Grew Out of a Bedtime Story
Library in the Clouds follows two children forced onto the road after their father’s death and their mother’s abduction, who embark on a journey involving old powers, hidden knowledge, and a legendary library. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
I actually didn’t set out to write this novel. This novel grew out of a short bedtime story I wrote for my son. It was a folktale-like rendition of a myth about a Library in the Clouds. I started to wonder what kind of world that myth would exist in and who it would impact.
I also have my own taste of loss. Losing my own mother in my mid-20s contributed greatly to the themes present in the story. When I was young, my mother used to read to my younger sister and me, and I cherish that memory. My personal experience led me to imagine what it would feel like to go through that kind of loss at a much younger and much more vulnerable age. Even though the events in this story are unique, there is truth about grief that became embedded inside it, as I wrote.
From the first imaginings about a stolen mother, a tragically brave father, and a lost home, the story grew uncontrollably; it soon flowed over the banks of short storytelling and became something much larger. I started this story in February of this year and had the final novel-ready manuscript by the first week of May. I dedicated time almost every day to writing, sometimes even on my lunch breaks at work. In ways, my job as a nurse greatly influenced my writing, and that offers me a glimpse of what humanity looks like up close. I see joy, suffering, hardship, loss, duty, and perseverance in both the people I treat and the people I have worked with through the years.
How did you strike a balance between adventure, worldbuilding, and character development?
Worldbuilding comes naturally to me, so that part was fairly easy. I included what was necessary to give readers a sense of customs and the feel of the world, but didn’t try to cram too much into the prose. I included the appendices at the end for readers who wanted a bit more lore, but didn’t force the casual reader to entertain an in-world history lecture. I felt like doing this kept the mythology from bogging down the “quest”.
As far as characters, I tried to know them as if they were real people. Then I put them in situations where they had to make tough decisions. Any change in the characters had to come from some kind of growth or lesson learned, which is why I tried to balance fantasy with more realistic hardships. I wanted to tell a human story that just so happened to be in a fantasy setting.
Do you have a favorite scene in this book? One that was especially fun to write?
Reflecting back, my favorite scene is in the chapter “Mound of Mud”; the story flashes back to when the siblings accept their father’s death. It wasn’t pleasant to write, but it was worthwhile. It is my favorite scene because it was the most difficult.
In contrast, the most enjoyable scene to write was the siblings’ visit to Weland’s Hammer. The shop is filled with wonderful creations, and the owner, Weland the blacksmith, is truly an artist. He extends kindness even though he is aware that the siblings don’t belong in the Kingdom of Fairforge. Weland is a minor character in this story, but I am very fond of him.
Can you give us a glimpse into Book 2 of the Library in the Clouds series? Where will it take readers?
Looking forward to Book 2, it will delve deeper into the mystery of the forbidden book and the cache of knowledge hidden by the Keepers. It will follow Landon and Gwen, add to the cast, and take a deeper dive into existing characters like Thomas Goldenfield, a friend they made in book one. Landon will continue to grapple with who he wants to become and what it means to be chivalrous in a world that requires compromise. The book is planned for release early next year.
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With nothing left but each other and their two ponies, Gwen and Landon take to the road, chasing the raiders who burned their village to the ground. Their path leads them across a feudal land fraught with danger, where beasts lurk in the shadows and starvation is never far behind them.
Resolved to save the only family they have left, they push deep into an enemy kingdom.
But there is more to their mother’s kidnapping than they could have imagined.
A Plea for Freedom
A Plea for Freedom, by Raymond Hackney, is a historical novel set during the American Revolutionary War that follows fifteen-year-old Daniel Asbury as he leaves his Virginia home and embarks on a journey filled with danger, hardship, and unexpected challenges that test his courage and shape his understanding of what it means to be free. At its heart, this work of historical fiction is about the cost of freedom, not just as a national idea, but as something felt in the body, tested in fear, and reshaped by suffering.
