Monthly Archives: January 2013

Cancer, Julie Forward DeMay and Cell War Notebooks

indies-forward-campaign-a-tale-of-keep-goingThis past weekend, I walked with my wife and two young children around Disneyland. We’ve been there many times. Enjoying the moment as we walked back to the Disneyland Hotel I was very happy in the moment. Grateful for that moment. In that moment, I was happy that I was alive.

The day before, we’d met a man from Canada, Rob, who was on a bucket trip, bringing his grandson to Disneyland. We’d talked briefly, a conversation spurred by his comment and complement of our engaging three year old and quite vocal 6 month old baby. I heard him say to his grandson, “I didn’t ask for cancer. It just is.” I was struck by the tone of quiet acceptance and his attentiveness to the moment he was in. I asked him if he’d like to hold the baby and the light and joy that filled his face as he smiled and said yes was brilliant to behold.

Thinking of Rob while the family walked that next day brought me to that grateful moment. And reminded me of all those I had known or know that have cancer.

A friend’s fiancée in college, brain cancer. He beat it. My paternal grandfather, stomach cancer when I was a kid, he survived. My maternal grandmother, breast cancer I think, she died when my mother was 15 years old or so. My mother’s best friend and my second mom Bev – her second husband, lost to cancer. Bev herself, years later to aggressive brain cancer in 2005. In 2004 she had walked me down the aisle at my wedding, my mom gone from an aneurysm in 1984. I was in Iraq and didn’t get home in time to say goodbye to Bev. My Uncle Fred in 2011, also from brain cancer, a vicious aggressive monster of a cancer. My friend Ace, years back when I was in my thirties – ovarian cancer. She beat it but we’ve lost contact and I don’t know if she still has. My friend and professional colleague from the Army, Charlie, battles cancer now in its final stages, she lives each moment with dignity and delight now months past the last month her doctors gave her. She does not retreat, but fights for equality for her family as a lesbian Soldier denied recognition of her wife and daughter as her family even now while in stage IV with a cancer that has spread across her body. Rajeshwari Ravenlight, whom I knew as Ravenlight, who long ago when I was just moved to the Bay Area was a touchstone from home and who was kind when I was in need. She ended her decades long battle with cancer just recently. Another friend, who has battled two different cancers, and continues on. A literary colleague who battles cancer now.

Eleven people in my life. Grateful as we walked together, my wife and children, I considered that cancer strikes 1 in 3 women. We are four and walking I prayed that it would miss each of us, conscious that I have missed its statistical assualt several times already.

There is another young women, Julie Forward DeMay that lost her battle with cervical cancer. I never knew Julie. She was among many things, a writer as well as daughter, sister, wife and mother.  Julie died two days after her 37th birthday, on August 10th, 2009. Before she died, she’d kept a blog journal of her journey and battle with cervical cancer. The book, Cell War Notebooks, collect the entries together and include many of her photos as she was also a photographer. Her mother published the book after Julie’s death.

Cell War Notebooks is a journey of courage and hope in a war that she did not win if winning is measured solely in the body living on. The book is her legacy to the world, and to others mired in the battle of cancer’s ravaging, and for their families. History is written by those who survive. Julie did not survive the war. Her words though, her photos, her art – go on and remain. Her spirit remains as a beacon of hope and courage, dignity and determination. She wrote her own history.

Julie is not here to blog or tweet or promote her own book. Today’s post is for her. Read her book. Share it with others. Julie’s words live.

The folks at Duolit have a blog-a-thon going today in honor of Julie. Please surf over to Indies Forward: Cell War Notebooks

January 31st is IndiesForward day – a special blogging event dedicated to spreading the legacy of Julie Forward DeMay and her touching memoir, The Cell War Notebooks.

