Talking with author Lilas Taha...
As an
author, what scares me the most?
As an author, I fear falling in the trap of writing to
please an audience. I want to write what I want, and hopefully find the right
audience who would read and appreciate my work. I don’t want to have to write anything specific because
most readers would like it. I have been told many times that if I introduce
more sexual content in my book, it would drive up sales. Or if I follow the
typical Romance genre story guidelines, I would have a bigger audience. Not to
bring down those who do, but that is simply not my style, and that is not what
I want to write about.
It is important for me to recognize my style of writing, or
voice, as it is referred to in technical terms, and stick to it. Although I try
to be frank as much as I can in my life, as a writer, I tend to be less direct
in my expressions and characterizations. Maybe holding back is not a good way
of gaining a bigger audience, but I fear letting go of that inner sensor.
However, I look at writing as a dynamic process. Staying in
learning mode is essential for my career as an author. And I do plan to publish
more books as much as I can. Discovering how readers respond to my work, and
why, is very valuable in allowing me to grow as a writer. I would want to
create better work, more impacting stories. Drawing from readers’ feedback
gives me the tools to do so. After all, staying stagnant in any career is the
kiss of death. Perhaps my approach would change a little in the future, after I
have matured as an author. I do hope
I never lose my voice, though.
Shadows of Damascus
Bullet wounds, torture and oppression
aren’t the only things that keep a man—or a woman—from being whole.
Debt. Honor.
Pain. Solitude. These are things wounded war veteran Adam Wegener knows all
about. Love—now, that he is not good
at. Not when love equals a closed fist, burns, and suicide attempts. But Adam
is one who keeps his word. He owes the man who saved his life in Iraq. And he doesn’t question the measure of
the debt, even when it is in the form of an emotionally distant, beautiful
woman.
Yasmeen agreed
to become the wife of an American veteran so she could flee persecution in
war-torn Syria. She counted on being in the United States for a short stay until she could return
home. There was one thing she did not count on: wanting more.
Is it too late
for Adam and Yasmeen?
Shadows of Damascus to be released by Soul Mate Publishing
mid January, 2014.
Teaser:
ADAM
Baghdad, Iraq
Summer
2006
M4
Carbine rifle ready, Sergeant Adam Wegener scanned the street, skimming from
window to rooftop. Nerves on edge, his neck and shoulder muscles strained to
keep him focused. His heart thumped against his ribs.
Patrol
leader Lieutenant Clifton moved his troop with caution through the street,
Adam’s fire team at the rear. They’d done street sweeps many times before, but
this one was different. Something was not right. Apprehension took hold of his
insides and squeezed tight with every step.
Adam
turned and walked backwards a few steps, establishing eye contact with Corporal
Scottsdale. He nodded at the big guy’s expressionless face, assurance at having
Big Scott cover his back. He checked on the other two members of his team
trailing his left, Corporals Andrews and Bradley, and faced forward again.
The
neighborhood seemed unnaturally quiet. No children walked to school, no laundry
hung outside windows on this breezeless day, not even alley cats explored the
overflowing garbage containers.
From
a corner of his eye, he caught a movement in one of the windows. Wood shutters
slammed closed against the windowpane.
A
loud boom burst the air. Adam hit the dirt, his head pounding the pavement. The
world went silent. He spat blood mixed with something solid. Parts of his body
armor and uniform had been ripped off, along with patches of skin. He rose to
his knees, his hands searching for his rifle. Finding it, he clasped the rifle
in his arms and crawled. He moved as if swimming in a viscous liquid, not
knowing which direction to take. He saw only clouds of smoke.
He
screamed the names of the soldiers in his team, not sure if his voice even
worked. He couldn’t hear a damn thing. His elbow landed on something hard, a
boot. He moved his fingers up the leather, across the twill fabric of the
pants, until his hands sank in soft flesh and wetness. The man mumbled
something, his voice muffled and distant.
“Big
Scott, that you?” Adam shouted.
A
shower of bullets rang by his side. Helmet gone, he ducked and covered his
head. His ears popped from the pressure, jump-starting his hearing.
“Take
cover.” Big Scott’s voice penetrated the sounds of warfare.
He
scrambled to his feet, hoisted Big Scott on his shoulder, and dashed to the
nearest house. He kicked the door and threw himself and Big Scott inside.
Propping the injured soldier’s back to one wall, away from the windows, he
snatched the M9 Beretta pistol from the holster mounted on his chest rig and
forced it into Big Scott’s hands.
“Cover
the door.”
