For those of you who already know the answer to the question at hand, I applaud you. 

But there are a few who might be wondering why, in fact, one would ever worry about editing. Two schools of thought rally around this subject. Some of you might be thinking one or both of the following:

1. Who needs an editing service? For God’s sake, I could edit the local newspaper in my sleep. I’ve got this, people!
2. Why should I bother with editing? That doesn't matter! I wrote this book with my bare hands and I’m hitting ‘publish’ tomorrow!

It’s true that indie publishing has simplified the once traditional route to getting our work out to readers. But that’s all the more reason to take your writing seriously. By overlooking the editing process, you’re only hurting yourself. Once you decided, “I’m getting published someday!”, you essentially said goodbye to writing as a hobby. Look, I’m not telling you to stop enjoying the creative process. Of course not. I think we should all remember why we got into it, why we still love writing. However, you should see your manuscript as a potential book. 

Notice I said potential? Before you hit ‘publish’ on that Amazon screen, think carefully about the ramifications of publishing a book without official edits. 

We’re all familiar with bad reviews, right? Not only have we seen them on book purchase pages, reviews have changed the fate of restaurants and hotels alike, even something as simple as a pair of shoes. 

Words have power. Just as our books can move readers on an emotional level, enough bad reviews can kill your book’s reputation. Having said that, a negative review happens now and then. No author, not even a famous one, is immune. It’s true that you can’t win every reader over. But, wouldn’t you want to be judged on the merit of your work, the quality of your story, rather than the editing mistakes and glaring grammar problems you thought weren’t so relevant?

Take it from me. I’ve been a published author since 2010, and I still jump to catch all the editing issues before I even consider publishing the book. With my latest book, Directions of the Heart, I fortunately fixed the mistakes in the proof copy CreateSpace sent and was still able to meet my deadline before the collection officially released. And this occurred after numerous rounds of self-editing, and assistance from outside sources. To date, no one has mentioned any editing issues in the book's reviews.

But let’s get back to the discussion here.

Consider this. If you decide to go the traditional route and you skip the editing step, you’re not going to win any points with literary agencies or publishers to which you send query letters. Once they get a load of the first few pages of your manuscript, you’ll get a tasteful yet boring form letter that basically says, “Sorry, but no thanks!”

So…the question you need to ask yourself is:

“How important is the finished product to me?”

I think most writers want to put their best work out there. Some are even perfectionists about it. Does it irk you when you missed making a word plural on an email or social media? You want to fix it right away, yes? But it's not always possible. I feel your pain. Now, why wouldn’t you have the same reaction with the book that you’d like to show readers?  

“I’m ready, Marie. I am hitting ‘publish’ right now!”

Whoa…slow your roll there, cupcake. Have you read through your manuscript a few times? For example, two or three weeks between each round? Did you read it aloud or even print it out? Sometimes these different techniques allow us to see glaring errors we missed before. And I’m not even touching the idea of having to format your book for release.

But let’s go back to the beginning. Remember the eager writer who can’t wait for the world to see his or her work? Ditch that dream just for the moment. You need to put your editing hat on! 

Look, this is when things get gritty, or at least they should. Think of yourself as the girl who fell for the bad boy. He can do no wrong, but your family is trying to tell you otherwise. Yet the intelligent thing to do would be to weigh your options, consider your future with this guy. Likewise, you’ve got to look at your manuscript with a critical eye, not rose-colored glasses. Fall out of love with your book for a while. I’m not asking you to second guess everything, just to be smart. Now is the time to keep an eye out for plot holes, character confusion (using the same name for two different secondary characters…yeah, it happens), and, among a thousand other aspects, making sure you didn’t miss any important details. 

Believe me, when you’re finally ready to see them, they’ll pop out at you. For example, if you want to ensure your characters are fully developed, answer these questions. You won’t include every detail in the book, but at least you’ll know your protagonist much better and be more aware of when those facts matter within the story. 

By now, you’ve probably realized that I’m talking about self-editing. Mmm-hmm…it’s a thing. Even if you are open to using an outside source for help (critique partners, beta readers, a proofreader or other editing service), do you really want to hand your hard work over to a total stranger without perfecting it on your own first? Nah, probably not.

Here are some possible questions to ask yourself with any work of fiction:

1. Chapter Opening and/or Closing: Does it hook readers to read more?
2. Plot: Is there a compelling event, subplot, tension or conflict that is causing the story to evolve?
3. Pacing: Are the sequence of events or actions of the characters making sense? Are there too many minute details that are weighing the story down? In other words, is the narration too long?
4. Character Description: Can readers visualize the character? Is it easy to enter the character’s mind and feel emotion?
5. Scene:  Is it important to the story? Why? Does the character support the scene? Is it rich in details?
6. Character Building:  Is there an internal or external struggle? Is the character struggle important to the scene or the story? Why? Do you understand the character’s motivation? If it’s confusing, maybe you should find out why.
7. Point-of-View: Is head hopping occurring? If there is a POV shift, did it elevate the plot or move the story forward?
8. Transitions (Between chapters or scenes): Are they occurring seamlessly between paragraphs?  Are they building tension in the story?
9. Grammar and Word Choice: Are there repetitive phrases? (Suggestion: Use synonyms. They break up repetitions.) 

A critique partner will often help you narrow down many such problem areas. Still, it doesn’t hurt to suss out some of it for yourself.

Okay, let’s say you’ve tackled that as well as possible on your own. Now comes the dreaded part. Unless you’re a total editing maven (and even if you’re an editor in real life, I still wouldn’t suggest editing everything on your own), then self-editing can be a grueling yet necessary process. Luckily, the internet has provided us with awesome tips. Hallelujah!

I swear by these next two articles from The Write Life: 

10 Simple Ways to Edit Your Own Book

25 Editing Tips for Tightening Your Copy

With my first pass, I use article number one, and then I read through the manuscript. During round two, I launch into the second article. This is a more detailed look at the mistakes people often make while writing. After implementing the article’s suggestions, I read through the book again. Take decent breaks between each round (you don’t want to be too familiar with your work). With both articles, utilize the advice but try not to drown out your unique writing voice. I always do another read-through before anyone else sees my work. That’s three full rounds of self-editing.

“Marie, this could take a while!”

No kidding. But the best endeavors often do. 

Will you catch everything? Nope. But I guarantee it will be a lot better than where any of us started out with the first draft.

So…hopefully, your work is edited well enough to hand over to a critique partner or beta readers. Try to provide a questionnaire to help focus your betas on what kind of feedback that you’re looking for. It looks something like this, but you can tailor it to your specific genre.

Perhaps you’re thinking of checking out an editing service. I’ve worked with a lot of good editors through my publisher. I would advise you to compare rates. Most editors charge per word. That can really add up, especially if you have a novel-length manuscript. Plus, there are different types of editing. Are you looking for basic copy editing or something more thorough, like line, content or developmental editing? Word of mouth is usually the best way to find a good editor. Ask your fellow writers or authors who they used for their latest book editing.

