Pratap Divyesh's Blog, page 12

Lie, Spies and Pimps

FREEDOM ISN’T FREE Black Friday now carries a somber meaning for Reverend Norman. His wife, Renee Thomas-Norman, buried on Black Friday. Her sensational death printed on the front pages of every New York City newspaper. “I’ll never forget that day, Swoop. The day I lost my wife to the streets.” He re-plays the event in his mind while riding in his private limousine. Swoop eases into the back seat of the limousine next to him. Their strong bond developed when a church parishioner’s son became involved in a high-profile crime. He hired Detective Swoop to complete the private investigation. This compelling sequel to They Shall Swoop is full of unexpected twist and turns. Rev. Norman finally finds his second wife and soul soulmate at his church. Being sexy and married to Reverend George Norman, Sr. proves too dull for Lee Azula who prefers to prosper in a secret world that’s filled with crime, lust, power, greed, and high-stake business deals leads to a web of deception in this partially true crime page turning political thriller that takes the world by storm.

AMAZON

The post Lie, Spies and Pimps appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Deceptions and Lies

One terrorist, six hostages, a single bombing…nothing out of the ordinary for task force operatives Alexandra Lansing and Mark Praed. With one exception; this request comes from the High Council on Kyree.

An appeal from Kyree for task force help is peculiar enough for a planet where non-violence is practiced by all its citizens, but the Council is very specific in their choice of task force personnel: Mark Praed.

Praed is baffled by the request. This is the same planet where his birth to a well born Kyreen female caused a galactic scandal, forcing his human father to flee Kyree with his half-human infant.

The operatives travel to Kyree and meet with the High Council’s leader, Dame Ruthanon. Her orders are clear: the hostages are to be released and the terrorist captured, all without the use of violence.

Alex and Praed are soon caught up in something more devious than the straight-forward capture of a terrorist. Nothing is as it appears, and what should have been a simple operation turns into a tangled mess of falsehoods, secret associations and hidden agendas.

AMAZON

The post Deceptions and Lies appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Murder at the Summer Fete

Issy Lytton, fighting menopause and empty nest syndrome, knew the question, what she didn’t know was the answer. The question was, when you have spent your adult life being a good wife and bringing up two sons, how then in middle age can a person become redundant in their own life. How can a thing like that happen? And more importantly, what to do? But all was not well for the other residents of the village of Upper Yarworth; a spate of petty thefts started with a missing antique Royal Worcester porcelain ewer, and then the murders began.

AMAZON Barnes & Noble KOBO Goodreads

The post Murder at the Summer Fete appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Four Seasons to Self-Reliance: Stories of Those Living It

Four Seasons to Self-Reliance tells the stories of individuals in different areas of the United States who are living self-reliant lifestyles. Each chose levels of achievement apart from others mentioned in the book. The narratives vary from off-grid to simply growing ones own food for better nutrition and for economical purposes. The reader will relate to one or more descriptions of how to become self-reliant by following their own dreams to reality. All continue to find means of earning money to take care of necessary basics, for example taxes. Some need more income than others depending on the level they have chosen to follow. All are stewards of their pieces of land and have learned how to take advantage of the bounty from the earth. Most choose not to live close to neighbors and are focused on reaching independence. They are on the journeys to meet individual goals. Others, though still working the land, have reached a level where they can fully enjoy their accomplishments.

AMAZON Barnes & Noble Goodreads

The post Four Seasons to Self-Reliance: Stories of Those Living It appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Before I became an author, I had another life – in Hollywood (Victor H Royer)

Before I became known as the author of books on casino games and gaming, I had another life – in Hollywood. That was 35 years ago now, and the world was quite different. As it turned out, this was also a very important time in history. Hollywood was changing, and much of the greatness had been forgotten.  As with most people at the time, especially a young man like me, back then I didn’t realize what it all meant, and how it would be missed – and how we will today revere that time, and the things that once were. So, come along with me now, one day in late summer on a hot afternoon, a few steps in the Dream Factory.

By the time I arrived in Hollywood, it was at the end of that dream. The stars were still in heaven, but the stage was silent. I stood alone in the middle of the Boulevard, the late summer sun high in the sky. It was hot, dry, and dusty. To my left was the façade of a once great building, and in the center an enormous iron gate. Back beyond my left shoulder and all the way down the end of the street heavy concrete barriers blocked the sidewalk, and the once statuesque and imposing iron gate resplendent in black enamel, sparkling in the sun, now stood sadly alone, rusty, and locked with a large chain and a heavy padlock. The building itself looked like a sad remnant of an age gone by. The paint had long since faded, the plaster and stone were peeling and cracked in many places, and most of the windows were broken. Under their windowsills several years of rain and dirt and neglect left long streaks of darkness, as if the building itself had cried.

The air baked at the pavement and rose gently like a mirage, flickering with shining waves that looked like glimpses of scenes from the silver screen. It was almost surreal, as if time and space were alone with me in some sort of communion of past present and future, stilled in a moment between a breath and a sigh. Seconds seemed like hours, and minutes seemed like years. A dust devil formed in the heat and danced across the pavement some distance in front of me. Pieces of old magazines and newspapers were whipped up in a sudden frenzy, a kind of collage that reminded me of faces on an endless row of publicity photographs. Just as quickly as it rose the dust devil died, and those flimsy pieces of paper — as if a memory seeking peaceful rest — floated gently to the ground, settling once more where they would again remain forgotten. Toward the end of the street, and to my right, two old cars were parked by the curb, waiting for drivers who would never return.

For a while I stood there uncertain, with my mind wandering. Suddenly, in my mind’s eye, the fog of decades parted. The heavy concrete barriers faded away, the paint on the façade of the building became fresh and new, the broken windows had magically been repaired and sparkled clean as the rays of the sun came floating by. The cracks in the pavement had disappeared, the dirt and dust were gone and the great iron gate again shining bright in its blackness swung open. Throngs of people appeared in that human hustle and bustle, coming hither and forth. Resplendent and colorful, it all came alive in a grand Technicolor frame. There was the studio guard at the gate offering greetings as the stars came in, and at the same time keeping throngs of fans away as they cheered and tried to get autographs from their favorite motion picture stars. I saw Clark Gable, Jean Harlow, Lionel Barrymore, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire, Donald O’Connor and Debbie Reynolds, Eleanor Parker, Esther Williams, Red Skelton, Jimmy Stewart, and Spencer Tracy with Katherine Hepburn. And many more. All in a sea of smiling faces, of people coming to work in what was The Dream Factory. More Stars Than There Are in Heaven, was their motto. This was known as the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios.

Today not many people know very much about the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios. If they do, mostly they will recognize the acronym MGM, and probably associate it more with the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. But for 60 years MGM was the grand dame of Hollywood motion picture studios, a place of wonder and amazement. So much great talent in words, music, songs, dance, great dramatic and comedic acting, a legacy of filmed entertainment, all had passed through those gates, walked along the sidewalks and this Boulevard, and came and went through the pages of that history. And so in my mind’s eye I once again saw all of this in the great glory that once was.

