She Jesus

It is time! Joseph thought. With his tough carpenter’s hands, Joseph touched his wife's cheek, feeling the dampness from her tears. His own eyes clouded as he said "I know nothing of birthing a baby." Realizing they would never make Bethlehem before the child came, he took refuge in a shallow cave near a meadow where shepherds grazed their sheep. There, Mary, with Joseph's help, gave birth to her special child of God. A Girl. As Mary held the baby to her breast, she said, "We will call her, Lael. The name means Chosen of God." As she said this, there was a cry in the nearby cave. A young woman, alone, gave birth to a child. Before she died, she named the boy. Jesus. <h1>The Story</h1> #original_image:30# It is time! Joseph thought. With his tough carpenter’s hands, Joseph touched his wife's cheek, feeling the dampness from her tears.  His own eyes clouded as he said "I know nothing of birthing a baby."  Realizing they would never make Bethlehem before the child came, he took refuge in a shallow cave near a meadow where shepherds grazed their sheep.  There, Mary, with Joseph's help, gave birth to her special child of God. A Girl. As Mary held the baby to her breast, she said, "We will call her, Lael.  The name means Chosen of God."  As she said this, there was a cry in the nearby cave.  A young woman, alone, gave birth to a child. Before she died, she named the boy. Jesus #medium_image:8# <h2>Exerpts.</h2> <h3>Prologue</h3> The Child With his rough carpenter’s hands, Joseph gently brushed a finger against his wife’s cheek, feeling the dampness from her tears. His own eyes clouded as he said, “I know nothing of birthing a baby.” “The old woman, she—” Mary felt the next terrible pain and muted her groan with the back of her hand. The sound echoed in the tight recess of the small cave. A fire of branches sputtered in a circle of stones, and Joseph added a few more sticks from the depression in the stone wall where he had stacked bits of wood to fuel the fire during the long night ahead. Joseph pressed his unkempt beard against Mary’s face and kissed her on the forehead. “The old shepherd woman has gone,” he said.  He dampened a cloth from the few precious drops left in the water jar and patted the perspiration from his wife’s brow before adding, “We are alone.” Dark descended outside the cave as Joseph added the last of the sticks to the fire. Flickering light danced eerily on the darkening walls of the cave.  Hearing cries from the shepherds, he ventured outside and noticed a streak of blazing light as it crossed the starlit skies, a luminous ball with a shimmering tail. Then he heard Mary’s cry and returned to her side. Joseph, knowing he was the only one to help his wife, used his callused hands to aid with the birth of the child, wincing with each cry Mary made. After one final violent upheaval of his wife’s body the child slipped from her womb and into his hands. Joseph held the tiny baby in the palms of his bloodied hands and said, “It is . . . a girl.” In flickering light from the fire’s glowing embers, Mary reached for the child and held it to her breast. She looked adorning into the eyes of the baby and in a barely audible voice said, “We will call our child Lael.” Joseph said, “The name of our first born should be yours, Mary.” “No, Joseph. The name, Lael, means Chosen of God. ” The baby snuggled into the fabric of Mary’s cloak. Joseph heard a wail from outside the cave. It is a sound like Mary’s, Joseph thought, the cry of a baby being born. Soon thereafter, the old shepherd woman, gray strings of hair revealing glimpses of her deeply wrinkled face, brought in a baby wrapped in a grimy sheath of cloth. “Here, take it,” she growled. “I am too old to care for it.” Mary rose to her elbow. “I . . . can’t. I have a baby girl.” The old woman pointed a gnarled finger at the bundle she held. “This one is a boy. The mother, another lost traveler, alone, no man was with her, died giving birth.” She pulled back the cloth and showed the luminous face of the child. “She told me a strange story of her family, but not where to find them. Then she told me of an angel . . .” She spat on the fire, and it crackled and sputtered. “It was too much for me to believe.” The baby began to cry. “Pah. The child needs a breast. Not my withered paps.” She laid the infant next to Mary. “You have milk for two. Mary looked at Joseph and saw the slight nod of his head. The old woman turned to go, then stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Before the mother died, she named the child.” “By what name?” Joseph asked. “A common name, not unlike many others.” "Mary took the child lovingly to her bosom, held it next to her tiny girl, and asked, “What is the child called?” “Jesus.” 0

2010-01-05T12:33:53-08:00

The Messiah was a woman.

