Author Interview ~ Sharon Ewell Foster, Part I

Sharon Ewell Foster is a critically acclaimed, award-winning author, speaker, and teacher. She is the author of Passing by Samaria, the first successful work of Christian fiction by an African American author, the book that blazed the trail for other African American Christian fiction authors. She has received three starred reviews--which is a rarity among writers--and is winner of the Christy Award, the Gold Pen Award, Best of Borders, and several reviewers choice awards. For all this, Sharon gives God the glory! He has done great things for her, whereof she is glad! (Psalm 126)

She is the proud and grateful mother of two young adults. The University of Maryland graduate also holds a Family Development Credential awarded by Duke University . A regular guest on radio and television, she also is a contributor to Daily Guideposts, Tavis Smiley’s Keeping the Faith, and to the Women of Color Devotional Bible. After more than nineteen years, Sharon resigned from federal service with the military to pursue her dream.

Abraham’s Well, the story of Black Cherokee who walked the Trail of Tears, is her seventh novel. She is, herself, part Cherokee. She speaks for church groups, writers conferences, organizations, schools, and libraries. She is a literacy advocate and loves working with youth and adults. You may contact her at http://us.f309.mail.yahoo.com/ym/Compose?To=sharonewelfoster@aol.com, http://us.f309.mail.yahoo.com/ym/Compose?To=cousinpublicity@yahoo.com, or through her web site: http://www.sharonewellfoster.com/

What book or project is coming out or has come out that you’d like to tell us about?

My most recent book, my seventh novel, is Abraham’s Well. It’s historical fiction. The glimpse of history that we’ve been offered is often so limited—not much about women, not much about the roles that people of color played, we don’t hear about scandalous things. We get this sanitized, whitewashed version of history. I think that cheats all of us—I often think it’s why people are bored with history in school—it doesn’t look like real life. We aren’t able to explore the richness of who we are as people.

So when I write historical novels, it’s my opportunity to repaint the face of history--not just names and dates and facts. History was about real people, real stories, real heartbreak and real courage. In Abraham’s Well, I supply some of that missing history and I tell it from the heart, right from the gut. Abraham’s Well is the story of the Trail of Tears, and that story includes people of African descent, as well as Native Americans, and white people who intermarried. It’s the story of the forced removal, at gunpoint of people—farmers, doctors, teachers, grandparents, babies, politicians, mothers—from their homes at gunpoint by the United States government. It’s told from the Native point of view, something that is rarely, if ever, done. It’s also, in some ways, my own family’s history (I include some family photos). I am black, but I am also Cherokee and white.

I’m proud of it. Here are a couple of reviews:

From Booklist*Starred Review* Foster drops back to 1838 to tell the story of black Cherokees forced along the Trail of Tears...This is simply told and moving, Foster's best work since her groundbreaking first novel, Passing by Samaria (2000).

Cindy Crosby, faithfulreader.com"This historical tale is one of Foster's best efforts, if not her best, and deserves a wide reading audience."

Publishers Weekly"Innovative and intriguing...This is the rare historical novel that both entertains and educates."

Melissa Parcel, Romantic Times"...readers will feel the heartbreak and trials of this horrific ordeal, but will also experience the joys." Finalist for Best Inspirational

blogcritics.org
Abraham’s Well will introduce you to a character you won’t soon forget. The little known historic event it portrays will open your eyes to an ugly episode in American history. But by book’s end, like Armentia [the main character] you will be stronger and wiser for having taken the journey. –Violet Nesdoly, blogcritics.org


I guess that’s secondary horn tooting! LOL! But you know what? Writing is hard work and mostly we don’t get paid what we should. We shouldn’t begrudge ourselves the joy of accomplishment.

Tell us about your journey to publication. How long had you been writing before you got the call you had a contract, how you heard and what went through your head.

My story is really unusual, one of those malt-shop experiences. For me, it wasn’t about how long it took me to get published; it was about how long it took me to even write.

I grew up an avid reader. Reading was my healing place, my retreat. When I was in elementary school, I remember reading Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet:

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.