What would you do when faced with a battle for your life? Author, photographer and creative spirit Julie Forward DeMay took on her fight with cervical cancer like she was playing for the new high score in her favorite video game, Asteroids. Inspiring, witty, beautiful and brutally honest, The Cell War Notebooks is a compilation of the blog Julie kept during the last seven months of her life. It’s a powerful read for anyone, whether your life has been touched by cancer or not. Check out the paperback on Amazon and keep up with the latest news on Facebook. All proceeds from book sales go to Julie’s nine year-old daughter.

Cell War Notebooks is available at:



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I Heart Books Blog Hop

I Heart Books Blog Hop

Sign up ends February 5th.

What is a blog hop?  A blog hop is an event where a group of bloggers link their blogs to one another so that readers can “hop” their way from one blog post to the next. Thanks to the evolution of online link managers, we don’t have to physically link up all the blogs anymore, just paste in code that will automatically display the list of links (or for us users, we link to the list). Pretty Snazzy, huh? The idea of a blog hop is to promote your blog, help new readers find you and also find some great blogs you’d like to follow, too! Participating is simple.

blog hop tag 300

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Next Big Thing Blog Tour

Janet Hardy has tagged me on the author Next Big Thing Blog tour where I talk about a current book project. While I have several projects working, I’ll discuss my novel in process. When you get to the end, you’ll find several other authors I’ve tagged to carry on the tour as well as a link back to Janet.

My Next Big Thing –

1) What is the working title of your book? The Republic and the Patriot or The Republic – I am back and forth undecided.

2)Where did the idea for the book come from? A couple of presidential elections ago I considered what might happen if the peaceful transfer of power that is the United States presidential election was perverted via terrorism and what if that terrorism was home-grown?

3) What genre does it fall under? Fiction, thriller

4) Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition? Jodie Foster for Lieutenant Colonel Rockabye, the kick ass hero, Bruce Greenwood as the domestic terrorist foil, and Karl Urban as Captain Rockabye’s son who responds to a dare that has unimaginable consequences.

5) What is the one sentence synopsis of your book? Military officers swear to uphold the constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic – foreign is easy, domestic not so much.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency? Undecided at this point in the process.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft? I’m mid way through the first draft now. I expect to finish by midsummer.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre? Hard question at the moment – but some movies that come to mind include U.S. Marshals, and The General’s Daughter where something is different from what it seems.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book? The beginning concept came from a briefing I received during training as an Information Operations Officer in the Army that raised the question how does a serving officer respond to domestic constitutional threats? The book grew from a homework assignment from author Rosemary Graham when in her novel craft class while a MFA student. I revised a short story I was working and expanded it as the characters didn’t want to remain a short story.

10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest? Parts of the story reflect the experiences of Army reserve soldiers recalled to active duty, highlighting the integral and largely misunderstood part they play in the national defense. The overall theme is duty, honor, country; family, and sacrifice for blood or treasure. Read the first chapter here.

Check out these other authors on the blog tour –

Joleene Naylor, author of the Amaranthine Series

Quannie Mitchell, the 2013 Emerging Writer Honoree

also mentioned Janet Hardy author of Girlfag and Rosemary Graham, author of Stalker Girl


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Author + Community

Coming up in the next few months I’ll introduce several new features here on the site intended for the writer community at large that will highlight emerging and indie authors. I’ll pull over some book reviews I’ve posted on my blog Home and Hearth and write some new ones for a book review page titled Book + Review. Another feature will be Three by Five, where I’ll post interviews with authors that will include five questions and will post monthly on either the 5th, 15th, or 25th of the month. Eventually, I’ll put up three different authors a month but at the start, I’ll stick with one each month.

A new feature I began this week is Author First Look. Indie authors and emerging writers send a bio and information about a current work in progress which I post on the Author First Look page along with a link to the author’s web site where the first chapter was posted. There are two very different writers on Author First Look currently, as well as the first chapter of my novel in progress.

The intent is cast a wider net for those authors and emerging writers I include in these features, and for myself via the generated link backs, that will introduce readers to writers they might not otherwise find. This is an outgrowth of the discovery I’ve enjoyed on Twitter, where following a link in a tweet that someone I follow has retweeted that I never would have seen on my own, leads to an author or journal I otherwise would not have found.

Writing is a solitary journey, but that doesn’t mean any of us has to go it alone.


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Richard Blanco – 2013 Inaugural Poet

One Today by Poet Richard Blanco

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. One light, waking up rooftops, under
each one, a story told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise. Silver trucks
heavy with oil or paper— bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives— to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as
my mother did for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day: equations to solve, history to question, or
atoms imagined, the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches 2 as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm,
hands digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs, buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways, the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello| shalom, buon giorno |howdy |namaste |or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado
worked their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands: weaving steel into bridges, finishing one
more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound 3 or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home, always under one sky, our sky. And always one
moon like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars
hope—a new constellation waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together

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First Look at The Republic

Here is the first chapter of a work in process and my first dive into the novel genre. (Language warning.)


Carefully dating the page, November 22, then it was added to a sheaf of papers sealed into a priority mail envelope on the table. Redundant hardcopy backing up carefully written emails and tweets scheduled to go out across the spectrum of the internet. Then, picking up the weapon, the soldier carefully steadied the Dragunov on the firing point. Reaching, a fist beat into then massaged the sand bag brought for better support. There would be two shots. Both moving targets, though at a slow, steady pace no faster than what a fit man or woman could jog. Shot two taken before knowing the outcome of shot one, waiting to determine the accuracy of the first would only negate the opportunity for the second. The second shot would be taken without sighting. Faster to slide the barrel swiftly against the aiming point, firing as soon as contact was made and trust that the calculations were correct and the sighting made earlier accurate. Then, they would come. Fast and furious, adrenaline pumping with weapons more than ready, they would find her. Might not get past that first moment. The story though, the story of the intent behind the act would. The words a churning bit of electron spamming across the web were set to erupt at exactly the time the target was due centered in sniper rifle sights. This time, truth would be known.


The motorcade made its turn down Elm Street in Dallas towards DealeyPlaza. Unhappy Secret Service Agents tightened their positions at the corners of each vehicle, listening intently to the chatter coming through their earpieces as each station checked in, verifying all quiet and clear at each position. No suspicious activities, no unidentified people in unsecured locations. Snipers and spotters on surrounding roofs scanning the area level, above and below the route looking for changes, discrepancies, awkward glances, out of place movements, flashes of light where there should be only darkness.

They were in Texas, and this was the President’s town. He sat like a high school debutante atop the football jock’s convertible waving at his people. Seated in the car behind was the Chief, trying hard to not look as disgusted with this exercise of the emperor mingling with the common folk as he felt. There really was no need for this malarkey anymore. Not like the man had to campaign for votes. There wouldn’t be an election now for a long, long time. There were always men willing to do the unspeakable, and in his job, always money to pay for it. The façade of patriotism was such a powerful tool. A Presidential term indefinitely extended.

The soldier took three quick, deep breaths, felt her fingers tingle and then a fourth breath held a moment before released long and slow. Taking the hand lettered sign with red block letters, “IN HERE,”  strode to the door, opened it and attached the sign to the front of the door. With a chuckle then walked back to the window, currently covered with plywood, and checked the time. A police band radio earpiece was tuned to the not so secure frequency and indicated the motorcade was 5 minutes out. Slowly, with the rifle in hand, took up a shooting position. Subtle sensatons – body settled into the rifle’s weight, the wood of the table, feet flat on the floor. Breathing, respiration, heart beating; it all slowed while thoughts in the mind slowly separated from conscious being. A small part of the brain listened to the police band announcing the time, 12:29:30 and the location of the President’s vehicle. With a whisper of movement, the cutout in the wood covering the window to remove the 6 by 12 inch piece covering the hole created to shoot through. Just enough to allow the first shot then shift fire for the second shot, the far edge of the opening serving as the aiming stake second shot was dependent upon. A vulnerable next 30 seconds. There were were spotters on the surrounding roofs, looking for what was not the same as the last time a check on the area of this building, this floor, this window had been made. Finally a push the button on the radio; no longer needed its chatter. Needing only to breathe, to lose self within the breath. And then to stop, no sound, no rushing of heart in the ear, no heartbeat at all. That was the point the target would be in the cross-hairs and bang, take the shot. Slowly, a finger exerted pressure on the trigger. Quiet mind clear, blank, sufficient to itself with only a target slowly moving towards the center of the cross hairs, entering the circle as one finger brought more pressure to bear. The target continued forward. The pressure increased with an agonizing squeeze. Slowly with the agony of patience a screaming child demanded. The click of the trigger was felt an infinitesimal span of time before the explosion of the shot rang out. The kick of the rifle absorbed, tight into the shoulder as a shift and the rifle moved left to the sidewall of the cutout, moving it surely to the edge, secure in the corner and knowing, as long as it was deep, close into the corner of the cutout, the second shot would be true.


