The Story Behind ‘Colonel Trash Truck’ by Kathleen Crawley

Throughout my life, I have been fascinated with watching people and trying to understand why they do what they do…from what they eat to what they watch on TV, wear on their bodies or even believe.  I absolutely love to people watch and kids are no exception.  For example, why do a lot of boys like dinosaurs and trucks and many girls like dolls and pick dresses at an early age?  For years, I noticed how kids, especially boys, go bonkers when they see a garbage truck coming down the street.  One of the first words my nephew said was trash truck.  I also noticed there weren’t many books or toys about trash trucks that tell kids how they pick up the trash we create.  I thought, “Someone needs to write a book”.  It did not occur to me at the time that the someone I was thinking of was me!  

Then one morning when I had slept late, I was awakened by the sound of the garbage truck in my neighborhood.  I opened my eyes and suddenly saw a clear image in my imagination of Colonel Trash Truck, just the way he looks on the cover of my book.  He had a friendly but determined look on his face and seemed to be telling me to write something.  I then reached for a pad of paper and began writing the poem that is now the majority Colonel Trash Truck.  It felt like I was taking dictation because it seemed like the Colonel had a lot to say about telling kids to pick up trash and recycle.  

Colonel Trash Truck is a fun, likeable but admirable character, determined to fulfill him mission to win the garbage war.  What is so exciting about Colonel Trash Truck is that he appeals to kids and parents on so many levels:

• Kids love trucks, especially garbage trucks so the Colonel will get their attention.
• He is a fun, sometimes silly character that will make kids giggle.
• He is a hero that kids will look up to and want to mimic…”Karunch!” is his favorite phrase.
• Plus, he is teaching kids at an early age one of the most important positive habits they could possibly learn – to pick up trash and recycle. 

At a time when so much is being discussed about the future of our planet and its natural resources, it can be challenging to get kids to understand how important their part is in saving the planet.  Colonel Trash Truck is the perfect book to get their attention and convince them to ‘join him in his quest.” 

Kathleen Crawley has been an advertising executive for over fifteen years.  She resides with her husband Ronald Thomson in Redondo Beach, California.  She is a native Californian having graduated from UCLA with a B.A in sociology.  Colonel Trash Truck is her first book.  About writing for children, Kathy says, “I have a number of books I want to write for kids because I think children are fascinating.  They are open, creative, and interested in everything; they bring out the kid in me.” 

You can visit Kathleen online at www.coloneltrashtruck.com.

Buy Colonel Trash Truck at Amazon.com today!

The Story Behind ‘For the Love of St. Nick’ by Garasamo Maccagnone

Over the years, I listened carefully to many of my wife’s stories. Her father was Commander Blake Field, a naval academy standout and veteran of the Korean, Vietnam, and Persian Gulf wars. I obviously patterned the commander in my story after him.

Prior to her parents’ divorce, my wife lived the typical military lifestyle, with the family moving every couple of years to far off lands. Often, her father went on secret cold war missions and I recalled listening to my wife tell me how frightened she was as a girl that her father would never return. That of course, sparked my interest and was the sentiment I built off of years later when I decided to write this story.

The other major incident, which inspired me a great deal, happened while I worked at a hospital in my early thirties. One morning after my shift was over, a priest I knew at the hospital divulged that a young mother died during childbirth the previous night. He used the term placenta previa and went on to explain what had happened and why he was told the woman passed on.

Together, somehow, over a fifteen- to twenty-year period these stories found their way to the forefront of my mind, and served as the mechanisms that launched my tale. From there, I simply needed to create the right setting and to apply my craft.

 

Garasamo Maccagnone studied creative writing and literature under noted American writers Sam Astrachan and Stuart Dybek at Wayne State University and Western Michigan University. A college baseball player as well, Maccagnone met his wife Vicki as a junior at WMU. The following year, after injuring his throwing arm, Maccagnone left school and his baseball ambitions to marry Vicki. After a two year stint at both W.B. Doner and BBDO advertising agencies, Maccagnone left the industry to apply his knowledge of marketing in a new venture in an up-and-coming industry. Maccagnone created a company called, “Crate and Fly,” and turned it from a store front in 1984 to a world-wide multi-million dollar shipping corporation by 1994.  

In the mid 90’s Maccagnone decided to fulfill the promise of his writing career, by first penning the children’s book, The Suburban Dragon and then following up with a collection of short stories and poetry entitled, The Affliction of Dreams. His literary novel, St. John of the Midfield was published in 2007, followed by his For the Love of St. Nick, which was released in 2008.  Maccagnone expanded the original version of For the Love of St. Nick and had the book illustrated for a new release in June 2009. 

