of the sofa identified her regular seat. I’d forgotten that she smoked. When I was a kid, she’d always gone outside with her cigarettes.
She sat down and looked at me. “I always knew you’d come. I didn’t think it would take this long, though.” Her face was calm, but there was a barely discernible tremor in her voice. I reminded myself that however unsettling this was for me, it had to be worse for her.
The thought didn’t displease me.
“Where Tom?” I asked. Other than her niche on the sofa, the rest of the room didn’t look like it got much use.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ve been divorced for almost twelve years.”
Twelve years? “But his name’s on the title,” I said and, when her eyebrows rose, added, “That’s how I found you. Property search.”
She nodded. “We were going to sell it. You know, split the assets. But he had a good job, didn’t need the equity. The mortgage payments were low, so I took it over.”
Divorced. I hadn’t considered this possibility, even though it seemed obvious now. I had planned what I wanted to say to the two of them. Would Tom’s absence make a difference?
“Do you know where he is?” I asked.
“ Florida somewhere. Tampa , maybe. I get a Christmas card from his sister. Do you remember your Aunt Kate?” I shook my head, and she went on. “She generally jots a note, says if he’s moved or anything.”
She picked up a tooled leather cigarette case from the table and shook a cigarette out of it, put it between her lips and lit it. As she inhaled, I studied the deep vertical lines that transected her lips. She wore no makeup, but I remembered her always applying bright red lipstick before leaving the house. I shuddered at what that would look like now.
“So,” she said, “Why did you come? To tell me to kiss your ass after all these years?” Her tone was hard, bitter. This wasn’t how I remembered her. I thought about what Sukey had said last week in the office and realized that, no, I had no such intention.
“I didn’t come to try to make you feel bad,” I said. This was part of my rehearsed speech. “I do have a few questions about the dissolution of adoption, but that’s only because my memory of the whole thing isn’t very clear.”
She took that in, regarding me through a haze of blue smoke. The place was air conditioned to a degree of frigidity that must have cost her a mint, but the air didn’t seem to move much in this room. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see the ceiling was stained yellow from nicotine.
“Ask your questions, then,” she said. Her tone had lost its harshness, but there was still something unsettling in her expression. Fear, I suddenly realized. She’s afraid of me.
Well, of course she was. I felt like an idiot for not anticipating this. Now, the realization took all the nervous tension out of me like a suddenly deflating tire.
Reservations gone, I pressed her. “Relax, Bobbie. You don’t need to be afraid of me. You can be assured I don’t mean you harm.”
She almost slumped in relief. I wonder if she knew I’d pressed her not to be afraid, the way Madame Mineshtí, a gypsy woman who had met others like me, had immediately recognized the feeling of being compelled. I didn’t think so.
I went on, no longer pressing. “I’ve become interested in trying to find my birth parents. I’m wondering if you have any paperwork or anything relating to the adoption.”
She thought for a moment, unconsciously lighting a new cigarette from the old. “Maybe,” she said finally. “There’s a box in the garage with old records. We--Tom and I--lugged it around for a few moves. I haven’t looked in it in years. I’ll go get it.” She started to rise, but I stilled her with a gesture.
“You can get it before I leave,” I said. “I have a few more questions first.”
She settled back. “Shoot.”
I almost smiled. I had a sudden, vivid picture of a younger Bobbie, the skin on her face unravaged by time and cigarettes, wearing shorts, and serving potato salad at back yard barbecue. A man--a neighbor, maybe--had said “Can I ask you a question, Bobbie?” She’d turned her head, grinning flirtatiously, and said, “Shoot.” I’d thought it clever and cool at the time.
“When you adopted me, did you know where I’d come from? You told me I’d been abandoned. Was that true?”
She winced. “Yes, it was true. I probably could have phrased it better, though.”
“You may have--I don’t really remember. But go on, what do you know?”
“You were in some kind of orphanage run by a church, but they only took care of the babies. They didn’t have anything to do with the actual adoption, which was all done through the state.”
“What church? Where was it?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure--it’s probably in the paperwork. We didn’t go to the orphanage to see you. Once we made it to the top of the list, they showed us pictures, and then a woman who worked for child services--a social worker, I guess she was--brought you to meet us.”
“How old was I?”
“Seven or eight weeks old,” she said. Her face took on a wistful expression. “You were so beautiful. Everyone says that about babies, I know, but you were like some exotic doll. A full head of dark hair and eyes already brown--not a hint of blue, like with a lot of newborns. You didn’t even seem like a real baby. I couldn’t believe you were real, that they’d actually let me keep anything so perfect.”
“She brought me to your house?” My throat was beginning to feel oddly constricted.
“It was an apartment, back then. But yes, they brought you there. You were supposed to stay for a couple of nights before everything was decided. But the moment I saw you, I already knew I was going to keep you.”
“And did you--” I searched for words. This wasn’t going the way I’d planned. I’d grown used to the idea that they’d never loved me. But that wasn’t what I was hearing here, not exactly. “Did you still feel the same way...later?”
She got very still. “I wanted to,” she said, her voice small. “I held you and kissed you and played with you. You never cried, were never a problem. You slept through the night.”
I was hearing an unspoken “but” here. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I kept expecting this--this zing to happen, and all at once I’d really feel like you were mine. My little girl. That we loved each other. I read books. They said some mothers take a while to bond with their baby, even their natural child.”
“And did it? Ever happen, I mean?” I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear her say it.
She looked at me, then away. “No,” she said, finally. “I mean, I was fond of you, and I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. But you’d watch me with those big, brown eyes like you were expecting something, too. Something that never came. I knew some of the other mothers from daycare, and their babies would look at them and just burst into a smile. Like they were connected. I wanted that so bad...” Her voice broke and I looked away, giving her time to collect herself.
