Jun 16

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You are free to duplicate or distribute the following information to your Web site, ezine, newsletter, or friends as long as the contents are not changed, copyright notice is intact, and a link is provided to BloggingAuthors.com If you would you like to review this book for your site or ezine, email nancy at bloggingauthors dot com

For Widows Only by Annie Estlund

Title: For Widows Only!
Author: Annie Estlund
Paperback: 324 pages
Publisher: iUniverse, Inc.
ISBN: 0595291104
$22.95
Available from your favorite bookseller
http://www.forwidowsonly.com

Excerpt

Prologue: About This Book

ALONG THE ROAD

I walked a mile with Pleasure
She chattered all the way,
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow,
And ne’er a word said she,
But, oh, the things I learned from her
When Sorrow walked with me!

 –Robert Browning Hamilton

Welcome, friend. Come walk along with us. I have invited several widows, from a wide range of ages, backgrounds and experiences, to join us on this journey through grief. We want to take your hand and help guide you through the worst of widowhood. Maybe we can help a little. Please let us try.

For Widows Only! is the book I searched for and couldn’t find as a new widow. I was looking for “nuts and bolts” advice, but I also desperately needed comfort, encouragement and understanding from an ordinary widow (or many) like myself. Lynn Caine’s Widow and Being a Widow were pretty good, especially for young mothers, and they remain available even though they are decades old. Aside from those, I was surprised to find how few widowhood books were on the market and that most of those were written either by celebrities or by professionals who had studied widowhood but not experienced it. Many books dealing with grief in general were written by men, and others treated grief as a one size fits all malady. Sometimes I found only a hole on the bookstore shelf where widowhood books should have been. For all the obvious need, there seemed surprisingly little help available. 

This also is the book I had begun writing decades before my husband died. I became a sympathetic student of the mourning process as a young mother, when my best friend from Cottey College days, Pauli Shelden Jensen, lost her young husband to cancer when she was just 29. She was left with three babies, the youngest born the week her husband underwent surgery disclosing the extent of his malignancy. Having three little ones of my own at that time brought home the horror of her situation.

A few months after Will’s death, Pauli and I began recording her thoughts and gathering piles of research material on the subject. We interviewed other widows, formulated an overall theme and outlined chapters. But, due to the demands of our six young children and the many miles that stretched between us, that project withered on the vine. Papers languished, yellowed and became havens for silverfish in our garages, as the realities of daily life consumed us. Pauli put some of our ideas to use, forming a local support group for widows and widowers in Minneapolis. But following her move to Phoenix, our dream collapsed. Perhaps if we had had e-mail available then, we might have finished that book.

Over the years we often talked about how we really should resuscitate “the book.” Then, several years ago, “it” happened to me; I was suddenly a widow. I was completely thrown. All I thought I knew about the subject seemed remote and unreal. I quickly learned that in widowhood, as in most life changes, experience is the best, but most painful, teacher. Only someone who has been through such intense grief can fully appreciate the pain. That stunning lesson is worthy of capital letters: IT’S ENTIRELY DIFFERENT BEING A NEW WIDOW THAN KNOWING ONE.

No woman can sufficiently prepare for the role of widow and thereby escape pain. In my research I ran into several counselors who had worked with individual widowed clients and as grief support group leaders prior to becoming widowed themselves. They were stunned to find themselves just as helplessly shaken as their clients. It’s not that we don’t hurt for our friends, clients, and loved ones when they suffer losses. We do; we even share some of their agony. However, once we experience the loss personally, we realize that the pain is magnified a hundred-fold and lasts far longer for widows themselves than for their sympathetic friends and counselors.

Six months after my husband died, I awoke with a start, sat up on the edge of my bed, sucked in a deep breath and decided it was time to write that long overdue book for widows. I had just awakened—again—with a jolt that left my pulse racing, my palms sweating and my heart pounding. I seemed intent on reliving the death scene, over and over again. Why? Would that never end? Was that natural? Would anything ever seem normal again? I had bushels of questions. What I needed was a book that would be like a sympathetic widowed friend to keep by my side, one that would try to anticipate and answer my questions and assure me that my scary feelings were natural, predictable and temporary. I needed the book that I had wanted to write years earlier. Pauli was delighted with my plan to take on this project; she agreed to listen, edit, advise and support my effort, from her home in California, which she indeed has.

From the first day of my nightmare, I had poured my pain into a journal as therapy. Those words had been meant “for my eyes only,” but I soon realized many entries included the kind of intimate sharing I had been seeking from an author. I needed to know she had suffered many of the fears and insecurities I felt, so it made sense that you readers might also need that. I include some of those entries, mostly at the beginnings of chapters. Because most widows cling to a few poignant or pithy sayings, keeping them stuck to the refrigerator or tucked into a wallet for when they need a “lifeline,” I include many of my favorites here.