A puff of hot wind, the rustle of an old newspaper, and a wisp of my own fantasy brought me back to the present. As I saw myself returning from that image in my mind, I saw the people fade away, the paint grow dry and old, the windows again broken, the gate padlocked and chained, and the concrete barriers once more standing guard to prevent anyone from venturing closer to that which had been the land of such magic.

I felt just a little sad that day, as I turned around and walked back up the street and toward the end, the point where the grand lot ended in a small strip of land. There a portion of the great studio lot had been cut off, and new, modern buildings built. As I walked up there, ever so closer, the concrete barriers came to an end with the last piece turned toward the sidewalk. At that point began a tall wooden wall which then stretched the full distance of what had remained of the MGM Studios lot. That new portion occupied the wedge at the end of what remained of the property. It was sparkling and shiny, brand-new architecture and design. Green lawns framed the concrete pathway, and several trees and palm trees swayed gently in the occasional breeze.

The building itself was small, as I remember it was only two stories, with a staircase up stairs to the main executive offices. I could be wrong about that, though, but somehow that is the image that I kept in my mind. The sign outside that building proudly proclaimed: MGM Studios. This was the last remnant of that giant, and I felt somehow as if this was built to house the undertakers who were put in charge of laying to rest a body that had passed away.

I was there that day to meet with the president of that company. I had obtained permission to visit the lot, and to walk among the soundstages and buildings that still remained on the MGM Studios lot. It was no longer a working studio, and at the time it was the subject of a power-play between billionaires who were all trying to seize control, to gain as much as they could of that which remained, and to chop up the rest. I couldn’t help but think how sad the end had become.

A short distance up the stairs I walked through the glass door, and inside told the receptionist who I was and whom I was there to see. Short while later a very nice man dressed in a designer suit and tie came out to greet me. We shook hands, exchanged a few pleasantries, after which he handed me a letter. This I was to present to the security guard at the gate outside of this building, a small wooden gate cut into the big wooden wall that separated this part of the lot from the main. The letter basically said that I am authorized to enter the premises and to walk about at my leisure. I thanked him, we shook hands, and soon I was back outside in the hot California sun. To my left there was indeed a guard standing in front of a small door with rusty hinges and a lock that probably could have been picked with a hairpin. I walked up to him, introduced myself, and handed him the letter. He looked at it, smiled, gave me back the letter, and opened the gate. I stepped through, and as he closed it behind me I was suddenly there, on Main Street at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios.

This was a wide street, paved and with sidewalks and curbs. It seemed like it had been a main thoroughfare, possibly used for moving heavy sets, cameras, cranes, and other equipment necessary for the making of motion pictures. It was wider than most of the streets in between the soundstages. But to me it was far more important, because I remembered the street from many great old films. I walked along, further down, until the large wooden fence to my left suddenly cut across the street at right angles, and I came to a stop. The street had ended abruptly. The fence, like a giant wall, ended my trip down that road. Beyond the fence was an area once known as The 40 Acres. That was the MGM back lot. A few years earlier — over the protests of many of MGM’s greatest stars — the studio bosses at the time sold the 40 acres back lot for real estate development, for the measly sum of $5 million. Had those studio bosses listened to their stars at the time, today that back lot could have been a museum of the wonderful motion pictures made there, and a theme park with the great sets full of memories. It would now have a value in excess of $1 billion. But such was the shortsighted thinking at the time that all these iconic sets were bulldozed, and that which had once been great was voluntarily reduced to rubble.

As I stood there on the street, so starkly cut by this tall wooden fence, I could not help but imagine that which had once been beyond. If I were able to continue along the street past that point, it would soon become obvious that this was the Andy Hardy street. Just a little further on and to the right there would have been Judge Hardy’s house, with Andy’s old jalopy parked at the curb outside waiting for yet another adventure with Judy Garland, or his many other loves. And if I were to go further still I would see the street and house from Meet Me in St. Louis, and I could easily have imagined the gigantic sets that once were the island of King Kong — set ablaze in 1939 as the backdrop for the burning of Atlanta for the filming of Gone With the Wind. And if we were to go on further, and a little more into contemporary times, in the 1960s the 40 acres of MGM Studios would have been home to such great TV Classics as the town of Mayberry, the set of Gomer Pyle USMC, and my favorite show of all time Hogan’s Heroes. All these had once been there, just beyond this point where I now stood. They were there no longer … but they still live in my mind, and in my heart.

I took my leave of such memories, and turned to walk a little further on. I wandered in between the tall soundstages thinking of the great films that were filmed there, and great stars that once walked along these same streets. I dreamt the dreams that had once been made in these very soundstages. But now it was all so eerily silent. Just an occasional flutter of a fleeting bird, or a puff of wind over creaking windows, or an old rusting stage door. Walking those narrow streets in between the great soundstages all seemed a little darker, a little cooler, and the hot sun only seemed to shine at the very top.

I then came upon several buildings. One of them was the old writer’s building, which famed studio boss Louis B. Mayer once proudly claimed he built with the proceeds of the films of Jean Harlow. At least that’s how I remember the story, although it could have been another actress, or perhaps I got that story all wrong. But one thing that I knew I did not get wrong was a little concrete alcove at the bottom of stairs to the main building. It was right there, right there where I was standing, where Katharine Hepburn first met Spencer Tracy. The reason I know this for a fact is because Katherine herself stood right there during a documentary about her life and told this story. And now I, too, was standing right there. I could almost see them meeting for the first time, the precursor to not only many great films together, but a great and glorious love affair that lasted for 26 years. Their last film together, in 1968, with Sidney Poitier, was the acclaimed film Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Spencer died just two weeks after the filming was completed on that movie, but Katherine lived on for many years after. She was there at the beginning of MGM Studios, she was there at the end, and she lived long enough to see the great affection that many would have, and would acquire, for those great films — even past the end of the dream.

All about me there were such great memories, and to me there was still great wonder even in the loneliness and solitude of this emptiness. I was now the only living soul on that MGM Studios lot on this day.

I walked some more, and for many hours. I saw places that I had only seen in movies, movie trailers, documentaries, and I was always conscious of the fact that had I been around during the heyday of MGM Studios, I may never have walked these streets, soundstages, and sets. But at the same time I thought that perhaps I would have, at least in some capacity. Maybe on a studio tour, with a fan club, or perhaps even I would have in some way become part of it. It could have been so, but of course I would have had to be born to a different age and time. In some ways, I have always felt that I was born in between the times I should have lived. But maybe that was just the melancholy of the moment. Perhaps I was simply overwhelmed by the great sadness of it all.

Soon it will be time for me to leave. I had spent a lot of time wandering around this great expanse, walking onto empty soundstages that once held grand sets and great actors. I could see the crews and the great directors, the bright arc lights, those old bulky cameras and microphones, the projection rooms, the starlets, the tests, the writers, composers, the singers, musicians, set designers, makeup artists, carpenters, and all of the hustle and bustle that made for a living entity.

I decided that I would go around the long way before heading back to that little rickety gate at the tip of the lot, which at the time was the only access point. I wanted to take one last great look at all that I could see so that I could indelibly marry it in my mind in a way that I could never forget. I drank, and I smelled, and I felt, everything. This was, after all, not only a great adventure but a wondrous opportunity that probably was not offered to many, if at all. I was fortunate that I was able to negotiate this permission, and that I had a chance to do this.

As I came out from a narrow street between two soundstages, where the sun did not shine and the shadows were long, I turned right, and then all of a sudden I was bathed in that hot sun. I had stumbled upon an expanse in the studio where I hadn’t been before. As congested and crowded as the other streets were, with the tall soundstages on either side, here there was ample room in a large area of ground. There were grasses and weeds growing in the cracked pavement, and a few piles of rubble here and there. It looked as if some old buildings had been torn down, perhaps an old soundstage, in readiness for something. Perhaps this was the beginning of a new building, or perhaps grounds were being cleared for a movie set for a film that was never made. It looked very much like half abandoned work, but one done some time ago. Even in California weeds can grow fairly quickly, and this all looked so neglected and overgrown. But the most important thing that struck me was a gigantic sound stage which was now to my right, whose gray corrugated iron sliding door was facing the emptiness where that abandoned work had once begun.

I looked at it, and it struck me as if this large soundstage stood as a sentinel, a sort of guard, to that which had been, and perhaps had been tried to rebuild. This must have been one of the original soundstages, dating back decades. It definitely looked like the style of soundstage that could have been built as far back as the silent era. It was huge. At the top were windows, now broken, and I could see skylights. This is what led me to think that this must have been a very old soundstage, because in the days before freely available electricity natural sunlight was used to light the sets. It looked shabby, and much of its façade was rusting, and there were many holes. I walked toward it quite slowly, pebbles and broken glass crunching under my feet. The great sliding door that once would open the front entrance to the stage, tall and heavy from floor to ceiling, resting on casters on an iron rail, was almost closed, but not quite. There was a little gap where the door had been slid but not locked into place. The space was not enough for me to fit through, so I tried to slide that huge door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was simply rusted shut. But there was another, smaller door, cut into this big one. It too was rusty, and the hinges looked like this door had not been opened for many years. I pulled and pushed at it for a while until it finally gave way. I pulled it open, specs of rust and dust falling about me and on me. I brushed myself off, sneezed, and stepped inside.

It was unusually dark. I was quite surprised at this, because I thought there would be plenty of light streaming in through the windows, or at least through the holes in the building, and skylights. But except for a few beams of sunlight it was pretty dark, and hard to see. The skylights looked black, probably covered with many years of grime and dust. As my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, I began to see the truly massive expanse of this cavernous soundstage. I also noticed that it was cluttered with huge wooden beams, some broken, and lots of other wood and large planks, much of it in splinters. As I stepped forward I also noticed that the ground was heavy with dust and dirt, and what looked like pieces of sawdust. I bent down to pick it up and realized that this was not sawdust but instead pieces of rotting wood that must have broken off from the rafters, or from all of that pile of junk that seemed to be cluttered everywhere, in many places stacked almost as high as the ceiling. A flutter of wings and a puff of dust were the only visible signs of life, as a few pigeons flapped and flitted their way outside, resting on old wooden poles that looked like they once may have carried electricity to this area of the studio lot. Other than that the silence was thick.

I had to step cautiously. The ground seemed unsteady with so much debris, and although the passage through the center of the soundstage was fairly wide, the fact that so much heavy wood and other materials were piled so high on either side made me wonder if some — or possibly all of it — would come crashing down at the slightest disturbance of a mere step. For a few steps, I wasn’t even sure if this was such a good idea, but my curiosity certainly got the better of me. I stepped forward and proceeded on as cautiously, but as curiously, as I could. At this point, I thought that it would have been a good idea if I had brought a flashlight. Of course, I knew that this was a ridiculous thought, because how could I have imagined that I would be needing a flashlight.

I walked about halfway through the large soundstage, and then the passageway took kind of a turn to the right. That pile of stuff to my right reached higher than I could see, and at this point it had jutted out into the middle of this great expanse. It was right at this point that a bird flew by high up, at the skylight, its wings briefly fluttering by the light that came in through a somewhat small hole in the ceiling at that point. Just at the instant of this flutter of light and darkness I suddenly noticed a hint of a flicker of reflected light, kind of like the flash of a small mirror, about halfway up this pile of debris. I looked way up there, and there it was again, that brief flicker. The rational part of my brain said that it was probably just a piece of metal that was hit precisely at the right point by that beam of sunlight, and briefly sparkled so that I could see it. But the imaginative side of my mind began to think of it as some kind of a long forgotten treasure. After all, I was in the dream factory.

I wanted to see what it was, but to get there would be very difficult. At this particular point there were several large wooden beams, the kind that are used for structural support in buildings. These were definitely not two-by-fours, but thick construction pieces. And in addition to all of this, there were very large and tall flat pieces of wood stacked next to each other from the wall and to the center, kind of like you would stack flattened cardboard boxes. There were also other pieces of stuff that went jutting out at various points, many of which were broken and looked like they had pretty sharp corners. All in all it would definitely be a very precarious climb to get up to the point of the shining flicker. It did not seem like a very intelligent decision, but I made up my mind to climb up and see what it was. Needless to say I started cautiously, but on the very first step I nearly brought the whole wall down upon me. I stepped on one of the big beams but the wood was so rotten that it snapped, and a cascade of dust, dirt, and other debris came raining down as if it was some kind of an avalanche. Fortunately it came down either side of where I was standing. It was at this point that I thought of abandoning my climb, because who would find me here? If I was injured, or buried under this pile, it could be hours, or even days, before anybody would come looking for me. Yes, those were the rational thoughts of a rational mind. But I was not in a rational state. I was consumed with imagination and determined to find out what it was.

With foolhardy bravery and an insane amount of recklessness I continued climbing up that pile, at every step holding onto rickety and rotting wood and rusting pieces of metal the nature of which — nor their original purpose — I could possibly have known. For a moment I thought of myself as Odysseus from the Homeric epic, or perhaps Don Quixote chasing and climbing windmills. As with the great hero Odysseus, or the foolhardy Don Quixote, I persevered and finally reached that point. It was at the convergence of two large wooden beams one on either side, and two others one above and one below, that formed a sort of a V-shape with a large dark empty space reaching deep inside. The sun had now moved and so that light was no longer shining in this area, and therefore it was really dark in there. I simply could not see anything. I climbed a little further up, and hoisted myself about waist high into that emptiness and reached in as far as my hands would permit. At first, all I managed to do is stir up a bunch of dust. But as I fumbled about eventually I touched something. I had to push myself up a little bit further and that left me dangling almost in midair, supported at the waist only by the grace of God and the strength of that piece of old wood. I leaned forward and grabbed at whatever it was, and just at that point that beam gave way, and I slid right out. Fortunately, I didn’t fall very far, as my feet caught a ledge just a few inches below. At first, I was frightened and then relieved that I didn’t fall all the way down. And once I realized that I was not injured, or in imminent danger of a catastrophe, I realized that in my left hand I was clutching something. I looked at it, and it was very dirty.

Talk about dust and dirt! It was literally caked, with only a small part flickering. It was this small point that the sunlight must have hit as the bird fluttered by, and it was the reflection of this that I saw. Nevertheless, even as dirty as it was, I could easily see that it was a pair of shoes. They must have been sitting there fairly side-by-side, because as I grabbed for them I managed to grab both of them at the point of the instep, and that’s how I was able to hold onto them as I fell out of that perch. I shook out the dust and dirt as best as I could, grabbed my handkerchief and cleaned off the rest. Just then the late afternoon sun shone through another break in the skylights, and a beam of golden rays came shining down as if God himself had turned on the light of heaven. As I held those shoes, they suddenly began to glow. When the sunlight became stronger and wider it was as if the shoes had come to life, and became illuminated by the key light of a studio spotlight, ready to film a scene in Technicolor. In reality these shoes were just ladies’ pumps covered in red sequins. But as they rested gently in my hand, bathed by the golden beam of sunlight, they glowed ruby red, and I knew that I had captured the dream.

There, in my hands, I held the ruby slippers from the Wizard of Oz. I knew instantly what they were. But to be certain I looked inside, and sure enough, written there in a faded but strong marker was the name: J. Garland. These were Dorothy’s slippers from that great film, and in them once stood the great Judy Garland herself.

All of a sudden it all began to make sense. This huge, old, soundstage. These strong gigantic wooden beams. The nearly ceiling tall planks of wood, and wooden poles. And all of that other debris. It all made sense. Not only was I holding the ruby slippers, but I was actually standing in the land of Oz. This was the soundstage where the Wizard of Oz was filmed, and the debris that I now saw strewn all about me were the remnants of the set that was built for the land of Oz itself. These were the pieces that once were Dorothy’s house in Kansas, the Munchkin Land, the Wizard’s Castle, the forest, and the yellow brick road. This was the land of the greatest dream to ever come out of the dream factory. It was all here, all about me, all resting in peace.

I don’t remember how long I stood there, looking around, remembering, imagining how it must have looked at one time, holding those ruby slippers and looking upon them glowing brightly in that beam of sunlight. What magic in just a shoe.

In my mind the film was playing. In my mind the studio was again the hustle and bustle of its days of glory. It took quite a while for me to regain reality, and only when the sun had moved again and slowly the golden beam of sunlight itself had faded, and so did the glow of the ruby slippers. Yes, the dream was over. It was time to go.

I wondered what to do with the slippers. As part of my permission to walk the lot on that day, I also had permission to take with me whatever I found that I wanted to take, as long as I could carry it with me. The intent was that I would find some kind of a trinket, or perhaps a memento of my visit, and that I could take it with me without having to go and ask for further permission. I thought about the slippers, and that I should take them with me. At that moment no thought of their potential value ever crossed my mind. I was feeling flushed and flooded with emotion, and with memories. Oh how I loved Judy, and wished I could have been there. It didn’t seem right for me to take the slippers. From the look of it, the soundstage and all in it were here getting ready to be demolished and taken away. At some time in the near future bulldozers and dump trucks would come and they would load up what was left of the dream, and take it away somewhere where it would be laid to final rest, to remain there for ever after in anonymity. We should bury that which has died. We should honor the memory, and let them lie in peace. I put the slippers back where I found them.

I climbed back down as quickly as I could, and headed back toward the creaking little door through which I had stepped just a little while ago. I struggled with the door to open it, just enough so that I could fit through, and as I half stepped out I took one last long look back in that big space, back in time, back into the land that once had been Oz. I closed my eyes and then stepped through that door and closed it behind me. I walked quickly now back to the entrance, back to the world of today. I knocked on the gate, the guard opened it, I showed him I did not have anything with me, we exchanged a few pleasantries, and I left.

I stood alone on the boulevard that day. The sun was setting in the west now, and the day was cooler. The concrete barriers were still there, and the great iron gate through which once passed more stars than there are in heaven, still stood silent, rusting, locked with a large chain and a padlock. There was not even the rustle of wind anymore, and no more dreams flittering in the mirage of hot air rising from the baking pavement. I took one last, long look, to etch this all in my memory as much as I ever could hope to remember. And I turned, and walked away. I have never been back since.

It is now some 35 years since that day in the hot California sun. To date, as far as I know, only four sets of ruby slippers are ever known to have existed. The last pair that went up for auction sold just recently for over $2 million. I have never found out if that fourth pair was the one that I had found in that old soundstage, and held in my hands. Was it that fourth pair? Did someone find it, after me? Probably. Or, was this a fifth pair, one never previously known? I have always wondered about this. But somehow I think that perhaps no one found those slippers that I saw. Perhaps when the wreckers finally came, all those old sets were simply loaded up on to trucks and hauled away, and somewhere among all that were also those two ruby slippers. Perhaps that pair found peace, and are now resting along with all those that once lived, and had once worked in the dream factory.

A little while after this day the great Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios sign was finally taken down. The studio became known as Lorimar Telepictures. Today it is known as Sony Pictures Studio. It is once again a working, functioning, living studio. But it is not the same. It could never be.

I have never been back since. I don’t know what happened to all that I saw there, that day. But I do know that for one day I walked in the footsteps of the great days of grand and glorious Hollywood. I spent a day among the stars. And – for a brief moment – I held in my hand the ruby slippers, and I was part of the dream. Whoever would have thought that a simple shoe would mean so much.

Such is the stuff that dreams are made of….

 

This post is contributed as a Guest post by Victor H Royer.

About the author:

Victor H. Royer, known as Vegas Vic, is the author of more than 50 books. Mostly known for books, articles, and columns on casino games & gambling, he is also the author of “Great Casino Slots” “Gambling Legends: True Stories and Amazing Facts” and several titles of fiction, including the Western: “Riders on the Wind”, and the action “Another Day”.

Contribute a post to Being Author Blog [Submit NOW]

The post Before I became an author, I had another life – in Hollywood (Victor H Royer) appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

The Heart of A Writer

What I want to do is start out with three important things that are necessary for anyone who has hopes and dreams, no matter what they are. They are UPLIFT. All those who came before us we stand upon their shoulders and those who will come after us will do the same. ENCOURAGE. No man is an island, we must first encourage ourselves before we can do the same for others. AND lastly, EMPOWER. We all possess unique qualities and abilities that come from God that gives us the authority to do anything. These three powerful words are what everyone should remember and repeat them often like a mantra to yourselves and others.

Throughout my career, I have been fortunate to be in the company of people who were not stingy with inspiring words. Maybe all of them didn’t speak them outright, but their support and generosity suggested this is what they were trying to imply.

Those that know me well, know how passionate I am about writing. Also, my level of dedication to the craft. I take what I do very seriously, therefore, I put forth a serious effort at being the very best. I never planned to be a writer. Not once did I ever say as a child, I wanted to be a writer. Instead, I wanted to teach. This simply proves the authority God has placed over our lives. So, my path was already chosen and waiting for me to accept my gift.

Nevertheless, I am so thankful for the gift. Unrealized, at an early age but later, I knew I possessed an ability to write and embraced it wholeheartedly. I told my first story when I was in kindergarten. The Red Eyed Girl. It was an impromptu tale, but I realized then that I was on to something. I had the ability to capture the attention of others just by telling them a story. The feeling was amazing, especially for an introverted individual like me. I was so shy and would rather fade into the background than being noticed. I wasn’t the person who ever raised their hand in class, whether I knew the answer or not. I was too afraid to speak.

Through writing, I found my voice, many voices. What I know about writing is that even if you have the gift, the creativity and wherewithal to compose and articulate dialogue, you still need one more crucial factor. If I know anything about writing, it is that you must read, otherwise, it is impossible to compose any thoughts or ideas without first reading. If you don’t read you can’t write, it’s that simple. You must form your own style, and this is done by reading other authors material. Even if it is your gift, you must obtain knowledge to make it possible.

Little did I know, that the countless hours spent with my head buried inside a book, or visits to the public library on Saturdays and summer vacation. When most kids were outside playing games and having fun, would lead to more than just a quest for knowledge but a remarkable journey.

I have to thank my mother, for first realizing the importance of teaching me how to read, at the age of three years old no less, books by Dr. Seuss. And for the stories, she told us as kids that triggered my imagination that also helped to develop my knack for storytelling. It was her pearls of wisdom, sprinkled here and there throughout my life that prepared me for the challenges ahead. Not just in life but also what has become a career in creative writing.

Every artist has a level of creativity. But first, you must see it before you can create it. It’s okay to use your imagination, we were all born with them. It is a vital component that makes up the necessary elements for storytelling. There is something fundamentally uplifting about self-expression and the ability to tell a remarkable story through the eyes of characters.

With anything in life, you must always approach it realistically and in the proper perspective. A failure is an option but not one you should relegate yourself to simply because the possibility exists. You don’t have to be afraid of failing. Trials will come to test your faith and that’s okay. If we never know what we’re capable of then we will never reach our full potential.

What motivates me to keep striving for excellence and moving forward despite all the things I needed to overcome comes from a supernatural source that I’m linked to. Nothing motivates me to action more than hearing the word No, or you can’t. First, I have nothing to prove to anyone else except myself. I’ve never felt the need to exact revenge from naysayers, to say, “see what I did?” To do so would be taking away from my source of power that comes from Christ Jesus who strengthens and assures me that I can do all things through Him.

I have experienced failure and rejection in ways that would make a lesser person, pack it up and say I’m done. But I didn’t because I had examples of those who came before me. Do you know how many famous authors there are who reached success through failure? Well, the answer is Plenty. I mentioned Dr. Seuss, his first book (And to Think I Saw It on Mulberry Street) was rejected 27 times, Stephen King’s book (Carrie), 30. These are only a few examples, but they persevered and were determined because of the three powerful words I told you about at the beginning. I also refer back to those words often especially when I need reassurance.

Self-doubt is like the terminator, it will destroy everything within its path. Along with it your confidence. I had to conquer all my fears and start believing in myself. I think the hardest part of being a writer is not writer’s block but accepting criticism of one’s work. No one likes it, but it is a huge part of developing strengths. This may sound negative, but it’s really something positive. You need to be open to constructive criticism because it’s a strength builder that helps to reveal your weakest areas. It’s great for growth, like tree pruning.

But I need you to know that I never had any dreams of fame and fortune. My goal was to write a book and publish it. Well, God blessed me to do that. Multiple times and allowed me to cross racial and cultural boundaries in a way I never thought possible. He answered one prayer and opened the door to so much more.

The journey has been a long one. Over twenty-something years, God willing, with many more to come. In closing, I want to leave you with this bit of knowledge, that my mother shared with me long ago. If you are going to do anything in life, do it well and do it right. When you believe in your abilities, then there is nothing that you can’t do. Whatever it is. But you have to put forth your best efforts. No matter what your dreams are, if you first believe in yourself, then you are already halfway there.

This post is contributed as a guest post by Vivian E. Moore.

About the author:

Vivian E. Moore is a southern girl who loves writing about romance. Her unofficial title is Relationship Expert. She first discovered her knack for telling stories at an early age. Writing is a gift she doesn’t take for granted and thankful for the opportunity to express the deepest emotion through the characters she creates.

Contribute a post to Being Author Blog [Submit NOW]

The post The Heart of A Writer appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Writing? Really !! Why should I write?

I actually never knew for sure what I wanted to be. Growing up in war-torn Germany, it was really hard for me to focus on anything. And being rejected in school, while wearing glasses from my early years, didn’t help me either.

But then I saw the old paintings of the old masters. I was fascinated by them and so I thought I could do restoration of old paintings. But life didn’t let me do my dream.

Immigrating to New Zealand with my Australian husband and not knowing the English language, I created a lucrative busyness, making soft toys, mostly colorful parrots. I also draw pencil drawings, mostly animals.

Soon after, not having our own children, we adopted 3 year-old twin girls from Fiji. Selling my business, I started to do cross-stitch pictures, again animals.

Living for 18 years in New Zealand, my husband finally wanted to go home to Australia. Here I was diagnosed with cancer. I won’t tell you about the heartache I had, having to care about our young children. After two years, still under the living but had a lot of pain and couldn’t go to work, I decided to do something with my life.

Since my husband, Albert, wrote the book about our adoption, he mentioned, that i could write something as well. And so I started to write short stories. I even I was so brave, to send them in for competition. I got good reports back, that I am on the right way. That gave me the motivation to go on.

One of the stories was about handicapped Matica. Thinking back at my experience from my early years, I decided to put it on paper, how people feel about rejection and that they can escape if they put their minds to something else, not to the negativity, to the positivity and leave the negativity behind. Because I put my mind to it and made it that way, that I became what I am now. Not the timid child anymore. A am a writer of books. I am a wife, I am a mum.

There it came to me, I wanted to be an author and write more stories about Matica and Talon. Tell the people that they can overcome negativity when they look into something else and not dwell on that, what they see in front of them.

Unfortunately, I found out, not all think like that.

The ones they need it most, don’t like reading them. They think they have to stay in the misery, the negativity because they think it has to be. They don’t see the big picture, they see only that, what is in front of them, not that it can be getting better, when they start focusing on something, what the affected person can do, to stay sane, even if it is an incurable disease.  They can focus on something that that person would love to do, where she/he is great in it, (Look at Stephen Hawkins?) and because of that, they will be loved and cherished. Because when you look positive at it, then there is light and so they can better accept what is, and they don’t need to stay in the negativity, but that there can be light in the future and so can look into the positivity. They can cope with it easier, whatever it is,

This post is contributed as a Guest post by Gigi Sedlmayer.

About the author:

I was born in Berlin, Germany, on 19 May 1944. Moving a lot around, changing schools, I was rejected by my peers. Finally settling in Munich. Got married in 1967, 1975 we moved to New Zealand.

1989 became adoptive parents and moved in 1992 to Australia.

1993 diagnosed with cancer. Started to write after 2 years, still under the living.

Contribute a post to Being Author Blog [Submit NOW]

The post Writing? Really !! Why should I write? appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Misplaced Trust – Despite my loss, the story ends well.

After the death of my wife of 40 years, of all but four days, I felt lost. I used to spend my time working in my garden and taking my dog out for long walks. It was shortly before her death that she introduced me to a young Turkish man. He ran a restaurant in the nearby town of Kemer that was close to my house in the village of Kuzdere. Jimmy as he was known, was a pleasant young man who spoke excellent English. He ran a restaurant in Kemer, was married to a Russian woman and lived in a large villa. At the time she was back in Moscow staying with her parents. While in Kemer, I found Jimmy was having the restaurant renovated. As I had time on my hands, I used to go and see how the works were ongoing. My previous job involved quality control, so I advised Jimmy on anything I thought needed attention.

During this time, Jimmy’s wife returned from Russia. She and I used to play chess in the restaurant. On completion of works, I suggested we hold a pre-season opening party. Jimmy agreed and arranged for a group to play live music that evening. To my surprise, a few days later I received a call from an American singer friend. I was taken back when she asked why I had not asked her to sing at the opening. I said as she usually only sang at 5-star hotels, I did not think she would be interested. Despite this, she sang a few songs at the party, then sang for us one night a week. Thanks to the restaurant serving excellent meals, plus her singing, it became trendy. I found myself drawn to the restaurant and I took great pleasure in being there. I soon found myself acting as quality control of the meals served. Plus, I used to talk with the customers who were mainly foreigners.

After the death of my wife, I found myself with two cars. However, I had problems getting her car transferred into my name. Therefore, when Jimmy asked if I would sell him my car, I agreed, and he paid for it.

All was going well with my life until out of the blue, Jimmy told that he and his wife of seven years were getting divorced. That day proved to be the start of my having major problems.

Previously, over a period of several months, I had accompanied Jimmy to several banks in Kemer. To my surprise, he had deposited large amounts of US dollars bills into his accounts. Therefore, I was surprised when he asked to borrow 1,000 TL, approx. 400 Pounds Sterling. I asked him why he did not draw money from one of his numerous accounts. He said that since the start of his divorce case, all had been frozen. I accepted this as being quite normal and lent him the money. He repaid this, and over the next few weeks borrowed more money that he also repaid.

In March, I was shocked when Jimmy asked to borrow €30,000. On asking why he needed this large sum of money, he said, “My wife gets our villa as part of our divorce settlement.” He then explained that a friend needed money and was selling his villa. “It’s a bargain,” he said. “I want the money to put down as a deposit on it.”

I felt dubious about giving him such a large sum of money and told him so. He then showed me a bank book that had $122,000 in his account. I asked why he did not use some of this money. He said that until his divorce was finalised, their bank accounts were frozen. I thought this normal and agreed to lend him this money. Jimmy then wrote me out a cheque for €30,000.

After an accident and writing off my late wife’s car, I had big problems in getting her car put into my name. Therefore when I bought a beautiful old American convertible, I decided to put the car into Jimmy’s name. In the event of my death, my daughter would not have the same problems as I had. Jimmy gave me a cheque for the value of the car. He said my daughter could then either have the car or the money. At the time I thought this a great idea.

In May, I asked Jimmy about my €30,000. He said that due to his wife being Russian all the paperwork had to be translated into Russian. It was causing delays in finalising his divorce.  Due to the delay in repayment, he said he would give me an extra €5,000 when he did receive his money.

During late May and June, I was in and out of Turkey and also busy arranging a three month trip around the world starting in October. I was not unduly worried about Jimmy repaying my money, as I trusted him and also had his signed cheques.

Nevertheless, by the beginning of August, I had doubts as to if Jimmy was ever going to receive his settlement money. By then I had paid for my trip around the world, but due to Jimmy not repaying my money I had to cancel my trip. I told Jimmy that thanks to him I had lost over £1,000 in cancellation fees. To my surprise, he said he could use his air miles and get me tickets for nothing. I was delighted when a few days later he told me that he had booked my flights. On enquiring, at the local travel agency, the clerk confirmed that my flights had been booked. However, I was shocked he said Jimmy had told him that I would be paying for them.

Ongoing to see Jimmy, I demanded an explanation. He shrugged his shoulders. “I do have plenty of air miles, but they are tied up with my credit cards. As they are at present blocked, I am unable to use them”.

Given this news, I was once again left disappointed.

A few months later I received a call from Jimmy that cheered me up no end.

“Good news Colin. I have your money. I will bring it to you tonight along with a bottle of champagne to celebrate.”

I felt as though a ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders. However, my joy was short lived. Jimmy never came that evening with my money. Neither did he later turn up at one of the banks where he said to meet him and he would transfer the money into my bank account. On talking with the bank manager I was shocked when he informed me that Jimmy did not have an account with the bank. As I had cheques issued by the bank in Jimmy’s name this seemed most strange. After that things just got worse. Over the next few months, Jimmy called several times to say he had received his settlement money. Unfortunately, all proved untrue.

One evening Jimmy called and said for me to be at the marina early the following morning. On asking why he said, “I am going to propose to my girlfriend who arrives tonight.”

I asked if she knew about his intention, to which he replied, “No, it will be a surprise for her.”

The next morning I met with Jimmy, a group of his friend, and his girlfriend. Ongoing to the marina, we boarded a large Gullet (wooden boat) full of passengers and set out to enjoy a cruise. Jimmy’s girlfriend who I knew well asked what was going on. So as not to spoil Jimmy’s surprise, I said I had no idea. During the cruise, Jimmy went below. On his return, he no longer wore shorts and a T-shirt but was smartly dressed. Holding a microphone, he announced his undying love for his girlfriend and asked his shocked girlfriend to marry him. She was overjoyed and accepted his proposal, which was greeted by cheers from numerous passengers.

In late September Jimmy told me that his ex-father-in-law had agreed to pay off all his debts. The only provision, he returned to his wife who was then living in Russia. Two weeks later he said he was going to collect money from his ex-father–in-laws accountant, to cover what he owed both his staff and me.  Unfortunately, like all his other promises this never happened.

I no longer thought I would ever get back my money from Jimmy. Given this, I decided to get my Chevy put into my name. When I first asked Jimmy to transfer the Chevy into my name, he said he was busy. I then found there was a charge on my car that had to be paid before Jimmy could transfer the car into my name. Not only did he not do this, but more charges were added against it.

In early October, I was delighted when Jimmy called to say his settlement money was at last in his bank account. He asked me to meet him at his bank at 10 am the following morning. As along with a friend, we went to the bank, I felt relieved that at last, I would get back the money I had lent Jimmy. However, when Jimmy did not show up, we spoke to the bank manager. To my disbelief, he informed us that Jimmy had no money in the bank. As I had cheques issued by the bank in Jimmy’s name this seemed most strange.

