Sue Parritt Shares Her Inspiration for "Sannah & the Pilgrim" @OdysseyBooks #AmReading #Dystopian

What inspired me to write my book?

Anger, abhorrence and disbelief motivated me to write Sannah and the Pilgrim. I was and remain appalled by past and present governments’ policy on refugees and asylum seekers. News bulletins and current affairs programmes helped fuel my deep concerns about the direction our country is heading. From a country that welcomed scores of displaced people after the Second World War, we are becoming xenophobic, rejecting those that have fled what for most of us are inconceivable terrors. As a migrant myself, I tried to imagine how I would have felt, if instead of paying my ten pounds and travelling here on an ocean liner, I had been forced to flee my homeland, hand over my life’s savings to greedy people smugglers and risk my life by boarding a leaky overcrowded boat.

My thoughts then turned to a different category of refugees, those we can expect in the not so distant future. Low-lying Pacific islands are already under threat from accelerating climate change, about which wealthy first-world countries have so far failed to act. Soon there will be a flood of environmental refugees seeking a safe haven in our sparsely populated and prosperous nation. How will our government react then, when turning back the boats won’t be an option?

I felt my option as a fiction writer was to draw on contemporary government policies regarding refugees and climate change to create a portrait of a future Australia that is, to my mind, entirely possible. The idea to divide the country into zones according to race of origin came from a thinly veiled proposal made by an ultra-conservative politician some years ago. Research into climate change led me to place my characters in the most inhospitable part of twenty-fourth century Australia, the extremely hot, humid and disease-ridden north. Confined to the Brown Zone (formerly Queensland) the people, descendants of Pacific environmental refugees, are forced to cultivate the remaining fertile coastal strip to produce food for White Southerners, whose zone, although more suitable for human habitation, is too arid to support agriculture.

I was inspired to create the role of storyteller for my protagonist, Sannah, by the manner in which information is often distorted by both the media and government in order to provoke certain reactions. For instance, fears of being swamped by refugees are intensified by using terms such as ‘illegals’ and concerns over rising utility costs assuaged by promises to repeal the Carbon Tax. Sannah’s people are kept in ignorance through a steady diet of Tales (a weird blend of historical fact and fiction) delivered by government-trained storytellers. In similar fashion, we are fed only what governments and multinational companies want us to hear and it takes a great deal of effort to uncover the truth. Lies ensure compliance in both twenty-first and twenty-fourth century Australia.

About the Author:

Sue Parritt is an Australian writer, originally from England. Her poetry and short stories have been published in magazines and anthologies in Australia, Britain and the USA. After graduating BA University of Queensland 1982 (majors: English Literature, Drama and French), Sue worked in university libraries until taking early retirement in 2008 to pursue her long-held dream of becoming a professional writer.  Since then she has written Sannah and the Pilgrim, numerous short stories and poems and‘Feed Thy Enemy’, a feature film script set in Naples in 1944 and 1974 and based on a true story (Sue is currently seeking a producer). She recently completed a second novel Safety Zone and is now writing a sequel to Sannah and the Pilgrim – the working title is Pia and the Skyman.

When Sannah the Storyteller, a descendant of environmental refugees from drowned Pacific islands, finds a White stranger on her domestep, she presumes he’s a political prisoner on the run seeking safe passage to egalitarian Aotearoa. However, Kaire’s unusual appearance, bizarre behaviour, and insistence he’s a pilgrim suggest otherwise.

Appalled by apartheid Australia, Kaire uses his White privileges to procure vital information for Sannah and her group of activists regarding new desert prisons that are to be built to house all political prisoners. The group plans sabotage but needs help, and Kaire is a willing accomplice. But when Sannah turns Truthteller and threatens to reveal the country’s true history, even Kaire’s White privilege and advanced technology cannot save Sannah and her daughter from retribution.

About Sannah and the Pilgrim:

Sannah and the Pilgrim is a tale of courage, defiance and deceit that asks the reader, ‘Would you risk death by telling the truth about your country, or would you play it safe and spend your life as a storyteller?’

Are you concerned about our governments’ (both past and present) failure to act on climate change and the detention and inhumane treatment of refugees? I am, so I have drawn on contemporary conservative attitudes to present a dystopian view of a future Australia in my speculative fiction novel Sannah and the Pilgrim. Read it and discover what could happen to our‘lucky’ country.