About For Widows Only

From the author:  ”For Widows Only! is personal, intimate and honest. An early reader of the manuscript said, “This is an extraordinary book for widows, with straight from the hip girl talk that every widow will appreciate.” In addition to practical nuts and bolts advice, I include my own most intimate feelings, but also those of more than 80 other widows, so the book is relevant to widows of all ages and at all stages in their grief. For Widows Only! will guide grieving widows through their most anxious moments and help them find answers to their most pressing questions.

I have wanted to write an “ideal widowhood book” since my best-friend was widowed when we were both only 29 years old. We each had three young children, so it wasn’t hard for me to imagine what she must be going through. Her trials and anguish became my own. We tried at that time to develop a widow’s guidebook, but household demands and hundreds of miles that separated us won out and the unfinished book became food for silverfish in my garage.

When I was widowed without warning at the age of 55, I was horrified to discover how ill-equipped I was, even after all that research years earlier, to deal with the intensity of first-hand widowhood. You have to actually be a widow to fully understand how widows feel. Disappointed by the available books that purported to be widows’ guides to recovery, I felt compelled to follow through on my earlier mission. The need was still there. At about six months into my grief I began organizing what I knew would be that “ideal widowhood book,” although due to grieving and learning to live again, it didn’t get published and available to others until early 2004.

The book is divided into three sections, “What Happened?” “What Now?” and “What Next” Few new widows will wish to read straight through the book because, as a reviewer noted, “It’s much too jam-packed with helpful information to be digested in one gulp.” It is organized in such a way that she will easily find whatever part she feels she needs at any stage of her grief.

Part I, “What Happened?” reassures newer widows and suggests coping skills to help as they slog their way through the confusing maze of early grief and anxiety. Part II, “What Now?” follows with possible solutions to the most worrisome problems and questions widows face as they seek to regain stability in their lives alone. In the third section, “What Next?” my friends and I provide a framework for how each widow, when she is ready, can construct a satisfying new life for herself. Not the same life, I always caution widows, but a new and interesting life.

I still ache for newer widows who think they will never survive their trauma or that life will never again be worthwhile. I offer guidelines to deal with those fears while also providing positive steps toward designing their new life alone. A psychotherapist told me, “For Widows Only! is an invaluable resource for widows. I wish I had had it available when I was dealing with widows in my practice.” I’ve been complimented on the forceful writing and voluminous research, but you will find it is also refreshingly intimate, compassionate and intelligent. A long-time educator calls it, “A real page-turner. Amazing for a widows’ book.”

 I tried to anticipate the readers’ needs, and apparently have succeeded. A recent widow from central Wisconsin said, “It was as if you were reading my mind….  Everything I had been thinking, you talked about.” As I was writing, I tried to envision taking my readers by the hand and gently leading them through the cold, gray tunnel of grief and out the other side. I tried to use both wisdom and wit to convince them that they will survive.  There is nothing more valuable than reading views from surviving widows to help newer widows realize they are not alone, that they share their scary path with millions who have not only survived, but often thrived.

 In these 300 plus pages, widows will find what they need most: hope and a helping hand. Widowers and others who grieve may be surprised to find that the book’s message applies to them as well. According to an expert in human relations, “This comprehensive book also is a must-read for anyone with a close widowed friend or relative.” A retired therapist sums it up this way, “Finally, concrete help for those who grieve.” A working therapist said almost exactly the same thing. I can understand that. I wish I had had this book to help when I was recently widowed.

This self-help book, filled with down-to-earth hints and intimate personal discussions, maintains an upbeat tone and offers real hope for the widow’s future. All widows know life will never be the same without their husbands, but it can be very good again. For Widows Only! is designed to be every widow’s best friend, always there at her side for when she needs it.

About the Author

At the age of 29, Annie Estlund began planning a self-help book for widows with her recently widowed best friend, Pauli, also 29. The two had become lifelong friends while attending Cottey College. In spite of their enthusiasm, that project soon became a struggle…with Annie living in Waukesha, a Milwaukee suburb, and Pauli living in Minneapolis. It died on the vine as each succumbed to the time required to care for three babies and maintain a home.

Annie finally received her degree in journalism, from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, at the age of 45, shortly after her youngest departed for college. She had co-authored a book about working mothers that was “almost published” in the ’70s, and she wrote 4 (mediocre) romance novels in the ’80s, just for fun. But mostly she wrote for (much bigger) newspapers, and for regional and national magazines.

After a stint as Public Relations Writer for the Milwaukee Art Museum, Annie worked as the editor of several area newsletters. In 1986 she and Bruce retired to write full time, and soon moved to their little log cottage on the rocky shores of Lake Michigan in beautiful Door County, Wisconsin.

Then “IT” happened to her. At age 55 Annie was suddenly widowed. She was completely thrown, and quickly realized that her “study of widowhood” years earlier was of little help to her now. She learned the hard way that only a widow can understand the harsh realities of widowhood well enough to comfort another widow. And she knew in her bones that she was going to write that long overdue book for widows.