Garasamo “Gary” Maccagnone lives today in Shelby Township, Michigan, with his wife Vicki and three children. You can visit Gary online at www.garasamomaccagnone.com.

The Story Behind Charlie and Mama Kyna by Diana Rumjahn

Charlie and Mama Kyna is an award-winning charming book with beautiful illustrations for children. The story and illustrations are based on my internationally acclaimed film, Going Home, which was shown worldwide, including 45 film festivals and London Film Festival.

The story is about a little stuffed animal frog, named Charlie who runs away in fear after accidentally breaking his mother’s favorite vase. Charlie makes his way to the city and meets a stuffed animal Lion, named Leo and a stuffed animal giraffe named Joe outside Mrs. Cupcake’s Bakery. The three become best friends and live inside a little orange tent outside the bakery.

After awhile, Charlie becomes homesick, misses his mother, Kyna, decides to go home and invites Leo and Joe to live with them. On the next sunny day, Charlie, Leo and Joe, journey to find Mama Kyna’s home.

The book was written because I received so much positive responses for the film, Going Home. My passion is to tell you this story.

My inspiration for writing the book comes from my love of animals and stuffed animals. They are so cute! In addition, when I am listening to new age music especially music by Enya, I am so inspired to be even more creative.

Diana Rumjahn earned a bachelor’s degree in social science from San Francisco State University where she currently works at the College of Creative Arts . She wrote and directed the film Going Home which has been screened at venues worldwide. She is also the author of the new children’s picture book, Charlie and Mama Kyna. Rumjahn resides in San Francisco and is currently at work on film and book projects.  You can visit her website at www.dianarumjahn.com.

The Story Behind The Cutting by James Hayman

Like so many thrillers, the idea for the plot of The Cutting came from something I found in the news.

I read an article about so-called “organ tourism.” Americans traveling to foreign countries for transplants they couldn’t qualify for here at home.

As most of us  know, there’s of a chronic shortage of organ donors and organs available for transplant in the US and other first world countries.  People in desperate need of kidneys, livers, and hearts die each year because there simply aren’t enough.  Some of these people are considered too old to qualify for legitimate transplant programs in the US.  Others are deemed to be too sick to benefit from a new organ.

This has given rise to a new and thriving international black market in organs.

Desperately poor people in countries like China, India and in South America often sell organs for money.  A thousand dollars for a kidney may not seem like much to us but it’s considered a fortune to poor people in third world countries.

And the trade isn’t just limited to kidneys.  There are many documented cases where people have been kidnapped and murdered so their organs,  the ones they can’t live without like their hearts, could be harvested and sold to an unknowing American in desperate need of one.

There are a lot of problems inherent in becoming a so-called “organ tourist.” You don’t know if the organ you’re buying is healthy. You don’t know if the surgeon is competent by American standards.  You don’t know if kidnapping, coercion or even murder was involved  in obtaining it.

So I just said “What if?”

What if, instead of happening in some third world country, it was happening right here in the US?

What if there were a number of very rich, very sick old men who couldn’t qualify for legitimate transplant programs because of their age and condition who were willing to pay an immoral but highly qualified surgeon just about anything to get a new heart?

What if they could be assured that the blood type and tissue would be compatible to their needs.

What if the brilliant surgeon also happened to be a sadistic psychopathic killer?

That’s the basic premise behind The Cutting (though the story takes a number of unexpected twists and turns in the telling.)

The Cutting opens as a beautiful young woman is abducted while jogging through the idyllic streets of Portland, Maine’s upscale West End.  The very same night the body of a pretty young high school soccer star is found in an abandoned scrap yard, her heart cut from her body with medical precision.

Former NYPD homicide detective and single father, Michael McCabe, left New York and moved to Portland to find a safer and more wholesome place in which to raise his teenage daughter. But he suddenly realizes he found a lot more than he bargained for.

As it says in The Cutting “standing here in a scrap yard in Portland, Maine, McCabe suddenly…knew with an absolute certainty that…no matter how far he ran, no matter how well he hid, he’d never leave the violence or his fascination with it behind.”

The Cutting is the first in a series of thrillers featuring Michael McCabe. The second, called The Chill of Night, is due out from St. Martin’s/Minotaur in late June of 2010.  That too was inspired by something I read in the news.

Like McCabe, I’m a native New Yorker. He was born in the Bronx. I was born in Brooklyn. We both grew up in the city. He dropped out of NYU Film School and joined the NYPD, rising through the ranks to become the top homicide cop at the Midtown North Precinct. I graduated from Brown and joined a major New York ad agency, rising through the ranks to become creative director on accounts like the US Army, Procter & Gamble, and Lincoln/Mercury.

We both married beautiful brunettes. McCabe’s wife, Sandy dumped him to marry a rich investment banker who had “no interest in raising other people’s children.” My wife, Jeanne, though often given good reason to leave me in the lurch, has stuck it out through thick and thin and is still my wife. She is also my best friend, my most attentive reader and a perceptive critic.

Both McCabe and I eventually left New York for Portland, Maine. I arrived in August 2001, shortly before the 9/11 attacks, in search of the right place to begin a new career as a fiction writer. He came to town a year later, to escape a dark secret in his past and to find a safe place to raise his teenage daughter, Casey.

There are other similarities between us. We both love good Scotch whiskey, old movie trivia and the New York Giants. And we both live with and love women who are talented artists.

There are also quite a few differences. McCabe’s a lot braver than me. He’s a better shot. He likes boxing. He doesn’t throw up at autopsies. And he’s far more likely to take risks. McCabe’s favorite Portland bar, Tallulah’s, is, sadly, a figment of my imagination. My favorite Portland bars are all very real.

You can visit our website at www.jameshaymanthrillers.com.

The Story Behind “Rain Dance” by Joy DeKok

From the time I was a little girl I wanted to write for kids. I was sure the stories ahead for me were the fun and sparkly kind.  I’d studied the craft, read books on writing for children, went to conferences, and was sure it was time.

Then, while cleaning house, a story line came to mind and tugged at my heart. It felt like a good idea, but I was certain it wasn’t for me to write. I tried to scrub, vacuum, and polish the idea away. Instead with every moment, it grew into something bigger. I could see the characters and heard their distinct voices.

I rebelled in part because the story involved my story. Who wanted to read about infertility and a pro-lifer who loved post-abortive women?  We’ve all been told to write what we know as well as no author intrusion. I wasn’t sure how to balance this advice so I clung to the latter. I simply could not write this novel – it was too close to home.

Ideas can be stubborn. I thought it might be cathartic to jot down the ideas to rid myself of them. This purging became a chapter and then two. As I quit resisting and released the words onto the page, a novel was born.

After the writing, re-writing, and editing, I considered putting it in a file cabinet and getting on with the real writing – kid’s books. Instead, I started the process of submitting it and receiving numerous rejections although many of them came with positive personal notes from the editors. Now I had editors, agents, established authors, and my husband encouraging me to self-publish. I hesitated to take the publishing road less travelled. I knew it was the harder path and I knew next to nothing about marketing. I was about to put the manuscript in a file cabinet in our basement when my husband brought me a check. He explained he believed the story had to be shared. His belief sparked a flame of hope in my heart.

It wasn’t until I followed the advice of the wise, the children’s books came together and I found an amazing illustrator.

After some time on the market, I approached an online writer’s group I belong to and asked them to read and review Rain Dance. It never occurred to me the woman who had started her own publishing house would be interested, however, she was.

Sheaf House Publishers released Rain Dance on August 3, 2009.

Louisa Mae Alcott once said, “Housecleaning ain’t no joke.” She wasn’t kidding. My second novel idea came while I was doing the dishes. I have no idea where this one will take me, but I’m done resisting. 

Joy DeKok and her husband, Jon, live in Minnesota on thirty-five acres of woods and fields. Joy has been writing most of her life and as a popular speaker shares her heart and passion for God with women. In addition to writing novels, she has also published a devotional and several children’s books.

Visit Joy online at: www.joydekok.com, www.raindancebook.com, www.believe4kids.com and www.gettingitwrite.net.

The Story Behind My Son, John by Kathi Macias

The story behind My Son, John is an amazing one, and I tell it quite often. 

It began nearly twenty years ago, when AIDS was just becoming known in America as a killer disease. We knew little about it, but most of us weren’t too concerned since we figured it would never touch us because we weren’t involved in the high-risk lifestyles associated with contracting the disease. 

I was busy working on a writing project and quite happy doing it—until I noticed that God was tapping me on the shoulder, trying to get my attention. Because I was perfectly content with my life as it was, I ignored Him, at least for a while. But the tapping became more insistent, until I finally had to respond or admit that I was disobeying God. 

“All right, Lord,” I said at last, “what are You trying to tell me?” 

In that moment I knew God wanted me to write a book about AIDS, which made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. Surely I had misunderstood Him! But the more I listened to that still, small voice, the more I was certain of His marching orders. 

I sighed in resignation. “I don’t even know where to start, Father,” I said. “You’ll have to give me some direction here.” 

By the next morning it had become clear to me that I was supposed to write a novel about a middle-aged Christian woman (much like myself at the time) who discovers her 23-year-old son, John, has AIDS. It is her first revelation of his homosexual lifestyle. 

Wow. I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy assignment, so the next thing I did was ask God to bring someone to me who could help me understand how someone like John might feel in his situation. That night I noticed a letter to the editor in the newspaper, written by a young homosexual activist named Mark, who had AIDS and who was mad at the whole world. 

