Sheriff Nate Turner was killed from an unknown assailant. 

And he begs St. Peter to send him back to find his killer. 

In this saga of a Black run-away slave, soldier, cowboy, and lawman in the old west. 

That’s my fifteen second pitch, or what commonly called in the writing/publishing business the elevator pitch. 

In our monthly writers guild meeting last night we had as our guest a publicist who determines the worthiness of the book and strategies for launching a publicity campaign to garner those sales that every writer hopes to garner. 

As with any writing endeavor, and this is if you are in the “business” of writing and publishing your works, costs money. It’s something I have struggled with since getting my first book published through a vanity press, self-published through Amazon and lately published through a hybrid publishing format.  

Just in marketing my books alone, has cost me over $10,000. That’s money that I have yet to recover. Publicist is a whole different animal from marketing. The publicist if he is honest and legitimate will tell you point blank if the book you’ve written is even worth the effort. Then, he’ll read the manuscript and give you an honest assessment on what strategies he will throw out there to do a proper book launch campaign. On average, from $2,500 to $7,500 depending on the publicist. 

This person, whose name is Joe Marich told us if we are serious about the business of writing, because there are three different types and if you are in that third category then there are ten questions you need to ask yourself: 

• Is the story you want to write really and truly a story worth telling? Can you explain why you think so? 

• Or, for a nonfiction: Is this book offering new and pertinent information or presented in a new way that we honestly and truly need? 

• Why should anyone care about this specific book? What Makes it different? 

• Will this book be of interest to a large group of people? 

• Which very specific group will be most interested in this book? [Hint: It is absolutely, positively not “everyone.”] 

• If you were given a five-minute interview on let’s, say Today, what exactly and specifically would you talk about that’s connected to the book? 

• Is there an over-arching theme to the story? 

• How many books do you expect to sell? 

• Do you have a budget to hire PR/Marketing pro, or purchase advertising? 

• Do you have social media presence or a website? 

According to this publicist, you need to have an outline because they can tell within the first 30 pages if your book was outlined. If not, then the book reviewers and media professionals won’t give it media coverage. 

The answers to my books have been, yes, maybe, yes, maybe, not sure, yes, at least a hundred copies, not really, yes. 

I don’t outline. I’m a pantser and unlikely to change my approach because I don’t like wasting my time and effort outlining plot and character development. I write as I go because then I can stop and read and think about how this character will react to a given situation. 

So, here is the nut and bolts of trying to get your book out to the masses. It’s not for the amateur writer who just likes to put ink on paper. It’s for those people serious about what they do and expect a decent return on their investment. 

If you are like me then you have your work cut out for you. If you are just starting out or just like writing for the thrill and fun of the adventure, then you have something to look forward to in your endeavor. 

As an adjective special means something better, greater, or otherwise different from the usual. 

Or exceptionally good or precious. Then there are meanings that make the word special seem condescending and that is my beef. 

Last week, I had just finished working my shift and was preparing to head over to my supervisor’s office and turn in my radio when I saw two women coming toward me as I got on the elevator. I recognized the one as a fellow team member who works in the HR department and the other apparently was a new hire that was being given a tour of our campus. 

“Hello, Jerry,” the human resources person gushed with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “This is Sue [not her real name] I’m giving her a tour of our wonderful resort. This is Jerry. He’s really SPECIAL.” 

“Hi, it’s nice meeting you,” I told the young woman with a pleasant smile. I ignored the HR representative, but stated, “I’m not that special.” I glanced at her to gauge her response, but she just beamed at me as if I didn’t know what I was talking about. The elevator door opened. 

“Oh, but Jerry, you are such a special person,” she called out to me as I left the back hotel entrance and headed to the casino. 

What I wanted to say, but undoubtedly may have cost me my job was define special for me because I’m not special needs, which apparently was how I interpreted her attitude toward me. That I was a few fries short of a happy meal. I wanted to tell her I’m not a moron. But like I said she might have become offended and had me written up for some nonsense and gotten me terminated. 

People generally treat me with respect and like me the way I am, how I come across, my sense of humor, sense of what is right and how I treat other people. That doesn’t make me special, but human.  