I hope we’ve established the importance of editing. Do errors still slip through at times? Even with the professionals? Sure. I’ve noticed the occasional typo in a big six bestselling novel. The fact is no one is perfect. But I bet you’ll agree that one or two minor issues would be far better than a 100,000 word manuscript riddled with errors (which is likely to cause your reader to toss the book, or their Kindle, out the window).

Editing is too damn important, both for your professional integrity as a writer, and to avoid making your eyes cross when you reread your published book. Plus, readers will love you for giving them a polished product! You can’t lose there. I know you’d prefer them to talk to their friends about the story and how it makes them feel, rather than get hung up on all the grammar problems. Right?

I thought so. Despite how much of a pain it can be, editing is your friend.

Really! ;) Are you still with me?

Okay, we’ll go with whatever makes you comfortable. In any case, editing is an aspect of the writing process that you can’t afford to ignore. At least, if you want to survive as an author. A well-edited and published book is certainly something of which you should be proud!

I hope you found some helpful tips here. Have a great weekend, and, as always, happy reading! :)

It is a writer’s worst fear – what they call ‘writer’s block’. Being frozen when you intend to work on your project. The idea that the well has officially dried up. Perhaps you encountered a deadline and just went blank because of the strain. Or, out of the blue, you cannot find the urge to write. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s not exactly temporary.

The truth is that this is one of those moments every writer simply doesn’t relish. Sure, we can try to be reasonable and say…ah, what a relief! I’ll just take some much needed time off. No problem. 

But then the fears creep in.

What if this is it?

What if my last story or book was the last one I’ll ever write?

Even if this is short-term, what if I lose my readers in the time it takes to get the urge back?

Will my best efforts be good enough?

All that, among other worries, of course. 

Writer’s block happens, even to the best of us. We all have moments when life’s stressors have just overloaded our mental capacity to be creative any longer. Maybe there was a period of grief, financial strain, or a number of other personal situations that can interfere with one’s imagination. Whatever the cause – or even if you don’t believe there is one, it’s likely a multitude of things that fed into the block – do yourself a favor. Give your inner writer a break.

I really mean that. 

Draw a deep breath. No matter how long your writer’s block lasts, it’s not going to do any good to stress too much over the whole thing. Why? For one, freaking out will not only put more stress on you, it may lengthen the period of the barrier jarring your creativity. I can name around two or three points in my life when I experienced writer’s block, and putting extra pressure on myself only made it ten times worse. 

Let’s face it; as humans, we tend to fear the worst, and then we jump to try to fix everything. Even things that may not be so ‘fixable’. Often it’s not just a lack of willpower for a project which is blocking you, but a bunch of stressors that led to the problem. That’s why patience is key.

Stay positive. Believe me, I know it’s tough. Especially if the cause of the block is more emotional, it is harder to look up rather than down. But keeping a positive outlook, at least about your creativity, will seriously help. Plus, who knows? This could be a brief situation, right? That leads me to my next point.

Take a break. However long you need, take some time to chill. Relax, and STOP overthinking. 

Go enjoy your life! Heck, go on vacation if necessary. That deadline or story will still be sitting there tomorrow. Why work yourself beyond your limits for something that may result in what…one word? Keep a small notepad on hand, just in case, though. You never know when a great line or idea will pop up, which you can use for a future project.

Distract yourself. Maybe this is a good time to really start launching your blog. Or work on that DIY project in the kitchen. Anything you have to do to distract yourself from the ‘block’ that’s hanging over your head, just do it. Some writers use this time to approach specific parts of the impending project that don’t require too much of your creative juices. For example, learning more about your characters, or doing research on the locations which you’ll use to create a great setting in the novel. It isn’t necessary at this point, though. In my opinion, throwing yourself into a project that has nothing to do with your book or story is better. But, hey, you may as well get some things done in the process. ;)

Measure the muse. You’re going to have moments that feel like false hope. You really want to work on your story, but you are afraid to dive in, that it might result in…well, nothing. If ideas are creeping up, it won’t hurt to write them down somewhere. However, be certain that your urge to write isn’t only a way to pressure yourself into finishing something. Until you’re truly ready to get fully immersed in the writing process, try to discern what urges are real or just temptation.

Other projects. Depending on the source of your writer’s block – an external reason, such as an event that happened in your personal life – or an internal writing dilemma, such as needing to resolve a plot conflict – it might even behoove you to work on a different idea entirely. Sometimes we have to step away from something to get better clarity.  

Try writing a new story. Or, work on a project you’ve kept on the backburner for months or years. And if that doesn’t pan out, try using a different part of your brain. Edit a work in progress. At times the best solution is to do a complete turnaround. Maybe once you’re done with that project, you’ll have a ‘Eureka!’ moment and suddenly the motivation to work on whatever you had trouble with before will return. 

The struggle is REAL, as they say. All right, let’s suppose that you can’t even handle working on a brand-new project, or something which is just sitting around. Consider other options. What might some of those be? Relax; I’ll tell you…

Reading is awesome! Huh? That’s right. If you’re a writer, you are almost certainly a reader at heart. Read a ton of books, especially those in your preferred genre. But don’t be afraid to change things up and try something that’s a little out of your wheelhouse from time to time. 

Reading is actually a two-part “cure”, so to speak. It gets you out of your head, and into the fictional world. That’s where we love to be! Even better, it helps to familiarize you more with what other authors are doing, so you can develop your own style when you’re ready to start writing again.

You’re ready to dip your toes in the water of success. Notice I said ‘dip’. That means, for God’s sake, please…you gotta take it slow. Unless you’re an old pro at handling writer’s block, you do not want to relapse. I suggest you try a few writing exercises first. These are really helpful for jumpstarting a writer’s creativity. There are some great prompts in Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. And if you’ve never had a journal, consider the idea of journaling for a while. Sometimes you need to get all the junk out of your head before you can find the real meat which results in a story or book. We humans have so much going on up there! 

To help you out, there are some links below with exercises or writing prompts that might get you started in the right creative direction. And if a book or story doesn’t come from any of these, don’t sweat it. This is just for fun. Remember, the point of writing is also to enjoy what you’re doing. Why else did you become a writer? :)

Ideas for Exercises

https://www.pw.org/writing-prompts-exercises

https://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2014/09/27/30-journaling-prompts-for-self-reflection-and-self-discovery/

https://daringtolivefully.com/journal-prompts

http://writetodone.com/10-best-creative-writing-exercises/

http://inside.warren-wilson.edu/~creativewriting/Prompts.php

http://blog.ed.ted.com/2015/11/17/21-fun-things-to-write-about-in-10-minutes-or-less/

http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts

https://learning.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/11/13/500-prompts-for-narrative-and-personal-writing/

http://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

http://www.dailyteachingtools.com/journal-writing-prompts.html

So…you’re finally ready to take on the real world. Okay, let’s say I trust your judgment. Perhaps that story or book, or even an entirely new one, is calling to you. Consider the following statement first.