Oh, no, I thought. Please, God, don’t make me work with him! 

But of course Mark was just the one God had chosen. In fact, when I called him and told him about the book, his immediate response was, “Yes, I want to work with you on this because I want to make sure you get it right.” 

We scheduled an initial lunch meeting, and from the moment we sat down at the table, Mark began to tell me exactly how he felt. 

“I hate people like you,” he declared. “It’s because of you Christians that I have AIDS.” 

I did my best not to show my surprise, allowing him to continue to rant while I prayed silently, hoping God might show me that I had misunderstood and Mark was not the person I was to work with on this project. But even as I prayed, Mark stopped speaking for a moment and glanced out the window. When he looked back, there was a hint of tears in his eyes, and he said, “Sometimes I wonder if people like you are right.” 

Before I could respond, he returned to his previous mode of blaming everyone but himself for his condition, but in that brief instant, God had allowed me to see the chink in Mark’s armor. 

And so we began to work together on the book, though Mark made me promise never to “preach at him.” I kept my promise, but Mark read everything I wrote, chapter by chapter. And though we didn’t have a meeting of the minds, we did have a meeting of the hearts. Mark and I became friends; we learned to care for one another, even as we acknowledged the differences between us. 

Finally, just after Mark had read the last chapter and returned it to me with his comments and suggestions, he called me. His voice was weak, as he spoke from a hospital bed at his mother’s home. 

“Do you really believe all that Jesus stuff you wrote about in the book?” he wheezed. 

“Yes, Mark, I do,” I assured him. 

“Then you have five minutes to convince me not to kill myself right now.” 

It took longer than five minutes, but before we hung up I had the privilege of leading Mark to Christ. He died a few days later. 

And the book? I couldn’t sell it anywhere. Though every publisher who saw it agreed that it was a wonderfully written story, no one was willing to offer a contract—until nearly twenty years later, when I learned that my friend Joan had launched Sheaf House and was looking for “Christian fiction with an edge.” Sounded like My Son, John to me! 

Joan agreed, though after we talked about it for a while, we decided to change the storyline from a young man who has AIDS to a young man who murders a family member. The theme of unconditional love and forgiveness would remain the same. 

The rest, as they say, is history. But oh, what I learned between the time I started writing this book and the time it finally saw the light of publication! Before I began writing My Son, John I always thought the mark of a successful book was that it got published and sold lots of copies. (And hey, that’s not a bad thing!) But I now know that My Son, John was a success long before I ever found a publisher willing to take a chance with it. And if I hadn’t found a publisher at all, it would still have been a success because I now have a dear friend named Mark waiting for me in heaven. For that reason, I consider My Son, John the most successful of all my books, regardless of the ultimate sales figures. For after all, isn’t knowing that our work has made an eternal difference in someone’s life what this “Christian writing ministry” is all about?

Kathi Macias is a multi-award winning writer who has authored nearly 30 books and ghostwritten several others. A former newspaper columnist and string reporter, Kathi has taught creative and business writing in various venues and has been a guest on many radio and television programs. Kathi is a popular speaker at churches, women’s clubs and retreats, and writers’ conferences, and recently won the prestigious 2008 member of the year award from AWSA (Advanced Writers and Speakers Association) at the annual Golden Scrolls award banquet. Kathi “Easy Writer” Macias lives in Homeland, CA, with her husband, Al, where the two of them spend their free time riding their Harley. 

Visit Kathi’s website at www.kathimacias.com and her blog at http://kathieasywritermacias.blogspot.com/.  Beginning October 15, 2009, listen to Kathi as she hosts “Write the Vision” every Thursday from 6—7 p.m. (Pacific Time) via THE International Christian Network (www.theicn.com).

The Story Behind Dispel the Mist by Marilyn Meredith

While I was doing research for the last Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery, Kindred Spirits, I met and became friends with a Tolowa Native woman who lived in Crescent City CA. One of the many things she told me about was the Tolowa belief in Big Foot, including many recent sightings.

I did some research on the Internet about Big Foot and while I was reading, a site came up telling about another large creature called the Hairy Man. Imagine my surprise when I learned that a pictograph of the Hairy Man, a woman, and child are in a rock shelter in a place called Painted Rock. Painted Rock is on the Tule River Indian Reservation which is very near my home. I borrow a lot from the Tule River Indians and the reservation for my Deputy Tempe mysteries, though I am writing fiction and have changed the names of the Indians and the reservation.

When it was time to write the next book in the series, I began thinking about the Hairy Man and the Painted Rock site. I e-mailed the local college’s anthropology professor and asked where and what it looked like out there. He invited me to go along on a field trip his class was taking the very next Friday. Of course I went.