Hackney writes Daniel’s story in the first person, and that choice gives the novel the feel of a remembered life rather than a polished legend. Daniel is brave, yes, but he is also young, impulsive, frightened, and often unsure of himself. That makes him a highly relatable character. The early scenes on the family farm, with meals, chores, church gatherings, hunting trips, and arguments with his parents, ground the story before it moves into danger. It gives the later hardship more weight because we know what Daniel has left behind. The writing can be plain and direct, sometimes almost old-fashioned, but that style fits the story’s journal-like shape. It does not try to be flashy. It tries to carry a life across time.
The book is clearly invested in history, but it is also trying to handle difficult material with care, especially in its portrayal of Native American characters and frontier violence. Some scenes are hard to read. The punishment of Tories, the captivity, the prison conditions, and the violence along the frontier all push against any simple idea of heroism. That was one of the stronger parts of the novel for me. Freedom is not treated as a clean slogan. It becomes complicated, even uncomfortable. Daniel wants liberty, but he has to learn that everyone is living under some kind of pressure, whether from war, loyalty, hunger, fear, grief, or faith. The novel does lean into faith more strongly as it moves toward its conclusion, and readers who enjoy spiritually framed historical fiction will likely find that meaningful.
I would recommend A Plea for Freedom to readers who enjoy historical fiction rooted in real lives, family memory, Revolutionary War history, frontier survival, and stories of faith under pressure. It’s best suited for someone who doesn’t mind a steady, earnest style and who appreciates a novel that feels less like a modern thriller and more like sitting beside someone as they tell you what happened, what hurt, and what stayed with them.
Pages: 296 | ASIN : B0GX2NDFG8
Silence Was Survival
In Silence Was My First Language, you share your story of overcoming growing up in poverty, experiencing neglect, violence, hunger, and terror at the hands of your stepfather. What inspired you to share your story with readers?
For most of my life, silence was survival.
As a child growing up in poverty, surrounded by neglect, violence, addiction, and fear, I learned very quickly that speaking the truth often came with consequences. So I did what many children in those circumstances do: I stayed quiet. I carried the secrets. I carried the shame. I carried the burden of protecting adults who never protected me.
What inspired me to write Silence Was My First Language was realizing that I was not the only person carrying those burdens.
After getting sober in 2017, I began looking honestly at my life for the first time. I realized that many of the struggles I experienced as an adult—fear, self-doubt, anger, perfectionism, and the need to constantly prove my worth—had roots in the experiences of my childhood.
I also realized that there are millions of people who grew up believing they were alone in their suffering.
This book was never written to settle scores or seek sympathy. It was written to tell the truth.
I wanted readers to see what childhood trauma can do to a person, but more importantly, I wanted them to see that trauma does not have to be the final chapter. We are not condemned to become the worst things that happened to us.
If someone picks up this book and sees a piece of themselves in my story—if they feel less alone, more understood, or more hopeful about their own future—then every difficult page was worth writing.
Ultimately, I wrote this book because silence protected my pain for decades. Telling the truth is what finally helped me heal.
Your portrayal of your stepfather is deeply unsettling. How difficult was it to write about him, and did your understanding of him change while writing the memoir?
Writing about my stepfather was difficult, but writing about my mother was often even harder.
This memoir was not written in a year or two. I worked on this book for more than fifteen years. During that time, I revisited these memories countless times, questioned them, examined them, and challenged myself to tell the truth as accurately as possible.
My stepfather was a man I feared throughout much of my childhood. He brought violence, intimidation, and instability into our home. I have not spoken to or seen him in more than fourteen years, and the passage of time has not changed my view of what occurred. The fear was real. The abuse was real.
What became more complicated over the years was my understanding of my mother.
As children, we expect someone to protect us. When that protection doesn’t come, the wounds can be profound. Much of my reflection during those fifteen years was spent trying to understand not only the actions of my stepfather, but also the choices my mother made and the environment that she allowed to exist around her children.