Rifle
raised and ready, he moved from room to room to secure the small house. He
entered the kitchen, coming face-to-face with an old woman. Sitting motionless
on a wooden chair, hands clasped on the Formica table in front of her, she
stared down Adam’s raised barrel.
Keeping
an eye on the wrinkled, tanned face, he scanned the kitchen. No place for
anyone to hide, not even a closet door to check behind.
“Anyone
else in the house?”
She
held her stare, unflinching.
Adam
tried to recall Arabic words he heard Fadi, the interpreter assigned to his
patrol unit, say in situations like these. But he couldn’t recall a single one.
“Where’s
your husband?”
The
woman blinked. She craned her neck to one side, looking past him toward the
front of the house. The white scarf covering her hair slipped down to her
shoulders, revealing gray strands pulled back in a tight bun. She lifted the
scarf and refastened it under her chin.
His
hand shook. He aimed a loaded weapon at a woman the same age as his mother.
Hell, she even resembled her.
“Rajul?
Rajul?” Was that the right word for man? Why was she so calm?
The
only point of entry was the door he came through. He heard heavy movement
outside. The sounds of shouting men grew closer. The old mother could yell to
alert the insurgents any second. He snatched a towel hanging on a hook to his
left, and held his index finger to his lips, motioning for the woman to go with
him to the front room.
She
followed without uttering a sound.
Adam
pointed his weapon for her to sit on the cement floor. He tore the towel into
strips and kneeled in front of her.
Big
Scott moaned. He slumped to one side, pistol aimed at the door.
“I
got you, man. Have to secure the old mother first.” He used a towel strip for
her hands and tied another around her mouth.
He turned to Big Scott, got his first aid kit
out of a side pocket on his torn pants, and dug for supplies. He applied
bandages to Big Scott's bleeding midsection. Keeping pressure on the wound with
one hand, he pulled the radio from his pack and reported to his platoon
sergeant they were trapped inside one of the houses.
“Damn
it, which one?” Lieutenant Clifton’s voice crackled.
“Don’t
know. Scottsdale’s injured.
It’s bad.”
“Andrews,
Bradley?” The lieutenant screamed back.
“God
damn IED was right under them. Can’t confirm.”
“Second
platoon’s six blocks away. They’re en route and—”
A
loud explosion silenced the radio. Cursing, he flung the radio across the room.
“Hang
in there, big man. QRF’s on the way.” There was no way the Quick Reaction Force
could come to their rescue if they didn’t know where they were.
“How
long?” Big Scott’s voice came out calm, surprising him.
“Ten
minutes.” He fumbled with more bandages. Could second platoon make six blocks
in ten minutes? It was possible. “Stay with me. Think about that sweet girl you
got back home. Sandy, right?”
He
slumped beside Big Scott. Sticky stuff on his back squished. He closed his
eyes, hoping to God the sensation resulted from an injury he hadn’t yet felt,
rather than the blood and flesh of his missing team members splattered all over
him. He needed to find a way to signal their location.
Big
Scott clamped a charred hand on top of his. “Won’t make it.”
“The
hell you won’t. Sandy’s waiting
for you.” He pulled himself to his feet and approached the door. “You’d better
not disappoint her.” If he opened the door and his patrol didn’t spot him, the
insurgents would be alerted to their position, and that would be the fucking
end. If he didn’t do anything, Big Scott would bleed out. He looked back at the
corporal. His friend didn’t have much time. There was only one thing to do.
“We
have to get out of here.”
He propped Big Scott on his shoulder and
opened the door. Clouds of smoke blocked his view. Using the cover of smoke, he
edged his way along the side of the house, unable to see a yard past his face.
His foot stumbled over a chunk of cement, and he collapsed against the house,
slumping down on the dirty street, overcome by how absurd this mission was.
A
clomp of boots on the gritty pavement caught his attention. They were trapped.
They could not fade into the concrete, not a car nor a bush to hide behind, and
he didn't have time to retrace his way back to the door. He aimed his rifle in
the direction of the approaching boots and counted the steps. One man, probably
a scout. Shots would draw others.
He
slung the rifle across his chest and let it hang. Clamping a hand on Big
Scott’s mouth, he stifled the soldier’s agonized moan. Adam stretched to full
height, flattened his back against the wall, and pulled his knife.
Heavy
fire erupted around them. Bullets shattered the wall to Adam’s left. He hit the
dirt again. Big Scott’s limp body fell on top of him, pinning him down. Knife
gone, he tried to push Big Scott off. Pain shot through his body like
electricity. He doubled over and collapsed once more, trapping his rifle under
him.
