Wise Ink Said I Could Share! "Ten things not to say to a Writer" Enjoy!

Writing a book or already published? Take a breather and enjoy writing and publishing tips that'll help you on your journey!

What You Probably Meant to Say To Us:
A Twitter-Inspired Etiquette Guide


Here we are, trapped behind our laptops, just trying to transmute our vast, disorganized thoughts into legible English. We haven’t been bothering anyone. In fact, if we think about it, we’ve actually been entertaining the public for the past couple centuries. We’ve churned out best sellers, inspired Hollywood films, and incited entire cultural movements.

And yet, we can’t seem to get societal approval for our creative routines. Huh.Welcome to life as a writer.

Recently, we took our frustration to the Twittersphere to expose the most irksome comments we’ve heard over the years using the hashtag#TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter. The result was painfully humorous and all too true.

And simply too good to restrict to Twitter.

So, we’ve repurposed our writerly pain and into an etiquette guide for individuals who seem confused about how to address a real live author. Writers, feel free to distribute this list of unnecessary comments (and their preferred counterparts) to friends and acquaintances who just don’t get it.




1.




We aren’t really sure what about writing doesn’t constitute work in the mainstreamer’s mind, but we are getting tired of being asked about our “real” jobs.

What you probably meant to say: “Tell me about your latest writing project!”




2.

There’s no way our first drafts are perfect—we knew that before we asked you to be a beta-reader! We don’t expect a full copyedit, line edit, and proofread—we’ll get the paid professionals to do that. We just want your honest thoughts from a potential consumer’s perspective.

Instead, try answering these questions: Is the dialogue convincing? At what point (if any) did you lose interest in the storyline? What questions did you have about the main character while reading? Were there any gaps in the plot?




3.

You’re right, “reading” and “writing” ARE synonyms. The process is exactly the same. Likewise, haven’t you heard it isn’t polite to make everything about yourself?

Next time try: “I know you do a lot of writing—how did you decide to publish your most recent project?”




4.

Sure, sometimes we glean character ideas from our surroundings, but it’s not a given. Don’t assume we are writing about ourselves, and for the love of all that is good and holy, do not assume we are writing about YOU either.

This conversation starter might be better received: “Where did you get your inspiration for your latest project?”




5.




Absolutely, and we will just continue our lives as starving artists.

Keep in mind we writers spend months upon years polishing our manuscripts. While it’s not every author’s goal to make millions, it would be nice to turn a profit on all our hard work.

What you probably meant to say: “Where can I buy a copy of your new release?”




6.

Thanks for having our back, but that’s not necessarily the type of writing we do. Unless we’ve been vocal about our need for additional work, it’s best to assume we are devoted to the projects we’re already undertaking.

Before you offer us a side job, ask us: “What’s your genre and ideal audience?”




7.

We don’t have to defend our decision to self-publish—we know traditional publishing is no longer the only route to success, and we are confident in our choice! Self-publishing is not just a “start” but a means to an end—spreading our mission and message.

Next time, try saying: “Tell me about your self-publishing process! What are the challenges and benefits?”




8.

We appreciate you taking the time to read and rate our books! But a three-star review might be doing us more harm than good. Prospective readers are scanning for the next best read, so if you genuinely loved our book as you claimed, go ahead and show your enthusiasm with a five-star review!

Tell your favorite author this instead: “I rated your book on Amazon! Where else can I write a reader review?



9.




We aren’t going to lie—sometimes we do sit back and write beautiful things. But these moments are wedged between weeks of writers block, the toils of re-writing, and agonizing over how to sell our brainchild.

We suggest you ask: “What’s the daily life of an author really like? Tell me about your process!”




10.

We LOVE that you read the gritty innards of our book and absorbed our message—that’s our ultimate goal! But we would love it even more if you remembered our titles so you could recommend it to your friends (or even enemies). Word-of-mouth is the most affordable marketing, people!

Next time, try: “I keep a copy of Why We Ink on my bedside table at all times because it offers me daily inspiration!”



We’re guessing all these underhanded comments just “came out wrong.” Don’t worry, friends and family—we understood what you really meant.

Readers, what were some of your favorite #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter? Let us know in the comment section below!

The post What You Probably Meant to Say To Us: A Twitter-Inspired Etiquette Guide can be found on the Wise Ink Blog.