Did my understanding of them change while writing the memoir? To some degree, yes. Time gave me perspective. I came to understand that both of them were flawed, damaged people carrying burdens of their own. But understanding is not the same thing as excusing. I can acknowledge their struggles while still being honest about the pain their choices caused.
What changed the most over those fifteen years was my understanding of myself. I began to see how deeply childhood experiences shaped my beliefs, my fears, my relationships, and my sense of worth.
Ultimately, this book is not about my stepfather or my mother. It is about a child trying to survive circumstances he did not create, and the long journey of learning that your past may shape you, but it does not have to define you.
The recovery sections avoid easy redemption. Why was it important to present recovery as ongoing work rather than a final victory?
Because that has not been my experience.
Many stories about recovery end with a dramatic breakthrough, as if healing is a finish line that can be crossed once and for all. Real life has never worked that way for me.
I have been sober since July 7, 2017, and I can tell you that recovery is not a destination. It is a practice. It is a series of choices made day after day, year after year.
One of the reasons I wanted to avoid an easy redemption story is because I think it does a disservice to people who are struggling. Recovery did not magically erase my childhood. It did not eliminate painful memories. It did not instantly repair relationships or remove every fear, insecurity, or flaw.
What recovery gave me was something far more valuable: the opportunity to respond differently.
Today, I have choices that I did not have when I was trapped in addiction. I can choose honesty over deception. Responsibility over blame. Growth over avoidance. Service over self-destruction.
The work is ongoing because life is ongoing.
There are still challenges. There are still difficult days. There are still moments when I have to confront old wounds and old ways of thinking. The difference is that I no longer run from them.
If there is a victory in this book, it is not that I was healed. It is that I stopped surrendering to the things that once controlled me.
Recovery is not about becoming perfect. It is about continuing to move forward, one day at a time, no matter where you started.
After telling the truth so fully in this memoir, what truths are you still learning about yourself?
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that self-discovery doesn’t end just because you’ve written a memoir.
For a long time, I believed that if I could understand my past, I would somehow solve myself. What I’ve learned instead is that understanding is not the same thing as mastery.
Even after writing this book, I continue to learn how deeply childhood experiences can shape the way we see ourselves, the way we relate to others, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we deserve.
I am still learning that strength and vulnerability can coexist. For much of my life, I thought strength meant enduring pain in silence, handling problems alone, and never letting anyone see me struggle. Today, I understand that real strength often requires honesty, connection, and the willingness to ask for help when it is needed.
I am also still learning to separate my worth from my accomplishments. Much of my life was spent chasing achievement, proving myself, and searching for validation. Success can be rewarding, but it cannot heal wounds that were created long before success arrived.
Perhaps the greatest truth I am still learning is that healing is not a finish line. It is a lifelong process of paying attention, remaining honest with yourself, and continuing to grow.
At fifty-five years old, after nearly nine years of sobriety and more than fifteen years spent writing this book, I can say with confidence that I know myself better than I ever have before.
I can also say that I still have more to learn.
And I think that’s a good thing.
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Diverse Setting
A Museum Robbery follows two adventurous kids who stumble upon the shocking truth behind a puzzling heist, and the key to solving the mystery lies in a spilled jar of jam. What inspired you to create a mystery around a museum and a grumpy caretaker?
Sometimes, I enjoy writing lighter adventure books. Usually, my stories explore serious topics, but in this Active Kids Series, I have the child protagonists do exciting things that aren’t too heavy, so there’s less worry about the outcomes. I like to turn the protagonists into kind of small heroes that readers can easily relate to. They might imagine themselves in similar situations.
In A Museum Robbery, the children go on adventures in a museum, probably because I’ve always loved museums of all kinds. They also create a diverse setting for a children’s detective story, where a real crime happens in that very special environment. I described the criminal, the retiring caretaker, in a way that no one really needs to be afraid of him. In the illustration, the thief actually looks quite harmless.