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she-jesus

true

2010-01-05T00:00:00-08:00

true

She Jesus

2010-01-07T09:53:19-08:00

What if a life-size papier-mâché dummy hitchhikes across America? The concept is titillating and timeless: a 37,000-word comedy drama about a life-size dummy that is found leaning against a freeway sign outside Los Angeles, his thumb cocked in a hitchhiking gesture. He has a lunch box hanging from his neck. One word is painted on it: EAST. Inside the box is an unusual green book that begins: My name is Zazz. I am traveling east to an alien festival. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/ALL-THAT-ZAZZ-Novel-Tomorrow/dp/1601459475/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1262811971&sr=8-2"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="175" height="51" /></a> <h2><a href="http://www.amazon.com/ALL-THAT-ZAZZ-Novel-Tomorrow/dp/1601459475/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1262811971&sr=8-2"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="175" height="51" /></a> </h2> <h2> </h2> <h2>The Story</h2> #medium_image:9# What if a life-size papier-mâché dummy hitchhikes across America?   The concept is titillating and timeless: a 37,000-word comedy drama about a life-size dummy that is found leaning against a freeway sign outside Los Angeles, his thumb cocked in a hitchhiking gesture. He has a lunch box hanging from his neck. One word is painted on it: EAST. Inside the box is an unusual green book that begins: My name is Zazz. I am traveling east to an alien festival.   Who exactly is Zazz?   Does this mysterious creation make it across America? What does he have to endure to travel east? First, he loses his thumb, then is thrown in ditches, consigned to trash heaps, torn apart again and again, only to be reassembled by the well-meaning travelers he meets on the highway.   What manner of mankind stops to pick up a roadside dummy and help it travel from Los Angeles to the East Coast? Only some of the most unusual human characters Zazz could ever meet. Such as: Wanda Woman and her companion Flash, a video game designer; the Backwards Man; Georgie Hawn, an over-the-hill stand-up comedian,and his girlfriend, exotic dancer Loli Py. There’s also Steffie, a six-year-old deaf girl—who becomes Zazz’s special friend—and her grandparents, Aage and Zula Zong.   To each person who picks up Zazz, unusual, unexplained things begin to happen.   Bizarre things. <h2>Excerpts</h2> Prologue It was as if the city had suddenly come under attack.     “What the hell?” the homeless man muttered as he sniffed at the strange, humid air, which felt as if it had thickened into liquid. It was tainted with dust, age-yellowed newspapers and moldering cardboard. He hunched deeper into the doorway, pulling his knees tight to his chest, as a chilling breeze swirled dead leaves and scraps of paper around him. A drop of rain splattered against his forehead, another drop slapped his face. With a scruffy coat sleeve he wiped away the wetness that dribbled into his eyes, and peered out of his refuge at the leaden sky. “Hey! Ain’t suppose’ to have no rain now.” The darkening layers of the clouds cracked open as a jagged bolt of lightning lashed down. The blinding light was followed by a thunderclap, a howl that filled the sky. There was a second awful crash that sent people scurrying along the streets of downtown Los Angeles to seek the shelter of office building alcoves and hotel lobbies.             Fierce pellets of rain hurled themselves against the facades of the city as the homeless man grasped at a flying slab of cardboard and held it against the rain like a shield. “Well, hell!” he cursed, as the wind buffeted the cardboard, smacking a loose section against his face.             In answer, the sky deepened even more to an inky black as the rain pummeled angrily at the city’s mirrored windows.             Then, as quickly as it had come, the wind softened, the rain eased to a drizzle and, like children at play after a storm, droplets danced happily in the sheen of water on the sidewalks and streets.          The homeless man scratched his head in wonder. “Now what was that all about?” Twenty miles to the east, the ghostly outline of LA’s sky-scrapers loomed like an alien city in the mist: Gray sheets of water washed over the asphalt surface of a highway. A swish of tires and the rumble of engines arose as a line of cars and trucks headed bumper-to-bumper toward an ON ramp to a freeway. They lined up impatiently, creeping past a green-and-white sign: INTERSTATE 10 EAST             Under the sign sat the figure of a man, his back against the sign post. Although he could be seen by people in passing vehicles, no one stopped, not even hesitated, even though the man’s right arm was cocked in a hitchhiking gesture. The thumb was gone, torn from its socket. Only shreds of papier-mâché gave a hint of where it had once been.             Through the haze of a light rain, the features of this strange figure began to take shape. The face was as round as a bowling ball, the flesh-toned skin aglow with a plastic sheen. Atop his head was a black toupee, slightly askew, and beneath, wide lustrous eyes with great white shells that encircled blue irises. A thin moustache framed a shiny red mouth, which was set in a half grin.             The figure was dressed in a tweed sport coat, the collar turned up, coat, shirt, tie and trousers soaked from the passing torrent of rain. Hanging from his neck, tied by a length of clothesline, was a square metal lunch box of the kind children carry to school. Painted in uneven letters on the green box was the single word: EaSt A drizzle of rain continued to fall on the dummy’s face. There appeared to be loneliness painted into  the eyes as he waited for his ride east.   <h2>Quotes and Accolades</h2> <h2><a href="http://www.amazon.com/ALL-THAT-ZAZZ-Novel-Tomorrow/dp/1601459475/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1262811971&sr=8-2"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="175" height="51" /></a></h2>   0

