MJ Magazine: May 2016 Edition - Created by Authors for Authors

By Fran Lewis

This seventh issue of MJ Magazine features authors Anthony Franze, Andrea Kane, Marta Moran Bishop, Joy Fielding and Carol P. Roman. Also included are writing tips interviews with successful authors, book reviews and Fran’s picks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fran Lewis
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310714719

Fran Lewis

Fran Lewis: Fran worked in the NYC Public Schools as the Reading and Writing Staff Developer for over 36 years. She has three masters degrees and a PD in Supervision and Administration. Currently, she is a member of Who's Who of America's Teachers and Who's Who of America's Executives from Cambridge. In addition, she is the author of three children's books and a fourth that has just been published on Alzheimer's disease in order to honor her mom and help create more awareness for a cure. The title of my new Alzheimer’s book is Memories are Precious: Alzheimer’s Journey; Ruth’s storyShe was the musical director for shows in her school and ran the school's newspaper. Fran writes reviews for authors upon request and for several other sites. You can read some of my reviews on Ezine.com and on ijustfinished.com under the name Gabina. I am a member of Whos Who of Americas Teachers and Whos Who of America’s Executives and Professionals on Cambridge. I review books for authors upon request. My goal is to get my books published by a traditional publisher and on the shelves of every school library, hospital and bookstore. I host two radio shows on Blog Talk Radio. Book Discussion with Fran Lewis is on Blog Talk every third Wednesday of the month from three to five eastern. My children’s author’s show is four times a year. I host online book blogs and book tours for authors and I review books for authors throughout the world. I have published six books the last Because We Care in memory of my sister Marcia. The proceeds going to find the cause and cure for Alzheimer’s.

Book preview

Memories of Marcia

Marcia and I did so many wild things that it would take forever to share all of them, but here is one that will make you smile and let the whole world know just how special my sister was and still is. Every morning she would call me to bust my chops and ask if I had given my mom her meds. The phone would ring at exactly 7:15 every morning. At times just for fun I would let it go to voicemail just to see what she would do and the message she would leave. Of course being Marcia and persistent and wanting to drive me crazy while I was trying to get in five extra minutes of sleep or rest, she would call back, and if I didn’t answer my cell she would call the aide taking care of my mom and tell her to go up with my mother and ring my bell and make sure I woke up. NICE, RIGHT?

The conversation was always, Did you give Mom her meds? and I would say She’s waiting for you to come and give them to her since you claim to be the better child and the GOOD ONE! As she called herself. I miss those conversations. Of course we also talked about when she was coming on Thursday, where we would take Mom for lunch, and shopping at New York and Company, which was her favorite store. I never go into that store anymore. I miss watching her check every seam, every thread, and each part of every garment before trying it on.

She loved life and enjoyed doing crazy things and acting silly at times. We would often walk down the street and tell each other how great we looked, and dance and sing doing it. I can’t sing a note but she could. I remember she started to sing some of the songs from Carousel and The King and I as we walked into one of the stores, and she never stopped until she was done. People stopped and listened to her sing and actually applauded. I was waiting for them to throw money. She was a real talent, and when she rehearsed for shows I would accompany her on the piano. Miss that too. She was a great dancer and was always trying to teach me the latest steps, but I never could compete and did not care. She was a breath of fresh air and she was my sister and best friend.

Memories of Marcia and Memories of Mom

MEMORIES OF LOSS POEMS

Searching for Me

Barbara Ehrentreu

In the hazy moments

between wake and sleep

I miss you

the texture of your beard

the hazel eyed sharpness

of your gaze on mine

the sound of soft snores

the circle of your arms

the place on your chest

chiseled from years to

fit my head and soaked

with tears when life

overstepped its boundaries

the quiet moments backed

with sounds of jazz or rock

and the joy of your smile

washing my day with

bright vermillion

you swept me into the

tornado of your life

and I held on tight

a willing passenger

as we careened

giddy and eager as it swirled

and I drifted in its debris

as you swallowed it all

and now I must search

for the pieces of me.

Cutting Watermelon

Barbara Ehrentreu

I got down to the rind

and felt an emptiness

as if something was

missing

the cut crisp red cubes

filled the container

and I slipped one

into my mouth

feeling the sweet

juice and cold

wetness of it

I looked over

at the empty leather

chair

and you weren’t

there waiting for

the rind with your

salivating eagerness

biting it down

to the white part

a little smile on

your face

as you wiped

your mouth

and the empty

rinds collected

by your side

and I picked

it up and gnawed

the inside for you.