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Major Book Spotlight Coming! SEDUCED!

Spotlighting Poetry by Williams Butler Yeats...And More!

"Yet they that know all things but know

 That all this life can give us is

 A child's laughter, a woman's kiss."

William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary establishments, in his later years he served as an Irish Senator for two terms. Yeats was a driving force behind the Irish Literary Revival and, along with Lady Gregory, Edward Martyn, and others, founded the Abbey Theatre, where he served as its chief during its early years. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature as the first Irishman so honoured for what the Nobel Committee described as "inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation." Yeats is generally considered one of the few writers who completed their greatest works after being awarded the Nobel Prize; such works include The Tower (1928) and The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1929). Yeats was a very good friend of American expatriate poet and Bollingen Prize laureate Ezra Pound. Yeats wrote the introduction for Gitanjali, which was about to be published by the India Society.

Never Give All the Heart

Never give all the heart, for love 
Will hardly seem worth thinking of 
To passionate women if it seem
 Certain, and they never dream
 That it fades out from kiss to kiss; 
For everything that's lovely is
 But a brief, dreamy. 
Kind delight. 
O never give the heart outright, 
For they, for all smooth lips can say, 
Have given their hearts up to the play.
 And who could play it well enough
 If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
 He that made this knows all the cost, 
For he gave all his heart and lost.
 http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/william_butler_yeats

~~~

A Prayer for Old Age

God guard me from those thoughts men think
 In the mind alone;
 He that sings a lasting song
 Thinks in a marrow-bone;
 From all that makes a wise old man
 That can be praised of all; 
O what am I that I should not seem
 For the song's sake a fool?
 I pray -- for word is out 
And prayer comes round again -- 
That I may seem, though
 I die old, A foolish, passionate man. 
http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/william_butler_yeats

The Lady's Second Song

What sort of man is coming 
To lie between your feet?
 What matter, we are but women. 
Wash; make your body sweet; 
I have cupboards of dried fragrance. 
I can strew the sheet.
 The Lord have mercy upon us. 
He shall love my soul as though 
Body were not at all, 
He shall love your body
 Untroubled by the soul,
 Love cram love's two divisions 
Yet keep his substance whole.
 The Lord have mercy upon us.
 Soul must learn a love that is proper to my breast,
 Limbs a Love in common
 With every noble beast. 
If soul may look and body touch, 
Which is the more blest? 
The Lord have mercy upon us. 
 http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poems/best/william_butler_yeats

Some of you may already know that Hughes Satellite was having problems, so I hadn't been able to access the Internet... and/or was dealing with very slow support...

I've had this draft on hold since National Poetry Month, so thought I'd shared it today since I didn't use it earlier, so I have time to get back into routine... 

Hope you enjoy my selection of videos in response to Yeats' quote and poetry... As you all know, I'd not really a student of poetry, but do enjoy it, when it speaks to me... 

The last song is one of my favorites and I've sung it solo many times...Recently when I went to the hospital for my last test, I spent some time in the Chapel there where a wonderful lady was playing the organ... I was singing some of our favorites, but realized that, since I've been home more, my voice, too, is getting older and weaker...Funny about that--when I sing it in my head, it sounds wonderful...LOL!

Romantic Fantasy, The Gardener of Baghdad, by Ahmad Ardalan is Wonderful Escape! Loved It!

I was born in 1934 in Diyala, an only child to my parents and the light and joy in their lives. My father, along with my two uncles, had inherited a large plot from their late father. It was beautiful agricultural land, with soil so rich that everything they planted turned into gold. My father and uncles were fond of their work and took care of the land very well, and our farms supplied fruits and vegetables to many areas across the country.
I had a happy childhood. I enjoyed watching my father and uncles do their daily work at the farm, and my mother and my uncles’ wives laughed as they went about their daily chores, whether it was cooking or helping the men with some farm work. I loved running around those green farms, collecting dates, oranges, and grapes and playing with my younger cousins. I was particularly close to Mustafa, who was only four months younger. I will never forget the good times we had. Every day, just before sunrise, Mustafa and I used to run to the end of the farm, to a little hut my late grandfather had built years earlier. We’d climb up on top of it and watch the sunflowers open up while the sun was rising. How beautiful a sight it was! We just watched and watched, and everything in life seemed so simple, so perfect. I remember racing him all the way back. We played games like hide-and-seek and football, but the thing Mustafa loved most was climbing that high palm tree next to the house. He loved playing up there, and he never lost to me once when we raced to climb it. He was quick as a bullet, and I’d bet my life that nobody in Iraq could climb it faster than him. With several moves, he was up the tree, picking the sweetest date, while I was still struggling halfway through. 
It was a lovely, peaceful life till, out of nowhere, a tragedy hit. On a rainy day in February of 1943, we received shocking news. My father and one of my uncles were on their way to Baghdad via public transportation, a small, twelve-passenger local bus, the only one in the province that went to Baghdad daily at that time, always at seven a.m. sharp. That day, the roads were muddy and dangerous. It had rained all night before, and the rain continued even after they’d left home. They were urged by my mother and my aunt to delay their visit, but they insisted that they go, stating that they had urgent meetings to attend. In the end, that decision would prove to be a fatal one, but I learned early in life that you can’t fight fate. That day was to be their calling day, that bus ride their last...
