We’re excited to introduce you to the always interesting and insightful Shannon Reynolds. We hope you’ll enjoy our conversation with Shannon below.

Hi Shannon, thanks for joining us today. Can you tell us about an important lesson you learned in school and why that lesson is important to you?

As a kid, I remember reading books by Hemingway, Stephen King, and Toni Morrison. I would often play out the scenarios from the books that I read or movies that I had seen and make up my own story from it.

I would rewrite my own version of a great story and reread it when I got bored.

I was always a writer. I just didn’t know how well. No one ever critiqued my stories. I wrote them for me. It wasn’t until I entered high school that I realized I could be a writer.

In my freshman year of high school, I had a Civics teacher named Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Oliver was an avid book reader and often encouraged the class to read books such as, 12 Angry Men, To Kill A Mockingbird, and Of Mice and Men.

One day she asked the class to write a story about a memorable time spent during the summer with a family member.

I was shocked about the assignment because summer vacations had nothing to do with civics.

Me and my sister never traveled to far away places as children or visited amazing things in our area during the summer months. It was a tough assignment for me.

But with grace and humility, I took a deep breath and wrote.

My mother was a single mother and worked often, so I would spend my summers at my grandparents house. My grandmother, on hot summer days, would make a homemade blackberry syrup to pour over vanilla ice cream and preserve the jam for later uses. Me and my sister spent a majority of our summers picking berries.

My grandparents owned a variety of fruit trees and fruit bushes. There was a metal fence that separated my grandparents house from the neighbor’s house. Along the fence, a blackberry bush grew the length of it.

Oftentimes, me and my sister were restless and my grandmother would take us down to the local market and grab two pints of vanilla ice cream.

“You are only going to get a little bit. Your mother doesn’t want you to have too much ice cream,” she would always say.

Me and my sister would shake our heads yes and then look at each other and grin. We knew she wouldn’t listen to our mother once the berries were cooked.

Just before the sun settled to rest in the sky, my grandmother would give us huge bowls to collect the berries. We often ate as many blackberries as we picked, turning our mouths and hands the color of magenta, as the leaves would cling to our sticky fingers.

We fought flies, ducked from preying birds, swatted ants, and ran from yellow jackets and wasps eager to taste the sweet berries also.

Once picked, we would rush them inside, past the fireflies and the singing crickets, and wash our hands. Our grandmother would take the berries, wash them, sugar them, and boil them on low until they were syrupy; pouring them over two scoops of vanilla ice cream. Those memorable moments made summers worthwhile for me and my sister. It was the only cool summer story I had to share with my teacher.

Two days later, Mrs. Oliver picked the top three stories to read from the class, saving the last story for number one.

Not expecting my story to be in the top three, I spent my time doodling in my notebook and passing notes to the classmate sitting in front of me as Mrs. Oliver read the stories.

When she got to the last one, it was mine! My story was number one. I was so shocked and taken aback, that I covered my hands over my face and sunk into my chair.

Soon enough, the bell dismissed the students. I was eager to get to my next class but before I could get lost in the huddle of students in the hallway, Mrs. Oliver called me over to her desk.

She asked, “Why were you so embarrassed that I read your story?”

I said, “The other students had great summer adventures, Even one student traveled to Greece to see his aunts and uncles. All I ever did was go to my grandparent’s house with my sister and pick blackberries”.

My teacher said, “You are a good writer and you shouldn’t be embarrassed about it. Be proud of your ability and your talent.

I told her that the other students’ stories were better than mine because their stories were so much more elaborate, whereas mine was plain and boring.

Mrs. Oliver looked up at me with a huge smile and said,

Anything can be a story. The important thing is how the story is told. That is what makes it a story. And you are a storyteller.

The most valuable lesson that I learned in school that day was to acknowledge your skill or talent and be proud of it.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

Of course. I grew up in Calvert County, Maryland. I have four brothers and five sisters. I am the mother to four adult children and a grandmother to five. Oftentimes, I still can’t believe I am a grandmother. Sheesh! Lol.

My children sometimes get angry because I allow my grandchildren to get away with things that they were unable to get away with as kids. I always tell them my job is done. Now, I get to observe and it’s been fun. Lol!

I became a phlebotomist and then switched career goals and earned a degree in Cybersecurity.

I became quickly skilled in any career endeavor that I decided to take on. I was a fast learner and an excellent problem solver.

But there was always a bigger purpose calling me to do something different. It took me a while to figure out what that bigger purpose was.

I stumbled upon writing as a way of escape. I honestly never saw being an author as a life endeavor. My mother often worked two jobs. Me and my sister watched her do that our entire lives. Working consistently seemed the only option in my life’s journey. And even though I worked tirelessly, there was always something nudging me to do something different. It would poke at me consistently and I would become frustrated trying to figure out what was my purpose in life.

