T.K. Thorne retired as a captain of the Birmingham Police Department (the first Jewish female officer) and currently serves as executive director of a business improvement district. Both careers provided fodder for her writing, which has been published in various venues and garnered awards, including "Book of the Year for Historical Fiction" (ForeWord Reviews) for her debut novel Noah’s Wife. The New York Post featured her non-fiction book, Last Chance for Justice: How Relentless Investigators Uncovered New Evidence Convicting the Birmingham Church Bombers on their "Books You Should Be Reading" list. A short film from her screenplay Six Blocks Wide was a semi-finalist at the international “A Film for Peace Festival” in Italy. Thorne has served as faculty at several writers’ conferences. Her next historical novel is Angels at the Gate: the Story of Lot’s Wife. She writes on a mountaintop, often with two dogs and a cat or two in her lap.
Writer, humanist, dog-mom, horse-servant, and cat-slave. Lover of solitude and the company of good friends. Bach and whale song, well-told stories, new places, new ideas and old wisdom. Stars, wind's whisper, ocean's breath, and gnarled trees.
As soon as I learned to talk, my Granny got busy working on my southern drawl, which tended to laze “get” into “git.” To this day, I firmly believe should I neglect to pronounce the “r” in “library,” Granny will erupt from her grave to correct me. Yet, the first book I remember her reading to me was Uncle Remus--complete with every nuance of 19th Century deep south dialect!
Go figure. Next in a long line of magical journeys, was my favorite, The Phantom Tollbooth, a wonderful story about a little boy named Milo who tries to rescue the kidnapped twin princesses of Rhyme and Reason. At my pleading, Granny read this cover-worn treasure many times, until I could do so on my own. Then she moved on to Mark Twain’s classics, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Some, like A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, were so far over my head, I was constantly stopping her to ask what a word meant. She was ever patient. I now suspect a plot and ulterior motive of improving my vocabulary.
One night I suffered an attack of what I later learned was chronic appendicitis. In addition to draconian attempts to cure me of a stomach ache, she read much of Robinson Crusoe to me that night, staying at my bedside to distract me from the pain far into the morning hours, until she was beyond hoarse.
I will never forget my Granny’s love, nor the wonderful gift she gave me--the love of books. Perhaps I can honor her in following the path she showed me and the passion she ignited—by writing my own.