Featured Interview With Stella Marie Alden
Tell us a little about yourself. Where were you raised? Where do you live now?
Hi Everyone!
I’m Stella Marie Alden. Actually, that’s my pen name because there was already a romance author using my real name. How did I decide on a new name? I’m a descendant of John Alden who came over to the new world on the Mayflower as a cooper. My middle name is Marie. And when I was trying out first names on my my husband, he responded, “Stttteeeellllllaaaaaa…” in a Brando voice. Done and done.
I grew up in a small city in Vermont but now live about an hour outside of NYC. That was a bit of culture shock, at first, but now I’m pretty immune. I can remember rehearsing my lunch order, as a young woman working in Manhatten, hoping to get it out fast enough, like a Seinfeld soup Nazi episode.
My two girls are in their twenties and incredibly successful. One owns a bar, and the other gives tours in Italy. My editor husband and I live quietly in the burbs with our two adopted cats. He’s studying to get a degree in holistic nutrition. Needless to say, I eat very well.
I have a day job as a software architect, which I love, but do dream of the day when I earn enough as a writer to do it full time.
At what age did you realize your fascination with books? When did you start writing?
My mom took us to the library as babies and read to us every night. Around twelve years old, I started working in the children’s room. The two hundred year old courthouse became my second home. I loved exploring the meeting hall with balcony upstairs and jail cells in the basement. I would often find a book, a corner, and hideout.
Although an avid reader, I didn’t start writing until a couple years ago. I guess I finally had all the right ingredients; time, a good heart, and the desire to tell my stories.
Who are your favorite authors to read? What is your favorite genre to read. Who Inspires you in your writings?
I must say, I love to read any well-written romance. As a kid, I read fairy tales. I crave that happily-ever-after like a crack addict. I love other books as well, but there’s nothing like that inner safety net of knowing what your’re reading will not make you cry at the end, unless with joy.
Who has inspired me most? I always answer with Shakespeare and Tolkien. Who weaves better tales?
Tell us a little about your latest book?
I get up every day at 5:30 AM and write until 8:00AM, pausing only to refill the coffee mug and feed the cats. The story’s dialog comes first, then I go back and fill in the rest, like a virtual coloring book. It takes me about three months to write a book. It takes my publisher another three months to edit it, create a cover, and get it to market.
My latest book is the second in a series but stands alone, as well. In it, my hero is a former Templer knight-turned-merchant with an endearing sense of humor. His wife, despite her efforts, is forced into marriage and seduced by his charm. They must travel together from London to Hadrian’s wall in the late thirteenth century. The road is full of perils and misadventures. During that time, they learn about each other, and fall madly in love.
You can read the blurb, here.: http://www.amazon.com/Marry-Your-Stella-Marie-Alden-ebook/dp/B017KPHKVO
Excerpt:
My lord, your castle awaits to the north and your relatives may be held captive. We must turn back.” The words were spoken by Harold-the-Younger who would be forgiven, just this once, for his impertinence.
“And my wife is missing. Thank you for stating the obvious. If you can’t be more helpful, I suggest your mouth be best used for taking in breath.”
Jacob pointed down the river. “There. What’s that?”
Thomas’ heart sank. A flat bottomed boat lay bobbing upside down against the bank of the river. A woman’s body lay beside it in a pool of blood. He swallowed hard and dug spurs into Demon’s side. His charger tossed his head, snorted, and veered, but Thomas gained control and raced toward the grisly scene.
A dog chewed at a headless mass of flesh and snarled. He kicked the animal away, squatted, and cursed. Pieces of Merry’s bloodied tunic twisted among the innards. He dropped to his knees and shouted with first raised into the air. “Be ye damned forever.” Part of the curse was for whoever had just killed her, the other for God, and lastly for himself.
Assessing the gore was the hardest thing he’d ever done. What was left of the flesh had the length and breadth of his wife. One arm was cleaved at the wrist. His soul refused to acknowledge the scene in front of his eyes and he refused to mourn. Not yet. He’d find the bastard who’d done this to her, cleave him in to small bits, and let the vultures feed.
A horse whinnied behind him and Jacob’s flat voice spoke, “The head is gone.”
“Let me be. I’ll bury her. Alone.” He gathered stones and placed them beside the body.
“It’s way too opportune that the poor woman’s head and hand are missing. I smell a ruse.”
The blackness that threatened to devour his soul wouldn’t let in one ray of hope. “Do as you will. I’ll bury what’s left of her.”
Thomas scoured the flood plain for a sign of her. Was it possible? Crows circled above, but other than that, the land lay bare. All signs and tracks around the body had been swept away. The coward was clever. About a mile beyond, a forest loomed. Perhaps the woman-slayer trembled there.
Having no shovel, but many a stone, Thomas moved the body parts to a central area and covered them. With none to watch, tears came unbidden as he placed the last round stone atop what was left of her body. He gasped for air, knowing not how to go on, but knowing he must for his little son.
“What say you, lass? You were right. Better that I should’ve stayed dead.”
Memories, detecting the flaw in his mail, attacked without mercy. Six years ago, he’d spied her across the room with the devil in her eyes. She’d smiled boldly at him and giggled with her friends. The first time they’d sat together at table, he’d fed her like a baby bird and cut her food. All in the great dining room watched, knowing that in the doing so he’d claimed her.
He recalled that fateful night, when they’d hand-fasted before God. She’d begged him to take her and he’d been too weak to resist completely. He’d promised to come back after trading in London and marry her. How was he to know that Marcus would send him abroad at the king’s request? His soul howled, never to be consoled again.
He sobbed, falling upon his knees, with his hands covering his face.Forgive me. He’d loved with her that night as much as he’d dared. So beautiful her lovely sighs, so bountiful her breasts. She’d opened her legs and accepted his hand until she’d come undone. Mayhap a holier man could have resisted her offerings, but oh no, not him. Nay. He took all but her virginity and remembered how sweet the agony to spew his seed between her legs.
He allowed one more moment of self-pity, planted the final rock upon her grave, and squeezed his eyes as they burned. He apologized for his blasphemy and prayed God to take his angel into heaven and allow him to meet her there anon. First, he would seek revenge and see to the welfare of his son.
His eyes popped open when the grasses rustled in front of him and the ground opened up. A muddy black demon arose with shiny eyes and yellow teeth. Grinning, it exited the hole with a most ordinary sword held high. Then there was naught, but darkness.
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