5-Stars for The Scent of Rain

Gabriela Trofin-Tatar – Chicachiflada Books

https://s2.netgalley.com/book/110131/review/375619

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

My ex-husband used to call me Eco Annie. And with good reason. I’ve always had a problem with garbage.

I spent a good deal of my youth as a Girl Scout, where my annual trips to camp allowed me to revel in the myriad pristine wonders of nature, and where the code was always to leave the environmnet as you’d found it: pack in/pack out. As a kid growing up in the 60s, I watched the grainy TV footage of Ohio’s Cuyahoga River as it burned, the result of an oil spill caused by decades of industrial pollution. My father – a trout fisherman who, to my dismay at the time, made me practice fly casting into a garbage can lid in our driveway, sat in horrified silence as the fire raged.

Later, Iron Eyes Cody, the stoic native American, implored us to Keep America Beautiful, as a tear ran down his rugged cheek, a response to the pollution that was destroying the natural beauty of America.

So, perhaps it was not surprising that one day, upon seeing the brook near my New Jersey home plugged with garbage, I waded in, extracted the debris – which included a rusting bicycle – and watched in satisfaction as the stream ran free.

Forty years later, I m still trying to clean up the world around me. I recycle with a vengeance, wishing my boys paid more attention to which items go into which container. “Please rinse the cans and jars,” I implore. “And cardboard boxes should be collapsed. And, no, you can’t put banana peels in the recycle bin.”

Under the kitchen sink there’s a large glass jar for bits of leftovers which feed the fat worms living in the compost bin out by the garden. Yard waste, as well, is sifted into the container, which, eventually – if one is very patient – produces yummy-smelling dark soil.

When I wheel the garbage cans to the curb each week, I feel a great sense of satisfaction when the trash container is virtually empty and the recycle bin is full.

But then. . .there’s plastic. Recently, I decided to quit. But, damn, it’s hard! And there’s no patch for that.

The day I decided to stop using plastic, I picked up the bread at the bakery and requested only paper bags. I didn’t know they were rather short and almost lost a sliced loaf on the floor. I requested a paper bag for my purchase at another bakery – yes, I have a thing for bakeries – which was placed in my reusable canvas tote. Feeling very righteous and smug, I went home and discovered the young lady had ignored my request. A plastic bag winked at me accusingly.

Plastic bags, I fear, have become the most ubiquitous items on the planet, though, on a good note, they can be recycled at the grocery store. So there is yet another container in my kitchen just for plastic bags.

I often freeze food in gallon Ziplock bags. But, of course, they are plastic. So, I went on line and ordered silicon containers, which were touted to be “eco friendly,” but which are hard open and close and which don’t stack or stand up very well. I also ordered glass food storage containers, only to discover they came with plastic lids. Eieee!

The next day, I had to mail a book and the lady at Fed Ex produced a shipping bag: white, bubbled, plastic. “Don’t you have cardboard?” I asked. She informed me that I could purchase a cardboard container for $1.39. I did. And, as I am often mailing books, I discovered quitting plastic can be expensive.

A trip to the grocery store almost reduced me to tears. What isn’t incased in plastic? And then there’s that most horrifying experience for those of us afflicted with ecoitis: plastic covering Styrofoam. One list that identifies the years it takes items to biodegrade places plastic and Styrofoam in the same frightening category: 500 years to forever.

The recent news that a remote South Pacific island is awash in plastic has renewed my devotion to the cause.

“Henderson Island ought to be one of the most pristine places on earth: an uninhabited South Pacific atoll so remote that the nearest human settlement is the small island 120 miles away,” said reporter Austin Ramsey in a May New York Times article. “But the atoll’s white sand beaches are littered with tons of multicolored plastic junk, deposited there by ocean currents. A new study. . .estimated that there were 17.6 tons of debris on the shores of the tiny island. (Researchers) counted more than 53,100 pieces of man-made debris, largely made of plastic — bottles, cigarette lighters, fishing gear, all kinds of things.”

As a scuba diver, the thought of a reef covered with garbage breaks my heart. Divers are taught to be stewards of the underwater environment. Man-made items that appear on reefs should be removed, with the caveat that an object which has become home to a sea creature should be left untouched.

Being an eco warrior can be uncomfortable, at times. I’ve seen my companions rolling their eyes when I flinch as the server approaches with a Styrofoam container and I request a cardboard box for my leftovers. I sometimes feel like a vegan at a barbecue.

