Publisher: Create Space (April 16, 2014)
ISBN: 978-1497532731
Category: Fantasy, Magic, Fairytale
Tour Date: October, 2014
Available in: Print & ebook, 180 Pages
"When you die, your spirit wakes in the north, in the City of the Dead. There, you wander the cold until one of your living loved ones finds you, says "Goodbye," and Sends you to the next world.
After her parents die, 12-year-old Sophie refuses to release their spirits. Instead, she resolves to travel to the City of the Dead to bring her mother and father's spirits back home with her.
Taking the long pilgrimage north with her gruff & distant grandmother-by train, by foot, by boat; over ruined mountains and plains and oceans-Sophie struggles to return what death stole from her. Yet the journey offers her many hard, unexpected lessons-what to hold on to, when to let go, and who she must truly bring back to life."
Excerpt
CHAPTER
23
GLASS
Sophie gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the
heavy darkness hanging
in the air outside the boarding house. She saw
figures lying on the
ground beside her, travelers who couldn’t fit
inside the boarding house,
now
sleeping against the building or the building’s steps, coats laid over their
bodies
like blankets.
She
looked away from these unmoving bodies and across the courtyard, up
to
the road where the supply trucks lay and the sound of competition rose. The
rough-looking
men who had previously loaded and unloaded those trucks now
sat
in front of their vehicles in a circle, lit by harsh, humming electric
lanterns.
The
men crowded tight and Sophie saw them sitting still and occasionally
exploding
in sound and motion and yells at each other, but otherwise she
couldn’t
see what they were up to.
Sophie
smiled at each of these outbursts and inched her way forward into
the
dark courtyard, slowly and quietly, attempting to maneuver close enough
to
see what games the men were playing without anyone noticing she was there.
She
crept closer and closer and closer still, until there was a sharp crackling
sound
beneath her foot. She paused in place. The men looked up. They turned
towards
her. Sophie stood still, paralyzed. She didn’t dare speak a word as she
watched
their eyes glinting towards her. Hard eyes darkly set in craggy faces
made
even sharper from the lanterns spilling over their features.
One of the men squinted and called to the group,
“It’s just a little girl…”
Another
thick voice called out, “How little?”
The first face squinted harder and replied, “Too
little.”
The men laughed loudly. One of the men stood and
stepped out of the
circle towards Sophie and called back to the
others, “Let’s see what she wants.”
Sophie’s heart sped up and she found her feet
once more and turned to run.
She’d taken only a few steps before the man
rushed towards her and grabbed
her with an arm like iron and hoisted her small
frame against his side. Sophie
thrashed against him but he squeezed a little
tighter and she went quiet as
she realized this man could easily pinch her in
half if he so desired. His voice
boomed down to her and she felt it rumble deep in
his chest and through her
body. “We don’t like little thieves too much. That’s
why we set up the glass, to
catch sneaky little thieves like you.”
As the man carried her towards the humming
lights, Sophie looked down
at the ground and saw a thin, glinting ring of
crushed glass shards surrounding
the small supply camp.
The camp fell silent. Too silent, Sophie worried,
as the man brought
her into their circle and set her down on the
ground in the middle, beside
a short crate.
Sophie sat up and looked around. The rough men
surrounded her. They
stared down at her with stern eyes and hard-set
mouths. She turned her head
this way and that, but there was no break in this
noose of men, no escape to
be found. She sat back and waited. One of the
men’s voices grunted out from
behind her.
“She’s a gypsy kid.”
Sophie
turned to look at who spoke, but when she swiveled she only saw
closed
faces. A new voice called out from her right side.
“No
she’s not, look at her. Doesn’t look like any gypsy kid to me.”
Another
voice, now from her left.
“She
came down from the mountains. She was going to steal something.”
Sophie
whipped again, and again a new voice called out from behind her.
“No
she didn’t. She came from the boarding house.”
Sophie
turned again, and again a voice called from her side.