The shock hit us hard. My mother was hurt the most, as she was an orphan herself and had no brothers or sisters. My father was her everything, so she was devastated. She’d finally found someone to love in life, but he was taken away from her in a heartbeat. Before that, she’d always worn the most beautiful smile, but I never saw it again after that day. After the tragedy, my youngest uncle was in charge of all of us. It wasn’t easy for such a young man to take care of three families and manage all the farms by himself, so my cousin Mustafa and I tried to help. After all, we were the oldest of the children, both a ripe, old age of ten. I always told Mustafa we had a short-lived childhood, and we were men before our time. I loved working on the farm and helping out, but Mustafa only did it because he felt obliged to. Nevertheless, once school was out, we both helped with everything from seeding and irrigation to driving the tractors, the best part of all. At that age, I had four things in my life: my mother, Mustafa, the rest of the family, and the farm. Ten months later, life struck me with another harsh blow, when my mother passed away from pneumonia. The doctors tried to help, but they were of little use. She hadn’t been the same since my father’s untimely death, and she didn’t seem to have the will to live anymore. So, I was an orphan before I even turned eleven. From that day on, I dedicated everything to my work. I put my heart and soul into it and was my uncle’s right arm. He taught me everything, and as years passed, I began to take on many responsibilities of the farm...


The Gardener of Baghdad

“This novel speaks about a flower… 

The true red rose in my life, 

The rose that represents existence,

beauty and class. Baghdad.”

By Ahmad Ardalan

This beautiful book actually has a book within the book... In this time when there always seems to be war, somewhere, Ahmad Ardalan takes us into a dramatic fantasy of love and life.

The story begins with Adnan, a bookstore owner...

Adnan brushed away the last shards of shattered window glass that were scattered all over the floor. It had taken six hours of effort, hard labor, to restore his bookstore to order, but finally, a new window was in place, and there was no dangerous glass shrapnel anywhere for any of his customers to step on. Luckily for Adnan, he was in the back with a customer when the roadside bomb exploded, the third in two years. The thing exploded about 500 feet away from his store, aimed at a small gathering of workers, and it had taken its bitter toll: five casualties and dozens of injured workers in all.
Maybe everyone is right, Adnan considered. Maybe it’s time I close up my bookshop and leave the country like most everyone else has. Baghdad wasn’t safe anymore; it hadn’t been since day the regime had changed. Not a day went by without casualties anymore, and bombs, kidnappings, and shootings were rampant. It wasn’t the Iraq Adnan used to live in, the place where people could at least feel safe living with their families.

Adnan did not want to leave his shop, even though he had a buyer if he would go...he kept procrastinating, even though his wife and family would be safer... Who knew when other bombs would be used and how much damage would occur. And if he were to sell the shop, his books could not go with him--the newer ones could be replaced, but he had a section of older books that were both valuable but, even more so, his treasures! His father had started the bookstore in 1944 and he'd been working in the shop since he was six. He had grown to love books as well as the bookstore...

What really pained Adnan, the toughest part, was having to let go of the books in the far right corner of his shop, the masterpieces. Those tomes were all rare, unique books, most more than fifty years old. They weren’t even for sale because they were his treasures, and he considered them priceless. That private collection was very close to his heart, just as they had been to his father’s. Anyone who wanted to read them had to ask days ahead of time and could only read them in the store; none of those books ever left the four walls of his bookstore, not even in the hands of his closest, most trusted friends or relatives.
Adnan had read more than half of them, but even he had neglected them for the last three or four years. Of course, this was not out of his own will, but because daily problems had impacted his life and eaten up all his spare time. Adnan moved to the corner where they sat, stood in front of them, and took a whiff, enjoying the ancient, almost musty aroma of those old pages. He moved closer and picked each book up and carefully cleaned their covers and bindings. He knew he could make a good fortune off of those books by selling them to some curator or collector, but those who would truly value the books had either left the country or were dealing with other priorities that left them little spending money for anything as frivolous as rare and beautiful books. Nevertheless, they deserved to be dusted, for they were hidden gems.
After nearly two hours of dusting and thumbing through some of his inventory, Adnan was in the third row when a book fell. He quickly picked it up, and he could tell from the title that it was French. Funny. I don’t remember seeing this one before. Out of curiosity, he opened the book. As is usually the case for books, the first page contained the name of the publisher and the copyright information. It was clearly mentioned that the work had been published in 1931. Intrigued, Adnan turned a few pages. Suddenly, something fell out of the book. When he carefully placed the book back on the shelf and bent down to see what it was, Adnan realized it was a small, leaf-shaped, locket. The pendant was dark golden in color, and two green stones, emeralds in the shape of eyes, were embedded in it. With the most delicate of touches, Adnan opened the locket. On one side were the letters M& A, clearly engraved, but what caught Adnan’s attention at once was what was on the other side: a black and white photograph of a woman behind a small glass. He quickly dusted it off. Although the photo wasn’t that clear, the woman in the picture looked like a foreigner; she had light hair and features far different from most Arabic women...

