In the 237 summers which have come and gone since July 4th, 1776, the date has increasingly become a juncture for white sales and auto dealer blowouts. In fact, lost amidst the mall madness and car lot carnivals is a simultaneously fascinating and pedantic period of committee meetings, assignations, rewrites, copies, messengers, vote-taking and gallons of coffee, ale and wine. As I currently scribe the fourth novel in my six-part, historical-fiction series of books, Savannah of Williamsburg, Independence Day takes on a more front-and-center appearance than usual as research takes me through the 1750s, well into the meaty burgeoning of colonial revolution.

Once upon a time there was a talented, sparkling, beauteous rocker named Leah Cevoli from the City of Brotherly Love. One day, in the historical land of Ben Franklin, The Barrymores, Will Smith and Liz Lemon, the fair Leah heard the Siren’s Song knell through Philadelphia’s brick corridors and colorful tulip gardens. Taking the form of The Black Crowes so she alone would hear it, the song trilled, lilted and riffed amidst the city streets, beckoning her independent and creative soul to the land of plenty: plenty of sunshine, plenty of sea, plenty of opportunity, plenty of cabbage, plenty of thee.