Tag: books

Beyond The Colored Line – Final Sneak Peek

Book2Week three-four:

My apologies for the delay on this; I have recently come back to town and this week has been busy trying to get back on schedule. But, as promised, here are the final sneak peeks of Beyond The Colored Line:

Note: This excerpt is part of a book written by Yecheilyah Ysrayl. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stolen in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by Yecheilyah Ysrayl.

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1932
Age 16
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“Never limit yourself sweetheart.”

Aunt Sara was sitting at the vanity table applying red lipstick to lips that I didn’t think could get any redder. Aunt Sara was a thin but shapely woman, filling out the beautiful dark red dress that went down to her ankles, but held snug at the waist with a petite black belt. She wore black heels, and her red hat sat on the bed next to me as I sat watching her perfectly apply more make-up. She was in the middle of another lecture.

“We got the whole world just waiting for us and the least we can do is oblige. Besides, it’s not like you’re betraying anyone or denying anything. You have just as much a right to this life as anybody.”

It was Tuesday night and Aunt Sara was going out again. She tilted her head this way and that in the mirror and smiled her approval.

Mama lost the house. She tried to do the best she could with the visitors and such, but the depression didn’t allow for people to want to travel much. And the taxes came to be too much for a laundry woman’s salary. We moved to Chicago where things weren’t much better. The Great Depression was particularly severe here because of the city’s reliance on manufacturing, the hardest hit area nationally. Only 50 percent of the Chicagoans who had worked in the manufacturing sector in 1927 were still working by the time we arrived, especially Negroes. By now, 40 to 50 percent of Negro workers in Chicago were unemployed, including Aunt Sara. She was a school teacher, but wasn’t making any money. By the end of the year, the city would owe teachers more than eight months’ pay. But Chicago’s population grew enormously because of the mass lynching’s taking place in The South. Negroes escaped Mississippi as if running from a plague. And for just $11.10 they were brought by train to a new world. Everything was still segregated. In fact, Chicago is the most segregated place I’d ever seen. But you could hold your head up in Chicago. So to us, it still offered a freedom that didn’t exist in in The South. It was the land of milk and honey. And the crisis didn’t seem to affect Aunt Sara as it did Mama anyway. She didn’t particularly like being a part of the life Sara lived and she was depressed over our situation.

“Speaking of the whole world, what is it with you and that Timmy boy?” Sara puckered her lips for a final review as she spoke.

“Tommy Aunty, his name is Tommy,” I said.

Tommy and I had become rather close as we got older, though I couldn’t decide if we were dating or not. Aunt Sara clasped her hands together as she stood and sat next to me on the bed, “Oh, my memory these days.”

“Tommy’s a good friend, nothing special.” I lied.

“That’s my girl,” said Sara, grabbing her hat and putting it on, admiring herself again in the mirror as she spoke.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you two to see each other no how. There’s not much room for opportunity with such men. You must learn to play the game sweetheart.”

“Are we so different?” I asked.

Sara turned to face me, “You can drink your coffee black all you wanna, but I’d prefer a little cream to taste. I swear I don’t know what’s gotten into your Mother, teaching you to hate yourself is what she doing. There’s nothing wrong with embracing who you are, you remember that.”

I sunk down in my seat, embarrassed. I knew where she was going with this. Every day was Saturday for Aunt Sara. Uncle Bob, as we were instructed to call him (though marriage didn’t exist between them) was Sara’s new man, a wealthy doctor on Chicago’s North side. The problems of the Great Depression affected every group of Americans, but no group was harder hit than Negroes living in the cities trying to live like rich white folk. In some Northern cities, whites called for Negroes to be fired from any jobs as long as there were whites out of work. Otherwise, the depression meant nothing to Negroes who had been depressed in America for nearly 400 years. For this reason, we were Aunt Sara’s little secret hidden securely inside Uncle Bob’s pocket. She didn’t just pass for white, Aunt Sara was white. And coming from a white mother and half white father no one second guessed us, not even Bob.

“I tell you what, the ladies and I are attending a small gathering this evening, and you should come along.”

“But I’m only sixteen,” I said.

Sara smiled, “And? Who’s asking questions? Today you’re sixteen years old sitting in a house wasting your life away. But tonight, tonight you are the most beautiful twenty-one year old they’d ever lay their eyes on. The most beautiful white woman they’d ever seen.”

