What readers are saying about Dr. mOe Anderson's latest novel, Sinphony: Sinphony is a well-plotted, fast-paced contemporary romance with very believable characters and lots of drama. Just what readers want!... (The) characterizations are vivid and well-described, making the people come to life with their own distinct mannerisms, speech and personality. I loved them all! -Anita Bunkley, Bestselling Author and one of AALBC’s “50 Favorite African American Authors of the 20th Century” by AALBC.

1. Book Excerpt of Sinphony by Monica F. Anderson<br />42957755715Sinphony is a well-plotted, fast-paced contemporary romance with very believable characters and lots of drama. Just what readers want!... (The) characterizations are vivid and well-described, making the people come to life with their own distinct mannerisms, speech and personality. I loved them all!<br />-Anita Bunkley, Bestselling Author and one of AALBC’s “50 Favorite African American Authors of the 20th Century” by AALBC.<br />“Are we still on for tonight?” Terry asked.<br />“Of course, I’ve been looking forward to it.” Especially after the fiasco with Franklin last night. <br /> After dinner, Franklin took me straight home, pouting and driving too close to the yellow lines all the way. He always takes me straight home. The man has the sex drive of a shoelace. I couldn’t understand what he was so upset about. Vinny and Mario were thrilled when they left the restaurant. <br />I struggled to cradle the phone on my shoulder while tugging on my pantyhose. My sister says only old women wear pantyhose anymore, but my behind is too big to be unrestrained. I had to think of the innocent children. The school bus drivers might run off the road if they spotted my forty- inch hips in their full glory. <br />Terry’s smile bobbed in his voice. I could almost see the dimple in his chin. “I’m looking forward to the seminar. Sharon Farmer was the chief White House photographer for-“ <br />“Yes, I know, Terry.” He would not shut up and let me get to work. “I’m excited too. It should be a fun evening. Thank you for standing in line for two hours to get the tickets.” The tickets I volunteered to purchase knowing I need a tune up on my car more than I need to hear another lecture. “But I’ve got to go. Sharon Farmer is self-employed and you work three hours a day, but the rest of us have to be in them cotton fields full-time.”<br />He chuckled and quipped, “Aw, baby, don’t hate. I’m painting in the studio when I’m not teaching.”<br />“Or performing poetry at a slam or mixing tracks on your computer. You poor thing. Tsk, tsk. I’m not hating, dear. I’m simply reminding you that I have rugrats to feed. It’s seven o’clock.” I pulled my comforter across the wrinkled sheets in defiance of my upbringing. Mama never let us leave the house without making our beds, sheets and all. Where did I put my purse? “If I don’t get out of here in the next five minutes, I’ll be stuck on I35 all morning. I’ll meet you in front of the library at six.”<br />The light tone vanished from his voice. “How ‘bout I have Michon drop me off at your crib and I officially meet your sons?” <br />I squeezed my eyes shut and the image of Kelvin’s stunned face flitted across my lids like a shadow outside my curtains. <br />The silence that followed his statement was lengthy and heavy with tension. Finally, I said, “Terry, we’ve discussed this before. I do not want a bunch of strange men around my sons. It sets a bad example. I need you to see my point of view here. Please, try to understand. It’s not about you.” <br />But it was about him. His age. His Afro. His lifestyle. And his darn run-over leather sandals. He didn’t fit the image of the man of my dreams or the knight in the fairy tales Daddy read to us every night at bedtime.<br />“Nona, we’ve been kickin’ it for six months. I should have moved out of that ‘stranger’ category by now. And I know our thang ain’t exclusive, but I sincerely hope I’m not part of a ‘bunch’ as in several bananas.” He made a sound close to laughter, needing reassurance I could not offer.