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…”

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Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

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James Rada Jr. on Developing His Writing & Making Money @JimRada #AmReading #Historical

How did you develop your writing?

My first short stories were primarily horror. I had about three dozen stories published before my tastes started shifting to YA and thriller. Then I moved to historical novels and eventually added non-fiction history. Now I’m starting to go back and dabble with thrillers and YA.

What is hardest – getting published, writing or marketing?
For me, the hardest part is the marketing. That’s not to say that getting published and writing the book is easy. It’s just that I’m naturally an introvert so going out and pushing my works just feels wrong to me. It feels like I’m bragging and I was raised not to do that. It’s a necessary evil, though. So I continue to move outside of my comfort zone and learn how to market myself. I feel like I’m getting better at it, but it’s a slow process.

Do you find it hard to share your work?
I like to talk about my stories and history because I find the stories interesting. However, if I am sharing my work in the hopes that someone will buy it, I start to get uncomfortable. Same book. Same topic. In my mind, though, when the goal is a sale something changes. I try and keep myself focused on talking about the story without worrying about whether it ends in a sale or not.

Do you plan to publish more books?
I’ve already published seven non-fiction books, five historical novels, one thriller and one YA books. Most of these have been self-published and I plan on doing more. In fact, I plan on exploring some other genres. I will probably write them under pen names, though.

What else do you do to make money, other than write? It is rare today for writers to be full time.
I am a full-time freelance writer. Besides books, I write articles, newspaper columns, press releases and advertising copy. I will also do editing and talks. Finally, I teach writing courses at a couple community colleges. It keeps me very busy and at times, my life is quite crazy.

What other jobs have you had in your life?
When I was in high school I worked as a cashier at a pharmacy and a kennel worker at a veterinarian. In college, I worked as a personal trainer at a fitness center. After college, I was the manager of a K-Mart shoe department. Then I worked as a marketing writing for a biotech company and moved on to be a reporter and editor for various newspapers.

If you could study any subject at university what would you pick?
I would probably study history with a minor in creative writing. I sometimes consider going back and getting my master’s degree, but after having been a professional writer for 26 years, I’m not sure if it would be worth. I would probably do it, though, if it wasn’t so expensive.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?
I don’t know if I could name one specific area. I like a lot of places that I have visited for different reasons so it’s hard to say this is the perfect place for me. I know that I wouldn’t want to live in a big city, but I would still like to be within an hour’s commute of one to take advantage of some of the opportunities there. I live in a very historic area now, which I enjoy. I would probably want to continue that. I would also probably like a place without harsh or very cold winters.

Tell us about your family?
I have a wife and two sons. I’ve been married for 24 years. My wife works as a medical technologist. One of my sons just graduated and wants to join the military. My other son is in middle school and says he wants to be an engineer. I am the only one who has the writing bug, though my youngest son likes to read.

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

Cheryl Carpinello on First-Hand Research @CCarpinello #AmReading #Tween #Adventure

First-Hand Research: How to Gather and What to Use When Setting the Scene

Up to this point in my writing, I’ve written two stories set in medieval Wales using my historical knowledge gained from teaching Arthurian Legend for 25 years, by reading about Wales, and by doing more research on medieval times. This type of research is usually good enough for any author unless a reader happens to live in the actual or modern setting of the book!

I found this out when one of my readers from Wales wrote and explained a mistake I had made when one of my characters attempted to climb St. David’s Head in a rain storm. To paraphrase, she said, “In a storm like you’ve described, Philip (my character) would literally have to be climbing up St. David’s Head on his hands and knees. There is no way he could be upright!”

So I’m spending this week to experience Wales first-hand to be sure I get the small details right in the next book.

Trying to determine what information to record is overwhelming and leads to several questions. What should a writer focus on? How can a writer know what details will be essential? How can a writer avoid an information overload?

Here’s my answers to those three questions based on writing a sequel to Young Knights.

1. What should a writer focus on?

• Landscape—While I used Manorbier and Pembroke castles in my story, it is likely that in the 400/500s those structures may not have existed except in my mind. However, the surrounding countryside is still similar: type of vegetation, trees, and flowers; is the land flat, hilly, marshy, irrigated? This may have changed from Medieval times, but not a great deal.

