Amy Lewis on Changing & Evolving as a Writer @AmyLewisAuthor #AmWriting #AmReading #Memoir

Where do you get your inspiration from?

The answer to this question changes and evolves. Lately, I am inspired to use writing as a creative, spiritual healing act - an inner revolution of sorts.  I do the same thing with dance. The idea is to allow what is present to come forward and reveal itself. The intention is not to create something that looks pretty or commercial but to allow what is to be expressed, loved, healed and celebrated.

What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing?

Embarking on the publicity for my first published book right now, I would definitely say marketing is the hardest (and also the least fun for me). I think it’s an age-old dilemma for all artists – the challenge of putting on a different hat to get out and sell your work. I understand from the writer friends I know that are good at marketing, they get that it’s just about letting people get to know you and it’s not at all about “selling” anything.

Do you find it hard to share your work?

I’ve never found it hard to share my work. I love sharing my work. But somehow selling my work is a different story. Perhaps I’ve got some unresolved money issues. I’m sure I do.

Do you plan to publish more books?

Yes. Both non-fiction and fiction.  Right now, I’m working on a novel but it’s too new to talk about.

What else do you do to make money, other than write? It is rare today for writers to be full time…

I have a full-time job as a training manager for a software company. I actually very much like my job and I have a great deal of autonomy and work from home but it can be very stressful and busy at times. Finding time to write is a huge challenge. I know many artist friends who refuse to get a “real” job and work small jobs to get by so they can focus on their craft. I’ve always split the fence between secure, mainstream work and being an artist. I always wanted to have money coming in from somewhere else, so I could feel free to do whatever I wanted in my creative life regardless of the commercial viability. The trade off is that I have a lot less time to do what I love.

If you could study any subject at university what would you pick?

Astrophysics. I’m not a math/science kind of girl but if could pick my talents that would be it. The discoveries they are making these days are mind-blowing and profound. It feels like spiritually and science are finally converging.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

Right now, I’m living exactly where I want to be – New Orleans. But if I was insanely wealthy and could have three houses, I’d have one in New Orleans, one somewhere in France and one in Topanga, California.

How do you write – lap top, pen, paper, in bed, at a desk?

I write on a Macbook and also on pen and paper. I actually get a lot of ideas from my dreams, so I keep paper and pen by my bed at night. I don’t even bother to turn on the light; I just scribble in the dark and hope that the next morning I can make it out. Sometimes it’s shocking to read what I write in the dark; it doesn’t even sound like me.

Where do you get support from? Do you have friends in the industry?

I have tons of creative artist friends of all types – actors, writers, painters, dancers, musicians, composers. To me, it’s all the same life. You want to make your living by creating art in a world where everyone else wants to do the same thing. The intersection of art and business and how each person traverses that territory is a subject that fascinates me. Do we have to struggle? Do we have to starve to be good artists? If we create something just to pay the bills are we still artists?

Every writer has their own idea of what a successful career in writing is, what does success in writing look like to you?

It means having a body of work that I’m proud of. And it means finding an audience for my work. It does not necessarily mean commercial success although I would certainly not say no to that.

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.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Amy Lewis through Twitter

Website www.WhatFreedomSmellsLike.com

INSIDE/OUTSIDE #Excerpt by @JennyHayworth1 #AmReading #Memoir #NonFiction

In 2004 I had commenced studying for my bachelor of nursing degree at university. I completed nine units over a twelve-month period and then decided it was not for me. When considering other careers, I decided to transfer to social work as I was allowed to do eight subjects of another discipline as part of the degree, so I wouldn’t have wasted a year of study. However, the university had closed the midyear intake, and I did not wish to wait until March the following year to commence studying. I looked at psychology and transferred my nine subjects over to that degree and commenced straightaway. I was living in a small town and working part time at the local hospital as well as studying.

I read an advertisement in the local paper asking for volunteers. I had not forgotten in the past years how many times the Lifeline counsellors had been there for me in my darkest hours, and I was determined to give back for all I had taken. It was an inner force driving me. I had always known, from the first time I had been encouraged by the mental-health support nurse to enrol and do the course, that I would return one day and work on the phones. Now, looking at the advertisement in the paper, I decided it was time.