General Information - Sannah and the Pilgrim by Sue Parritt

ISBN: 978-1-922200-14-3

Genre: Speculative Fiction / Sci-fi / Dystopian

Release Date: 26 April 2014 (Paperback and ebook)

Publisher: Odyssey Books (http://www.odysseybooks.com.au/)

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1kBKqan

Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/sannah-and-the-pilgrim

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sannah-and-the-pilgrim-sue-parritt/1119209936?ean=9781922200143

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/sannah-and-the-pilgrim/id872478599?ls=1&mt=11

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21883471-sannah-and-the-pilgrim

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sue.parritt

LinkedIn: http://au.linkedin.com/pub/sue-parritt/60/622/301

LUCIFER & THE INDIGO KIDS - In My Cell by @Lord_Ra_Krishna #Goodreads #Poetry #AmReading

In My Cell

Sitting in my cell / meditating, half dreaming...
See a picture on the wall / black girl in bikini

And we’re both looking happy / we embrace and we smile

As I got my eyes closed smoking on a black and mild...

Better yet / a cigarette
I wish I had one now

Meditate a little harder...
Then I crack another smile...

Cause I'm back on the beach
Sun shining on my face…

Ask me what did I learn?
Most of all / appreciate

Every moment... every second...
Every thought... every breath...

While they’re killing all the prophets / I'm the last one left...

With a wrist full of beads
And a neck full of crystals...

And the city that I'm from busting Shots with their pistols…

But I'm sitting in my cell / and my soul's in outer space

As I astral project / sun kissing on my face…

Now I'm back on the beach
With my son and my daughter

And my son thinks’ he's God
So he’s walking on the water…

And my daughter thinks’ she God
Cause that's what daddy told her...

And they both think that they could save the world when they get older....

As I'm sitting in my cell,
My body's there but I'm not in it

Tell my babies "Not to worry"
I'll be home in a minute

"This “new age” book of poetry reflects the diverse views and philosophies of it’s author Ra Krishna EL. It’s an intimate, humorous and thought provoking group of poems intended to evoke strong emotion. To quote the German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, this style of poetry can be called “Zukunfts poesie“ which translates into “Poetry of the future”, where truly original ideas are presented thru poetry. Also known as post Nietzschean poetry.

It’s subjects include society, pop culture, love, religious dogma, God and the new age of Aquarius. This book was written and published during the false incarceration of its author in Chicago’s notorious Cook County Jail, the largest jail in the country."

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Poetry, Philosophy

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Lord Ra Krishna EL on Facebook & Twitter

Scott Moon Shares His Thoughts on #Amazon Ranks & #BestSeller Status @ScottMoonWriter #WriteTip

During the last two years I have read countless books, blogs, Facebook posts, and tweets on the the topic of book marketing. One of the strangest revelations was that being a bestseller is not clearly defined. Growing up with dreams of writing success, I’d always assumed there was one list. Everyone knows about the New York Times Bestseller list. Clearly, if you are on this one, you can justifiably use the distinction in your promotional efforts. Amazon ranks books by sales (total sales and category sales rank) and popularity. (1) (2) Amazon also uses other criteria such as “movers and shakers.” This last metric is based on a spike in sales during a specific time frame.

I was unable to find exactly what makes a New York Times bestseller with mere Google research, though it seems it is not as straight forward as I had assumed. (3) As an independent author, it appears I could set my own criteria for calling my novels bestsellers, but would this be honest, or just a promotional scheme. More importantly, could there be negative repercussions?

The reason I ask this question, is that I see a lot of “bestsellers” I have never heard of and thus rarely consider reading, unless the book description and reviews catch my interest.

This blog post is less to express my thoughts or conclusions on the subject, and more to start a discussion. Should there be a strict criteria for claiming bestseller status? Do readers resent overblown claims of a book’s popularity? And does labeling a book in this manner increase sales?

A related concern is unknown books with extraordinarily high numbers of reviews. I read a book review that brought this up, and the author of the review wondered how the book achieved nine-hundred five star reviews. After reading the book description and a dozen other reviews, I shied away from making a purchase and chose to add it to my wish list instead–with plans to read the sample provided by Amazon before spending time and money on the title.

I had serious reservations about posting this blog, because I don’t want to disparage authors and their promotional efforts. However, both indie and traditionally published authors are serious about the craft of writing and the industry. No one invests hundreds or thousands of hours in a project without self-sacrifice and courage. Like all artists, they take their vocation seriously and would like others to do the same.