Then there are those individuals out there who don’t see me as a person with a functioning, intelligent brain who wrote numerous books and had five published so far. No what they see is a disabled man, who most likely shouldn’t be working here or anywhere. I should be put away out of their sight, then these people would be happy.  

They greet me the same way that lady the other day greeted me. They then go out of their way to diminish my capabilities, or if I happen to apply for another job, find excuses for not promoting me. You can imagine how that makes me feel. I stopped trying and now am biding my time to finish working here and retiring. 

What makes me special is my keen sense of who I am and my ability to persevere in spite of those other people out there who for reasons I will never understand call me special yet don’t know that really means. 

My loyal readers, I hope my last four blogs I sent had you entertained. 

I discovered through my lifetime friend that using my blogs to express my political beliefs tended to turn him off. I would assume many of you are in the same position. And heaven forbid, I might offend my loyal readers because their views doesn’t mesh with mine. 

Anyway, my writing progress is going steadily forward and I actually went back and did a major rewrite of another short story anthology that is part of the Four Seasons Series. The anthology I even renamed because one of the stories I wrote had the same title and it was confusing for the Microsoft cloud. I rename the book Road to Nowhere. Like I said the stories still revolve around the main character, Mark Marteau and the minor characters that give depth and enhances the readers’ experience and enjoyment. I found the book missing a key element and decided to add a story that I hope when this is published will be the diamond of the book. 

Now, time for good news bad news. Austin Macauley sent me a letter about a month ago informing me that because A Man’s Passion was less than stellar in sales, they released their rights to the book, and I was in a quandary as to how to proceed with this project. Good news is that another company has informed me of their interest in pursuing this book and rebooting it. I’m still uncertain how they want to do this, and they informed me today they want over $3000 for their efforts. Money I just don’t have at this point. 

The Nate Turner project is going as expected. It’s a lot more research intensive because I want the experience to be as authentic as possible. I want my loyal readers and any new readers, who may be into Western books, to feel like this is authentic. Where I’m presently at now is still before the telephone and electric light. It’s still a primitive existence for Nate Turner and his family. 

That’s all she wrote, excuse the cliché. Maybe later this month I might get on my soapbox and do something political. Enjoy your summer. 

Nathen arrived home and his five-year-old daughter came up to him with a book of fairy tales that she pushed toward him to read to her. “This one, please, Daddy.” She pointed at the Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.  

He pushed back his brown hair and pulled down his glasses before replying in his usual devious tone, “Honey, you don’t want me to read this again, do you? Why don’t we read something else that’s more realistic and poignant than that. Look here’s the local newspaper. I’m sure there are more interesting stories than a princess who is being stalked by an evil witch, looking for her Prince Charming and boarding with seven little men.” 

“Daddy, please, the teacher wanted me to learn how to read this.” 

“Oh, you want me to read so you can learn how to read? Well, honey, that’s not how it works.” He saw her doe eyed look beseeching him. “Oh alright, but then I will make you read it to me after I read it to you; deal?” 

“But Daddy I don’t know how to read!” 

“Once upon a time there was this evil witch who had this mirror that she would ask “Who is the fairest of them all?” 

“Daddy that’s not how it goes.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“Read it to me Daddy, please!” 

“I don’t have to read it to you, I know it by heart. Do you want to know what happened to Snow White after the happily ever after?” 

“Okay?” She gave her father a questioning, inquisitive stare. 

“Okay, come over here and sit on my lap and I’ll tell you what happened to her.” She took Nathen’s hand, and they went to his recliner and sat down. She climbed upon his lap. “Are we comfy?” 

“Yes, Daddy we are.”  

“Okay now after the prince married Sleeping Beauty, he found the wicked witch in her castle. It turns out she hadn’t died after all. You see the dwarfs made a pack with her that they would allow her to live if they could get some of her magic to use against Sleeping Beauty.” 

“No, Daddy Snow White, not Sleeping Beauty!” 

“Oh, sorry about that. You know they pretty much are the same.” She pouted at him. “Okay, Snow White gets married to the handsome prince. Now where was I? Oh yes, he goes to her and tells her, “I found out about your scheme with the dwarfs, you bad old witch. I want some of that magic too, or I’ll kill you where you stand.” 