• Sounds—As I travel around Wales, I tune into the sounds around me. Birds talk and call, and I jot down what they sound like and what type of landscape I am traveling through when I hear them. Wales has a long beautiful coastline. How far away am I when I hear the waves crashing into the rocks, or, in the case of Cardigan Bay, when the waves rush onto the sandy beach? Does the wind roar as on St. David’s Head, or does it gently brush the branches of the trees. Does the rain pound down on the ground digging holes into the dirt? Or does it slice the air sideways as it frequently does in Colorado? What does the silence sound like, or is it ever silent here in the land of Arthurian legend?

• People—As a rule, the general nature of people does not change over the years. I take take note of areas that have been openly welcome to me, friendly but reserved, or guarded and cautious. I have encountered the first two, but not the last.

2. How can a writer know what details will be essential?

This is hard. Until submersing myself in a story, I don’t know. However, by focusing on the five senses—seeing, hearing, touching, tasting, and smelling—I can put down more descriptive notations. For example: It isn’t enough to describe how the crashing waves explode and echo up the towering cliff. When my character is talking to another at the top of that cliff, will he/she be able to taste the salt on his/her tongue? Could I?

3. How can a writer avoid an information overload?

This is an easy answer, but one that even I didn’t apply until I wrote my upcoming release Sons of the Sphinx. We had visited Egypt in 2008 and took a bundle of pictures. As I was writing, I pulled out my pictorial journal to refresh my memory of what the country and monuments actually looked like.

In addition to taking copious notes when traveling, I taken enough pictures to almost fill up the memory card for my camera. I haven’t used my phone too much for pictures because I find a camera easier to access and print my pictures.

These pictures will supplement my notes and help me to recall Wales more vividly.

If you have any other suggestions for gathering and using first-hand research, please share those with us.

Action Adventure Kindle Book

Three Friends. Three Quests. Three Mysterious Predictions.

At Pembroke Castle in medieval Wales,11-year-old Prince Gavin, 13-year-old orphan Philip, and 15-year-old blacksmith's apprentice Bryan, brought together in friendship by the one they call The Wild Man, embark upon a quest to save The Wild Man's life when he is accused of murder and robbery. If they have any hope of succeeding, the three will have to confront their fears and insecurities, and one of them will have to disclose the biggest secret of all. But it is the arrival of King Arthur and what he reveals that surprises characters and readers.

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Genre - Tween Adventure

Rating – G

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Author Bio

I love the Ancient and Medieval Worlds! As a retired English teacher, I hope to inspire young readers to read more through my Quest Books. Please follow me on this adventure. On Carpinello’s Writing Pages, I interview other children/MG/Tween/YA authors. At The Quest Books, I’ve teamed up with Fiona Ingram from South Africa and Wendy Leighton-Porter of England/France/Abu Dhabi to enable readers to find all of our Ancient and Medieval quest books in one place.

Author Links:

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Superhuman Nature by Brandon Overall #SciFi #BookClub #AmReading

Neil made the walk home after a wet, but fulfilling session of PT.  He always felt something rewarding knowing he had just run five miles while most people were still in their beds sleeping.

Neil’s workout uniform was soaked from the rain, so it was a relief to change out of it and get into the shower.  The shower was another place that Neil enjoyed a chance to collect his thoughts.  It was one of the few places he could go to be completely at peace.  Sometimes he would get carried away and would be notified by the banging of his roommate’s fist on the door that an hour was too long for a shower.

That day, Neil thought about the strange dream he had before waking up for PT.  Why did it feel so real?  The most vivid of Neil’s dreams usually came after popping a couple melatonin tablets to help him sleep, but he hadn’t taken any the night before.  It felt more like a memory than a dream.

The warm water from the showerhead flowed over his body, calming him, as he thought about the pencil floating in the air in front of him during the dream. His eyes were closed with this image in his head as he reached out with his hand to grab the shampoo bottle.  Before he could fully extend his arm out to grab the bottle, he heard a loud crashing sound that could only mean something from the shower must have fallen and created a noise on the decibel level of a car crash.

