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Description of Faith and Trust:

Faith and Trust is a work of literary fiction and a novel-in-stories, classifiable also as experimental and psychological fiction. Each chapter is a vignette depicting a single event in the life of Faith Thomas, a twenty-something and slightly neurotic Chicagoan navigating her way through the 1990s. Each story is told in Faith’s voice and in real time, as she experiences and reacts to the events in her life, including love, sex, friendship, and death. And while the stories are secular, each explores the concept that trust, either in another person or a higher power, feels a whole lot better psychologically than simply having faith. Faith and Trust captures a young woman’s psychological evolution over the course of the decade leading up to Y2K, the year she will turn thirty and begin a new phase of her life.

Accolade:

Faith and Trust is a book written with women readers in mind – so it is inescapably intriguing for a man to read.  At just over 100 pages, Faith and Trust is short for a novel but much more than a short story. Richly interwoven with psychology and dreams, this little book deals perceptively and sensitively with big issues of life and death, love and sex.

A series of vignettes provide a pleasingly relaxed pace as we follow the life of Faith, who lives in a Chicago apartment with her cat called ‘Tangle’ and works as a Paralegal. (I had to look up ‘paralegal’ as it has different meanings.  Faith is trained in legal matters but not qualified as a lawyer).

We soon find ourselves looking at the world through Faith’s perspective. Interestingly, we have to wait for the description of her in a wealth of details, her shade of lipstick, her eclectic taste in music  (Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 in A major, Op. 92, Second Movement, Allegretto – Suzanne recommends you listen to it when you read chapter one)

It is also not long before you start to realise that Suzanne Davis has a very liberated style and enjoys exploring the possibilities of novel writing. For example, in chapter 2 she runs through the first nine tracks on Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection CD. (Later we find we are following every detail of how to make a red pasta sauce).

The book is full of real life details that create a very credible world that would be very hard to research.   I also liked the way Suzanne’s economy with words creates a clear sense of place and character.  Faith finds Chicago sinister and dangerous at night – and her date is like ‘Jim Carey in a serious role’.

Faith and Trust did offer an insight into the mind of a modern woman but also left me with more questions than answers. Do women really like being called ‘beautiful’ as a nickname?

Suzanne’s background as a psychologist really shines through in the dream sequences.  More than once I found I had to re-read sections as I realised we had slipped out of the real world.  That I wanted to is a testament to the way the book makes you work as a reader – and want to return to it at a later date.  I wanted more.  A sequel?

{Source: http://tonyriches.blogspot.com/2011/04/book-review-faith-and-trust-by-suzanne.html}

Reviews:

Faith and Trust currently has an average Amazon Reader Review Rating of 4 stars from 3 reviews. Read them here!

An excerpt from Faith and Trust:

It’s June 1993 and Faith Thomas and her friends attend a poetry slam and enjoy each other’s company.  There, Faith meets Evan, her future fiancé, and the chemistry is powerful.

Upstairs, the café has really filled up. I squeeze between people to step up to the bar.

I order a shot of Patron at the bar. Do I want lime? Yes.

Now to the ladies’ room, but my foot doesn’t move right and I stumble. Some idiot stepped on the back of my flip flop while I was in mid-flip.

“Shit!” I mutter. One look, and I see that my flip flop is toast. The thing that goes between the toes is completely broken off from the rest of the shoe.

“Oh, sorry,” a voice behind me says.

It is the shoe-breaking idiot.

I turn around to say something mean, but I can’t do it once I get a look at him. He’s tall and lanky, with longish wavy brown hair and a slightly goofy, yet intelligent, appearance. And his blue eyes twinkle in a nice way. Green t-shirt, tan straight-cut cords, and black Doc Martins. Standard.

He smiles apologetically, and the eyes twinkle some more. “I broke it, didn’t I? Here, let me fix it.”

“Uh, do you think you can?” I wave the two pieces of the flip flop in front of him. “Looks a bit hopeless.”

“Well, I can try, if you’ll let me.”

“Ok, give it your best shot,” I say, handing him the pieces. “I’m going to the ladies’ room while you reassemble it.”

“Yes, I’ll . . . reassemble it.” In a monotone voice, he adds, “I have the technology. I can

rebuild him.”

I can’t help but smile as I walk away.

