Lydia Aswolf

I must admit, having read David’s extraordinary work, I’ve been looking forward to welcoming him to the show for a chat since the moment I booked him for an appearance on Lydia’s Literary Lowdown. Let the talk begin! You can…and should, find David on Twitter @DavidBeeson2 or on his blog right here:

http://davidbeesonrandomviews.blogspot.com/

Thirty years working for small companies, middle-sized companies, large companies, in Britain, in France, in Germany, owned by larger than life owners or anonymous shareholders from Europe, the States, even in one glorious, technicolor experience, by a larger-than life South African, have deeply ingrained in me a sense of what makes business tick, what makes it lurch along or fall, what makes it create or destroy.

Again and again, I’ve been the enthralled if not appalled spectator of the loyalties, noble and corrupt, the betrayals, the manipulations, the subversions that mark the relationships between the men and women whose work drives businesses or whose leadership takes them to success or failure. I’ve seen that the failures, personal or corporate, far outnumber the successes. And I’ve been the victim or the beneficiary of both – and much more often the victim.

But way back before all this started, I’d been a student of language – above all French and Italian – and of great novels written in a number of them, to say nothing of my own. And in all that 30 years of experience of rough and tumble of business, I’ve always felt there was material here to turn into novels not yet written, novels that might speak to people out there precisely because they talk about experiences they recognise as their own.

Does the formula work? I don’t know. The first attempt is nearly ready for release, the second is far advanced. There will come a time when I have screw up my courage and let them go and see where they take me. And all my experience of watching heights scaled and depths plunged will, at that stage, no doubt be more than ever necessary to me

Children were laughing and learning.

The day the sirens called.

And there were wise eyes, so discerning.

Who calmly moved them through the hall.

The sirens wailed and shepherds vowed.

To mind the flock they led.

Despite the whirling, maddened clouds.

Down the halls they sped.

A great train was heard that day.

Came roaring through the sky.

And now we have to face the grey.

No rhyme nor reason why.

Our shepherds were the teachers.

Brave, kind, and true.

While their charges cowered.

They vowed to see them through.

And see them through they did, although.

They couldn’t save them all.

Their bodies were all they had to use.

To form protective walls.

I’m thankful for the children saved.

And so sad for those we lost.

But I’ll try to find some comfort.

Try not to count the cost.

One thing I know is certain.

They held the children ’til the last.

They did not shake or shudder.

They held the children fast.

Rescuers went to look today.

Through the ruins they’ll roam.

Hoping for a cry, a call.

The faint sound of a groan.

Meanwhile, I think of teachers.

Their bravery and their love.

Of all the ways they found to save.

Below and above.

It’s their courage I admire.

They, the first to roam.

They are heroes to whom we owe our thanks.

For leading their students home.

Mr. Rose.

That is what I’ll call him.

I don’t remember his name for a reason.

I was new.

I was nervous.

My first job in a hospital.

I wanted to do well.

And to ensure I did, a trainer was appointed to watch me.

That was how I met Mr. Rose.

Awkward situation for us both.

He was used to caring for himself.

I was used to caring for others.

Eyes were on us both.

My eyes on him.

Other eyes on me.

Such dignity.

That’s what I remember.

It couldn’t have been easy.

A stranger greets you.

Brushes your teeth.

Shaves you.

Bathes you.

His sense of humor.

I remember that, too.

We joked back and forth.

Eased those tensions.

The tensions that arise.

When a stranger does for you.

What you can no longer do for yourself.

I left with a noticeable lift in my step.

The other set of eyes had watched.

Commented.

Approved.

But Mr. Rose was more important.

His sweetness.

As sweetness so often does.

Had lightened my step.

Lifted my heart.

I looked in on Mr. Rose as often as I could that day.

We joked every time.

The next day his room was the first I visited.

I was bringing him his breakfast.

But Mr. Rose…

Mr. Rose was no longer there.

Only an empty shell remained.

One day was all I had with Mr. Rose.

One day.

It wasn’t enough.

But it had to be.

The quality of a thing.

Is vastly more important than the quantity.

I moved onto other patients.

You’ve read about them here.

Their names you know.

His, I don’t.

And so he is Mr. Rose.

A man who by any other name.

Would still be as sweet.

Monique has, unfortunately, come down with a cold, which means the show won’t go on this Saturday. That said, we will have the pleasure of her company on August 17th. Any prayers or positive thoughts for a speedy recovery from a nasty cold for Monique would be appreciated!

I met the lovely Monique Happy on Twitter, and am so very proud and honored to have her appearing as a guest on the upcoming show!

I am a native Californian and have lived in Southern California for most of my life. When I was five, my parents took me out of school to debark upon a three-year journey around the world on our 40’ Newporter, the Caprice. Out of sight of land for days at a time, and rarely provided the opportunity to play with children my own age, I turned to books for entertainment and solace. My dad introduced me to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and the Trilogy, and John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee series; I then moved on to “brown bagging it” – rowing over to neighboring yachts with a shopping bag full of books to trade. And so began my life-long love of the written word.

I also love to write, primarily short stories and flash fiction. Sometimes my ideas come from dreams, sometimes I get bits and pieces of them while I’m falling asleep. I love to people-watch and make up stories about who they are, where they are going, who they love and who they hate. I have some short stories and flash fiction published on online websites, and am currently working on several more stories and a fantasy novel.

In 2011, I started my own editing company: Monique Happy Editorial Services. I have extensive experience in editing fiction manuscripts, as well as legal papers and documents, having been a legal secretary for almost thirty years.

Our sailor set sail near a monster.

He couldn’t comprehend her.

She was too big.

A mountain against the clear blue sky.

And I wonder.

I wonder if he even suspected.

That she could annihilate him without a care.

Forget him afterward.

But this mountain didn’t.

She stepped aside.

Permitted his passage.

Looked on as he sailed away.

What is one life?

One small soul.

One great mercy.

Mercy.

A gift given to few.

Comprehended by less.

This monster was merciful.

She was me.

The spider dropped down beside me suddenly.

Prepared to cast off.

A sailor weaving his own sail.

So serene a scene.

And for a moment.

Just a moment.

My mouth caked with envy.

It was…

The ease of his passage.

I coveted his untroubled crossing.

And when my envious moment passed.

When he reached his destination safely.

I understood more than I had when he set sail.

It is a simple thing.

To covet.

So easy to envy.

So hard to understand that…

No passage is easy.

On this day, the wind was with the spider.

Tomorrow, it might not be.

Perhaps Nietzshe said it best.

Whoever fights monsters.

Should see to it in the process that she does not become a monster.

The spider looked into the abyss for a moment.

A moment before he leaped.

And the abyss looked into him.

Mercy was thus given.

And thus accepted.

We both sailed free.

That smell.

I would know it anywhere.

The smell of books.

Salvation in silence.

Words in books.

So much kinder than any I’d heard.

I remember.

Seven years old.

I used the library bathroom.

Stared at the sloped ceiling on the second floor.

I wanted to live there.

To move in and leave it all behind me.

To leave them behind me.

No one would hurt me at the library.

They couldn’t call me a slut.

A dirty whore.

Seven years of age and I had been schooled.

In the wise, sly ways my parents used.

To avoid marks.

Bruises might mean less government money.

Burns meant recovery time.

Broken bones, a halt to forced labor.

It was an education of sorts.

But the library.

All those books.

Such a revelation.

Of what life could be.

What it was supposed to be.

And finally.

Finally, I was good at something.

I read the most books.

The hardest ones.

I didn’t do it for the McDonald’s Happy Meals I earned.

Though I was often hungry.

I did it to escape.

To become.

Something other than what I had seen.

Anything other than what I’d known so far.

I hid behind my stack of books.

Built a library in my head.

They could never touch me there.

And I learned, slowly but surely.

That the best stories are about little girls lost.

They walk through hell, but you can count on them.

They always find their way.

I’m so excited to wrangle author Robbie Cox into appearing as a guest on Lydia’s Literary Lowdown. Having read Reaping the Harvest, I’m looking forward to harangui…ahem, I mean, asking him how he came up with an intriguing premise and threaded his way through a complicated (in a good way!) plotline.

Robbie Cox started writing in high school as a way of escaping the lessons his teachers tried to cram into his head.  With the aid of two very determined Literature teachers, he was given the push he needed as well as the guidance to win the Florida Pride Award for both short stories and poetry by his senior year and also helped create the school’s literary magazine, Spindrift.  However, it was five years later before he made his first sale, an essay on prayer, to Decision Magazine.

With that milestone, Robbie turned his attention to freelance writing in between his daily jobs and the raising of three boys.  While not always able to focus on it as he would have liked, he was able to stay active with his writing and has been published in parenting, religious, retirement, and ghost story magazines.  He had also written a Christmas play for local churches and was at one time a contributor to the Good Shephard Ministries Newsletter.  Still, he kept working on his novel and short stories.

In September of 2010, he decided to stop dabbling with his writing and began to take it seriously.   With the help of three ladies, whom he affectionately refers to as the girls or his editors-in-residence, he launched his blog, The Mess that Is Me.