One Year Later

I laughed as Tommy and I strolled down the Negro area of town, arm linked in arm. We had decided to stop fooling ourselves and had begun dating. I must say, being with Tommy was one of the most refreshing parts of my life: smart, colored, and hilariously funny. His presence alone gave me a sense of relaxation I didn’t feel at home. I didn’t have to pretend or fear discovery. It was a relief being with him, and a lot of fun too. Indeed, the love I had for that man could never be mistaken and could never be traded. He was my first love and I love him still.

Tommy held open the door to The Shack, a mom and pop restaurant owned by Negroes. As I entered the restaurant, however, my foot stopped mid-air over the threshold.

“Sidney?”

It was Annie, one of the first friends I’d met in Aunt Sara’s circle. I had begun living a double life. It was easier than I’d expected. I had, after all, enjoyed the private education, the fine dresses, and the parties. I found myself looking forward to the freedom of going where I wanted and buying what I needed. We were one of the few European families doing well during the depression and loved by everyone. Aunt Sara and Bob got closer. We were invited to his inner circle of friends and family, which meant standing on top the highest hill and waving. Even Mama began to lighten up just a bit. Things were going well, until now.

“Annie, what a surprise!” I said as Annie and I hugged each other, planting dainty kisses on each other’s cheeks, fake grins all over the place. Annie looked Tommy up and down, while he held onto the door, as if she had just spotted a piece of trash on the ground that must be disposed of quickly.

“You must be the servant. I’m Anne, how do you do?”

Tommy let the door slip from his hands, closing quietly as Annie held out her hand; covered in a crisp white glove made of finer cotton than spread across his kitchen table. Tommy’s family were sharecroppers. Silently he wondered how many barrels of cotton it took to make it glow in the darkness. He looked at Stella, staring deeply into the green eyes he once adored, and the reality of the present situation lit a fire inside of his chest. He hoped he wouldn’t fall down dead from a heart attack. It would be a shame for his dad to find out his son died cause of a thing as a woman’s glove.

Tommy said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on mine. I didn’t want to look away, but I couldn’t help but to feel them shooting little prickly darts into my skin, and it was beginning to burn. I had to think of something. Quick. I pleaded with his eyes.

“Why of course, where are my manners? Thomas, this is a friend of mine Annie. Annie this is Thomas, the new driver.”

I hopelessly tried to catch sight of his eyes. I wanted to plead mercy, but Thomas’ eyes searched instead for something on the ground. I turned my attention back to Annie.

“Why of course,” said Annie. “I was just telling Daddy about how difficult it is to find one these days. Why we just replaced a cook last week. Poor Mama was devastated,” we laughed, only hers was real.

“I told her we’d just have to get Miss Pearl to do it, but you know Daddy couldn’t stand for that. A housekeeper cooking? Why the next ball would be simply atrocious,” we laughed again as I silently prayed for a miracle.

“Anywho,” continued Annie, “I am off, but do come by tomorrow. The women and I are having tea, you know Mama’s dying to show off the furniture.”

“Of course,” I said as we hugged and kissed again.

As I waved goodbye to Annie, I turned to plead my case to Tommy, who was already halfway down the street. And just like that, our friendship had ended.

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I’m so grateful you’ve taken the time to read this far, I hope it means you are enjoying the story. If you’d like to continue reading and find out what happens next, you can get the book from Kindle for just $2.99 when it releases this summer and less than $10 in paperback.

I plan on writing another book in this series later this year, and with your permissions I’ll let you know when that’s available and send you some more free chapters. Until then, if you want to know what I’m up to, you can follow me on Twitter @: https://twitter.com/ahouseofpoetry.

Stella Revealed: Book Blurb for New Book

C3ERuFi

The Daily Post gave an exciting blog prompt yesterday on giving the book blurb to a book you want to write:

“Write the blurb for the book jacket of the book you’d write, if only you had the time and inclination.”

I wasn’t going to take part in this prompt initially, but since I have written a book (available soon), I decided this was the perfect time to give the book blurb to my upcoming book: “Beyond The Colored Line“:

“Growing up has not been easy for Stella. Just a few generations from slavery, Stella is the daughter of Judith May. Mother and daughter share the blood of a black woman and her white slave owner. Unable to cope with the teasing and bullying from both the white and black kids, Stella struggles with identity and a place to belong. She does not feel she can find her rightful place among the blacks and neither among the whites. That is except on Saturdays. Stella loves Saturdays! Where her and mother take occasional walks on the town and enjoy all of the privileges that come with a light skin tone. Years later, after a discussion with Aunt Sara persuades her to pass, Stella decides to live her life as Sidney McNair, a white woman. But living Saturdays isn’t as easy as visiting them.