Museum and exhibition guards are also interesting characters in real life. Some are friendly and enjoy interacting with visitors, while others are irritated and tired of their job, like Mr. Oddyman in this story.
The chalk art illustrations add so much charm—did you have a specific vision for the style, or was that the illustrator’s choice?
The illustrator of this book was discovered by chance through internet connections from Brazil. I have not previously worked with Dane D’Angel, but his illustration style seemed to fit well with these four Active Kids stories. In addition to A Museum Robbery, three other books have been published in the series: Luke’s Sailing Adventure, The Ghost of the Deserted House, and The Leading Role.
Dane D’Angeli has illustrated all four books quite independently. Of course, we discussed the work a bit during the process, but I try to give my illustrators a lot of freedom. I believe this approach makes illustrating more motivating for them, and the result looks more natural. I only address points that are particularly important. Naturally, the genre and interpretation need to align with the mood and the ideas expressed by the story’s twists, turns, and main points. However, the smaller details aren’t as important. Sometimes, the illustrators themselves come up with fun details or a new perspective that supports the story. It’s always enjoyable to see how the artwork develops.
If you were to write a sequel. What kind of mystery would Emma and Oliver solve next?
That’s a fun idea. I could have them investigate a case involving environmental littering, like one that causes serious damage in a remote hideout. Such a topic would fit well into my repertoire because nature and taking care of it are important to me.
I could also write a story about art forgeries. It might involve an entire gang of criminals and a lot of money. I think I’ll go ahead with such a story because it’s already starting to develop in my mind. I won’t reveal more, but that will surely come in time.
I already have a couple of separate children’s detective stories written, which I haven’t published yet. However, they feature completely different main characters. They take you, for example, through wilderness areas to find valuable river pearl mussels, which are forbidden to catch.
Children’s detective stories are a great way to introduce situations where readers have to think about right and wrong. It is also important to give children the opportunity to realize they have skills, such as sharp eyes and good observation, which can help uncover dishonesty and hold wrongdoers accountable.
Emma and Oliver feel like real kids—are they based on anyone you know?
I’m very happy if I have succeeded in creating realistic characters like Emma and Oliver. They don’t have direct role models, but they are a mix of many children I know.
Actually, I also see myself in this book, as a little girl playing with my best friend. Together with him, we even started a secret adventure club where we could do lots of exciting things. With the help of imagination, even the ordinary surroundings of the home village become exciting, and you can imagine anything happening there!
As a child, I was a big adventurer in my own environment, often exploring alone. It’s easy and fun to write stories about those experiences and memories for today’s children. When I immerse myself in writing to go on a fantasy adventure, I reconnect with my childhood. It feels as if I am just as enthusiastic and excited, and my imagination conjures up events that would have fascinated me as a child.
We can’t go back to our childhood, but we can immerse ourselves in the magic of children’s book adventures with our children. I believe many adults can still experience the same hilarious feelings they once had when reading bedtime stories aloud.
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Does Mr. Oddyman really have trouble walking? And why has he made so much jam? Emma and Oliver’s sharp eyes help to uncover the villain.
I Couldn’t Find The Book I Needed
Why You Felt Crazy is a compassionate guide to understanding gaslighting, leaving an emotionally abusive relationship, and learning to navigate the aftermath. Why was this an important book for you to write?
Because I couldn’t find the book I needed when I was inside it. Most of what I read was either too clinical to feel like company or too resolved to feel honest. I wasn’t looking for a checklist. I was looking for someone who could say I know exactly what that feels like without needing to be finished healing in order to say it. That’s the book I tried to write. Not from the other side. From inside the experience, where most people actually are when they go looking.
What are some of the most common misconceptions people have about emotional abuse?
That it’s obvious. That you’d know. That a smart woman wouldn’t stay. The misconception that does the most damage is the idea that if it were really abuse, leaving would feel straightforward. It doesn’t. It feels like grief. It feels like failure. It feels like losing someone you loved, because you did. The relationship was real. The good moments were real. That’s not confusion that’s the cycle working exactly the way it’s designed to work.