He calls after me, raising his voice considerably against the chaos of the bar. “You’re going to the ladies’ room with just one shoe. Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“Probably. I’ll be back.”

I do a quick hair check in the ladies’ room and make sure I look decent. I freshen my lipstick – MAC’s brilliant color called Captive.

Back at the bar, I am surprised to see my flip flop in one piece.

“Here you are, ma’am,” he says formally with a slight bow. “See here?” He points to the little strap that goes between the toes. “I just popped the strap back into the bottom of the shoe.

Viola! But I wouldn’t go for a run on the way home or anything.”

“Wow, thanks. I really didn’t want to go back down into the basement with only one shoe.  It’s kind of gross down there.”

He looks playful. “Now let me get this straight. It is ok to be barefoot in the ladies’ room,

but it is gross to be barefoot in the basement?”

“Yes, exactly.” I smile brightly because I don’t know what else to say to that.

“Hmm. Ok, well let’s get Steve Austin back where he belongs, shall we?” He gets down on one knee, takes holds of my ankle, and slips Steve Austin on my foot.

“Thanks,” I say, looking around to see if anyone is noticing. Nobody is.

He reaches upward. “Help me up?” I take his hand and pull him up, even though I’m sure he didn’t need help.

“Step outside with me for a minute.” He says this as a statement, not a question.

We go outside, and he leans against the side of the building, a brick wall covered thick with posters for local events and all-ages shows.

“My name’s Evan, by the way.”

“Faith,” I say, extending my hand.

But he doesn’t shake my hand. He takes it in both of his and kisses my knuckles lightly. I don’t break character. I look right into his eyes – not at our hands or the kiss. No blushing, no nervousness, no fear, no exhilaration. Just a look. I think this is passion, but I’m not sure.

He slowly returns my hand to my side.

“Cigarette?” he offers, taking a pack out of his pocket. “They’re clove.”

“Sure.” I don’t know why I agree to this. I don’t smoke. But I take a cigarette and it is actually pretty good. “It’s sweet, almost,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“I like them,” he agrees. “Looks like you do, too.”

“Yes,” I say with a slight raise of my chin. “I think I do. You shouldn’t smoke, though.”

“Neither should you. Nor should anyone.” He exhales some smoke and stares into the air.

“You know,” he continues, “the Native Americans smoked tobacco to get closer to nature.

What do you think of that?”

“What I think is that it causes cancer.”

“Not always.”

“More often than not.”

“That’s not right, actually. Most heavy smokers don’t get lung cancer, but most cases of

lung cancer are caused by smoking. You do the math.”

He smiles handsomely.

“You ever been caught?” he says suddenly, looking at me sideways.

“Caught? What do you mean, caught?”

“You know,” he says, staring out into the street, “caught caught.”

“Um . . . ” I don’t know if he means what I think he means. “No,” I add quietly.

He says nothing else and we finish the cigarettes in silence.

“I’m going to give you my information, Faith,” he tells me. “Maybe you will call me for another clove sometime.” He writes on a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it over.

More deliberate eye contact on my part. “Are you asking me for a date?”

He smiles. “I’m asking you to call me. Can you cope with that?”

I smile back. “Yeah. And hey, thanks for fixing my flip flop.”

“Now, back inside with you,” he says, taking my hand. He leads me back into the café, directly to the door with the green curtain.

“Have a wonderful evening, my lady Faith.” His eyes twinkle a little more, and he leaves.  I walk downstairs to the basement, just in time for the Emcee to announce the first intermission of the evening.

Jen spots me immediately. “Hey, where have you been? You missed somebody getting totally slammed!”

“My flip flop broke and I had to get it fixed,” I explain.

Andrea eyes me in horror. “You smell like smoke! Were you smoking? I didn’t know you smoked!”

“It was just one, don’t worry.” I want to get off this subject and I really don’t want to be lectured all night about smoking.

“Yuck,” Andrea hisses, wrinkling her nose.  “I’m going to get another drink while you air

out. Jen, are you coming?”

“No, I’m all right, you go ahead. I want to talk to Faith.”

Andrea leaves and Jen pounces. “Oh my God, Faith, the Emcee says I can present something during the next round of readings. Do you think I should? Andrea says I shouldn’t, but I want to, except I don’t know what to present, but I lost my brain and I told him I might do it. What do you think?”