I applied to do the telephone-counselling course and was accepted. During the following three months, I completed 120 hours of role play education and learnt the art of reflective listening. My journey of personal growth at that time was extraordinary. Once again I felt in awe of this agency, set up to help normal, everyday people help other everyday people in distress. I loved the fact that it didn’t matter what faith or belief you had; as long as you agreed with the foundation principles, you could be trained to be a telephone counsellor.

I completed the course and loved every minute of it. I found much of it challenging, as we had to learn to listen actively and reflectively and support people who were suicidal, self-harming, or in dire need of a listening ear for all different reasons. People who had been victims of domestic violence or sexual assault, or who suffered from mental illnesses, came and spoke to us, which personally challenged any preconceptions and biases we might have held. I learnt so much from the role playing and having a group reflect back to me about how I performed. The feedback from others, on such things as tone of voice and my effectiveness in how I used each of the skills we needed to learn, was invaluable.

I learnt how I had to put aside my own experiences, background, and preconceptions even if I had experienced some of the issues that clients raised on the phone. I had to truly listen and be there with people, by their sides, as they poured out their personal pain. I learnt so much about myself and more importantly, about how to truly be with someone else who was going through personal crises or was in emotional pain.

I passed the course and was approved to move on to practical experience on the telephones. There were plenty of support people on hand to sit with me for as long as I required. I found that knowing what had helped me the most when I had been the one calling helped me now to a certain degree, but the most important thing was to be fully available emotionally to the person on the other end. The Egan method of counselling, which is the basis of Lifeline training, is a person-centred therapy. The tools they taught us in regard to how to listen and guide another actively through the maze of often-conflicting options and emotions were invaluable.

I encountered every situation you could think of in these few months. Most who were suicidal had attempted suicide before and been in hospital, or they felt suicidal and were in extreme emotional pain that they didn’t feel they could share with their families or friends. Some had actual suicidal plans, and yet something had made them ring instead of carrying through with them at that particular time.

Many were just plain lonely to the bone and had no one to listen to them or to talk with. I was surprised that just a hearing ear was what most people wished for. Nearly all who phoned had no trouble talking, and they let me know when they had talked enough, felt better and more able to cope, and could carry on.

Many people said they had told secrets they had kept for years—things they had done they were ashamed of and didn’t feel they could live with if anyone found out, conflicted emotions about partners and children and parents. They spoke about things they were scared to voice out loud to those around them but needed to be heard and to say. They needed to have a chance, in a safe place with a safe person they couldn’t see, to say the words and work out their own path in the telling.

Everyone had a story.

One particular night I went on my shift as usual. From the time the phone rang and I picked up the call, I knew I had a young woman on the line that was serious about taking her life.

“Hello, Lifeline. How can I help you?” I answered.

At first there was only silence. I sat quietly listening as I had been taught, and I could hear music in the background, and the soft sounds of someone breathing.

“It’s okay, take your time. I am right here when you want to start talking.”

I heard the sound of a deep intake of breath. Gulping, ragged sobs filled the earpiece of my phone, and the sound of someone trying to suck back in all the pain echoed in my ear. I could identify it was a female crying although no words had been spoken by her yet.

I allowed about fifteen more seconds to go by whilst I listened to her crying.

“You don’t have to start at the beginning. Sometimes it’s too hard to know where to start. It’s okay not to know,” I said. Sounds of more crying filled my ear, louder now and less controlled. It was the sort of crying that occurs when someone is absolutely bereft, exhausted, and in despair. The wailing was coming from the depths of someone’s soul, the sound of someone who had lost everything and had nothing remaining.

I allowed a few more seconds to go by until I heard a lull in the crying as the person struggled to get their breath. “I am right here with you. You are not alone,” I said. The wailing was less intense, and I could tell she was listening to me. “I can hear you are in enormous emotional pain. It is okay to cry. You’re not alone anymore.” I stayed quiet for a few seconds. “What is your name?”

“Karen.” Sobs started slowly building up intensity again.

“Karen, can you tell me what is happening for you right now? What made you pick up the phone and ring me tonight?”

“I just want to die. I just want to die.” The female voice wailed loud and high, frantic and nearly shouting. “I can’t do it anymore. It’s just too hard. I just want to die. I can’t take anymore. It’s too much. It’s all too much.”