I admire all writers, no matter where they are in their journey. I also realize there are a lot of books promising to make people rich quickly in the self-publishing arena. Have you ever bought a “book” only to find it was eight pages long? I have, and I wasn’t happy. Eight pages isn’t a book. It’s not even a pamphlet. People who try this stunt should not call themselves authors.

Most books on book marketing start with the admonition to write the best book possible. No one argues with this advice. For long term success, this is infinitely more valuable than slapping a bestseller label on the cover.

1) What Defines a Bestseller? (Irene Watson) http://ezinearticles.com/?What-Defines-a-Bestseller-in-Books?&id=3491920

2) Amazon: What Does the Amazon Sales Rank Mean and is It Significant? http://ezinearticles.com/?Amazon:-What-Does-the-Amazon-Sales-Rank-Mean-and-is-It-Significant?&id=166716

3) What Does Bestseller Title Really Mean? http://dearauthor.com/features/letters-of-opinion/what-does-bestseller-title-really-mean/

Lost Hero

Changed by captivity and torture, hunted by the Reapers of Hellsbreach and wanted by Earth Fleet, Kin Roland hides on a lost planet near an unstable wormhole.

When a distant space battle propels a ravaged Earth Fleet Armada through the same wormhole, a Reaper follows, hunting for the man who burned his home world. Kin fights to save a mysterious native of Crashdown from the Reaper and learns there are worse things in the galaxy than the nightmare hunting him. The end is coming and he is about to pay for a sin that will change the galaxy forever. 

Books

Enemy of Man: Book One in the Chronicles of Kin Roland was written for fans of military science fiction and science fiction adventure. Readers who enjoyed Starship Troopers or Space Marines will appreciate this genre variation. Powered armor only gets a soldier so far. Battlefield experience, guts, and loyal friends make Armageddon fun. 

Movies

If you love movies like Aliens, Predator, The Chronicles of Riddick, or Serenity, then you might find the heroes and creatures in Enemy of Man dangerous, determined, and ready to risk it all. It’s all about action and suspense, with a dash of romance—or perhaps flash romance. 

From the Author

Thanks for your interest in my novel, Enemy of Man. I hope you chose to read the book and enjoy every page. 

If you have already read Enemy of Man, how was it? Reviews are appreciated! 

Have a great day and be safe.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – R

More details about the author

 Connect with Scott Moon on Facebook & Twitter

Hank Quense on Unknown Authors & Book Signing Horror Stories @hanque99 #AmWriting #SelfPub

Book Signing Horror Story

Two years ago, I had a new novel released and I was determined that I was going to sell a pile of paperback copies locally. I contacted a few libraries and two of them agreed to let me have a book signing appearance. The libraries did a great job and produced flyers to hang around the library.

At the first one, i sat behind a table with a pile of books and waited while the library’s patrons ignored me. Finally, an elderly man approached and looked over the books. I sensed a sale. I gave the guy a description of the book and he picked one up and sat down. He browsed through the book and read several scenes over the next ten or fifteen minutes. Then he stood up, said, “I didn’t bring any money,” put the book down and left. He was the first and last potential buyer at that signing.

A few weeks later, I had the second signing at a bigger library in a bigger town. Only one guy showed up, a member of a write group I belong to. We spent an hour chatting after which I decided to give up and go home. The other writer did graciously buy a copy of the book.

I think the biggest hurdle an unknown writer has to face is his unknown status. A flashy flyer in a library announcing appearance by an author no one ever heard of simply does not attract a crowd. A writer needs more than the flyer and best good wishes of the library staff. The writer needs to get a message out through the community because a lot of people don’t go to the library, or if they use the library, they may not stop to read the flyer. The flyer should be in local stores and other public places.

I haven’t had a book signing since then, but I’m willing to try one more time with Moxie’s Problem. This time, in addition to the flyers the library makes up, I’ll produce my own flyers and announcements and then make the rounds of the local shops and venues to spread the word. I’m hoping more than one guy shows up this time around.

I’m also exploring a different situation in which I join forces with one or two other authors and make it a joint signing.

Do you enjoy untypical coming-of-age stories? Well, you won’t find one more untypical than Moxie’s Problem. Moxie is an obnoxious, teen-age princess who has never been outside her father’s castle. Until now. The real world is quite different and she struggles to come to grips with reality. The story takes place against a backdrop of Camelot. But it isn’t the Camelot of legends. It’s Camelot in a parallel universe. So, all bets are off!