Neil opened his eyes and yelled “Shit!”, so that his friends that he had just woken up in the house would know that the noise was an accident.

He looked down and saw the shampoo bottle he was reaching for lying on the floor at his feet.  His mind struggled to make sense of what had just happened.  How did he knock the bottle over?  He was positive that he didn’t touch the bottle before it fell.  Neil decided he was too tired to care and picked up the bottle anyways.  The rest of the shower went as planned, and Neil went downstairs to grab breakfast before heading off to his first class of the day.

Superhuman Nature is Brandon Overall's first novel. It was written and published during his first deployment to Afghanistan as a 2nd Lieutenant in late 2013.

Neil Hitchens was a senior ROTC Cadet in college. He was just weeks away from graduating and becoming an Officer in the United States Army, until a strange dream set off a chain of events that would twist his life into something he could have never prepared for.

In the days following his dream, several strange happenings occurred that he began to suspect were the result of his own actions. Before long, he discovered that he had the ability to control the world around him with his mind.

What started out as an unpredictable ability quickly evolved into an extraordinary power that had the capacity to change the world. It didn't take long for the government to find out what Neil could do.

They knew having such limitless potential on the side of the US Military could give them limitless political influence, and they would stop at nothing to get Neil to do their bidding. They would find out what happens when you back a dangerous animal into a corner.

Neil spent his whole life believing he would amount to greatness, but he never expected how greatness could corrupt even the most innocent of minds.

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Genre – Science Fiction

Rating – PG-13

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D. Aliesh Shares Her 10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer #AmWriting #WriteTip #SciFi

10 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer

1. Write Daily- Even when you don’t think you have much to say, just free-style write and see what comes out.
2. Always have something original ( whether a quote or phrase you came up with) written on your mirror for inspiration.
3. Keep a notepad by your bed- This is the oldest lesson in the book, but it holds true. Some dreams should be captured in their purest form.
4. Download Microsoft or other writing programs on your phone- I can’t tell you how often something will hit me at the grocery store or when I’m out with family.
5. Make good use of recording devices- There will be ideas I don’t have the wording for, so I’ll record it really quick and tweak it later. I use this with songs I write also.
6. Don’t be afraid to put your work on display- I was terrified of people reading my poems; thinking they would know who they were for and judge me. Or, I thought they were too private. Emotions don’t always have to have the same face to be true, so whoever reading it may not know who you are talking about, but if it’s good, you’ll be glad you let them read it.
7. Read your own stuff- I go back and read my work from years ago or a couple of weeks and I surprise myself. If you don’t feel that peace and connection with it, save it for another tweaking session.
8. Use writing as therapy- I have a mouth on me, but I always wish I would have said something else; another zinger. Writing is your mouthpiece that helps you keep your composure in society. Use it daily!!!
9. Don’t compare your writing to other people- You aren’t trying to be the next (insert dream writer here). No, you want to be the only (insert your full name with authority here). Always.
10. Write about things that are important to you- If you aren’t feeling it, chances are, your readers won’t either.

 

The modern day heroes assembled in this journey get to go to places most people will never see. With the gifts of the spirit and some other talents added to the bunch, they restore faith, hope in order into the world, while shaking it up in themselves. If you are a sci-fi extraordinaire looking for a good read, or if you need an escape from worldly limitations…join the cast of Party of Gifts.

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Genre - Sci-Fi

Rating – PG

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@Vanna_Smythe on Believable Fictional Characters #AmWriting #YA #WriteTip

How to Make Your Characters Believable

I believe the number one thing that will make fictional characters believable and enable them to come alive on the page is the ability to picture them as real, living human beings. This means you should be able to imagine what they look like and how they dress, but that’s not nearly enough. To truly see them and know them, you should also be able to imagine their facial expressions, for example, how their lips curl into a smile, how they frown and whether dimples form in their cheeks when they laugh. Yet that’s still only the tip of the iceberg, since it only covers their external side.