Were there stories or experiences you chose not to include? If so, how did you decide what belonged in the book?
Yes. Some things stayed out because they belonged to other people and I didn’t have the right to put them on a page. Some things stayed out because I wasn’t ready. I made peace with that. A book doesn’t have to hold everything that happened. It has to hold enough truth to be useful. I asked myself one question about every section: does this help someone feel less alone, or does it just prove that I suffered? Anything that was only the second thing, I cut. And some of it I cut because it belongs in the next book.
If readers remember only one message from Why You Felt Crazy, what would you want it to be?
You didn’t stay because you were foolish. You stayed because the good moments were real, the beginning mattered, and your nervous system was doing exactly what it was trained to do. That’s not weakness. That’s what happens to people who love someone inside a cycle. The confusion makes sense. You make sense.
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Am I overreacting?
Is it really abuse if he never hit me?
Why can’t I leave when I know something is wrong?
If you’ve asked yourself any of those questions, you’re not alone.
And if you’ve ever asked, “Was that actually abuse?” — that question may be the answer.
You’re not too sensitive. You’re not paranoid. You’re not broken for struggling to leave.
You did not pick this up by accident.
Something brought you here.
Maybe you have been feeling for a while that something is off but cannot quite name what. Maybe you have already left and cannot understand why it still hurts this much. Maybe you are still inside it, quietly looking for something that finally tells the truth about what you are living.
Whatever brought you here, you are in the right place.
Why You Felt Crazy is a guide for people who know something is wrong but cannot yet explain why.- written by someone who is still living inside it. Not from the other side. Not from safety. From inside the cycle, with three attempts to leave already behind her and the door still being found.
This is not a book by a therapist observing from a distance. It is not written by someone who left cleanly and is looking back with resolution. It is written by someone sitting in the same room as you, handing you everything she has learned while still learning it.
Inside you will find:
What gaslighting actually is, what it sounds like, and what it does to your mind and your sense of reality over time
Why you stayed, why you went back, and why all of it makes complete sense
What trauma bonding is and why your nervous system fights against your own safety even when part of you can see clearly
Why leaving is not a single decision and what actually keeps people inside when they already know what is happening
A complete practical map for leaving safely, including safety planning, financial preparation, the day you go, and what the first thirty days actually feel like
Why wanting to go back is normal, what to do at 2am when the pull is unbearable, and how to use your own documentation to hold the truth steady when everything else is trying to soften it
What healing actually looks like over time, honestly and without pretense, including why it is not linear and why the hard days after the good ones are not regression
How to rebuild self-trust, learn what safe actually feels like, and find your way back to the version of yourself that was always there underneath everything
This book will not tell you what to do or when to do it. It will sit beside you wherever you are in this – still inside it, thinking about leaving, trying to stay gone, or somewhere in the complicated middle – and give you the clearest map it knows how to draw.
You were not too sensitive. You were not imagining it. You were not weak for staying or foolish for going back.
You were inside something that was specifically designed to be this hard to leave.
And you are not alone in it. Not even close.
Why You Felt Crazy is the first book in a two-part series. The second book, a deeper and more personal account of the author’s experience, is in production.
Lifelines
Loving Josephine follows a young woman whose life begins in the shadow of a brothel, finds mercy from a stranger, and learns to face the man whose cruelty shaped her fear. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
Loving Josephine grew out of my fascination with the quiet resilience of women who survive circumstances they never chose. I wanted to explore what happens to a young woman whose life begins in a place meant to break her—and what mercy looks like when it arrives in the form of an unexpected stranger. The setup came from my desire to show that even in the harshest beginnings, a single act of compassion can redirect an entire life. Josephine’s world is rough, but her spirit is tender, and I wanted readers to feel both truths from the very first pages.