~~~

After examining the locket that had fallen from a book, he opened the book and discovered that, inside, was what seemed to be a journal--a personal book that was written by hand. There is no other way to put it: Adnan became obsessed with reading the story...a personal story of a man once called The Gardner of Baghdad!

Adnan read of a young man named Ali who had lived on a farm until he was 18 and left to build his own life in Baghdad, where he began doing gardening and landscaping. His work was so magnificent that he quickly gained customers, had his own business and became a successful man who began to establish himself in the city...

Ali was a very personable man who was well-liked and even became a son to a couple who had lost their son, also named Ali. With their help, he was able to learn even more about advancing his business and things were going very well until the day he saw a beautiful women--an English angel, who was the daughter of a British General...

Both knew of the trouble they could get into... Both knew their hearts were guiding what they chose to do from then on...

This is the type of book that I would love to go on and tell you the whole story but that would give too much away. Needless to say, I was just as obsessed as Adnan once I started to learn about Ali's life and his magically falling in love on first sight with Mary...

Ali had never wanted to be involved with politics. He loved Baghdad, but did not want to be entangled into the issues that the city's leaders were facing at that time... If only he had been able to keep that secret life they had started--meeting for a few hours whenever they could... without anybody knowing...

Adnan stayed at the Bookstore for days and nights until he could finish the book, but it just stopped! Ali had never been able to finish his story... 

What do you think a booklover would do at that point?

In the midst of continued turmoil, I applaud Ahmad Ardalan for giving us the pleasure of knowing beautiful Baghdad as he knows and loves it! It certainly provides us a lovely story of how residents of that country are just as frustrated as many world citizens who long for continued violence to...stop!

For romance lovers with a fantasy, unique twist, you might consider this a definite must-read. I am certainly happy to have had the opportunity to learn of The Gardener of Baghdad...Not only is it a beautiful story but it is well-written and easy to sink into and enjoy... It's memorable and bound to come to you again and again as you remember parts of what was most fascinating for you, as reader... Loved it and highly recommend you check it out!