How will Stella deal with the new challenges that come with her new life? Will she ever find the courage to face the truth concerning herself? How far is too far?

Beyond The Colored Line – Part 2 of Book 2

Book2****************************

Disclaimer: The following post is excerpted from a book written by Yecheilyah Ysrayl and is property of Yecheilyah Ysrayl. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stolen. Permission is only given to re-blog, social media sharing for promotional purposes and the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles and reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by Yecheilyah Ysrayl. (For permission write to: ahouseofpoetry@gmail.com)  Copyright © 2015, All Rights Reserved.
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Part 2
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1928
5 Years Later
Age 12
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Daddy run off to who knows where on account of his life. Some racist whites had seen him and Mama together and threatened to lynch him if found. So he run off to nobody knows where. The community gossip is that his brothers know, but they won’t say. We weren’t alone though, Mama and me. Seems like Mama filled the hole where Papa should have been with our whole family. The house always stayed filled with guests: my people, and peoples of my people. My granddaddy was a colored man, and so owned this land. My name sake, his mama Stella, was a slave and was given this house by her owner. As the story goes, after Grandma died, I was born. Since Mama was the closest, she named me after her. We got stories going all the way back to her girlhood, and stories of Grandpa Solomon too. I heard the stories mostly on Sundays, since all the family come down. My aunts would gather around the table with my mom and they laugh and cry most of the night about they girlhood. I don’t have any uncles except from my daddy side, but they don’t come around much cause of my aunties. Uncle Roy say Mama acts different around her sisters and that they too uppity, especially Aunt Sara. She’s the youngest of my aunties and the most spoiled. She’s the one who convinced Mama to send me to a private school to escape all the worry, and boy were my uncles hot! They said we were breaking the law – that a Negro had no business in a white school. But Aunt Sara said I had all the right in the world since I was technically half white after all.

“But does the school know she colored?” one of my uncles would ask.

“That’s none of the school’s business now is it?” Aunt Sara would say and they’d just go back and forth until Mama break it up.

That’s the story of my life: Was I white? Was I Negro? Race wars always concerned these two groups of people, and there ain’t seemed to be much place for a mulatto. Speaking of race, not all talks were good talks. Not all round table discussions were filled with laughter and jolly drinking. I used to sit up until my eyes were red with fatigue to hear Mama and my uncles talk about all the killings that were taking place around the country, and especially in the south.

“That’s what I say,” said the voice of Uncle Keith. “Up there in Minnesota.”

“That close?” Mama gasped. I could just picture her now with her hand over her chest. Mama had a thing for the dramatics.

“Yea that close. What, woman you living under a rock? They just had one on over in DeKalb last month,” said Uncle Roy.

“It’s a crying out loud shame,” continued Keith. “Say they dragged the boys from the cell and a whole mob of ‘em lynched ‘em. Say it was bout least a thousand of ‘em.”

“My my,” said Aunt Rebecca.

“Well you know what I say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” said Sara.

“Where did you come from?” said Deborah, annoyed.

“From betwee–,“ began Sara.

“Please, spare us,” said Mama.

“I didn’t ask the question,” said Aunt Sara, smacking her lips.

But there were times, of course, I witnessed for myself evidence of the events rocking the country. One day, Mama and I went to visit Cousin Mary in Texas, and drove the truck up to a general store. We walked in, and being only about five at the time, I picked up a post card hanging on one of the shelves. It was of a man hanging on a tree that supported an iron chain that lifted him above fire. The man didn’t seem to have much of a body left. His fingers were cut off, his ears and his body burned to a crisp. On the back of the postcard read:

“This is the barbeque we had last night. My picture is to the left with a cross over it.  Your son, Joe.”

I learned later the picture was of a 17-year old mentally ill boy named Johnny, who had agreed to having raped a white woman. And everybody at home still talked of the Cairo circus of 1909, the public lynching that took place here in Illinois. I asked Mama once if we could go to a circus like that, and she told me to never ask her of such things again. I couldn’t understand what had Mama so upset till I found out what kind of circus it was. It was events such as this that caused my aunts not to want much to do with the land or the house. They say it’s too close to slavery. So when Granddaddy died, Mama took on the burden of keeping it, and keeping it full too. I got kinfolk I see every weekend, and some I never met before. And some I don’t think are kinfolk at all; they just come for a hot meal and a bed. But that was alright with Mama. She didn’t care none about being taken advantage of. She just wanted to be around people she could feed and clothe. Her heart was just full of love like that. Sometimes they spend the night, but other times they just come and go. Sundays were the biggest days. Mama cook a feast of a dinner: fried chicken, yams, macaroni and cheese, fried brim and crappy, greens, pies, cakes. You name it, it was on our table. Everything except pork. Mama say Granddaddy was always talking about his Hebrew Heritage and teaching them about it too. Said he didn’t like being called Negro and African, and they weren’t allowed to call him that either, or themselves for that matter. Granddaddy say with his face all proud, “There are two things in the world I would never be: Christian and a Hog Head.”

Then he’ll light his pipe and go on rocking in his favorite chair, like the conversation was supposed to be over, even though folk mouths hung open. That’s another reason my uncles say we uppity:

“Everybody due for a lil fat back every now and again. Everybody Negro that is,” Uncle Roy would say, cutting his eyes over at Mama.

“Good thing we ain’t Negro then huh?” Deborah would shoot back.

Deborah, named after my great great great grandmother, fit right into her biblical name and was the most like Daddy, taking her Israelite Heritage seriously and practicing the laws of the Old and New Testament. Most of the family thought she was crazy. That didn’t stop her from speaking her mind though. But good eating and conversation was just the half of it. There was music, dancing, drinking, smoking, and gambling too. Cousin Walter would bring over some of his hooch and the grown-ups forget all about the children, which was just the way we liked it. I had a lot of cousins and friends, but no one was as close to me as Thomas. Tommy’s mom died off when he was just a baby, and his dad come across the road looking for direction one day when me and Mama come walking along. Come to find out they didn’t really need direction so much as a bed to sleep in. Mama let them stay with us for a while until Luther, Tommy’s dad, got off his feet. But that didn’t stop them from coming around. Luther and Mama became good friends and Tommy was over every weekend. My aunties used to think there was something going on between Mama and Luther till she shut up the gossip with news of Luther’s lady friend, who also became friends with Mama. So naturally Tommy and I were good friends, but we were also enemies and partners in crime. Tommy was dark as charcoal with big lips, nappy hair, and a wide nose. And I envied him for being so obviously Negro. It’s the same reason I liked him too.

“How you get so dark?”

“I don’t know,” said Tommy. “Just lucky I guess.”

“Lucky? What you got to be so proud for? Ain’t no girls liking no skin that dark.”

“Shut up white girl,” said Tommy.

“Shut up big head,” I say.

That’s usually when he punches me in the arm and I’d have to hunt the rest of him throughout the house.

We weren’t much of a church going family; party going is more like it. Except when Mama wanted to show off a new dress or hat, when somebody died or needed saving, and on Holidays and such. Folk would come from all over southern Illinois to hang out with “Cousin Judy”, as Mama was often called. Sunday’s sure were fun, my second favorite day of the week.

Saturdays was my favorite day of the week. It was the day for shopping and that only meant one thing: Chicago. First, Mama would wake me to the smell of biscuits or pancakes. This was to keep me full enough throughout the day so she didn’t have to worry none about food buying. Then, I was commanded to bathe down real good, paint my arms and legs with oil, untie my curls from the night previous, and we’d both put on our Sunday’s best and be two of the most beautiful women you’d ever seen. I was a young lady now and shopping was the best thing to a young lady next to boys (but you couldn’t like them in public). You could like shopping though. I loved going from store to store in search of the finest. Skipping along while Mama scanned the insides of magazines for stuff she only saw on TV. We would squeeze our way through crowds of people, just bumping into each other. They weren’t dressed as professional today. Instead, they wore their weekend wear, bought ice cream for their children and went inside movie theatres, and so did Mama and I. We could buy candy or jewelry, or perhaps a new hat or two with the money Mama made from the laundry. We drank from water fountains without label, and spent money without prejudice. Everything was so easy on Saturdays, life itself was better. We had us a good time on Saturdays because on Saturday, no one knew we were colored.

– Stella M.

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What did you think about the second part? I hope it held your interest and you’re ready for chapter three. I am leaving you with a surprise part from  Book 1 below. For the prologue to Book #1, see last week’s post. If you like this story so far, would you do me the favor of sharing this post with your friends who might enjoy reading it also? Re-blog or share on your social networks. Thanks a lot! And I’ll see you next week for Part 3.