Leather
boots slammed right next to his face. He wrapped his hand around the ankle and
tried to topple the guy down.
“Don’t
fight me, Adam. I’m here to helb you.”
“Fadi?
That you Fadi?”
“Shut
ub before zey hear us.”
Fadi
took hold of Big Scott’s shoulders and pulled him into the house. He returned
to Adam and dragged him until they were inside. He checked their injuries.
Multiple
holes on Adam’s left side bled. Big Scott lay flat on his back, praying aloud.
“Clifton knows
where you are now.” Fadi applied bandages to Adam's leg.
He
sucked in a sharp breath and tried to stay alert, his eyelids too heavy to keep
open.
Fadi
shook his uninjured shoulder. “Do what you always do to stay awake.”
Adam
opened his eyes. “What?”
“Count,
man. Count za bains. Double za number if zey were very bainful, half if zey
were minor,” Fadi urged in his particular accent.
Adam’s
mind kicked into counting mode. Shit, was he crazy?
“How’d
you know where we were?”
“I
heard za insurgents shouting to each ozer.” Fadi moved fast to administer the
articles in his first-aid kit to Adam’s other wounds.
Crunching
numbers didn’t do much to alleviate his pain, but the process helped him filter
through Fadi’s heavy accent.
“At first I didn’t understand the words they
were using for directions,” Fadi explained. “Arabic has two words to indicate
left. One can mean north, depending on the dialect. I had to get closer to
figure it out, and that’s when I saw you. Clifton was very
mad. Didn't want me to leave the team, but hey, I’m a contract interpreter, not
one of his soldiers.”
The
woman moaned from her corner. Fadi shot his head up and approached her.
“Who
did this?”
“Needed
to make sure she didn’t scream.” Adam tried to lift himself on his elbows. He
groaned, the full force of deep searing pain setting in.
Fadi
untied the woman’s mouth, released her hands, and spoke to her, his tone low
and gentle.
“She’s
an old woman, Adam. She’s trapped here just like we are. This is her home. No
one and nothing is going to drive her out of it. You didn’t need to tie her
up.”
“Not
taking any chances.”
Scott’s
praying voice disturbed rather than comforted Adam. He concentrated on
breathing. Why couldn’t he just pass out and be spared this agony?
The
woman placed her hands in her lap, flipped her palms upward and muttered
something.
“What’s
her problem?”
“She’s
praying,” Fadi said.
“I
didn’t hurt her. See what else you can do for Big Scott before I lose it.” Adam
found it hard to formulate his words.
Fadi
kneeled in front of Big Scott, tore a bag with his teeth, and spread its
contents over his gaping wound.
Adam’s
eyes darted between the old mother and Big Scott. Never hesitant Scott. Never
questioning and never smiling either. Were they praying to the same God? Would
He listen?
“Tell
her I’m sorry I tied her up, will you?”
“Itlaa
barrah balady,” the woman responded to Fadi.
“What
the hell did she say?”
“She
wants us to leave.”
“We
wouldn’t be here if her people hadn’t planted that Goddamn IED. Tell her that.”
Adam spat blood.
“She
meant leave her country.”
Darkness
closed in on Adam, the bliss of unconsciousness threatening to take over. He
closed his eyes.
“I'm
okay with that . . .”
Lilas Taha is a writer at
heart, an electrical engineer by training, and an advocate for domestic abuse
victims by choice. She was born in Kuwait to a Syrian mother and a Palestinian father, and
immigrated to the U.S. as a result of the Gulf war in 1990. She earned a master’s degree in
Human Factors Engineering from the University of Wisconsin- Madison. There, Lilas met her beloved husband and true
friend, and moved with him to Sugar Land, Texas to establish a family. She is the proud mother of a
daughter and a son. Instead of working in an industrial field, she applied
herself to the field of social safety, working with victims of domestic
violence.
Pursuing her true passion
for creative writing, Lilas brings her professional interests, and her Middle
Eastern background together in her debut fictional novel, Shadows of Damascus.
Website: www.lilastaha.com
Author
Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/LilasTahaAuthor
Twitter:
Follow @LilasTaha https://twitter.com/LilasTaha
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/lilastaha
Email: info@lilastaha.com
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/Lilas_Taha
Facebook page for the book: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Shadows-of-Damascus/577132239031259
Remember to follow the tour at http://goddessfishpromotions.
2 comments:
Thank you for letting me share my thoughts today!
I really loved this excerpt.
Post a Comment