I identified exhaustion, slurring, lack of hope, and the clink of what sounded like a glass. I pushed the “alert” button and, at the same time, dialled the number for my supervisor on the mobile phone I had next to me. I left the phone on the bench and kept talking.

“Where are you right now? Are you at home?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is home, Karen?”

“It doesn’t matter. I want to die. I just want to die.” Her voice rose again to a crescendo.

“Karen, have you been drinking?”

“Vodka. It is my favourite drink. I’ve nearly finished the bottle.” Her voice was slurring, and my concern elevated another notch as her ability to self-moderate and respond to reasoning would be compromised. Suddenly her voice slipped into the hushed sing-song tones of a little girl. It was so soft, and her words so slurred, I was finding it hard to pick up the meaning of what she was saying.

“I’m touching me. I’m touching me. Oh, there’s blood all over everywhere. I can taste it.”

Soft moaning filled the air. The strains of music in the background muffled her voice. “Daddy, Daddy. Oh, I am so turned on. Why are you doing this to me? Why?” Her moans changed to a high-pitched sob, and her gulp for breath filled my ear.

“Karen, are you cutting yourself?”

“Yes. There is blood everywhere. I am going to die. I want to die.”

“Karen, can you please put the knife or razor down whilst you are talking to me? Karen, have you put down what you are cutting yourself with? I need you to put it down whilst you talk to me.”

“Yes.”

“Karen, I hear that you want to die. I believe you. But part of you picked up the phone and rang me tonight. Part of you must want to live, as you rang me tonight. I need to talk to that part of you that wants to live.”

“No, I want to die.” Her voice suddenly changed back to that of an adult. “All of me wants to die. I can’t take it anymore. My daughters will be better off with me dead. I’m no good to them. They should stay with their father all the time. They would be better off. I am useless to them.”

“I hear you say you believe your daughters will be better off with you dead. I hear you say you want to die.” I allowed a few seconds’ silence. Her breathing was noisy and raspy. “Why did you ring me tonight, Karen? Why did you ring me on the night you want to die?”

Her voice, interlaced with sobs, shouted down the phone at me. “Because I’m scared. I don’t want to be alone when I die. I want someone with me.” I waited a few seconds until her loud, frantic sobs started to die down.

“I hear you’re scared, Karen. Karen, if I could wave a magic wand and take all your emotional pain away, would you still want to die? If all the emotional pain was gone, would you still want to die?”

“No, but you can’t. No one can. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything, and nothing works. This is going to work. It is all going to end tonight.”

“Tell me about your emotional pain, Karen. Tell me why it feels so bad.”

Everything else in the room and in my life ceased to exist except for her voice, her words, her story, and the phone against my ear. I tried to stay with her as she went to some dark places and took me with her.

She was currently separated and had two young daughters. They lived with her full time, but this weekend they were staying with their father. She said he was a good father, and her daughters enjoyed going. She sometimes spoke in a normal-sounding voice and then would switch to a voice that sounded like a little girl’s as she regressed in time and was living a reality back from when she was a child. She was drinking vodka as we spoke and sometimes masturbating. She kept on picking up the razor and cutting herself. She was in her bedroom with loud music playing whilst she was cutting the top of her leg deep down to her femoral artery.

She wanted to die.

She had made up her mind that it would happen this weekend, and her ex-husband would find her on the Monday morning after he had dropped their daughters at school and come around to drop off their gear. She was a victim of long and sustained childhood sexual abuse by her father. She kept drifting in and out of consciousness toward the end of the call. She was in an altered reality because of emotional pain, intoxication, and sedatives and was cutting and masturbating to try to alleviate some of her tension while stating she wanted to die. Her memories of childhood and adult emotional pain intermingled.

My supervisor had come in and had called the police in the caller’s area twice already. Unfortunately, as police had taken her suicidal to hospital some months previously, they were in no hurry to get to her. They were prioritising other calls, not realising the seriousness of the situation. This was not an unusual situation for us on the phones. Many police were escorts for the mentally ill and suicidal, taking them to hospital, and most had regulars in their areas that they got to know well. This sometimes made them act with less urgency.