“What about Tom?” I asked eventually. “Did he notice anything wrong, do you think?”
She snorted. “Tom? He thought you were some kind of toy, to take out and play with and then put away when he was done. He liked showing you off--you were so pretty and, once you got a little older, so smart. But Tom was old school. Children were the mother’s business. The father was responsible for their financial well-being, making sure they had a roof over their head and a college fund but, beyond that, he didn’t pay much attention to what was going on.”
I nodded. My memories of Bobbie were more vivid than those of Tom, who seemed like a background figure. I waited for her to say more, but she’d apparently come to a stopping point.
“Tell me about having the adoption dissolved,” I said. “When did you start thinking about that?”
She lit another cigarette. “When you started to--get odd.”
“Odd?” I, of course, knew what had been different about me, but only from my own point of view. I wanted to know what it had been like for her.
“I think other people noticed before I did, because I started hearing whispers. From other mothers. They didn’t want their kids to play with you. They were afraid.”
“The mothers?” I hadn’t known this, but it made sense. Certainly the kids had started to be afraid.
“One of your teachers called me, asked for a meeting. But she couldn’t really explain what was wrong, and I got pretty nasty with her.”
“You did?” I was surprised.
Bobbie smiled for the first time since I’d arrived. “I may have had my doubts, but that didn’t mean anyone else was allowed to mess with you. You were my kid, even if it didn’t always feel like it.”
For a moment there, I almost liked her.
“But then something happened that scared the bejesus out of me,” she said, “And I started wondering if what everyone was saying was true.”
I had no memory of a specific incident. “What was it?”
“You were in your room, probably reading. You always had your nose in a book. Anyway, you were supposed to be taking out the trash--we’d given you some chores--and I’d already reminded you once. So I called in and told you to get your butt out there and take out the damned trash.” I nodded, and she went on.
“You didn’t come out, though. You yelled back at me, and said ‘Wait a minute, I’m busy.’ I was really pissed, because you’d been ignoring me, and I was going to march in to your room and yank the book out of your hands. But I couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t?” I echoed. I was pretty sure I knew what she meant.
“Nope. I was rooted to the floor. I couldn’t make my feet move. Not until--” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Not until my minute was up. I was terrified. I ran to the bathroom and shut the door behind me and locked it.”
“I don’t remember.” I was surprised to hear that my voice was almost a whisper.
“No reason for you to,” she said. “It was just a normal eleven-year-old thing for you, not wanting to interrupt your book to do your chores. Afterwards, once I calmed down some, I realized you didn’t even know you’d done it. Whatever it was.”
“Why didn’t you ever ask me about it? I mean, if it was the first time.”
She shook her head vigorously. “But it wasn’t. It was just the first time I noticed.” She stood up, moving toward the kitchen. “You want some water? A coke or something?”
“Water’s fine.” I heard her open cabinets, heard the sound of a refrigerator door opening and closing, of ice cubes clinking and tap water pouring. She returned with two tumblers and handed me one before resuming her seat. She lit another cigarette before continuing. I wondered if she always smoked this much.
“That night I lay in bed awake, and thought about it. Tom was out of town somewhere. I started remembering things. Watching you play with other children. Not that you had a lot of friends, but there were a couple of girls who came around sometimes. Beth or Betsy or something. Her father was a car salesman. And the girl from the next block--I forget her name.”
“Candy,” I said. I remembered her, because she’d been one of the first to stop coming around, once my abilities started to show up with regularity. “Her name was Candy.”
Bobbie nodded. “That’s right, Candy. I remember now. You were out in the back yard, sitting at the picnic table, playing some kind of card game. That other girl, the dark-haired one, I remember she was a real brat. She was trying to cheat or something, and you got pissed off and told her to ‘straighten up.’ She dropped her cards and stood up, straight as a board. She looked like some kind of cartoon character or something.”
“She might have been joking around,” I protested, but I knew better, even if I didn’t really remember.
Bobbie grinned mirthlessly. “She might have been, but she wasn’t. I could see her eyes--she was terrified. She didn’t have a choice. Then you told her to sit back down and ‘play right,’ and she did it, meek as a lamb. I could tell she wanted to bolt home, but she stayed there and played until you said you had to come in to dinner and they could leave. You had to tell her to go a couple of times--she wouldn’t get up and leave until you got a little mad.”
I nodded. This had probably happened well before I figured out that I had some control, albeit shaky, over my ability. I wouldn’t have been able to press someone at will yet--may not have even known why Beth wouldn’t leave, or why she’d finally done so once I got annoyed.
“And I remembered other stuff--the doctor who wouldn’t give you a shot after you told him ‘no.’ He had to bring in a nurse, which seemed strange at the time. Tom backing right down when you didn’t want to help him wash the car.”
“Did Tom know? Later, I mean.”
“Not until I told him. And then he didn’t believe me. At least not until after that boy almost died. You remember.”
The flying leap kid. Yeah, I remembered.
“So that’s when you decided you wanted to try to have the adoption dissolved,” I said, then stopped. Bobbie was shaking her head again.
“No, I never wanted that.”
I was confused. “But you said--”
“I said I thought about having the adoption dissolved. I never wanted to do it.”
“Then why,” I asked, completely perplexed, “Did you go through with it?”
She put out her cigarette and gave me an odd look. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
I shook my head, mystified. “Remember what?”
She sighed. “Look, Mercy, you were no piece of cake. I didn’t know how to love you. Hell, I was even a little afraid of you. But I had no intention of giving you up. Neither did your father--I mean Tom.”
“Then why did you?” I repeated. My pulse was hammering in my eardrums, as if my body was trying to drown out what I was about to hear.
“Because you told us to, Mercy. You told us to get out of your life and leave you alone. You made us do it.”