The Quotable Evans

One of my favorite authors is Richard Paul Evans. Each time I read one of his books, I come away feeling uplifted, as well as inspired by the stories.
The Quotable Evans is a little book containing diaries and letters from his novels. The quotes are thought-provoking and teach some wonderful lessons.
For the next while, I will be sharing some of those quotes with you, and I hope these thoughts will inspire you as much as they have me.

Evans Quote of the Day

"There are those whose primary ambition in life is to leave their names chiseled on some small corner of this globe. But this is folly. The greatest tragedy is not to die unknown by strangers, but unloved by our companions."

We place importance on so many things in life, and sometimes we lose sight of what is really important. All of us, in one respect or another do want to leave our mark on the world, something that will insure we will not be forgotten. But in our quest for this, we need to remember that being remembered as a great person is better than being remembered as someone who did something great. The latter will insure your mark and celebrate that one great deed, but the former will engrave the memory of your life in the hearts of everyone you come in contact with and every life you touch.
Now that is what I call leaving your mark on the world:-)

What Kind of Legacy Will You Leave?

One of the reasons I wrote The Legacy was because I wanted to share the message that we can overcome anything, no matter our background or situation. If we truly want to make a difference in this world and want to live a great life, nothing can stop us from doing this when we make the choice to do it.

Nothing, that is . . . except ourselves.

People often ask me if any of the characters in my books are me. Truthfully, I put a little of myself in each female lead character I create, but they are actually a lot better than me. Of all the female characters I've written about, the one I put the most of myself into is Cisely in The Legacy. I can relate to her because I've been where she once was. I endured some of the same pains, suffered some of the same sorrows, and felt the same joy of breaking free and changing the course of my life.
And, like Cisely, I finally came to a point when I was able to look back on those refining experiences with gratitude for the lessons learned.
This is the legacy I want to leave in this life - to be tried, and tried again, then endure and conquer, not just for myself, but for my family and anyone I am blessed to come in contact with in this life. I'm far from being a saint and I know I will never reach perfection, but I love the person I am now and the life I've been given, and I know it is up to me to choose how I will live it out.

So, what kind of legacy will you leave?
Leave a comment sharing your thoughts and receive a free copy of The Legacy ebook. There are three ways to claim your copy.
1.) Leave your email address along with your comment.
2.) Leave a comment, then email me at jewela40@gmail.com informing me that you left a comment.
3.) Leave a comment, then log onto Facebook and send me a message.
It's that simple:-)

Here is an excerpt form The Legacy.

Having stuffed my last pair of jeans into a large suitcase, I zip it shut and hope the seams won’t burst. It was given to me by a friend because I've never had one of my own. I've never traveled anywhere before to need one, and until now, I hadn't ever thought I would. I fill the carry-on bag with the few cosmetics and toiletries I possess. Then I look at my reflection in the large mirror hanging above an old, cracked dresser that until today, held all of my clothes. I think it has to be the oldest piece of furniture in the apartment.

I study the light, cocoa-brown skinned woman looking back at me and smile, but my honey-colored eyes hold a sadness I have never been able to rid them of. I have always been told by friends that I have sad eyes. I know it is true, yet most people don’t know of the pain behind my eyes. I have never let anyone get close enough, and I don’t know if I ever will.

I run a brush through the dark auburn hair hanging down past my shoulders and push it back with a brown headband. I think about adding a few curls but decide against it. After straightening the collar of the yellow blouse I purchased for this trip, I apply some clear gloss to my full lips, a coat of mascara to my lashes, and a touch of blush to my sculpted cheeks. Then I study my reflection once more and decide this is as good as it's going to get.

I have always considered myself an average looking black woman, and I just don't see what others say they see when they looked at me. I have been told by the people around me that I am beautiful. They say my skin is satiny smooth, my voluptuous figure very trim, and my voice is like silk to the ears. Truthfully, I have never seen any of these things and I can't help but wonder how and why others see them. I ponder this a moment and deduct that my mind has somehow been trained to think there isn’t anything about me that is worth much, and no matter how hard I try to tell myself otherwise, all I ever see are flaws.

