THE PASSENGER, a 1940s ghost story set in the California wine country, tells a tale of family connections, life-changing choices, and love—lost and found.
ABOUT JOIE:
Joie Lesin is my fellow Wild Rose Press author, a lifelong fiction writer and poet. She is most recently the author of The Passenger (The Wild Rose Press, 2024), and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She has long been fascinated by anything otherworldly including mermaids and ghosts. Joie writes character-driven, emotional, atmospheric tales about heartache and hope.
What’s It All About, Joie?
The
Passenger is the story of Elizabeth Reilly, a young widow and an empath who communicates
with ghosts. She doesn’t just hear them. No, they appear to her as if alive. After
losing her husband as a casualty of WW2 and a chance encounter with a dying
man, she befriends the dying man’s ghost. To help her friend pass on in peace,
she travels from her home in Boston to California’s wine country. There she
discovers her task won’t be so easy. To help her friend, she must first help
the living family he left behind.
What Inspired Me?
To set the stage for what inspired The Passenger, I need to tell you a bit about myself as a teenager. I used to make up stories in my mind for strangers I would encounter. I instinctively knew every single person had something they were dealing with—be it big or small. I would play the "what if" game, and I would tell their story. My mind would spin—asking the questions, creating the backstory, and discovering the inciting incident.
On the day I met my ghost, Paolo, I was on the city bus on the way home from school playing my game when I noticed a man sitting at the back of the bus who seemed a bit down on his luck. I wondered, what if he were alone in the world? What would happen if this man collapsed there on the bus? Would he die right there on that bus alone? What if I, or someone else, comforted him in his dying moments?
Do you know where I am going with this?
Yes,
this is how I met Paolo Clemente. The story I told silently in my mind
planted the seeds for the story that would become THE PASSENGER.
How Do I Do It?
Well, I’m analytical and like
to plan, plot, track, and categorize my tasks. I don’t do this with my books.
When I write, I take full advantage of my working imagination. I let the story
lead the way. I have an idea of the major plot points—that I may or may not
write down because they live in my head. Then I write from plot point to plot
point, filling in the gaps and puzzling it all together.
When Do I Write It?
After many years of fitting in writing during stolen moments and at night when everyone else was asleep, I am now writing full-time. A benefit of my current schedule means I can plan and plot to write first thing in the morning. However, I still find myself writing by the light of the moon more days than not.
I plan to keep trying to
change my ways though.
What’s Next for My Writing?
I’m working on the final
draft of the story that takes place two decades after The Passenger
ended. Like its predecessor, it’s a ghost story. What I can share about it now
is: It’s 1969 and the ghosts are gathering.
Blurb:
She’s a 1940s ghost whisperer.
Burdened with her empathic gift, Elizabeth Reilly wants to be free of it and fit in with normal people. Nevertheless, when the spirit of an old man asks for her help, she travels across the country to help him return home.
He’s the son of a ghost.
Gio Clemente is still angry with his father who abandoned him as a child. To help the father pass on, Elizabeth must persuade Gio to let go of his anger. Though he resents her intrusion, they are both stunned to find themselves fighting a profound attraction.
Elizabeth can accept his headstrong brand of love, but can Gio accept her gift—and believe in her?
Excerpt:
Elizabeth’s stomach churned in nervous knots. She squirmed on the cloth seat, and her foot twitched. If he heard her erratic heartbeat, he’d realize how frantic she was—and hot. Perspiration built up on her forehead. Grabbing the metal handle, she rolled down the squeaking window, and inhaled the pure air. The fragrances of the forest filled her senses—the resinous scent of pine, the earthiness of soil, and damp detritus of fallen branches and decaying leaves. The surrounding land was alive, vibrant, and something more she couldn’t quite identify. Somehow, the vehicle they drove in and the path it traveled seemed out of place.
Gravel on the uneven road crunched and ground under the truck’s tires. Elizabeth sat straight in her seat and stole stiff, awkward glimpses at Giovanni. A frown marked his lips. His lean, well-defined face held soulful eyes bringing to her mind images of the sad little boy he must have been.
A thin red scar stretched down his right cheek and she itched to run a finger along the faded edges. She’d caress his stubble-shadowed chin and tell him how terribly his father missed him. Instead, she stared out the truck window.
Enormous ancient trees shrouded the road and hid the valley from
the rest of the world. Elizabeth closed her eyes to the beauty. She was here,
on the way to Paolo’s vineyard with his son, aching to tell Giovanni
everything. If she did, he’d send her away, and she’d never be able to help his
father.
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