”YOU’RE SEEING GHOSTS UP THERE, PAY ATTENTION,” The Duty Commander laughed into the radio.



The tactical team took the elevator to the 6th floor. Charlie two just earned themselves a new nickname, seeing things from the very window used more than four decades ago. Probably a local cop looking out his own binocs, yet another failed coordination with the Secret Service. The team exited the elevator and started walking towards the last door. The point man suddenly stopped, slamming his hand into the chest of the guy next to him. Just as he raised his hand to point out the sign on the door with three inch red letters, the shot echoed down the hallway.

The door busted down taking half the frame with it as the second shot rang out.

The shooter spread arms out as the first man in ordered, “DOWN ON THE FLOOR.” The rifle still on sand bag was knocked off the table. An agent pushed kicked it aside clattering across the floor. The shooter slowly followed, spreading legs and arms outward, palms up.

“Look, on the chair,” whispered the point man.

The team leader looked and only then noticed. Next to the Shooter was the jacket of the Army Service Uniform. There was an airborne combat unit insignia on the right, a combat action badge on the chest above rolls of ribbons.

His team moved through the room, two officers secured the prisoner on the floor one with a knee to the small of the suspect’s back.

“Clear!” the rest of the team echoed each other as the room was secured.

The shooter was searched and secured with hands behind the back, then two members of the team jerked the shooter up. The trail man behind the team leader gave a low whistle. There was a rack of ribbons on the shooter’s jacket that stood out as a buxom blonde to a 16 year boy. That soldier had been places, done things and been rewarded for it, was that a ‘V’ device on one, no, two ribbons the team leader wondered?

“This was taped to the table,” the second man in handed the team leader a priority mail envelope. He looked at the addressee on the envelope, “To the American People” it said.

Looking at the shooter, standing there calmly, hands clasped behind, fuck, standing at ease like that no indication in hand cuffs; you’d think he was on the parade ground.

“Why’d you do it,” the team leader demanded, pulling the camouflaged cloth away from the Shooter’s head and face.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he exclaimed.

The solider looked the Tactical Team Leader square in the eye. The silence pulled the attention of the rest of the team.  “It’s a girl,” whispered the Agent at the door.

“I’m a Patriot,” she calmly said.


copyright 2012



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Principle vs Profit – KDP Select

Amazon’s KDP Select program enables an author to make their Ebook free for select days in a 90 day period. This garners immense free publicity for the author. I often read about books that have thousands of downloads on the free days. While my book is on Amazon, both in print and Ebook, it’s never there free. No Red Pen: Writers, Writing Groups & Critique IS free as an Ebook everywhere else. Why not on Amazon?  Because if I join KDP Select – the book must be pulled from every other retailer.

The book is intended for students and struggling writers, I want No Red Pen to be easy to access. I don’t want cost, even a couple bucks or 99 cents as a barrier. I’m cautious about a “company” store where products are only sold there and nowhere else. I think it is dangerous for writers to allow their access to the public to be controlled by one entity. I’m standing on principle.

