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About the author:
Currently, V.R. makes her home in Appalachian Virginia, where she lives with her husband, three children, seven cats and a dog named Jasper.
What inspired you to write your book?
Of Moths and Butterflies is partly autobiographical. It is meant to depict how difficult it is to rise overcome the affects of abuse. And yet it is meant to show, at the same time, how possible, even necessary, it is, and how it is first accomplished by learning to love yourself, and then by having the courage to let others love you for who, not what, you are.
Here is a short sample from the book:
WITH EACH CREAK in the floorboards above, Imogen’s nerves tensed. She wanted to sleep, needed to. The fire in the parlour had gone out, but it wasn’t a particularly cold night, and the warm glare of firelight seemed too harsh an interruption to the soothing darkness.
Again, the footsteps overhead. The doctor had been upstairs for hours now and this late night vigil did not bode well. If the man should die, she might at last have the liberty she’d so long desired. But where would she go? How would she live? Yet there were concerns more immediately pressing. The shameful circumstances of her life here, the events which had led up to the tragic finale of the evening, these secrets must come to light. Perhaps the doctor was hearing of them now.
It had not been her intention to hurt him. She had only meant to stand up to her uncle. She had reached her limit and she could take no more. She wanted the torment to end, the daily battle to hold onto the last vestiges of self-respect that still remained to her. But now she sat in this limbo between freedom and ruin. If he lived, could she leave him? If he died could she stay? Her conflicting and tumultuous emotions betrayed themselves only in her occupation of busily fingering the fringe of her paisley shawl. Out of date, it was her mother’s and she wore it often. She wore it for comfort.
A knock at the parlour door startled her from her meditations. Mary entered, followed closely by the doctor. He paused a moment before crossing the threshold, his frame a black silhouette against the lights that burned in the hall.
Imogen sat up, pulling her shawl more tightly around her.
“Your uncle requests his solicitor, Miss Everard.”
Silently she nodded and arose. She crossed to the writing desk, where she sat down to compose the line or two required. She blotted and sealed the message, then gave the direction for its delivery.
The doctor returned to his patient, leaving her once more to her dark thoughts, interrupted only by the creaks and groans of a centuries-old house and by the hall clock as it marked off, second by agonising second, the passing of time. And of one man’s life.
It was not an hour later when she heard the doorbell ring, followed by the sound of voices. The doctor and the lawyer held a brief and hushed conference before climbing the flight of stairs to her uncle’s rooms. What secrets were being relayed in those indistinct and earnestly offered words? How many more must know before this would all be over? Would it ever be over? She closed her eyes upon the unanswerable question. And waited.