Sighing, I sit on the edge of the bed and look around the almost bare studio apartment I've lived in for the past year and a half. I become even sadder as I think about my life up to this point, and I am once again doubting my worth.

In my twenty-two years of life, I have seen and suffered things no one should have to. Having been raised by an alcoholic mother and an abusive father, childhood had been nothing but miserable for me. From the age of six to twelve years old, when other children were laughing and playing and sharing secrets with their friends, I was a woman-child, barely surviving and telling my secrets to no one. In the afternoons after school when I should have been busy at the business of being a child, I was subjected to the screams of my mother as my father beat her. And at night while other children were safely tucked in their beds and sleeping, I was forced to endure the sickening presence of my father in my room as he abused and defiled me.

One day my mother finally found the courage to leave her husband. She packed our things while he was at work and we moved from Charlotte back to her hometown of Asheville. Unfortunately, it was too little, too late, for my life had been permanently scarred. And it didn’t help that every man who came into our home and lived with my mother seemed to think I should be part of the deal.

Throughout my whole life I felt dirty and cheap, but more than anything, I felt alone. There was no one I could turn to and share my painful burdens. Later in life, that loneliness guided me to make decisions that only added to my misery and brought even more shame upon me.

A single tear slips down my cheek as I painfully remember the days and nights of endless partying, each one filled with drugs, alcohol, and sometimes immoral conduct. When I was younger, my father made it his solemn duty to tell me repeatedly that I was worthless and only good for one thing in life. It seemed his comments found a permanent place in both my mind and my heart. My father had foreseen my future and had helped as much as he could to make that future happen. But I know in the end, the choices had been my own, just as the choice to finally change my life had been.

I smile, melancholy coming over me as I remember the day I made the decision to abandon the self-destructive lifestyle. It was a little over a year ago. I had just gotten home from work. I was tired, my feet were sore after working all day waiting on table after table, and I was looking forward to a tall can of beer and some rest. I had just sat down when there was a knock at the door.

When I opened the door to the braid-wearing teenage girl donning heavy makeup, a dirty mini skirt, and scuffed up high heels–one of them broken, my first words were, “Sorry, no customers at this house.”

She gave me a teary smile and replied, “I'm not looking for a customer . . . I'm looking for a way out.”

Tears slip down my cheeks as I remember how my heart had instantly gone out to her. I knew the life she'd lived and what she'd suffered before reaching this point in her life. I didn't know her, had never seen her before, but I knew, because I had been there, myself. I invited her in and listened as she talked, my suspicions about her abusive childhood confirmed. I fed her and gave her some clothes to change into. Taking the tips I'd made that day from my purse, I called a cab, took her to the bus station, and put her on a bus to Raleigh to go and live with her aunt. Arriving back home, I sat on the sofa, closed my eyes and cried. Nothing I'd ever done in my life left me feeling as much peace as that one act had.

I immediately threw away every bit of alcohol in the apartment, vowing to never take another drink, pop another pill, or smoke another joint for the rest of my life. I stopped partying and made a commitment to change my life. I was determined to do this, despite family members and friends telling me I would never change. Sadly, I had no support from anyone except the counselor assigned to me when I enrolled in a free substance abuse program. No one in my family, nor the people I associated with, would let go of the past. So how was I supposed to? I couldn’t escape it because it surrounded me and was constantly being thrown back in my face.

Even now, I still struggle with doubts. I've listened to several motivational talks on learning to forgive oneself, letting go of past mistakes and moving on, but the messages never seem to stick, and in my heart I continue to feel unworthy, too unworthy to deserve more in life. We reap what we sow, as they say. I haven't sown enough good.

Bringing my thoughts back to the present, I open my purse and pull out a letter I received in the mail three weeks ago. It is from an older woman I met a couple of months ago when she was visiting from Salt Lake City.