In the movie Wall-e, about the wee waste-collecting robot who endlessly tries to clean up Earth, the Captain says, “Out there is our home. And it’s in trouble. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

So, I forge on, one plastic bag at a time.

 

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.including.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

My thanks to Gina at Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers for her compelling review of my new novel, The Scent of Rain.

http://insatiablereaders.blogspot.com/2017/06/the-scent-of-rain-by-anne-montgomery.html

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.including.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

Recently, I did something I had never done before. I engaged the services of a publicist to help with the launch of my new novel, The Scent of Rain.

I have been writing books for over two decades, and, like many authors today, have had to shift quickly and often with the changing tide of publishing. Where once publishing houses shelled out expenses for travel and lodging, and food and books, supporting authors on the interview and signing rounds, today, all but a few big-name authors are required to do publicity themselves and to cover the expenses involved.

Authors are also obligated to have a broad on-line footprint, and, I know from personal experience, that involvement in social media, possessing a website, and blogging regularly are requirements spelled out in our contracts.

As a former reporter, I have researched what motivates readers to buy books, what to include in a perfect query letter, how to hook a reviewer, and myriad other topics “guaranteed” to sell books. And yet, in all honesty, I have given away more books than I have ever sold.

Until now. And the only thing that has changed is the fact that I hired a publicist.  Why didn’t I do it earlier? I suppose the cost. But, as in many budding businesses, one needs to spend money to make money. And what I learned is that, overall, the fee was not that exorbitant. Many companies allow authors to choose from a menu of options, priced accordingly that run over various lengths of time. I picked the three-week option: two weeks prior to my book’s launch and one week after. The cost: $1,800.

For that swipe of my American Express card, I received, more than anything else, a course in how to promote myself and my book.

First, I was interviewed at length by my publicist, Sarah, who wanted to find out all about me, my book, and why I wrote the story. She then created a press release – which we worked on together – and which identified the various angles media people might take in approaching a story about my book. Remember, publicity is not only about a review. Your topic was important enough to make you spend a chunk of your life writing about it, so you must convince media people that it’s vital your story is told.

Next, Sarah placed The Scent of Rain on NetGalley: According to the company definition, NetGalley “is a service to promote and publicize forthcoming titles to readers of influence. If you are a reviewer, blogger, journalist, librarian, bookseller, educator, or in the media, you can use NetGalley for FREE to request and read titles before they are published.”

Over three weeks, almost sixty NetGalley reviewers, librarians, and booksellers requested my novel. One month after that, my publisher ordered a second run of The Scent of Rain. So, clearly, people were buying my book.

Sarah and I spoke at the end of each week, talking about who had responded to our queries and why. She would also send me a detailed list of all contacts, and then we would plan for the following week, where we’d try a different angle. By the end of our three-week period, the list had grown exponentially. (Right now, it’s about 15 pages long.) And even when our time was technically up, Sarah stayed with me. In fact, whenever I need some help, I just e-mail her and she gets right back to me with suggestions.

The best thing of all is that Sarah didn’t just give me the proverbial fish, she taught me how to fish. For example, I used to contact bloggers, reviewers, book clubs, and media people just once. Sarah gently explained that you should make contact every three to four weeks. Rework that query. Try a different angle. Share some reviews that have come in. Touch base. Just because you had a “no response” – which is what happens most of the time in this business – doesn’t mean they might not be interested the second or third time around. And, you know, she was right.

It’s important to remember that there’s no hard beginning or end-time for promotions. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. So, I check that long list of contacts most everyday, reviewing the last time I touched base, re-reading the most recent e-mail, figuring the best way to try again.

I have my publicist to thank for my newfound promotional skills and the fact that I’m selling books. And if you think the financial cost for hiring a publicist is too high, consider what you’d pay for a college course in marketing. Because that’s what I feel I got in this deal. Here’s hoping Sarah would give me an A.

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.including.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

Eighty-two percent of Americans form an opinion about someone after viewing the contents of their refrigerator. I guess that means folks are routinely sneaking a peek in the fridge, which, in and of itself, is a little creepy.

Still, when I read the statistic, I just couldn’t help myself. I bounded – in my mind I bound – off to the kitchen and opened the door to see what the stuff in my refrigerator might have to say about me.

There’s an awful lot jammed on those shelves – some things, quite frankly, I’m not sure I want to look at too closely – so I decided to list the foods that jumped out at me, figuratively speaking, of course.