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Fantasy, Sci-fi

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Hank Quense through Facebook & Twitter

Website http://hank-quense.com/wp/

The Closed Room & Narrow Stairs of an Author's Mind by @MHartnerAuthor #AmWriting #Historical

Inside the Mind of An Author

In the Darkness brought on by a closed room and narrow stairs, I slowly ascend to the top and push the attic floorboard to the side. This stairwell, conveniently hidden in a second floor wall, has been very dusty and full of cobwebs. I’m really not sure what to expect when I go into the attic. I have, however, heard strange noises.

Climbing up into the attic, into the mind of this author, I look around. The walls are cluttered with post it notes, and most of them had small symbols and some writing. There were papers that had fallen to the floor, and the whole area looked like an old bomb shelter.

I’m immediately dodging the many different children who are running around. The voices that each one uses to taunt the others are all different.

I stop one of them. His name is James.

“Are there any others around?”

“Oh, there are plenty.”

“Where are they?”

“Sitting in a corner of the filing room in the back. They’re waiting for their opportunity to come join the fun.”

“What are they waiting for?”

“Why, everyone knows that they’re waiting to be heard. Not all of us characters can be heard at the same time. Sometimes, he listens to three or four of us for a short time, and sometimes he listens to one of us for a long time. But, we’re all here. Waiting for our chance to be heard.”

“So why are you three out here running around?”

“We’ve already been heard. He’s concentrating on us right now, and it’s our chance to play and rest while he figures out what he wants us to do next.”

“How many are in the back room?”

“The last I checked, the room was crammed, and the waiting list was endless. Lots of voices like us want to be heard. We want to tell our stories.”

James escaped from my vision and went back to running around.

When I saw them return, I also saw them carrying long sticks, using them as play swords. I beat a hasty retreat from the mind of this author.

James Crofter was ripped from his family at age 11. 
Within a year the prince was a pauper in a foreign land. 
Is nature stronger than nurture? And even if it is, can James find the happiness he so richly desires? 

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Historical Fiction, Romance

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Mike Hartner on Facebook & Twitter

Kirsten Mortensen Says Love of Dreaming is Related to Her Writing @KirstenWriter #AmWriting #Fiction

Writing and Dreams. Not That Different

By Kirsten Mortensen

I love to dream. And not just because it’s so night to get a good night’s sleep. I love to dream because I’m utterly fascinated by the experience of finding myself in a strange world—often occupying a strange identity—that seems utterly complete and coherent while I’m inside it. What a marvelous thing, consciousness is, to be able to send us into dream worlds!

I also believe my love of dreaming is very closely related to my writing.

In fact, I think writing—especially writing fiction—is very similar to dreaming. You might even say that writing fiction is a kind of controlled, waking dream.

Think about it.

When you dream, you relax. You turn your attention from everyday life. And you let another part of your mind—one that exists independently of the mind where you live while you’re awake—take over. It creates characters, settings, plots, story lines. Things “happen” that cause you to react emotionally. Problems present themselves—and so do solutions.

Now think what happens when you write fiction. You relax your waking mind, and turn your attention away from everyday life. You let another part of your mind take over. And it starts creating characters, setting, plot twists . . .

With me so far?

Now how about this: suppose that paying attention to your dreams helps you to build bridges between the part of your mind you use to create fiction, and your waking consciousness—the part of your mind you need to capture what you’ve created and write it down.

Isn’t that an intriguing thought?

I know that I’ve been paying close attention to dreams my whole life, and during many periods of my life I’ve kept dream journals. And something else: there are times—especially when I’ve been getting enough sleep—when I’m able to consciously control my dreams. Sometimes I realize I’m dreaming (an experience known as “lucid dreaming”). Other times, I feel like I’m a movie director. If I don’t like what’s happening, I’ll change it.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to believe that this practice has helped me as a writer. It’s very subtle, but I can feel it when my mind “switches” to a different mode, the mode where I’m generating fictional characters, fictional worlds.

I believe there’s a connection. Scientists know today that when we practice any task—whether its navigating city streets, doing Sudoku puzzles, or memorizing poetry—our brains become better at that task.

I’ve written about this topic at length in a non-fiction book I published, called Writing, Dreams, and Consciousness.