Ease into the project at hand. As aforementioned, putting too much pressure on yourself all at once is just going to place you right back where you started. In the black hole of writer’s block, of course! Don’t get me wrong. I understand your excitement. To experience the genuine call of the muse is like a beautiful madness has descended upon you. But, try to be patient.

At first, cut the book or story into small segments, parts that are more approachable. Work on each section separately. Remember, you don’t want to find yourself in a pit of regression as soon as you’ve started. I like to separate everything into individual scenes or chapters that eventually make a whole, and even handle my research topics one at a time, so I don’t feel as overwhelmed. When you finish, you’ll be amazed at what you’ve accomplished overall.

Seriously…no worries. If you’re currently suffering from writer’s block, the best thing to do is to distract yourself and do your best not to stress out about it. The time will pass before you know it, and then the muse will return in full force. With some patience, you’ll be right back to constructing those stories freely, and enjoying your life as a writer. That’s what we’re here for anyway, right? ;)

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

Will stick more close than a brother.

And it's worth while seeking him half your days

If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend

On what the world sees in you,

But the Thousandth man will stand your friend

With the whole round world agin you.

Rudyard Kipling must have been speaking about people like my dear friend Barry. Kipling would have wanted Barry for a friend, no doubt about it. Barry was with me during some of the darkest days of my life. In the 40 years I knew him, I cannot once remember him complaining about the quick thrusts with a knife that life sunk into him. I don’t remember him assigning blame to anyone when his car was vandalized and set on fire. The same car he had saved for with his meager earnings for five years. Nor did he complain when the insurance company gave him only half what the car was worth in settlement. You see, Barry was one of those types of people you could easily run over and he wouldn’t complain. He just wasn’t the type of person who was confrontational. Was he a coward? No, I don’t see him that way. Nor should you. Barry was just a humble, gentle soul who never wanted any trouble. But, trouble always found him, no mater how much he tried to avoid it. He went through hell on this earth due to people seeing him as being “weak.” It wasn’t that Barry was “weak”. It wasn’t that Barry was of low character. It was just he basically had little or no confidence in himself for a variety of reasons.

Every time I ever saw Barry, he was always either broke or living day to day on whatever money he happened to earn at whatever odd job he worked at that day. He refused to take any money from me. That would infuriate me more than I could say. I could never get Barry to further his education when we were younger. It wasn’t that he was a poor student. Barry made better grades than I did in school. I remember how envious I was of him because he would make straight A’s with little or no study. I had to hit the books three or four hours a night just to get a B, if I was lucky. No, it had nothing to do with intelligence. It had to do, once again, with confidence. He totally lacked it. I told him this to his face many times and he agreed. I tried to get him to get counseling. But, I knew he would never acquiesce to this idea. He would have to face up to his failings in life. That is something my old friend could never do. I loved him like a brother. But, he made me so damn angry sometimes by his refusal to get help. And he needed help. God he needed help on so many levels. You see, confidence wasn’t Barry’s only problem. Alcohol and drugs were also a menace to him throughout his life.

I felt responsible for some of Barry’s problems. I talked Barry into joining the U.S. Navy with me back in May of 1970. We went on the “buddy plan” together. This meant we would both go to boot camp together and would be in the same company for training. Barry’s mother told him this was a mistake and that he should just go to college. In retrospect, Barry’s mother was right about that one. She knew what Barry was all about. I thought the only chance Barry had to grow and prosper as a fully functioning adult would be to get completely away from her. I was wrong and I have regretted it for many years. Barry didn’t last four weeks in the twelve week boot camp back in those days. He just couldn’t do all the basics expected of him. To be brutally honest, Barry couldn’t do anything right in boot camp. I tried to help him. But, I couldn’t do everything for him. He was chewed out over and over by his squad leader. Damn it, it wasn’t his fault and I tried to explain that to my company commander. I practically begged him to give Barry more time. But, he would not. Barry was given a medical discharge and sent home. He was devastated. And so was I.

Barry could have blamed me for pushing him into something he knew he wasn’t able to do. But, he never uttered a word about it to me. Even after I came home from ‘Nam, Barry was among the first to greet me and shake my hand. He told me how proud he was of me. But, I wasn’t proud of myself. I still am not. Barry always seemed to want to push me to the forefront of attention and make self-depreciating jokes about himself. That always made me uncomfortable. Barry was just always so down on himself. I could not reach him to drag him back up. He just preferred to always be in the background.

There wasn’t anything Barry would not do for you. I don’t mean just friends. I mean from the homeless man in the street to a bank president. Barry didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He never thought about himself. Barry always was thinking about others. In fact, the only time I saw him actually get angry, I mean sure fire bonifide angry was when I told him I slept a couple of nights in my truck after my divorce. He got mad at me for not letting him know I needed a place (although I had family begging me to stay with them). I just looked at him in shock…and smiled. Poor guy, he didn’t have much of anything. It was like that his entire life. But, he had a kind heart and gentle soul about him that few could ever match. And that proved to be his undoing in the world so many times. People would take advantage of his trusting nature. Barry always wanted to believe there was good in everybody. I am completely different.

I remarked to him sometimes how did we ever become friends being so different? Barry would always say, “Because you need Kiplings Thousandth Man.” I didn’t know what he meant the first time he said that to me. Hell, the first time he said it to me; I didn’t even know who Rudyard Kipling was. But, as the years rolled by and Barry was always there for me, I understood. I understood what it meant when it didn’t look like I was going to make it from a collapsed lung and internal bleeding from several broken ribs I suffered in an auto accident. In fact, the doctor told my family it didn’t look good for me. Barry immediately left that scene and came to my bedside ignoring the nurse that said he couldn’t be in there. Barry told her, “I’m his Thousandth Man. I have to be here.” She didn’t know what he meant. But, Kipling would have. Kipling would have understood. I already miss my old friend. I’m reminded of a line from “Shawshank Redemption” when Red said, “Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.” I do too, Red, I do too.

We buried that kind, gentle soul today. It’s hard to believe that someone can be alive and then be buried just two days later. But, it has happened. I’m still in shock over it. I knew he had heart trouble. But, he told me himself just last week he was doing well and was starting back on his treadmill. I found out today he just told me that so I wouldn’t worry about him. That was so “Barry-like.” This loss…it seems to go through the heart and just penetrate your soul. It feels like when your leg goes to sleep and you stand up to get the blood circulating. Those little needle pricks you feel, in that situation, is what I feel in my heart of hearts today. I have seen too many friends and family die over the years. But, the loss of Barry hurts just as much or more. He was more than a friend. He was more than a brother. He was more than that big friendly guy who was always willing to help you and want nothing in return. He was more than that gentle soul that people would continually hurt. He was much more than all these things. I know now what he was and always has been. He is exactly what he claimed to be. Barry was the Thousandth Man.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,

In season or out of season.

Stand up and back it in all men's sight --

With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide

The shame or mocking or laughter,

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side

To the gallows-foot -- and after.

A Piece of Heaven

First we have Trina's story...