However, my supervisor kept ringing and conveying to them that I was an experienced counsellor, and she trusted my instinct that this girl was actively attempting to suicide and would bleed to death if no one reached her soon. All my gut instinct was screaming out to me that this was so. I channelled all my energy and every fibre of my being down that phone to her; I was a hundred percent focused on trying to say the right words to convey to her to live and not to die, and that I was there for her.

I appealed to her as a fellow human being, through her daughters, through the young self she kept slipping into, that there was hope, there was a reason to live, there was a way out of this pain, there was a way to have the emotional pain stop and end without her having to die. She wanted the emotional pain to end, but that didn’t mean her life had to end. Her daughters would not be better off with her dead. When she didn’t have the emotional pain to deal with, she could be there for them. She could be the mother she wanted to be. She could build a new life once the pain was gone. She could trust people again.

I asked her what had happened this particular weekend that was the final straw that had made her decide to kill herself. She had received a bill in the mail that she said she could not pay. It was added to the other bills, and it was the breaking point for her.

It was all too much. She had no one to share her pain with or to support her through her marriage breakup, being a mother, or her own abuse memories that were flooding her now that she was on her own. She did not feel she could cope as an adult in this world any longer. She did not feel she could be an adequate parent and role model for her daughters when she could barely get out of bed each day. She didn’t want them to see her like this. She didn’t want to frighten them. She was starting to behave in ways she did not like. She felt they would be better off without her.

I tried to ask her what had helped her get through these times in the past, when she had previously been this distressed and suicidal. But it was nearly impossible to reason as an adult with her when her rationality was not in charge, and her younger, seemingly emotional self was in charge.

I therefore said that Karen the adult needed to look after Karen the child. Her child self didn’t need to be cut and hurt. Her child self didn’t need sexual stimulation when she was drunk and scared. Her child self needed the adult Karen who had rung Lifeline to put down the razor, put down the alcohol, and just let her sleep, let her lie down and rest, as she had been through enough.

She stopped talking, and I no longer knew if she was conscious. I just kept talking and talking, hoping she could hear me and hoping something I was saying in a calm, soothing, nonjudgmental voice was getting through to her.

The police arrived at the house; I could hear through the phone that they were breaking down the door. One of the police picked up the phone and started talking to me. He said she had cut down to the artery, and it looked like she had nicked it. There was blood everywhere. She was unconscious, but the paramedics had arrived, and they were taking her to the hospital.

I was so relieved.

He hung up the phone, and suddenly there was just silence where there had been intense energy and focus. All the energy just drained out of me, and I felt myself start to shake. She was alive. She was going to make it—for that night anyway. I prayed and hoped someone at the hospital would relate to her and help her. That she would find a doctor or therapist who could help her find a way out of the maze and trap she had found herself in with no hope.

On the way home, in the dark and quiet, I suddenly had to pull my car over. I thanked the whole universe for letting me be the one to sit with Karen during her pain, for the police and paramedics who had gone to her assistance, and for the doctors and nurses who would be attending to her. I had intensely related to her. I understood her switching between her child self and adult self. I understood her use of masturbation and alcohol to try to alleviate the intense aloneness and emotional pain. I understood the cutting and thumping music for the same reasons.

Then I just sat in the dark, in the stillness and the silence, and with my whole heart wished and prayed she would find a way in the coming weeks and months through her emotional pain so she could find a reason to live again and be wholly there for her daughters as she grew older. As people had been there for me when I was at my lowest.

I felt something click together in my head and heart. It was a physical sensation and a feeling of completeness that washed over me. Something closed up in me that I had not realised until then had still been open. A feeling of fullness and wholeness filled me.

I prayed to the universe to watch over the young woman, and in my mind’s eye I handed over the responsibility for her healing and destiny to the universe. I trusted that her journey and mine had collided for a reason, but that reason was completed now. I let go of her figurative hand. I felt the anxiety connected to what might have been happening with her leave me.

I started the car again and drove home. I felt deep within my bones that I had fulfilled a karmic debt, and the circle was complete.

I was released.

***Award winning book (finalist) in 2014 Beverley Hills International Book Awards***
Jenny Hayworth grew up within the construct of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which she describes as a fundamentalist cult-like religion. She devoted her life to it for over thirty years. Then she left it. The church “unfellowshipped” her-rendering her dead to those family and friends still committed to the church.Hayworth is a sexual abuse survivor. The trauma changed her self-perception, emotional development, trust, and every interaction with the world.