Internally, I think the most important thing when it comes to writing believable characters is their nature, namely are they loving, aggressive, driven or passive. This ties directly into their goal in the story, as the ways they choose to achieve their goal will inevitably make their traits come to the surface. This is why it is important to know all their traits, even the ones they choose to keep secret.

Ideally, you should know at least some of these traits before beginning to write. Though if you’re more of a seat of the pants writer, you probably prefer to let the characters reveal themselves during the course of the story without you forcing any characteristic on them. But when you do the final revision, you should take care to bring all of their various traits into a logical whole.

One neat trick I recently discovered for matching up mannerisms with emotions or situations is observing actors in movies. Since you know what emotion they are going through (which may not always be the case when simply people watching) it is easier to come up with ideas of how to describe a character that is nervous, in love, sad, angry or happy.

The advice “Show Don’t Tell” applies to characters as well, and to make them as life-like as you can, it is always better to show their emotions, thoughts or actions, rather than just explaining how they feel.

For my latest book, The Grower’s Gift, I had a good grasp of the main male character Ty before I started writing, but my main heroine Maya developed more gradually during the course of the story. Although, by the time I finished the book, I got to know both of them as well as I know some of my oldest friends.

The future is bleak in the year 2102. The planet is in chaos and the weather patterns have completely shifted, turning most of the world into an uninhabited wasteland.

The rich and powerful of North America have pulled back into the six remaining megacities, erasing all trace of a central government and leaving millions displaced by the environmental crisis to fend for themselves in the dying world.

Sixteen-year-old Maya has a gift, a power she thinks can heal the earth and make it habitable again. A gift that she must learn to harness. The school for the gifted in Neo York is the only place where she can learn to control her power and reach her potential.

Yet the school is not what it seems. Ran by the ruthless head of the city of Neo York, the school’s only objective is to extract the powers of the gifted and then discard them. Only Ty, heir to the city, can keep Maya from being destroyed there. But Ty has a secret, and his loyalty to his family has never wavered.

Will his growing love for Maya be strong enough to save them both?

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Genre - YA Dystopian

Rating – PG-13

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PEGASUS by Marilyn Holdsworth @M_Holdsworth #AmReading #Excerpt #Contemporary

Excerpt from Pegasus by Marilyn Holdsworth 

SATURDAY WAS A WARM, sunny day, just as Win had predicted, and the drive out of Los Angeles was a welcome change from the heavy work schedule Hannah had been demanding of herself for the last few days. Sitting next to Win, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans with her hair pulled back and fastened with a barrette at the nape of her neck, Hannah looked young and vulnerable. The miles sped by, and they chatted easily together, but Win made no further mention of what was so important for her to see at the ranch.

“I’m looking forward to riding today. I haven’t been on a horse for ages. Hope I haven’t forgotten how,” she worried.

“Like riding a bicycle,” he laughed. “Once you learn, you never forget. You’ll do fine.”

Win turned the sleek, midnight-blue Jaguar into a long, narrow drive flanked by split-rail fencing. On either side, rolling green pastures spread as far as she could see. An arched gateway marked the entrance to the ranch. Mounted at the top of the crescent was an imposing round emblem emblazoned with a large metal sculpture of Pegasus at its center.

“Pegasus, the winged horse,” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful name for a horse ranch. Do all your horses fly?”

He smiled. “I’m sure when my dad was so into racing, he wished they could. But it was my grandfather who founded the ranch and named it Pegasus. He named it after the Greek mythological horse in hopes of pleasing my grandmother. She was a very scholarly lady of Greek heritage, very interested in the arts, especially the Greek classics. Grandfather spent his entire lifetime trying to please her, but I’m afraid to no avail. I’m told she detested the West and the ranch, preferring Eastern city life and its more sophisticated offerings. They separated shortly after my father was born. She kept her Eastern townhouse, attending operas and grand parties while he built his empire out here.”
“Sad she couldn’t have enjoyed it with him,” Hannah said. “It’s so wonderfully tranquil here, a truly rare and beautiful setting with the mountains in the background and the rolling green hillsides. Didn’t she ever see the horses race? Not even when the ranch’s prize winners were entered in all the country’s grandest races?”

