From pre-publication jitters to glowing reviews, debut author Sally DiPaula’s publishing journey with Defiance Press & Publishing demonstrates both the challenges and rewards of bringing a first novel to life. With her second book, “Captain Moretti’sDaughter,” on the horizon, DiPaula reflects on her experiences and shares insights valuable for aspiring authors.
Like many first-time authors, DiPaula approached the publishing process with an open mind. What surprised her most was experiencing what she calls “the writer’s version of opening night jitters” – that moment of self-doubt just before publication when she feared her work might be “total crap.” These fears proved unfounded when her debut novel garnered an impressive 28 reviews on Amazon, most carrying five-star ratings, from readers beyond her immediate circle of friends and family.
The validation extended beyond Amazon, with both Chanticleer and Book Commentary awarding her book five-star reviews. These prestigious endorsements now feature prominently on her author website, sallydipaula.com, where readers can connect with her directly.
DiPaula’s approach to author platform building has been methodical and multi-faceted. She maintains an active presence across multiple social media channels, including Facebook, Pinterest, and Instagram, alongside her Amazon Author page. Her marketing efforts have extended into the real world, with speaking engagements at cultural organizations relevant to her work, particularly Italian-American and Irish-American clubs and associations. She’s even returned to her alma mater to inspire the next generation of writers.
The author credits much of her success to the strong foundation she built through active participation in writing communities. Throughout the COVID-19 pandemic and beyond, DiPaula worked with a writers’ group and took numerous courses at a local writers’ center, experiences she values enough to acknowledge in her published work.
When asked about her choice to publish with Defiance Press & Publishing, DiPaula emphasizes the professional management of each stage of the production process. As a hybrid publisher, Defiance offered her the perfect balance – maintaining creative control while handling the technical aspects of publication that can overwhelm many first-time authors.
Looking ahead to her future works, including “Captain Moretti’s Daughter,” DiPaula plans to evolve her approach to both writing and marketing. While her first two novels emerged through a more organic writing process, she’s considering implementing more detailed plotting in her future works. On the marketing front, she’s collaborating with a friend to enhance her social media presence and promote both her existing and upcoming books.
For authors considering following in her footsteps, DiPaula offers pragmatic advice: trust in the publishing process, but keep expectations realistic – particularly about movie deals! She encourages aspiring writers to engage with writing communities and embrace the marketing aspects of authorship, while remembering that every author’s journey is unique.
Readers interested in following Sally DiPaula’s continuing journey can connect with her through her website (sallydipaula.com) or her Facebook author page (facebook.com/people/Sally-DiPaula/100091920007350/).
Read Once Upon a Time in Baltimore
PROLOGUE
A GIRL, A BOY
Baltimore 1918 Childhood is a short season. – Helen Hayes
Annie runs past the handkerchief-covered faces, the crepe-dotted doorways, the coffins spilling onto the pavement. The October sky is clearer than it has been all summer, the bleached-white clouds hovering in the sky as if they were thrown up there on a whim.
On days like this, she and her friends would round the first corner from the school, then stop and spend the next half-hour talking of nothing consequential. And they’d continue talking as they slowly drifted home, each girl peeling away from the group when she reached her own house.
But not today. Today, they all run. To home. To safety.
When she gets there, Annie hurtles through the front door, slamming it behind her and dropping her books on the small round table just inside. The room is empty, dust motes floating in the pale light drifting through the window. And it is so still. Where is Jimmy? Her mother? Mary Ellen?
“Ma? Ma, where are you?” she yells to the second floor.
A chair scrapes, wooden floorboards creak overhead, a door opens. And there is her mother at the top of the stairs, leaning against the banister’s newel post. Her hair is falling in clumps around her face, and her white apron is marred by dark stains. “Ma, are you all right?” Annie asks as she starts up the stairs. “Stop there, Annie. Right now,” her mother snaps. “Stay downstairs and don’t come up until I say you can, understand?” Annie nods. “Now, go sit on the sofa and wait.”
Annie does as she is told. She sits on that sofa, frightened by her mother’s cold tone, chewing the tail of her right braid, until the sound of the front door being pushed open makes her jump to her feet. What she sees next scares her as much as her mother’s appearance: Doctor Wick running by her and up the stairs, her father behind him. She runs to her father, but before she can ask what’s wrong, he puts his palm in front of her face.
“Stay there, Annie, and don’t move until I say so, ya’ hear?” It isn’t his blunt command that upsets her; she’s used to that. It’s the sight of the doctor, who only enters this house the few times her father relents to her mother’s pleadings to ignore the expense of a doctor’s visit to take care of one of her children. And there he is now, grumpy, old Doctor Wick.
Annie is nine, old enough to know that many of her classmates have missed school since September, not because they were sick themselves but because they had to attend a funeral, usually a parent’s. She is old enough to notice that neighbors who used to gather together for a quick exchange of gossip on their way to the grocer’s now just nod to each other from what they think is a safe distance, and that the men leaving the corner tavern at night do so quietly, without the rowdy goodbyes and occasional songs of the past. And to notice that the houses on her street hold new decorations—strands of fabric, sometimes black, sometimes gray, sometimes white. Crepes, they are called, and if a house has one hanging from the lintel, it means that someone has died there. The colors have a meaning, too. White is the worst. It means that the person who died was young.