Inside/Outside is her exploration of sexual abuse, religious fundamentalism, and recovery. Her childhood circumstances and tragedies forced her to live “inside.” This memoir chronicles her journey from experiencing comfort and emotional satisfaction only within her fantasy world to developing the ability to feel and express real life emotion on the “outside.”

It is a story that begins with tragic multigenerational abuse, within an oppressive society, and ends with hope and rebirth into a life where she experiences real connections and satisfaction with the outside world.

Those who have ever felt trapped by trauma or circumstances will find Inside/Outside a dramatic reassurance that they are not alone in the world, and they have the ability to have a fulfilling life, both inside and out.

Foreward Clarion Review – “What keeps the pages of Hayworth’s life story turning is her honesty, tenacity, and sheer will to survive through an astounding number of setbacks. Inside/Outside proves the resilience of the human spirit and shows that the cycle of abuse can indeed be broken”

Kirkus Review – “A harrowing memoir of one woman’s struggle to cope with sexual abuse and depression while living in – and eventually leaving – the Jehovah’s Witnesses”

Readers Favourite 5 Star Review – “The book is an inspiring story for those who are going through traumatic times…”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Jenny Hayworth on Facebook & Twitter

DIGGING: Lifting the Memorable from Within the Unthinkable by Susan M. Rostan #Memoir #WWII

I remember having a conversation with Marian after the 9/11 Towers left New Yorkers traumatized by fear — the omnipresent fighter jets roaring over my home, patrolling the New York skies, and soldiers, so many soldiers with guns, guarding bridges, transportation centers, and my daughter’s Tribeca neighborhood. Feeling the differences between the two situations six decades apart, I asked Marian how long it had taken for him to adjust to a world turned upside down. Marian thought for what felt like mere seconds and responded: “Three weeks.” I was more shocked by the short time it took for the Jews to settle into their new world order, than comforted by the hope that in the fall of 2001 we would soon settle into the “scheme of things.”

Within the confines of the Ghetto, the Jews of Warsaw slowly began to give and attend lectures, concerts, and courses. Feeling safe behind the Ghetto walls they established community kitchens and institutions for the aged, homeless children, and refugees. It was common knowledge that some Jews worked as informers for the Gestapo, but it was explained as their way of making a living — a despicable livelihood; the Gestapo sought details of merchandise hidden in the Ghetto as well as gold, smuggled food, and medicine. The Jewish Council, a Nazi-sanctioned government-in-miniature, furnished work battalions, maintained peace and order (by Jewish policemen), trained skilled workers, managed sanitation and medical needs, and organized workshops where raw materials allotted by the Germans were finished by Ghetto workers for the armed forces of Germany, the Wehrmacht.

“Elzbieta secured an acceptable place for us to stay in the Jewish Residential District,” Marian said. He, Menache, and their mother Rivka shared a two-bedroom apartment. Elzbieta had her own apartment where she operated her dental supply business until all the merchandise she managed to salvage had been sold. These were the first of many “accommodations” — including a later stay at a church on Leszno Street, which they would inhabit as the Nazis transformed the Ghetto from a Jewish community to a holding place before eventual deportation to the Treblinka death camp. Elzbieta took charge of the family in the Ghetto, securing their safety and saving their lives, as long as she could. Marian suggested to me, with little detail, the desperation they felt as they began to understand the ramifications of forced expulsion from their home.

By now, Marian’s life must have been increasingly restricted, but he did not speak of his experiences in the Ghetto — the lack of food, the intolerable lack of hygiene, and the constant threats to his safety and security. He did not tell me the untellable — the images of starving men, women, and children in the streets of the old town, morphing into corpses lying on the sidewalks, neglected and ignored.

Have you ever really thought about your ancestors beyond their names and dates of events in their lives? The stories of how they lived their lives can be a source of strength as well as inspiration in your own life.

In this new work of narrative nonfiction, Susan M. Rostan invites us to experience her journey as she seeks to uncover the story of her husband s family, including two courageous but silent survivors of WWII s Warsaw Ghetto: her mother-in-law Elzbieta and Elzbieta s brother, Marian Rosenbloom.