And I believe that the work I’ve done as a dreamer is one reason that the world I created in my latest novel, Dark Chemistry, is so vivid that readers tell me it makes a strong impression on them. That world really does exist—I know. I’ve dreamt it!

So here’s my proposal: paying attention to dreams—keeping a dream journal, for example, and writing down what we can remember of our dreams when we wake in the morning—is a way of training our brains to create fictional worlds.

What do you think? Do you remember your dreams? Have you ever kept a dream journal?

And if you decide to try, to see if it helps you develop a writer, please let me know. I’d love to hear about your experience.

A woman's worst nightmare

Drugged by something...that makes her think she's fallen in love.

All Haley Dubose has ever known is beaches and malls, clubs and cocktail dresses.

But now her father is dead.

And if she wants to inherit her father's fortune, she has to leave sunny Southern California
for a backwater little town near Syracuse, New York. She has to run RMB, the multimillion dollar
chemical company her father founded. And she has to run it well.

Keep RMB on track, and she'll be rich. Grow it, and she'll be even richer. But mess it up, and her inheritance will shrink away before she gets a chance to spend a dime.

Donavon Todde is her true love. But is it too late?

He's RMB's head of sales – and the more Donavon sees of Haley, the more he's smitten.
Sure, she comes across at first as naïve and superficial. But Donavon knew Haley's father. He can see the man's better qualities stirring to life in her eyes. And Donavon senses something else: Haley's father left her a legacy more important than money. He left her the chance to discover her true self.

Donavon has demons of his own.
 
He's reeling from a heartbreak that's taking far too long to heal. But he's captivated by this blond Californian, and not only because of her beauty. It's chemistry. They're right for each other. But has Donavon waited too long to woo this woman of his dreams? Because to his horror, his beautiful Haley falls under another spell. Gerad's spell.

A web of evil.

Gerad Picket was second-in-command at RMB when Haley's father was alive. And with Haley on the scene, he's in charge of her training. But there are things about RMB that Gerad doesn't want Haley to know.

And he must control her. Any way he can.

Romantic suspense for your Kindle

Will Haley realize that her feelings are not her TRUE feelings?
Does Donavon have the strength left to fight for the woman he loves?
Will the two of them uncover Gerad's plot to use RMB pheromones to enslave the world?
And even if they do – can they stop it?

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Romantic suspense

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Kirsten Mortensen through Facebook & Twitter

Website http://kirstenmortensen.com/

#Excerpt from ANNA'S SECRET by Margaret Westlie @MargaretWestlie #Historical #AmReading

Angus paused at the top of the rise that overlooked Anna’s house. Its setting was framed by the distant blue of the Northumberland Strait. The whitewashed house, trimmed in red, nestled in the hollow, flanked by the two barns and the workshop, also whitewashed. A long row of tall fir trees grew close behind, protecting the little farmhouse and its outbuildings from the vicious winter winds that could sweep across Prince Edward Island burying small houses, such as this, in drifts up to the eaves, and freezing a person to his very marrow. Angus shivered and hastened down the track.

I helped Ian build the big barn, and my father and my grandfather helped his father build this house, he thought. Anna planted those chestnut trees by the front door the day they were married. They’ve grown tall since then, but they’ve never produced nuts. A strange thing. He rounded the corner of the house and knocked on the door.

“Are you home, Ian?” He pushed the door open with the toe of his shoe.

“I am.” Ian’s voice sounded tired and far away.

Angus stepped into the sunlit kitchen, the bloody axe forgotten in his hands. His friend looked ill, weary-faced and worn, his eyes were red-rimmed and blood shot. His thick grey beard was still streaked with black and the hair on his head was grey too, except for the cowlick of black springing up from the front above his right eyebrow. He seemed rumpled and unkempt, and a little wild. He hunched his broad shoulders as if to ward off a blow.

“Where’s Donald?” asked Angus.

“Finishing the chores.” Ian was standing by the unlit stove, his hands busy shaving kindling off a stick of wood with the kitchen knife. “Have you found her, then?” He stared hard at the axe in Angus’ hands.

“We found her. Neil found her. They’re bringing her soon.” Angus followed Ian’s gaze, for the first time realizing that he still held the weapon. He almost dropped it in his haste to conceal it behind his back. “I’m sorry, I forgot to set this down.” His ruddy cheeks turned a darker shade of red.

“She’s dead, is she?” Ian stopped making kindling and stood waiting for the answer.

“She’s been murdered.”