She quickly began keeping an intimate journal of her turmoil and grief, and soon began designing what she still considers the perfect book to help widows deal with the agony and challenges of widowhood and life alone.  For Widows Only! is that book.

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Jun 15

You are free to duplicate or distribute the following information to your Web site, ezine, newsletter, or friends as long as the contents are not changed, copyright notice is intact, and a link is provided to BloggingAuthors.com If you would you like to review this book for your site or ezine, email nancy at bloggingauthors dot com

The Deal Master by Gerard Bianco

Title: The Deal Master
Author: Gerard F. Bianco
Paperback: 258 pages
Publisher: iUniverse, Inc.  
ISBN: 0595378390
$16.95
Available from your favorite bookseller

About The Deal Master

In New York City, women with red hair are being brutally murdered. Detective William Gillette and his team are on the case, but they remain clueless until a curious stranger proposes a series of tempting deals—an exchange of sorts—that will help solve the crimes.

Gillette accepts the offer and plunges into the game. One deal after the next, he draws closer to the killer. But each deal comes with a price. Soon the detective finds himself in a dark hole—one he can’t get out of without striking the ultimate deal. Is the Deal Master Gillette’s savior—or his worst nightmare?

The Deal Master is a horror thriller, a psychological thriller, a who-done-it, and a wonderful mystical thriller all rolled into one. It will grab you and take you for a haunting ride, twisting and turning beyond murder and betrayal, past seduction and desire, and straight on through to its shocking ending.

About the Author

Gerard Bianco was raised in the jewelry business. His family operated the largest jewelry store in Brooklyn NY for over 25 years; John Bianco and Sons Fine Jewelry. Having worked with jewelry his wholeGerard Bianco The Deal Master professional life and studying at the Gemological Institute of America, Gerard’s expertise is well-rounded, including special order work, custom designs, estate and antique jewelry as well as providing expert jewelry repair and appraisals.

In addition to jewelry, Gerard is also passionate about art. He studied at the Art Students League, School of Visual Arts and Parsons School of Art. Gerard’s work has been represented by a number of fine art galleries and among his many commissions are those from the United States Navy, Placido Domingo (VCR jacket) and Merrill Lynch. Indeed, Gerard’s approach to jewelry design is that of an artist’s as you will see when you visit their website or the store in Portland.

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Jun 15

You are free to duplicate or distribute the following information to your Web site, ezine, newsletter, or friends as long as the contents are not changed, copyright notice is intact, and a link is provided to BloggingAuthors.com If you would you like to review this book for your site or ezine, email nancy at bloggingauthors dot com

Green 61 by Cody Fowler Davis

Title: Green 61
Author: Cody Fowler Davis
Published by: Little Moose Press
ISBN: 0972022732
$23.95, hardcover, 232 pages
Available from your favorite bookseller

About the Book

Grab a front-row seat in the jury box for one of this year’s best legal thrillers—Green 61.

On one side of the aisle, weighing in with integrity to spare, is Anderson Parker, a newly fired attorney who gets fired up over the wrongful death of three victims—two of them children—in a Florida boating accident that was all too avoidable.

Facing off at the opposite table is heavyweight lawyer Justin Cartwright II, a no-holds barred SOB who’d lie, cheat, and steal to get a KO in the courtroom. Adding to the tension is the fact that Cartwright’s the guy who’d fired Anderson for refusing to suppress crucial evidence in a previous case.

Clearly, a battle is brewing, and caught in the middle is Lady Justice—her scales teetering between making the guilty party pay and letting corporate money silence the truth.

About the Author

Cody Fowler Davis is a Tampa, Florida based attorney who is currently working on his second Anderson Parker Novel. Cody Fowler Davis

Davis writes: During the summer of 1989, my wife Beth, our two young daughters and I discovered Useppa Island. It was love at first sight. At that time, I was a workaholic young lawyer in the trial department of a large prestigious law firm. My love for the law and my desire to win trials came at a price. The days started at 6:30 a.m. and usually ended about 7:00 p.m. Tuesday and Thursday nights and half day on Saturdays were standard extended work times. Lucky for me, I had the opportunity to train under hard-working, intelligent, honest lawyers. I was winning the majority of my trials and my wife and children supported me and tolerated the long work hours.

Our house at Useppa became our retreat from my office and my personal escape from the horrible real life stories that accompany death and severe personal injury. The island was where I would spend the majority of my quality time with my exceptional four children. We would fish, water-ski, bird watch, and kayak over to Cabbage Key together. When I left the island on Sunday afternoons to return home, or usually to the office on Sunday nights, I would become depressed as I made the transition back to my work world of death and tragedy.

Times changed. Five years ago, I started my own law firm, Davis & Harmon, P.A. and surrounded myself with six excellent trial lawyers. I still go to trial often on behalf of both plaintiffs and defendants, and usually win in front of juries, but Tuesday and Thursday nights are no longer standard work hours. I am trying to spend more time with my daughters but their lives have now become more complicated as they have all become overachievers. Good or bad, I’m afraid it is learned behavior from me.