2010-01-05T12:53:10-08:00

A life-size papier-mâché dummy hitchhikes across America

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all-that-zazz

true

2009-09-19T00:00:00-07:00

true

All That Zazz

2010-01-07T11:18:00-08:00

What if an original manuscript of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet with an inscription to the playwright’s wife, Anne, and signed by Shakespeare is discovered? Not one fragment of an original manuscript penned by Shakespeare has been unearthed in the last 400 years. Such a manuscript would be priceless. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4121.html" target="_blank"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="150" height="44" /></a> <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4121.html" target="_blank"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="150" height="44" /></a> #medium_image:5# <h2>The Story</h2> What if an original manuscript of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet with an inscription to the playwright’s wife, Anne, and signed by Shakespeare is discovered? Not one fragment of an original manuscript penned by Shakespeare has been unearthed in the last 400 years. Such a manuscript would be priceless. To Be or Not To Be Shakespeare, a hazardous search for just such a manuscript, is undertaken by Dr. Bradford Holt. “Holt” is the author of To Be or Not To Be Shakespeare, a book that claims Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford, wrote Shakespeare’s plays. Joining “Holt” in unraveling the mystery is Calista O’Donahue, an Oxford graduate student of Shakespeare studies who is clairvoyant. Using her psychic abilities and a gold ring that once belonged to her ancestor, Anne (Hathaway) Shakespeare, Calista narrows the search for the manuscript to Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace. <h2 style="text-align: left;">Excerpts </h2> Calista O’Donahue thought she was dead.       She felt the skin on her stomach quiver as though someone had dropped a sliver of ice down the front of her dress. Shivering, she forced her eyes open to see—nothing. The darkness was everywhere, a black pool of chilling water that cloaked her body like a shroud. I’m . . . in a grave, she thought, afraid to roll over, to reach out with her hands and feel the sides of the coffin. She listened hard, only to hear the whisper of her own breathing, the throb of her heart as it raced ahead of each breath. Hesitantly, she smoothed the palm of one hand over the earthen floor beneath her, searching, until she found a cluster of dry chaff and fiercely crushed the brittle grass in her fist. Inhaling deeply of the dry odor, Calista told herself: Relax . . . Relax  . . .         Her pulse rate began to lessen. She scratched her fingers in the dust at her side and was rewarded with the sound of her fingernails scraping a stone wall. Closing her eyes, she let her mind search the space she was in. No. It’s not a coffin; it’s like a tomb.  Now, think. How did I get here?             She opened her eyes again, and strained against the darkness. I was in the hotel bedroom alone. Holt hadn’t returned from—              “Holt!” she cried aloud, and the name was like a thunderclap reverberating on the sides of the tomb. The crack of sound startled her. She repeated his name, softly this time: “Holt.” Calista touched the gold ring on her finger, felt its warmth. Use your power . . . The tension in her body ebbed, and she breathed in slowly, deeply. She sneezed and the sharp sound echoed off the stone. She crawled around on her hands and knees. The ground was now pebbled and the sharp stones tore at her hose. She bumped her head into a stone wall, then scooted back until she felt the other wall with her feet. The space was larger than a burial tomb, she thought.             She stood, slowly, one hand reaching out to the side to feel rough stone, the other hand above her head. Nothing. She stood on her tiptoes and this time touched a moldy surface that adhered to her fingers. Walking her fingers forward, she felt an iron grate with thick bars of rusted metal; flakes of rust dropped to her head. She poked her finger though the bars and felt stone.                         Where am I?             Calista remembered looking down through the iron grate at the pitiful hole in the ground where medieval prisoners were lowered to rot in what they called the pit of despair. And she knew. The oubliette!  I’m sealed in the dungeon within a dungeon at Warwick Castle.             A silent scream ripped across her mind, and she felt a thrust of fear that was on the edge of pain. She held her cries in check, knowing she had to use all her power to escape.              You can make him hear you, Calista told herself, tears smearing the grime on her cheeks. She grasped the gold ring tightly and closed her eyes. Silently she called out: Holt. Find me. Holt . . . <h2>Quotes and Accolades </h2> “Your adventure thriller (like The Da Vinci Code) is a story about a perilous and suspenseful pursuit in which the characters, Calista and Holt, are challenged by a number of dangerous adversaries all seeking the same goal, the discovery of the Romeo and Juliet manuscript. What makes this story even more fascinating is that Calista is clairvoyant and uses her powers in the search for the manuscript.” <div style="text-align: right;">Leonard Tourney, author of the Elizabethan mysteries </div> <div> </div> <div> “Just finished reading To Be or Not To Be Shakespeare.  I love it.  It is a delightful treasure.  I thought it was charming and fun (at times utterly absurd, but willing suspension of disbelief floated me along). You are such a real writer.”</div> <div> </div> <div style="text-align: right;">Charlotte Gusay THE CHARLOTTE GUSAY LITERARY AGENCY</div> <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4121.html" target="_blank"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="150" height="44" /></a> 0

2010-01-04T12:09:49-08:00

What if an original manuscript of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet with an inscription to the playwright’s wife, Anne, and signed by Shakespeare is discovered?

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to-be-or-not-to-be-shakespeare

true

2008-09-04T00:00:00-07:00

true

To Be or Not to Be Shakespeare

2010-01-06T13:16:08-08:00

Without question, William Shakespeare is the most celebrated and quoted writer of all time. Whether you’re a longtime fan or new to his writing, The Everything Shakespeare Book, 2nd Edition will help you fully appreciate and understand Shakespeare’s works. <a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/product/the-everything-shakespeare-book-2nd-edition/everything-reference"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> <a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/product/the-everything-shakespeare-book-2nd-edition/everything-reference"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> #medium_image:4# <h2>The Story</h2> Much ado about the Bard. Without question, William Shakespeare is the most celebrated and quoted writer of all time. Whether you're a longtime fan or new to his writing, The Everything Shakespeare Book, 2nd Edition will help you fully appreciate and understand Shakespeare's works.             In everyday language, this book covers everything from All's Well that Ends Well to The Winter's Tale-and every play and sonnet in between, featuring: <ul> <li>Famous quotations </li> <li>Background information on Shakespeare's life and times </li> <li>An in-depth look at the controversy over the authorship of the works. </li> </ul> Whether you're doing research for a school paper or simply building your literary knowledge, this book is the perfect introduction to the works of "The Bard of Avon." <h2>Excerpts</h2> Top Things You Didn't Know about William Shakespeare <ul> <li>The first record of the name "Shakespeare" is one of William Saksper of Gloucestershire who in 1248 was hanged for robbery.</li> <li>On April 26, 1564 the Stratford parish register records the baptism of "Gulielmus filius Johannes Shakspere" ("William, son of John Shakespere").</li> </ul> <ul> <li>Episcopal records in the diocese of Worcester register the marriage of "Willelmum Shaxpere" in 1582. The groom was eighteen, the bride, "Anne Hathway", twenty-six. One can assume it was a "shotgun" wedding as six months after the marriage, Susanna Shakespeare was christened.</li> <li>Shakespeare's name was spelled (or shall we say misspelled) a variety of ways during his lifetime: Shackespere, Shaxpere, and even Shaeaxsperre.</li> <li>There are only six known signatures of Shakespeare, three of them on his Last Will and Testament. They are valued at over 5 million each. There are no known copies of his plays written in his hand. Their value would be priceless.</li> <li>Shakespeare's family line ceased to exist with the death of his granddaughter, Elizabeth. His sister, Joan, survived him by many years and through her descendants the Shakespeare name still lives on. </li> </ul> <ul> <li>George Bernard Shaw, who deplored what he thought was Shakespeare's bloated reputation, invented the word bardolatry, hence the term "Bard." Shaw thought Shakespeare's ideas were "platitudinous fludge." </li> </ul> <ul> <li>There have been over fifty claimants to Shakespeare's literary crown, the most prominent being Sir Francis Bacon and Edward de Vere. There are also such absurd contenders as Queen Elizabeth I, Sir Walter Raleigh and even Daniel Defoe.  </li> </ul> <ul> <li> Mark Twain was the most verbal of the doubters that Shakespeare, a "Stratford rustic", wrote great plays. He termed all believers (known as the Stratfordians), as "Stratfordolators, Shakespearoids and blatherskites." </li> </ul> <h2> Quotes and Accolades</h2> <a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/product/the-everything-shakespeare-book-2nd-edition/everything-reference"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> 0