“No, she never did. And it was a great sorrow to my grandfather. But, oddly enough, he never divorced her. He always hoped she’d change her mind, come back to him, and learn to love the land as he did. My father was raised by Mary Little Deer’s mother here at the ranch. He was an only child, of course, and the lifestyle Grandmother lived in the East was not meant for a boisterous little boy. So he grew up at Pegasus and loved the ranch until his dying day. Now it’s mine, and I must say, I share his deep love for the place.”

They had pulled up to a sprawling Spanish hacienda with a red tiled roof and thick adobe-brick walls. Built around a central courtyard, the house had the look of an early California mission.

“It’s really the picture of the Old West, Win. I can see why you love it here,” she said as he helped her out of the car.

The house’s thick walls and Mexican tile flooring made it cool and inviting. He ushered her through wide carved doors adorned by large bronze knockers shaped like horse heads. As they stood together in the dimly lit hall, Hannah blinked to adjust her eyes. From a stained-glass window at the end, a prism of light slanted across the floor, illuminating a majestic bronze sculpture of Pegasus standing like a sentinel in the massive entry. She stared at the beautiful sculpture. “It looks like it would take flight at any moment, leave its marble pedestal for the heavens.”

“My grandfather had it made in Europe,” Win explained as she continued to study the art piece.

“Another futile attempt to win back Athena’s heart, I suppose. The artist who did the piece has become quite famous. Perhaps you know of him—P. J. Mene. He did some smaller renditions of the same subject for him. One is in the garden, but I’m not sure where the others are now.”

Hannah walked closer to the exquisitely detailed bronze statue, gently touching its flowing mane and extended wings. “He certainly captured the spirit of the horse.”

“I thought you might like it.”

“And is this what you wanted so much for me to see?”

“No, it isn’t,” he said, smiling mysteriously. “You’ll have to wait for that,” he teased. “Now let’s see if Mary Little Deer left us a snack in the library.” He led her through wide double-oak doors into a large high-ceilinged room with open carved beams. At the far end was a massive stone fireplace surrounded by walls lined with bookshelves.

“What a lovely room, and such a collection of fine books,” Hannah said, scanning the leather-bound volumes.

“Another of Grandfather’s attempts to please Athena. All the classics are there, with a very special collection of Greek literature and ancient mythology. I’m afraid the architecture he chose when he built the ranch and its name do seem a bit incongruous, but when you know the history of the place, it fits together after all. I’m rattling on about the past too much,” Win said, suddenly glancing across the room. “Sure hope you’re hungry, Mary Little Deer’s done her usual I see. Light snack just isn’t in her vocabulary. Unless she hears the legs groan the table isn’t set, “ he laughed. A tray of assorted sandwiches , a large fruit bowl and a plate of freshly baked cookies with a pot of coffee stood waiting on a long, low knotty-pine table in front of a deep saddle-brown leather sofa.

“It all looks delicious, “ Hannah said. “And actually I’m starved.”

When lunch was finished and cleared away by the silently efficient Mary Little Deer, they went in search of the stables. Once again, Winston Caughfield III was right; it was like riding a bicycle. Hannah settled easily into the saddle on a bay mare. Riding next to her, astride his favorite horse, Alabaster, Win guided them around the barns, past the corrals and the training track, and toward the gently rolling hills. They rode for more than an hour, enjoying the sunny afternoon and clear, fresh air. The bay mare responded eagerly when Hannah nudged her into a canter. Although spirited, the horse was smooth-gaited and perfectly trained, and Alabaster pranced, tossing his head to show off for them both. Win rode with the grace and skill of an accomplished rider. It was obvious how much he loved the horse as he reached over to pat his arched neck when they pulled up after galloping across an open meadow.

He called to Hannah as she reined in beside him. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the ridge. “Just over that crest is where we’re going.” He urged Alabaster into a trot, beckoning for her to follow. At the top of the rise, they pulled the horses up, and Hannah gazed down into a small valley. Several corrals dotted the landscape, each with its own enclosure and hay bin. A feed storage shed stood close by, and a barn was under construction at the far end.

