Successful New York editor, Jen Gibbs, is at the top of her game with her new position at Vida House Publishing -- until a mysterious manuscript from an old slush pile appears on her desk. Turning the pages, Jen finds herself drawn into the life of Sarra, a mixed-race Melungeon girl trapped by dangerous men in the turn of the century Appalachia. A risky hunch may lead to The Story Keeper's hidden origins and its unknown author, but when the trail turns toward the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a place Jen thought she'd left behind forever, the price of a blockbuster next book deal may be higher than she's willing to pay.
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Praise for The Story Keeper:
"Not since To Kill a Mockingbird has a story impacted me like this." -- COLLEEN COBLE, USA Today bestselling author of Seagrass Pier
Wingate is, quite simply, a master storyteller. Her story-within-a-story, penned with a fine, expressive style, will captivate writers and non-writers alike. -- Booklist
The Wonder Years of Story
I grew up during a shift in American
culture. My earliest memories are of that Wonder
Years generation, when life was a little slower, more innocent in some
intangible way. In the back of my mind, I see neighborhoods of average
one-story, three-bedroom, one-income houses, where you came and went through
back door, just like Ethel does on I Love
Lucy. Every house had a mom in it, and if you were hungry she fed you, and
if you were thirsty she gave you a drink. If it was summer, she probably made
popsicles with an ice cube tray and toothpicks, or those old Tupperware Popsicle
makers–in which case, you had to be sure to bring back the stick, or you didn’t
get any more popsicles at that house. Moms had saved up their Green Stamps for
that Tupperware, after all. Remember Green Stamps?
So many things aren’t the way they
were just a scant few decades ago. So many of the daily activities that once
required face-to-face human conversation can now be accomplished with no
interpersonal exchange whatsoever. Shopping is a case in point. When I was a
kid, a trip to town was something to look forward to. Even stopping for gas was
a thrill.
We kids were always filled with
giddy anticipation when we pulled into the corner Texaco. Bill the Texaco man
knew every car and every kid within a twenty-mile radius. He was the first man
I fell in love with, other than my daddy. Bill carried lollipops in his pocket,
and at the time, that seemed like a reason to offer my everlasting affection.
The man could tell a great story, too. When I was a kid, stories were
everywhere, like fruit hanging on low-growing branches, ripe for the picking.
People told them in passing at checkout counters, at gas stations while
windshields were washed and oil was checked, in the carpool line while moms
waited for kids to exit the school, and at the post office as packages were
being mailed.
We heard stories, pretended stories,
we imagined stories, we played
stories. No one had to tell us kids how to make up a story. We simply did it
naturally. The air around us seemed to be filled with stories.
Sometimes I wonder if the past was
really as good as I remember it being, or if, like first loves and favorite
days at Grandma’s house, those bygone days take on the pearlescent sheen of
memory, seeming a little grander than they were. When I was young, we kids
spent our time roaming the neighborhood, scaring up games of tag and touch
football, and building fantabulous forts from scrap lumber. As long as we were
home by the time the streetlights came on, no one worried about us. We had a
kind of freedom kids don’t have today. We had space to be and to pretend, to
create and to wander. We had no concept of private property rights. Any tree
was ours to climb, and every field was crisscrossed with bike trails. Yards
weren’t fenced with tall privacy fences. Most yards weren’t fenced at all. We
had grand names for every patch of woods—titles like “Sherwood Forest,” and
“Peaceful Forest,” and “The Hundred Acre Wood,” which was actually about
three-quarters of an acre, I think. Every kid in the neighborhood knew which
forest was which.
At least once a week, we’d pack a
backpack and journey down the creek behind our house. It wasn’t much more than
a muddy ditch, but in our minds, it was every river from the Nile to the
Amazon. We built dugouts on the banks and bridges across our favorite swimming
holes. We hauled our toys down to the sandbars to play. We were Indians,
mermaids, Tarzan, Zorro, and Swiss Family Robinson… without the parents. When
we went on our excursions, and we traveled for hours, until we were sure we
were miles from home. We imagined countless stories. We lived them, journeying
until all the familiar neighborhood sounds were gone, until we were far enough
away that we worried about whether we’d ever find our way back before we
starved to death or were eaten by lions, attacked by hostiles, captured by
banditos. Then, we’d hear someone’s mother sending out the supper call, and
we’d climb out of the creek banks, and realize we were still in a neighbor’s
backyard.
I love thinking back to those days,
remembering the things we looked forward to—little wonders like jars of
lightning bugs in summer and testing out the ice on nearby farm ponds in winter
to see if we could make our own ice skating rink. But, above all, we looked
forward to the stories, both real and make-believe, both heard and told, both
seen and imagined.
I worry that these days our stories
are being lost, that in our rush to do more, move faster, communicate in sound
bites, we’re losing the underlying fabric of who we are. Our stories matter.
Our stories teach. Our stories entertain.
Most importantly, our stories
connect us to one another.
We need those human connections –
not cyber-connections, or text connections, or connections formed in a hundred
characters or less… but connections with real
characters--the human kind. If you know a few, gather up the young people in
your life and go visit. If you don’t know any, take a little time to look
around. You’ll still find some here and there, looking for listeners ready to
drink in a good tale. Sit long, listen
much. A story is not only a gift, it’s a legacy.
An inheritance that gives, and
gives, and gives each time it’s told and told again.
-- Lisa Wingate is the international bestselling author of over twenty
novels. Her latest offering, The Story Keeper, follows the journey of a New York editor who discovers a mysterious
untold story on an old slush pile of manuscripts. Through Lisa’s weblog,
TheUntoldStory.Guru, untold stories, both personally discovered and submitted
by others, are preserved for future generations. More about Lisa can be found at
www.LisaWingate.com or at TheUntoldStory.Guru
Selected among Booklist’s Top 10 for two consecutive years, Lisa Wingate skillfully
weaves lyrical writing and unforgettable settings with elements of traditional Southern
storytelling, history, and mystery to create novels that Publisher's Weekly calls
"Masterful" and Library Journal refers to as "A good option for fans of Nicholas Sparks
and Mary Alice Monroe."
Lisa is a journalist, an inspirational speaker, and the author of twenty-five novels. She
is a seven-time ACFW Carol Award nominee, a multiple Christy Award nominee, a twotime
Carol Award winner, and a 2015 RT Booklovers Magazine Reviewer’s Choice
Award Winner for mystery/suspense. Recently, the group Americans for More Civility, a
kindness watchdog organization, selected Lisa along with Bill Ford, Camille Cosby, and
six others as recipients of the National Civies Award, which celebrates public figures
who work to promote greater kindness and civility in American life. Booklist summed up
her work by saying, “Lisa Wingate is, quite simply, a master storyteller.” More
information about her novels can be found at www.lisawingate.com.
More about Lisa can be found on her
She can also be found online at:
