June Collins's Blog, page 4

More Junie Moon Rising

Hi friends, Chapter two is really short so I’ve added two chapters today. It is impossible to get involved in a story with just a few pages. I’m still awaiting comments – both good and bad. Cheers, June.

CHAPTER 2

The following day, I arrived in Manhattan to discover that November in New York was equally as cold and damp as Washington. Peering from the cab window, I wondered why New York was called ‘The Big Apple’. It seemed such a meaningless sobriquet.

The cabbie screeched to a halt in front of a tall, red brick building. I handed him the amount registered on the meter and his smile disappeared. Apparently he expected a tip, a custom we had not yet adopted in Australia. Reluctantly, I handed over more money.

With my high heels clicking noisily over the polished floor, I carried my suitcase across the depressing and silent reception area. At the check-in desk, the spinster-type receptionist peered at me above wire-rimmed glasses.

“We’ve kept a room for you on the fifth floor, Miss Collins. And, please remember, no gentlemen callers past reception and the doors are locked at twelve sharp.” Her expression clearly indicated she expected me to test all the rules. This was not the welcome I had become accustomed to. During the flight, the airline hostess had recognized me from earlier newspaper headlines and greeted me warmly.

I shrugged and took the elevator to my narrow, simply furnished room. Dimly lit by a forty-watt bulb, it was as cold as the receptionist downstairs. What on earth had Rita Hayworth been thinking of?

With hours to kill before meeting Robin, I decided to explore that Big Apple.

I hung up my few clothes, tucked my hair inside a beret, then headed for the wintry outdoors. Just as I stepped onto the street, a car backfired, causing me to flinch. That’s an improvement, I thought, resisting the urge to throw myself to the ground, a reaction developed after too many mortar attacks.

Braced against the cold, I wandered wide-eyed along Lexington Avenue, absorbing the throbbing vitality of the city. Stern-faced pedestrians brushed past me; everyone seemed to be in such a hurry. Winter’s drab colors were brightened by a sea of cheery yellow cabs which clogged the road, stopping and starting in spurts. Sleet and light snow drifted and quickly evaporated, sprinkling my face. I found the sensation pleasing, all my senses on alert. Clouds of steam billowed up from grates in the sidewalk, briefly warming my legs. This was such a contrast to the heat and vivid colors of the tropics, yet the very difference was exciting.

Mouthwatering fragrances of ground coffee beans and freshly baked bread wafted out from the many delicatessens. Street vendors in woolly caps and scarves sold hot pretzels from stands along the pavements. Wondering what they tasted like, I tried one but, finding it dry and too salty, I threw it into the gutter.

My cheeks were turning stiff from the cold and my belly rumbled. A window full of olives and hanging pastrami lured me into its black-and-white tiled interior. This new experience, new place, demanded a new taste thrill. I settled for a Reuben sandwich and ate with relish as a sliver of sauerkraut escaped onto my chin.

By 7:00 p.m., I was apprehensively waiting in the foyer for Robin of the sexy phone voice. When a conservatively dressed, middle-aged man with thinning hair approached, my expectations plummeted.

“Junie Moon. What a pleasure.” He kissed me on each cheek, his warm greeting slightly dispelling my disappointment. The Marlboro Man he was not but, as the night progressed, he proved to be fascinating company.

“Now, about our working arrangement,” he said, after the waiter removed our dessert dishes “My attorney, Marty Heller, wants us both in his office tomorrow so he can prepare a contract. I’m ready to start working on the story outline immediately.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Well not at my place, that’s for sure. My wife Liz is going to scream blue murder when she gets an eyeful of you.” He had been drinking steadily throughout the meal and now gazed a little too openly at my breasts. “I have a studio down on 42nd Street where I write when I’m in town. I prefer writing at my Jamaican property but, at the moment, I need to stay here. My latest book, ‘The French Connection’, is being made into a movie and they’re shooting it in New York. You’ll find the studio pretty basic but you can stay there while we’re writing.”

“Basic or not, I have a hunch I’ll like it better than the Barbizon. Which reminds me, I’d better get back or I might be locked out.”

Robin’s face fell.

CHAPTER 3

“Ya gotta live it up to write it down.” Robin grinned as he entered the studio and flopped onto the daybed. His long, daily ‘business lunches’ were cutting into our writing time.

“You’ve been telling me that for the last three months,” I grumbled, irritated that he was late again.

“Now, now, Junie Moon. Just a little nap and I’ll be ready to work for another two hours.”

I looked at the clock and frowned. It was already three o’clock. If he slept for an hour and then we worked for two more, by five his wife Liz would be phoning every few minutes as she always did if he was late.

I admired Robin’s courage. In order to write ‘The Green Berets’, he had undergone jump training with The Special Forces at Fort Bragg. He then received special permission to go to Vietnam with them for six months, gathering material for that book.

But I was anxious to get on with my life and he kept returning late and glassy-eyed from lunch. If he worked overtime, both Liz and his girlfriend harassed me with endless phone calls.

Already he was snoring lightly, his mouth slightly agape, his graying hair rumpled against a cushion. What did all these women see in him? His little black book bulged with female names and far too many phoned. Obviously, his writing studio had a dual purpose.

Until he woke up, I couldn’t do much for I wrote under his guidance. Robin plotted the book and wrote the segments about the Senate investigation; I wrote the sections about my involvement leading up to the hearings. Using his old Remington typewriter, he inserted my chapters, editing as he went. He was calling our story ‘faction’, fiction based upon facts.

Wandering disconsolately to the kitchenette, I poured another coffee. Until the book was sold, I was broke so haste was imperative.

My exhilaration over bringing the crooked army sergeants to justice had been short-lived. At first, I had enjoyed all the public attention. When my picture hit the newspaper front pages, I became Queen for a Day – a temporary diversion for the New York social set who briefly embraced my differences. Yet I couldn’t overcome the feeling of being a Martian, not belonging anywhere.

Initially, I was awestruck by the glitter and glamour of New York’s high society but soon the superficiality galled me. Designer labels and ‘the in crowd’ seemed irrelevant. I was lugging the invisible baggage of Vietnam with me and the memories hadn’t dissolved with a snap of my fingers. I had been living one ‘life’ one minute then, after a few short hours on a plane, I was thrust into an entirely different one. The sudden contrast was overwhelming.

While writing about Vietnam all day, it was impossible to forget and move on. As the initial excitement generated by the hearings quieted, depression began creeping up on me—stealthily—like a cheetah stalking a gazelle.

Nothing felt real anymore. In Vietnam, the GIs used to talk longingly about returning to the real world. But eventually that place of war became our reality. I wondered if many of them, upon returning to that so-called ‘real world’, felt as alien as I did. Possibly not as much, considering they returned to their own country. But they must have been greatly distressed by their countrymen’s abuse and lack of compassion. Maybe my re-entry into ‘normal’ society would have been less challenging if I had returned to Australia. Yet given my emotional state, I doubted it and concluded many of us must have lost our sense of belonging to the place we left because those of us who returned were no longer the same people.

Robin’s depressing little brown studio with its strident telephone was no help. It sat above The 13 Coins Chinese restaurant and the nauseating cooking fumes frequently seeped in. At night, I smelled the odor clinging to my pillowcase. While I tossed and turned on the narrow daybed, Robin was ensconced in his luxury, high-rise condo. Liz had decorated it with zebra-skin covered floors, mirrored walls, and countless vases filled with armfuls of white lilies.

In search of sleep, I began medicating on wine and sleeping pills. I could understand why Vietnam vets suffered this way but why me? I had not been in combat.

Life remained unpredictable. Short term, there was the book to finish but what then? I still toyed with the idea of adoption but over the last few years, my zeal had faded, impeded by too many obstacles; little things, such as the war. However, I had made enquiries at a New York adoption agency only to be told that it was impossible for single women to adopt. Liberal changes allowing ‘singles’ and homosexuals to adopt were many years down the road.

I wanted to keep my promise to take one of those Asian street children but, long ago in Australia, I swore I would never marry again. I planned to finish my life very happily as a single woman. Thoughts of children had been shoved strongly off my radar…unil that night in Manila when I saw those little beggars asleep on the sidewalk and my heart broke. The sight of their soiled, crumpled bodies flashed to mind. The eldest no older than maybe eight; newspaper used in place of sheets; and the huge, hairy, red-eyed rat that scurried away from the soles of their feet at my approach.

Putting down my empty coffee cup, I noisily tidied the kitchen, hoping to wake Robin. He didn’t stir but I heard a sound outside the door. Opening it, I found no one there. But, from the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a black, flowing skirt disappearing around the corner. My foot brushed against something. I bent and picked up a small, rag doll riddled with pins.

“Not another one,” I mumbled, slamming the door and throwing the gift from Robin’s girlfriend into the garbage can.

Robin had introduced us the previous week when she broke his rule of no uninvited guests at the studio. She had stared at me from granite-hard eyes as she wrapped her arms possessively around Robin’s waist. Tall and thin, she towered above him and her long, black hair fell across his shoulders.

“Did Robin tell you I’m a witch?” She rasped, “You keep your hands off my man if you know what’s good for you.”

I had laughed aloud, my respect for Robin plummeting. “Well, hop on your broomstick and fly away. I’m busy.”

Robin got rid of her and returned, shoulders hunched, avoiding my eyes.

Being new in the U.S. and after living removed from western civilization for years, I didn’t always understand what was happening around me. When Robin took me to The Friar’s Club, an exclusive men’s hangout for the rich and famous, I was unaware that I was meant to be impressed.

Four or five of us sat drinking while a chatty group at the next table fawned around an older man. He openly stared at me before inviting Robin to bring ‘his friends’ and join his table. Robin eagerly complied, seating me beside the lascivious celebrity. The man’s wit kept his audience in peals of laughter but he did not interest me. My rebuff embarrassed all present. Robin quietly scolded me for being rude to such a famous television personality.

Living in Vietnam, where we had only limited Armed Forces Network Television, I had never heard of him so, to me, he was just an unattractive, old man. Such experiences re-enforced my feeling of being a Martian. ‘Their’ values were not mine.

Years later, Charlie Daniels recorded a song called ‘Still in Saigon.’ The lyrics perfectly described me in those early New York days. How could I forget Vietnam when it was still so fresh in my mind and I wrote about it all day?

My moods swung between boisterous laughter and thinly-controlled anger. On a good day, I hid my feelings; on a bad day, I had none. No anger, no fear, no sadness, no joy, no lust. I felt like ‘Dead (wo)Man Walking’. I was physically, mentally and sexually defunct. During one of those days, I stepped out into Manhattan’s rush-hour traffic against the lights. Amid squealing brakes and screamed abuse, I ambled zombie-like to the other side, numbly daring death. I felt so dead that there was no motivation to do anything, even take my own life…or save it.

Then a few weeks later, I picked up the newspaper and read a small article about Jurate Kazickas, a journalist with AP. While covering the war in Vietnam, she became famous among the Marines, many of whom claimed she was the greatest journalist over there. Affectionately, they had nicknamed her Big Sam. While accompanying a company of marines in the field, she was wounded at Khe Sanh.

The article said she had attempted suicide in a gas oven. I was shocked. She had left Vietnam ahead of me and I had recently bumped into her in New York. She was riding a bicycle through Manhattan, curly hair and cotton skirt flying in the wind. When I hailed her, she rode over and we went for coffee. There was no indication anything was wrong. She was still reporting for AP but, somehow, she seemed as out of place as I felt.

Deeply affected by her attempted suicide, I did some research and discovered that more Army nurses suffered depression after Vietnam than after any previous war. I can’t say enough about my admiration for those dedicated women. The realization that one is participating in a futile war where young men are dying needlessly is devastating. Nurses had to deal daily with the death and dying which I did not. But my knowledge of the dying and my involvement with the corruption had eroded my spirit. After reading about the nurses, I oddly felt better, not from any lack of compassion, but by knowing I wasn’t alone.

By day, Robin and I were busily writing; by night, we were being lavishly entertained. Liz was always there, clinging possessively to Robin. Clearly, she didn’t like me. Young, big-busted blondes are seldom popular with other women, especially if they are locked in a small space with the woman’s husband all day.

We mingled with interesting people. We lunched with Harold Robbins, the hottest author of the day. We had coffee with Barbara Walters. She was charming and wanted to interview me on morning television but her producer said ‘no’, he hadn’t believed my story. At the New York Explorer’s Club, I was enchanted by the seafaring adventures of Thor Herdayl of the Kon Tiki expedition. Since age ten, when I fell in love with Gulliver, I was always drawn to adventurers.

Many weekends, I explored New York alone. I climbed the steps inside the Statue of Liberty—all the way up to the torch—in the days before terrorism banned that activity. I took the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building where I swayed and felt dizzy. I traveled by ferry to Staten Island. I wandered through Central Park and sipped tea at The Plaza’s Palm Court. Just another gawking tourist.

I managed to control my drinking in public until one night when Robin, Liz, and I were invited to join a few of his friends for dinner at an exclusive new restaurant.

Seven of us entered the elegant room on ankle-deep carpet. Rich tapestries hung on brick walls beneath soaring ceilings; timber shone warmly and crystal sparkled. The strains from a violin quartet added ambiance to the muted atmosphere. Yet it failed to lift my spirits after a day of writing about things which still stirred my emotions.

A tuxedo-clad waiter placed a napkin on my lap then poured Cristal champagne into a hollow-stemmed goblet. I absently thanked him, lost in morbid thoughts. My dinner companions made polite conversation but I did not participate. What did I care about the latest Broadway show or their new physical fitness trainers?

Staring morosely at the bouncing bubbles in my glass, I quickly squelched their effervescent dance with a big gulp. The efficient waiter repeatedly filled my goblet. The surrounding opulence only increased my despair as a series of vignettes sprang unbidden to mind. When the waiter sat a dish of pink prime rib before me, I saw flashes of young soldiers, squatting in torrential rain, hunched beneath oilskin ponchos while eating C-rations from khaki-colored tins. I shoved my plate aside, untouched. I did not belong here with these bejeweled and fur-clad ladies. Emptying my glass, I slammed it down, breaking the stem. Quick as a whiplash, I leaped onto the center of our table with a wounded scream. Wine goblets and china cups toppled over. Glaring angrily around the room, I pointed an accusing finger at the diners, never considering some could have sons in Vietnam.

“What’s wrong with you people!?” I screamed. “Don’t you have any feelings? Don’t you care that your young men are out there in the mud dying for you while you’re pampering yourselves? You disgust me.”

Robin frenziedly tugged my skirt while waiters rushed towards us. They dragged me down, threw me out into the street and banned me forever. I wasn’t their ‘type’. Robin was gentlemanly enough to escort me back to the studio and I vaguely remember him and Liz leaving.

I wish I didn’t remember staggering to the neighborhood cocktail lounge after they left. The bartender decently tried to stop me from drinking more but I craved oblivion. My earlier explosion hadn’t alleviated my turbulence; it only added a twisted remorse to my seething anger. I made eye contact with a good-looking (I think), dark-haired man. He helped me back to the studio and I dragged him into bed. Popping amyl nitrates, I tried to bring my dead libido back to life, clawing and writhing my way through the next half hour. The ferocity of my attack turned his initial pleasure to anger and he removed his bleeding body with a few harsh words then left, slamming the door.

Stumbling to the shower, I turned it on full force, so hot it scalded me. Falling against the tiled wall, I slid in a cloud of steam to the floor and lay there, pelted by water which coursed around me before gurgling down the drain. Then I cried…and cried.

The next morning when Robin arrived and found the empty pill bottle, he phoned a doctor friend. I opened my eyes, confused, and looked around before recognizing the studio. The previous night’s events flooded back like dirty water. I groaned. I had only made things worse.

“How are you feeling now?” Robin asked after the doctor reprimanded me with a few threats about Bellevue and left. I turned my head to the wall, not answering; not wanting him to look at me.

“Luckily, I came in early,” he said.

“Just leave me alone.”

“Junie Moon, you have a problem, honey. I think you need to get away from New York. How would you feel about going to Jamaica and finishing the book in Port Antonio? It’s peaceful there.”

Preview Of My Sequel, Junie Moon Rising

I decided to test the waters on my new book here. I will post several chapters over the next few weeks. Please feel free to comment.

CHAPTER 1

I awoke from the sleep of the dead. For a few seconds, my mind was blank and I stared uncomprehendingly at the unfamiliar hotel room. Then the events of the past seventy-two hours flooded back. I glanced at the built-in digital clock on the bedside table and realized I had slept for fourteen hours. Apparently, jet lag had finally caught up with me. Nervous tension had kept it at bay for a couple of days. Now my testimony before the U.S. Senate Subcommittee on Investigations was behind me and I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I sat up, my mind screening a rerun of recent events like a familiar old movie.

Safe at last! Done! Finished! Over! Only days earlier, I had been in Vietnam, scared to leave because I’d been told the airport was being watched. But with a price on my head, I had escaped. Two days after arriving in the USA, I testified before the Senate Committee and, by yesterday, my photo had been splashed over the front pages of every newspaper in the country. The story went worldwide and I was labeled a whistleblower…a heroine.

Senator Abraham Ribicoff, Acting Chairman of The Senate Committee had publicly praised me, saying “You are not an American but you did a great service for this country when you risked everything to bring this ‘Khaki Cosa Nostra’ to justice.”

I didn’t let any of it go to my head. The title of heroine was balanced by my enemies who called me a whore. I didn’t feel like a heroine and I knew I wasn’t a whore. Let them call me what they would. I knew I was just an ordinary person, intrepid enough to follow my fate.

But that was all behind me now. The future loomed emptily ahead; my business as a booking agent bringing entertainment to the troops in Vietnam was destroyed.

I climbed out of bed wearing only my panties. Shivering in the unfamiliar coldness of air conditioning, I stumbled to the bathroom and climbed gratefully into the white, fluffy chenille robe provided by the hotel. I thought about the ‘bad guys’ I had testified against. They had wanted me dead so I couldn’t talk. But I had talked and the world had listened. Surely there was no reason to kill me now, was there? They would be the first suspects. Still, it might be best if I remained alert.

In two more days, I needed to vacate this hotel room which the committee had paid for, along with my ticket out of Vietnam. I should have felt elated that I had beaten those crooked army club sergeants yet I felt terribly flat. It reminded me of the big letdown that often follows Christmas and I recalled an army chaplain once telling me that there were more suicides in January than in any other month.

I had one tiny glimmer of hope. Two nights earlier, after seeing me on the evening news, a writer named Robin Moore had phoned from New York and suggested a book collaboration. I grabbed onto the idea like a drowning man clutches a rope.

I ordered room service and was waiting for my scrambled eggs and toast to arrive when Robin Moore phoned me for the second time. He suggested I check into Manhattan’s Barbizon Hotel for Young Women at Lexington and 53rd Street East.

“My condo is on 72nd near Lexington,” he said. “It’s convenient to have you nearby.”

“A hostel for young women isn’t exactly my style.” Absently, I twirled a strand of blonde hair around my finger.

“It won’t be for long. Besides, it was good enough for Joan Crawford, Ali MacGraw, and Rita Hayworth.” His voice sounded sexy.

“Well, if a firecracker like Rita Hayworth could handle it I guess I can.” I laughed.

“I could get you a discount at The Sheraton Hotel.” Robin paused. “Father was the founder of The Sheraton chain, you know. His first three acquisitions were right here in New York but, even with a discount, it would cost more than the Barbizon. I’m sure money’s tight after losing your business.”

“You got that right.” I digested his information before asking, “Do you work in the family business then?”

“The Sheraton? Not any more. Father took a partner, added four more hotels then sold out. I handled the P.R. My first book, ‘Pitchman’, was based on those P.R. days. After selling it, I quit the hotels and I’ve been writing ever since.”

Wondering if he looked as attractive as he sounded, I replied, “I read your book, ‘The Green Berets.’ It was terrific.”

“Thanks. Look, Junie Moon, I gotta run. In the morning, you head to the Washington airport and take the shuttle to La Guardia. They leave every hour. Take a cab to the Barbizon and I’ll meet you in the foyer at seven tomorrow night. Gentlemen aren’t allowed above the ground floor so do be ready.”

“Yes, Mr. Moore. I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

“It’s Robin, remember. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other while working together so forget this Mister stuff.”

“Yes, Robin. Any suggestions on what I should wear tomorrow night?”

“Well certainly not army fatigues. I’ll make a reservation at Twenty One.”

After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the bed and mentally replayed our conversation, trying not to get too excited. Book royalties could alleviate my precarious financial situation and give me a fresh start. I clung tenuously to an unfulfilled promise made years earlier, a promise to take one of those small Asian beggars off the streets. My conscience nagged me with the passing of time but maybe I could do that now. However, one thing was certain: I would need to change my ways and live a more normal life. My past had been anything but normal.

When breakfast arrived, I thanked the waiter and ate without tasting; my mind preoccupied with things other than food. While washing the lukewarm toast down with strong coffee, I absently noticed the vase of dying carnations. They had been a ‘Welcome to the USA’ bouquet from the two senate investigators. I couldn’t bear anything dead around me. Leaping up, I threw them into the wastebasket then turned my attention to clothes. I had left Vietnam with only one small suitcase. Apart from the circumstances of my hasty departure, I hadn’t needed a huge wardrobe over there. For three and a half years, I had worn army fatigues most of the time.

Opening the closet door, I looked at the conservative, brown woolen dress I had hastily bought to wear at the hearings. That would have to do. My first trip to New York or not, even I had heard of Twenty One, that very ‘in’ restaurant. To an ordinary girl, a sheep farmer’s ex-wife, this was pretty heady stuff.

 

WELCOME NITRA GIPSON, INDIE AUTHOR From TEXAS

I mentioned two weeks ago that I would be posting interviews with other authors whose work I admire. This week I would like you to meet Nitra.

Guest Author Interview
 
1. What is the title of your most recent book and what genre does it fall into?
The book is a memoir/biography titled: “The Real Verdict, My Quest for the Freedom I Never Had”
 
About the book:

A child doesn’t choose her lot in life; but, ultimately, she is the artisan of her destiny. First-time author Nitra Gipson poignantly illustrates this perspective in her captivating autobiography, chronicling her life from early childhood to the present. Growing up in a family wracked with secrets, young Nitra constantly nurtured her dream to strive and achieve academic success. Her ambition was cultivated by her mother and uncles, who recognized her budding potential. Although she recognized her intrinsic worth, Nitra was constantly demoralized by people in her family and acquaintance circles. Through it all, she lived in fear, harboring a terrible secret of her own: From the ages of three to eleven, she endured physical abuse, perpetrated by a family member. Despite her desperate attempts to reveal the truth, her outcries were ignored. Under threats and intimidation, the little girl harbored the secret for years, until she faced her reality, found her voice, and put an end to the horror. Notwithstanding that triumph, Nitra’s quest for personal freedom was far from over. At the age of thirteen, she witnessed her uncle’s high profile murder trial and execution. Then, five years later, she faced one of America’s most formidable corporate behemoths in the courtroom, striving to prove her innocence of a crime that she did not commit. Who would ever believe that an unassuming girl from Texas could prevail against such a foe?
 

About the author:
Nitra Gipson comes from Houston, Texas. I was raised in a dysfunctional family, and the repercussions of psychological, emotional, and physical abuse, sustained during my childhood nearly shattered her life. Living my private pain and my uncle’s tragic public death by execution galvanized my interest in the law and the workings of the legal system. In December, 2008, I graduated with a degree in Criminal Justice. In the interim, I sued one of the nation’s largest corporate entities after being falsely accused of committing a felony while on its premises. A sizeable award ensued from the verdict in my favor. I define my success and personal accomplishments by my relationships with loved ones and supporters, most notably my mother, siblings, and fiancé, with whom I envision a future filled with hope. I published my first book The Real Verdict, to help and let others know they are not alone and we can be the voice for others. We all have power and we can take it back from our abusers.


 
 
2. Is it available just about anywhere? It’s available online at any bookstore website and some local bookstores.
Would you provide at least some of the links for it?:
Barnes and Noble: http://tinyurl.com/8d72lq8
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/1479721913/ref=mp_s_a_1?qid=1359945160&sr=8-6&pi=SL75
Website: www.therealverdict.com
Publisher: www.xlibris.com
Books a million: http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Real-Verdict/Nitra-Gipson/9781479721917?id=5599456380274
 
3. Who or what inspired you to write this particular book? Initially I started to write to relieve some of the stress I was living with. It was very therapeutic. After I began to write I found a better purpose other than myself. I felt I needed to encourage other abuse victims and their loved ones. Hoping I would help them help each other and speak out about things they’ve experienced. I felt that I could save a child or help an adult.
4. What makes it unique?
Well, I think some may say every memoir is unique because every story is so different. But I think my story is unique because of the sensitive subject. Not everyone can tell a story about sexual abuse and family incest, especially while just coming to terms with the realities of the abuse. In my memoir I talk me standing up to my abuser at only 11. When I realized it was wrong and that someone outside of my family could help me stop it, I didn’t care about what happened after trying to stop it.
5. Were there particular problems you addressed in writing this book? I really focused on abuse with children and especially when the abuser is a family member. Families tend to overlook, abused children when the perpetrator is a close family member. Sometimes they feel a need to be loyal to perpetrator and the child. We must understand it can’t be both ways. The child is always innocent and the perpetrator should held accountable for their actions. We don’t pick the families we’re born into and it is sad to say that we may have a member of our family that has serious problems that can’t be solved by just giving them a pass because they’re family. We have to realize we’re doing more harm than good by not holding everyone accountable for their actions especially involving a child. It’s difficult for a child to hold an adult accountable for their actions without the help of another adult. Loyalty should start with children. Those who can’t help themselves.
6. Who would you choose to play the leading role(s) if you book were made into a movie? Wow that is a hard one! I never really thought that far… I love Angela Basset, she plays great strong women roles in biographies. Since most of my book reflects my life as a child, I’m lost with that. I guess I would have to wait and see!
7. What other books would you compare your book to? Well I don’t have a particular book in mind but I would compare it to any inspirational book for adults. Some people need a little inspiration, especially child abuse victims.
8. Do you have anything else in the works that you’d like to talk about? Currently I’m working on different poems. Similar to those in my book. Each chapter in my book begun with my feelings, mental state and thoughts at that time in my life. Since I’m at a different time in my life and I’m in a much better place than where I was before, I want to continue to inspire others. Child Abuse victims can’t control their childhood but we can control our adult life.
9. What makes you the best person to tell this story? My memoir is about my life and how I perceived it as a child and then as an adult. There’s no better person to tell this story but me.
10. Is your book dedicated to anyone, if so who and why? I didn’t decide who I would dedicate it to until after my book was completed. Initially i wanted to dedicate it to all abuse victims but after completing it I decided to dedicate it to my mom. I wanted to thank her for giving me life, so that I can help others and maybe save a life. Quite the contrary because I felt she was a little careless in protecting my sister and I from a child predator. But in the course of writing my book I learned a lot about abuse and my mom. Abuse normally continue for generations until one person stand up to stop it. She gave me life, so I could be that one person to stand up and speak out to stop it. There’s not anything on this earth that I could do to repay her or show her my gratitude for it. Writing a book to help others while helping myself was everything I could ask for!
11. What problems did you face writing your book? My biggest problem was revealing the details of my abuse to everyone. No one knew about my abuse so writing the book was shocking to the people closest to me. I had to go back to those moments and relive them over again. It was hard but I knew it was something I needed to do. In doing so I encouraged other family members to speak out about their abuse.
 

Regards,

Nitra Gipson

Author: The Real Verdict
G-B & R Urban Enterprises, LLC
Managing Member
Nitra.gipson@gbandrun.com
www.therealverdict.com




















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Darlene Craviotta. Screenwriter-author

I had promised to paste something from Darlene’s blog here but instead, I am posting a review of her very fine book, An Agoraphobics Guide to Hollywood. How Michael Jackson got me out of Hollywood.

Although Darlene is now an Indie author, she has earned a living her entire life as a screenwriter in Hollywood. This shows in her superb writing style. I join many others in hoping she continues to write books for our enjoyment.

Please keep writing books! January 26, 2013

By Stacey Louiso

Format:PaperbackFrom the blog [...]

A well-crafted piece of writing will keep me reading, non-stop, until the end. I know good writing: It flows effortlessly, it keeps you engaged and it excites you–making you want more. An Agoraphobic’s Guide to Hollywood: How Michael Jackson Got Me Out of the House by Darlene Craviotto was such a book. In fact, I read it in one sitting!

Any discriminating reader who appreciates a writer who has honed their craft, will immediately sense that Craviotto knows what she is doing. This book moves along at the speed of a film, which makes perfect sense seeing she is actually a screenwriter by trade. I was fully engaged by the scenes she set, the characters portrayed and the conflict created throughout.

There is a raw vulnerability that is thematic in An Agoraphobics Guide to Hollywood; Craviotto draws the reader into her personal struggle with agoraphobia as it affects her life, family and career. Much is revealed about her life in what seems like a flash. Again, a skill one finely tunes in screenwriting by getting the audience to relate to the main character, either empathetically or sympathetically, so they are with them `till the end. The personal struggle is hidden well from the outside world after years of practice, however, in an instant Craviotto has to make a risky choice.

The shift in the story ensues when the opportunity that projects Craviotto out of her “comfort” zone (having to work, one on one, with the late Michael Jackson at his place of choice), forces her to lay down her security. If she wants to be successful she has no choice: she either finds her strength or loses out on the project of a lifetime. It’s exciting to be let in on how she opts to move ahead, taking baby steps or leaps, depending on the situation.

The other conflict that arises is a sub-story that involved Mr. Jackson. I, personally, was glad she opted not to dedicate a large portion of the book focusing on how to handle what she discovered. This, to me, shows a great deal of class on the part of Craviotto.

Overall, the ebb and flow of the book is wonderful. A refined reader will get a true sense of how close to this story the author is, how much of her heart went into telling it and how freeing the experience was for her. The ending gives you closure, even though she may have never truly received it. After all that work, on a script that was canned, and the stress of overcoming all she did while working on “Project M”, one senses that Craviotto was grateful to have regained her life, in more ways than one.

Bravo on work well done!

Quick Message.

If you have not previously had a copy of Goodbye Junie Moon, it is free on Amazon Kindle today, 17th Feb.

Blogs That I Follow and Recommend

I don’t follow a lot of blogs – don’t have enough time. However, I do follow the blogs of Darlene Craviotta, Lynn Schneider and Clancy Tucker. Because I believe that all these blog sites are above average, I intend to post excerpts from each one over the coming weeks.

To start the ball rolling, the following is a blog interview with a most talented and fascinating man. Clancy posts on his blog ‘ Clancy Tucker’ daily and his subjects and interviews are varied. Take it away Clancy;

1. What is the title of your book?

‘Gunnedah Hero’. Gunnedah is a rural city in New South Wales, Australia, and the ‘hero’ of this story will become evident as you read the book – Smokey ‘Gun’ Danson. Why was he nicknamed ‘Gun’? Read the book.

2. Where did the idea for the book come from?

This story is about the ‘long paddock’; an expression not many Australians would have ever heard of. What is it? Basically, back in the dim dark ages when life was tough in Australia (1910), farmers moved their cattle along the sides of the public roadways to keep them alive during harsh droughts – always in search of feed and water. Great idea, eh? But, to write a story about a fourteen-year-old Aussie drover with three cattle dogs and a pack horse would have been fairly boring so I had to include all sorts of adventures and misadventures along the way – and disguised lessons in history. Young Smokey leaves home as a boy, but matures during his trip and arrives home as a young man – a lot wiser.