Living along the Space Coast beaches of Florida with the girls, his 21 year old son, Zac, an 8-year old that demands quite a bit of attention, and two cats, his home is a revolving door of family, friends, and adventures to keep the imagination - and gossip mill- churning.  In 2012, he published his free short story, Circle of Justice, on Smashwords, which has received great reviews, and in February of this year, Robbie published his first novella, Reaping the Harvest, also on Smashwords.

All she wanted was for the storm to end.

Pass her by.

A little bit of sunshine.

To light her darkened path.

Not much to ask for.

And yet, sometimes it is.

Lightning crashed and thunder roared.

Onward she plunged.

Forward was the only direction she could go.

Retracing her steps was not an option.

The past could not help her.

She could only focus on the present.

Hope for the future.

She forged ahead.

And as she floundered.

The seconds passed like decades.

Minutes spanned centuries.

The storm worsened.

This has to be the peak.

I can’t help but believe she thought that.

If I can get through this.

Get to safety.

I can rest.

Oh, to rest.

Rest is not a gift given freely to us.

It is a privilege.

Not our right.

She hadn’t earned it yet.

So close and still so far.

Perhaps she thought that too.

Most of us do.

When the storms hit.

Her struggle was no different from ours.

Shorter, yes.

But no less significant.

Eventually, she made it.

I doubt she sighed in relief.

But I did.

No more than five minutes had passed.

This, too, is life.

The storms come.

The damage occurs quickly.

We salvage what we can from the debris.

And then…

Then.

We can only move forward.

We hope for our futures, too.

Thus, the moth becomes a lesson.

Unremarkably brown.

So very small.

And yet so very large.

Set against the backdrop of rain drops thundering around her.

The safety of a tree beckoned.

But she had to get through the wet first.

As do we all.

She made it.

So will we.

I’m so thrilled to welcome Daria back to the show to discuss her upcoming book, as well as all the effort she puts into promoting her fellow authors and aspiring authors! You can find Daria on Twitter, (@dariaanne), on her blog, (http://www.dariadigiovanni.com/) and #Writestream (http://www.dariadigiovanni.com/writestream/)

Daria DiGiovanni was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and raised in the nearby suburb of Media. The youngest of five children in a close-knit family, she earned a B.A. in English from Villanova University before relocating to South Florida in 1994.

A talented wordsmith from a very early age, Daria’s experience includes copywriting, website content, e-proposal and RFP writing, blogging, book editing and social media. Her first novel, Water Signs: A Story of Love and Renewal, is a loosely autobiographical tale that explores the themes of first love, second chances, family, faith, personal growth, forgiveness, gratitude and patriotism.

In July, 2009 Water Signs won the Book of the Week Award from Blurb! Talk Radio, competing with several other novels for that coveted title. Daria appeared on Blurb! Talk Radio with Dr. Kent and Sally to discuss her work and accept her award on July 15, 2009. Listen to the interview on Blog Talk Radio.

Over three years ago, Daria discovered a passion for internet radio, starting out as a guest on various programs to discuss her book. That experience led to founding Conservative Republican Forum with co-host Steven Rosenblum in May, 2009. Airing every Saturday at 6 p.m. Eastern, the weekly broadcast — also part of the Red State Talk Radio Network — features commentary on current events as well as prominent conservative pundits, candidates, elected officials and national security experts. Recent guests include Mike Baker, Michelle Malkin and Jedediah Bila.

Daria has previously co-hosted Red State Town Hall with Premo Mondone in addition to flying solo with The Liberty Belle Hour, first on WAFS.TV and later on Blog Talk Radio.

She is also a proud co-founder of The Conservative Diva with fellow activist and patriot Ellen Snyder, and founder of the Writestream Twitter Chat and the Writestream Radio Network on Blog Talk Radio.

On what seem to be increasingly frequent occasions.

Wild things walk among us.

They wear our faces.

And this time…

This time, they used bombs.

Bombs set off in Boston, Massachusetts.

Two of them.

Placed precisely to do the maximum amount of damage.

There were deaths.

There was running.

And those who could no longer run.

They screamed.

But not for long.

Rescuers came.

Lifted them from the bloody ground.

They carried them anywhere.

Anywhere safe.

Risking their own lives in the process.

And now, details are flying in.

So is support.

For our grievously injured.

Flowers are laid in memorial for those we lost.

But they are not really lost.

For they are ours.

Never forgotten.

We know that justice will be done.

But there is still fear.

So much fear of the wild things among us.

They fight to kill.

Flee justice.

Die trying to kill more.

We will not forget where the wild things were.

We never do.

Where we go from here.

What we do in the here and now.

Will be what we have always done.

Some will fall.

But others will be there to lift them up.

Wild things mean to trip us up.

They mean to watch us drop.

But we will never falter.

United we will stand.