Ian stood silently taking in the words. “It was bound to happen,” he said at last.

“Now why would you say that?”

Ian looked back at his friend, his blue eyes filled with tears. He blinked hard. “I knew about her from the very first time, and every time after that.”

“You didn’t…?”

“I suppose that’s what they’ll all be saying when the word gets around.” He sighed. “No, it wasn’t I, though I have more reason than anyone. Is that the weapon?”

“It would seem so.” Angus drew the axe out from behind his back.

“Whose is it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. I suppose we’ll have to notify the constable. This thing’s too big for us. Though what good he’ll be, I don’t know.”

Ian stood in silence for some seconds, then said, “I was just making Donald and me a bite of breakfast. Will you have some?” He turned toward the stove.

“I wouldn’t trouble you at a time like this. I should be making you breakfast.”

Ian shrugged. “We must go on, and to do that we must eat.” He began preparing the meal.

Anna Gillis, the midwife and neighbour in Mattie’s Story, has been found killed. The close-knit community is deeply shaken by this eruption of violence, and neighbours come together to help one another and to discover the perpetrator. But the answer lies Anna’s secret, long guarded by Old Annie, the last of the original Selkirk Settlers, and the protagonist of An Irregular Marriage. Join the community! Read Anna’s Secret and other novels by Margaret A. Westlie.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Fiction, mystery, historical

Rating – G

More details about the author

 Connect with Margaret Westlie on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.margaretwestlie.com

#Excerpt from WHERE HAVE I BEEN ALL MY LIFE? by Cheryl Rice @RiceonLife #Memoir #NonFiction

Feeding myself would mean acknowledging my mother was gone—forever—as in not ever coming back. I wasn’t ready. I did not approve. The lost and abandoned child in me was convinced that if I got thin enough, or sick enough, she’d have to come back to feed me. That’s what moms do.

They feed their children. They don’t leave them. Surely she would see how much I still needed her. She wouldn’t let me.

Eventually, though I desperately wanted my mom to save me, it was my commitment to my stepdaughter, Becca, that did. I realized I could continue my hunger strike and starve myself—possibly to death—but not only would doing so not bring my mother back, it would threaten my ability to nurture Becca at a critical time in her young life. I would be a terrible role model for a girl just growing into her own adolescent body. She had already been deeply affected when the mother of one of her closest friends was shipped to an eating-disorders clinic on the other side of the country for three months. If I didn’t stop this protest and begin eating (and eventually learn to feed all of my hungers), I would have to leave Becca too. And while my mother was gone, the mothering instinct in me was not.

So I made the first truly nourishing decision of my motherless life and began to eat.

Where Have I Been All My Life? is a compelling memoir recounting one woman’s journey through grief and a profound feeling of unworthiness to wholeness and healing. It begins with the chillingly sudden death of Rice’s mother, and is followed by her foray into the center of mourning.

With wisdom, grace, and humor, Rice recounts the grief games she plays in an effort to resurrect her mother; her efforts to get her therapist, who she falls desperately in love with, to run away with her; and the transformation of her husband from fantasy man to ordinary guy to superhero. In the process, she experiences aching revelations about her family and her past—and realizes what she must leave behind, and what she can carry forward with her.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Cheryl Rice through Facebook & Twitter

Website www.yourvoiceyourvision.com

#Excerpt from LOCK READY by James Rada Jr. @JimRada #Historical #CivilWar #AmReading

This excerpt shows how conditions were in the many Civil War hospitals and Elizabeth Fitzgerald’s compassion for those soldiers in her care.

Elizabeth sat next to a young soldier who wouldn’t meet her gaze. He looked young enough to be George’s age, though she suspected he was older.

“How are you?” Elizabeth asked.

The young man didn’t reply. He glanced at her and then looked away. Elizabeth wasn’t offended. She was used to seeing shell-shocked soldiers. The problem would be if he remained that way.

She set down a clean uniform on the edge of the bed and gently pulled back the blanket. The soldier didn’t resist.

“We need to get you out of those filthy clothes and dress you in some clean ones. You’ll feel a lot better once we get all of that dirt off of you.” The nurses had all learned to carry on a one-sided conversation with the soldiers. Hearing a woman’s voice had proven to be soothing to the wounded soldiers. It reminded them of home and their wives and mothers. It encouraged pleasant memories and helped keep their minds off the horror they had endured.