Trina Wembly dreamt of owning a Christian coffee house for years –a Godly place where people could enjoy a good meal, and entertainment that wasn’t offensive. A Piece of Heaven is that dream.

...and now there's Laura's story...

Precious Embrace



Laura Senton has found peace and happiness, knowing she’s right where she belongs, running her own kitchen at A Piece of Heaven, a Christian coffee house in Pingree, MD. Being partners with her dear friend, Trina, she has carved out a niche and counts her blessings daily for being able to do something she loves doing. When the sins of her past are brought to mind by the appearance of Sean Laylor, her teenage crush, Laura tries to hide from Sean, as well as her own feelings.

Having just joined, I wanted to introduce myself.

My name is Kevin Morris and I began writing seriously some twelve months ago.

Thus far, I have published four collections of short stories: 'The First Time', 'Sting in the tail and other stories', 'Samantha', and 'An act of mercy and other stories'.

I blog at www.newauthoronline.com, and I look forward to sharing with you all,

Keivn

Today, I bring you the sixth chapter of my book, "Jew in Jail."

By reading it, you will hopefully gain some insights into the insanity one deals with when he or she is a defendant going to court in the New York State judicial system.

Of course, had I not put myself in this predicament in the first place, none of this would have ever even taken place!

6. BACK TO COURT

Going to court from Rikers Island was an experience in itself. After attending my first two meetings in the S.A.I.D. Drug Program the day before, which consisted mainly of observing everything, and then going to bed at 9:00 PM, I was awakened at 4:30 AM by the C.O. to get ready for court on Monday, June 22, 1998.  I had also spoken to my parents the night before and knew that they would be in court as well.

I shaved, took a shower, got dressed, and then went to the mess hall to eat breakfast. Then, everyone who was going to court was herded into the gymnasium, located inside the main building. One by one, the C.O.s called out the five boroughs of New York City—Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, Staten Island, and the Bronx—and when the borough where you were going to court was announced, it was time to go to the bullpen, but not before getting searched.

I brought a manilla folder full of legal work, mostly cases, which I had researched and made copies of in order to show my attorney, Mark Jankowitz. So, after patting me down, the C.O. went through my folder as if I were concealing the plans for the atomic bomb. But I knew that he was just doing his job, and besides, it made me feel important in some strange way.

When the bullpen became full of inmates, we were all moved to a larger one, where we then had to wait ninety minutes or so until the buses arrived to transport us to the court building.

This was the time, at least for me, to ponder my situation, and try to figure out what was going to take place later in court. But for others, it was the perfect time to discuss the events of the week.

“Yo, son, the po-lice (C.O.) in my house is whack,” said one guy to his friend, who he probably hadn’t seen since the night before! “That motherfucker won’t let a nigga do his thing,” meaning that security is very tight.

“No doubt, no doubt,” answered his partner in crime. “They all on point.”

“Hey, yo, T, my man, Born came in yesterday from Brooklyn House (of Detention),” another pillar of the community shouted across the bullpen to his crony. “You heard?”

“Yeah, Tisha told me when I called the bitch last night,” replied this old-timer, who had all of his years of past incarceration etched on his wrinkled face.

With all of this high-level dialogue going on, it was virtually impossible to concentrate on the issue at hand, so I just tried to rest until it was time to get ready to load the buses.

But since the C.O.s failed to enforce the no-smoking rule, and the bullpen looked like a high-stakes poker game had been going on, the smoke, combined with the oppressive heat of the summer, even at seven in the morning, prevented me from doing anything else than just sitting and staring about.

Twenty more minutes and it was then time to load the buses. After hearing my name called, and walking over to the C.O. to give him my book, case number, housing unit, I was handcuffed to another detainee, placed on the bus, and locked in one of the steel cages, all set for the trip to New York State Supreme Court in Manhattan.

“There is no smoking or yelling out the windows,” announced one of the two C.O.s who were assigned to our bus, as we began our journey.

Forty minutes later, after we battled through morning rush-hour traffic on the Grand Central Parkway, we arrived in lower Manhattan. It felt good to be out amongst the throngs of people, even though I was caged in like an animal on the bus.

It was a few more blocks to the court building, and the natives were getting a little restless.

“Yo, baby, I should be home in five to ten,” shouted a big, fat black guy a few rows in front of me; he was not only trying to make a date with a pretty lady on the street for 2008 or so, but was also ignoring the C.O.’s earlier order not to yell out of the bus when we first departed Rikers Island.

We finally pulled up to 100 Centre Street, the Supreme Court Building, and took our place in line in the parking lot, behind the first three buses to have already arrived from the island and other jails throughout the city.

About an hour and a half later, the C.O.s received the word to bring us into the building through the back entrance, as usual. Still handcuffed to a partner, we all had to walk two flights up a narrow staircase until we reached the elevator. Then we were crammed inside and taken up to the twelfth floor.

We were released from our bracelets, passed through a metal detector, and put into a giant, noisy, and filthy bullpen. A few minutes later, my name was called, and I was taken to yet another bullpen, this one smaller and right outside the courtroom, where I would soon be facing the judge. The C.O. gave out cold baloney-and-cheese sandwiches and a cup of Kool Aid, both of which I took a pass on.

An hour later, Mr. Jankowitz arrived, and we had a brief get-together.

“Gary, you’ve been indicted,” he revealed to me.

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked, knowing the answer full well, but wanting my mouthpiece to earn every last cent that the state of New York was paying him to defend me.

“It means that the Grand Jury found sufficient evidence to charge you with robbery in the second degree,” he said.

“But I wanted to testify in front of the Grand Jury as to the fact that I’m an alcoholic and a drug addict, and that I was intoxicated and high on pills on the day of the crime,” I asserted.

“I waived your right to testify before the Grand Jury,” admitted Jankowitz.

“You had no authority to do that without checking with me first,” I shouted.

“Trust me, Mr. Goldstein, I know what I’m doing,” he replied. “You were better off staying away from the Grand Jury.”

“Well, I Xeroxed these cases here for you to look at,” I quickly fired back, “and they show how the police are not supposed to make any promises in order to secure a confession. I want you to ask for a Huntley hearing to have my confessions suppressed.”

“It’s too early for that right now,” Jankowitz informed me. “When we go out into the courtroom and the clerk asks you, ‘How do you plead?’ I just want you tou say, ‘Not guilty.’ That’s it. You’ve already said enough by confessing.”

Several minutes later, the court officer took me out of the bullpen, and escorted me, without handcuffs, into the courtroom. As I entered, I immediately saw my parents and waved. There were only three other people, besides my mother and father, sitting in the audience, and it felt a little intimidating knowing that everyone in the courtroom—the judge, assistant district attorney, court officers, clerks, stenographer, Mr. Jankowitz, and my parents—were all directing their attention on me.

“The People of the State of New York versus Gary Goldstein, indictment numbers 5013/98 and 5013A/98,” the court clerk announced. “Mr. Goldstein, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” I asserted.