GABixlerReviews


 

Ahmad Ardalan was born in Baghdad in 1979. At the age of two, he moved with his parents to Vienna, Austria, where he spent most of his childhood and underwent his primary studies. After his father's diplomatic mission finished at the end of 1989, he returned to Iraq, where he continued his studies and graduated from the University of Dentistry. As a result of the unstable political, military, social, and economic conditions in his home country, Ahmad decided to leave Iraq and move to the UAE. After facing difficulties to pursue his career in dentistry, he opted to pursue employment in the business world. Since then, Ardalan has held several senior roles within the pharmaceutical and FMCG industries, throughout much of the Middle East. His early childhood in a mixed cultural environment, as well as his world travels, increased his passion for learning about cultures of the world and inspired him to pen The Clout of Gen, his first novel. After eleven years of being away, Ahmad returned to Baghdad in January 2013 on a visit that was full of mixed emotions. Inspired by his trip to Iraq, he wrote his second novel, The Gardener of Baghdad. He did not stop there, as "Matt" his latest Short Story Thriller Series became available beginning 2015.

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John Meany Brings Strong Mystery to Readers- In the Fog...

Rock Ridge County. Saturday. June 23, 2012. The cool fog there in Twin Valley, Oregon, a small town located roughly fifty miles south of Portland, was like an expanding cloud, as the mist settled densely upon the picturesque mountainous region. The summertime air smelled of pine, hemlock, and red cedar trees, and of course Lake Wakanda, which exuded a salty aroma, reminiscent of pickle juice.
Back in 1880 to 1930, this lushly forested area had been owned by a large timber company, and was heavily logged. Nowadays, not as many trees were cut down, and when they were, it occurred several miles to either the north or west, away from the campgrounds and long trails, where hikers loved to roam. Presently, on the lake shore, Canada geese were grazing on vegetation. In the water, a family of ducks floated along with the current, a mother and father with ducklings. Every now and then you would hear them quack or splash. In the woods, a couple of deer sniffed the terrain, searching for eatable plants, fruits, or nuts.
 “No, no,” Frank Parker announced gruffly, pushing the net away. “I’ve decided to throw this one back.”
 “Why?” his wife Dora asked. “That rainbow trout isn‘t big enough.”
 “Oh. All right. If you say so.” She expertly took the hook out of the fish’s mouth, and then tossed the wriggling trout back into the lake. They watched it swim away. Frank Parker, age seventy-nine, and his wife Dora, age seventy, were sitting in their vintage Boston Whaler, which they had owned for the better part of two decades. The only thing new about the 13 Ft. wooden craft was the outboard motor. The summer before Frank had gotten rid of the old Johnson (because it had mysteriously conked out), and had replaced it with a Yamaha. Frank glanced at his watch. It was nearing one-thirty. He and Dora had been fly-fishing since noon. So far they had managed to catch a few decent-sized fish, both rainbow and brown trout. The Parkers loved to fish. It was a relaxing way for retired people to pass the time.
“How many trout do we have?” Frank asked. 
“Let’s see,” Dora replied, peeking into the plastic bucket. “So far I count six.”
“That’s not bad. That’s almost more than we caught last weekend.” 
“Yeah. Maybe this is our lucky day.” 
“You might be right.” “Then again,” Dora added, watching the fog float down from the mountains. “The way this weather is starting to look, we might have to pack it in soon.”
...For the majority of their (mostly happy) marriage, his wife Dora had been a homemaker, mainly because back, before about say 1980, that was what was expected of women. And for a long time Dora Parker didn’t mind cleaning the house and doing most of the cooking. In fact, she still tended to those domestic duties, and still didn‘t have a problem with it. 

