Saturday, 9 November 2019

Author & Poet John E. O'Hara aka John E. WordSlinger of Chicago, Illinois U.S.A.

The Scribbler is most fortunate to have John as our guest this week. A multi-talented writer, artist and musician. He has agreed to a 4Q Interview and is sharing some of his work.

My internet writing life motto be

Keep it poetry and poetry shall keep you.

Short Bio Hazard:

I have to take the road that Bruce Lee
took towards the Martial Arts, as an
analog “Like water”.
I take the Literature Arts of Poetry.
In the beginning I used free verse,
swift rhyming, lyrical, metal-rap-groove verse
with definition and aggression.
Now, I try different systems,
in all genres, as always,
and put them to my personal use.
Furthermore, put to use what is useful
when needed, and reject what I don’t need
at the time for a specific write.
Using no specific way, is the way,
I am the way I write, but keeping in mind,
the tools at hand. No limitations as the limitation.
With all poetry styles ( trapping, and grabbing)-
(mind locks-heart locks-spiritual locks-)
Honestly expressing oneself is difficult to do:
The poet, the creating individual is always
more important than any style or system.
Absorb what is useful, discard what is useless,
and add to what is your own.
I write my own interpretation of poetry.
Concepts behind concepts.
Dedicating to creating
creative new-original thoughts, and poetry.
I write with one hand,
but if I could write with the other,
at the same time, a different poem,
that would be to break boundaries.
As asking multi-tasking: Poetry styles separate poets.
Style is a continuous growth.
Poetry skills/tools are weapons and you have
to use all of them, to incorporate all styles.
(Move all parts of your poetry)
Put everything into it, all energy.
Rest then progress.
A true poet is constantly growing,
and when he or she are bound by a set of styles,
or a way of doing things, that’s when he,
or she stops growing.
To reach a reader you have to move
to them, advance, and retreat- advance retreat,
furthermore slide and step back, push,
and push back, circle them
( put the reader on defense),
and close them in, and hit them
with the best closure.

Poetry is like water, flexible, it has to go somewhere...

4Q: First, tell us about John E. Wordslinger.

JO: I have always wanted a writers last name, because there is a writer that be well known, named John O'Hara, and my creative identity be songwriter with Begets of Autumn, a musical performance group. We have written 400 songs together since, 1987.

I moved to Seattle from Nashville in 2008, for many reasons, but main one be, since 1981, I have been a Seattle Seahawks fan, because I was in Michael Reese Hospital for a year, and I always loved football, the Bears, and Walter Payton, but the Seahawks touched me, the team did, and well the helmet, the Seahawk, so I became a 12th man. I was there because I was ran over by an 18 wheeler, and lived through numerous surgeries and such.
In Seattle, many people liked my poetry. The Pastors where I went to church, and helpers there. One day going home from work in the downtown, a street musician from the shelter was playing music, and I listened and waited until he was done, and asked him if he’d like to go to get something to eat for lunch. He accepted. I had my poetry, and he read it there. He read all of them, the faith based poetry. He looked at me and said you man are the ultimate WordSlinger, that meant so much to me. I was looking for a last name to use for writing, and he named me that. I have used that ever since.

4Q: You have a large body of work. Where does your inspiration come from?

JO: Nice question... that be like letting the animals out of the zoo, and creating their own circus, lol... wow, many things.
To start music, music and great lyrics aka poetry, and life, all life... Experiences. Events. Feelings. All emotions, love, anger, fear, and for sure Wisdom. The Alphabet and Words have their own unique soul mayhaps-perhaps. Have to add memory and memories too, they are rivers of life, lakes too. For many years I learned other musicians to become a great one, and vice the versa the literary arts, now it be the opposite. 17 in fact from 1987 to 2004... I try to block out modern music, and music I used to love, so I can say have a free colorless/toneless palette same with writing, now I read many writers, since 2010 All of Americas Poets and Railroad history since 1776, to currents, and same for Canada and now Africa. It's not to hard to decipher if there be bleeding together in my writing, because since I created the stories of Poetry Train America, I have learned a lot... I see through time, and find the gaps... Learned this from Roofing all my life, and street football when I was younger. I am fascinated by time travel, and the souls that carved their marks in time, as in all arts, photography, and film, but the Poet be the real human camera. I could have many more inspirations in my life if it was not so chaotic but chaos too, has made me who I am, one organized mental octopus... Although I have lost many ideas from not noting, because somethings regardless of ones memory wipes out the spark and fires. Trauma does that too, but they say it's all there, as in a writer should use CSI tactics also with self and their creations. To be inspired I believe also one has to have a beautiful soul.

4Q: Please share a childhood memory or anecdote.

JO: lol you all will love this, 1975 and 1977.
I was fishing with my Grandfather Max a Million Huffman, in Indiana USA. this be an excerpt from Speak of the Poet and the Poem.

The bird that twacked in the cat tails, really caught my attention. Distinct forever in my manhood mind now, oh but then in my youth is when I truly first felt sadness. The fish in the pond, was the object of the day. I learned to bait a hook, and cast. My mothers dad, Grandpa, with his big blue eyes, and smile, he’d chuckle as he explained it all. The sun was bright, and right in front of me as my first attempt to cast out my fishing line. I wanted to go all the way across the big pond, near the back bank. I let it loose, and I couldn’t see it. I did cast into the sun. Then a big black bird suddenly as it seemed fell out of the sun, and into the water, and splashed. My Grandpa had his hands in the tackle box, and that splash caught his attention, and asked me what it was. I said, 'A big black bird fell into the water.” “A raven? he asked. I said, “I guess so,” then bamm, I got a fish, pulling my pole. He said you got a big one, reel him in. So I did, and it was hard. My wrists hurt, and my hand kept falling off the finger wrest crank thingy. My Grandpa raised up, and walked very close to the water. He looked at me and said, '”You caught the raven.” I said, 'The blackbird,” and there it was, flapping in the water. My grandfather, was laughing as he picked it up. He said, “You hooked him behind his wing.” He was huge. The raven was screaming and carrying on. Grandpa, took the hook off of the birds wing, and with two hands lifted him back into the air, and the raven flew away. Gramps, looked at me, and smiled, and said 'Never forget this because that will never happen again.” For a seven year old that was fun. I went fishing with him at a later time, and we seen a pre-historic bird flying over the river where we fished at, and he said,‘Remember this, because no one is going to believe you.' (That was in Indiana, and I seen on the history channel Monster quest, in 2010 that there has been reports of giant birds in that area in the 1970's) I seen it first but Grandpa and I seen a pterodactyl WordSlingers' Believe it or Not. It was the color of dark purple-brown and smooth skinned. Youtube now has or did have info on this too, people post and erase, and they people online with big erasers come too, if you make big enough waves.

4Q: Tell us about the Poetry E Train.

JO: That be a long long story, the Poetry Train its self. The story begins in the first book and beginning of the chapters, so one would have to read the book to answer that. To much to carry here. I can say this. I am glad it fell upon my lap. I never dreamed of writing a novel like this. Historical fiction blended with non-fiction, and written documentation.  Poetry History, Railroad history, and Publishing History, Writing and Copyright history, all braided, and I love that term braided, braiding all that and time. I am happy it came upon me, because it gives me more purpose in life. Important purpose. I believe in God and God answered my prayers, so I can say that for sure. What I love about most be, the each and every Poet and Persons soul and wisdom that gave and give to this world. The rising chapters creates a realm I call it, a world many Poets know that should be, not the world as we know it. Each Poet and Person bring life to it and much more... Many Poets understand the Poetry Train, and they know we are on a literary rescue mission of sorts. The books are at the Library of Congress, and all data is on the net. This way future generations get to ride the Poetry Train. My goal is to keep it rolling, currently in E- Africa, and also Poetry Train movies, film, series etc &c. Because the world needs it, seriously needs it... One day it shall come to be too.

4Q: Most creative folks have that favorite writing spot or habits. What’s yours like?

JO: Love this question because I read about others and theirs. Me I write 24/7, and in my sleep. The Muse I call Scratch be on me all the time... I love it too. We feed each other you can say...

Thank you Author Allan Hudson and the South Branch Scribbler. Love what you do for Writers. Also Poetry Train Canada be to me one of the best things I have written and done. All of writers are beautiful, and so are your lands. May peace, love and light remain there...
Appreciated & Charm'd John E. O'Hara aka John E. WordSlinger... 

Thank you, John, for being our guest this week on the Scribbler. For you readers wanting to discover more from the Wordslinger, please follow these links:

Saturday, 2 November 2019

Guest Author Kathleen Cranidge of Western Canada

I met Kathleen through a mutual author friend and was offered the opportunity to read and review her cozy mystery. I did and I liked it very much. She has accepted an invitation to be this week's guest and share her bio and an excerpt from her delightful story.

Kathleen enjoyed a varied work history, including gymnastics coach, server at an all-night bagel shop, park supervisor, telephone operator, manager with Canada Revenue Agency, and a correctional officer at a maximum-security prison. 

The youngest of four, she lived most of her life in Ottawa, two years in Saudi Arabia, and a tent in Baja for a month for the love of yoga and the ocean. She and her husband spend most of their time near the Rocky Mountains with their fish BOO II (named after the character in her favorite book).

Kathleen loves Anne of Green Gables, trekking through new fallen snow, making snow angels—everything snowy and Christmassy—hot chocolate, holiday music, watching old-time classics.

Christmas on Union Street is the first in the Union Street Mystery series. Book two is on its way, and Kathleen’s novel Claire’s Cell, a fiction prison story, inspired by her time working inside the notorious Prison for Women in Kingston, is in its final edits.

Follow her on twitter at: @CranidgeK or connect with her via her website:

Excerpt: Christmas on Union Street

“Will you be here for Christmas, Ali?” 

Here? I watched her move to the sink. She didn’t look like she was into Christmas. Maybe she was being polite. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t into Christmas, either. Not this year, anyway. Water surged out from the high faucet. She looked over her shoulder at me, waiting for my response as she rinsed our bowls. 

“I hadn’t really thought of it.” It was a week away. I had thought of avoiding it, if I were to be honest. No one wants to hear that, though—not a week before Christmas. I was sure she would have been an ally.

 “You’re welcome here, of course.” She turned off the tap and wiped her hands down the front of her dress, her smock? Is that what you called a muumuu? 

I wanted to ask her what Christmas meant to someone whose first question had been, “What’s your sign?” A Christmas Boho. Ho, ho. 

“I’ll show you the rest of the place,” she said, saving me from answering. She led the way out of the kitchen.

 I chewed on the question as I followed. Where would I be for Christmas this year? I didn’t want to think about it.

We moved into the adjoining dining room. It dwarfed the kitchen with its long, mahogany table…buffet, sideboard, and hutch. Was she someone who couldn’t let go of things, or did she just like to be surrounded by things? Lots of things. I quickly counted the place settings, each with a vintage looking silver plate with scrolled trim. Twelve. How many people lived here? It was an outstanding table. I kept wanting to peek at Gina. This table seemed too formal for her. I imagined the English royal family might have something just like it at a cottage—they would probably call a summer house. On top of the buffet was a blanket of cotton snow grounding a magnificent Christmas village. Warm lights glowed from the windows of the houses and shops. I stole a glance sideways at Gina, intrigued by this woman who seemed so opposite of Christmas. If I took the room, Christmas would be surround-sound.

Behind her, I glimpsed the living room. She motioned an arm in that direction, and we moved in. I could feel her studying me. A Douglas fir towered in the corner, encroaching on a bulky burgundy wingback chair with the beautiful complement of an ottoman in rich shades of gold and deep maroon paisley woven into the fabric. On the opposite wall, a huge brick fireplace extended to the ceiling. Large logs were neatly set in the hearth, which measured at least three feet by three feet. There were ample places to sit for a cozy dozen in that room, including a well-cushioned sofa in front of the window. Although it was the middle of the day, the December light coming in was minimal, but the lamps gave the room a warm glow.

We walked across the front hallway into the den. Books and books on thick wood cases ran from floor to ceiling on two of the walls. Next to a pecan-colored leather armchair, I noticed a tall side table with a pipe in a brass ashtray. Again, I wondered, who lived here? She caught me looking at the pipe.

“It was my dad’s,” she said. “After he died, I missed the smell of it. I started to light some of his tobacco and burn it, inhaling the sweet familiar aroma.” She shook her head and paused. “After a few weeks, this little ritual satisfied me less and less.” She gave me a funny look, as though she was sizing me up for the first time. “Then I savored some on my tongue for a few days. But I felt I was bordering on chewing the tobacco and I didn’t think Dad would like that.” She laughed. “One night, I filled the damn thing and took a few puffs.” She shook her head then picked up the carved wood and inhaled deeply. “I know. It’s the craziest thing. It’s now a wretched habit.” She said wretched, like my favorite great uncle used to say. Almost like it was something good. “Every evening, after the dishes are done, I come in here and have a little puff-puff.” She laughed and brought it to her nose again then returned it to the ashtray and shrugged at me. She looked like she wanted more than a sniff. What a character. Everything about her was unique, easy-going…and intriguing. I knew then I would take the room.