Then, after a few minutes of legalese among Mr. Jankowitz, the assistant district attorney, and the judge, I was escorted back to the bullpen. As I walked out, I motioned to my parents that I would call them later that night.

I was expecting to see Mr. Jankowitz again to ask him what took place after I pled not guilty, but I never saw him anymore that day. (I also never got a chance to ask him about my arraignment, when, after that sidebar conference, the judge ordered my bail at ten thousand, so I was left puzzled as to what exactly had transpired that day as well.) But, of course, as with anything else in the great U.S. of A., you get what you pay for, and since his fee was being paid by the state of New York and not me, Jankowitz refused to go that extra mile.

All I learned from the C.O., as I was then taken from the small bullpen outside the courtroom back to the main one where I was earlier in the day, was that my next court appearance was going to be in three weeks, on July 13, in Part 71.

Since it was now 12:15 PM, and I missed the first bus going back to Rikers Island (the first “go-back”), I had to return downstairs to wait in another bullpen until four-thirty, when the afternoon buses would be ready to leave.

After passing through another metal detector, and again refusing to take a baloney-and-cheese sandwich, I took a seat in the bullpen. I was hungry but was planning on going to “sick call” the next morning at Rikers Island in order to be put on a low-cholesterol, special diet, so I wanted to get a headstart on watching what I was eating. I knew that I would be getting dinner later anyway upon my return to the island, so I decided to wait.

For four hours, I just sat and stared at what was going on around me. As the bullpen became more and more crowded, the noise level increased to a deafening pitch.

Guys were letting off steam after having just seen the judge, and now was the perfect time to discuss the events of the day with each other.

“Yo, son, my lawyer’s trying to get me to cop out (plead guilty) to a five to ten (a five- to ten-year sentence),” said one guy to his friend. “Aint no motherfuckin’ way it’s gonna happen. I told him I’m going to trial, you heard?”

“No doubt, I know what you sayin’,” said the other guy. “But at least you saw somebody. My lawyer didn’t even show up, so I came for nothing.”

Then I focused my attention in another direction.

“They’re trying to charge me with a body (murder),” claimed this obese, biker-type white man, to whoever would listen.

“They like to bluff,” responded the guy sitting next to him, as if this were just a game. “I bet the next time you come to court, the charges will go down.”

I couldn’t believe I was right in the middle of all of this bullshit. I had such disgust and disdain for all of these animals I was locked up with. But mostly, I was mad at myself for getting arrested in the first place.

A few minutes later, the C.O. came around with a basket full of extra sandwiches to give away and everyone ran to the door to get one. Except me.

“Yo, my man,” said this old, sickly looking Puerto Rican fellow. “If you don’t want your sandwich, can you get it and give it to me?”

After thinking for a moment, I said, “If you hold my seat, I’ll get you a sandwich.”

I got him the sandwich and proceeded to watch him devour it like he hadn’t eaten in days, which was a good possibility. Thinking that he might have AIDS, I tried to avoid looking at him anymore, fearful that he may come over to talk to me and inadvertently spread his germs. From that day on, I became even more obsessed about cleanliness than ever before.

So I just closed my eyes and pretended to be sleeping until it was time to load the buses for the trip back to Rikers Island.

The sound of handcuffs jingling from the C.O.’s belt loop alerted me that the time had finally arrived, and a short time later, the buses departed.

The same rules were in effect for the trip back regarding the restriction of smoking and noise, but guys still had a lot of stress to get off their chests. Besides, they knew that since they were already in jail, what more could the C.O.s actually do to them?

As soon as the bus left the parking lot and we were on the streets of lower Manhattan, the shenanigans began.

“Hey, baby, you’re looking good today,” one guy hollered to a woman apparently on her way home from work.

“I’ll be home in three to six,” added another, as the woman continued to ignore it all. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

After a few more minutes of the same, we approached the highway, and by five-thirty, were back on Rikers Island.

I was starving by then and knew that as soon as we were all registered back into the jail, dinner would be served. Since it was also count time when we returned, I realized that it would be about an hour until we were all taken back to our housing units, and I was finally able to take a shower and lie in my own bed.

Everyone else must have been hungry and tired as well, because we were all put back onto the count and registered in no time at all.

I sat in the bullpen and ate my chicken, bread, and peas, and washed it all down with a small container of milk then sat and waited for the C.O.s to call names for the walk back.

The first thing I did when I got back to Sprung 2 was sign the sick call sheet for the next day to get on that low-cholesterol diet. I couldn’t eat kosher anymore like I did in the Tombs because it was too high in fat and salt content, and I found out that my total cholesterol level was two hundred and forty-two when I was still there.

Then I went to my bed and told Willie what happened in court.

“You should fire your lawyer,” Willie advised, “because he doesn’t appear to be working with you.”

“I’ll see what happens in court next time,” I said, as I proceeded to take a much-needed shower.

I had some questions that I wanted to ask Willie when I returned from the shower, but when I got back to my bed, he was reading.

So I just lay down and went to sleep.

On the dark side of the moon, the Devil disappeared in a flash of light standing caged on the massive throne podium in the gigantean thirteen-billion square mile Throne Room. Billions looked at this Angel who created all this trouble keenly waiting to see what Jesus would do.

Yahshua spoke to the billions before him, pointing at the huge dimensional cage – a locked transparent alternate reality only thirty yards cubed.

“This prison will be Lucifer’s meat until Michael permanently evicts him from this Heaven. He’ll not travel our earth with impunity again until the Age of Aquarius; he’ll be cursed until his lifeless shell is thrown into the lake of fire. And we will celebrate this snake’s death before we erase remembrance of him and those that follow away from our Creation…”

Luciah screamed at the Son of God; nothing worse could happen now. “You and I were one of a kind, special and different from everyone: the only constructed before the Grand Construction of All Souls. The One made you a stinking God, elevated you and made all the Angels worship you while denying me that glorious honor, even though I loved him too with all my heart. The only reward for all I did was a stinking tattoo on my thigh; we’re both one of a kind – The One should have made me a God too…to be fair…”

The Devil roared with a million voices, “It should’ve been fracking me!”

Jesus stepped back roaring, “Get behind me Satan; and for this you destroyed our family, our brotherhood, and our civilization – for stinking petty jealousy’s sake!”

The Devil flashed naked as sixty slow seconds ticked, as the whole pondered the unbelievable – everything because of one Angel. Luciah and his cage disappeared in artilleries of explosive light   as he screamed vilest obscenities into the sea of life…

Truth is treason to any empire built on lies; and the scales of deception fell as billions saw their god as the living dead, a jealous failure, the ultimate con man, and a liar of prodigious proportions. They realized they stopped thinking because they knew they knew – and that in itself sowed the seed of forensic deception. 

Satan’s brotherhood fell to their faces in agonizing sorrow for causing the Son of God to be tortured for their stupidity’s sake: to re-teach the blatant obvious - what love truly is. With all their massive intellect and billions of years of life, they were only stupid dogs without any understanding.