<br />He was irritated, but Terry was never mean like Franklin. Terry saved his extreme emotions for the bedroom. When we made love, he chanted my name like a mantra, softly, over and over between nibbles on those sensitive grooves in my neck and around my earlobes or he’d call me his little M&M while he did things that made me melt. Oooh and his stamina! He could be a gigolo if his art career didn’t work out. I know I’d pay him. I’d work two jobs to afford the luxury. Franklin might be show and tell, but Terry was moan and yell. More than our shared interests, our infrequent but extremely satisfying trysts were really what kept me dialing his number though I loathed admitting it even to myself.<br />“Nona,” he continued, “are you embarrassed for your sons to meet me? You talk about them, Diane, and your parents all the time, but you’ve never included me in anything involving your family.” <br />Words like “hypocrite”, “desperate middle- aged woman”, and “old-fashioned” sprinkled my mind before melting like snowflakes in spring. I caught my reflection in the mirror over my dresser. Thank God he couldn’t see the panic in my eyes. I’m not ready to give him up, I thought, ignoring the fact he was never truly mine.<br />I put the receiver away from my face and swallowed hard. “Don’t be silly Terry,” I chided in my best schoolteacher voice. “I’ve taught my boys to judge people by their character alone. When the time is right, you’ll meet everyone. Remember, Kelvin is still upset about that little incident the other day. That was traumatic for both of us. Please, let’s not argue about this anymore, baby. I’ve got to get to work. I’ll see you later ‘kay?”<br />He sighed softly, relenting for the moment. “I’m counting the hours. I’ll be there early so I can watch you arriving. I love the way you walk. Someday I’ll capture that movement on canvas and title it ‘Grace’. Have a good day, Nona. Oh, and don’t forget to bring some comfortable shoes so you can change after work.”<br />Dangit. I did not need that today. That’s what I get for trying to be happy. What was that Grandmama used to say? “God, ain’t promised you no happiness gurl. Where you see dat in the commandments? Thou shalt be happy. Show me where it say dat. All He promised was traveling grace, a heavy cross, and salvation for dem who believes in the Christ Jesus.”<br />“But David danced,” I countered.<br />“Yep. After he got through fightin’ dem Philistines, he danced a little holy dance, den he went on back to work. You read somethin’ about him going on vacation and being happy ever after? Nope. King James bible say dat boy had to struggle like the rest of us. Read Psalms if’n you don’t b’lieve your elders. You count how many times it say happy in dere and show me where I’s wrong.” <br />Yea, she was right. David went to work and that’s where I was going. The last thing I needed was Juanita Bailey busting my chops for tardiness. I roused the boys. “Get up, fellas! I’m leaving! VaShawn, remember your history project is on the kitchen table.” I found my purse in the den on the coffee table where I’d left it. “Kelvin, I’m leaving you ten dollars for gas. It’s ALL for gas. Do not spend a dime on tacos or Krispy Kreme donuts like you did last time. If you run out of gas before next Friday, you will be riding the long, yellow bus to school.” <br />He had ten dollars and I had three. That was enough to buy my lunch and a drink in the cafeteria. I didn’t have time to prepare one.<br />“Yes, ma’am,” Kelvin responded dryly.<br />VaShawn stumbled into the den and gave me a hug. “Bye Mama, I love you.” His breath smelled like spoiled chitterlings. The corners of his eyes were matted with white crust. His plaid boxers were inside out. Mama’s baby – so precious. <br />I held my breath and pecked his cheek. “I love you too, honey. Remember, I’ll be home late. Make yourself a sandwich or eat that leftover chicken when you get home from school.”<br />Every radio station became “talk radio” during drive time. Why couldn’t they just play music? I could see the day was sunny and the goose bumps on my arms confirmed the chill of the air. <br />Taking a detour through the residential areas and school zones was slow but steady. It gave me time to think and made the nonstop traffic reports inconsequential. Soft, calm music was what I needed not mindless chatter about celebrity court cases. The only CD in the car was Mary J. Blige and I was not having a Mary morning. I turned the radio off.