The Remnants of You

Barbara Ehrentreu

The framed map sits on your dresser top

towering above it is the American flag

that dressed the last place you lay

accouterments you would never have

allowed when you were a living breathing

entity

And remnants of you remain

I brush by your silk ties hanging still

on your side of the closet as if waiting

for the day when you will choose one

reminding me of times when you would

stand there and take the one with the

worst print for your buddy who delighted

in the game you played to wear the

worst tie

and pieces of you filter through my life

as I survey my room and glance above

at the bobble head dolls of hockey

announcers and Mr. Met,

the Balzac head, the bowling ball

Big Lebowski DVD you never viewed

and the lawyer head

in a clear plastic dome

all remind me of you

But I return to the map and imagine

as I pinpoint the marked site what

it is like to swim with the sea life and

be one with the earth returning to the

water dissolved in its brine

How could the massive presence of

you be reduced to a mere blip on

a sea map?

Can you condense the years we spent

into a neat package?

Will I ever be able to say goodbye to

the remnants of you?

Woven — The Dream

Barbara Ehrentreu

We were woven together

in a massive tapestry

the weave so close

it was hard to separate

you from me

and in this journey

we took

our odyssey

we kept adding more fibers

until it stretched for years

and now with you gone

the weave must be

unraveled and the

day to day you-ness

extracted from it

as if that could ever happen.

The tapestry lives on

in my mind colorful and

wild as your young days

and my young body

transformed with your love

as you and me became us

the weaving so strong it

is now painful to be alone

now the weave is just strings

hanging unconnected and

fraying, but the memory

will always be there

creating pictures never to be erased

yet the fraying strings of

your life continue as the

process moves me closer

to the time when it is

no longer painful to

remember

Love’s Memory

Barbara Ehrentreu

Love is amorphous

envelopes you in its

tantalizing net and

captures you until

all you were before

has disappeared and

you are reborn as a

loved one and a lover

your mind like a trained pointer

honed on the one you

love and you are a

vessel carrying that love

around with you doling it

out moment to moment

as if it were a precious

commodity meant to

be secreted away in a

safe place and sprinkled

ever so gently over

the one you love

and you continue in

this fashion until one

day he is taken from you

and you explode

the love flows everywhere

and you know you no longer

need to hold onto this love

for your loved one can

no longer feel your touch

yet it spreads over

all and seeps into your life

in memories fashioned from

the remains of the love you

once held inside of you

memories that keep you

close in his arms in a

phantom hug with remembered

tenderness and you feel it

as if you were still in your

lover’s arms and he was

holding you tight

instead of the

transparency of the dream

Visiting a Familiar Place

Barbara Ehrentreu

I took the trip to Peekskill

knowing I would pass by

places where you used to

frequent and where you

found peace

and I remembered your joy

as you did your crossword puzzle

amidst the din of the filled coffee shop

aromas of fresh brewed coffee and

pastry mixing in a tantalizing Sunday smell

and on the few times we listened to live

music there your thrill at finding a new artist

this ten year old boy excitement at

hearing new music

you catalogued all these experiences while

I glided through them like a shower of music

tumbling over me

I thought of how I would need to

be alone in a new place

as I listened to my friend tonight and how

your eyes would have gleamed at the sounds

he produced fitting this experience into your

rolodex of memories

while I admired the sounds and way his music

made me feel letting it seep me in the emotions

of the pinging of those guitar strings and the juxtaposition

of the chords in a harmonious ecstasy

and it was all that

but

I missed your presence

as I sat conversing and

connecting I wished you were there

to hold onto your arm

(you were the bulwark of my life)

and see you smile back to me

as we enjoyed it

together

Dan Stone

Heaven Waits

It's not pearly gates

we have to pray

we push on to.

There are other

entrances and doors

to playgrounds, pools,

parks to wander through.

No sin is worth this day

that's yours to spend

in flight, these dreams

you get to chase.

It's alright to make

this joy your fate,

to let it be as perfect

as it seems.

Nothing else you

have to do or be

or have.

Heaven waits.

It All Rises

Moon, and mist

at waterfalls,

a raven's wings,

stars in eyes,

the hopes and dreams

of lovers kissed.

Secrets shared

at evening light,

meditations,

whispered prayers,

a cloud's surprises,

hearts releasing

all their cares,

wrongs made right,  

who we are

and what we've seen,

incantations,

angel guises.  

A finger ready

to receive a ring,

love that calls

and hypnotizes.

Every time  

we choose to sing…

It all rises.

Cruise

Our eyes close.

We hoist sails,

cruise between the  

rise and set.  

Dreams become  

the water and the wind,

the sky blooms

like a rose,

all and nothing

what it seems.  

We may fly  

or fight or fail,

lose our way,

call out a name.  

We may forget,

but won't let that

hold us here.  