As Elizabeth began undressing the young soldier, he grabbed her hand. She looked at him but didn’t say anything. His eyes were wide with fear. She gently pried his hand off of hers. He didn’t resist her.

“It’s all right. It’s going to be a little embarrassing for both of us, but probably you more than me. I’ve been trained to do this. You need to be clean. It will help you get better,” she said softly.

Elizabeth had probably been more scared than this soldier when she undressed her first wounded man. She wasn’t sure how she would react. Would she gag at the man’s wounds or stare at his private parts? Her hands had shaken throughout that first washing and she had done her best to allow the man his dignity by focusing her attention on his face. Luckily for her, the man had been unconscious. Those were the only men Mrs. Carlyle had let her clean at first. That had been four months and a couple hundred soldiers ago.

Elizabeth slowly pulled the soldier’s uniform off. It was still caked with blood and dirt. It had quickly become obvious that the soldiers who were kept clean after an operation tended to survive better. Elizabeth would rather be embarrassed than see a soldier die so she let her face turn red but washed until the soldiers’ skins were clean of dirt and blood. She paid particular attention to cleaning any festering sores and burns.

She was particularly careful not to cause the young soldier any additional physical pain by irritating an unseen wound. It was best to try and salvage the uniform so it could be washed and given to another soldier, but sometimes that was impossible. Shrapnel and simple wear and tear turned a uniform into threads. Elizabeth tossed the man’s shirt and jacket into a pile on the floor. They could both be reused once they had been washed a few times. They just might not be reused by the original owner. When soldiers left the hospital, they were given a uniform that fit, not necessarily the uniform that they had come into the hospital wearing.

Next, she started wiping off the man’s legs. He had taken shrapnel in both of his legs, which had also ripped up his pants. The cloth was so dirty that he could barely tell that it had been blue. The legs had been bandaged. Maybe he would be able to keep his legs since the doctors hadn’t amputated them. If there was any doubt, the doctors usually amputated the limb. She would have to watch him closely for any signs of gangrene.

While his legs might have been saved, his pants were a loss. Elizabeth cut them off of him with a pair of scissors so she wouldn’t have to move him around.

She used a cloth dipped in warm water to wash the soldier as he stared at the ceiling. She could feel his muscles twitching nervously as she slid the cloth from his chest to his stomach. Elizabeth kept the man’s private parts under the sheet and did her work as quickly as she could. She talked to him about things happening in Washington and her family as she worked. It helped keep both their minds off of what she was doing.

When she finished, she dressed the man in a clean uniform and changed the sheets on his bed so they would be dry and clean.

“There that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Elizabeth said as she stood up to go.

The soldier grabbed her arm again. He didn’t squeeze it. He simply clamped onto her wrist.

Elizabeth smiled at him and patted his hand. “I wish I could stay longer, but I’ve got to help with all of the other wounded. I’ll be around, though. I promise I’ll come back and visit. After all, I want to see you walk out of here on your own.”

The soldier let his arm drop down to the bed. Elizabeth turned and walked away.

The Civil War split the United States and now it has split the Fitzgerald Family. Although George Fitzgerald has returned from the war, his sister Elizabeth Fitzgerald has chosen to remain in Washington to volunteer as a nurse. 

The ex-Confederate spy, David Windover, has given up on his dream of being with Alice Fitzgerald and is trying to move on with his life in Cumberland, Md. Alice and her sons continue to haul coal along the 184.5-mile-long C&O Canal. It is dangerous work, though, during war time because the canal runs along the Potomac River and between the North and South. Having had to endured death and loss already, Alice wonders whether remaining on the canal is worth the cost. 

She wants her family reunited and safe, but she can’t reconcile her feelings between David and her dead husband. Her adopted son, Tony, has his own questions that he is trying to answer. He wants to know who he is and if his birth mother ever loved him. As he tries to find out more about his birth mother and father, he stumbles onto a plan by Confederate sympathizers to sabotage the canal and burn dozens of canal boats. He enlists David’s help to try and disrupt the plot before it endangers his new family, but first they will have find out who is behind the plot.

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Genre – Historical Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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Website jamesrada.com

#Excerpt from "What Freedom Smells Like" : A #Memoir by @AmyLewisAuthor #AmReading #BookClub

Transformation doesn’t happen overnight. It takes decades to shed our childhood conditioning – the beliefs and thoughts that pieced together like not so colorful charms on a bracelet determine our destiny. But sometimes one moment pierces a hole so large in our consciousness, we can’t continue living as we once did. Seeing my husband’s dead body was that moment for me.