<br /> My mind drifted back to the conversation with Terry. One way or the other, I had to deal with his very legitimate questions. But first, I needed to sort out my own feelings. Lord knows I’d asked Him for a man like Terry, an intelligent man who shared my interests, knew how to handle his business in the bedroom, and had a sense of humor. I assumed God knew I meant someone my age that had financial stability like Franklin. Franklin was older and more established, but as it turned out, that was all we had in common. After two years of being his official hostess, I was fairly certain God hadn’t sent him. <br />On the other hand, I liked Terry a lot – as a friend, but he was too laid back about finances. That whole “live for today” thing didn’t sit well with me. I had mouths to feed today and tomorrow. He wasn’t bringing anything to the table I’d work my ass off to buy on credit. In a way, the two of them together formed the one man I really desired. <br />Terry, Terry, Terry. I blew him off after our first meeting at Whole Foods but then, a few weeks later; I bumped into him at Mitchie’s Fine Black Art during a reading and signing by one of my favorite authors, Laura Parker Castoro. Terry came in late and sat by me. I glanced over but didn’t recognize him because I was into Ms. Parker’s discussion. It was not until Terry raised his hand to ask a question about a plot point in her latest novel that I realized the charged air in the room was emanating from him.<br />Terry and I sat talking long after everyone had gotten autographs and left. Joyce, the owner, had to shoo us into the parking lot where we talked another forty minutes, leaning against my car. <br />Finally, I noted the late hour and reluctantly admitted, “I really have to go. It was nice, uhmm, very nice to see you again.”<br />His radiant smile rivaled the full moon over his shoulder. “Yeah, same here.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants and rocked back on his heels as if contemplating his next sentence. I waited, half hopeful, half anxious. “Do you think I can get those digits this time?” he asked, staring at my hand on the car door as if he expected me to answer in sign language.<br />“Excuse me?”<br />“Your phone number? May I have your phone number please?”<br />“Oh.” Suddenly, I felt my age. His slang wasn’t even new. My ex used that word when we were together during the era of my life known as the Depression. “My bad. I thought you said ‘midgets’.” <br />He laughed at my lame joke. I quickly jotted my number on the back of a deposit slip, thinking he’d never follow up. He was probably trying to earn points for Boy Scouts. The Talk to An Older Woman badge or something. <br />The parking lot was empty. “Where’s your car?” I asked.<br />“I don’t have one,” he responded without explanation or the usual expression of embarrassment. “I’ll walk home. I don’t live far from here.” <br />My guard came up. He seemed nice. I wanted to give him a ride, but I didn’t know him very well. What if he was a serial killing, psycho, rapist? Who would raise my children after they found my naked, mutilated body on the muddy banks of Barton Creek? But he had such luscious lips, nice toes, and really big hands… <br />“Would you like a ride?” my libido asked before my paranoid mind could stop it. <br />He licked his upper lip with the tip of his tongue and grinned triumphantly. “Are you sure? I’d really appreciate it. Don’t worry. I’m harmless.” He pulled his wallet out and handed me his driver’s license. “Why don’t you call a friend and give them my information? That’s what my sister does. You can never be too careful. There are a lot of crazies out there.”<br />I noted his birth date and memorized his address before pushing his hand away. “Oh no, that’s not necessary.” He shrugged and walked to the passenger side of my 1999 Passat. <br />When we parked in front of his house, he leaned over and kissed my cheek so tenderly I thought I’d imagined it. I watched him go inside before touching my fingertips to the burning imprint of his gratitude.<br />He called a few minutes after I arrived home. We laughed and talked until dawn. It didn’t even matter that he was in the eighth grade when I was a freshman in college.<br />Grandma was wrong. That night, I was happy.<br />Wondering what happens next? Why live in suspense? Order your copy of Sinphony by Monica F. Anderson today. Available in e-book and paperback from Amazon.com and Google Books. Read excerpts of Anderson’s other novels at www.drmoeanderson.com.<br />