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.
What
would I tell a new author
Write what you want and trust your instinct. Chances
are, you were drawn to this field because you had something pressing to write
about, something specific to your experiences. So do it. Write what you have in
mind. Write freely and with complete abandonment of censorship. Don’t think of
who might be looking over your shoulder, wagging a finger or shaking a head in
dismay. It is your story, your creation, and the only thing that matters is
your relationship with the ink on the paper.
There are rules to follow, and then there are rules
to break and do away with. There is no formula to being creative. There are
those who say you cannot start a book with a dream, or you shouldn’t jump from
one point of view of a character to another, or prologues belong in the past
and distract from the story line. I think if you do it right, if you weave the
events of your story tight enough, no matter what style or sequence you chose,
your creativity should shine through and bring forth a book that despite
breaking some rules, still captures interest.
It is important to point out that you have to
determine who your audience is, or the genre you wish to delve into, before you
set out on your writing adventure. There is also the business side to being an
author, and if you are a novice like myself, you will have to learn about
marketing and self-promotion no matter who acquires your work. There are social
media strategies to think about, online presence to establish, and visibility
to launch and increase. All that is meaningless if you don’t have a finished,
compelling product.
So keep writing. Be persistent and stubborn. Accept
that your work will be rejected by agents many times, too many than you care to
admit. But it is part of the process. Keep sending query letters, attend
writers’ conferences, and meet with agents as much as you can. It’s not about
luck, landing on an agent or a publisher who would acquire your work, it’s
about perseverance and flexibility.
Blurb:
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?
Excerpt:
PROLOGUE
YASMEEN
Damascus, Syria
Summer 2006
The seductive fragrance of Damascus roses drifted through
the open window and flirted with fifteen-year-old Yasmeen’s olfactory senses.
The potent flowers in her neighbor’s yard delivered the best awakening. She
loved beginnings, especially early, mid-summer mornings like these. Stretching
across the bed, her imagination raced with possibilities for the promising day.
Thursday. The day her older brother’s friends visited and
stayed well into the evening. Yasmeen ticked off potential visitors in her
head, dashing young university students who loved to talk politics with Fadi.
Today, she would do her best to discover the name of the quietest member in the
group, the thin one with round-rimmed glasses. On her nightstand, the sketch
she worked on during the last visit waited for his name, and more details
around the eyes.
Peeling off the covers, she tip-toed to the window. Lively
noises matched her optimistic mood. Nightingales sang greetings. Clanging
dishes and pots resonated from surrounding houses beyond high walls. Mothers
called out for their daughters to get breakfast ready. Men’s deep voices
describing fresh fruits and vegetables with tempting traditional phrases
drifted above hidden alleys. One vendor claimed his cucumbers were small as
baby fingers, and likened his ripe apples to a virgin bride’s cheeks. Another
boasted his plum peaches shed their covers without enticement, and his shy
eggplants hid well in a moonless night.
Yasmeen succumbed to the enlivening chaos spilling in from
her bedroom window, her own special and personal opening to the world. Tilting
her head back, she exposed her face and neck to the sun, allowing its
invigorating rays to paint her cheeks.
Today, her mother told her she would be allowed to take a
coffee tray into Fadi’s room once all his friends arrived. What would she wear?
She should tell her best friend Zainab to stop by earlier than usual to go
through her wardrobe. She could help her decide. Perhaps one of Fadi’s friends
would notice her. More than one? Why not?
Draping her arms on the windowsill, she looked at the
neighbor’s yard, counting the blooming roses, a ritual she performed each
morning since the season started. In the north corner of the largest flowerbed,
two violet buds grabbed her attention, their delicate petals about to unfold.
Once they came to full bloom, their deep purple color would dominate the
landscape.
A knock sounded at her door.
“I am awake.”
Her father walked in. “Good. We have work to do.” He held a
hammer in one hand and a couple of boards in the other. “Move aside, Yasmeen.”
He approached the window.
She stepped away and pointed at the boards. “What do you
need those for?”
Her father closed the windowpanes, locked them, placed one
board across the frame, and hammered it in place.
“What are you doing?”
“This window is not to be opened again, child.”
She could not believe her ears. “Why?”
“Neighbors moved out last night.” Her father nailed the
second board in place. “Mukhabarat took over their house.”
Yes. It is that good. It's better than that good. And if you're not watching it you need to. That, and you need to follow Orlando Jones on Twitter during the actual episodes-that man is funny!