“Okay, okay,” the witch says. “On one condition that you name Sleeping Beauty after me so that child will bear my name and be the fairest of them all.” 

“Daddy! Not her, Snow White!” 

“Oh, my bad, okay, Snow white’s husband has threatened the witch with death. Now may I continue? 

“Yes, Daddy, you may continue.” 

“Fair enough,” the prince says. He secretly crossed his fingers behind his back. “I will do that, name my daughter Hazel after you.” 

“So, the witch granted the prince the magic he desired so that too could control Sleeping Beauty, making her his and his alone. 

“DADDY!!!” 

“Sorry, I keep getting those two mixed up for some reason. It must be my old age.” 

“Oh, by the way,” the witch stated, “I understand you have a passion for oranges from the New World. I just happen to have one.” 

“The prince had forgotten about the poisoned apple she gave to Beauty, I mean Snow White, and took the offered fruit without hesitation. “Why thank you, witch. I take back all those nasty things I thought about you.” 

He left her peeling back the rind and plopping each slice into his mouth. It was a bit on the salty side for his taste buds, but he didn’t care as he got on his horse and felt an uneasiness settle upon him and finally the world turned dark, and his form fell off the horse and he became a toad. 

In the meantime, the dwarfs all went to the castle. Each one went into her chamber and had their way with her. She was impregnated and gave birth to seven little girls. Their names were all Hazel Witch. 

“Daddy, what does that word mean?” 

“What in the world are you telling our daughter, Nathen!” The angry shrill came from the kitchen where his wife stood, a crossed expression painted on her face. 

“It’s nothing I can assure you,” Nathen replied calmly to his wife of seven years. “I just told her a version of Snow White and the seven dwarfs after Prince Charming awakens her.” 

“Come on honey, let’s get dinner served. I’ll talk to you later, mister!” 

Nathen overheard her telling their daughter, “Don’t you listen to that nonsense. They lived happily ever after and that’s all you need to know about that story. I’ll read you a story tonight that is much better than that.” 

“Which story is that Mommy?” 

“Little Red Riding Hood,” she replied. “But it will be told a little differently this time.” 

“How will that be?” 

“It’s a secret, but I think you’ll like it even better than what’s in the book.”  

“What does impregnate mean, Mommy?” 

“Don’t you worry about that. You are too young to know those kinds of words.” 

“Did those dwarfs make her sick?” 

“In a manner of speaking, yes she got sick every morning until the fifth or sixth month.” 

“But the Prince was he still a toad?” 

Nathen heard a pause before his wife replied, “That’s another story that I will tell you later, my princess.” 

Kiyo walked quietly on a single lane road near Sendai in Northeast Honshu Island. Kiyo had dreams of becoming an actress one day, and she saw the audition in the daily newspaper. As she walked to the train station that would take her inside the town itself, she reflected on the role she wanted to perform for NO. She spotted her best friend, Junko who stood waving to her, dressed in her customary school uniform. 

Kiyo smiled at her friend, waved back and jogged to her. They exchanged polite bows to each other and walked side by side toward the train station a kilometer away.  

Junko started the conversation first, her framed glasses enhancing her brown eyes. “Kiyo-san, it’s nice to see you this morning.” She noticed Kiyo wasn’t wearing her dark skirt and knee-high stockings like she normally would, instead wearing blue jeans and a light coat that was zipped up to keep the coastal breeze off her slender form. “Are you going to school?” 

“No Junko-san, I’m going to audition for a role of NO.” She stopped and pulled from her satchel that hung from her shoulder an advertisement she removed from the morning paper. “It will be at the Civic theater.” 

“Oh, that is wonderful. Is it a starring role? You are quite good, Kiyo-san.” 

“No, Junko-san it is a minor role as a maid,” Kito replied with apprehension in her voice. 

“I’m sure as good as you are, you will be chosen, my friend.” They reached the train station and saw the train had just pulled up and they both ran to the platform where the usual conductor was checking tickets with his paper punch. He smiled at the two teenagers. 