It was during a period of relaxation about a year and a half ago when I decided to write Green 61. I sat on our porch which overlooks the Intracoastal waterway and created the characters and lawsuits in my mind. It is all fiction. However, Useppa Island and Cabbage Key are real and they are beautiful. You should make time to visit this incredible area of Florida.

My belief as to the jury trial system is that it is the best system in the world to resolve disputes. As my grandfather used to say, “Six jurors are a hell of a lot better way to end a dispute as compared to parties pacing off steps and then firing at each other with pistols.”

Excerpt

Anderson Parker, attorney-at-law, glanced past the picture of his wife and two children toward his assistant, Sandy, who stood in the doorway giving him The Look.

Anderson, who had been practicing law for the past three years with the aggressive Tampa law firm known as The Law Offices of Justin Cartwright II, felt his heart sink. Anytime Sandy gave him The Look it meant that Justin Cartwright II, the main partner and the attorney for whom Anderson did most of his work, wanted to see Anderson immediately. It also meant that Justin, for some reason or another, was definitely not amused.

In his three years at the firm Anderson had never seen Justin amused, except for those moments when the defendants the firm represented were absolved of guilt in the industrial accidents, car accidents, and other mayhem for which the defendants were liable in fact, if not in the courtroom. The rest of the time Cartwright, whom everyone knew to be a multimillionaire with a second home (which he seldom visited) on Cabbage Key, went about his business as if every plaintiff suing one of his clients was a potential thief out to steal not only the money of his clients but also his own hard-earned cash.

Gossip at the firm had Cartwright’s wife on the brink of divorcing her husband, whom due to his 65- to 75-hour workweeks she never saw, but the “golden handcuffs” of her prenuptial agreement prevented her from actually making good on her threat to leave. Cartwright’s two daughters barely knew their father, and there was one famous story in the firm about how Justin had come home one Sunday morning after an all-nighter at the office to find his youngest daughter sitting in the living room, watching cartoons on TV. When the little girl saw Justin, she burst into tears. She had seen so little of him in her short lifetime that she had no idea he was her father.

Anderson closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the back of his head to slump against the top of his luxurious office chair, one of the perks of working at a top place like The Law Offices of Justin Cartwright II. He thought of his own wife, Ruth, whom he rarely saw before eight o’clock at night, and his own children, with whom he had never spent an entire weekend uninterrupted by work. It was insane, he knew, but he rationalized the long hours and the time away from his family by telling himself that this was how you paid your dues to become a top-flight trial attorney. You had to learn the ropes. You had to learn how to try cases, and you had to learn from the best, even if the best lawyers didn’t always make the best human beings.

Almost every contact with Justin Cartwright II was a painful, often gut-wrenching experience for Anderson. The one good thing to say about Justin was that he was an equal-opportunity bastard of a boss—he treated everybody badly: all the paralegals, all the attorneys, even the clients if they did not bend quickly to his will and follow his guidance to the letter. Anderson considered Cartwright’s behavior and tone of voice infantilizing, and Anderson fantasized about the day, most likely three or four years down the road, when he could say farewell to Justin and start his own firm. He and his wife had just built a house, a large house, the kind of house a young lawyer in Tampa at a top firm ought to have, and if it weren’t for the debt service, the cost of his children’s private schools, and the general high cost of living well—the golf club, Ruth’s civic involvements, the whole nine yards—he would quit sooner. To be honest, though, Anderson just didn’t know how much more of Justin he could take.

Anderson opened his eyes half-hoping that Sandy would dematerialize, as in some science fiction movie, and with her the summons to Justin’s office. They were working on a particularly unpleasant case, a young woman who had been shot in the head and suffered brain damage after an assault at an ATM at a Florida Second Bank branch. Florida Second was the client, and Justin Cartwright had put it on the record that he would be goddamned if this woman took one red cent from that bank.

Sandy was staring at Anderson with a look that said, “You’d better get in there.” Anderson thought he saw something else in Sandy’s eyes. A challenge, a question: “How much more of this shredding of your manhood can you take, even for the high salary and the lifestyle?”

Some lifestyle. Tampa was a beautiful place to live. Boating, golf, the beach, professional sports—it was all here. But what good was any of it if you were marooned at your desk seventy-five hours a week? You couldn’t leave the office any earlier than Justin did. Nobody could do that and survive. Anderson checked his watch. It was a quarter to eight in the evening. Why, he wondered, can’t that multimillionaire of a boss of mine just go home at six o’clock?

Wearily Anderson pushed himself back from his desk and headed out of his office, past Sandy’s disapproving look, and down the hallway toward the office of the head of the trial department, main partner Justin Cartwright.

Anderson was still two offices away when he could hear Justin’s voice booming down the hallway.

“ Anderson, get in here,” he commanded in the same imperious tone he took in the courtroom with stubborn witnesses. “We need to talk about the Brittany case.”

“ Coming, sir,” Anderson murmured. As he reached Justin’s door, he realized he had forgotten his yellow pad, the sign of servility in any law firm and an object not to be forgotten when entering the inner sanctum of Justin Cartwright II.

Cartwright, his body lithe and trim from his hobby of running (he actually would dictate memoranda or interrogatories as he ran), his head shaven in a military-style crew cut, glanced disparagingly at Anderson’s empty hands. No yellow pad. Justin brusquely motioned Anderson to a seat.

Cartwright leaned forward behind his large mahogany desk and waited for Anderson to seat himself in one of the two client chairs positioned in front of him. Cartwright, sensitive about his height, had gone to the trouble of erecting a small, unnoticeable platform for his desk and chair so that he could sit at a slight physical advantage over his guests.

“ How long have you been with this firm?” Justin began.

“ Three years,” Anderson replied, surprised by the question. Surely Justin would know how long Anderson had been with the firm. Justin knew everything.

“ You work long hours,” Justin said. “You’ve even successfully tried some jury trials for both plaintiffs and defendants. But I don’t think you’ve got the slightest clue as to how this system works.”

Anderson swallowed hard. The abuse had begun, slowly at first, as always, and it would soon be an onrushing torrent.

“ I think I do understand how the system works—” Anderson began, but Justin cut him off with a dismissive glance.

“ There’s nothing in this response to the plaintiff’s interrogatory,” Justin said, tapping a document on his desk that Anderson had drafted, “that gives me the slightest indication that you have an inkling of how the system works.”

Anderson tried to control himself.

“ Sir?” he asked.

 “ What do you think this Brittany case is about?” Justin asked, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Anderson wasn’t quite sure how to answer, so he started with a recitation of the facts. “Last April,” he began, “Sheryl Brittany was working as the cashier at a Chinese restaurant on Howard Avenue. After work—it was a Thursday night at approximately 11 p.m.—she left the restaurant with the night’s receipts and drove herself to Florida Second Bank’s branch office location on Kennedy Boulevard.”

Anderson studied Justin as he spoke. He knew that he wasn’t going to change the emotional temperature in the room with a recitation of the facts, but he didn’t know what else to do, so he plunged ahead.

“ Ms. Brittany left her vehicle,” he continued. “She walked to the ATM/depository located on the west side of the bank. An armed assailant approached her and demanded the bag she was carrying. When she did not immediately hand over the money the assailant shot her in the head, and she suffered brain damage.”

Anderson glanced at Justin again. Justin was looking at him as if he were a particularly stupid child who had smacked a softball through a window or done something else equally unthinking, and now he, Justin, would have to clean up the mess all by himself.

“ Ms. Brittany has now brought a civil lawsuit,” Anderson continued gamely, “against our client, Florida Second Bank. She alleges that the bank was negligent because it allowed its premises to exist in a dangerous condition, by having shrubbery too close to the ATM, so that an individual could hide in that shrubbery and attack her. She claims the bank’s negligence was a cause of her physical injuries, along with the gunshot wound to her head. The bank is self-insured up to five hundred thousand dollars, and First Casualty Insurance Company provides liability insurance up to a limit of five million dollars.”

“ A paralegal could have summed up the case just as well as you have,” Justin said. “And for a lot less money per hour. Now why don’t you tell me what we are doing on the case?”

The snide tone of Justin’s cutting remarks infuriated Anderson, but it wouldn’t do any good to get upset with the boss. No good at all.

“ As defense counsel for the bank,” Anderson said, “we are trying to evaluate the liability and damages aspect of the case, so we can advise our client as to what settlement offer to make.”

Justin pounded his fist on his desk. “Wrong!” he shouted.

The only good thing about what was happening, Anderson told himself, was that pretty much everybody else at the firm had gone home, so that his humiliation would have the fewest witnesses. Justin never cared how many people were in the office, how many clients, how many support staff, and he always left his door open when he was administering a tongue-lashing to an attorney or a paralegal. It made no difference to Justin; if anything, people thought Justin liked to maximize the number of eavesdroppers, because it made everybody else work harder.

“ You really don’t understand a goddamn thing,” Justin continued, his tone increasingly angry. “We are the top defense lawyers in southwest Florida. Wealthy clients come to us when they have serious problems. Like this. Our job is to do whatever is necessary to win these cases. And winning means not paying out a goddamn dime.”

Anderson stiffened in his seat. It was one thing to want to win the case and minimize the exposure for a defendant. But in a case like this? Where the defendant was clearly wrong? Permitting clients at an ATM to be preyed upon because the bank didn’t have the good sense to cut down the adjacent shrubbery? Surely even someone like Justin Cartwright II would understand that a woman like Sheryl Brittany was entitled to something. Shot in the head, brain-damaged—all because she was trying to earn her ten dollars an hour, or whatever they could have paid her in a Chinese restaurant in Tampa.