“Just
some dumb kid.”
Sophie
turned.
“Too
dumb.”
Sophie’s
stomach gave out with those words and she curled her legs up and
against
her body and looked down at the dry and dusty ground as the men
debated
around her.
“Ah,
look. We’ve scared her.”
“We’re
being rough with her.”
“Let’s just let her go.”
“She’s
a thief !”
“She
didn’t take anything.”
“She
knows about the glass now, she’ll come back later.”
“She
won’t come back.”
“She
won’t come back if we don’t let her leave.”
A deep voice called out to the rest of the men,
“Knock it off already.”
A
rough hand pushed against Sophie’s back, and the deep-voiced man
called
down to her, “Wake up kid. Get out of here. Mommy and daddy are
gonna
miss you.”
Sophie’s
fear and anger shot up inside her and snapped at the mention of
her parents, and she spun around and swung and
fiercely slapped the man
who
had touched her.
Time
stopped as the man she hit looked down at her. He appeared carved
from
oak and his face twisted in shock and surprise. The blood drained from
her
face. She knew those men really would kill her now, and she heard the
circle
around her crack apart with shattering noise.
For
a moment Sophie could only hear the thunder of men’s voices. She
could
feel their calls and their cries and the knives in their voices. She resigned
herself
to their violence.
Yet not a finger fell on Sophie’s frail body, and
as her breathing tempered
once
more and she looked about her, she saw the men weren’t shouting at her;
they
were laughing.
She
looked up and turned her head around her and saw that every man
was
doubled over or pulled back with hard humor. Their faces split open with
grins
and drunken glee as they cackled and pointed at Sophie and the redfaced
man
she had slapped. Even that man’s mouth split open with a massive
grin
as he sat back onto the ground and placed a meaty, calloused palm on
Sophie’s
shoulder and spoke down to her with vinegar breath, “Kid…. you’ve
Interview
Where are
you from?
I grew up in Upstate NY, in
Albany. I went to school in central PA, bounced around for a few years, and
then settled down in NYC, where I currently live.
Tell us
your latest news?
Nothing to report. Currently working hard, but I prefer to not talk about projects until they’re complete.
Nothing to report. Currently working hard, but I prefer to not talk about projects until they’re complete.
When and
why did you begin writing?
I began putting together stories when I was about 5 years old. I’m not sure when I started actually writing them out, but it was also at a young age.
I began putting together stories when I was about 5 years old. I’m not sure when I started actually writing them out, but it was also at a young age.
In short: I’ve been writing my
whole life. It’s instinctual, something I just do naturally, and I feel it’s
something I have to do. For me it’s up there with food, water, and air.
When did
you first consider yourself a writer?
I still don’t consider myself a writer. I just tell stories, and writing is a component of that. I only really began to identify as a “writer”—and began to call myself one—when I started to write professionally. It’s easy shorthand, but I’m not as concerned with the label as other people are.
What inspired you to write your first book?
You know how it is—you get a feeling and a story inside you and it just has to come out.
Do you have a specific writing style?
I feel people shouldn’t think too much about their own style. Doing so intellectualizes the whole process, and I feel writing has to come from an instinctual, emotional, physical place. Writing isn’t like designing a washing machine. You don’t sit down and set a crisp, practical intention of what you’re going to write, how you’re going to write it, and what the clearly-defined outcome of the writing process will be. You just write and see what comes through you.
I still don’t consider myself a writer. I just tell stories, and writing is a component of that. I only really began to identify as a “writer”—and began to call myself one—when I started to write professionally. It’s easy shorthand, but I’m not as concerned with the label as other people are.
What inspired you to write your first book?
You know how it is—you get a feeling and a story inside you and it just has to come out.
Do you have a specific writing style?
