Guest Post: Uvi Poznansky, Author of “The Music of Us” (Included in “A Touch of Passion”)

I had some technical problems with the original post so here it is again – sorry for the repetition

I recently featured Uvi Poznansky and “The Music of Us”. I have invited her to write a little about the book, which is now included in a box set: A Touch of Passion.

Uvi Poznansky

Author of The Music of Us

(Included in A Touch of Passion)

I love writing historical fiction because it is one of the most difficult genres of all, demanding a complete immersion in the era and studying every detail–in clothing, gadgets, hairstyle, manners and of course, the timeline of events–in order to make the story not only believable but utterly authentic. And even though I pride myself on writing with a sensual slant, aiming to put you in the skin of the characters, I have never before focused on the genre that would allow me to develop that lyricism to the fullest: Romance.

But lately, the characters I have written in Apart From Love demanded that I take them back a generation, to WWII, to the beginning of their love story. In my new novel, I had such heartwarming fun witnessing them overcoming every obstacle I threw in their way, only to find themselves in each other’s arms.

Let me share an excerpt with you. This excerpt was the inspiration for the design of the cover of The Music of Us–which is now included in the new romance boxed set, A Touch of Passion:

With that Natasha handed the microphone back to him and curtsied to the audience. A wavy, red strand of hair slinked from her headband, which was decorated with delicate flowers, and glided over her bare shoulder. Below that, the bodice of her dress glinted as she turned around. And again, for just a second, I thought I felt her eyes fluttering in my direction, meeting my gaze. Everyone around me must have imagined that, too.

Natasha lifted the long, silky skirt of her dress, so its folds fanned out from the seam that hugged her hips. As she sat down they draped, full and flowing, over the piano bench, responding playfully to the light from above with a cherry red shine. A reflection of it lit her chin from below and lined the underside of her slender arms, just a touch. With a slow, deliberate motion she lifted her hand, letting it hover, for what seemed like the span of a thought, over its shadow over the keys.

Her fingers started flitting across the keys, and at once I was taken by the solemn, dramatic sounds she made rise over us. They came pressing against the far reaches of the hall, gathering ominously just below the vaulted ceiling, as if in preparation to blow it away and sweep us into the night.