“ We have the resources,” Justin was saying. “We have endless funds, which can buy the best investigators and experts. We can outspend and outwork plaintiffs and their sorry-ass lawyers every time. We can wear the plaintiff’s lawyers down. Make them work long hours with the possibility of never seeing a dime for their efforts. We’re paid retainers and hourly fees. They’re working strictly on contingency. Anderson, that’s the system. And I don’t think you understand that at all.”

Anderson understood it all too well. The disparity between the resources of wealthy defendants, on the one hand, and cash-strapped plaintiffs and their attorneys, on the other, bothered him tremendously. Anderson believed it was one of the most galling inequities not just in the legal system but also in our entire society. Justin didn’t seem to mind it a bit.

Justin lowered his voice and continued. “Counsel for Ms. Brittany alleges that the ATM/depository area was dangerous because the lighting was inadequate. You left that out, Anderson.”

Anderson shifted in his seat uncomfortably yet again.

         “ And then you had those bushes, in which, Ms. Brittany’s distinguished counsel says, our client permits intruders to hide and then rob bank customers. What’s our position, Anderson?”

Anderson, not looking up, could feel Justin’s eyes boring into his head.

Anderson said nothing.

Justin answered his own question. “Our position is that the area was not dangerous,” Justin said as if Anderson were too stupid to waste time on. “The sole and only cause of the unfortunate shooting—” the way Justin pronounced the word unfortunate made it sound to Anderson as if the whole thing were just a big joke to Justin and not a situation that left a woman, a mother of three, with permanent brain damage, “was the criminal actions of the robber. And that shrubbery is there for aesthetic reasons, and it actually benefits the users of the ATM.”

This was the routine every single time Anderson was forced to step into Justin’s office—browbeating followed by a rehashing of Justin’s win-at-all-costs philosophy. Now Justin finally got to the point.

“ Let’s talk about the work I assigned you on this case, Anderson,” Justin said. “Counsel for Ms. Brittany forwarded to our client written interrogatory questions. Question 5 asks, ‘Were there any incidents before the subject incident, where a person was assaulted and/or injured in the area of the ATM/depository?’

“ You provided a draft answer to me,” and Justin pointed to the document on his desk that Anderson had drafted as if it were something too unseemly for gentlemen even to discuss, “describing how a woman was knifed and robbed at the corner of the bank building, near the ATM/depository. Why the hell did you draft that answer? Don’t you know that prior mugging will be used against the bank to suggest the area was dangerous?”

Anderson was confused. “I don’t create the facts,” he said with a stubbornness that surprised both men. “I met with the bank regional safety manager and he told me about the mugging, so I accurately responded to the question.”

“ You didn’t think,” Justin said accusingly. “Plaintiff’s counsel drafted a question that asked about incidents in the area. The mugging took place twelve feet away from the depository. So it was not in the area. So the correct answer should be ‘no.’”

Anderson, his jaw dropping, stared at Justin.

“ We must do whatever is necessary,” Justin concluded, “to make sure that plaintiff’s counsel never learns about that other mugging.”
         Anderson could feel himself going ashen. It was a violation of legal ethics not to provide information about that mugging to the other side. Anderson could end up in serious trouble over something like that. He couldn’t believe that Justin was serious, but then he realized that Justin would do whatever was necessary to win, even if it meant placing his subordinates at risk of perjuring themselves.

 “ It’s plausible deniability,” Anderson heard himself saying.

Justin blinked several times, as if he couldn’t understand what Anderson was talking about.

“ It’s beautiful,” Anderson said, rising to his feet and staring down at the little man behind the huge desk. “You tell me to remove any mention of the prior mugging from our response. Best-case scenario, plaintiff’s attorney never hears of it, and there’s no prior evidence that the ATM area was dangerous. But then if they somehow do find out about it—if they talk to somebody at the bank themselves, or just look up the history of the bank branch on the Internet, it’s my name that’s on the legal pleading. Not yours. I get into trouble. And you’ll testify that this whole conversation never happened. You bastard.”

Justin looked as though he had been slapped. He struggled to his feet. “What did you just call me?” Justin asked, not believing his ears. He looked like a little boy whose candy had been snatched away by a bigger, meaner child.

 “ I called you a bastard,” Anderson said calmly. “I could call you an asshole or I could even call you a fucking little prick. Take your choice. I’ve taken all I’m going to take from you. If I don’t see you in court someday, I’ll see you in hell.”

Anderson stormed out of Justin’s office, past an open-mouthed Sandy, who obviously had heard the entire conversation, and out of the office. How he was going to explain to Ruth that he had just thrown away his legal career was something he hoped to figure out before he got home

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Jun 05

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Silent Battlefields by Hugh Rosen

Title: Silent Battlefields
Author: Hugh Rosen
Paperback: 248 pages
Publisher: iUniverse, Inc. 
ISBN: 0595347738
$16.95Available from your favorite bookseller

About Silent Battlefields

Selig Kruger, once a dedicated Hitler Youth and committed Nazi soldier, confronts his past when he meets Eva, the woman whose life he spared nearly thirty years ago. 