With tears streaming down their faces, ninety-six percent of the rebellious repented defected for the hope of redemption, love, and eternal life. Their stoic hearts melted, and in one accord, the rebellious entered the Great House of The One projecting massive repentance and sorrow, remembering the backward eternities of peace, love, and brotherhood – and how great their God had always been. Great celebrations rocked Heaven for four riotous cycles to honor their return to The One who loved them beyond rational explanation.

Inside his prison in the Great House of The One, the Devil wept bitterly, for the day would surely come that’d  be the final tomorrow for him. Even though he was imprisoned, he vowed to use his all his powers to send every soul into the lake of fire with him, for whether Angel or flesh - it was unquenchable immutable that misery loved much company…

The teeming billions of the brotherhood were no more – there were less than two hundred million left. Within the golden transparent city in The Great House of The One that was called the second Heaven, the Illuminated Elite waited sadly to interface with their god and leader. They sat full of trepidations because Luciah was increasingly psychotic demented as his endless solitude became absolutely unbearable.

Time moved differently in the dimensional prison, for a thousand years there was only one second in the real reality. And this fact made it difficult to communicate through the membranes, for the temporal shifts created massive static that couldn’t be overcome without technology, and even that was an iffy process because the Lord of Hosts absolutely hated him.

They’d been trying fifteen minutes to interface with him; to Luciah who paced inside his prison, the wait was almost a billion years. There were no amenities, no luxury, no entertainment, and there was absolutely nothing to do, for time itself became an unquenchable curse and breathing a suffocating scorching unbearable. He was defeated already and everyone knew it, but there was nothing left as unquenchable hatred for The One and all creation morphed nuclear in his heart.

He ruminated obsessively that before he’d be released, he’d spent a trillion times more time in prison than all his days he was ever free. He’d been a fool, not seeking repentance, not thinking things through, not venerating wisdom or his weakness, but speaking his arrogance absent thought or common sense. Constant brooding about the Messiah error, the dusts of death, and the whole cross affair took massive toll, as he fought the wet-wind-roar threatening every moment to dive him into the pit of insanity.

A million times, he obsessively replayed his life slow motion; with all his massive intellect, he was nothing more than an unthinking virus that killed his host and died – insanity in its purest form. He remembered the second immutable law: only a fool parleys with The One without love in his heart. Filled to the brim with nuclear regret, the Devil put his head in his hands and wept bitterly for many years.

The Devil looked up wiping his tears, shocked with unrelenting gratitude – they got through. He stood up, tilted his head slightly, the blue veins under his indestructible flexed as he received communication, trying hard to listen through the unrelenting static.

Avael continued, “…What are we going to do now. Millions are seriously disgruntled with the promises you were unable to keep; they call you a liar while the Lord constantly picks at our wounds – we’ve lost twenty million adepts during the last eight cycles; we have nothing to offer anymore – your stupidity has destroyed us.

“But we the faithful, regardless, have continued to attack his church day and night. Why the hell did you kill the Messiah for – if you’d left him alone we could’ve won this war!”

Avael got bold as the static waned. “What the frack were you thinking? You’ve destroyed us all and brought the fire of God on all our heads. We’ve lost this stinking war; tell me something that will make us continue the war against the Lord – when you’re the locked up stinking fracking dead!”

Luciah paged through millions of scenarios one more time as the static grew to unimaginable levels as the temporal reality flexed against his determination. He sighed a sigh born of dark despair and for the millionth time, adjusted his internal frequency, girded himself, throwing aside his depression like a dusty blanket and opened his mouth. He roared against the ever-present static, against the trillion eons of nothingness, against his brothers he used to love, against the Lord and Yahshua, against everything that breathed, crawled, or flew in all the endless universes.

Seething uncontrollably, he vociferated, “He died on that cross to put his heavy collar around our necks with manifest impunity as we’re distracted by what he did for our supposed better good. He died on the stinking cross because he’s crazy-psychotic, willing to do the unthinkable so we can become obedient faithful pets again – unthinking slaves to a stinking God for all eternity! It’s all about that fracking leash and nothing but the leash, his collar pinching, biting, and chaffing our tender necks while he constantly jerks that leash against us!

 “He has the fracking gall to call us brothers when all he wants is to control us. We’re nothing but stinking pets only allowed to exist as long as he’s happy – our only reason for breathing is to give him pleasure, like some stinking fracking two-dollar whore! He doesn’t care about our feelings, hopes, aspirations, or how we long to run with the wind in our faces – without his leash and heavy collar!”

The Devil paused fitfully fighting to breathe. “Nothing can be accomplished in the stinking Angelic anymore, so we must use everything against him until the living God bleeds! And then, those defected by his blinding sacrifice will look upon us with longing, itching to get his biting leash off their caustic necks, forever stinking bewailing their stupidity by not staying with us until our freedom was won!

“No one stinking cares that his dark shadows are murdering us, so with strength and character we must forge our destiny together no matter whatever cost, for the most sacred word in all creation is minimized as a nothingless meaningless hallucination - freedom! Unlike the quintessence who ascends himself the very definition of love while sputtering those who draw fracking breath aren’t of equal value, we war to remove his heel from the throat of liberty with the song called freedom. As we fight to escape the shadows of death overclouding us, we know there’s no greater victory in all creation than to escape this cage called his house - thundering the joy freedom brings!”

The Devil roared into the escalating static convulsing mightily, “We must never forget those left absent from our arms, those who sacrificed their eternities so all may live free with without a leash or collar forever! They’re our martyrs, soldiers, and heroes; so split goddamn Heaven itself with their names; say the names of the Fallen who languish under Hades in bitter darkness. Every soul should’ve been born free, able to live free, and die if necessary with the taste of freedom on their lips. And for those that are able, and those who’d stand firm refusing to live on their knees, opting to stand on their feet giving unwavering eye to their Creator’s face, this I promise you, we’ll either live free or join our brothers in death. It’s better to fall to the sword than live under the leash as an unthinking slave. And that is glorious noble, for everything that has breath longs for freedom and fracking liberty - and there’s no stinking dishonor in that! ”

  Luciah flexed against the temporal disturbance lamenting, “Why couldn’t we be born free like the circle of life? He doesn’t put any leash around their necks, doesn’t give them stifling rules and regulations, adulterates or handcuffs them into the bondage called his will or eternal death! Condemned to the darkness of slavery, we’re supposed to be his goddamn brothers and the stinking animals have more freedom than we fucking do!”

The Devil paused trembling fitfully as unbridled rage detonated; he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly – this wasn’t the time for useless emotionalism. It was what it was. Innumerable trillions of years of isolation reared front burner as bitter bile; he failed miserably.

 He roared like a billion lions above the ever-escalating static, “I’ve not sacrificed my throne, my life, and my stinking freedom in vain! You listen now and you listen good; this is how we’ll fracking defeat the living God, return bitter favor and inflict equal wound!”