I grew up in a household that needed its children to be perfect and being perfect means you can’t have your own dreams or thoughts. So those words in a book, they saved me. At the same time I was reading John Steinbeck, Truman Capote, Ernest Hemingway, and James Baldwin. The books I was reading were my parents’ books from their college literature classes. I read Gone with the Wind. All this in elementary school. I also read Beverly Gray novels from the bookmobile. No pictures books for me!

Included amongst my literary works were such acclaimed works as Mandingo, Falconhurst Fancy, Drum, Master of Falconhurst, The Black Sun, all really stellar pieces of literary mastery that I found appropriately hidden under my oldest brother’s bed.

So, I was a reading maniac. Like most kids, I made the books out of notebook paper folded and stapled in the middle. I wrote for school newspapers. But I didn’t know any writers and none of the writers I was reading looked like me. The first black female writer I read was Toni Morrison. I was fourteen, I think, when I read The Bluest Eye. I became her personal publicist, running from place to place, “Have you read The Bluest Eye?” It was so remarkable to me that someone spoke my experiences in a book. When I went to college, I was still talking about The Bluest Eye. I remember going to the Library of Congress and asking if they had The Bluest Eye. They’d never heard of it or Toni Morrison. But they know her now, don’t they?

Anyway, no one, not at home or at school, was saying, “Honey, you should write!”

In fact, I got the opposite message which was, writing is not a real job and you can’t make money writing. My mother told me that I should learn to type because no matter what else happened in the world, I could always get a job typing. (That doesn’t work anymore, does it?) My father told me I shouldn’t climb trees because girls don’t climb trees. At school, though I planned to major in art and had sent portfolios to Stanford and Syracuse, because my grades were good—I was a National Merit Program Scholar—I was encouraged to major in engineering. Boy, was that bad counseling. But I went to the University of Illinois to become an engineer. On the entrance exams, I scored so high that they granted me credit for all the entry level English courses. I did so poorly on the math—I fell asleep during the exam—that I had to take trig over. You would think that someone would have said, “Baby, your scores say you should think about writing or literature. Engineering is probably not your bag.” No one did, and the light didn’t come on for me.

I hated engineering and, after switching, majored in Radio-TV-Film. When I graduated, even though I’d told myself I would never type, I got a job typing for the government. From there, I became a technical writer/editor, a logistician, an instructor … I did everything but write creatively. When the voice inside me would say, “write,” I would beat it down with the sledge hammer I’d been given. I had learned to kill my own dreams by then.

You can’t make any money writing. You better get a real job. You’re not good enough! Who wants to hear what you have to say? Who made you queen of the world?

Oh, I was vicious with myself. I learned well from others and got crueler with myself as time passed.

The funny thing is, I would always end up writing, no matter where I worked. People would always compliment me on my writing, even on my emails. But I wouldn’t even dream of writing. Instead, I had this vision for a career. I worked for the government and I wanted a long title and lots of money—I thought that would make me feel better and fill the hole inside me.

“You should be writing, Mama,” my own children told me. I encouraged my own children to follow their dreams, so they were encouraging me.

You can’t make any money writing, I told myself. You’re not good enough!

Even funnier is, that even with the compliments, I would get to a certain career level and just hang. I believe in God, you know. Inside me, I felt it was God’s hand that just held me in place.

One day, I sat at my good government job in my best dressed-for-success suit, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing the obligatory huge bow. I was working, but fussing at God in my mind. “So, what is the problem, God? You know I love you. I’m Your girl. I’m doing all the right things: I pay my tithes, I go to Bible Study, I teach Sunday School, I sing in the choir. I’m a hard worker and I’m good at what I do. So, why am I sitting here while people that don’t even like You are getting promoted? Just answer me that!”

About two weeks later I was sitting at the same desk in another suit when I got my answer. It wasn’t audible, but my heart heard it. I was not doing what I was supposed to do. I was chasing after the things of man when I was supposed to be writing. I was in tears. I got up from my desk, went home, closed myself in the bathroom, and cried for two or three hours. That was 1997. I was forty-one and I hadn’t written anything. The year before, my kids had given me Toni Morrison’s novel, Jazz, for my birthday and I was able to see how much her writing had progressed. Mine hadn’t done anything because I hadn’t written a word.