The Painted Rock site is tucked away at the far end of the reservation. A cave like shelter was created by huge boulders, one sitting atop two others. To get down to the cave, one must climb down the side of one of these very steep boulders. I’d never have made it if two of the young male students hadn’t helped me down.

The inside of the shelter is decorated with all sorts of very large and colorful pictographs of a coyote, moon, frog, centipede, the river, geometric figures—but on the inside wall is an eight-foot-tall depiction of the Hairy Man. Alongside him is a five-foot female and a three-foot child.

While listening to the Indian guide’s explanation of everything, I busily took notes. He looked at me sternly and said, “Don’t ever come down here at night.”

I asked, “Why not?”

His answer was, “There are too many spirits here at night.”

Of course I never would, I could barely get down there in the daylight, but I knew Tempe would definitely have to go there at nighttime.

My visit to the Painted Rock and the legend of the Hairy Man is what inspired Dispel the Mist.

I had more fun writing that book and talking about it than any other book I’ve written.

You can read the legend of the Hairy Man and the first chapter of the book on my website: http://fictionforyou and the book is available as an e-book or trade paperback directly from the publisher: http://www.mundaniapress.com or any online or regular bookstore.

Marilyn Meredith is the author of over twenty-five published novels, including the award winning Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery series, the latest, Dispel the Mist from Mundania Press. Under the name of F. M. Meredith she writes the Rocky Bluff P.D. crime series. No Sanctuary is the newest from Oak Tree Press.

She is a member of EPIC, four chapters of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, WOK, and on the board of the Public Safety Writers of America. She was an instructor for Writer’s Digest School for ten years, served as an instructor at the Maui Writer’s Retreat and many other writer’s conferences. She makes her home in Springville CA, much like Bear Creek where Deputy Tempe Crabtree lives. Visit her at http://fictionforyou.com/.

The Story Behind The Cutting by James Hayman

Like so many thrillers, the idea for the plot of The Cutting came from something I found in the news.

I read an article about so-called “organ tourism.” Americans traveling to foreign countries for transplants they couldn’t qualify for here at home.

As most of us  know, there’s of a chronic shortage of organ donors and organs available for transplant in the US and other first world countries.  People in desperate need of kidneys, livers, and hearts die each year because there simply aren’t enough.  Some of these people are considered too old to qualify for legitimate transplant programs in the US.  Others are deemed to be too sick to benefit from a new organ.

This has given rise to a new and thriving international black market in organs.

Desperately poor people in countries like China, India and in South America often sell organs for money.  A thousand dollars for a kidney may not seem like much to us but it’s considered a fortune to poor people in third world countries.

And the trade isn’t just limited to kidneys.  There are many documented cases where people have been kidnapped and murdered so their organs,  the ones they can’t live without like their hearts, could be harvested and sold to an unknowing American in desperate need of one.

There are a lot of problems inherent in becoming a so-called “organ tourist.” You don’t know if the organ you’re buying is healthy. You don’t know if the surgeon is competent by American standards.  You don’t know if kidnapping, coercion or even murder was involved  in obtaining it.

So I just said “What if?”

What if, instead of happening in some third world country, it was happening right here in the US?

What if there were a number of very rich, very sick old men who couldn’t qualify for legitimate transplant programs because of their age and condition who were willing to pay an immoral but highly qualified surgeon just about anything to get a new heart?

What if they could be assured that the blood type and tissue would be compatible to their needs.

What if the brilliant surgeon also happened to be a sadistic psychopathic killer?

That’s the basic premise behind The Cutting (though the story takes a number of unexpected twists and turns in the telling.)

The Cutting opens as a beautiful young woman is abducted while jogging through the idyllic streets of Portland, Maine’s upscale West End.  The very same night the body of a pretty young high school soccer star is found in an abandoned scrap yard, her heart cut from her body with medical precision.

Former NYPD homicide detective and single father, Michael McCabe, left New York and moved to Portland to find a safer and more wholesome place in which to raise his teenage daughter. But he suddenly realizes he found a lot more than he bargained for.

As it says in The Cutting “standing here in a scrap yard in Portland, Maine, McCabe suddenly…knew with an absolute certainty that…no matter how far he ran, no matter how well he hid, he’d never leave the violence or his fascination with it behind.”

The Cutting is the first in a series of thrillers featuring Michael McCabe. The second, called The Chill of Night, is due out from St. Martin’s/Minotaur in late June of 2010.  That too was inspired by something I read in the news.