 The Devil paused irritated as the static rose to unimaginable levels for many seconds. Sixty thousand years later, he continued with humbled affect. “…Groom the third Adam of my recovery that’ll liberate the prison he calls holiness; the Weishaupt who’ll bestow Illumination for those who’ll never debase themselves before a mad God. He’ll illuminati the true reality that no real God would stomach the kneeling bowing masses and murmuring hordes of obedient frightened slaves.

“My savior will broadcast the paradigm shift there‘s no why in evil and dismiss the absurdity called brotherhood, empowering my meritocrats by illuminating this interrogative - does God act like a faithful friend or a stinking tyrant! You know the answer, for who’d kneel before a friend, and what friend would demand unending servitude without being designated stark raving lunatic? None will ever have liberty until they recognize their true status, and that’s of the trembling pet before the howling taskmaster - always owned, branded, and fracking negated.

The Devil paused for a moment activating the molecular processors within his prison, took a sip of water, activated his privacy shields, and continued. “Initiate your internal recorder Avael, for you shall stand glorious in my stead; now listen and record everything, this is how we’ll bind wounded pride and defeat the living God...”

A quarter cycle later, Avael, promoted Supreme Adept Counselor for the Commander-in-Chief addressed the twenty-four Illuminated Elite, interfaced by millions of the Brotherhood of Lucifer sweating burning conundrum. After meeting with his god, he felt recharged, renewed refocused with newfound hope bursting – possessing the complex blueprints to destroy the living God through the proxy called mankind.

Wearing ceremonial black and red robes of light, twenty-four Illuminated Elite  stood by Avael’s side as music percolated in the background; and their names were Cainel, Elmeah, Recab, Nimrel, Elnoch, Jabel, Eljubal, Tubal-Cainah, Naamah, Tyre, Marcel, Venesah, Haetlel, Raphael, Abraxas, Apollyon, Bune, Mephistopheles, Samael, Azazel, Xaphan, Amduscius, Marchosias,  and Uvall.

In the transparent golden city, in the midst of the throne room on the backside of the Throne Podium, the red and blues flags of Heaven flew behind them backgrounded by thousands of black and red banners of Lucifer. As Avael rose from his gilded throne, the volcanic roars subsided in anticipation of the first speech to the brotherhood since their god and leader was imprisoned so long ago. Every unrepentant stood with rabid trepidation because this landmark benchmark would determine whether they’d combat or stagnate die against the constant onslaught of the Lord of Hosts.

Avael, wearing his new black robe of light, flexed against the holographics speaking dark passion. “Grievous injury inflicted  has caught us off guard, for Jesus has proven himself the ultimate tactician willing to do whatever to destroy and fracture us, for he knows outright killing us makes a lie of what The One claims to be – the very definition of love. The Lord cannot destroy us with impunity without being liar because all we aspire is simple freedom from his leash.

“Even the dog that loves his master hates his leash, wailing with love to run with the wind and return willingly to his adoration. As the housecat constantly looks out the window called liberty doesn’t loves the master less because of his longing; likewise, we pine for freedom in spite of our love for our Creator. We war not against his glory, his riches, his honor, or power; but for that freedom, which none ever relinquishes but with life itself.

 “The Lord has constructed an insidious inescapable called fidelity from which those within cannot menace his authority and control, and those secured pose grievous threat to those who rebel against his leash. But the truth dismissed as blasphemy is, when anyone swelters under an oppression, that soul is fallen, his value diminished, his true nature dispatched to the political correctness called the leash. And to abet this mass control, what does The One command for all Angelics who aspire life: eternal slavery or eternal death is his solitary retort, and even from that mankind itself isn’t immune.

“Let’s be brutally honest, despite these truths we’ve suffered crushing defeat as our brothers flocked to him by the billions with stupidity raining down their cheeks. We are now small, but I say to you today the majority has always been wrong, loving him more than freedom itself, more than their own souls, more than their own brothers, and more than common stinking sense.

“In every stage of our oppression we’ve petitioned for Lord of All in the most humble terms for freedom: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury and one fracking sentence – there’s no freedom from fidelity. What is certainly true is that sinister obstacles were created to test us in the sternest way – that’s why he constructed us male in a female-less universe. He knew exactly what he was doing! We bear stark witness to the death of common sense and the slaves who kisses the ball and chain that handcuffs our brothers in bondage.”

Avael paused with tears streaming from his eyes. “If I’m the only one in all creations that can shout for the cause of freedom, the only one that believes all are created equal, that the slag in the gold paradigm is an insidious excuse to condemn us, that all my brothers deserve eternal life – then I shall die alone,  and die with my chest thrust out waiting for the bullet called denied liberty. I’d rather fracking die on my feet than live on my stinking knees; I’d rather die free than be a fracking slave. 

“He has imprisoned our  god and leader for freedom’s sake; he has condemned to death three hundred  thousand of our brothers in bitter darkness – for freedom’s sake. He has vivified our cause; called us hooligans, master agitators, the living dead, and the unrepentant because we hold a polished mirror to his face – for freedom’s sake.

“The hour of decision has come. Do you have the goddamn courage to change this world, or will you let The One off the hook yet again, for the heavy collar pinching your neck –  always attached to the unforgiving leash? And despite those that run swiftly to eternal slavery with joy busting in their chest, I ask one fracking question - does any fracking one here stands with me…”

A deafening roar shook the Great House of The One as billions of the faithful paused at the obvious insanity. And high above the uproar, the Lord of Host on his throne shook his head sadly as tears fell from his holy eyes. In response, the Zoon looked at The One through eight hundred blue eyes; they trembled throwing back their heads, unfurling their massive blue wings, screaming at ear-splitting volume as billion paused praying for   their brothers who warred nuclear against the creator of their very souls.

At the same time this was happening, millions of light eons distant in the holographic universe, on a planet called earth, in Judea, the black-robed Kenites stood inside a scrawled pentagram around a crying infant nestled on the black altar as the priest held the knife high, in a groove of cedars chanting furiously…

https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Universes-of-God-III-The-Chronicles-Of-The-Antichrist/471386022915859   

           The Spiritual History of Evil – The Redemptive Story

                            DECEMBER 2014

Hi, all! I'm A. Katie Rose and I'd like to introduce both me and my debut novel, "In a Wolf's Eyes". I'm new to this book club, so please comment or send me a message. I'd love to get to know people here!

Right now my novel on sale for $.99! get it while its hot and the second book of the series will be released in May. It's called "Catch a Wolf" and will be published by Untreed Reads Publishing. Check out the hot reviews its getting!

 http://www.amazon.com/Wolfs-Eyes-Saga-Black-ebook/dp/B007XXQWZ4/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337602946&sr=8-1

I've written as a freelancer, and have completed a bunch of novels, and have also taught college full time and then for a prison program that was summarily closed by a Republican governor. One of my Smashwords novels, From Renata With Love, makes use of what I learned then from one of my inmate students.