Gina led the way up the stairs. Rich red runners softened our steps, but the wood beneath still creaked and groaned.  “Don’t mind the noise. This house likes to talk.” She smiled. “Your room is at the top. If you decide to take it.” She paused on the large landing and pointed to two bedrooms on either side of the washroom at the head of the stairs.

“My room.” One thumb jutted to the left. “And Harry’s room.” Her other thumb to the right. “Harry works a lot. Sometimes I think I could get away with having two tenants in there.” She laughed. “It could be days before you meet. I know he’ll be here Christmas Eve.”

We continued up another flight of stairs. The next story held the same floor plan. She splayed her crooked thumbs to both sides again. “The door on the left is Nathalie’s. Kiki’s here on the right. You will hear her before you see her. A ball of energy, that one. She’s visiting from South Korea to learn English. She’s been here five months. She’s determined to make every second count. Not even the cold Vermont weather can stop that one.” She smiled at me. “I like to knit her things.” She turned that smile to me. “Which reminds me. I love that sweater you have on. Such a lovely pink. Is it cashmere?”

I touched my neckline. “It is. My dad gave it to me last year for… Christmas.” This time last year. I needed to get out of this subject. “How about Nathalie. Will I meet her soon?”

“Nathalie?” Gina looked surprised. Then the outer corners of her eyes turned down. “Oh, dear. Sorry.” She raised an arm weakly toward the room that she said was Nathalie’s.

“Nathalie died. Around this time last year.” She leaned her hand on the doorframe and looked into the room. I wanted to inch closer to give form to the mass of shadows. I caught a sliver of a white duvet on a brass bed, a stack of suitcases facing the door, with a floppy hat on one and a stuffed lamb on top of another. “I haven’t had the heart to clear it out. I guess I should. Well...” She sighed and touched my arm.

We continued up. I turned and stretched my gaze back to Nathalie’s room. I pictured my mom’s narrowed look she’d give me when we were invited to one of our new neighbor’s house. I sometimes wandered off into the rooms and then asked too many questions. I liked empty rooms—I always made up a mystery. Maybe I wouldn’t have to make one up here. Gina’s breath filled the hallway, labored from the two flights of stairs. I thought back to the pipe in the brass ashtray. She held the banister and pointed upstairs. “That brings us to your room.”

The runner on the oak stairs was almost plush, its deep reds more vibrant as we moved up, obviously less traffic to the fourth floor. She caught her breath and paused near the top. “Haven’t had anyone up here in years.” 

I looked beyond Gina at the rich oak door. The final level, the attic, offered no landing. I pulled my sweater tighter. It was chillier up here. I hadn’t signed a lease. As much as I already liked Gina, I wouldn’t freeze for anyone or anything. And why hadn’t there been anyone up here? I looked down the staircase—the rest of the house seemed to fall away…

“I put the heat on this morning,” Gina said as if reading my mind. “I promise you one thing, I don’t scrimp on heat.”

I didn’t doubt her. It was hard to forget the warmth the rest of the house held.

“Now.” Gina hesitated. “As you can see, there is no bathroom on this level.” She looked at me, apparently waiting for a protest. “You’ll have to share the one below.”

“Of course.” An ensuite wasn’t expected. I did want to see my potential room, though. 

“And remember, there’s no landing. So, if you do get up in the middle of the night, the stairs are right outside your door.” Her hand held the doorknob, but she continued to pause. “It is an attic, but it’s a pretty good size.” 

I smiled and nodded to encourage, my eyes on her crooked knuckles wrapped around the doorknob. Finally, she resumed the twist of the brass. She seemed to enjoy building suspense. She was good at it. It would be interesting for sure to hang out with her and that pipe. I imagined being curled up in the den some evenings after dinner. I’d even let her read my palm for fun. I felt that little giggle, wiggle in my chest.

“Oh.” Gina slightly moved back.

I clung to the banister, leaning into her, my breath caught and held in my chest, giggle de-wiggled.

“Sorry, Ali.” 

I tried to see over her. But was she ever tall. I was pressed up against her, blocking the momentum of her reaction, but couldn’t get my eyes around her. What was in there for God’s sake?

“Huh,” she said with subdued surprise, but she didn’t move.

She was good. “What is it?” I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper. 