2010-01-04T12:35:00-08:00

Without question, William Shakespeare is the most celebrated and quoted writer of all time.

true

the-everything-shakespeare-book

true

2008-08-01T00:00:00-07:00

true

The Everything Shakespeare Book

2010-01-07T11:21:26-08:00

Cork Millner’s The Christmas Ornament is a joy! A warm, loving story of Maggie, a six-year-old deaf girl, in her search for her mother, Mary, who created fantasy Christmas ornaments. Maggie, and her great-grandfather, John Samuel Lindle, discover a red balloon, one that has traveled from Port Royal, California to Texas. The little girl calls it her “magic balloon.” The balloon will lead Maggie to her mother. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4122.html" target="_blank"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="150" height="44" /></a> <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4122.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> #medium_image:2# <h2>The Story</h2>  A warm, loving story of Maggie, a six-year-old deaf girl, in her search for her mother, Mary, who created fantasy Christmas ornaments. Maggie-with her great-grandfather, John Samuel Lindle-discovers a red balloon, one that has traveled from Port Royal, California to Texas. The little girl calls it her "magic balloon." The balloon will lead Maggie to her mother. <h2>Exerpt        </h2> Mary . . . made . . . Maggie presses her nose to the frosty window. Once again her gloved fingers sign the words: Mary . . . made . . .      Maggie's eyes sparkle, catching glints of light from the department store window display: Christmas ornaments, silver and gold, cascade in a shimmering waterfall of iridescent colors, each globe radiating rainbow-hued light into the snowy night. But one, only one-a crystalline sphere hanging from a gold ribbon-captivates her. This ornament, cupped lovingly in the branches of the Christmas tree, cradles the light, giving birth from deep within to the image of a fantasy queen.      To six-year-old Maggie this is more than a Christmas ornament.  It has life.      Soft snow falls on tiny girl's cheeks. She blinks, and her eyelashes brush away the flakes. Maggie shivers and hugs her red coat to her body. She wears green stockings and yellow rubber boots. One finger pokes out of a hole in a knit glove.      She tugs her stocking cap tighter to her ears, then reaches out and touches the department store window, trying to press through the glass to caress the translucent queen.      Again her fingers flutter: Mary . . . made . . .       "Well, just look at that, isn't she a doll," a passing shopper says, holding tightly to the arm of her husband, careful not to slip on the icy carpet of white. "Isn't that a cute outfit? She looks like a Christmas bell."     <h2> Quotes and Accolades</h2> <address>"Cork Millner's The Christmas Ornament is a joy!" </address><address></address><address></address><address><a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4122.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a></address><address></address><address></address> 0

2010-01-04T12:48:23-08:00

A warm, loving story of Maggie, a six-year-old deaf girl, in her search for her mother, Mary, who created fantasy Christmas ornaments.

true

the-christmas-ornament

true

2006-09-01T00:00:00-07:00

true

The Christmas Ornament

2010-01-06T20:22:06-08:00

"I feel as though I've known you forever," she said. Have we been together somewhere in the past? As one heart touches another?" He was too surprised to answer. It was a romantic notion. Too farfetched for his pragmatice mind. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and smiled. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/2074.html" target="_blank"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="150" height="44" /></a> #medium_image:16# <h2>The Story </h2> They were both married when first they met: Erin a newlywed, Clay for 40 years.  She was 43, he 20 years older. A serious romance was impossible. Yet.... Erin is clairvoyant, a psychic astrologist and a healer; Clay is an ex-military man, a Naval Aviator. He once told her, "You're New Age, I'm old age." Her belief is in what she can't see; his is in what he can see.  Because he is not receptive to her beliefs, they are torn apart. Yet, their love for each other draws them together again.  He begins to accept her psychic powers. Most of all, he believes that they were together before-- Somewhere in time. <h2 style="text-align: left;">Excerpt</h2> <blockquote> "I feel as though I've known you forever," she said . Have we been together somewhere in the past? As one heart touches another?" He was too surprised to answer. It was a romantic notion. Too farfetched for his pragmatice mind. He brushed his fingers over her cheek and smiled. She kissed his fingertips, the excitement rising in her voice. "I've seen a vision of us in an earlier time, in Ireland, in the 1800s. It could be that some old love letters will show up. Perhaps . . . She breathed in deeply as if savoring the thought. "A photograph." Then she added, "It is from our place in time." </blockquote>   <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/2074.html" target="_blank"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="150" height="44" /></a>   0

2010-01-04T13:00:26-08:00

A True Novel

true

i-love-you

true

2005-05-30T00:00:00-07:00

true

I Love You

2010-01-06T14:49:38-08:00

"It was the day the sun died." Thus begins Jilian West Millner’s, novel, The Goddess Spot. The novel is a blend—as the author said—of the Mists of Avalon, Mort ‘d Arthur, Harry Potter, with a touch of The Wizard of Oz. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4123.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> #medium_image:3# <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4123.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> <h2 style="text-align: left;">The Story </h2> Impelled by an ancient Gaelic inscription and images of a sorceress she has received through an antique bronze mirror, a young American woman, Caitrina McCain, journeys to Glastonbury, England in search of the mysterious Isle of Avalon-and the Holy Grail. In her quest, Caitrina encounters Morgan le Fey, sorceress and Queen of Avalon, who enchants her into the Otherworld. "Here have an apple," insisted Morgan. "It is the apple of immortality and the promise of everlasting life." With Morgan as her teacher, Caitrina journeys into the Underworld. With her to guide the way is an aristocratic cat called Lady Isadora, Plato, a timber wolf, and Caitrina's animated ally, a "feather ball" of an owl named Archimedes. After a series of terrifying adventures, Caitrina arrives in Avalon where she is rewarded with the Holy Grail, which she discovers has always lived in The Goddess Spot within her heart. <h2>Quotes and Accolades </h2> “Author Jilian Millner is a painter of light with words. Not unlike a painting rendered by an impressionist artist, perhaps Renoir, The Goddess Spot creates the illusion of floating and fleeting light. " Cork Millner, Author – Hollywood Be Thy Name #medium_image:14#  The Author, Jilian West Millner, a clairvoyant and a psychic astrologist, died at age forty-seven in 2003 from cancer. The Goddess Spot is the first of thirteen planned books, or “gates,” as she called them. Jilian was an exceptionally talented writer. At the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference she was honored with First Place awards in both fantasy and women’s fiction. She was a gifted graphic artist and created the cover for The Goddess Spot. The book was edited by her husband, author Cork Millner. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/4123.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> 0

2010-01-04T13:15:23-08:00

It was the day the sun died.

true

the-goddess-spot

true

2004-10-15T00:00:00-07:00

true

The Goddess Spot

2010-01-07T11:54:58-08:00

Question – Do you pattern your characters after real polo players and wives?” Cork – Jackie Collins was always asked this questions about her characters in Hollywood Wives and Hollywood Husbands. Although Polo Wives does not pretend to be a Jackie Collins-styled novel, players and wives in the polo world, will be buzzing with questions: “Isn’t Bo Cayman . . .?” “Doesn’t Chandler look a lot like . . . ?” “I’ll bet Bunny is . . . ” “Christan Marchado must be . . . “  My answer is, No. I never write about real people. But—it is my goal to make them act and react like real people in the polo world. I will CONFESS that some of the characters are composites of many people. a real person would be too boring. Question - How did you write the book? Did you use an outline?” Cork - William Faulkner once said, “I just follow my characters around with a pencil and take down what they say.” I certainly can’t compare myself to Faulkner, but that’s the strange way it works for me. I decided to thrust two characters together in conflict with one another, in this case polo player/patron Bo Cayman and his wife Chandler, then let the sparks fly. When I created an assassin lurking in the shadows to kill someone, I had no idea who the victim would be. Nor did I know the assassin’s identity. That wasn't revealed to me until the end. It was surprising. Of course, I had to go back and rewrite to make that identity plausible. Several years ago, I had the good fortune to be assigned to interview author Elmore Leonard (Get Shorty, Be Cool) by Writer’s Digest magazine. I asked him this question: “Actor David Niven once asked a famous writer how to write a book. He was told a book must have a ‘beginning, middle and end.’ Do you outline the beginning middle and end?” Leonard answered: “Never, I don’t know what the book is going to be about, I make it up as I go along. I have no idea how a book of mine is going to end. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen. I start writing and have to slow down in the middle and plot a little bit.” Leonard also noted why he thought his books were so successful: “I try to leave out the parts readers skip.” On the other hand, Daniele Steel says it takes her six months to do a book’s outline, which sounds more like a first draft. Question - How true are the descriptions of the game and how it is played? Answer - I originally planned a nonfiction book on polo and interviewed polo players, patrons, polo wives, maharajas, a Singh prince and princess, and celebrities for the book. I traveled to India, the birthplace of polo to research the game, as well as Spain and Hawaii. I lived at the Santa Barbara Polo Fields—“The most beautiful jewel in polo—for 12 years. The more I watched the game, the players, the polo wives, the more I became excited about doing a work of fiction. The book is historically accurate and the polo action scenes true to the game. Q's - Are you a polo player? A's - Although not a player, I have a passion for the game--and the lifestyles of the players. When I finished Polo Wives, I gave the rough manuscript to a friend, Erick Friden, polo player and patron. He read and advised on the manuscript and said, "If didn't know differently, I'd swear you were a polo player. Q's - How did you research for the game of polo? A's - I have lived at the Santa Barbara, California polo fields for fifteen years and have become an aficionado of the sport. I originally planned a nonfiction book on polo and interviewed polo players, patrons, polo wives, maharajas, a Singh prince and princess, and celebrities for the book. I traveled to India, the birthplace of polo to research the game, as well as Spain and Hawaii. Q's - You hype the book as being similar to something Jackie Collins could have written. A's - "Because of the book's title, Polo Wives, I joked to an editor that I should use the pseudonym "Jack E. Collins." The editor suggested, "Dan L. Steele." 0