Fifteen containers of mustard, all used at some point and lining a door rack, stood out. Now I’m not a complete wack job. They are different kinds of mustard: honey, spicy brown, sweet hot pepper, Coney Island hotdog, roasted garlic, and Jack Daniels horseradish, to name a few.

I did a little research and found an article titled “What your favorite condiment reveals about your personality.” (In case you think I made this up, here’s the link: https://www.dressings-sauces.org/what-your-favorite-condiment-reveals-about-your-personality.)

“Mustard usage is strongest among consumers age 35 to 64 and is also favored by those who consider themselves ambitious, self-disciplined and family-oriented,” the article said. “Mustard lovers also rate themselves as more shy than any other condiment-favoring group.”

All of that worked for me, accept the bashful part. Shyness is simply not incorporated into my DNA.

Also in my refrigerator, just above the mustard, were fourteen bottles of hot sauce. (Perhaps I’m a horder. I’ll have to revisit this possibility.) Again, all containers had been previously opened. They included Chipotle Tabasco, West Indian Hot Sauce, Brimstone Caribbean Red, Orange Pulp Habanero, and Big Black Dick’s Hot Cayman Islands Rum Sauce. (It’s a real thing, so stop snickering.)

Who craves hot sauce?

“If you are a man aged 18-34 living in the south or west, you probably prefer hot sauce to all other condiment sauces,” the above-mentioned article said. “You likely. . . are a competitive risk-taker. . .(and are) more happy, ambitious, spontaneous and risk-loving than other condiment users.”

While I’m a woman and the age bracket is wrong – I’m 62, but I’m pretty sure I look much younger – the rest is spot on.

Elsewhere in the fridge there are two crisper drawers, ostensibly for fruits and vegetables. And one does, in fact, house a large array of colorful healthy foods. However, the other drawer is filled with . . . chocolate: dark and milk, chips and cookies and my favorite toffee and carmel and nut confections. Wee Snickers bars peek from the clear plastic edges of the drawer. Multiple varieties of those chocolate slabs Trader Joe’s elves place by the checkout counter rest, half eaten, in a pile. That drawer is stuffed to the brim with sweet things, as if, perhaps, my unconscious mind is prepping for the zombie apocalypse.

“A sweet tooth has been shown to be linked to a willingness to help people out, but chocolate lovers are also emotionally vulnerable,” said another online article. “They’re charming, flirtatious and may even have a penchant for drama.”

While the rest of the fridge was filled with the usual stuff – eggs and bacon and milk, myriad cheeses – I love cheese! – yogurt and containers of things that should have been pitched long ago – it was the wine I focused on. There are always a few bottles chilling, as well as others in racks around the house. (Think the aforementioned zombie apocalypse here. One must be prepared.)

So, what does all this say about me? I haven’t a clue. Unfortunately, the statistic did not come with an answer key, which might have proved useful. So, I considered what mustard, hot sauce, chocolate, and wine all have in common. What did I come up with? They’re all pretty much indestructible. Really. Have you ever seen mold on mustard, hot sauce, chocolate, or wine? No! of course not. They have the half-life of plutonium. Proof: I visited the Cayman Islands nine years ago, which is when I acquired my Big Black Dick hot sauce. And it’s still perfectly fine.

What this all says about me remains elusive. Perhaps you’ll have to come over, sneak a peek in the fridge, and tell me what you think.

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.including.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

Authors long for reviews. We go to great lengths to find folks willing to pen blurbs about our babies. Because, of course, reviews sell books.

So…we contact newspapers and magazines and TV stations, radio outlets, book bloggers, and those with the keys to the podcasts. Then there are the book clubs and bookstores – the few that remain in brick and mortar form. Sometimes, authors beg friends and family members for reviews, but that seems a bit on the suspect side. I mean, generally, don’t loved ones want to say nice things, if only to be polite and avoid familial strife? I have so far refrained from this particular approach, which does not mean I might not give it a try in the future. I just haven’t…yet.

A well-written query letter, to all the proper specifications, might glean a review about two to three percent of the time. Really. I sent out 60 requests one weekend and got two “No thanks” replies for my efforts. The other fifty-eight beautifully composed queries went unanswered.

Still, on that rare occasion when someone agrees to review your book…oh, the joy! And then the wait. Weeks, maybe months, go by before the results come in. And that first 5-Star Review? You read it over and over, lingering over the verbiage like it’s a letter from a lover:

“I say this is a must read! The book is utterly captivating and mature.”

