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About the author:
J.P. Sterling is a wife and a stay-at-home mom with two kids. After spending hundreds of hours researching her own child’s sensitivities, she was inspired to write a fiction novel to show the world just how special some kids can be. Thus Ruby in the Water was born. Soon after Ruby's release, she started getting emails from readers thanking her for Peter's story and asking for another book. So, she wrote Lily in the Stone and then there were two.
Now, she has a serious writing addiction and is currently releasing on her second YA series that is due out in 2022.
Author Clean Code: I like to make my stories about the story and not about a bunch of profanity, mature content, or graphic violence that are just there to shock you. I want to be able to share these with my kids someday 🙂
What inspired you to write your book?
I didn't have one huge inspiration for this series. I am one of those people who collects random events as I live my life and I store it away and as I write all these things just flow out.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Come on. Dance with me.”
“Why?”
“You told me you dance to move through the bad stuff,” he said.
“Yeah, bad stuff, but this is beyond bad.”
“Come on, don’t be scared of my clown feet. One dance. All my life I’ve watched from the shadows while you danced, but I’ve never got to dance with you.”
I was at a loss for words, so I reluctantly took his hand and stepped forward. I kept my face tucked close to his chest because I didn’t want to look at him. I bit my lip, trying to avoid the tenderness of the moment, and I let my eyes close. I instinctively felt the gentle nudges from Fulton, and I moved to align my feet with his. I
danced, and I prayed that it would be a good enough diversion to get me through this goodbye.
Maybe it was the movement, or the moment, but I was vastly aware that this was the first dance I’d even attempted since my surgery. It wasn’t classical ballet, and my former dance-snob self would have
struggled to even call it a dance, but together we wove a sort of amorphous thing—a thing that became a moment, and a moment that couldn’t help but bring back other moments. All of my big dance moments came flooding back: the first time I stepped up to a barre, discovering I was a twirler, all the years of hard work. Every‐
thing funneled through my head, creating a patchwork of dance memories. My body flowed, and so did my memories. And then, as my memories slowed and came to a stop, so did my feet. I opened my eyes to find Fulton staring at me with a look of concern.
He raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear me?”
“Um, no, what? Sorry. Did you say something?”
His soft laughter was layered in disbelief, and he shook his head.
“No, it’s fine. I could tell something was going on in your head.”
Then he looked at me with one of the most serious looks I had ever seen on his face. I bit down even harder on my lip, thinking the moment was about to turn awkward, but it didn’t. It got softer.
Then he said, “You’re going to be fine here in your exile, and I’ll be back to see you at Christmas.”
“That’s forever.”
“I know it feels like that, but it will go fast.” He briefly glanced at the fading sun. “I’d better go in. I want to say goodbye to Millie tonight, and it looked like she was ready for bed when I came out
here.”
“You better get in there then.”
He held up his hand in a wave. I copied his wave and watched him walk away. Right before he went into the house, he turned and said, “Keep dancing.” I held up my hand again and waited for him to
disappear inside. I had a new sensation in my gut that hadn’t been there before—a pull.