However, during the early 1990‘ s, when the grunge act Nirvana was one of the biggest bands in the world, Dora had gotten a job as a cashier at a local music store, and eventually she became the manager. She had loved that part-time position. Dora knew a lot about music, rock, jazz, folk, the blues; the young people who used to go into the store looking to purchase CD’s, or instruments, thought she was hip. They referred to Dora as the cool older woman, who, at the time, twenty-year old men would sometimes hit on, as that was back when Dora still had her eye-catching appearance. At the time, before the wrinkles, age spots, and grey hair had become visible, many people had viewed her as a kind of Raquel Welch look alike. The middle-aged version...
When Frank and Dora had first cast their lines, it had been cloudy; however, there had been no fog. Forty-five minutes before, was when the all-encompassing mist had commenced to roll in like a ghostly shroud. 
Now, Frank glanced toward the lakeshore, which was more or less sixty yards away. With the pair of low-strength binoculars that he had brought onboard, he observed a mysterious girl emerge from the trees and shrubbery. The female wore a button-down, white-collar shirt, tan Khaki shorts, and hiking boots. She stood on the rocky slope, and was drenched from head to toe, as if the woman either had fallen into the lake or had gone for a swim with her clothes on. “Excuse me, young lady,” Frank hollered in that direction. Due to allergies, his voice croaked. “What happened, did you fall in?” 
Puzzled, Dora gazed at the foggy bank. “Honey,” she said. “Who are you yelling to?” 
With his index finger, Frank pointed toward the rocky shore. “That girl over there.” He handed Dora the binoculars. “Look through the specs, you’ll see her.” 
“Girl?” Dora stood up and peered through the binoculars. Her shifting weight caused the speedboat to gently rock. “Frank, either my eyesight is failing me or you’re imagining things.” “No. C’mon, I’m not imagining anything.” 
The blonde female, who, in Frank’s estimation, may have been about thirty-years of age, removed, from the holder attached to her belt, a hunting knife. “Whoa! What’s she planning to do with that big blade?” No longer concentrating on hooking another trout, Frank did not notice the fish nibble on his hook. The line had suddenly grown taut and the rod had bent and wiggled. “Are you losing your marbles?” Dora asked. 
He sighed. “Dear, if you can’t see that lady standing over there near that huge rock, then your eyesight must be getting worse. In fact, I hate to say this, but the way things are going, Dora, pretty soon you’ll be clinically blind.”
 “Ha! Ha! You’re real funny.”
 “I’m not trying to be funny. Instead of leaving your glasses in the glove compartment, you should have brought them with you.”
 “I don’t need my glasses to fish,” she scoffed. “I think you’re hallucinating.” Even though she said that, Dora, once more, aimed the binoculars at the spot in question. 
“Look at that girl,” Frank declared. “Standing there all soak and wet, with no boat nearby. And rather than try to dry herself off, whoever she is, that young broad is just standing there, in a daze, cleaning her knife.” The woman had started to wipe the large blade with what, to Frank, appeared to be a handful of leaves. “And how is it possible that she didn’t hear me calling to her? We’re not that far away. She must be able to hear me.” The fish on Frank‘s hook continued to yank the pole, as more fog skirted across the lake.
“Frank, I still don’t see anyone. The only thing I see along the bank, close to where you‘re pointing, is those ducks and geese.” 
He was no longer paying attention to Dora. Frank was totally focused on the woman with the survival knife. “Excuse me,” he again shouted. “Miss, are you in some kind of trouble?” The female standing on the shore had golden blonde hair, fastened in a rumpled bun. From this distance, she reminded Frank strikingly of the actor Cameron Diaz. “I don’t get it, why won’t she answer me?” He wondered if, at any moment, other people might pop out of the forest. After all, who went hiking or camping by themselves?

~~~

In the Fog

By John Meany

The basic story line for this novel is an interesting look at Alzheimer's, which allowed the author to put together a solid, well-thought out mystery that held my interest through the end of the book.

For me, I was more intrigued with the characters than the writing. That is, while Meany has greatly improved since the first book I read of his, he is still in need of editing of his work. What results is that there are spots that are truly enjoyable and then others that will force the reader to stop, recognize some problems, and then get on with the story...

“No way!” Frank announced uncertainly, while
 still peering through the binoculars
. “This can’t be. Except I think it is.”
“What?” “It’s a body, Dora. The guy who stepped
 out of  the forest, who I’d estimate is
 about thirty-years old as well, is lugging a body.”
“A body?”
 “Yes.” Frank adjusted the lenses, to try to bring
 the image in clearer. “I’m almost positive he’s
dragging a dead body. Unless whomever the guy
 lugged out of the woods is just knocked out .
 . . No way!
I can‘t believe what I‘m seeing.”
 “Neither can I,” Dora said flippantly...
~~~

Basically, Frank and his wife, both retired, are out on the lake fishing when, as fog rolls in, Frank sees a girl on the lake side, and he calls to her to see if she needs help. He can tell she's soaking wet and can clearly see she's holding a knife. 

