Guest: Keta Diablo on The Meaning of a Single Word

I’m sure you all know that sultry means to be hot with passion or to be capable of exciting strong sexual desire. But sultry can also mean sweltering or torrid.

Have you ever heard a word that reminds you of a certain time and place, almost like a Déjà vu? Whenever I hear the word sultry it reminds of only one thing – the novel To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I know that sounds odd because most of the time sultry would remind one of hot passion or conjure an image of Marilyn Monroe standing over an air vent on the sidewalk with her short skirt billowing about her.

Not me. When I hear the word “sultry” I’m taken on a journey back to my childhood, seventh grade to be exact. That year, my teacher placed a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird on my desk with a simple note, “Keta, read this. I hope it opens many doors for you.”

Now, years later, I wonder if I’ve done Ms. Lee proud. By word of mouth, and my love for To Kill a Mockingbird
, have I sold a few copies for her? We know all about the power of testimonials, the far-reaching effects of passing on vivid details about our most recent read, right? I hope we never forget the magic formula—you know, you tell five people about your great read and they tell five people and so on and so on.

Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, I was about to tell you about Miss Holmquist, my seventh grade teacher. I thought it strange the woman would place a book on my desk, but then Miss Holmquist was a rather over-the-top character. (Picture a short, stout woman with the shadow of a mustache whose flabby upper arms jiggled when she worked the chalkboard). Yet, the woman had piqued my interest with her subtle message. How could books open doors? Why did I want to read about an old lawyer in a southern state I knew nothing about? And, what’s more, what kind of a man would name his children Jem and Scout?

I took the book home and several days passed before I opened it and read the first line, "When he was thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow." Hmm, this Ms. Harper Lee, whoever she is, has my attention now,” I thought. Who is Jem and how did he break his arm?

From that moment on I was hooked – mesmerized over the story, in awe over the character names, Boo Radley, Aunt Avery, Dill, Atticus, Calpurnia, and even the white girl who was supposedly raped, Mayella. And I’m still in awe of the plot, the personalities, and the vivid neighborhood descriptions.

So why does the word “sultry” remind me of To Kill a Mockingbird? Because for the first time in my life I realized that by simply turning the pages, I could feel the sultry heat, taste the prejudice and agonize over the hatred between black and white.

“So what did you discover in this book?” Miss Holmquist asked me two weeks later. I didn’t know where to begin. Should I tell her about the roller coaster of emotions I went through reading it? Do I dare ask her why the jury convicted Tom even though I prayed they wouldn’t? Or maybe I should tell her how brave Scout was when she diffused an explosive situation between Atticus and the old-timers of the town with a simple, “Hey there, Mr. Ewell, how’s your boy, Henry doing?”

I didn’t ask her any of those things, but I did tell her about every sentiment I felt. Mostly I told her about the bitter taste in my mouth over a word called prejudice, and I told her I felt the hot, sultry sun of Maycomb County.

Some days, I wish I could go back to 7th grade and ask Miss Holmquist if she knew that one day To Kill a Mockingbird would be one of the best-loved stories of all time, that it would earn many distinctions since its original publication in 1960. I’d ask her if she thought it would win the Pulitzer Prize one day and be translated into more than forty languages. And Miss Holmquist, do you think it will sell more than thirty million copies worldwide, and will it be made into an enormously popular movie?

You know, I think Miss Holmquist would have said, “Yes, I do think Miss Lee’s novel will achieve all those things and more, but the most important thing, Keta, To Kill a Mockingbird will transport you to the sultry heat of the deep south and will take you to places you never dreamed existed.”

And I would say, “Thank you, Miss Holmquist, thank you.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Keta Diablo writes for Phaze Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Amber Quill Press and Noble Romance. You can find out more about Keta and her books by visiting Keta’s Haunt, http://www.ketadiablo.com

Keta is giving away an ecopy of MAGNOLIA HEAT and an ecopy of The Devil's Heel. We'll have two winners this week. To enter the contest, first you need to leave a comment or question for Keta. Then to finish your entry, you need to leave your email address in your post or send a email to contests.bookblog@gmail.com. I also strongly suggest you add in your comment which of the two books you would prefer to win. The winners will be chosen on Thursday, July 8. Oh, and due to the content of the books, the winner must be over the age of 18.