3. What is the genre of your book?

It is young adult fiction, but certainly suitable for ages 8 – 80 years-of-age.

4. Which actor(s) would you choose to play the characters in a movie rendition?

Mm … always said this story would make a better movie than a book, and have thought about this a lot. This story has something for all members of the family – grandparents to young kids. Actors? I’d like to have new Aussie actors to play in the movie. Why not? Everyone deserve an opportunity, and it might just give them that kick along to do other movies. Besides, using undiscovered actors would give me a buzz. It would also provide a ‘fresh‘ element to the movie. Part of the movie deal would include three major points: 1. That I choose the actors. 2. I spend time with them, outlining the characters they will portray. 3. The move maker does not alter the story – at all. That’s it.

5. What is a one sentence synopsis of your book?

This is a wonderful coming of age story for boys – especially reluctant readers.

6. Is your book self-published or represented by an agent/publisher?

This book is self-published. However, I’ve rejected four contracts for this book – Sydney, Melbourne, London and New York? Why, because I am passionate about my work. Why should I be ripped off? I own the ‘c’ in the circle – © it’s called copyright.

7. How long did it take you to write your first draft?

Three months and 84,000 words of passionate pleasure. All of my manuscripts take roughly three months to write. It’s an adrenalin rush; almost better than a cold beer on a hot day. The sequel has already been written – ‘A Drover’s Blanket’©, and I’m about to write the third book in the series – ‘Magic Billie’©.

8. What other books would you compare yours to within your genre?

Not so sure there are any along similar lines. This book is two stories in one – 1910 and 2010. Two years ago I deliberately read 237 YA fiction books in one year. Result: most had no story – per se. A majority of them did not edify or enhance the lives of young adult readers – or entertain them. The only one I vividly recall is ‘The silver Donkey’ by Sonya Hartnett who went on to win the most lucrative literary prize in the world. This story hooks you from page one, and there is a connection between the young modern (2010) protagonist, Gunnie, who is fourteen, with the 1910 protagonist, Smokey, Gunnie’s great-great-grandfather, who is also fourteen. I always write for my reader, and this story is one that keeps the reader wanting to flip pages to find out what happens. Although this is about a topical subject, drought, it is also a story that will silently educate city kids who nothing about the bush. Milk and meat do not come from the supermarket!

Maybe comparisons: ‘Secret of the Sands’ – a mystery about the great Sphinx of Ghiza – Egypt … or, ‘Behind the Bedroom Wall’ – a story about the Nazi youth.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

No one person or thing, but I’m inspired to write about topical subjects. This book is about drought, and was written during the biggest and harshest drought in Australian history. Also, I have been concerned for some time that young Australians know very little about our country’s history, so I decided to write ‘Gunnedah Hero’ and provide raw snippets of what life was like back in 1910. So, rather than write a text book, I wrote a book that contains hidden messages and images of life around 1910.

10. What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

As I said, it is two stories in one – 1910 and 2010. This book is highly believable and inspiring. It is character-driven by people who did it tough; folks who struggled during harsh times but had principles and integrity. It would be a great box office hit. Why, because the entire family would buy tickets – grandparents, parents and kids. Every member of a family would relate to someone in the story, and there are hidden messages for all of them.

Let’s Talk About The Weather.

How boring, you might say. But not if you live in Queensland Australia. Ten days ago Australia was in the middle of a heat wave – the worst in recorded history in many areas where is was well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. I could not sleep well due to the anxiety caused by the heat and strong smell from the fires which had filled the air here with thick smoke.

Suddenly the rain came and I was rejoicing…….UNTIL the second day. At that time the rain turned to non-stop, torrential rain lashed by cyclonic winds. For two nights and one day it never stopped – not even for five minutes. Trees crashed all around, power lines came down and of course, all power quit. We had no power, no running water, no phone, internet or radio (We were too stupid to store batteries.) Totally cut off from the world, I continually braved the blizzard like conditions to run to my car and turn on the radio. The news was grim with homes in many areas under water. I thanked God that I live on a mountain top, even if it was cut off by land and rock slides.

After three long days the power came back on and after four days my internet was functional again. How wonderful it was to turn on the lights and be able to see again. And I never realized how much I relied on television. Through that media I viewed the plight of so many who live in low lying areas. Some lost everything while I was fortunate to have my home intact, even though outside was a disaster area.

By the fourth day I was able to drive up to our small village. The roadside was strewn with downed trees and emergency vehicles and electric power company trucks and cranes were everywhere. Our one and only small supermarket was finally open but the shelves were half empty and the refrigerators were totally empty. 

This storm has taught me a few lessons and I will be better prepared next time. I do like to think of myself as a survivor and I did manage better than some. For starters – I would never own an electric stove. I do have gas and, I can always make a cup of tea and cook food. On the mountain where I live, there is no town water. We catch our water in tanks when it rains. Of course, if the power quits, the electric pumps don’t work so that leaves no tap water or flushing toilets. Lucky again, I keep supplementary, smaller tanks which are not hooked to the pumps but rely on gravity. It pays to own plenty of buckets.

My family and I like camping so there are always plenty of gas and kerosene lamps. And as for food, I have a well stocked pantry so it would be a long time before we had to go hungry.

So what have I learned?——– Well my next purchase should be a generator. And as for our increasingly hot summers with accompanying bush fires ……….I have learned of a sudsy substance that can prevent a house from burning and glass from breaking if it is sprayed all over the house

Now if only I was rich! I guess it’s time to promote my book a bit more and maybe increase my home owners insurance.

Cheers until next time and here’s to sunny skies!

THE NEXT BIG THING BLOG MAKES A STOP HERE.

Thanks to Lynn Schneider, author of Perigree Moon for tagging me in this Next Big Thing Blog Hop. Lynn’s book is available from Amazon.

http://www.amazon.com/Perigee-Moon-ebook/dp/B0083LLUQQ/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1358370425&sr=1-1

The following is a partial review from her beautifully written book;

” I loved this story about relationships and how people manage their problems–very insightful. The characters draw you in, the writing flows beautifully, the plot is engaging. I can’t ask for anything more from a novel. Do yourself a favor and read this one. “

Because Lynn has tagged me in this blog hop I am required to answer the following ten questions;

1. What is the title of your book(s) ?

A. My current book is called Goodbye Junie Moon. A soon to be published sequel is titled Finding Junie Moon.

2. Where did the idea for the book(s) come from?

A. From an earlier book which I co-authored with Robin Moore (author of The French Connection). He and I wrote The Khaki Mafia. We called it ‘faction’ – fiction based on a true story. I wrote my memoirs because I wanted to write the whole truth behind The Khaki Mafia.

3. What is the genre of the book?

A. Memoir.

4. What actors would you choose to play the characters in a movie rendition?

A. I would choose Jessica Biele, wife of Justin Timberlake. I think she is a terrific actor.

5. What is the best one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A. A brutally honest look at one woman’s survival in an action packed, occasionally dangerous, life.

6. Will your book be self published or represented by an agent/publisher?

A. ‘Back In the day’ I’ve been published by Crown and Avon but I now self publish. It is much faster.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

A. The first draft took almost two years but that went on and on for about four years. Initially the story ran to almost a thousand pages. Readers no longer make time to read such lengthy books unless James Mitchener’s name is on the cover. I cut the book in halves and also eliminated many chapters. Both books are now about three hundred pages long. Two books work better as there was a huge transition at the place where Goodbye Junie Moon ended.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

A. I don’t know that answer. My life has been so different. It is a story of courage and survival. There are other stories out there with these themes. Many of us have overcome challenges but our challenges were not the same.

9. Who or what inspired you to write the book?

A. A combination of fate and circumstances!

10. What else about the book might pique the reader’s interest?

A. As one reviewer said, Goodbye Junie Moon encourages all women to be unafraid of stepping out of their comfort zone.

Now, as part of this blog hop I must tag another blogger/author and I tag Clancy Tucker. Clancy is a writer, photographer, poet, blogger and human rights activist. He posts daily on his popular and outstanding blog site. I am so impressed with his blog that next week, although his questions and answers will be posted on his own blog, I am also going to post them here. I know you will find them interesting.http://clancytucker.blogspot.com.au/

THE HOLIDAYS ARE OVER AND MY SEQUEL IS FINISHED.

I hope everyone had a marvelous holiday. We routinely ask that question of people and for the most part, they usually answer ‘yes’. But things can go wrong during the holiday season just as they can at any other time. So for those out there who did not have a particularly good time —-I’m sending YOU A BIG HUG!

Well, here in Australia we are suffering extremely high temperatures after a very dry winter. It seems like a large portion of the country is ablaze. My heart goes out to all those in the fire danger zones and I DO wish the country would get some decent rain.(Who would have thought I’d be saying that, considering all the floods we’ve had in recent summers)

It puts me in mind of Dorothea MacKellar’s poem, ‘My Country’. We learned it in school but I recall only one verse. Therefore, I shall paste it here to jog the memory.

My Country

The love of field and coppice

Of green and shaded lanes,

Of ordered woods and gardens

Is running in your veins.

Strong love of grey-blue distance,

Brown streams and soft, dim skies

I know, but cannot share it,

My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,

A land of sweeping plains,

Of ragged mountain ranges,

Of droughts and flooding rains.

I love her far horizons,

I love her jewel-sea,

Her beauty and her terror

The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,

All tragic to the moon,

The sapphire-misted mountains,

The hot gold hush of noon,

Green tangle of the brushes

Where lithe lianas coil,

And orchids deck the tree-tops,

And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!

Her pitiless blue sky,

When, sick at heart, around us

We see the cattle die

But then the grey clouds gather,

And we can bless again

The drumming of an army,

The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!

Land of the rainbow gold,

For flood and fire and famine

She pays us back threefold.

Over the thirsty paddocks,

Watch, after many days,

The filmy veil of greenness

That thickens as we gaze …

An opal-hearted country,

A wilful, lavish land

All you who have not loved her,

You will not understand

though Earth holds many splendours,

Wherever I may die,

I know to what brown country

My homing thoughts will fly.

OH! And before I go, HALLELUJAH! I have finished my sequel to Goodbye Junie Moon. Now I have to get it edited so I don’t suppose it will be on Kindle until February. Think I’ll call it ‘Finding Junie Moon’. What do you think? Let me know!

HAPPY NEW YEAR

TO MY FOLLOWERS. I APPRECIATE EVERY ONE OF YOU. A BIG THANK YOU FOR HANGING IN WITH ME.