And it’s costing me unknown amount of readers.

In 2012, there were 167 downloads over the 11 months the book was available. There were several instances via Barnes&Noble the book saw dozens of downloads in a day. Instructor use? A free book promotion B&N did? Don’t know. Moving to KDP Select would remove the access in the dozen other markets. How ironic, I may have to reduce markets to one if I want downloads and readership to multiply.  Principle may need tossing to the wayside if I want No Red Pen to reach a wider audience.

Not before June, 2013. After that, I may experiment with KDP Select and up the price of the Ebook to $2.99 with as many free days as the program allows.

Principle does not always pan out.

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Independent Creator – Publish an Online Newspaper

Surfing through my twitter feed, I saw something interesting about online newspapers that Molly Greene tweeted. A couple clicks later and all I could say was “COOOOL!” Molly had a guest post by Paul Dorset, a successful author and twitter marketer about a fantastic website, Paper.Li where you can create a curated list from twitter that appears as an online newspaper. Immediately, I set about creating and publishing my own. This is a boon for any indie-author. I’m an independent creator. The idea of easily creating and publish online a product that can highlight what I write, provide a niche service, or publicize a cause or interest is tremendously appealing.

A ton of stuff flies by on twitter once you have more than a couple dozen follows, how do you keep track and catch the important? Lists are a good way, but that is cumbersome and there remains the scrolling through hundreds of posts. Not keeping up with literary magazines was frustrating, so I created the Literary Journal list, an open list of every journal I’ve found on twitter. I’ve added more than 80 but there are scores more. Putting them into the Paper.Li format, I was able to source beyond my list to include others as well using the simple set-up process. This brought the count in Literary Dispatch, my online newsletter, to over 200 journals. The value – many of the literary magazines I send my writing to, I find their calls for submissions via twitter. Anyone can register for an account and build and publish their own paper, free. I opted for the 9 bucks a month so I could customize and remove ads, building my own ad for No Red Pen, Writers, Writing Groups & Critique that links back to a sales site. Additional links on the page link directly back to my web site – a pretty good investment for less than ten dollars, IF Literary Dispatch gets subscribers.

Why add one more widget that demands attention and marketing? I don’t like hawking my book all the time, I’m not the independent publisher equivalent of a door to door salesperson (really, been there, done that). I’ve never liked the constant sales talk from self-employed friends who always have a sales pitch. I do like providing a service that I think meets a need, and curating the literary magazines on Twitter both helps small publications get some notice and creates a resource for finding publication venues.  I think that fills a niche. The marketing advantage is advertising for my book and increased visibility. The writers looking for literary magazines are the audience intended for No Red Pen: Writers, Writing Groups & Critique. Paper.Li is a terrific means for leveraging social media like twitter and, I can source into the feed other web sites as well. Finally, there is the potential to monetize because with the pro level for $9/month I can sell the remaining ad space I don’t use for self marketing. This creates an income stream when leveraging the potential of an online newspaper fed by twitter.

If you’re an Independent Creator too – publish your online newspaper. Come on back and tell me about here.

Paper.Li is a dynamic service with hundreds of possibilities. I see great potential to move my visibility and online presence as an indie author and my book forward.

Read Molly Greene‘s Blog with guest post by Paul DorsetCreate Your Own Newsletter with Paper.Li.

Check out Literary Dispatch and subscribe.

Check out Vicki Hudson – Inditer and subscribe.

Start your own paper at Paper.Li.


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A Story and a Storyteller

Noah St. John

Well deserved, young man.

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Five Stars – Laura Oliver’s The Story Within

Laura Oliver’s The Story Within is not your every day craft book. This is a whooping roller coaster over the highs and lows of the vocation of writing. Every writer has heard “Show, don’t tell.” I never thought I’d find an entire book on the craft of writing that page after page did just that over 26 topics of writerly discussion.