Excerpt from "Magnolia Heat" by Keta Diablo

Craven and his friend Anthony discover they're in over their heads the night they're caught spying on Beresford Hall. But when Craven meets the dark, mysterious Dominic Beresford, he wonders if fate really does step in and take you by surprise when you least expect.

Excerpt from Magnolia Heat by Keta Diablo:

Aware of the ache in his loins, Craven shifted, narrowed his eyes, and watched yet another transport halt near the front door. It wasn’t the first time he and Anthony had engaged in spying on Beresford Hall, and with any luck, it wouldn’t be the last. Craven couldn’t seem to squelch his innate curiosity when it came to Dominic Beresford and the rumors enveloping both the old manor and the man.

Craven knew a thing or two about architecture; had spent hours poring through books on ancient edifices. Perhaps one day, the knowledge would serve him well, lead him to an occupation of carpentry or woodwork.

His gaze roamed Beresford Hall top to bottom. The gray limestone exterior boasted three stories. The mass of the building was characterized by alternating bands of rough and smooth finished stone, enhanced by porticos, piazzas and numerous bay windows. Multiple leaded window panels framed the massive façade, rendering a bold statement of luxurious wealth. Even from here, the lemony fragrance of the magnolias clinging to the trellis and arbors drifted on the wind and spiraled up his nostrils.

Craven left his thoughts and watched Anthony pluck a blade of grass from the ground and insert it into his mouth. “I saw Dominic Beresford last year when the University re-opened,” his friend said.

“Lucky devil. Paint me a picture. ”

“Mesmerizing, stunning,” Anthony’s eyes shimmered with adulation. “A large fellow, every muscle finely honed with a tousled mass of black hair about his shoulders. Good Lord, when I saw him, the man looked is if he’d tumbled from bed but a minute ago.” A lengthy pause ensued while they watched a trio of men exit their coach. Whispered conversation passed between the merry arrivals as they walked up the steps and disappeared like smoke behind the ornate, massive door. “His eyes are unforgettable,” Anthony added. “Bluer than the turquoise lagoons of Bermuda.”

Craven laughed. “You’ve never been to Bermuda, have you?”

“Of course not, but I’ve seen the picture books.”

“From where did Dominic Beresford obtain such wealth?”

The old geezers of Chapel Hill claim his great-grandfather sailed the seas under crossbones and skull. Some say his cellar houses over a thousand casks of Spanish bullion, booty his predecessor pilfered along the Carolina coast.”

“Do you think it true?”

“If he looks anything like his ancestors, I do.”

“The man is fierce looking?”

“Dark would be more like it. He possesses a mysterious, primitive appeal—reminds me of a Cooper’s hawk on the prowl for his evening meal.” Anthony laughed. “Without the sword and eye-patch.”

“The magnolias suit the manor well in that case.”

“How so?”

“Did you sleep through botany class last year?”

“Most likely. I detest the study of plants.”

“Magnolias are a very primitive plant. If not the first on earth, one of the first.” A humorless chuckle left Craven’s lips. “So perhaps the hall should have been christened Magnolia Manor for alliteration.”

“Magnolia Heat, you mean?”

Magnolia Heat. A shivering warmth flooded Craven. He must be afflicted with an unnamed disease to court the licentious cravings his young body hungered for, insane to encourage his mind to invite such erotic thoughts about another man.

He couldn’t remember when he first discovered a woman’s touch failed to arouse him. He longed to have a man’s large, rough hands caress his naked flesh. He sensed Anthony’s tastes ran along the same lines or they wouldn’t have risked such clandestine behavior every Friday eve for the last month.

Anthony’s words broke his reverie. “Martin claims the depraved lot is given to whips, restraints and a rigorous initiation that employs the use of martial discipline, including the horse.”

Dutifully attentive and thoroughly entranced, Craven asked, “Tell me true, has Martin been inside the hall?”

Eyes the color of chocolate met his. “If you ever tell him I said so, I’ll swear an oath I didn’t.”

“Tell me, everything.” He crossed his heart. “My holy word I won’t speak of it to anyone.”

“Martin belongs to their society; a select group of men who love men. Literally.”

“Society?”

The snap of a twig from behind brought their heads around.

A man with a black hood loomed above them, the pistol in his hand centered on Craven's chest.