"Words Bring to Life Your Dreams, Fantasies, and Ideas!"
At this stage of my life I am a fiction author, first and foremost, but I wear many hats! With a 30+-year history and education in editing and publishing, as well as psychology, I have introduced Clasid Consultants Publishing with a handful of specialist staff members to help writers of all media produce a better product. I am a firm believer that the meticulous high quality of the "old-fashioned" way of publishing, which took months and even years, CAN be accomplished with the new rapidity of our techno-change-o world. All it takes is a little knowledge, which I gladly impart for no-charge, and an eye for accuracy, lay-out, design, and consistency. I have extremely reasonable fees for coaching/ghost writing (all types of publications), edit/rewrite, copy-editing, proofreading, graphics design, full publication layout-and-design, and eBook publishing. At present, I have not expanded to hard-print, but I can assist in finding a "network partner" referral. My main concern is that the written material be accurate, consistent, beautiful to behold, and interesting to read. I've been told I'm far too generous with my specialties, but I love helping others writers be the best they can be. I willingly do no-charge reviews on short stories and novels, as I hope you will check out my fiction selections on amazon.com and do a review for me--good, bad, whatever--we all learn from each other and our perceptions change and evolve with every life we touch. Let me know how I can assist you! As hobbies, I am an avid reader, musician (singer/piano/Celtic harp), mediocre artist, and Advanced Clinical Psychological Hypnotherapist (A.C.P.H). I am spiritual and creative. Creativity comes in many forms: music, art, gourmet cooking, poetry, and novels, layout, design, and final printing prep. I am an animal lover with a beautiful Turkish Angora Cat named Molly. I am an advocate and speaker for the Lupus Foundation (www.lupus.org), Women's Rights and "How Not To Be A Victim," as well as esoteric subjects dealing with hypnotherapy, psychic dreams and visions, telepathy, unexplained phenomena, angels, demons, and gods/goddesses. I am happily married to my dearest friend, Sid.
What if? Will the flowers bloom again after the Apocalypse? A small piece of descriptive, deep imagery. We humans need to heed the warnings and save our earth. My two cents … bowmanauthor/bowmaneditor.
The world was cracking apart, and breaking into two. It felt as if lighting came dashing over this world, and a shining light filled our eye site. The human kind were born to make this world better not to cause destruction. Ashes all round the place, the fire blazing and the screams of the people echoing back every time i take a step forward. The people deeply buried under the buildings and the fire is taking over us to handle this Earth better. But nobody knows what may happen to this world. What will happen after the humans are wiped out from this earth. What? Something humongous just raised out from the land like it is the almighty god and has always been there for us. The flowers blossomed again, the trees cherished. Beauty was rising from the ashes.
A computer will never take the place of a human wordsmith/editor. Robots and artificial intelligence cannot duplicate the true emotion that lives in the connotative nuances of words. Only the heart and soul can breathe life into black-and-white ink splotches on a crumbled page which will become art, drama, perception, persuasion, and pre-cognition. It is our history, our current timeline, and our future. The human brain and Universal mind produces words that sing, inform, rejoice, or weep; sometimes, most often heard in the silent pauses between descriptive utterances of voice and breath.
Hence, the philosophy of one lone humble poet and writer, “bowmanauthor/bowmaneditor”.
It was the year 2019. A perfect early autumn day, the leaves not even beginning their change yet to brilliant hues, but the tourists and market-goers knew that was just around the corner. Everyone wanted to enjoy this spring-like day because no one knew how many more there would be before cold winds whipped over the remains of The Cobb or Harbour Wall that protected The Town Mill Market from the roaring English Channel. It could get downright nasty in the freezing winter months, but the sea was beautiful in every season, swirling drama from comedy to tragedy.
Everyone was happy and basking in the sun, enjoying the idyllic scene around them. The stones of the Mill reflected earthen colours, the door open and inviting. There was an Art shop proclaiming its wares in the second story window, a restaurant with outside tables shaded by large umbrellas, a museum, and most important, The Town Mill was in working order again after eons of silent decay, grinding flour so all could see antiquity come alive before their very eyes!
The plaque stated the Mill had been in use since 1340, but historians believed there had been a country mill on the site since 1084 a.d. The old lantern beside the two broken windows on the dark third floor, just below the wooden planked chute for grain, looked like slit eyes peering from beyond this world.
Young couples strolled hand-in-hand; children dashed to-and-fro with squeals of delight; some older folks sat on stones dredged up from the riverbed centuries ago by the sweat and muscle of men working in tandem, by-hand, to build walls to protect the coastal town from The Channel. Even the red bricks of the adjoining building were hand-made by archaic masons, long dead but not forgotten.
Flowers were blooming; a slight wind rustled through trees, touching faces and tousling hair; the sound of currents was calming as droplets skipped over rocks and down the flat, worn riverbed.
A woman was standing on the bridge, alone, her long skirt tossing around her ankles. She was staring straight ahead, her black hair twisted haphazardly, her elbows balanced on the narrow handrail. She seemed to be totally removed from the gaiety. She was absorbed in the scene around her with intense scrutiny. What did she see that no one else saw?
My name is Cassandra, no, no, wait! It’s not! It’s something else. Why am I so disoriented? I’m not even from here, not from England at all. I’m from the United States of America. How can this little village seem familiar to me?
Her name was Janice Maria Franzoni, a native of Newark, New Jersey, with a distinct Italian heritage. She had come to Great Britain with a group of students from college. Her colleagues had decided to tour The Tower of London, which Janice had no desire to see. She took the rental car and drove for hours, ending up in West Dorset, 40 kilometers from Exeter. It was a tiny place. She didn’t know what had brought her to this obscure location that seemed to attract tourists. Maybe she was just tired and needed a break. Yet, it was nice to be out in the country, away from the big cities.
Janice had wandered by herself around Lyme Regis reading the historical plaques. Everything had looked vaguely reminiscent to her, like she had been there before, but it wasn’t until she got to the bridge that the vertigo, shortness of breath, and confusion overwhelmed her. She stopped in her tracks, keeping herself on her feet by practically falling against the rails.
As she looked off in the distance, she saw an old Abbey. Thoughts rushed to her mind, but where were they coming from?
My name is Brother Frances. I lived in Sherborne Abbey. The Abbey had been there since the town was called“llif,” welsh for stream. Oh, how I suffered! I became sick, so very sick, helping the poor and helpless at “The Leper’s Well.” I ended up living and dying with them.
She glanced down at her hands, and they were but bloody masses. She had to look away from the carnage of her male person. Sores covered the body, seeping with yellow pus. Pitiful tears stung as they dripped down the hideous face. The Abbot, whom Brother Frances had so loved, had denied him and exiled him from the Abbey, calling him “unclean.” He had dedicated his life to God, and God had forsaken him. He died in excruciating agony, having lost his faith.
Janice almost lost consciousness from the vision. She had to hold herself up by gripping the bridge. She saw small houses, mere hovels, across the marketplace. The name Cassandra surfaced again, and she knew she had once lived in one of those small crofter’s huts. She was a young maiden. She saw herself in the reflection of the river, much wider and deeper than it appeared today. She was very young, pale, with tawny blonde hair. She was wearing a long skirt as she was attired now, but it was full and heavy, not slim and sheer.
She felt the skirt dragging at her legs as she ran through the dense foliage, tripping her. She screamed, but no one came to her aid. She was so frightened she could not breathe!
Where am I going? All I know is that I must hide. Two men, not from the village of Lim, are chasing me. Stop, stop! They grab me, tear at my clothes, and hurt me so, so badly! My screams bring my father and brothers to help me. They kill the men, but then shun me forever.
Cassandra had ended up bloody and near naked at the Chapel of Saint Mary and the Holy Spirits. She was to become a nun, a sister of The Church for her evil transgressions. When she was found to be with child, she was locked in a room with no interaction from the other devoted sisters, they bringing her scant food and water, never uttering a word to her no matter how much she pleaded.