Full disclosure – Laura sent me the book, after I sent her my book No Red Pen: Writers, Writing Groups & Critique. We have never met, I’ve never been in her workshops, or as best I recall heard her speak. I don’t particularly like craft books as in general they make me sleepy and thus can only read them in small doses. (I’m on my second month reading a book on Poetics.) I was professionally interested in her work. I might learn something, more likely, I’d find something I might be able to use as I develop my own professional writer and teacher persona.

The Story Within is a page turner, can’t put down, tour de force packaged in of all things, a writing book. The entire book is a treasure trove.

Oliver starts with science, physics to be exact. Wow. The theme to that sitcom with the brainy nerds soundtracks the introduction for me. I picked up the book off a stack of a dozen or more waiting for my attention to read for a few moments in the bathroom as I was too lazy on my way to bed to turn on the bedroom light. Twenty minutes beyond the two minutes I’d allotted to read the intro I’m in bed, wondering how I can carve out time the next day, a non-preschool day, to read more. I find a way. While the toddler runs the electronic device’s battery down with games, videos and interactive books and we are cuddled together on the couch, I read the first half. Quiet Time after lunch gets me to the end of the book. I’ve laughed, cried, and been on the edge of my metaphorical seat. Along the journey, for it was as tumultuous a journey as any novel that has kept me way past bedtime, I kept experiencing ‘ah ha!’ moments. These were then filed away because what I was reading was what I could use in my own writing practice. Sometimes new ideas, sometimes just a different perspective, sometimes a reminder of something I already knew about but perhaps had forgotten or misplaced.

Laura Oliver is a skilled, imaginative writer with clear confidence, regard, and respect for her calling. This is important as her writing is matter of fact not presumptuous.  Each chapter is a conversation in a best friend’s or long time neighbor’s kitchen. She interweaves her prose with quotes and passages from other authors’ work in such a way that a tapestry of craft emerges. Threads from the page link with the reader’s own experience creating what every writer I believe is seeking – connection. The individual is the collective universal experience. She adroitly creates doorways and windows into the writing process, each one an invitation. When a passage to illustrate the navigation of a story depicts a mother gathering her son in her lap, I am transported to my daughter’s bed, holding her safe so she can quiet and let herself  be sleepy.  Then I lay her back down, leave her to get there on her own, walking out to a quiet whisper of “Good night mommy.” The chapter’s point, the story entry is a direction not a conclusion, resonates.

I’ve always considered, no wait, I’m pretty damn proud, of my ability to create dialogue that is realistic. That’s not a chapter I expect to get much from when reading a craft book. I learned three new ways to consider and create better dialogue from Chapter 7. And, I have to hunt down a copy of Alan Elyshevitz’s story, “Noah’s Ark” from which Oliver drew for example. I have to know what happens.

In chapter 17 I’ve become so emotionally attuned to the examples and writing passages that in this chapter entitled “Spirit: Caring for the Writer” when she encourages “So get it all down now even if you don’t know what you are going to do with it. Capture on paper the first time you heard your son laugh, your parents harmonize to ‘Moon River,’ the smell of a dog who has rolled on a dead fish.” I am instantly transported. My daughter’s laugh, my mother’s voice, my favorite dog who rolled on a dead fish in January and stank so bad I had to give her a bath standing in a tiny shower because it was too cold for her to sleep in the truck. And was instantly overcome with grief because she has been dead and gone for almost ten years. “Write the damn book,” Laura Oliver says. Because memories fade with the living.

The Story Within promises “New Insights and Inspiration for Writers.” Laura Oliver delivers. Read the damn book. Because this is the book you will dog ear and mark up, will recommend and lend out or because you don’t want to lose, will buy and give away. This is the book for every cohort of writing students, and every emerging writer out there to invest in because it’s one that will not be sold back or garage saled.

The Story Within – New Insights and Inspiration for Writers by Laura Oliver

ISBN 978-1-61564-114-7

U.S. $13.95 CAN $15.50

2011 Alpha Books

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