Soon, that soft nudge and consistent poke became a punch.

I suddenly started going through a drastic stage in my life about five or six years ago. I felt like I was in a perpetual hole with no way out.

My children were on the verge of being adults. I was stuck in a job where I didn’t see any real growth, and I was in a long and troubled relationship that was growing toxic.

One day, feeling overwhelmed, I decided to get lost in a good book. I wanted to be lost in someone else’s written fantasy world. I wanted an escape from reality.

I remember searching through the huge Kindle catalog for something to read. I searched through the urban/fiction literature for a good story and all of the stories seemed to be the same or at least carried the same plot. I needed something intriguing, something that would keep me on my toes.

So, I decided to write a mystery/thriller. Other than reading works by Walter Mosely, I wanted to read an urban and relatable thriller. I bought a beautiful new journal from Target and began writing the story that I wanted to read.

I made the main character an African American female that found her husband murdered early one morning in his office. The world in which she thought she knew had crumbled.

Even though the story focused on who may have killed the husband, it also showed a woman that was broken and eventually found her voice and strength through it all.

It was an empowering read but it was also sad, funny, uplifting, and relevant. How does one find absolution in turmoil? Some readers may hate her and some readers may love her but all will come to understand her.

I had become so engrossed with the story that I had begun to look forward to writing in the book after getting off of work. I would imagine the characters, the scene, the storyline, and the next chapter as I drudged on throughout the day at my job. I would jot down the next chapter on a blank piece of paper and fold it in my purse or lab pocket before heading home.

It became a daily and fun habit. Soon, I was near the completion of the book. On days when life seemed to be overwhelming, I would reread the book on my lunch break and before going to bed.

In the process, life decided to cast one more blow. We had to move to a different area and my children were finally out of the house. I had become an empty nester. The journal, that I loved so much, was placed in an old tote and carried off to the next home, never to be visited again.

One day, I was on Facebook and noticed that one of my Facebook friends was starting a publishing company. I was so happy for her. She is such a sweet person and a phenomenal writer it seemed only destined that she and her sister would start their own publishing company.

Later on, the publishing company started looking for submissions. They only needed the first three chapters of a story. I thought it would be cool to be an author under their publishing company so I submitted my three chapters.

And here I am today.

I decided on a pen name of Savannah Grace. Not sure if it will change later or not but so far, I like it. Lol

One of the things that I think sets me apart is that I am a vivid writer. I want the reader to be so engrossed into what they are reading that they become a part of the story.

I want the reader to see real life situations in crazy scenarios and be able to relate or understand each and every character in some form or fashion.

Maybe a character reminds you of a family member. Maybe a character reminds you of a boss or someone you have seen on television.

I want my writing to bring the reader into the unfamiliar with familiar characters.

As a writer, the world that you live in becomes a story. A writer’s imagination is boundless.

I could be in a beautiful park taking a walk and suddenly envision seeing an alien spacecraft block the sun and appear menacing in the sky.

Or I could be in a hurricane and just as I am about to brace myself for the worst, I am suddenly encompassed in the calming midst of its eye and watching the destruction surround me.

Writers see chaos in peace and peace in catastrophe and I want my readers to see and feel that also.

Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can provide some insight – you never know who might benefit from the enlightenment.

One of the hardest things for people to understand in my life is the amount of time it takes to write. Writing is not the easiest job and it is often a lonely one. There are days where I do not answer the phone and I only text my friends and loved ones.

If I am writing a story, I need to become lost in that fantasy world. I need to see the characters that are in my head in front of me. I need to hear their voices, see their faces, see their environment, and see what is about to happen to them.

I have created a world and need to watch it unfold.

My family and friends worry about me when they don’t hear from me and I get it. Even when I am at work, I am there physically but not emotionally.

I have an ongoing joke with my coworker. I tell him that my brain is like a computer with a bunch of open tabs. On days when I am quiet, he asks me what tab do I have open today?

I usually say my book.

It’s a tab that never closes. Lol

For you, what’s the most rewarding aspect of being a creative?

When someone reads something that I have written and says they felt like they were in the story. Or when someone says that they are the character, they feel the character, or they know the character.

I love when the characters resonate so well with the reader that the reader is intrigued about what the character will do next.

When a reader can feel the story on a visceral level to the point where they are invested from the first chapter, then I have done my job as the author.

And there is nothing more rewarding.

Contact Info:

• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/shannon.reynolds.980
• Other: Tik Tok: https://www.tiktok.com/@shannonreynolds103?_t=8hSYJ3RyPVL&_r=1

Image Credits
Jernice Harris