“But you don’t have anything to perform, do you?”

She smiles meekly. “No, but . . . maybe if you . . . you know . . . can write something for me? Maybe a poem?”

“You are supposed to present your own original work, Jen.”

“But I don’t haaaaave an original work!”

“I’ll write something, but I’m not getting on stage and I won’t be singled out.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” She gives me an enthusiastic hug. “I’m going upstairs for a minute to leave the artist to her work!”

Jen skips away happily and I look around for something to write on. I find a discarded Chicago Reader and sit down to write a few lines. I’m just finishing as Andrea comes back.

“What are you doing?” she says.

“Writing something for Jen.”

“Writing something? Why? Is she going up stage? She’s not, is she? What if she gets slammed? It will ruin our whole evening.”

“Hey, she can’t do any worse than Curt Cobain did.”

“What did you write? Let me see it!” Andrea says, trying to grab the paper.

“No, no, no pre-presentation evaluation!” I pull the newspaper off the table and into my lap.

“Hands off, mama.”

Jen pops back to the table with a beer, and I wonder where she got the cash for it. “Watchmy beer – I’m going to tell the Emcee and sign up to perform. This is so exciting!”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for her to do this?” Andrea asks me.

“She’ll love it, you just watch. I hope the poem isn’t too short, though.”

“There’s no length requirement, is there? Hey, do you think it’s the poem or the person that gets slammed?”

“Huh?”

“When people slam a poem” Andrea says impatiently, “are they slamming the poem because they think the poem sucks, or are they really slamming the performer because they think the performer sucks?”

“Who asks questions like that? You weirdo!”

“It’s a legitimate question. What do you think?”

“I don’t know, probably both the poem and the performer are slammed simultaneously.”

“God,” she sighs, re-doing her ponytail, “Now, Curt Cobain got slammed, and I think he got slammed for scamming everyone. It wasn’t the words themselves that got him slammed.”

I can’t take it anymore and put my head down on the table. “No,” I say. “He got slammed   because he is a moron for reciting pseudo-Nirvana lyrics somewhere like this.”

“Right. It is personal, see? He was slammed. Not the poem. That’s my point.”

“I really don’t know, Andrea.”

Jen comes back to the table, bubbly. “Ok, guys, I’m second up after the intermission. I’m getting nervous.”

“We’re leaving after your performance,” Andrea says. “I’m hungry.”

“Me, too,” I agree.

“Works for me,” Jen says.

Andrea starts in again. “Hey, Jen, do you think Curt Cobain was slammed because people

didn’t like him or because they didn’t like what he read?”

Jen stares back, blankly. “What? Curt Cobain? What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” Andrea sighs, chuckling at her own joke.

Jen looks around. “Where is the poem?” she asks.

“Right here,” I say, tearing it out of the newspaper.

Jen takes it, folds it in half, and closes her eyes, I think in an attempt to compose herself.

“She’s a true artist,” Andrea muses. “But aren’t you going to read it, Jen?”

“Nope! Not until I’m up there.”

“Uh, Jen,” Andrea says, “I’m sure Faith is flattered and all, but what if you get on stage and that little paper says ‘Ha ha, you’re screwed’?”

“It won’t.” Jen says confidently. “I trust her.”

“Oh,” I say, putting my hand to my heart. “I’m touched.”

“Brave woman,” Andrea says, patting Jen on the shoulder.

Jen scoffs. “It’s not about bravery. Who’s to say I won’t get up there and botch Faith’s poem? That could happen.”

“Oh, you’re not going to botch my poem,” I say.

“See, you trust me, too!” Jen hugs me big. “Or you’re brave, in Andrea’s world.”

“Durrrr,” Andrea mocks.

The Emcee walks on stage and gives the five minute warning. People gradually come back to their seats, many drunker than when they left. He once again recites the ground rules and calls someone named Erica to the stage. A skinny, pale girl with straight black hair and bangs, wearing a white button down shirt and black skirt with black flats walks onstage with a guitar.

She is pretty, in a natural sort of way. Andrea would say she is “just mascara” girl. I hate that term because it actually takes a lot of work to achieve a “just mascara” look. At the very least, it takes a good foundation, a light dusting of powder, plus some very neutral color over the eyelids, in addition to the mascara. And a little clear lip gloss.

Faith and Trust is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99

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