“Good morning, Kiyo-san and Junko-san. You have your passes?” Both pulled their monthly passes out and handed them to him, a weathered face man with gray hair and smiling brown eyes. “Have a good day. Maybe I will see you this afternoon on your way home.” 

“Yes sir, see you later,” both replied as they boarded the train found a nearby seat and sat down together. 

Both saw two boys their ages walk by oblivious to them. They giggled and Kiyo said, “Oh those two are so cute!” 

“No, they are too immature for my tastes, Kiyo-san.” 

The train whistle blew, and the car lurched forward, and they rode into Sendai, whispering and pointing at the boys between fits of giggles. The train stopped at the station, and they disembarked. The boys went the opposite direction they did and then when they reached the school, both left again as Kiyo continued to the Civic Theater to audition for her role. 

A tremor underneath her feet made her legs wobble briefly. It happened a few days before. According to the news it seemed to be coming from some undersea volcano out in the Pacific, though there were also rumors about the goings on at the reactor at the Fukushima plant, or the North Koreans making trouble again.  

All of this caused Kiyo to worry overmuch about her world around her. She increased her pace to a near trot as she entered the theater. The stage was alit and already auditions were underway. A knot of anxiety hit the pit of her stomach as she slowly walked down the aisle to a seat next to other hopefuls awaiting their turns. 

The others acknowledged her with a smile, but it seemed disingenuous. They had the scripts in their hands and were studying the lines they were prompted to read. An anxious panic rolled over her like a tidal wave and she searched frantically for the director or casting agent. 

She spotted a man with spectacles hung halfway down his nose watching a potential actor perform her lines. 

“Stop, thank you for your time,” he interrupted her abruptly and called out, “Next!” 

“I’m so sorry sir, but I have no script for the audition for the maid role.” Kiyo felt on the verge of being sick. 

He looked down briefly at her. “You’ll do! There are no speaking roles in this part you will play. Unless you are a clumsy fool, I believe you will be fine. Rehearsal is tomorrow at 1600.” 

“Thank you, sir,” she replied. In relief as she respectfully bowed to him and scampered to the end of the theater. 

“What’s your name?” He called out to her in a booming voice. 

“Kiyo Yamamoto,” she yelled back down to him with a bounce of enthusiasm in her voice. 

She saw the time was nearing noon by the time she left the theater. Her stomach rumbled and she knew she needed to eat so she indulged herself by buying a cup of Ramen noodles that she slurped up, guiding the noodles into her mouth with a pair of chop sticks. 

She took her time going back to the school to meet Junko after 1400 when classes let out for the day. She felt another tremor, stronger even than the earlier one, causing concern…” Oh dear,” she cried out getting curious looks from pedestrians who walked by, seemingly oblivious to the vibrations under her feet. 

At two o’clock she met Junko as she came outside greeting each other. “I got the part,” Kiyo exclaimed to her friend. Both exchanged hugs of appreciation and continued walking to the train station 

“Tell me. How was the audition?” Junko asked with excitement in her voice. 

“Oh, it was nothing,” Kiyo told her with a smile. “The director gave me the part by just looking at me.” 

“Were the lines hard?” 

“No, not at all. Then again, my part requires no lines. I’m just a prop, serving drinks to the main characters.” 

“Oh, do they need an extra?” Junko laughed in glee.  

“Oh, I don’t know. I could ask. She absently looked at the clock over the main square that showed 2:45. A sudden rumble was felt unlike anything she ever experienced in her short fourteen-year life. Both girls eyes became wide with fear and acknowledgement when the tremors rocked and swayed as if they were aboard ship in the ocean. They both clung to each other as they fell to the sidewalk. Cars in the street suddenly stopped and many got out and ran in different directions. 

The tremors felt like they lasted an eternity as structures up and down the street either collapsed or loss bricks or facades, windows breaking or shattering and an alarm blaring in their ears. Then it stopped. Both girls slowly got up off the sidewalk and made their way toward the train station. With the exception of horns blaring and that siren wail, it felt eerily serene… 

Both girls noticed a small pooling of water running up the street, and then it ebbed away. Then another, slightly bigger than the last came up to their knees.  

“What is happening?” Kiyo asked. 

A high surf of ocean water rushed into them and over them and Kiyo saw God…