Shortly after this, I met Jimmy. He told me that he had no money, and had major problems. On asking about his divorce settlement money, he said he thought his ex-father-in-law was causing it to be delayed.

In mid-December, I received an SMS from Jimmy’s fiancée. In it, she wrote that a friend had informed her that Jimmy was still married. I couldn’t believe it. I then sent an SMS to Jimmy’s wife. I wrote, “As you most likely know, Jimmy owes me a lot of money. However, that is not why I am contacting you. I have just heard that despite what Jimmy has told everyone, you and he are still married.” Her reply came like a devastating thunderbolt

“I don’t know about him owing you money, but yes we are still married.” She later sent me an email informing me that Jimmy had cheated her father out of a huge sum of money. What he owed me was nothing compared to what they had been cheated out of. It made me realise that Jimmy had used our friendship and my stupidity to cheat me. He never had any intention of repaying me the money I had foolishly lent him.

When I informed Jimmy’s finance of this shocking news, the poor girl was left broken-hearted. She like everyone else believed he was divorced. Had she but known, she would never have accepted his marriage proposal.

It was about this time that Jimmy disappeared from Kemer. No one seemed to knew where he had gone, and he did not re-appear for several months

After opening a court case against Jimmy, I was shocked to learn that Euro cheques were illegal in Turkey. I was even more shocked when informed another cheque he gave me was out of date. At the time, I never knew Turkish cheques were only valid for ten days from the date written on them. Therefore, I could do nothing about either of these cheques.

Nevertheless, I was pleased when I eventually won my case about the cheque given to me as security for my car. To my disappointment, Jimmy appealed his conviction. On discussing this with a Turkish friend, he advised I drop my case. He said it would cost more money on top of what I had already spent to fight his appeal.

Moreover, even if I won, as Jimmy had nothing in his name, I would not receive any money. Given this, I did pursue my case. Another Turkish friend, one among several Jimmy had cheated, took him to court. I for one was well pleased when it resulted in Jimmy put in prison for four months.

As for my beautiful American convertible, under Turkish law, as it was in Jimmy’s name, I had no claim to it.

Sometime later, a Turkish friend introduced by to another Turkish man who he said could help get my money back from Jimmy. As a result, I agreed to pay him a sum of money in return for his getting my money back. This turned out to be another big mistake. The man took money from me but did nothing to help me. In fact, he caused me huge problems. In the end, I was left with no money or car.

Despite my loss, the story ends well. I had been planning to move to Ecuador, but after losing all my money, could no longer afford to do so. As a result of staying in Turkey, I later met and married a wonderful Turkish lady. Had I gone to Ecuador, I would have missed the chance of a second happy life in Turkey.

Jimmy’s now ex-wife tell me Jimmy is still up to his old tricks. Therefore, be careful should you ever meet him..

I have been informed that Jimmy owes money to numerous people including his ex-fiancée. Therefore, should you ever happen to meet a charming young man named Ozay (Jimmy), don’t be fooled by his charm and lying tongue.  Under no circumstances should you lend him any money.

This post is contributed as a Guest post by Colin Guest.

About the author:

Coln Guest is a freelance writer whose books include An Expat’s Experiences of Living in Turkey, Follow in the Tigerman’s Footsteps, Terror Holiday, For the Greater Good, A Dangerous Love Affair and Impending Disaster.

Colin Guest loves writing. Apart from books, he has had articles published in various online magazines, with one published in the UK

Contribute a post to Being Author Blog [Submit NOW]

The post Misplaced Trust – Despite my loss, the story ends well. appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Searching for Weena – Why I wrote COME FIND ME

The adventure began in the summer of 1956 shortly after I celebrated my twelfth birthday. While on family vacation in Florida, I happened into a drug store. The comic book rack (graphic novels to the younger set) featured the latest issue of Classics Illustrated, H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. From across the store, the cover caught my eye. A man sat on a curious contraption. Two white rings perpendicular to each other enclosed a plausibly designed mechanism consisting of a saddle, control panel, and power plant. The pedestaled device hung in a half-lit universe. The top half burned an angry orange, courtesy of the sun transiting from dawn toward dusk. The bottom featured night shaded themes of space and time with stars, a galactic vortex, and images of the moon in the sequences of her phases.

Back then, comic books didn’t come in plastic bags, but rules on loitering for a free read were strict. I got off one glance inside, enough to confirm I held in my hands another project of Lou Cameron’s exquisite artwork. Although I wouldn’t learn his identity until 2017, his work throughout the series captivated my imagination. The year before, he introduced me to Wells via Issue 124, The War of the Worlds. To this day, his depiction of the Martian machines is the best I’ve ever found. They had substance and projected the kind of power you associate with land bound Men of War, not top heavy spindly legged contraptions a good wind might blow down. But drawing the best fighting machine ever was nothing compared to what waited in the pages of the forty-eight-page gem I bought for fifteen cents.

My first ravenous sweep through the story introduced new ways of looking at time travel. Science fiction on television and other comic books introduced the idea and some of the necessary machinery, but nothing presented the subject in such organized detail. The world of Eloi and Morlocks poured over me like a tidal wave. A half memory of reading or hearing this story before gnawed at the back of my mind. The tale had already been around more than sixty years. In 1949, a BBC television play had been made, but I didn’t learn about that until 2017 while in the process of doing research for Come Find Me. I never got to the bottom of the half memory. It became the basis of character Kris Parsons’ boyhood experience with young Weena.

Before the vacation ended, I must’ve read the story a hundred times. I parsed each illustration and dialogue bubble for some meaning I might have missed, but what most stuck was the beautifully drawn Weena. The portrait panel of her face where she tells the Time Traveler “Morlocks very bad,” had me from the get-go. The beauty, and innocence, teamed with her character presentation in good old 133 to convince me we weren’t far apart in age. Like the actor Dana Andrews in the film Laura, I fell for Mr. Cameron’s portrayal of Weena. Fair to say, she was my first experience with love. I couldn’t understand why the Time Traveler left her behind. I kept reading and re-reading, I think, partly in hopes of finding a more satisfying ending.

Little did I suspect what lay ahead in that regard.

The following Christmas, I received a copy of The Time Machine as part of an omnibus volume. This became one of my earliest expeditions into actual literature. Classics Illustrated performed an invaluable service to my generation by introducing us to quality books in an easy to read, enjoyable format. Besides the Wells and Verne works, as I marched toward adulthood these colorful little books led me to literary worlds I never would’ve taken on otherwise, up to and including the first thirty pages of Moby Dick.

That Christmas day, I rushed off to be alone with a real deal version of my favorite book, eager to learn how the author’s description of Weena and her world compared with Mr. Cameron’s artwork. I charged through the book like Wells’ Martians crossing the English countryside. In the beginning, Weena met every expectation. She was kinder, more animated, and a ton more compassionate than the other Eloi. Starting in Chapter Five, I became wary, when the Time Traveler, speaking of his time with her said, ‘That was the beginning of a queer friendship which lasted a week, and ended–as I will tell you!’ After a botched campaign to evade the Morlocks and return her home from the Palace of Green Porcelain museum, by Chapter Nine, she was declared dead. I say ‘declared’ because the distinction figures in the finding of Weena.