Hannah looked questioningly at Win, but he said nothing, just guided his horse down the slope; she fell in behind him. Hannah’s mare picked her way down the hillside and came up next to Alabaster at the base of the hill. “Well, this is it,” he said, spreading his arm wide to indicate the corrals and structures.

Hannah looked at him blankly. The corrals were empty, and there seemed to be no one around.

“Come on,” Win said. “I want to show you something.” They dismounted, tied the horses, and walked toward the newly erected barn. He swung the door wide for her to enter.

“Almost finished. Some work inside and some paint outside left to do,” he said with satisfaction.

“This week will do it, and then we’ll be ready for occupancy. Don’t you think?” He turned to a very puzzled Hannah.

“Yes, it does seem to be almost finished,” she responded. “Are you planning on moving some of your horses here from outlying pastures or the main barn?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not. This is where I thought we could put your adoptees.” His eyes were twinkling with delight now.

“My adoptees?”

“I read those articles you gave me last month,” he said soberly. “And I know how you feel about what’s happening to the American wild horses, the mustangs. You told me yourself about wanting to do a series of stories on the Adopt-a-Horse Program sponsored by the Bureau of Land Management and all the problems plaguing the plan. I thought if you had some space to save a few yourself, it might ease the pain I know you feel for those animals. And we do have room here at the ranch to take in a few.” He looked at her hopefully, wanting so much to please her and let her know he understood how seriously she took this cause.

“Win, I can’t let you do this for me,” she said. “Even if I wanted to, it’s not right. And besides, I could never afford it. At best, I might scrape up the money for the initial adoption fees.”

“Who says it isn’t right?” he broke in quickly. “We can make it strictly a business deal. You can rent the space at a price you can afford, and I’ll give you the feed to start you off. Simple as that. Now it’s settled. How soon do you want to see about the adoption? I’ll even throw in a little assistance in the training program if you’ll settle for one old trainer, me. We’ll turn them into trail mounts and find homes for them. When you begin to turn a profit, you can start buying the feed, stock, and all that. I know there must be good homes to be found for well-schooled riding horses.”

She hugged him. “Oh, Win, it’s perfect.”

“One stipulation,” he cautioned her sternly. “You do your articles on saving the horses, but leave all the corruption, especially Vincent Rossi, out of it. He’s major trouble.”

Her brow furrowed, “Well, if he’s involved in any way, that will be hard to do. But I’ll try. I give you my word on that.”

“Good. Then let’s get down to business. As I understand it, all you need is a $125.00 adoption fee and a horse trailer to haul the animal. Do you have any idea where to go to get these horses? Are they rounded up out in Montana, Wyoming, or where?”

“I’ve gotten some information, Win, but I’ll get more next week. I think a lot are in Nevada. I’ll find out.”

“Good. I’ll wait to hear from you about it in a few days,” he said. “Now we better get back to the ranch and to the city. I have an early-morning deposition to prepare for if I’m going to continue to have any law practice.”

All the way back to the ranch house, she chattered excitedly about the mustangs, the Adopt-a-Horse Program, and their plans. Win smiled happily at her, knowing the project was sure to bring her closer to him. The idea had come to him almost immediately after she had shown him the tiny newspaper clipping about the BLM’s horse adoption program. Her passion and love for her work involving the humane treatment of animals really did impress him. She was dedicated and tireless in her efforts to expose animal abuse and exploitation. He was really looking forward to helping her, but mostly, he had to admit, he just wanted to be important in her life. He’d known that much after their first date.
They had met so unexpectedly. She was seated with friends in the box next to his on the opening day of the Penbrook Park Races. Quite by accident, they were introduced by his friend Neil Jacobs, whose thoroughbreds were running that day. She immediately impressed him with her quiet, unassuming manner. Neil had spoken of her articles and told him she was sure to be a candidate for the Pulitzer Prize one day.