I met Jessica Kelly at a women's motivational conference downtown. We sat next to each other and were instantly taken with one another. At the close of the conference, Jessica told me she wanted to get to know me better.

We had lunch together the next day. And throughout that week when I wasn’t working, I spent a great deal of time with her and we did many things together.

Jessica managed to get me to open up a little about my life, which was something I had never done before. I don't know how she managed it. Though I didn’t give many details, the little I shared with her brought the poor woman to tears. I hated making her cry, but I appreciated that she cared.

In that week I grew to care about Jessica a great deal, and I wished my own mother could be more like her. I thought it sad that in just one week I developed more of a relationship with the older woman than my own mother.

Jessica told me she had always been alone. She never married and it saddened her that she was never blessed with children of her own. And except for the times her nephew came to visit her from Australia, she wandered through her big home alone with no one to talk to.

Smiling, I read the letter again, still in awe of what is written there. Jessica has invited me to come and stay with her for a while in Salt Lake City. She even sent a plane ticket with the letter, making it harder for me to say no, just as she had known it would. She knows me well. I've never dreamed of going so far away, and to say I am nervous is an understatement. But the excitement of starting over somewhere where no one knows me or anything about my past overrides my nervousness. I again read the last part of the letter.

Now I know you don’t like to feel like you’re not pulling your own weight, so before you say no, I just want to tell you I own a women’s clothing boutique downtown. One of the girls working for me had to quit suddenly. The position is yours if you want it. It is only three days a week, so we would still have plenty of time to visit and sight see, and of course, shop. We’re going to have the time of our lives! It would mean so much to me to have you here, Cisely. More than you could ever know. Call me soon.

Much love,

Jessica.

Hearing the taxi honking outside, I refold the letter and put it back in my purse. I touch up my makeup and place the key to the apartment on the counter for the landlord. Sadly, there are no more goodbyes to be said. My mother really doesn’t seem to care that I'm leaving. Neither does anyone else for that matter, but I have received various opinions on how they think my life will turn out. “You’ll be back,” I remember my so-called friends saying. “You’re going to be right back here partying with the rest of us. You can never escape where you’ve been or who you are.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, doing my best to dislodge the negative thoughts. Looking around the half empty room one last time, I grab my bags and leave.

A Fellow Author's Selfless Efforts

Authors have various reasons for starting a blog. Some do it to have an outlet to advertise and discuss their books. Some do it to discuss the books of others. Some focus on writing tips and advice, and some simply use their blogs to voice random thoughts and talk about things that are important to them. (Like celebrating making it through an entire day using only your "inside voice" or successfully not scalping a child, or feeling guilty about that big slice of chocolate cream cake you basically inhaled in record time:-))
I do all of the above. (Really, I truly don't scalp my children. The dog is another story:-))

Today I chose to post an email by Cheri Chesley, an amazing lady who is also a great author.

"My friend, Rebecca White, is 35 years old and has breast cancer. She got her diagnosis May 11th. She had a mastectomy May 13th. Three days later, she went back to the doctor to have the bandages removed. She confessed, almost in a whisper, that she just wasn't ready to see under the bandages.