She remembered learning from the bear man shortly after the incident that two German soldiers were killed by a third. Perhaps he was the one who took their lives. She believed that if she were ever to find out the answers, now was not the time to deluge him with her emotions and questions.

Her persistent gaze released a rush of memories flooding Selig’s mind. In the secret space of his consciousness he saw a young, frightened girl huddling on the floor of an attic closet. Without even thinking about it Selig placed his index finger vertically against his lips. It was the same gesture Selig had performed twenty-eight years ago on the attic floor of a house in a Polish village.

“It’s really you then?” Eva asked in astonishment.

Selig was stunned at the realization that this was, indeed, the same young girl whose life he had spared. The same girl whose destiny he had obsessed about over almost three decades.
An elegiac tale of regret from both sides of a cataclysmic war. Rosen, a professor and psychotherapist, infuses the narrative with graceful candor and palpable physical and psychological conflicts. The author does not brand any of his convincing characters as villain, martyr or victim, and by weaving together Eva and Selig’s parallel lives as saved and savior, he offers pointed, well-drawn insights about war and its terrible, protracted aftermath. A complex blend of memory, cultural identity, the ties that bind us and the ghosts that haunt us.

Silent Battlefields is the story of the impact of the Holocaust and its aftermath almost three decades later on a Polish Jewish family and a gentile German family.  When members of both families begin meeting and interacting, unexpected relationships emerge and startling revelations come to light.  Ultimately, Silent Battlefields is a novel of brutal cruelty, existential dilemmas, and unavoidable choices.  And yet it is a testimony to the grandeur of the human spirit and an inspirational narrative of hope.

Excerpt

The weekend forecast was for cloudy skies, intermittent rain, and an occasional inexplicable burst of sun escaping the clouds to shower its rays over the city. Selig had hoped for clear and sunny weather throughout the weekend, because it was rare for him to have the opportunity to spend time away from the hospital on two consecutive days, of which this was the first. However, Selig had to contend with his own private storm that came from an encounter signaled by the ringing of the telephone.

 “Hello,” said Selig.

His greeting was followed by a pause at the other end that became ominous to him when it continued for several seconds longer than he would have expected. After his one spoken word, Selig waited for a reply. He thought at first that perhaps it was merely an embarrassed caller who had dialed the wrong number, But then why didn’t the caller just hang up if he wasn’t going to answer? “Hello, hello, can I help you? This is Dr. Kruger speaking.
It was not customary for Selig to use his professional title while at home, but he thought this time that the use of it might induce a response from the other end. It did. “Dr. Kruger is it? How fancy.”

“Who is this?

“You’ve come a long way, haven’t you Dr. Kruger?” the caller replied. This served only to thicken the ominous fog that had begun to permeate this strange conversation. A sense of danger fortified with hyper-alertness, superseded Selig’s displeasure. Despite a rush of anxiety, he swiftly regained his poise and went on. “Look, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have a lot of time to waste. Please state your business.” Selig intuited that this was someone to be handled cautiously and delicately. He was determined to proceed with the same degree of care that he brought to bear when performing surgery on a patient who had been rushed into the operating room. “I’m sure you don’t have a lot of time to waste, Dr. Kruger. Medicine is a very time consuming profession, is it not? “Yes, yes, it is, but what has that got to do with your calling me, may I ask, sir?” He avoided lacing his words with the sense of urgency and fear that he felt, although he wished he had chosen his words more prudently. He did not want to do anything that would sever the artery of communication that was flowing, however haltingly, between them. “I’m calling because I thought you might like to know that there is someone walking around in this city who knows about you.” “I don’t understand. Would you mind explaining what you mean, please?” “Dr. Kruger, do you expect me to believe that you have no idea what I’m referring to?” It was obvious to Selig that the caller was intentionally taunting him. He had no doubt about what the caller was alluding to, but he certainly was not about to identify what the caller refused to state. “Look, I’d appreciate it if you’d simply tell me what’s on your mind. Maybe you have the wrong person. A mistake in dialing, perhaps? Said Selig. “A mistake?” the caller said. No, I don’t think so Dr. Kruger.”

Selig wanted desperately for the man to go away. He wanted his life to be restored to where it had been five minutes ago. Or had he been living in a world of illusion all along, he wondered; one in which he believed his past was so remote it could never overtake him in the present. He felt the early rumblings of an earthquake that would eventually open up the solid ground he had built his life upon, after which the open ground, like the mouth of a gaping giant, would swallow Thomas, Frieda, and himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the increasingly threatening sound of the voice at the other end of the line. “Ask yourself, Dr. Kruger, if there is anything from your past that you would not want known by those around you in your life today. Ask yourself if you deserve to live.” “Where and when do you want to meet?” Selig responded in an attempt to take command of the situation. Selig was resigned to the inevitability of a face-to-face meeting with the intruder. He assumed that he was about to enter the portals of blackmail. “You’ll hear from me again, but not until I’m ready, Dr. Kruger.”

Selig heard a click at the other end of the line.

“Who was that dear?” Frieda asked.