Like McCabe, I’m a native New Yorker. He was born in the Bronx. I was born in Brooklyn. We both grew up in the city. He dropped out of NYU Film School and joined the NYPD, rising through the ranks to become the top homicide cop at the Midtown North Precinct. I graduated from Brown and joined a major New York ad agency, rising through the ranks to become creative director on accounts like the US Army, Procter & Gamble, and Lincoln/Mercury.

We both married beautiful brunettes. McCabe’s wife, Sandy dumped him to marry a rich investment banker who had “no interest in raising other people’s children.” My wife, Jeanne, though often given good reason to leave me in the lurch, has stuck it out through thick and thin and is still my wife. She is also my best friend, my most attentive reader and a perceptive critic.

Both McCabe and I eventually left New York for Portland, Maine. I arrived in August 2001, shortly before the 9/11 attacks, in search of the right place to begin a new career as a fiction writer. He came to town a year later, to escape a dark secret in his past and to find a safe place to raise his teenage daughter, Casey.

There are other similarities between us. We both love good Scotch whiskey, old movie trivia and the New York Giants. And we both live with and love women who are talented artists.

There are also quite a few differences. McCabe’s a lot braver than me. He’s a better shot. He likes boxing. He doesn’t throw up at autopsies. And he’s far more likely to take risks. McCabe’s favorite Portland bar, Tallulah’s, is, sadly, a figment of my imagination. My favorite Portland bars are all very real.

You can visit our website at www.jameshaymanthrillers.com.

You can purchase The Cutting at Amazon by clicking here!

The Story Behind Family Plots by Mary Patrick Kavanaugh

I have to have a funeral, I thought, walking in my neighborhood cemetery on a hot July afternoon last year.

Not for a dead person, mind you, but for a dead dream. Mine.

Earlier that month I’d received a strained call from my literary agent. My first novel, Family Plots: Love, Death, and Tax Evasion, had just been rejected for the sixteenth time.

Given that some wildly successful authors have been rejected many more times than that, I didn’t think it cause for alarm. But my agent informed me that the publishing industry—like many professions—was in financial crisis, and she didn’t think a first-time author with no sales history had much of a chance in this climate. “You should try some of the small presses,” she said, “or even self-publish.”

Self-publish? After all the time, money, work, visioning and prayer I’d put into this?

NO WAY.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

After I became a widow at age 38, something told me I’d better get to work on my life-long dream of publishing a novel before my own stint on earth was up—and as luck would have it, my dearly departed husband had left me with a juicy tale to tell. He was a criminal attorney who, it turned out, was committing a few crimes of his own. In an attempt to find romance, family, and financial stability, I’d stumbled into a world of pseudonyms, fake weddings, and hidden bank accounts. Events that landed my beloved into the family cemetery plot, also revealed unexpected secrets and stashes that transformed a seeming tragedy into one of surprising healing and redemption. It was a great plotline, but I still needed to write it down.

This is not one of those stories where the author gets an idea, God dictates it to her in thirteen days, and then, while flying to Kalamazoo, she fortuitously meets a famous agent who promises to sell the book. No. Labor and delivery of this baby was harder and possibly more expensive than the one I raised and sent off to college.

With love, support, and regular spiritual mind treatments from countless Religious Science practitioners, I harnessed the inspiration and discipline necessary to get to work. I wrote four versions of the manuscript over four years. After that, I hired three professional editors to help me cut, trim, revise, and re-pace the book. A New York literary agent offered representation, and we celebrated my good fortune when a best-selling author went on record saying it was a page-turner.

The fact that it took seven years—the time it takes to replace every cell in the human body—to prepare the manuscript struck me as a good omen. I wasn’t even the same person as I was when I’d started, and the new me was confident that this book would find exactly what I’d prayed for: the perfect publisher.

When my agent threw in the towel, I spent countless hours cocooned in bed, feeling destroyed—like the caterpillar that dissolves into goo, having no idea if it will ever re-emerge into the light. After all that work, mentally and spiritually, it seemed impossible that I didn’t have the backing of a reputable, recognizable New York publisher to provide the marketing, PR, and distribution to bring my dream to life. What had I done wrong?

I was especially depressed that I wouldn’t get to hold a book launch party at the cemetery, where so many scenes in the novel took place. I’d had such a clear vision of the event, from the pallbearers carrying a casket filled with books, down to the tombstone brownies for dessert. Despite my hard work, prayers, and the colorful vision boards I’d hung all over the house, my dream was dead—or at least it had reached a frustrating dead end—and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

That’s when the miracle happened. It became clear to me: /My dream had died, but I could still have a book launch at a cemetery./ It could be a funeral, which was thematically appropriate for the book and the rejection. This was even BETTER than a mere book launch.