With the passing of Elzbieta, an aging Uncle Marian is the only surviving link to his family s history — the stories of tragic loss and heroic survival — that he and his sister had refused to share with anyone throughout their life. Encouraged by the author and driven by an emerging sense of responsibility to his sister s namesake and future generations, Marian begins a difficult journey into the memories of his childhood in the Warsaw Ghetto and subsequent survival.

As his experiences unfold, he haltingly recalls how he managed to escape the Ghetto and survive, thanks to his courageous rescuers. Out of his remembrances, the author nurtures not only the story of her husband s family history, but finds herself immersed in an insistent desire to honor Marian s rescuers. Through her poignant and compelling narrative, she revives Elzbieta s legacy of hope, caring, and laughter for all of us to share.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Creative Nonfiction

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Susan M. Rostan through Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.susanmrostan.com

A LADY IN FRANCE #Excerpt by Jennie Goutet #AmReading #GoodReads #Memoir

Why did I go to France in the first place if I was so fearful? And I am about one of the most fearful people you can meet. I have been terrified of everything outside of my small life, haunted by the “what ifs,” accosted by worry and the fear of dying or of grief, ever since I can remember.

But I had these grains of courage that propelled me towards France because the alternative was worse: it was the fear of not being good enough as I was—of remaining the same. I was compelled to do something extraordinary in order to be worth something, and to seek every opportunity to remake the old model that I knew to be deeply flawed.

And I did recreate myself in France. When I sat outdoors on a stone bench eating a baguette with butter and cheese, and shared a bottle of wine with friends over lunch, I became a bohemian. When I spoke in class with, what I considered to be, a good accent and with great fluency, I was an intellectual. When I met friends after school for wine or beer at an outdoor café (cheered by the no-age-restrictions in France), I was a sophisticate. And when I took the train to Besançon and Montpellier by myself for an overnight stay, I was an adventurer.

I was full of hope and the promise of becoming something extraordinary as I walked the streets of Avignon. But it was in those hours alone, especially in the dark, that I always came back to loneliness and fear; I always came back to myself.

It wasn’t the country that attracted me—at first. I even stopped taking French in tenth grade since I wasn’t particularly gifted at it. Nevertheless, I took French up again in college as a predecessor to studying abroad, and I think I might have been prompted to do so because of the dream I had when I was seventeen.

I was walking through a forest, hand in hand with someone. The trees made everything seem dark and shady, but I wasn’t afraid, just curious. We walked for a bit before entering an open sunny space where we spotted a low, stone wall in front of us. We sat down on the wall together, enjoying the day and the warmth of the sun.

We were having an easy, intimate conversation, and he said something, which made me laugh and turn to look at him. At that moment, I remember being surprised about two things: for one, I had grown up and become the confident woman I longed to be, so that I was almost unrecognizable to myself. For another, the man I was talking to was French, and he was my husband. I was surprised to be so at ease with a man—any man, much less someone who was from another country.

So I found myself going to Avignon, feeling quite small, but determined to inject the necessary elements of change—a cosmic Botox for a new and improved soul. There, I discovered that I actually did have a knack for languages, discovered that I actually was smart, and got my first rush from traveling.

Oh, and I sunbathed topless on the beach in Cannes.

But all along, deep down inside, I think I was searching for that French husband of my dreams. And I’m guessing that is why I went to France.

At seventeen, Jennie Goutet has a dream that she will one day marry a French man and sets off to Avignon in search of him. Though her dream eludes her, she lives boldly—teaching in Asia, studying in Paris, working and traveling for an advertising firm in New York.

When God calls her, she answers reluctantly, and must first come to grips with depression, crippling loss, and addiction before being restored. Serendipity takes her by the hand as she marries her French husband, works with him in a humanitarian effort in East Africa, before settling down in France and building a family.

Told with honesty and strength, A Lady in France is a brave, heart- stopping story of love, grief, faith, depression, sunshine piercing the gray clouds—and hope that stays in your heart long after it’s finished.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Jennie Goutet on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://aladyinfrance.com

Make the Most of your #Radio Interview by South Africa’s Top Psychic @ShannonWalbran #WriteTip

It’s so wonderful for us to hear your voice, it’s as if you’re sitting in our home. It’s a great opportunity to promote your book or your project. Smile when you speak, we can tell.