“The story was tightly plotted and suspenseful.”

“Tragic, disturbing, captivating, but utterly fantastic!”

But as with most love affairs, eventually the words become too familiar, stale, and you long for something different. So the quest begins again. You need that high, and the begging – OK, go ahead and call it marketing, if that makes you feel better – begins anew.

Then, of course, authors must also stomach the not-so-charitable comments. There’s the dreaded DNF: Did Not Finish, meaning your book was so bad the reviewer simply couldn’t get to your well-crafted, quite brilliant ending.

“The writing style wasn’t for me. It was too descriptive for my taste.”

“This work aims high but ultimately falls short.”

“The brief, cliff-hanger chapters might appeal to reluctant readers.”

Ouch! And yet, we keep…on…looking. Hoping that someone will read our words and tell us what they think.

Perhaps there is something inherently wrong with authors that we are willing to put ourselves in a position of such utter vulnerability. I’ve heard budding writers say they fear rejection and I want to laugh. Rejection is part of the job description. One must embrace it: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” and all that.

A way to survive the emotional ups and downs of the book review process is to consider the subjectivity of the practice, because these missives are but personal opinions. Don’t believe me? Well, every one of the comments listed above, including the dreaded DNF, came from actual reviews of my most recent novel, The Scent of Rain. Go figure. How can one person adore a book and another find it repugnant? Beats me. But I do know we authors must never refuse to offer our books up on the sacrificial altar of Reviews. Yes, there will be low points, but the highs, I promise you, will blot out those blues.

So stand straight. Be bold. Believe in your prose and send your baby out into the world. Really, there’s no other way.

 

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.including.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

I was a reporter for a long time and so, like most of my brethren, I carry a skeptical gene. What this means is we need proof, concrete verification from unimpeachable sources. Prove it or I simply cannot believe.

I’m older now, and though perhaps not wiser, have softened up that gene a bit, so that I can sometimes see unexplained light glowing around its edges. What changed me? A strange encounter one day in a classroom at the school where I teach.

But first, I have to tell you about Don.

When I was nearing 40, I was fired from the TV station where I worked. I’d been a sports reporter and anchor for five stations at both the local and national levels. Surely, I’d get another job soon. As the months passed, then the years, and my hopes for a reporting job dimmed, I started applying for all kinds of positions. Despite a college degree and a resume that included a stint anchoring SportsCenter at ESPN, I couldn’t even get a job bartending. One night, I faced the prospect of an early morning gig standing on an assembly line, courtesy of a temp agency.

I cried.

I did have other skills, though it had been years since I’d spent my time officiating year round. Still, I’d called football, baseball, ice hockey, soccer, and basketball games in the past, and faced with the prospect of standing Lucy-like before a conveyor belt, I’d take a whistle anytime.

One sunny afternoon, I walked toward a baseball field where young players were warming up for a Babe Ruth League contest. As a woman official, I took my uniform and equipment very seriously, not wanting to give the fans and coaches anything extra to harangue me about. So, I was shocked by the appearance of the man behind the plate. Was he really wearing red sweatpants? And using an old-fashioned outside chest protector like the umps in Norman Rockwell paintings?

NetGalley reviewer Erica Kelly gives my new novel, The Scent of Rain, a 5-Star Review.

https://s2.netgalley.com/book/110131/review/380483

 

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

 

Booktrib has a free signed copy of my new novel The Scent of Rain up for grabs.
https://booktrib.com/giveaways/the-scent-of-rain-2/ … …

Anne Montgomery’s new novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780996390149 and wherever books are sold.

I don’t remember getting hit.

The field was wet. Maybe an inch of water covered the turf from a storm the previous night. I back peddled to let the runner get in front of me and lost my footing, landing squarely on my backside. I inhaled sharply, as the runner barreled toward me, but he switched course a step away and headed upfield. My elation lasted but a brief moment.

I used to work for a television station in Rochester, New York. I was the sports director and anchor for the weekday broadcasts at WROC-TV. One afternoon, my phone rang.

“There’s someone here who would like to speak with you,” the receptionist informed me.

When I got to the front foyer, I was greeted by a woman I didn’t know. She reached out and grasped my hand. “Hi! I’m, Laurie Rappl.”

I introduced myself and escorted her back to my desk, wondering what I could do for this woman in a wheelchair.

Laurie explained that she had been visiting local media outlets, hoping to get coverage for the New York State Games for the Physically Challenged. But none of the reporters seemed interested.