2010-01-04T14:49:46-08:00

true

polo-wives-interview

true

2002-09-01T00:00:00-07:00

true

Polo Wives Interview

2010-01-06T15:26:29-08:00

Chandler , a twenty-six-year old haute couture fashion and swimsuit model who is the sexually and physically abused wife of wealthy polo patron and player, Bo Cayman. Bo is determined to win the most prestigious polo trophy in America—the United States Open Championship. Within him is locked a terrible secret from his past that he can never reveal to his wife. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/935.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/935.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="158" height="46" /></a> #medium_image:6# <h2>The Story</h2> Step aside Jackie Collins! Hollywood's torrid scene shifts to Santa Barbara and Polo Wives. Chandler twisted her husband’s Rolex, which hung around her wrist like a heavy bracelet while he played polo, then let it drop back in place against her slim ladies’ Rolex. Her friend, Bunny, caught the motion and looked at the his-and-her Rolex watches on her own wrist. She held up her arm. “Look at us, we’re bound and chained.” Polo Wives, a novel woven from the rich fabric of the oldest equestrian sport in the world, is the sizzling story of the scandalous lives of the rich, the powerful, the famous of the polo world. The story is revealed through the eyes of: Chandler , a twenty-six-year old haute couture fashion and swimsuit model who is the sexually and physically abused wife of wealthy polo patron and player, Bo Cayman. Bo is determined to win the most prestigious polo trophy in America—the United States Open Championship. Within him is locked a terrible secret from his past that he can never reveal to his wife. Bunny is the Junoesque redheaded wife of the great Argentine polo player, Cristian Machado. Patsy Jo Strong drinks her gin and tonics in defiance of her womanizing polo-playing husband, Mike Strong. In the excitement of the polo championship lurks the Assassin stalking the target . . . <h2>Excerpts</h2> <h2>Prolouge</h2> <h2>The Assassin</h2> The assassin giggled. The rifle, an Italian 6.5mm Mannlicher Carcano, was the same model that Lee Harvey Oswald had used to fire a bullet into Kennedy's head, blasting bits of the president's skull over Jackie’s pretty pink dress. Poor little Jackie. The assassin ran a latex-gloved fingertip down the rifle barrel. It shone like new, smelled of the clean, tangy odor of gun oil. Unlike Oswald’s, this was a family gun, a forgotten weapon that had collected dust in a closet since World War II. Untraceable. The assassin suppressed another giggle. Then looked out, careful to stay hidden in the shadows behind the sliding glass doors. From this vantage point, just inside the third floor balcony of the condominium, the 10-acre polo field, billiard-table smooth from weeks of intensive care by the groundskeeper, spread like a great green carpet toward the ocean. A fog bank, fat and heavy, hung offshore, held in place by the warming effects of the morning sun. Several sea gulls flew over the field, then drifted like billowing white handkerchiefs to the grass, to strut around as if on parade. On one edge of the field stood the polo clubhouse and grandstand, now empty, but soon to be crowded with the beaumonde of the polo world, the professional players, patrons, polo wives, girlfriends, international celebrities, such the maharani of Jaipur and her step-son, the maharaja of Jaipur, known to the polo world as Bubbles. Polo enthusiast Sylvester Stallone (whose movie contract stated he was not allowed to play polo for fear of broken bones) would be there, as well as Stefanie Powers and William Devane, both of whom played in charity events. Prince Philip, who would fly in by helicopter, was scheduled to throw in the first polo ball. Guests from the polo centers of Argentina, England, India and the United States—everyone of any note—would attend this final day of the Santa Barbara, California polo season. The day of the U. S. Open Polo Championship. Perfect. Below the balcony where the assassin prepared, there were two, tall, padded goal posts, each with a red pennant hanging lifelessly in the still air. The assassin raised the rifle, keeping the barrel from emerging into the early sun, and sighted through the 4X telescopic sight at one of the flags, which now filled the scope as if it were only a few yards away. The assassin moved the rifle barrel slowly and trained the sight on one of the private box seats in the grandstand: first on the placard that read CAYMAN ESTATES, then on the empty chair behind it. Bo Cayman’s chair. The chair appeared to be only twenty-five yards away. The rifle’s trigger was slowly squeezed . . . The firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. The assassin jerked back the gun bolt lever and quickly pulled the trigger. Click. Then again: Click. The assassin checked the digital seconds on a stop watch and smiled Eight point three seconds. Just like Oswald. The assassin lovingly patted the three rounds of 6.5mm full-metal-jacketed bullets in the six-bullet clip that lay on the carpet, picked it up, snapped the clip into the rifle’s chamber and lowered the rifle to the carpet. After opening the door to the empty condominium, the assassin peeled off the surgical gloves and before exiting took one more look at the polo grandstand. You’re dead, Bo Cayman. <h2>Chapter 1</h2>   Chandler "Toothpick," Chandler said to herself, turning sideways, observing the profile of her body in the full-length mirror. That's what she had been called when she was twelve, before the long legs with the bony knees filled out, before the lines of her body changed from flat planes to curves and orbs. I was as thin as a beanpole, tumbling over myself like a newborn colt, she thought. She cocked her head inquisitively at her reflection. My mouth is still too large, the nose too long—Bo had asked her to have it "trimmed off a bit"--the lips too broad. Yet, the sum of her features was somehow beautiful. Not that Chandler considered herself beautiful, but she was aware of her allure. As were others. On one wall of the condo was a huge blow-up of a cover of Cosmopolitan, and from its glossy surface, Chandler, long and lithe in a shimmering gold gown, smiled sensually at the camera. The photograph was only one of the dozen magazine covers she had appeared on, but it was one of Bo's favorites. The one that he loved to show to polo players was the Sports Illustrated swim suit issue in which Chandler was featured on the cover, posed in a glittering Lycra suit, one knee raised provocatively to her chin to show the curved expanse of her thigh and to reveal the thin swatch of gold material between her legs. Chandler leaned forward and pursed her lips in front of the mirror, then stretched them to a thin line over her teeth. She noticed a speck of red lipstick on a tooth and quickly wiped it off with a tissue. Thank God she had noticed the stain before Bo saw it. She brushed the tips of her fingers over her cheek, then upward to one eye. Yes, the broken vein showed, but the eye shadow over the concealer masked what was left of the yellow bruise. There were other bruises on her stomach and upper thighs, but he had been careful about her face, until . . . It wasn't Bo's fault, she rationalized. He had been, well, crazy after winning that last polo game, the one that catapulted his team into the finals of the U.S. Open. His grasp on her wrist had bruised the skin as he practically dragged her from the field back to their condo. There were no preliminaries, no soft words of endearment: he pushed her onto the carpet, ripped her panties aside as he unzipped his saddle-stained breeches, and thrust into her. Chandler tried to squirm away as she felt the metal edges of his belt buckle gouging her stomach. "Bo! That hurts." His cheek pressed hard against hers, sweat smearing her makeup. He smelled rancid, of salt, and sweat, and horseshit. "Godammit, Bo! Get off—” He slapped her across the face, not with the full force of his hand, but just enough to cause tears to well up behind her closed eyelids. Oh, no, he was careful not to mark her too deeply. He didn't last long this time, not near as long as he was able, and afterward he tenderly kissed the small heart-shaped birthmark high on her inner thigh, the one in which he'd paid a tattoo artist to create a border around it in his team colors, gold and black. The next morning, he apologized for the welt under her eye. As he always did for the bruises he inflicted during intercourse. Chandler forgave him, of course. As she always did. She would make him love her more, by giving herself completely to him, even if it meant talking a few hard knocks now and then. She would love him by his rules. With Bo, passion meant suffering, the greater the suffering, the greater the passion.Well, I'm sure as hell suffering, she thought as her fingers touched the slightly raised welt under her eye. Through the reflection of the mirror, she could see the glassed-in trophy case, silver cups and Baccarat vases lined up, reflecting glints of light from the sun streaming though the sliding glass door. There were half a dozen framed color photographs of Bo with his polo team, trophies held above their heads, reveling in their victory. One of Bo's favorites was a head-on shot of him leaning out of the saddle like a Cossack, mallet raised to strike at the ball. Chandler ruffled her long blond hair with a shake of her head and turned from the mirror. A gilt-framed photograph stood on a small table and next to it a delicately sculpted vase held a spray of long-stemmed white roses. Her mother's favorite flowers. She was so dark and I'm so fair, Chandler thought as her fingers brushed across the glass of her mother's picture as if adjusting an out-of-place tendril of brunette hair. It was the only family picture Bo allowed. Chandler heard the faint strains of "The Star Spangled Banner" through the open terrace doors as the third and fourth place polo teams prepared to play the preliminary game. In the center of the field, Chandler observed the line of eight polo players facing the grandstand, sitting astride their polo ponies, helmets in their laps, waiting. A mounted honor guard hoisted the colors of California and the United States, the flags hanging limply in the quiet air. Spectators had risen solemnly for the anthem and the men held their hats over their hearts. Only the immaculately groomed polo ponies waiting by the side of the field were restless. Tied to the iron rails at the pony lines, the horses pawed at the ground, nudged one another, and flattened their ears in fierce anticipation, as if waiting to be chosen for the coming conflict. Chandler loved to watch polo from the terrace of their condominium, hearing the frenzied shouts of the players as they battled for the ball. I have the best of all lives, she thought. <h2>Quotes and Accolades</h2> “Polo Wives is a page turner. I was compelled to read on.” Lisa “I was captivated. All in all, a GREAT piece of writing” Katy “I found that I was drawn into the lives of these individuals of means and wealth because of their frailties and vanities. The author moved the story at a rapid pace.” Louis “I really enjoyed the fast-paced storytelling and the comparison of the Oswald/Kennedy assassination. Splendid! Bravo!” Brenda “This is very intense. The writing draws us into its world skillfully. The use of language is done quite masterfully. All in all, this is a brilliant work.” Jimmy     0