If you’re being interviewed, submit your own questions. Producers will thank you for saving them time. You’ll benefit by steering the conversation. Write out the answers and practice reading them aloud to a friend.

Create soundbites. If you had time for only one sentence, what would your top message for us be? Two? Time your soundbites to less than ten seconds and edit them down to three or four words. One of my messages is, “Always remember you are guided!”

When you’re on the air, speak only to the host. Imagine that he or she is the only person listening. Forget about us in the audience - there could be five people tuning in or five million. If you and the host are having a lively conversation, everyone will be fascinated. Say the host’s name while you’re speaking and make eye contact. We listeners can feel the connection.

If you get asked a question you didn’t anticipate, laugh to buy yourself a moment.  Then start your answer with the word “Yes.” Even if you’re going to disagree with the question’s point, you’ll be in the driver’s seat: “Ha ha ha! Yes, Caroline, many people do ask whether believing in angels is silly!  What I’ve found is that it gives me comfort, confidence, and direction.”

Remember you’re the expert on what you know. It’s perfectly fine to take calls from listeners and share your experiences. If you’re being interviewed about your book, be sure to mention, “As I write about in my book Guided…” for people who are just tuning in. You don’t have to solve all the world’s problems, just speak from your own position.

Have fun. It’s over in a flash! Try to get your contact information (your website) for example on air so we can reach you to find out more.

Follow up and get the podcast. Edit it down to just your interview segment using an editor such as Garage Band. Post it on your website, and link to it using your Facebook, Twitter, and other social media accounts.  Be sure to send it out with your next newsletter so we can listen at leisure.

Consider using the podcast as the soundtrack to a Youtube video trailer about your book.  Even a slideshow of the book cover, your headshot, and a series of photos representing the book’s setting could make a great promotional piece.

In GUIDED! Shannon combines practical how-to’s and case studies with magical worldwide adventures, reminiscent of Elizabeth Gifford’s Eat, Pray, Love and Sonia Choquette’s Trust Your Vibes.

Shannon’s voice in GUIDED! How to Communicate with Your Spirit Guides is as strong and bright as her personality. Her concise and ‘to the point’ method of writing is refreshing.

In the biography section of the book, Shannon is candid about her tumultuous journey, which includes much sadness and hardship. She writes with empathy.

There are two main sections to the book:

Part I – Ways to Hear from your Guides – is practical and describes in detail how to make a connection with your angelic helpers.

Part II is an inspiring biography of Shannon’s life and is as entertaining as it is informative.

For an interview or review, contact: Ben, the rep for Pat Grayson, Publisher Graysonian Press, pat@graysonian.com or (083) 610-1113. For more information on Graysonian Press, a South African publisher of spiritual and inspirational books, go to www.graysonian.com

BOOK REVIEW

“Guided: How to communicate with your spirit guides” by Shannon Walbran

Review date : 2009-03-06

Book review by Rev. Dr. Ralph Thomas Shepherd for Body and Mind by Antonet–Nirvana Lange.

This book by Shannon Walbran, seeks to assist readers to discovers their own soul’s purposes’ and learn techniques to improve your health, happiness and enlightenment. Shannon does this by describing her own life plan and how she was led through very exciting and thrilling life experiences.

Shannon was led from the US where she was born in 1969, the same year as Anastasia, the Russian leader for social and cultural change currently becoming an international phenomenon. Shannon describes in detail her childhood and the accompanying struggles that contribute to her future. She had a childhood embedded in spirituality and describes her consciousness of fairies and other supernatural experiences. Later she also describes her struggles with her high school activities like ADD and food allergies. One can see them as instrumental in forming her spiritual stature in the years to come.

As Shannon moves into adulthood, we will see her undergoing multi-cultural experiences thereby continuing her ‘spiritual schooling’ which is now opening up for her in a most remarkable way. Shannon is now living in South Africa and is proving a successful guide for those wanting an in depth understanding of their own lives.

Most people only experience spiritual events as separate from normal phenomenon. It seems that with what we are currently experiencing globally. Humanity is standing on the brink of a global crisis of immense proportions. Within the next few years, a whole new paradigm of human development will reveal the work of Shannon Walbran as crucial for human beings as she will be able to help many people to see a meaning future for themselves and their families.