Rebecca is an amazing, strong person. She's so skilled in all those craft-type things that leave me with glue on my fingers and glitter in my hair. She has a happy marriage and three great kids age 10 and under. Rebecca could be me. She could be your sister, your friend, your mother. She could be you. You can meet her and get to know her on her blog, http://allaboutthewhites.blogspot.com/
In general terms, we know cancer can strike anyone at any time. It's not an old person's disease anymore. It strikes children, mothers; in short, anyone. Soon Rebecca will start her chemotherapy. We're all optimistic for a positive outcome, but cancer surgeries and treatments do not come cheaply. Since she won't let me shave my head, I've decided to show my support for Rebecca in other ways. This is more than taking her meals and taking her kids to and from church; I've done that. Anyone can do that, and they do. We have a supportive ward out here. But I wanted to take it a step further.
I'm donating all my book sales income through August 31st to help Rebecca and her family pay their medical expenses. This is something they need, and in order to make it the most effective I need all the help I can get.
And this is why I'm appealing to everyone I can. My book sales don't just mean the royalties from selling print copies of The Peasant Queen (which, incidentally, is on LDS Living's Summer Reading List), but also all income from my two e-books--The Wild Queen and my short story, Ghost Bride. It's so easy. All you have to do is purchase depending on your interests and ability to help.
The Wild Queen and Ghost Bride can be found at http://www.smashwords.com/, which not only offers the e-books for every e-reader including simply your home computer, but also offers the highest revenues. Printed copies of The Peasant Queen can be purchased at your local bookstore or online at Amazon.com Barnesandnoble.com and Borders.com Amazon and Barnes and Noble also offer each book for the Kindle or Nook, respectively.

Thank you in advance for your help, and happy reading! Blog post: http://cherichesley.blogspot.com/2011/05/easiest-way-to-give.html "

Let's help Cheri out. You'll feel good and read some great books as well:-)

I Am Black and An American, Darn It!

Yes, I am on another rant about the unnecessarily absurd political correctness we've been bogged down with in this country.

So, I pose this question: Why is it that a black person is automatically labeled African-American? I mean, how did we come up with this deduction? Why is it assumed that my ancestors came from Africa? What if they were from Jamaica or the Bahamas or Fiji, or even South America for that matter? Or maybe they were blacks born in Greece or Scotland. Why are all blacks dumped into the same ancestral gene pool? Who died and made the powers-that-be "Kings of So-Called Political Correctness," or rather "Political Incorrectness?"
My father's grandmother was half-white, and my mother's grandmother was a full-blooded Black-foot Indian. That would make me a mix-blooded American, wouldn't it? But I'll just settle for Black-American, or better yet, just plain old American, because that's what I am. Do we ever hear white people called Dutch-American or French-American, or Egyptian-American? (Actually, the last one would be pretty funny:-) Even the Native Americans' ancestors came from somewhere else. Almost everything we've been taught about history is poppycock!

So, to sum up this rant that could go on forever (and I do mean forever) let's just dump all this political correctness garbage in the garbage because that is where it belongs. I am black, and I am an American! Do you hear this, people? I am an American! And I'm a nice one, too. Really, I am:-)
Have an awesome day, my fellow Americans!

Suggested Reading

Book: The Third
Author: Abel Keogh

This is a book I couldn't wait to read because I knew it would be good, and I wasn't disappointed. Imagine living in a time when it is illegal to have more than two children unless you pay the government for the privilege. (Not hard to imagine since our country is slowly heading in that direction anyway.) This story is about a family that finds themselves in this dangerous situation when the wife becomes pregnant and the husband is unable to purchase the mandatory credit needed to be approved of the right to have a third child.

The Book

In this stark and haunting look at the not-so-distant future, an environmentally minded society elects to limit the number of children couples can have, enforcing dire consequences for lawbreakers. But when his wife gets pregnant with a forbidden third child, Ransom Lawe is forced to choose between the government who's trying to save the world from ecological disaster and the family he loves dearly.

When Ransom Lawe, a recycler in the Pacific Northwest, finds out his wife is pregnant with their third--and therefore illegal--child, he's forced to choose between the government who proclaims a desire to save the planet and his hope for a place where his family can live in freedom. But with the Census Bureau Sentinels closing in on his wife and unborn child, Ransom's choice will either save his family or tear them apart forever.

Abel Keogh offers a stark and haunting look at a not-so-distant future in this chilling new novel. Crossing lines between good and evil, freedom and oppression, and political and environmental responsibility, The Third is a gut-wrenching tale of intense loyalty and unconditional love.

I finished this book quickly because I couldn't put it down. Very thought-provoking story, not to mention the author is a great guy:-) Get your copy of The Third by logging onto Amazon.com

Sick People Have Feelings, Too!