Long ago, after losing his first wife to cancer, Win had resigned himself to a solitary life. But looking at Hannah’s young, eager face today, he felt how much he wanted her near him. At forty-five, Winston Caughfield III was a handsome, distinguished man, and he was very aware that he was fifteen years her senior. But when they were together, the age difference seemed of no importance to either of them. In many ways, she seemed mature far beyond her years, perhaps because of her total commitment to her work and the tragedy of her young husband’s death. She seldom spoke of her loss; only once had she mentioned that ill-fated Chicago flight. She was very courageous. He looked over at her now, long stands of hair loosened from the barrette streaming in the wind as she rode. He never would have suspected that there was such strength in that delicate figure riding beside him, but more than once he had seen her face her adversaries with determination. Some secret source of energy seemed to well up and spill out of her. He’d known when she started her investigation into this horse thing that she would be relentless. He looked forward to sharing in it, but at the same time he felt a foreboding sense of fear for her. Above all, he wanted to protect her and keep her near him.

As a novelist, I draw on many real life experiences to provide background for my books. After completing studies in Literature and History at Occidental College, I became a staff writer on a travel magazine, and throughout my career I have traveled extensively all over the world. Because I love horses, I owned and trained them. I support horse rescue and wild mustang preservation. Based on my experience with horses and my research on abuse issues, I wrote Pegasus.

As a descendant of James Monroe, I did extensive research at the James Monroe Museum in Virginia about him and his wife Elizabeth Kortright Monroe. I also visited their home, Ashlawn/Highland in Albemarle County. This resulted in my novel, The Beautiful American. Making Wishes, was based partly on my experiences as creator, owner and operator of a greeting card company.

Elloree Prince is an attractive, creative young woman who marries a wealthy businessman, Tom Randall. After courting his bride with unrelenting determination, Tom moves her into old-moneyed Oak View, where generations of Randalls have lived for years. Outwardly, Elloree appears to settle into raising their two sons within Oak View’s stifling social structure, but inwardly, she yearns for her artistic work. An unexpected phone call from Mark Williams, her former employer, offers her the career opportunity of a lifetime, and she must make a choice. She is torn between her devotion to her sons and her love for her work. Her decision to return to Wishes, Inc. brings dramatic life changes to her and the people she loves.

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Genre - Women’s fiction

Rating – PG-13

“Abby Long is thrilled when she offers the winning bid for an antique desk at an auction. With its intricately inlaid woods and elegant style, the desk is perfect for Abby; it is the gift she promised herself to finally celebrate her thriving antique business. She has no idea that the antique desk holds a secret that will lead her on a fascinating, life-changing journey back in time.

When Abby discovers a hidden diary stuffed inside a secret compartment in the desk, she can hardly wait to read the spidery, faded script. As she carefully turns the tattered pages, she reads the captivating story of two remarkable women from opposite backgrounds who somehow manage to form an unforgettable bond against the backdrop of a fledgling America struggling to find its place in the world. Elizabeth Kortright Monroe, the wife of James Monroe, and Jasmine, a young slave girl, develop an extraordinary relationship as they are united by pivotal historic events, political intrigues, and personal tragedies.

From a bucolic Virginia plantation to the bloodied, starving streets of post-revolutionary Paris, this powerful tale follows the lives of two courageous women from the past as they quietly influence—and inspire—a woman of today’s world.”

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Genre - Historical fiction

Rating – G

Widowed at thirty, Hannah Bradley is a successful journalist focusing on animal abuse issues. An accidental meeting introduces her to lawyer, Winston Caughfield III. Drawn to Hannah’s gentle beauty and fierce commitment to her work, Win joins her in a fight to save wild mustangs from slaughter. Together they rescue a badly injured horse with a mysterious background. 

Hannah’s search to discover the animal’s true identity leads them into a web of black marketeering and international intrigue. Action packed with crisp colorful dialogue the story propels the reader to a race against time conclusion. Marilyn Holdsworth delivers a gripping tale of mystery, adventure and romance guaranteed to hold the interest and capture the heart. She brings true-life characters together with real-life issues to create a fast-paced irresistible story.

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Genre – Contemporary fiction

Rating – PG

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Website  http://marilynholdsworth.com/

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