How did you balance Jo’s vulnerability with her strength?
Balancing Jo’s vulnerability with her strength meant honoring the truth of what she’s lived through. Losing her mother so young left her without the one person who might have protected her, and that loss shaped both her fear and her longing. She’s been shaped by fear, but she hasn’t lost her capacity for hope or connection. I wrote her with the understanding that courage doesn’t always look loud or defiant—sometimes it’s the quiet decision to keep going, to trust again, to face the person who once held power over you. For me, Jo’s vulnerability isn’t a weakness; it’s the very place her strength grows from.
Why do you think female friendships and mentorships are such powerful storytelling elements?
Women often become each other’s lifelines. In stories—and in real life—female friendships and mentorships create spaces where women can be seen, believed, and strengthened. These relationships offer a kind of emotional refuge that allows characters to grow in ways they couldn’t on their own. In Loving Josephine, the women who cross Jo’s path help her reclaim pieces of herself she thought were lost. Their presence reminds her she’s not alone, and that kind of support can change the trajectory of a life.
What do you hope female readers see in Jo’s journey?
I hope women see that healing isn’t linear and that their worth isn’t defined by where they started. Jo’s journey is about reclaiming her voice, her safety, and her sense of self—slowly, imperfectly, and bravely. If readers walk away feeling even a small spark of recognition, that they, too, can rise from the shadows of their past and step into something gentler and truer—then Jo’s story has done what I hoped it would.
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One journey.
One life hanging in the balance.
Chicago, 1879. Fourteen‑year‑old Josephine is expelled from boarding school and sent back to the St. Louis brothel where she was raised. There she finds her mother gravely ill and held under the control of a ruthless strongarm. Stranded in a world she barely understands, Josephine steels herself as danger closes in and faith becomes her only refuge.
Hundreds of miles away in Rosewood, West Virginia, newlywed Beth Wallace receives a bewildering letter meant for a man long gone. Its message unlocks long‑buried secrets Beth never imagined, awakening a conviction she cannot ignore. Trusting God’s prompting, Beth leaves her new family and sets her face westward, determined to answer a call she never expected.
As Josephine fights to survive and Beth races toward Missouri, their lives converge in a journey marked by peril, providence, and the quiet courage of women who refuse to surrender.
Loving Josephine is a Christian historical romance woven with suspense, redemption, and grace. Set in the post‑Reconstruction South, it continues the saga begun in Loving Beth, bringing to light the hidden past that will change both their lives forever.
This is Book Two in the Daughters of Appalachia series and continues the story of Beth and Jacob from Loving Beth. Readers will enjoy this book best after reading Book One.
Genuine Horror, Not Just Scares
The Corpse War of 1793 follows a British soldier whose regiment is sent into Norfolk to confront rumors of walking corpses, only to find military discipline, courage, and conscience collapsing under the weight of an undead catastrophe. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
As both a military historian of the late 18th century and a big fan of horror and zombie media, it seemed like a pretty natural fit for my debut into fiction writing! While there are a few examples of broadly similar settings (“Pride and Prejudice and Zombies” comes to mind) these tend to read more as parodies and ‘over the top’ stories of cool characters doing ‘cool’, violent things to hordes of the undead. In fact, that seems to be what most zombie media is regardless of its setting! But, that has never been what interested me with the zombie genre. When you think about the what a zombie really is, then what we so often portray as mindless, gore-filled ‘fun’ ought to be an exceedingly tragic, disturbing, and serious affair! After all, the risen corpse that is trying to bite your head off isn’t just a faceless ‘other’, it is your former neighbour, friend, or loved one. Very little media delves into the psychological and social implications of such horrors, and, I wanted to write a story that would give zombies the gravitas and genuine horror, not just scares, they deserve.