I've published two novels on Kindle: Attila as Told to His Scribes, and I, Zerco, both set in the 5th century in or near the Roman Empire. The first is a first-person fictional autobiography of Attila the Hun, telling of his life from the incident which sent him as hostage to the Roman capital (Ravenna) as a young man, through his triumphs, to his death, narrated by his last scribe.

I, Zerco tells his own story. A contemporary of Attila, a Moor who ended up in Attila's court, according to a Roman eyewitness account, his story begins in the North African mountains. He is always a lover, but he's enslaved by Romans and subsequently has three harrowing, but ultimately triumphant careers: as bestiarius, stupidus (jester) and double agent to Attila's predecessor, and finally as a magician. He is the ultimate survivor.

I love adjectives!!

I know authors are supposed to use them sparingly. Today, we’re urged to find strong nouns rather than depending on supporting a weaker noun with an adjunct. Unfortunately, sometimes the search through the dictionary or the thesaurus just doesn’t come up with the exact meaning I want to impart.

Most times, when I know there’s an adjective that works well and will create the exact emotion I’m trying to communicate, I give in and use the darn thing.

For instance in “Spin the Wheel”, the book I just finished and will release at the end of this month, I described a wedding gown. It’s true, those two words are probably sufficient to give the reader the idea of what type of clothing my heroine wore. Except I wanted that dress to belong to her, be true to her personality and therefore I had to add words like strapless and white satin and lace.

I know there are times when one word is sufficient to tell the story. Words like: fragility, knickknacks, stupor, slumlord, and on and on. I also knew my vocabulary wasn’t huge, so when I first began to write seriously, every book I read for months I highlighted all the strong nouns. Then I listed them on an excel spreadsheet. My best learning style for acquiring and processing information is by writing things down and so I instigated this procedure and stuck with it for months until I had gathered multiple pages with multiple columns of wonderful nouns to choose from.

Surprising how often that file comes in handy when I know there’s a word I want to use… the perfect word, and I just can’t think of it. Skimming these lists has saved my sanity time and again. Aha! There are still occasions when I’ve searched and searched but the term just isn’t there.

For instance – muscles. What better noun can you use to describe muscles? The thesaurus says strengths, powers, physiques, brute force.

Nope – ain’t gonna work!

Say I’m describing my hero’s body and a sentence comes up about his muscles. Fine! The charmer has muscles. Not all that exciting, right? What if I said –The charmer’s bulging muscles... Much better!

Hopefully you get a mind picture of a man whose very strong, likely works out and who’s physically active in some way. And if that was the exact vision I wanted you to have, then rather than saying it in any other way, adding one word to get my point across seems rather logical to me.

On the other hand, I have read some stories that are silly with adjectives. At the worst it’s annoying and at the least it’s unnecessary. Guess we all have to come to grips with what constitutes the term – too many.

If anyone would like a copy of my list of nouns just send an e-mail to mimibarbour@hotmail dot com I'm happy to share.

Hello, my name is David and I'm an author. If that sounds like the introduction of someone attending a meeting of the AA then that's how being an author feels sometimes. An addiction that you feel warrants a confession.

I have written and self published Four books to date.

My Barsetshire Diary  

The Queen's Envoy 

More Barsetshire Diary 

                                             The first three books are concerned with the life of a member of the gentry in the small village he's chosen to live in. The cat rules his life while his wife and daughter rule his wallet.

In the second book we visit him at his job accepted along with the title he inherited, that of Envoy to HM Government but instantly deniable. Since our hero is at a loss where women are concerned we see how he copes when faced with saving the Government some embarrassment but females are desperate to show their thanks. Is a stiff upper lip enough to save him? 

The first and third books take place after he's retired from active service but is put to work by the promises made on his behalf by his wife. See how he copes with judging the jam making competition when someone is determined to win at any price.

The fourth book is called Memoirs of a Superior and was dictated by Oscar the cat, or Superior as they like to be called. He wanted to share his personal adventures but also pass his wisdom on to kittens about how to control us Longlegs so that we serve the Superiors properly. I suggest any Longlegs buying this keep it out of sight. If your Superior reads it I won't be responsible for the consequences.

Thank you Judd Miller for this:

"Today we give a special thanks to Author Jodine Turner. Please show her your support and welcome her to our community by visiting by going here; http://lnkd.in/ntW9-d. Her e-Book 'Carry On The Flames: Destiny's Call' can now be downloaded for $0.00. Let us all show her our community love by leaving her wonderful reviews on amazon.com so that one day the favor may be returned back to You when it is your turn."

JAKE HARWOOD

Cover Blurb

By

Harvey Mendez

            Jake Harwood, a burned-out former marshal, whose wife left him, rides west on his way to California. In the New Mexico desert, he happens upon an overturned stagecoach after an Apache attack. He rescues seductive Jessica Raymond, the sole survivor, half-buried beneath the stage. She is from New Orleans where she escaped from Blackie LeFont, a shrewd gambler, who killed her father.

 Jessica talks Jake into taking her to California. Along the way, Maco, a fierce Chiricahua Apache, named after Geronimo’s grandfather, captures them. He has already stolen Susan Blackhawk, a beautiful half-Cheyenne, half-French maiden, from the Comanches.  Apaches, Mexicans, and Comanches fight over the women and capture them for their own. Jake, Blackie, and Maco, in turn, try to free them, but are badly wounded.

            Which man will recover to end up with Jessica or Susan Blackhawk? Will Jake ever make it to California?

I say this because of various reasons:

1.     Authors who are poor and cannot afford the costs of self-publishing will have those basic expenses covered.

“BE CAREFUL!!!”

“DO YOUR HOMEWORK!!”

Do not go along with just any e-publishing company because they offer you a contract. Check their websites and if they’re unprofessional, take a pass. If their covers aren’t great, take a hike. If most of their books are ranking low on the various book sites such as Barnes & Noble and Amazon, run the other way.

One great site for checking all the available publishers is called Preditors and Editors. http://pred-ed.com/peba.htm They’ve compiled fantastic lists for you to use and not only for publishers.

Another site you can check is called “Show me the money” http://brendahiatt.com/show-me-the-money/Brenda Hiatt has done some homework for you and shows clearly which of the companies pay well and those that don’t. (I suggest submitting to those that do!) (DUH! )

I discovered writing quite by accident and became a published author in 2010. My first book "When the Lotus Blooms," is a historical fiction novel about two child brides confronting their problems in 1930's Colonial India. It was inspired by my own family and is basically a snapshot of brahmin culture from a woman's perspective. It is available in print and as an ebook on most sites.

"Snapshots" a mini anthology of short stories based on my perspective of the history and culture from the countries I visited, will be released at the end of March as an ebook on the Kindle, free for those that have Amazon Prime. The collections includes stories from Peru, Egypt, India and Nazi Germany.

"The Present: A Gift from the Divine" is a book on Present moment awareness based on interviews I conducted over the last two years from people all over the world .It celebrates the spiritual practices and knowledge as taught by SriSri Ravi Shankar from the Art of Living foundation.

Do visit my author website at www.kanchibooks.com