There are too many white crepes outside the houses on the way to Annie’s school.
After a while, she hears heavy footsteps on the stairs, her father’s and Doctor Wick’s, but the doctor’s voice is too low for her to hear what he’s saying. Then they step outside, closing the front door behind them.
Despite her parents’ order, Annie’s curiosity drives her up the steps and to the room she shares with her two sisters. Slowly, she turns the handle and inches the door open. On the other side is her mother on her knees beside the bed, head bent, rosary beads passing through her fingers.
On the bed lies Mary Ellen. Annie can see that something is terribly wrong with her. Her lips and nose are blue, and she is gasping for breath. Dark stains, the same color as those on her mother’s apron, dot the sheet, which is pulled up to her neck.
When Annie cries out, her mother’s reaction is swift and silent. She jumps to her feet and crosses the room in two steps. One hand pushes Annie into the hall; the other slams the door in her face.
Two hours later, her sister is dead. Mary Ellen, who seemed fine the night before when Annie went to bed.
The next day, a white crepe is hanging from the lintel of the Finnerty house. Three days later, a black crepe is hanging next to it.
*********
In a house five miles north, there are no crepes, but there is death inside, all the same. The Venetian blinds are pulled down, their wooden slats closed tightly against the autumn sunlight, but no lamp illuminates the living room.
In that room stands twelve-year-old Vince Parisi, his younger sister Carmela by his side. Their mother Rosaria sits by a casket in front of the fireplace, the mirror above it turned to the wall. On either side of her stand Vince’s older brothers, Ruggero and Toto. And in the casket lies his other brother, Antonio, a rosary in his cold hands and a St. Christopher medal lying on his chest.
Vince wonders where that saint was when his brother was killed.
The living room seems wrapped in steam; yet there sits Vince’s papa in his worsted black suit and waistcoat, starched white shirt, a stiffwinged collar hugging his neck. Perspiration runs down his forehead and cheeks, but unlike the others seated around the casket, Salvatore Parisi does not bother to wipe it away.
It wasn’t the driver’s fault, the policeman told his parents. Their son was crossing the street in the middle of the block. Others on their way home from his high school saw him dart out without looking left and right as they’d all been taught to do. There were so many automobiles and trucks on the road now, the policeman said. And they went so fast, so much faster than the horse-drawn carriages and carts they were rapidly replacing.
Suddenly, Vince’s father moans and doubles over, his hand still gripping his wife’s. Ruggero and Toto circle him so that he is lost from view before their grandmother pushes them away to get to her son. He buries his head in her bosom, loosening his grip on his wife’s hand as he does so. With everyone’s attention now on her husband, Vince’s mother pushes herself out of her chair and slowly makes her way to the kitchen. Vince, less than a foot behind, matches her stride step by step.
Rosaria has hardly settled in the kitchen chair when he brings her a plate of food. “Here, Mama. I got you some salami and ham and some ravioli.”
Rosaria’s eyes focus on the food in front of her and then shift to the corner next to the ice box and the small pile of salt sitting there. Those piles sit all around the house, sprinkled there to protect the rest of the family from “catching” the death that now lives there. She pulls her eyes away and turns to her youngest son, his body angled in toward her in a plea for her to eat. Knowing he won’t move from that position until she does, she slowly spears a piece of ham and raises the fork.
CHAPTER 1
A WOMAN, A MAN 1927–1930
We count by changes and events within us. Not by years. – Charles Dickens
Out of the corner of her eye, Annie could see her mother, sister, and three brothers proudly watching as she accepted her diploma as a graduate of the class of 1927. Then, she walked as instructed, uniform steps at a measured tempo, back to her seat on the stage. On her right sat her best friend Nancy, who had already made an appointment for the next day to have her auburn hair cut in a bob now that the nuns couldn’t prevent it. Nancy was excited to be out of school and ready for the work force.
Annie was not.
Like Nancy, she had a new job to go to on Monday. Unlike her friend, she didn’t want to leave high school. She had been happy there. She got good grades and didn’t mind the strict conduct the nuns expected from the students.
Her new job was in the office of the same factory where her brother Billy and her sister Betty worked. But beside those two, she knew no one in the factory. And Billy and Betty worked on the meat-packing floor on the evening shift, so that was no help. She would have to get to work on her own, and to do that, she would need to take the streetcar all the way over to the southwest side of town. It was miles from her house. Until two weeks ago, when she interviewed for the job, she had never been that far from home. Suppose something happened when she was at work? Suppose her mother got sick and needed her?
It was these thoughts that clouded the ceremony and the hugs and congratulations of her family afterwards. They were on her mind as she walked home from Nancy’s party and as she got ready for bed.
Annie knew she wasn’t going to sleep well that night. She was right.
***********
She put a smile on as she walked through the front door the following Monday evening. At the sound of it closing, her mother rushed from the kitchen, a large spoon dripping soup in her right hand.
“Well?”
As she climbed the stairs to her room, Annie kept her smile on and mumbled something about changing out of her work clothes.