My first thought was everybody does this story. “You mean Special Olympics, right?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m talking about kids with physical challenges. Kids in chairs.” She tapped her wheels. “Kids who are deaf. Blind.”

She was a ball of energy. Before the accident, she was an avid tennis player, a sport she continued to participate in even after the fall that relegated her to a wheelchair. She also continued to ski. Now, I now what you’re thinking. No big deal. Handicapped people participate in all kinds of activities today. But I met Laurie back in 1986, when handicapped athletes were practically nonexistent.

We became instant friends. I emceed the games she the told me about, watching her almost fall out of her chair laughing when I approached the mic and ask, “Can everyone hear me?” without noticing the one hundred or so deaf kids in the front of the room and the two signers who flanked me.

One morning, I joined Laurie on a mountain on what was a crisp winter day in Western New York. We traversed the run, me on my skies, Laurie sitting in her sled, maneuvering her way down the slopes with short poles that allowed her to steer. During the course of the day she told me how she sometimes attached herself to blind skiers, in order to guide them down the mountains.

I would never ski again.

After I fell on the football field that day, and the runner miraculously passed me by, two other players tackled him and all three of them hit me. I don’t remember much, just the pain. Though today I’d be summarily strapped to a board, someone helped me up. A trainer checked me out. I expected scorn from my partners; there were no other women in the officials organization and many of my cohorts didn’t accept me. Not wanting to appear weak, I finished the game, though I was unable to run or bend down and pick up my yellow flag after I’d thrown it. After the game, I struggled to change out of my uniform. A friend, a local police officer who happened to be at the game, told me to go to the hospital. I mumbled that I was fine. But a short time later, I found myself sitting in the Emergency Room parking lot, not totally aware of how I got there.

“You have a fractured vertebrae,” the doctor said.

“A broken back! That’s not possible. I walked in here,” I said, wincing from the pain.

But the next day I was unable to walk. I was ordered to bed for two weeks and would be fitted with a brace that I would wear for several months. Then there would be rehab. An article in the local paper explained my absence from the airwaves. The morning the story came out my phone rang.

“What happened?” Laurie asked, worry in her voice.

I explained about the football game and how I’d been hit. “It’s a T12 compression fracture,” I said.

There was silence. Then Laurie finally answered. “That’s what I have.”

While our broken bones were the same, our injuries differed in one dramatic way. Laurie’s spinal cord had snapped. Mine was unaffected. So, I would heal and walk again.

Despite the fact that we live on opposite sides of the country, Laurie and I still get together when we can. She remains one of the most impressive people I know. Just a few years ago, I went to Minnesota to see her receive her PH’d. She has traveled the world, working to make the lives of those in wheelchairs more bearable. That’s not to say her life is easy, though she rarely let’s anyone see that side of her. When it’s just the two of us, drinking wine, we kvetch about the discomfort we both suffer, because the pain rarely goes away. You just learn to deal with it.

My problem, for many years, was my inability to ever ask for help. I spent a good deal of my life in careers where I felt I could never admit to needing assistance. Newsrooms and ballfields felt like war zones, sometimes. Much like a bleeding fish in the water, showing weakness was clearly not advised

What I struggle with most is lifting heavy objects.

“Everyone wants to help,” Laurie said one day in a parking lot, when I was attempting to hoist her onto the front seat of my pickup. “Excuse me, sir,” she called to a man walking by. He stopped and stared. “My friend has a bad back. Could you help me into the truck?”

I cringed. Then, as Laurie had predicted, the man flashed a big grin, walked over, and got her into the seat.

“Thank you.” She smiled and waved as the man walked away. “See,” Laurie said, staring at me.

I held onto the steering wheel, still feeling a bit piqued that she’d pointed out that I was the one with the bad back.

But, today, I have no trouble asking for help. If someone as tough and successful as Laurie could handle it, so could I. And, as it turns out, she was right. I have yet to meet a person who has turned down my request for assistance. It seems people really do want to help.

Anne Montgomery’s new YA novel, The Scent of Rain, tells the story of two Arizona teenagers whose fates become intertwined. Rose flees into the mountains to escape from her abusive polygamous community where her only future is marriage to a man older than her father. Adan, whose only wish is to be reunited with his mother, is on the run from the cruelties of the foster care system. Are there any adults they can trust? Can they even trust each other?  The Scent of Rain is available at http://www.amphoraepublishing.com/product/the-scent-of-rain/ and wherever books are sold.