“No one. It was just some kind of a crank call.”

“Even so, I’m curious. What was it about?”

He became tremulous in the pit of his stomach, a reaction that radiated out to the tips of his fingers. “Just don’t worry about it. It amounted to nothing, so forget it.”

“Well, if you refuse to talk about it, I suppose I have little choice but to drop it.” She though if it amounted to nothing, as Selig said, then there would be no reason for him to respond with such annoyance. However, she hadn’t lived with him for so many years without learning when to back off. He would tell her when the time was right. Besides, she didn’t want to ruin their weekend together. Selig regretted speaking to her in the surly way he had, but this was not something he felt he should pursue at the moment. Yet, despite his better judgment, he heard himself begin to speak, albeit trying to create the impression that he was trying to change the subject. “Frieda, have you ever wondered what would happen if the facts of my past in Germany were made public?”

About Writing a Novel

Hugh has observed that when people learned that  he was writing a novel, they were curious to know about the process. Here are his comments:

“Doesn’t everyone harbor a secret desire to write a novel?  Well, from everything I can gather there isn’t any one right way to go about it. Writing is a craft, artful though it might be, and there are rules to be followed and rules to be broken, once the author’s imagination takes over the process. While there may be overlapping approaches, each author has her own way of proceeding.   It seems that some writers will work out everything in detail, sketching each chapter and scene before actually beginning the first draft.  At the other end of the spectrum there are those who sit down at the computer, write the first word and then move on from there, without any prior forethought.  Most writers fall somewhere along the continuum.

“For those who might be interested, allow me to share with you how I went about writing Silent Battlefields: A Novel.  I have a friend who would on occasion discuss with me what it was like for him being the adult son of Holocaust survivors.  It occurred to me that writing a novel centered on such an experience might make for an interesting read.  That was the seed from which the book grew. In my mind I began over time to develop several more characters.  What would it be like for a young man of German descent troubled by the question of whether or not his own father had been a Nazi during the war?  Hence, there emerged in my imagination two families each struggling with opposite sides of the conflict.  That was the extent of my preplanning stage prior to commencing to write.  I had a general idea of where I thought things would go and I even thought I knew how it would end.  I was wrong.  I was to discover that the characters had their own minds and wills.  They were capable of speaking for themselves and making their own decisions.  As I wrote I had no conception of what each subsequent sentence would be comprised of.

“In time, I began to look forward to my work with an adventuresome spirit in anticipation of what was to happen each day.  The book has twenty-three chapters and I acknowledge that at the beginning of each I did have a general sense of what I wanted to cover, but that was all. Today, I view the novel as a collaboration between me and the characters in the birthing of Silent Battlefields: A Novel.  Maybe the writing process will be different next time, maybe not.

“I don’t want to leave the impression that writing the book was a breeze.  It wasn’t.  The process was hard work and there were even times when I doubted that I’d ever finish it, but the effort that went into it makes sharing the novel with you that much more satisfying.”

About the Author

Hugh Rosen is a professor emeritus at Drexel University and a retired psychotherapist. Silent Battlefields is his first novel.

The author writers, “Several people have been aksing whether I have another novel in mind to write, so I thought this would be a good place to answer that question. Yes! For some time now a concept for a novel, Justin’s Quest, has been incubating in my mind. I have recently begun to sketch in handwriting the overarching theme, several key episodes, and the background of the major characters. I found that in Hugh Rosen author of Silent Battlefields writing my first novel, Silent Battlefields, that the scenes, many episodes, and the dialogue emerge spontaneously in the actual writing of the work and I will follow that tactic in writing Justin’s Quest. There are many ways to go about writing a novel and I strongly believe that whatever works for the individual author is the best way to go. For example, some writers outline every step of the way from beginning to ending before starting to write.  It is the outcome that matters most, in my opinion, and not the method of writing.

Although there are certainly established rules to the craft of writing fiction, I’m of the opinion that the best strategy to pursue is as much a factor of the author’s personality as of the rule-book, the latter of which I also take into account. Nevertheless, I don’t hesitate to break the rules if I feel strongly that it is in the best interests of maintaining the integrity and unity of the story being told. Perhaps you have some opinions of your own that you’d like to share with the rest of us on this subject. If so, please don’t hesitate to post them so that we may all have the advantage of your thinking on this matter.” 

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Jun 02

I’m going to write a full review of the final book in the “Pendergast trilogy” in the next few days. But for now I just want to say the writing team of Doug Preston and Linc Child gets a four thumbs up! The book came out on May 31 and by June 1 I had devoured all 452 pages. Although it can be read as a standalone, I encourage readers to pick up Brimstone and Dance of the Dead before heading into Book of the Dead.  Full review coming soon.

Jun 01

Subscribe to the free podcast interview of these NY Times bestselling authors. Discover the name of their most fascinating author, and learn their advice for new novelists. Subscribe to the Fascinating Authors Podcast by clicking the button, OR listen to the Preston-Child interview right here!

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