This was a pretty emotional Mother's Day for me for various reasons ranging from one end of the Girl-o-Meter to the other. I feel renewed gratitude for my children and the amazing people they are, and I'm thankful for a husband that loves me and the spastic children he helped to create. I, too, am a little spastic at times, but since this communicable ailment rubbed off my children onto me, I think my husband deserves the credit because they get it from his side of the family. (He will beg to differ:-))

Today I found myself pondering my mothering skills, wondering if I've been doing my job okay and vowing to do better. I've had different examples to follow.
My mother-in-law is as patient as they come and has raised some great kids who are doing their best to raise good kids. My mother, who was an alcoholic all her life, did her best for us when she was sober, which was not often. Despite her weaknesses, I learned from her the art of survival, which got me through some tough times in life, including my suffering the consequences that came from past poor choices.
My grandmother was one of the sweetest women in the world and was a major influence on me. She suffered many trials, but she stayed strong and held onto her integrity until until she passed away in 2007. I've really missed her, even more so today, and I was grateful for the time I was able to spend with her during her last weeks before she succumbed to ovarian cancer. She was incoherent a great deal of that time, but when she was coherent, she communicated well for the most part and we had some wonderful conversations. Other than taking bathroom breaks and jaunting to the kitchen to grab a plate of food, I never let her side for the time I was there, even when she was sleeping, because I knew she knew I was there. For me, that was the most important thing.
Yes, I miss my grandmother, and I'm sure I always will, but how grateful I am for the opportunity I had to just be there, to let her know she wasn't alone. She was sick, but she still had feelings, even when she didn't, or couldn't voice them.

Which brings me to a neat little booklet I read last week. Communication for the Cognizant, Nonverbal Patient was written by Jean Alleman, Trudy Brown, and Susan Robison, and is an excellent resource for anyone caring for a sick patient who may not be able to express their needs.

About the Booklet
If you're a patient whose mind knows what to say but whose mouth is unable to convey those thoughts, you've probably become very frustrated with finding a way to get your needs met. If you're the caregiver watching or trying to help the patient, you've likely become frustrated as well. Communication is about to become easier. With the help of this book, patients will finally be able to express their needs without speaking.

Simple sentences such as 'I am thirsty. May I have some water?' and so forth allow patients to point out the thought they need to share so caregivers know just how to help. With colorful illustrations and an easy format, Communication for the Cognizant, Nonverbal Patient is the book that will give a voice to patients.

To order this helpful booklet, log onto tatepublishing.com or mycompanionvoice.blogspot.com for the ebook.

Thinking For Ourselves - Think About It

"Is there any vestige of truth left in our declaration that we think for ourselves? Or do we even trouble to declare this any more? Perhaps the man who says he “thinks for himself” is simply one who does not think at all; because he has no fully articulate thoughts, he thinks he has his own incommunicable ideas."
Thomas Merton

I have always been a person who likes to go against the grain. I don't like to conform to what society deems "important." I never have. I am not politically correct, and I don't read the newspaper or listen to the news and accept it all as truth. I mean, how many of us have the "Of course it's true because it was on the news or in the paper" mentality? How many of us take what the medical profession says as gospel? How many of us believe everything we've been taught by the world? And if we do, why is that?

From the time my children were young, I've always encouraged them to learn as much as they could and strive to stay informed because I didn't want them to grow up letting someone else do their thinking.
Thinking for ourselves is so important, especially with all that is going on in the world. We are faced with information (sometimes indoctrination) coming at us in every direction. There are many paths to choose, varying in length, ease, and difficulty. There are also endless possibilities placed before us, and it will always be that way on this journey we call life. It is up to us to not just choose the good part, but choose the better part. If we strive to do this, there is no way we could ever be led astray. And when we do this, we are truly thinking for ourselves and will not be swayed by the media, by celebrities, or any worldly thing.
In the complicated world we live in (and it's only going to get more complicated,) truly learning to think for oneself is is definitely a priceless and crowning achievement, one that does not boast with pride or sound a trump glorifying the fact, but an achievement that will earn one the blessing of hearing an affirming inner voice whisper, "Well done. Now let's continue on, shall we?"