The clouds parted, a chorus of angels sang, and the butterfly emerged from her cocoon. How perfect! Not only would I embrace this failure—I would flaunt it. I’d have a funeral for my dead dream of landing a mainstream book contract, and use it as a publicity stunt to draw attention to my book. Guests would be invited to bring remnants of their dead dreams and dashed hopes to toss in the casket as well. What better way to acknowledge and overcome life’s disappointments than to do it in community, with music, ceremony, and a tasty snack buffet? We could all use an opportunity to take ourselves a little less seriously.

The idea immediately resurrected my spirits. I’d been praying for “the perfect publisher,” and apparently I was the one I’d been waiting for all along.

Doors opened immediately. The cemetery management loved the idea and donated the chapel, casket, and reception hall. Friends contacted the media and articles appeared in the local and national press, generating a standing-room-only crowd. A gaggle of chic, black-clad wailers filled the pews and made the appropriate scene as the pallbearers escorted the casket and me into the chapel. My beloved practitioner played the role of “the preacher,” and by the end of the service, I, as well as most of my guests, had thrown remnants of dead dreams into the coffin and were dancing in the aisles to James Brown’s /I Feel Good./ The book received great reviews on book blogs and Amazon.com, and newspapers, radio, and TV booked interviews. I even had bloggers criticizing and debating the relative merits of the event, teaching me that there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

Lest I mislead anyone, deciding to produce this spectacle was not /all/ rainbows and unicorns. I wrestled with the demonic inner voices of fear, and was worried sick that no one would come to my funeral, or that I was wasting time or pouring money down a hole.

But I ignored the naysayers, even in my own mind, and squeezed more fun out of the event than I ever thought possible. By the end of the year, I even had an offer from a new agent to pitch my next book: /Cemetery Mary’s Turning Life’s Crap Into Compost/ (CrapIntoCompost.com).

When a dream has died, how do we avoid the urge to crawl into the coffin with it?

It’s hard to believe that celebrating death could feel so uplifting, but isn’t that what we learn as students of Science of Mind? “The experience of dying is but the laying off of an old garment, and the donning of a new one,” says The Science of Mind. Many of us are able to accept this as truth—so much so that in this philosophy, the word “death” is replaced with “transition,” to help us reframe the experience.

But as we know, concepts are easier in theory than in practice. The death (or transition) of a cherished person, relationship, or dream inevitably comes packed with grief and is far more disorienting than a simple garment change. It’s more like having our skin peeled off, followed by a period of over-exposure and raw pain, and then a gradual healing. No wonder we do whatever possible to deny, ignore, or resist it.

But everyone and everything in our lives is going to die—to transition. It’s the only way to make room for new growth. Spouses, lovers, parents and children; relationships, careers, and artistic endeavors; youth, beauty, and bank accounts—no matter what visions we hold, they will ultimately die in the ebb and flow of time. And sadly, sometimes they die before their time—causing us even greater trauma, because that wasn’t part of our plan.

That’s why one of the first things I publicly tossed into the casket was my vision board. Creating vision boards, lists of desires, and measurable goals offers great tools and direction. But when our goals and visions are not out-picturing exactly the way we have dictated, I wonder if clinging to these road maps may block a path to greater possibility? Maybe there is a time when we have to let go of the dream or relationship or expectation because, let’s face it, it’s not working or making us happy.

When I finally put to rest my grandiose dreams of publishing contracts, movie options, book tours, and a guest spot on the Oprah Winfrey Show, the rush of the release was liberating and invigorating. Though the book publication didn’t turn out to be even close to the way I’d rendered it on my vision board, a comment made by a business associate who’d watched a YouTube video of the funeral best summed up the deep satisfaction I ended up feeling. “Wow,” he said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to be so completely creatively expressed.”

If I’d had a publisher, a marketing department, and a cast of others, all with opinions, who knows how it would have played out? Even my agent, whom I told about the funeral, warned me she thought it odd, and in fact a bad idea. /Bad idea?/ Impossible given the doors that were opening and the fun I was having, I thought, suddenly relieved she was no longer my agent.

Just like our over-attachment to vision boards may limit our view of greater possibility, our egos often get in the way of our spiritual growth. And let me go on record as saying my ego was freaking out about me stepping in as publisher and producer of my own book launch. (Who did I think I was? New York didn’t take me, why should anyone else? Bury the book privately and get on with it!)

But when we select a spiritual path, we are consciously choosing expansion and growth. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of support for the ego in that process. The old ideas about who I was and what I deserved had to die too—there was no other way to make room for new growth.

Though becoming my own publisher garnered me some great attention, it has not yet catapulted me to fame, fortune, or a seat on Oprah’s couch. And while that would be nice, the beating my ego took in the process of trying to get my book published made me realize that it didn’t matter anymore. Recognizing that I had the power within to realize my vision for this project without getting outside approval from the book-publishing industry made me feel a bit like Dorothy when she learned she’d always had the power to return to Kansas.