Religion meant very little to me growing up. I was raised Episcopalian. Like Catholic but without the confessional. I attended Sunday school for about a year as a young child. My parents felt obliged to send my sister and me off to church, not because they believed in any of it, but because it seemed proper. After about a year, I think they grew weary of pretending and announced church was no longer required. At fifteen when I could drive, I went back a few times on my own. I liked the church and its 1960s mid-century design. It felt peaceful to me. And, I liked the priest. He was cute, and at 15 older men did something for me. I would kneel in the pew enjoying the atmosphere and fantasize about the priest – romantic fantasies, not sexual ones.

Dad was an atheist although he would never use that word for it. My mother was more of an agnostic. We never talked about God in our family although we did say grace, always the same prayer. “Come Lord Jesus be our guest, let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.” We must have said it a thousand times. We didn’t have a backup grace, and we never free styled it. That was the only time we ever mentioned Jesus, and I think we only said it to please my father’s mother. I got most of my views on religion, God and Jesus based on my fathers’ negative tirades about his sister. She was a born again Christian. My father thought the whole thing utterly ridiculous at best and highly dangerous at worst.

We never spoke of death. We never spoke of souls. We certainly never spoke of eternity. I had a clear picture of death: darkness. Death was pitch-black darkness. The coffin lid closes, the lights go out, and it’s over - forever. I remember staying awake for hours in my preteen years thinking about infinity. I would lay stiff like a corpse and imagine what death would be like. Pitch black darkness forever and ever and ever and ever and ever. The and evers would torture me. I couldn’t stop obsessing night after night. I decided I would stop thinking of death. From that moment onward, I became terrified of death. The thought, the image, the mere mention of the word made me go numb.

I stood by the door of his room. I had no concept of time so I can’t tell how long. Then my body decided to move, and I took one step and another and another and with my fourth step I found myself right next to Truth’s body, which was slightly slumped to the left.

What I witnessed when I looked into his eyes was the beginning of my own personal revolution. If seeing was believing, then I couldn’t believe what was before my eyes. My husband, whom I had never spent a day apart from in four and a half years, was no longer there. He was dead. Yes, I knew that. His body, which the nurse insisted I say goodbye to, was not him. I knew it instantly when I looked into his eyes. He was nowhere to be found. Who I knew him to be had disappeared. Gone. I couldn’t believe what I saw and what I felt in every pore of my being. He was not there, but his body was. So to whom was I saying goodbye?

I realize all this may sound elementary to those who were raised to believe in what I was just embarking on. I had no idea. My belief system told me it was him but dead. But it wasn’t him. Was I going crazy? I found my presence there pointless. He wasn’t there. I knew it just as much as I knew he had been there a few hours ago. So I left.

Diagnosed with Borderline Personality disorder, Amy struggled with depression and an addiction to sharp objects. Even hospitalization didn't help to heal her destructive tendencies. It took a tumultuous relationship with a man named Truth to bring her back from the depths of her own self-made hell.Amy's marriage to dark, intriguing Truth was both passionate and stormy. She was a fair-skinned southern girl from New Orleans. He was a charming black man with tribal tattoos, piercings, and a mysterious past. They made an unlikely pair, but something clicked. During their early marriage, they pulled themselves out of abject poverty into wealth and financial security practically overnight. Then things began to fall apart.

 Passionate and protective, Truth also proved violent and abusive. Amy’s own self-destructive tendencies created a powerful symmetry. His sudden death left Amy with an intense and warring set of emotions: grief for the loss of the man she loved, relief she was no longer a target for his aggression.

Conflicted and grieving, Amy found herself at a spiritual and emotional crossroads, only to receive help from an unlikely source: Truth himself. Feeling his otherworldly presence in her dreams, Amy seeks help from a famous medium.

Her spiritual encounters change Amy forever. Through Truth, she learns her soul is eternal and indestructible, a knowledge that gives Amy the courage to pursue her own dreams and transform herself both physically and emotionally. Her supernatural encounters help Amy resolve the internal anger and self-destructive tendencies standing between her and happiness, culminating in a sense of spiritual fulfillment she never dreamed possible.

An amazing true story, What Freedom Smells Like is told with courage, honesty, and a devilishly dark sense of humor.

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

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Website www.WhatFreedomSmellsLike.com