The Novels of Carolyn Nordstrom
Carolyn Nordstrom is a writer currently living in Los Angeles. She spends her free time on the trails of the San Gabriel Mountains, building and maintaining the paths for all who follow. Carolyn is the author of three novels: The Most Colorful Dreams, The Lobster Trap, and The Lullaby of the Butterfly. Carolyn’s short story It Might Have Been Valerie was published in Grande Dame Literary.
When Louisa Baines attends a gathering of her late husband’s friends, a quiet dinner of six devolves into an evening of drinks and ridicule that leaves the group weaving a web of vicious lies and wicked deceit. By the evening’s end, Louisa has become the prey in a dangerous game of love that leads her to become the main suspect in the death of a man she never knew. A romantic mystery threaded with curiosity and self-examination where one woman searches her past for the self she left behind.
The Lobster Trap
a novel by CAROLYN NORDSTROM
Ricky Rojas is a Latin music producer who once rode high on the wave of his success. After the suspicious death of his star talent threatens his career, Ricky turns to a risky effort to keep himself afloat. Desperate to regain the fame he once had, Ricky finds himself navigating the ocean between his former glory and the woman he can’t live without. The Lobster Trap is a thrilling story of one man’s battle to reclaim his fortune and how much he’s willing to risk for love.
The Lullaby of the Butterfly
a novel by CAROLYN NORDSTROM
Timothy Asher has been living in the shadows since the day his mother took he and his brother on a getaway that has lasted nearly eighteen years. Lost to his past and searching for his future, Timothy engages in a high stakes assignment hoping for a payoff that promises to get him started on a life of his own. When the brothers are lured into a cocoon of subterfuge, they find themselves caught in a detour that may have them chasing what will always be just out of reach.
I grew up in the Northeast of the United States where the winter is long and the nights are cold, where the snow drifts tower like the tall palms and the icicles dangle from the eaves. We lived by the bay, and I can remember the water freezing into giant bergs upon which I imagined I could set sail for somewhere warmer.
When I did leave, it wasn’t by iceberg but by aircraft, and it was during the days when there was still a smoking section in the back, snacks were complimentary, and you didn’t mind chit-chatting with the person sitting beside you. I arrived in Los Angeles, California, still believing in the truth, which would turn out to be my greatest obstacle in the land where everyone is writing a new story.
I started writing too, in an attempt to sift through the drama and the dreams, in an effort to distill the deception, and lift the dignity from the detritus like a nugget of gold. I can see clearly now, or I might say that things are more clear than they were before, and I can recognize the beauty of the ever sunny skies but I also look back now and then and I remember the frozen bay and I smile just a little.