But she does not respond to Frank, who continues to watch and then Frank sees a man with a mustache that looked like Hitler's, dragging a body come into the picture. Soon they are working to weight him down and then the man takes her knife and stabs the body's chest. Frank can see that the man now dead had on a red jogging outfit, and watches as they flip him into a boat and start heading toward the center of the lake, soon dumping him

Dora, his wife, has not seen a thing, becoming more and more worried about her husband as he describes all the details of what is taking place. 

Frank is adamant that what he has seen was real and insists on reporting it to the police. Dora is unable to corroborate anything her husband has said. She begins to worry that Frank's mind is failing faster than they had anticipated. But, for me, following Frank's words, I was totally convinced he had seen what he'd seen.

While the police did not totally believe Frank, they at least searched for a body in the lake...

And found one! Except it had been in the water a lot longer than when Frank claims he saw the murder...

Readers are by this time aware that a man is missing from his home, having left to go jogging and never came back...The man had been gone for weeks and we learn of the anguish and suspicions of his wife...

Dora, in the meantime, has also acted, by calling her children, one of whom is a psychiatrist... In my opinion, the writer wrote them so that they would not be liked which is an important addition to Frank's character, especially since his son had diagnosed the oncoming Alzheimer's--probably not a good idea for a relative to become involved with... Immediately I was seeing Frank's son taking a superior attitude toward his father, automatically diagnosing him, assuming his condition was much worse, etc. On the other hand, Frank's activities, in my opinion, did not show severe signs of either Alzheimer's or Dementia, but rather just the beginnings of forgetfulness that comes with ageing...One thing though, Frank had been an alcoholic all of his life... When he realized Dora was going behind his back, he searched for and finally found a very old bottle of scotch and took his anger out by breaking things and destroying books that Dora loved within their home...

The police knew only one thing, the body discovered was dressed in a red jogging suit and had the injuries that Frank had described in detail. 

Frank was their number one suspect...

For me, a book's story line is everything and I found the mystery solid and, as written, unsolvable by readers. The ending was unique and a satisfactory conclusion. Rather than dwell on the need for editing, I encourage those interested to check out other reviews... For true mystery lovers and those who are facing mental deterioration of loved ones, you may find, like me, you can thoroughly enjoy it without too much diversion going to the writing.


GABixlerReviews

John Meany is the author of sixteen books. Three of them became Amazon bestsellers, SAVE ME, THE BAD LADY, and FACEBOOK STALKER, a novella series. John's books are available worldwide. His latest novel is the murder mystery/crime drama, IN THE FOG.

For more information about him, please visit and like his Facebook page at www.facebook.com/JohnMeanyBooks. John lives in Point pleasant, New Jersey, a small seaside town, situated an hour south of New York City.

Latest Info Via The Talanov Insider - James Houston Turner - Also Review Up on JMPO Blog...

I know, I know -- it has been months since I've written. There's a lot of exciting news to report, so I'll keep it short and sweet.

(1) The Talanov film project --  Dragon Head -- continues to march forward. I have worked two years on this project -- that's right,  two years, mostly on the film, with more rewrites of the screenplay than I can count -- but the final product has attracted the attention of some serious financial partners and production companies. Some people have come and gone from the project. Some have made commitments they have failed to keep. Others have persevered and toiled and climbed impossibly steep mountains to get this project in front of the right decision makers. In other words:  Dragon Head has some  very persistent and talented advocates. A special thanks goes out to the 5x team. Many of you have continued to write and encourage me along this often lonely, discouraging road. I couldn't have made it so far without you. THANK YOU!!! We are getting close!

(2) I am excited and proud to announce a second project now in the works. Inspired by actual events, BIG JOHN tells the inspirational story of John Levi and the 1924 Haskell Indians football team, who began beating every college team they played. Told through the eyes of Lawrence, Kansas, policeman (and my dad), John Houston Turner, Big John is set against the glitz and glamor of Kansas City during the "Roaring Twenties," when jazz was king, gambling was rife, and the nation was in the grips of Prohibition. It is a powerful story of betrayal and triumph, with one of the most thrilling football games  never recorded. So if you're on Facebook, please stop by and like our Big John Facebook page. You can do so by clicking here:  http://bitly.com/bigjohnmovie.

In closing, here is a poster I made for Big John. I'll be sure to keep you in the loop with all the latest developments with Big John and Dragon Head. Thanks again for surrounding me with your friendship.

Blessings from Austin,

Jim

Also Check out Latest Review! Enjoy!