Even at twelve and a half, I could come up with a dozen safer alternatives to the Time Traveler’s plan: Who, surrounded by death and in the open, starts a campfire and falls asleep, letting it go out? Didn’t the museum have rooms to hide in, and doors to block access? A closet would’ve been enough. No, let’s plunge into a night forest where a million Morlocks could attack from all sides.

Pretty stupid, Time Traveler.

As with the comic book, I read and re-read the real thing, but the ending never changed. However, after ten or so readings, I noted a ray of hope. The Time Traveler never found remains. True, she never returned before he reclaimed his machine and left, but she might’ve turned up at another palace. After all, the book made Eloi society a perfect socialism–freely sharing among those with, and those with need.

For the rest of seventh grade and through all the eighth, including the following summer, I wrote at least six sequels to The Time Machine. Each was longer, more detailed and an improvement over the other. The longest touched on forty thousand words. Weena is alive of course. The hero, a grown-up version of me, was a military man. He leads anywhere from a platoon to a division to the world of 802701 A.D. Early versions stayed with time machines, but as the good guys grew in numbers I shifted to faster than light space ships and a teen version of Einstein relativity to get where we needed to be. Besides, the FTLs had more room for world re-building equipment, the second objective of the later versions.

In writing these stories, which ended by Weena and I being together, I convinced myself she was out there somewhere. I spent summer afternoons before ninth grade anchored to a chair at the kitchen table creating the latest version of rescuing her featuring me leading rock-solid Marines kicking truckloads of Morlock butt. Lying in bed at night while spinning down from a day of writing, I believed she called to me. She was afraid and lonely. Like Kris in Come Find Me, I didn’t know where to look, but we shared the lonely part. Cutting off your friends to write can do that. Mom just shook her head and pronounced it a phase I was going through.

She was right. A week after starting ninth grade, I discovered flesh and blood girls. Weena’s grip relaxed, allowing my life to proceed on normal tracks. I never forgot the little sprite or the book. I saw every TV or movie version of The Time Machine. Yvette Mimieux reigns as my favorite Weena. In later readings, after I had my own family and children, I began the process of uncovering the subtleties of this wonderful work I missed as a youngster. After gaining a conviction of Weena’s survival, other passages hinted her age may have been younger than first supposed. Wells referred to her as a ‘little woman’ when she first meets the Time Traveler but afterward describes both physically and behaviorally in terms associated with adolescents. True, she was consistent with the other Eloi; consistent except for the depth of emotions such as gratitude and concern. Gradually, I created a vision of her being different, a precocious child rather than an infantile adult.

For more than fifty-five years Weena resided in a backwater of my mind, coming out occasionally when I happened across an article, movie, or program concerning time travel. Somewhere in twenty-three years of moving among duty stations while in the Navy, I lost all the sequels, a tragedy now but no big deal back then.

The film Time After Time caused a notable stir in 1979. I spent several evenings at the library updating on all things Weena and Wells. These once every couple of decades refreshes would’ve probably remained the extent of my interaction on the subject until I learned of my cancer.

In the summer of 2017, I developed an aggressive kind of prostate cancer. Part of the treatment required injections of chemotherapy to suppress male hormones and reduce the prostate size. A side effect was I felt emotions more deeply. I cared more for family, people, and things; prayed more; listened better; and worked toward becoming the man I should have been. Somewhere in that time, Weena returned. A soft whisper simmered in my brain: ‘Write my story.’

An article I read in college proposed that the spirits of literary characters come alive when created by a writer, and float around in some interdimensional ether, waiting to be restored to this world by admission to our thoughts. To that, I said, ‘Welcome home, girl.’

So, armed with a new asset, the World Wide Web, I took up the task. I learned everything about her there was, including the name of the artist who immortalized her in Issue 133. I would’ve tried to get the rights to some of the illustrations for the book cover but sadly, Mr. Cameron passed away in 2013. I did the next best thing and found a live model. She’s exactly as I imagine Weena to be.

The volume of information and artistic representations of The Time Machine and Weena, specifically, on the web surprised me. The fact many artists and writers agreed with me and drew or described Wells’ Weena as a child came as a pleasant surprise. There I started. I grew her into the woman Joe Corrigan gave his heart to and who ages gracefully into Ally Corrigan, the story’s narrator.

I chose the rarely seen ‘Holt’ edition of the Wells novel–The Time Machine: An Invention. This one, published in America is the same story, different only in rearrangement and titling of the chapters, and minor typographical edits. Come Find Me is faithful to either version. The book wrote itself. In the process, Weena returned to my heart, not as the object of juvenile love but in memory of someone dear, separated by a vast gulf of time. By telling her story as the muses presented it, I will have repaid a debt owed to my beloved imaginary friend and first crush.

Read and enjoy.

 

This post is contributed as a Guest post by Mike Arsuaga.

About the author:

Raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, I completed careers in the United States Navy Submarine Force and the Transportation Security Administration. I live in Orlando Florida, with wife and Editor in Chief Cynthia, daughter Jennifer, granddaughter Larrna and partners-in-crime Fitzy, a Silky terrier, and Sally, a Miniature Pinscher.

Contribute a post to Being Author Blog [Submit NOW]

The post Searching for Weena – Why I wrote COME FIND ME appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.

Who cursed me? Past Lives Present Issues

Note dated January 1995

I woke up one morning with a sense of horror “what if, in my previous life as a woman, I was a smoker?” The idea seems abhorrent! I don’t like smoking as rule. I don’t smoke. My mother never smoked as far as I know, and I was tolerant of my father smoking. Even today, whenever I go down to the pub, it isn’t smoking that upsets me – it is the smell of the ashtrays that causes my breathing difficulties. Also, I tend to feel sick whenever I see fag ends stubbed out on a dinner plate or ashtrays awash with spilled beer.

Somehow, to me, when a woman smokes she loses grace, she looks nervous and bitchy. I often look at a beautiful woman and lose all admiration as soon as I see her smoking.

I have never thought it possible for me to ever accept that I could smoke, despite suggestions that smoking marijuana is known to destroy the harmful fungi in an asthmatic’s lungs. This objection without even the idea “the heavy marijuana smokers have been known to develop breasts” is not attractive despite a strong fascination for the idea that a man can develop breasts.

I would welcome regression to my former self as a woman, but I may come to terms with myself as a smoker!

End of the document dated January 1995

This post is contributed as a Guest post by Honeysuckle Pear.

About the author:

‘Honeysuckle Pear’ is a pen-name for the author who is extremely shy. The submission ‘Past lives present issues’ is non-fiction and is one of many notes written after sessions with a hypnotherapist. Honeysuckle was born with chronic Asthma, which turned out to be a misdiagnosis; MRI discovered the problem was Bronchiectasis.

Contribute a post to Being Author Blog [Submit NOW]

The post Who cursed me? Past Lives Present Issues appeared first on Being Author - Book Promotion & authors BLOG.