We know  

where we belong.  

We know that journey's

how it all begins,

the dusk,  

as much ours

as the dawn.

Again Again  

Life's a whirl,

a round and round

of night and day

and day and night.  

We cycle, swirl,

from dark to light,

from sun to moon,

to get it done,

to get it right.  

We wonder when

it ever ends

and think it's over

way too soon.  

We stand up straight,

we learn to bend,

We leap, we fall

we lose, we win,  

we learn to trust

our hearts, our friends.

we learn to know  

it's not too late.  

We learn we'll go

again, again.

Bath

Thinking has its place.  

Just not here.  

Not in this bath

of melting moon,

this still space

and mind cleared,

this scene lit

by silver branch,

filled to the brim

with the soul's sigh.  

No science, math,

no false or true.  

Here, I sink.

I lie, rocked to sleep.

A lake's lullaby

takes me down,

holds me true

as every weighted  

word and deed

is loosed and freed.  

I close my eyes

and breathe deep,

no need to watch  

them floating by.

Off Course

Oh how we love

our straight line paths

our shortest distance  

from this point to that.  

Get off course  

and we ravage maps,

pray for a signal,

pay whatever cost  

for some assistance.  

All the while  

the tulips and hibiscus  

protest our lament,  

The eagles fly,

the roses sigh

and the stream—

oh the long and winding,

sure and shining stream—

just reminds us

to rely on all

we've dreamed,

all the hope we've spent,

all our faith  

that nothing  

and no one

is lost.

Majestic Bends

There's a reason  

for not seeing

so far ahead,

for not knowing

what we don't know yet.  

Think of the surprise—

majestic bends

and mile wide skies,

pregnant clouds and curves that

end at bliss

no map could get us to.  

No need to prophesy.

Not when we have  

all this.  

Forget the book

and how it ends,

feel what it's all about.  

Let go of needing

what we think

we need.  

Just look.

Home

There's no joy

like setting sail.  

No thrill as moving  

as the wind,

no read richer

than the sky's detail.  

We love the leaving,

navigating, proving  

we can go--

get there from here.  

We get high, believing  

we can know,

pass any test.

And so we roam,

we seek, we find,

release our fears,

we lose, we win,

we chart our course

or we fly blind

until it's time to rest,

to make our peace,

to come back home.

Defining Professional

Terry Shames

Often we think of professionals as people with advanced degrees and big salaries. But that isn’t what defines a professional. True professionals hold themselves to high standards, treat themselves with respect, and behave in ways that command respect from others.

Professional people know the reality of how their business works and they challenge themselves to make the most of it. That doesn’t mean they don’t recognize when something needs to be changed and try to affect change, but change happens gradually. Meanwhile, if you want to succeed you have to work with what you’ve got.

If you take yourself seriously as a professionally published author, you have to take a good hard look at the way it actually works, and go from there. It’s fine to strive to affect changes in the publishing world, but if you pretend things are the way you want them to be rather than the way they are, there’s a good chance you are going to fail.

Being a professional writer demands that you take yourself seriously in every aspect of the publishing process, from writing your first book, to after you make the best seller list.

The Unprofessional Approach

When I first began writing, I failed to take myself seriously. Here’s what happened: After I got my MA in creative writing, I wrote a mystery novel and sent it off to an agent. The agent immediately snapped it up. This was in the 1980s. In those days the writer’s job was to write a good book and find an agent. The job of the agent was to find a publisher. The job of the publisher was to do negotiate the contract, pay an advance, edit the book, publish it, distribute, and promote it—and pay the author royalties. These days are long gone.

My agent sent the book to a major publisher who kept it for a year before rejecting it. At the publisher’s suggestion, I revised it, sent it back, only to have it rejected again. Being naïve about how a professional should behave, I had made several mistakes, so I parted ways with the agents.

I had written another book. An agent who had a lot of name recognition read it, loved and wanted to represent it. The same thing happened with her as with the first agent. A publisher was interested, but no cigar.

I decided to write a commercial book that I KNEW would sell. Sure enough, this time two hot agents asked to represent it. Same result as before.

Here’s what I had done that was unprofessional:

1) Most important point: I wrote a good enough book—much like others I had read and enjoyed. Instead of really studying why my first, and then second, and then third books didn’t sell, I just wrote another one—as it turns out, with the same flaws. Good enough. But nothing to make them stand out. I didn’t study the genre. I read mysteries, but didn’t study plot, dialogue, characters, etc., to find out how a really good mystery was written, how the best writers kept me up late at night, how they folded clues in cleverly, how they used atmosphere and conflict and tension and language. GOOD ENOUGH is not good enough. It’s important to write the best book you have in you

2) I sent