Shannon’s background in radio and not-for-profit work has prepared her for the kind of life that bridges both the spiritual and physical world. Her book, “Guided” will help many souls find solace in the years to come.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Spiritual, Memoir, Non-fiction, Self-Help

Rating – G

More details about the author

Connect with Shannon Walbran through Facebook & Twitter

Website www.ShannonWalbran.com

Stories from the Sisterwives: How I Survived Dating a Sociopath by @MuddyAtwood #Memoir #MustRead

So, my four men. Potential boyfriend #1 was a techy Puerto Rican with a teenaged daughter. Potential boyfriend #2 was a weird white guy coming to Kansas City for the weekend and clearly looking only for sex. Potential boyfriend #3 was a pediatric psychologist new to town, whom I referred to as the Game Changer. And then, potential boyfriend #4 was the Dark Prince. The Dark Prince also was new to town, working for an extended period of time as a consultant with a local firm. He decided to not include any photos on his profile. This tactic played right into my plan of trying on men that didn’t fit because no photos under more routine practices would have landed any suitor in the reject pile.

These four were being juggled at the same time. I’ve never been one for enjoying circus acts. Initially, I had all four men in the mix. Quickly, the Weird White Guy was lost.

The Weird White Guy. This one left me just feeling dirty, and not in a good way. Weird White Guy was from Iowa, and he was coming to town for a long weekend. He wanted company to show him around. I was still learning the hidden vocabulary. “Company,” I was quick to discover, meant casual sex. I responded and said something to the effect of, “Thanks so much for contacting me, but I’m looking for something more long-term. I’m also really busy with preparing for the start of school. I hope you have a nice trip to Kansas City.” Nice, right? Courteous, and I would have thought enough of a message to be the end. Nope. He replies, “What are you studying? You don’t have time for just a drink and then getting naked with me? I need company this weekend.” First of all, I state clearly in my profile my love for my teaching job, which was proof enough for me he wasn’t interested in what I had to say about myself. Secondly, although I didn't state this explicitly, I’m not a hooker. Where and when did this become an escort service? This time, I had no response. Furthermore, if this conversation had happened in person, thiswould have been an instance where I would have been mute as my foot left a painful impression in his crotch.

Then there were three to juggle. I was in contact with the Puerto Rican, the Game Changer and the Dark Prince. The next one to get some time in the center ring was the Puerto Rican.

He was a nice enough guy, which has to be the most insulting thing you can say about a man interested in you. His Latino background was enough to tweak my parents without totally alienating them. He had a military background and had questionable health. He wrote epically long emails featuring seemingly total transparency. We went on two dates. After the first one, he was exuberant about his interest in me. I was not. He was easy enough to talk to, but when I looked at him, there were no nervous flirty flutterings anywhere - not even my eyelashes. So, naturally, I agreed to a second date. And sure, I could have avoided the awkward end of the evening kissing moment in the parking lot if I had just been direct. I should have said, “I thought the fact that every time you touched me, my machine-gun-like recoil would be a clue I wasn’t interested, but I can see it has not had that effect.” Or, I could have been nicer and said, “I really appreciate dinner, but I’m not your girl. There is a better woman for you out there, but it isn’t me.” But, instead, the awkward kiss comes toward me, and I find myself squishing my face in repulsion, and at the moment of contact, I did it. I gave him the cheek. That was my cowardly exit from the Puerto Rican.

Emily Brown was a single woman in her mid-30s living in the Midwest when a Dark Prince found her online dating profile. Fearing it was now or never, she relented to his persistent persuasion and immediately began ignoring the instinctual pulls telling her something wasn't right. Their tawdry relationship centered around guilt, shame and withholding served up by the Dark Prince until Emily put her foot down. Well, actually, she put her foot in his backpack. And that showed her all she needed to know.

Emily shares the painful discovery of how the man she loved was sharing his life with other women, how she went on to befriend her "Sisterwife," and how she found herself again. “Stories from the Sisterwives” is the remarkable true story of heartbreak, friendship, love and triumph over the darkness.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Memoir

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Emily Brown through Facebook & Twitter

Website http://storiesfromthesisterwives.com/