In much the same way, while there stands no shortage of media exploring the horrors and privations of modern warfare, the early modern military world very rarely receives the same treatment. But just because the soldiers were wearing colourful uniforms and marching to drums didn’t make their service any easier! Just because early modern soldiers lacked our modern cultural and scientific framework for understanding trauma doesn’t mean they didn’t experience it. Indeed, looking at their writings, their trauma so often jumps off the page, if you know how to look for it. So, it seemed appropriate to combine these two passions of mine, to explore these themes in depth and create a piece of media that I had always wished existed. Ultimately, while the story is totally (blessedly!) fictional, it is intended to reflect a series of very real problems that faced early modern soldiers.
The novel uses period diction, illustrations, a glossary, and mock-historical framing. How did you balance authenticity with readability for modern readers?
Less balancing was needed than you may think! The memoirs, journals, and letters of soldiers from this time period are already fairly accessible, and enjoyable reads. Over the last ten years, I’ve also spent far more time reading those sorts of books than I have modern writing! Alongside just genuinely enjoying the style, I wrote my story in this somewhat archaic fashion to introduce more people to those primary sources. If you’ve enjoyed “The Corpse War”, I’ve little doubt you would also enjoy “The Recollections of Rifleman Harris” and similar works.
The military procedures and battlefield details feel central to the horror. How much research went into the regimental life, weaponry, and tactics of the period?
A great deal, and none at all! As a public historian and historical re-enactor, I’ve been working specifically with the history of the British army from 1764 to 1815 for a very long time. Consequently, a great deal of the information, from the basics of command structures and camp life to the flow of a battle, is all quite familiar to me. I was able to lean on this background when writing the book, regularly refreshing myself by glancing through the likes of Cuthbertson’s “Interior Oeconomy of a Battalion of Infantry” or Lewis Lochee’s “Elements of Field Fortification”. Ultimately, of course, the most important research was reading the memoirs and journals of soldiers and officers from this time period.
What drew you to portraying the undead not just as monsters, but as a crisis of empire, obedience, and conscience?
Like I’ve described above, I think that the zombie genre has so much more to offer than merely an excuse to bash in heads in gory excess. Their very nature, as with so many other classic monsters, has an extraordinary potential to explore meaningful themes. In this case, the undead forced the book’s inexperienced narrator to face the most grim and privative elements of military life, wherein he is not the hero of his story but merely a single piece of a much wider, and much crueller, tale. His suffering does not always have great personal meaning, but is at times necessarily imposed by the institutions around him in order to attain a greater goal. There is no sense to the terrors he witnesses, nor do the virtues of heroism and courage in the face of adversity always end happily. But, I don’t want to go into any more specifics, lest I spoil things!
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Here stands the authentic account of a soldier who bore the whole of The Corpse War witness. Bound by duty and compelled by guilt, he sets down in gruesome detail all that befell him, his comrades, and his regiment from the first devilish outbreak to the Great Battle between the Living and the Dead. His tale is one of woe and unwanted laurels, amidst a field where courage rots more quickly than flesh, and zeal burns hotter than black powder.
Fans of Sharpe and World War Z will devour this debut novel of visceral military horror, in which a common British redcoat confronts unimaginable terrors and bears witness to the Army’s desperate war against the risen dead.
Intergenerational Memory
Echoes of Memory is a personal work of public history that traces the Japanese occupation of Sanzao Island during World War II through forced labor and cultural suppression. At what point did you realize these memories needed to be preserved in book form?
Growing up in the United States with Chinese diasporic roots, I knew about the Sino-Japanese War in broad historical terms, but there was still a certain emotional distance between history and lived experience. That changed as I began learning more about Sanzao Island and hearing personal stories connected to relatives and members of the local community who had lived through the Japanese occupation during World War II.
Reading about war in textbooks is one thing, but hearing how occupation shaped the daily lives of real people connected to your own family and community is something entirely different. Stories about fear, survival, forced labor, and cultural suppression suddenly became deeply personal. I also realized that many of these memories existed primarily through oral histories carried by elders whose experiences had never been fully documented.
