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The story behind the story

1/7/2019

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Pre-order available on: KINDLE | HARDCOVER | PAPERBACK | AUDIO and in MP3
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​In the summer of 2016, after doing a little research on my family tree, I traveled to Dromahair, Ireland, to see the place where my great-grandfather, Martin Smith, was born and raised. He emigrated to the States as a young man; my nana said he got involved with the local IRB, and his parents sent him to America because they didn’t want him getting into trouble.


I don’t know if that’s true, as Nana has been gone since 2001, but he was born the same year as Michael Collins, in a period of reformation and revolution. Nana had written a few things on the back of a St. Patrick’s Day card one year about her father, my great-grandfather. I knew when he was born, I knew his mother’s name was Anne Gallagher, and his father was Michael Smith. But that’s all I knew. Just like the main character in What The Wind Knows, I went to Dromahair with the hopes of finding them. And I did.

My parents and my older sister took the trip with me, and the first time we saw Lough Gill, my chest burned, and my eyes teared. Every step of the way, it felt like we were being guided and led. Deirdre Fallon, a real-life librarian—libraries never let you down—in Dromahair directed us to the genealogical center in Ballinamore. We were then directed to Ballinagar, a cemetery behind a church in the middle of fields. When I asked how we would find it, I really was told to pray or pull over and ask someone, just like Anne was told to do in this book. I won’t ever forget how it felt to walk up that rise among the stones and find my family.

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6TH ANNUAL MENTAL HEALTH AWARENESS FUNDRAISER

5/1/2018

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Welcome the 6th Annual Mental Health Awareness Month Book Fundraiser benefiting the Keith Milano Memorial Fund at the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. 
For the 6th year, an amazing group of authors have generously agreed to donate a portion of their May sales to the Keith Milano Memorial Fund.  
Here is how you can help raise money and awareness for mental health:
  • You can purchase a book from the amazing books listed here! We hope you will #1click4charity a number of these amazing books! Please note that although the sheet has Amazon Kindle buy links, the portion of sales is from any platform: digital and print.
  • Help Raise Awareness by sharing a photo or short video of why this cause matters to you using #ShareYourWhy via Social Media.
  • Share the image below on social media to raise awareness and to show your support.
  • Make a tax-deductible donation directly to the Keith Milano Memorial Fund at AFSP. You can do a direct donation at http://bit.ly/MilanoFund.

Thank you in advance for your support as we work to bring mental illness out of the darkness.

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The Smallest Part - Prologue reveal

2/1/2018

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​In the end, only three things matter:
How much you loved,
How gently you lived,
And how gracefully you let go
Of things not meant for you.
 

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Prologue
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     It was a big lie. The biggest lie she’d ever told. It reverberated through her head as she said it, ringing eerily, and the girl behind her eyes—the girl who knew the truth—screamed, and her scream echoed along with the lie.
     “Are you in love with Noah, Mercedes?” Cora asked. “I mean . . . I know you love him. You’ve been friends forever. We all have. But are you in love with him?”
     Mercedes had wondered since if her response would have been different had she been facing Cora, looking into her big, blue eyes as she answered the question. She didn’t know if she would have been able to hide the truth from her. Cora knew her too well. But Mercedes had been lying to herself for a long time, and she was good at it. She was the mighty stone-face, the tough chick, the sassy Latina, and Cora loved Noah too. She was in love with Noah.
     So Mercedes lied.
     “Ha! No. Not like that. Never like that. Noah is like my brother. No.” Mercedes heard the lie in the way her accent suddenly appeared when she said “never.” Her r curled, and curled again on “brother,” underlining the falsehoods. Mercedes didn’t speak English at home, but she spoke it fluently, and her accent only reared its ethnic head when she wanted it to. Or when she was full of shit. Mercedes wasn’t selfless. Noah had kissed her, and she had kissed him back. She thought about him constantly. Morning, noon, and night. If it had been anyone else—anyone—she would have stuck out her chest, folded her small arms, and let her feelings be known. She would have claimed him. She would have.
     But it was Cora. Brave, beautiful, broken Cora.

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