Click Here to Read a Surprise Part from Book #1

Why Memoirs are Special

equipeng95“…it is difficult for those who publish their own memoirs to escape the imputation of vanity. Nor is this the only disadvantage under which they labor: it is also their misfortune, that whatever is uncommon is rarely, if ever, believed, and from what is obvious we are apt to turn away in disgust, and to charge the writer of it with impertinence.” – Gustavus Vass (Olaudah Equiano)

So, why do I want to tell my story? Why has the itch to spill the beans of my background always been with me? Some may call it a dream, but I call it a challenge. Of all the books I’ve written, writing my life story is one of my greatest challenges and I hope to conquer it real soon. I feel like I have not completely exhausted my writing endeavors until I have written a story of my life. I’ve danced with the idea off and on since childhood. Funny thing is before I was even finished living I knew I wanted to share my testimony. I’ve even gone as far as writing chapters and chapters, only to rip it up and start all over again. Truth is I am still learning all that goes into writing a memoir. I love the way

Maya Angelou for example, fictionalized herself in “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings”. Not in the sense of creating a false image, but by fictionalized I mean she was able to present a real-life story that reads like fiction. To recreate real-life experiences that jump from the page with all of the excitement that comes from reading a good novel. Here, Angelou lends us her eyes and we are able to see her world in the most real, yet entertaining way possible. While there are various ways to which individuals have gone to write their stories, I imagine there is still an art to it; an art I am still learning to master and I hope to begin this journey real soon. (I’ll be 28 this year, maybe I should wait till I’m like 30 …yea, that’s a nice medium number….lol j/k, I know the next day’s not promised, let alone the next two years, even though it may just take that long, but I digress)

Primarily, I want to share my story because I am a person of a deep passion for helping people in the spirit of teaching. Not teaching in the organized setting of things, teaching the basic principle of acquiring and passing on information. Teaching in the sense of taking what I’ve learned and passing it on. I love sharing information and I believe information exists to be shared. And if it’s the right kind of information, it can be a positive influence in someone else’s life. Have you ever been in a room of darkness and found that after searching for some time someone turned on the light? And then you laugh at yourself for seeing the switch was right there? That’s how it is when someone has taught me something. I love advice because I love to learn. And I love to learn because I love discipline. If ever I’m hard on you, know it’s because I expect double from myself. As I tell my students, “Mediocrity is not an option. If you’re going to do something, do it well or don’t do it at all.”

In addition, I want to share my story because we live in a world that teaches us to fear our past transgressions, mistakes, experiences, trials, etc. The world tells us to keep our “skeletons in the closet” and to wear the impenetrable mask of pretentiousness. Not only have I never had the ability to not show my true feelings, but being transparent in my opinion is what helps build strong relationships, which is what the writing process is all about. There are ups and downs but the struggle itself is what helps to build character. It helps us to create a bridge of commonality between those who are still lost in whatever capacity and those who have found the strength to endure.

While we can write post after post about inspiration, nothing is more inspiring than truth. To see that someone is going through, or has gone through, what you yourself are going through and to witness their strength is more powerful than any quote I could ever give you. Our past, our burdens, and our moments of pain are not weaknesses. They are instead a showcase of humility; like a collection of light in a cistern of water that illuminates. It illustrates that the fruit of sorrow is unmistakably esteem and deliverance. And this is what I wish to share with my readers. Eventually.

Self-Publishing: Do Your Research!

When a writer sits down to write, he does not fully understand the capacity of that in which he seeks to embark. When he runs his fingers across the keyboard, or scribbles his heart into ink, he does not fully realize the power of his actions. Who would have thought a single chapter could change the world? The life of a Self-Publisher does not fully evolve until after the book is done. He does not see the many hats that must be worn in order writerwalksintothat the world may feel his voice, or sniff out his vision. What Self-Publishers are doing today is very powerful. Just by writing one book we are becoming professionals in fields that people have gone years studying in schools. People have invested in years of schooling in that they may understand how to properly market, promote, and format documents and here you understand this thing just by publishing a book alone. If that is not power, I do not know what is.