At that point, I felt a responsibility to preserve these stories before they disappeared. I wanted the book to serve not only as a historical record but also as a way of honoring the resilience and humanity of smaller communities whose experiences are often overlooked in larger wartime narratives.
Were there stories you grew up hearing that took on new meaning during the research process?
Yes, absolutely. As a young adult, I would occasionally hear fragments of stories about hardship during the war years, but I did not fully understand the scale of what people had endured until being immersed in the research process for the book. Some stories were told casually, while others were surrounded by silence. In many diaspora families, memories of war are not always passed down in formal ways; they often survive through small comments, family habits, emotional undercurrents, or brief recollections shared over time.
Much of this work also grew from the decades of oral history collection and archival preservation my father began within our family and the Sanzao community. Over time, those testimonies, photographs, and conversations became part of a larger intergenerational archive that shaped the foundation of this book.
During the research process, those fragments began to take on much deeper meaning. I started to understand that behind many everyday stories were experiences of occupation, fear, displacement, and survival. Hearing personal accounts from relatives and community members made the history feel immediate and human in a way archival research alone never could.
The process also changed how I understood memory itself. I realized that silence can sometimes reflect trauma just as much as storytelling does, and that preserving these histories is important not only for historical scholarship but for intergenerational understanding and healing.
Why do you think the experiences of smaller communities are often overlooked in broader wartime narratives?
Smaller communities are often pushed to the margins of history, yet they carry some of war’s deepest emotional and cultural scars. Broader wartime narratives often focus on major political leaders, military campaigns, or large urban centers because those stories are more visible within official archives and national histories. As a result, communities like Sanzao are frequently treated as footnotes despite experiencing profound forms of suffering, displacement, and disruption.
At the same time, there has been a growing effort to preserve these local histories through museums, archives, oral history projects, and community preservation work. Over the past two decades, institutions such as the Zhuhai Museum have actively worked to document and preserve regional memories connected to the Japanese occupation and the Sino-Japanese War. That experience reinforced for me how important this work is, especially as many firsthand witnesses and elders continue to pass away.
I believe these histories matter because they show how global conflicts reshape everyday life at the local level. They remind us that war is not only experienced on battlefields, but also in homes, villages, schools, and families. Preserving these stories helps create a more complete and compassionate understanding of history.
What is one thing you hope readers take away from Echoes of Memory?
One of the most important things readers can take away from Echoes of Memory is a greater awareness of how personal, family, and community histories are deeply connected to broader global histories. Many people think of history as something distant or abstract, but oral histories remind us that large historical events are experienced through individual lives, families, and local communities.
The book also encourages readers to speak with elders, preserve family stories, and recognize the importance of intergenerational memory before those histories are lost. When we begin documenting oral histories within our own families and communities, we often discover that our personal stories are deeply intertwined with larger histories of war, displacement, survival, and resilience.
At the same time, the project contributes to broader conversations about memory, wartime trauma, and civilian suffering during World War II. While many important discussions of war memory and mass trauma focus on Europe and Africa, the histories connected to the Sino-Japanese War and the experiences of Chinese communities during occupation are still less visible in many international conversations. Preserving and sharing these stories helps create a more complete understanding of how global conflict affected ordinary people across different parts of the world.
Ultimately, Echoes of Memory is about preservation, remembrance, and the responsibility we all share in documenting the stories that shape our communities and collective histories.
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When war silences a community, memory becomes resistance. Echoes of Memory is a decolonial work of public history centered on Sanzao Island during the Japanese occupation of China (1937-1945). Blending oral history, archival research, poetry, and visual narrative, the book reconstructs silenced histories of war, survival, and intergenerational memory. Through the collaborative research of Robert and Lani Cupchoy, a father-daughter team dedicated to preserving their ancestral legacy, the book foregrounds lived experience and community testimony often absent from traditional military historiography. Echoes of Memory restores humanity to the historical record and honors the descendants who continue to carry ancestral memory.