I’d read other writers and been critical: I can’t believe they even put that crap on the bookshelves! What I had to face that afternoon was that at least those writers were trying. It’s like the parable of the talents. Maybe those writers only had one talent, but they were using it, investing it. If I had more talents—three or five—then I was burying mine.

But, God, you can’t make any money writing! I’ve got kids! I’m not good enough! I’m not a good enough person! I’m not a good enough writer! No one wants to hear what I have to say! How can anything that I might have to say be of any use to You? I don’t have a computer! I don’t know how to write a novel. I don’t have an agent! I don’t know any publishers! I don’t have any business cards! The more I prayed, the less rational my excuses seemed.

Finally, I prayed that I would try. I didn’t have time for writer’s bloc, I told the Lord. So, I would meet Him each morning at five a.m. to write if He would meet me. I kept my promise. I gave up an hour’s sleep each morning. I prayed, I sang softly, and I wrote longhand on steno pads. It wasn’t my responsibility to get published. Actually, I thought I would never be published.

Writing was a personal way that I could worship, to give thanks for so many things in my life. I’d been raised with fear, anger, and depression. Now, I lived in a happy home full of love. Writing was a small, private gift that I could give in return.

The first morning I wrote, “I don’t know why I’m doing this. I feel stupid.” I kept doing it. I didn’t listen to the voice that said, “What you really should be doing, sister girl, is going to get a part time job if you’ve got so much free time!”

It may sound insignificant, but it took me so much to get the courage to write, the courage to tell the truth, to speak what I was really thinking. I found my voice at forty-one. In six months time, I had what I thought were three chapters. That was from writing for twenty-five to forty-five minutes each morning. I didn’t tell my family of origin that I was writing. In fact, I always hid when I was writing, like if someone discovered me they would take it away from me.

In six months time, I had what I thought were three chapters. That was from writing for twenty-five to forty-five minutes each morning. I heard on the radio about a writers conference—The Sandy Cove Christian Writers Conference—that was going to be in the area. I called the number they gave and sent for a brochure. I would go there to get feedback from other writers. Maybe they would tell me, “Don’t ever write again!” Then I could say, “See, God, I told You I wasn’t good enough.”

It cost over $400.00 to attend. “No way! I’m not ready! I can’t afford that!” I threw the brochure away. A couple of days later a Marine came by my desk—I taught military instructors how to teach—and he said, “Guess what, Ms Foster? I’m going to a writers conference…” They gave him a scholarship to go. I was so jealous. But I also took it as a sign that I was supposed to go. Maybe if I’d applied for a scholarship they would have given me one. Why be jealous?

So, because I was frightened, I went to all the negative people I knew in hopes of finding an ally. “Girl, don’t waste your money,” I thought the Negative Nellies would say. Instead, they encouraged me to go. I procrastinated until almost the last day. I called my pastor, who wasn’t too thrilled about my “little writing” because I’d stopped doing so many things and focused on writing.

“Do you think I should go? There’s only one day left.”

Surprisingly, she encouraged me to try. So, I called. Sure, I could attend for the last day, the conference people said. It would only be ninety-five dollars.

Hah! I didn’t have ninety-five dollars. I only had sixty-five. I went to my mail box and there was a check someone had sent me. It made up the balance.

So, I went. I almost didn’t take my pages because they were nasty, marked up, and tea stained. (By this time I’d typed the pages. My best friend, Portia, let me borrow her father’s broken work processor; so, I could type the pages, but it wouldn’t save. I had sixty-one pages.) Procrastinating as much as I could, and sweating profusely, I arrived for the last four hours of the conference. “I’m just here for feedback,” I told them. I didn’t know there would be publishers and agents there. Good thing; if I’d known it, I never would have gone.

I ended up meeting with two magazine editors. They read my pages, offered me their business cards, and personal contact information. “Call. I want you to write for us.” Sure, I thought. They say this to everybody. I tossed the cards. Yep, that’s what I did.

I met with an acquisitions editor. “I’m not ready. I’m just here for feedback.”