writers-block21The first book I published was a collection of essays that none of you would probably read. It started as an assignment from my English Professor in College “Does Racism in America Still Exist?” I wrote so much I could not stop writing. I wrote and read, and wrote and read, until the paper became a book, a 3 part  book to be exact. Then I had a brilliant idea: “I’m going to publish it!” When this thought entered my mental space it wasn’t occupied with much else. I didn’t even see it as Self-Publishing in particular. I did not say to myself, “Self, we’re going to Self-Publish a book.” For me it was simply, “I’m going to publish these papers.” And that was the extent of my brilliant idea. I had no intention of sharing it and no other ambition beyond that. In the end, I gave copies to some family members and college buddies but that was it. I was not interested at the time in Self-Publishing nor did I even know what it was. I always wanted to be a published author, but Self-Publishing in particular was not part of the plan. It would be years later before I actually took the concept  seriously and before I understood what it was in it’s full capacity.

selfpublishingWhen I first started out, The Self-Publishing Industry was not like it is today. In fact, it wasn’t really an industry at all. Of course, in 2007 Self-Publishing existed, but there was not the same amount of information available to Self-Publishers that there is now. We are in the age of information and in just a few short years Self-Publishing ballooned into a plethora of opportunity for authors. Self-Publishing blogs are going viral and men and women alike are making thousands, some millions, of dollars from the expertise they are able to provide on the topic. Regular, ordinary people are making something of themselves by being a part of what they were told only those with Master Degrees and PhD’s could do. But, to aspiring writers who wish to Self-Publish, I beg of you, please, do your research!

relaxed-writer_1I know we do not live in a fair world, but nothing is more unfair to me than a teenager who decides he or she will write a book and publish it and yet have no idea what is necessary to do this. There is nothing more aggravating than for me to hear a young person say that they are publishing a book, and when I ask them what POD company they are going to choose, or if they are going to purchase their own ISBN number, or their marketing plan, they have no idea what I am asking of them. All of this work, and someone’s kid is just going to write a book because its fun. How can you write a book and not understand the basics of print book formatting? Do you even know what that is? Do you even know what POD stands for? Most importantly, do you know there are tons of resources available to help you to find the answers to these questions? I am not talking about places that require hundreds of dollars of investment; I am talking about places that require only pennies. And if you do not have the penny, there are tons of free resources as well. In fact, you need to make sure that Self-Publishing is even a route you want to take. Self-Publishing is hated enough as is because big publishing houses are not making as much money. People are not forced to Self-Publish, people are choosing  to Self-Publish. The problem however, is that people are not researching this industry and making sure they understand what it means to be a part of it. Mediocrity in Self-Published books is not just because of poor editing, book cover design, etc. No, mediocrity is rooted in writers who do not research their field. This is how poor cover design and poor editing is even born.

But times are changing and the industry is not like it was in 2007. No longer can Self-Publishing be stigmatized as a field of nonprofessionals. With the amount of information out today, a nonprofessional product can only be the fault of the author and the author alone, not the industry in general. Being a Self-Publisher alone does not automatically degrade the quality of work, but the lazy work of the Self-Publisher can. I am not saying I have it all together but please research what you want to be apart of. Today, there is a host of information available to help us to get started or to sharpen our skills. So to those who are currently writing books and are seeking to be a part of the Self-Publishing field for the first time, stay encouraged. And please, I cannot stress this enough, do your research. You’ll be thankful for it in the end. You can start off with something as simple as a Google Search. And because blogs are doing so well these days, a lot of the information you’re looking for can be found right here in the blogosphere. One blogger who is always on her game with research for Self-Publishing is my good friend Colleen Chesebro. Colleen is writing her first book and is always on point with her research. She is a great example of what to do as you are writing. You don’t wait until you are about to publish a book to find out how to do it. Ttake some time out of your day and walk around the neighborhood. You’ll be amazed at what you’ll find.

Book Review Shipments: April 30th – May 4th

closed-sign

Good Evening Everyone,

This blog is usually inactive on the weekend, but this is a special notice for Book Review Recipients:

In a couple of weeks my husband and I will be doing some traveling. As a result, this blog will be inactive, closed, for the following dates:

Thursday, April 30th – Monday, May 4th

Part 3 of the Stella series will be the last post published on Thursday morning (12am) April 30th for that weekend.

If you have undergone the questionnaire for Book Reviews and are planning to ship your book between these dates, please note:

The time frame for books sent in for Book Reviews that arrive right before or during my travels does not officially begin until after May 4, 2015, when I come home and have received your book in the mail. Please email me for any questions, comments, or concerns during or before this time per Book Reviews, current or new inquires. I am always locked into my email so I will still be able to address your concerns. Thank you for your patience.

– EC

email: ahouseofpoetry@gmail.com