I feel people shouldn’t think too much about their own style. Doing so intellectualizes the whole process, and I feel writing has to come from an instinctual, emotional, physical place. Writing isn’t like designing a washing machine. You don’t sit down and set a crisp, practical intention of what you’re going to write, how you’re going to write it, and what the clearly-defined outcome of the writing process will be. You just write and see what comes through you.
How did you come up with the title?
From one of my beta readers, actually. I had a working title that I wasn’t entirely happy with, and which none of my beta readers felt was a clear telling of what the book was about. So I toyed with a lot of different title ideas as I worked through drafts of the book, and eventually one of my beta readers—a poetic person himself—inspired the title with a comment he made.
In summing the book and his
experience with it, he noted the book was about how Sophie herself—and not her
parents—was the one who had to return to life. I felt that was a lovely way of
summing it all up, and I stuck it in as the title for the following draft. The
next rounds of beta readers responded to the title, and I liked it more and
more every day, so it stuck, and it continues to feel right and to resonate
with readers.
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
I hesitate to assign a specific message to the novel. Not because it’s message-less, or post modern or anything like that. It’s a fairly straightforward story. But rather, I want to leave room for readers to have their own responses and to find the message in the book that resonates with them and them alone.
Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
I hesitate to assign a specific message to the novel. Not because it’s message-less, or post modern or anything like that. It’s a fairly straightforward story. But rather, I want to leave room for readers to have their own responses and to find the message in the book that resonates with them and them alone.
So even though I can clearly say “The
book is about love and loss, and how we can live in a world filled with both”,
I’ll leave it up to readers to figure out what, exactly, that has to do with
their own life.
How much of the book is realistic?
The feelings, the emotions, the intentions of the characters… all of these are realistic.
When I think about what’s
“realistic” in fiction, especially fiction that has fantastical elements like
my book, I remember how Philip Pullman talked about the His Dark Materials
series he wrote. Those books, start to finish, are filled with high fantasy elements.
But he says the books are stark realism. He feels the psychology of his
characters is realistic, and the themes he deals with are concrete, grounded,
real-world human themes—even if there are talking polar bears and witches in
the milieu.
As Pullman says about his books:
“The fantasy is there to support and embody” the very human themes. The fantasy
isn’t there “for its own sake.”
I approach fantasy and reality in
my book the same way.
Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
They’re based on my own emotional experiences. I dove into my feelings of love and loss, and this book came out. So the book is highly personal for me, and putting it out there makes me feel exposed, even though the book clearly isn’t biographical—auto or otherwise.
What books have most influenced your life most?
I couldn’t say. Thinking too much about your influences isn’t a good idea. You become the centipede who forgets how to dance the second he becomes conscious of his hundred feet.
If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?
Lived experience is the best mentor a writer could have.
What book are you reading now?
Lately I’ve been reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius every morning. I’ve reread this book many times over the last few years, and it helps me get through the good and the bad. What more could you ask from a book?
Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?
I’m sure there are many wonderful new authors out there, but I don’t know about any of them. I write a lot more than I read.
What are your current projects?
I’m doing a lot more script writing than book writing at the moment. Beyond that I won’t say. It’s bad luck to talk about projects you’re working on. At the least, it’s a waste of time. Anything I say now could be untrue by the time the work is done. You don’t really know what a project IS until it’s complete.
What
would you like my readers to know?
That life is a good thing and you’re going to be ok.
That life is a good thing and you’re going to be ok.
About Craig Staufenberg:
Craig Staufenberg is a writer and filmmaker living in NYC.
Website: http://craigstaufenberg.com/
My review:
I just finished reading The Girl Who Came Back to Life by Craig Staufenberg. It is a sad story that starts for a little girl named Sophie when finds herself an orphan when her parents die. She really believes that she came bring them back so she sets off on journey. This novel is about a little girl and her struggle to deal with her loss. She decides that there is nothing that she can do. I give this book a 4/5. I was given this book for the purpose of a review and all opinions are my own.
Thanks for taking part in the tour and hosting Craig.
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