“The tree.” She finally fully opened the door and moved in.

Now I could get my eyes on the room. There was a tree, about four feet tall, in one corner, aglow with colored lights. Straight ahead in line with the door was a window with heavy brocade panels gathered to each side, creating a bulky frame. Through those drapes, the sky was white, thick with snow. A king-sized bed with a substantial duvet and large pillows took position on an angle looking out at the room. I imagined my feet sinking into the luxurious shag rug beside the bed. The coolness from the stairway fell away. There was instant warmth from every slope and corner that lured me, starting right from its root of wide planked golden pine. As I took in the room, Gina continued to stare at the tree.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked. I had almost forgotten her lead up to this as I collided with magic. The beauty gripped me. The perfection of the room expanded my senses. I let go of my tour of the space and focused on the tree that had stopped her in her tracks. It didn’t look like there was a bird or a mouse in the tree—I hadn’t seen any of the branches move. I hoped there weren’t any mice up here…I scanned the pine floors. 

“No, no, it’s just…the tree…um…” She looked over at me. Then she shook her head. “Oh, it’s nothing. Sometimes I can be a bit forgetful.” She shook her head again, but I saw her look at the tree and scan the room as if searching for something. 

More intrigued than scared, I signed on. 

Thank you Kathleen, for being our guest this week.

And thank you dear reader for visiting the Scribbler. Don't be shy. Leave a comment below. 

Sunday, 27 October 2019

Book recommendations. Six Great Stories - Six Fine Authors

I love books! Do you?

I have the pleasure of meeting many fine authors on the Scribbler and reading their stories. I get tremendous enjoyment from sharing them with you.

This week, I want to tell you about six more that should be on any readers list. I'm hoping to make this a regular feature on the Scribbler every couple of months. 

The first six were featured here -  September, 2018

The next six were highlighted here - June, 2019

Check them out.

#1 - The Afrikaner by Arianna Dagnino.

I discovered this book online and was captivated by the excellent cover. I was not disappointed by this story. An excellent debut fiction novel by Dagnino. This is one I'll read many times. 

When a car-jacking in Johannesburg leads to the death of her colleague and lover, Zoe du Plessis, a palaeontologist of Afrikaner origin, is suddenly confronted with her family’s secret, wrapped in an old Xhosa’s curse. As she heads for the Kalahari Desert in search of early human fossils, Zoe embarks on an inner journey into the sense of guilt haunting her people. Meaningful encounters with an aged Bushman, a legendary but troubled writer author and her ancestors’ diaries will reshape her sense of identity. (Source: Goodreads)

Arianna was a guest on the Scribbler with a 4Q Interview and an excerpt from her novel. Go HERE

#2 True Identity by Gisele Bourgeois.

I found out about this novel online as well and knew it was a story I wanted to read. This is a book you can't put down. Intelligent, well written and a joy to read.

Adrienne Blanchard can’t believe what she is seeing through a café window in Amsterdam. It’s Michel, a boy from home who disappeared twenty years ago. She knows the story of why he left without a trace and now she must bring him home. Compassionate, confident, and bold, she will finish what her father started, regardless of the consequences.
Michel Bourgeois is a dreamer and a loner who has never had much of a chance in life. But when the time comes to make a decision, he is not passive. He runs desperately for his freedom.
Xavier Aramburu is a brilliant and devastatingly handsome Basque millionaire. All is privilege. Everything is easy. However, his name and history are not acceptable to some and he is an outcast in his own country. Despite his success and wealth, his life is disconnected and lonely.

Set in the 1980’s in such diametrically opposed places as New Brunswick, Canada, and Bilbao, Spain, True Identity is an intense love story within a tale of exile and return. Rich in cultural and historical anecdote, this entertaining novel offers a glimpse of lives defined by the languages and landscapes of childhood. (Source: )

Read Gisele's 4Q Interview and an excerpt from her novel when she was a guest on the Scribbler. GO HERE

#3 Sunflowers Under Fire by Diana Stevan

Another great novel from this talented author. Based on stories from her ancestors, Stevan brings the pain and sorrow and endurance of the First World War through the eyes of her maternal grandmother. An exceptional story.