She gave me a placating smile. She and all the other editors in the huge dining hall had been sitting across the table from a continuous stream of authors, authors with huge manuscripts and lots of business cards, who were begging to be published. She pulled my nasty pages out of the stained manila envelope.

“This is not a romance,” she said.

See, God, see! I told you I wasn’t good enough! I told you! Now, I’m sitting here embarrassed. I didn’t even want to be here.

“No, it’s not a romance. It’s more like … like … like To Kill a Mockingbird!”

The whole room got quiet, like E.F. Hutton. Another editor yelled, “To Kill A Mockingbird?! Send her over here to me!”

“Uh huh! I got her first,” my editor yelled.

Twenty minutes later, an agent approached me. She wanted to read my nasty pages. “Lots of people are going to want to represent you. You’re definitely going to get a contract for this book. You don’t need me for that. But I can help you with future books and I can help you keep track of your royalties.”

Royalties? I was silent. I work for the government.

She gave me her card. “I want you to consider me. Your writing could be published in the CBA or the ABA.” She smiled. “Do you even know what that means?”

I had no clue. I left, four hours later, with an agent, a publisher, and an award for being the most promising writer. Those sixty-one pages evolved into my first novel, Passing by Samaria which won a Christy Award and was a double RITA Award (Romance Writers of America). Actually, it was also a double Christy finalist.

That day changed my whole life. So, my struggle wasn’t getting published. My struggle was believing that I had a gift for writing and that I had something to say. My struggle was believing in myself.

After Passing by Samaria was published and won the Christy, I told my mother, father, and brothers that I was writing. My mother was very positive, my father was so-so, and my brothers still think I think too much of myself. I was not the favorite child, and the sisters don’t like it when Cinderella goes to the ball.


Do you still experience self-doubts regarding your work?

Oh, sure, I do. But now I know that that is not uncommon among writers and other artists. I’m getting better at psyching myself in instead of psyching myself out. And I feel at home writing. I don’t have that empty space. I love what I do, even if it’s not good enough. I believe that if I do the best I can, God will make it perfect. That’s what David said, “He makes my way perfect.”

I still have to guard myself and my heart. My father and brothers got mad at me and said, “Who made you the savior of the world? What makes you think anyone wants to hear what you have to say?” Let’s just say that doesn’t build confidence. So, there are people from whom I have to distance myself.

But my father says he thinks Abraham’s Well should be made into a movie.

But, yes, I have doubts.

What mistakes have you made while seeking publication?

I didn’t do anything really about seeking publication. But now I realize how important it is to have an agent that has a common vision and that can do for you what you need.

I also ghost wrote a novel for a well-known pastor. It was supposed to be collaboration, but I soon found out that collaboration is a euphemism for ghostwriting. I never saw that in the dictionary, but that’s what it means. LOL. I thought I was serving, but …

I would never do that again. It’s deception, it’s someone pretending they have a gift and attaching their name to something that God has personally given to you. It’s accepted because it’s more easily hidden than say, singing for someone else—like Milli Vanilli. It’s stroking someone’s ego and letting them make big money while the true artist gets little or noting. Not a smart thing to do.

What’s the best advice you’ve heard on writing/publication?

I was at a conference in a small room of writers where Nora Roberts was speaking. Someone asked her if she ever felt overwhelmed by something she was writing.

At the time, I was struggling with something I was writing.

I’ll delete the expletives, but Nora said, “No! I created it. I’m in charge of it! I’ll kick its …” I thought, “Wow!” Since she said that, I always remember that I am in charge.

What’s the worst piece of writing advice you’ve heard?

“Outline your novel so that you will know where you’re going.” “You must write everyday.”

That’s crap. There’s no universal way to write a novel. We all have different rhythms and different approaches. I never know where I’m going until I get there.

And writing isn’t just writing. Writing is also daydreaming, eavesdropping, imagining, sleeping, and thinking about writing. Some days are just daydreaming days, and that’s all right. That’s part of the process.

What’s something you wish you’d known earlier that might have saved you some time/frustration in the publishing business?

To be continued tomorrow ...