2010-01-04T14:38:40-08:00

Chandler , a twenty-six-year old haute couture fashion and swimsuit model who is the sexually and physically abused wife of wealthy polo patron and player, Bo Cayman.

true

polo-wives

true

2002-08-04T00:00:00-07:00

true

Polo Wives

2010-01-07T11:30:55-08:00

Write from the Start is a proven program for writing and selling nonfiction magazine articles and books even if you’ve never been published before. Now, from a professional writer and writing instructor, comes a foolproof method for writing and selling nonfiction articles to magazines and books to publishers. <a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/200.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="157" height="46" /></a> <h2><a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/200.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="157" height="46" /></a></h2> <h2>About the Book</h2> Write from the Start is a proven program for writing and selling nonfiction magazine articles and books even if you’ve never been published before. Now, from a professional writer and writing instructor, comes a foolproof method for writing and selling nonfiction articles to magazines and books to publishers. Starting at the very beginning, Cork Millner shows how you can become a selling writer. Learn the craft of writing non-fiction, how to develop good writing work habits, come up with great titles and sell your work. Write from the Start charts a proven, practical course for becoming the writer you want to be. Write from the Start has chapters on: <ul> <li>Unleashing Your Creativity </li> <li>Writing Great Leads </li> <li>Fiction Techniques in Nonfiction Writing </li> <li>The Q’s and A’s of Interviewing </li> <li>Titles That Tantalize </li> <li>The Query Letter: Selling Your Magazine Articles </li> <li> The Book Proposal: Selling Your Book </li> </ul> <h2>Excerpts</h2> Chapter One:  The Art of Interviewing Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade, just as a painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. —Truman Capote  “Madam, I’m Adam.” “Eve.” And so began the world’s first “interview.” The ensuing question and answer session must have been fascinating. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a third party, a writer with a tape recorder on the scene to record it. What if Barbara Walters had been on hand to chat with Cleopatra and Mark Antony? What if Mike Wallace had been able to confront Genghis Khan? What if Howard Cosell had been there to interview David and Goliath before their big fight? What if any of today’s interviewers had been there to question Shakespeare on the opening night of Hamlet? I once asked actor Don Murray this question: “Of all the famous personalities in recorded history, who would you like most to have lunch with?” His quick response was, “Jesus.” Jesus Christ is a fascinating enigma because no one with a tape recorder and a list of questions interviewed him. Would Jesus be such a mystery today if he had been interviewed by a newscaster from the CNN Network? Imagine sitting down for a talk with Moses. How about John the Baptist? Pontius Pilate? A Roman centurion? Studs Terkel, whose interview books included Working and The Good War are virtually devoid of famous personalities, once said that his biggest fantasy was to be at the foot of Calvary with a tape recorder. What, he wondered, went through the minds of the masses when Christ was crucified? Would these people have agreed to an interview? Would Shakespeare?” Would Napoleon? Would George Washington? (Yes, he did agree to an interview. I know because I interviewed him. The George Washington interview, “Valley Forge - The Crucible of Victory,” is included in this book in the section, “Celebrity Circus.”) From the beginning of time people have delighted in talking about themselves. Answering questions gives an individual an air of importance and boosts his or her ego. As journalist/interviewer A. J. Liebling said, “We are an articulate people, pleased by attention, covetous of being singled about.” Fortunately for the writer, people love to talk about themselves, their work, and their personal expertise. Quotes Lend Credibility Getting firsthand, expert quotes will beef up any nonfiction work and make it more saleable. Learning the interviewing process will enable to writer to add vitality, credibility and an authoritative voice to a manuscript. A writer can’t know everything. You may want to write an article on divorce settlements. Who to interview? A divorce attorney. Let’s say you are writing a story on Columbus’ perilous journey across the Atlantic to the New World. Who do you interview? An historian with expertise in that era. Want to write a piece on Mom and Pop grocery stores? Who do you interview? Mom and Pop. A student writer decided to write about ATMs, the automatic tellers that banks use to provide patrons with day-and-night cash and deposit facilities. Who did the writer interview? Her husband—an ATM repairman! From him she got great quotes—“Look, Sarah, I told you so. There is a little man in that machine!”—and wrote the story. Where do you find these experts? It’s as simple as running your fingers through the Yellow Pages. Anyone, from magicians to marble cutters, from wine consultants to zoologists, can be found in the telephone book. Getting these “experts” to agree to a brief interview, especially a telephone interview is easy.Professionals like to make statements, to show their expertise, to see their name in print. Just explain what you are doing—“I’m writing an article on emergency care centers, called The McDonald’s of Medicine, and I’d like to get your opinion of their place in the medical profession.” You’ll get answers. Learning to Write She sat listening intently in the front row of my nonfiction writing class, a pleasant smile on her face. For several weeks she hadn’t turned in any of the weekly assignments. She just listened—and smiled. After the fourth class she came to my desk. “I’m a licensed therapist,” she began. “I counsel wives of alcoholic husbands. I’d like to write a magazine article about my work.” We talked about her idea, how to organize it, and I suggested she include case histories of women she had counseled. The next week she turned in the first draft of the article. It was well written, with a balanced blend of narrative, anecdotes, character, dialogue and problem-solving concepts. “This may sound silly,” she said, pausing, “but I have enough material for a book. Should I write it? I even have a title.” “What do you want to call it?” I asked. “Women Who Love Too Much.” Robin Norwood wrote her book and it became a smash bestseller, propelling her into national fame and fortune. How did Robin Norwood succeed when so many other writers fail? Quite simply, if you want to become published writer, you must learn the profession of writing. Like Robin Norwood. <h2>Reviews</h2> “Had Cork Millner written Write from the Start forty years ago, I’d have fewer rejection slips to bequeath to my grandchildren.” Charles Champlin, Los Angeles Times “Cork Millner is that rara avis—an excellent writer who can teach others to write excellently." Barnaby Conrad, author and director of the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference <h2><a href="http://www.booklocker.com/books/200.html"><img title="Buy Now" src="/system/files/1/large/BuyNow.gif" alt="Buy Now" width="157" height="46" /></a> </h2> 0

2010-01-04T16:20:19-08:00

Write from the Start is a proven program for writing and selling nonfiction magazine articles and books even if you’ve never been published before.

true

write-from-the-start

true

2001-07-01T00:00:00-07:00

true

Write From the Start

2010-01-07T11:35:32-08:00