In 1915, Lukia Mazurets, a Ukrainian farmwife, delivers her eighth child while her husband’s in the Tsar’s army. Soon after, she and her children are forced to flee the invading Germans.
Over the next fourteen years, Lukia uses her wits and faith to survive life in a refugee camp, a typhus epidemic, the Bolshevik revolution and one daughter’s forbidden love. In this family saga, love and loss are bound together by a country always at war.
Based on her grandmother’s life, Diana Stevan captures the voices of those who had little say in a country that is still being fought over. (Source: )

Diana has been a guest twice on the Scribbler. A charming and interesting lady. Read a 4Q Interview and an excerpt from Sunflowers Under Fire  GO HERE
Her first visit GO HERE

#4. Last Summer's Evil by MJ LaBeff

I met MJ online through a mutual author friend. A friendly and amusing author, she writes captivating thrillers and this one will keep you up turning the pages. She is a tremendous support for other authors.

A fearful city lies in wait. Summer is here. The solstice is near. Each time the serial killer strikes there are two more victims. One woman has already disappeared. It’s only a matter of time before another woman is murdered.
Homicide Detective Rachel Hood, a psychic empath, feels every ounce of a victim’s pain but is powerless to save her.
Psychic FBI Agent Nick Draven is a skilled profiler, specializing in occult crimes. Together, they must race against the clock to capture the psychopath terrorizing Snug Harbor, Ohio. Only one victim has escaped, but she can’t ID her attacker. What they do know is the sick signature the killer leaves behind. A handmade ragdoll crafted out of the previous victim’s clothes is found in the clutches of the deceased women.
Rachel’s obsession with the case deepens, and she devises a rogue plan to outsmart the killer. The risky plot puts her life in jeopardy. The serial killer has had years to master the crime. Nick only has hours to track down the killer and rescue Rachel before she dies in a ritualistic sacrifice at the hand of a knife wielding, blood thirsty murderer. (Source: )

MJ has been a guest on the Scribbler as well. Read her 4Q Interview and read an excerpt. GO HERE

#5. The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris

Photo Credit : Author's website.

I discovered this book on Goodreads and knew instantly it was a story I wanted to read. I purchased it online and it's brilliant. I' recently purchased her newest novel - Cilka's Journey - and can't wait to read it.

In April 1942, Lale Sokolov, a Slovakian Jew, is forcibly transported to the concentration camps at Auschwitz-Birkenau. When his captors discover that he speaks several languages, he is put to work as a Tätowierer (the German word for tattooist), tasked with permanently marking his fellow prisoners.
Imprisoned for over two and a half years, Lale witnesses horrific atrocities and barbarism—but also incredible acts of bravery and compassion. Risking his own life, he uses his privileged position to exchange jewels and money from murdered Jews for food to keep his fellow prisoners alive.
One day in July 1942, Lale, prisoner 32407, comforts a trembling young woman waiting in line to have the number 34902 tattooed onto her arm. Her name is Gita, and in that first encounter, Lale vows to somehow survive the camp and marry her.
A vivid, harrowing, and ultimately hopeful re-creation of Lale Sokolov's experiences as the man who tattooed the arms of thousands of prisoners with what would become one of the most potent symbols of the Holocaust, The Tattooist of Auschwitz is also a testament to the endurance of love and humanity under the darkest possible conditions. (Source: )

#6 Rise by Cara Brookins.

I picked up one of Cara Brookin's novels several years ago and enjoyed her storytelling. Since then I've read other novels by her and was anxiously awaiting this memoir she was working on. A brave lady tells the tale of escaping an abusive relationship and rebuilding a family - by building their own house. I highly recommend this novel. Word has it that it will soon be a major motion picture. Congratulations Cara.

After escaping an abusive marriage, Cara Brookins had four children to provide for and no one to turn to but herself. In desperate need of a home but without the means to buy one, she did something incredible.
Equipped only with YouTube instructional videos, a small bank loan and a mile-wide stubborn streak, Cara built her own house from the foundation up with a work crew made up of her four children.
It would be the hardest thing she had ever done. With no experience nailing together anything bigger than a bookshelf, she and her kids poured concrete, framed the walls and laid bricks for their two story, five bedroom house. She had convinced herself that if they could build a house, they could rebuild their broken family.
This must-read memoir traces one family’s rise from battered victims to stronger, better versions of themselves, all through one extraordinary do-it-yourself project.

Cara has been one of the Scribbler's most popular guests. A 4Q Interview.  GO HERE

I hope that you'll check out these great authors. I trust you will enjoy their stories.

 Thanks for visiting and don't forget to leave a comment. 

By the way, Check this story out too!

Shattered Figurine by Allan Hudson.

Check it out HERE