Are You Rich?

I am often asked how many books I have written. I usually say I don't know because I've stopped counting. Then the person will ask me how many of my books are published. Again I answer that I don't know. Eight out of ten times, the person then replies, "Wow, you must be doing good! Are you rich?"
My new reply now is, "Why, yes, I have been very blessed." And no, it isn't a lie because I am. I'm rich in blessings:-)
Writing is a labor of love and if a writer is in it for the money, then it isn't truly labor of love, it's work. Of course getting paid for your work is good, and making a lot of money is great. Becoming a best selling author would be even better! But that isn't why we do it.
We do it because of our love of the written world. We do it because it's a creative release and we're just oozing with creativity. We do it because if we don't give our rampant ideas an outlet, we will one day spontaneously combust, releasing all that pent up creativity, and leave brain fragments scattered all over the desk and computer screen or kitchen table, for family and loved ones to clean up. That would be pretty messy, and the visual is actually making me a little ill. (Another idea for a book, maybe?)
So the next time someone assumes you're doing really well and getting rich from your writing, you say, "Heck, yes, I'm rich!" Because your God-given talent is truly producing some major blessings. It is bringing new people into your life and taking you to places you never thought you would go, and you're soaring to new heights you never thought you would reach.
Now I'd say that's rich, wouldn't you?

Suggested Reading

Book: Hearts Through Time
Author Marie Higgins

I started Reading Hearts Through Time on Monday and couldn't put it down. Then I caught the flu and was in bed for a couple of days. As sick as I was, I forced myself to sit up for a couple of minutes here and there to read more of the book because I just had to find out what happened next. A couples of times I felt like I was dying after doing this and had to sleep for a couple of hours because it took so much out of me. But as soon as I woke up, I struggled to read another paragraph or two. Now this, people, is the sign of a great story!

The Book
A love story that transcends time . . .

When a woman claiming to be a ghost from 1912 appears in Nick Marshal's office and begs for help in solving her murder, he thinks he has lost his mind. A scandal that rocked Hollywood almost destroyed his law practice, so he doesn't need any more fireworks as he rebuilds his life. Still, he is intrigued by Abigail Carlisle's plea, and he needs clients, even if this one insists she's dead. The more secrets Nick uncovers, the deeper he falls for the beautiful ghost.
Abigail believes Nick is her heart's true desire, but how can happily-ever-after happen when she's already dead? The more time she spends with him, the more real she becomes, until Nick can finally touch her.
In a strange turn of events, Nick is suddenly whisked back to 1912, two weeks before Abby's murder, but she doesn't remember him. When he attempts to win her over so he can save her from a tragic destiny, Abby thinks Nick is courting her for her inheritance. But even if he can rescue her and make her trust him again, how can they be together forever?

This book was a sweet lighthearted read that immediately drew me in and moved quickly, and there wasn't one dull moment. The cover is absolutely beautiful and exactly how I would picture Abigail. It was such a fun story and the author's personality clearly shines through her writing.

I asked Marie how she came up with the story.

Marie: How did I come up with the story? Well... Three years ago (or so) paranormal was getting bigger, and I wanted to write a paranormal romance, but vampires and werewolves were just not interesting. Ghosts were. I wanted the woman to be my ghost from 1912. Why that era you ask...because I love their clothes! Ha ha ha! So before actually plotting my story, I whipped out the first chapter. Little did I know there would be such a mystery surrounding her murder. After chapter four I realized I had to actually plot the story. lol I can honestly say, my characters wrote this story for me. I never knew I could create such a plot.
To find out more about Marie Higgins and her books, stop by her blog at http://mariehiggins84302.blogspot.com/