Giving up the dream of how my book was to be published pushed me to be more courageous, creative, and resourceful than I ever knew possible.

Where my writing career will travel from here remains a mystery, and I am certainly not creating a vision board to guide it. Everything I’ve ever tried to force has become a struggle, so I now cheerfully surrender, and focus my efforts on enjoying the work.

Is this bad? Is it good? Who knows? It just is.

Watch the Trailer!

A writer since the age of eight, Mary’s award winning creative non-fiction has been published in Alligator Juniper, Room of One’s Own, San Jose Mercury News, and the San Francisco Chronicle. Her professional writing has appeared in numerous trade journals. Mary is the 2003 recipient of the nonfiction award from the Soul Making Literary Competition sponsored by the American Pen Women, and winner of a 2004 honorable mention. She was awarded writing fellowships at The David and Julia White Artist Colony, Hedgebrook: Women Authoring Change, and The Vermont Studio Center. She recently published her first book, Family Plots: Love, Death, and Tax Evasion.

View Mary’s outrageous book funeral at www.MyDreamIsDeadButImNot.com. Or read her blog at www.CrapIntoCompost.com.

Attention!  Mary (aka Cemetery Mary) is holding a funeral (December 31, 2009) and resurrection (January 2, 2010). These two events will allow others to bury dead dreams, dashed hopes, old habits and grudges in 2009 so they can come to the resurrection to begin again in 2010. Information about the live and webcast events will be posted at www.CrapIntoCompost.com, so readers are invited to sign up for the mail list.

The Story Behind Jesse’s Girl by Gary Morgenstein

Click here to pick up your copy of Jesse's Girl!

There’s nothing more difficult than being a parent. Please indulge my hubris in quoting my own words. The main character in Jesse’s Girl, Teddy Mentor, explains that we think marriage is ‘til death do us part, but that’s not true. Not when about half the marriages in America end in divorce. It’s parenting which is until death do us part. The good and the bad.

I wanted to write about being a father, in this case, a widowed father dealing with a teenage son, Jesse Mentor, gone off the rails, suffering from the awful illness of addiction. Throw in that the kid’s adopted, struggling to find his roots, plus Teddy and Jesse don’t exactly have a Ward and Beaver Cleaver relationship, and let the ride begin. Many times my heart ached for Teddy and Jesse because loving your child so badly you will do anything to help them, only to be roadblocked by their own resistance, creates an overwhelming anger, frustration and pain.

You parents know what I’m talking about. And if you’re not a parent, you’ve been a child and you understand from that window. But most novels about parenting are done from the perspective of a mother, few from the Dad. Without banging my tambourine for Male Liberation, guys hurt, too. We cry over our children and lie awake nights and get stressed. Perhaps, because of society and the way we’ve all been raised, both genders, we don’t show it or are afraid to show it. But it’s there.

As an adoptive father, I also wanted to explore the theme of adoption. The process is wonderful and we all celebrate the gift of a new child into the family. Yet what that masks is the trauma of the adoptee torn from his/her biological mother. The underlying sense of rejection lingers, sometimes maliciously so. Then comes puberty, the doubts about one’s origins inflame, may become infected, add to that the turmoil of teen years in the best of circumstances and you’re confronting a highly combustible situation.

I wanted to look at the difficulty of adoption from parent and adoptee, instead of just whisking issues under the rug. So the search of Jesse in the novel for his biological sister as he reaches for something to hold onto following the breakup of his parents’ marriage, exacerbated by the death of his mother, his descent into addiction, his fear of being 16 and confronting a dangerous world with no rules.

What’s it like when you don’t know what your own parents look like?

Fatherhood. Addiction. Adoption. Above all else, the book is about regular people. Teddy struggles to hold onto his job, 50 plus and being phased out at a PR firm. Jesse, a scared teenager with the courage to find his sister, Theresa. She in turn, looking for her own past, for love not shadowed by domestic abuse like an alien mother ship. On and on. Regular folks like all the regular folks who make up this great country, day by day, getting by, trying to do the right thing, often succeeding, but not always, and living with the consequences of both.

In addition to Jesse’s Girl, Gary Morgenstein’s most recent novels, both available exclusively on Amazon.com, are the political baseball thriller Take Me Out to the Ballgame and the romantic triangle Loving Rabbi Thalia Kleinman. His chillingly prophetic  play Ponzi Man played to sell-out crowds at a recent New York Fringe Festival. A PR consultant for Syfy Channel, he lives in Brooklyn, New York, with lots of books and rock and roll CDs. You can visit him at www.facebook.com/people/Gary-Morgenstein/1011217889 or at http://redroom.com/member/garymorg.