I feel the forlorn loneliness that lasted for many phases of the moon and then the pains began again, ripping my body to shreds just as the filthy men had done. I scream and no one comes. Many torturous hours later the Mother Superior comes to me. “Help me,” I beg. She tells me to be silent, to push, and expel the demon from my body. I don’t understand. A baby cries, the lights grow dim, and my life bleeds away. I never see my child.
Janice Maria Franzoni withstood the sadness by turning her attention to The Mill. She peeked into the broken windows that watched her every move. She didn’t know how she could see inside.
The large gears are made of wood, edged with metal. They grate together with screeching harshness. The stalks of grain are crushed, and I can smell the nutty, earthy scent. It is almost pleasant, but I am very tired. I am a young man. I work at The Town Mill all day and all night during harvest season. My name is Anniston…Joel Anniston. I am but a poor lad, and I must labor for my bread. All must work hard in the township of Lyme Regis. It comes to mind that Queen Elizabeth had confirmed the name of our town just this year–in the year of our Lord 1591. It was chartered in the year of our Lord 1284. It has been many centuries that our inhabitants have fought for recognition as a sanctioned township by the Crown. We are proud, and we have taught our children the history, every generation by every family.
She knew that Joel had worked hard, married, had children, loved his family, and taught his own sons to work in The Town Mill. He lived a long life, almost 50 years, and left his position at The Mill to his eldest son. He knew peace and harmony.
Janice was finally able to take a deep breath and admire The Town Mill in front of her. She heard the water trickling in the stream, a lovely sound in a place that was now her own. She smiled at the tall, stone structure. She could see the happy people around her. It was as if she knew them, and they had all lived here with her before.
The market place was alive with joy. She watched the rays reflect off the two broken windows and knew that Joel Anniston and his sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons had seen this same scene from the third story loft where sweet waves of grain filtered in from whole countryside. The Town Mill had been their home and their haven.
Janice wasn’t sure whether her visions could be true or not, but she would return to America and search for the people that she had been in The Market Place of The Town Mill…and she would find them.
NOTE: This is not the first time this scene has drawn an author’s attention. Maybe this is part of why I was so captured by the scene, enough to search the history of this small town with a population of just under 4000 souls. Jane Austen’s novel “Persuasion” used The Harbour Wall, “The Cobb” in its lofty pages. British author John Fowless used the township of Lyme Regis and the surrounding countryside in his novel “The French Lieutenant’s Woman” with an American film by the same name produced in 1981, starring the incredible Meryl Streep, also presenting a past-life theme. This small area in West Dorset is steeped in history and paranormal energy. Somehow it captured me as a writer and Ryan Jones as The Photo Maestro.
Ghostwriting is an art, a calling, and an act of dedication to the writing craft with millions of stories out there crying to be heard, especially if there is a message that can relate to a wide demographic of readers.
First of all, ghostwriting is for memoirs, transformational, spiritual, psychological, philosophical, and business books. All nonfiction. The book needs a purpose, a genre, and an audience. The ghostwriter can give you ideas to further your scope and readership as well.
Self-help books are always in demand. “Let me tell you my story to inspire/motivate/teach you to do as I have done. It can work for you too!”
If you want to promote your unique business, tell your story.
If you have an individual take on the arts and sciences, share your story.
If you have an idea that begs to be released, create your platform intertwined with your life’s ambition in your story.
If you don’t have time or writing expertise, let a ghostwriter tell your story.
Even for the accomplished writer, having a professional writer interview you, organize your thoughts and major life events, and present your theme in the strongest, most dramatic manner possible will enhance your story, your message, and attract readers.
It’s amazing how much of “ourselves” we just take for granted. Many people think that the things that come easy to us are of little consequence. When in reality, those traits and talents that are automatic for us are usually our strongest skill set. These are the skills, personal experiences, opinions, and philosophies that are “us” … our lives … our stories. This is what you need to share. This is what you care about. This is your uniqueness that others can learn from or use to further their uniqueness as well.
For example, with a professional editor/proofreader, you get a second pair of eyes to make sure your writing is as clean, accurate, and consistent as possible. With a ghostwriter, you get a reflection of yourself at your very best, including all facets of your mind, heart, and soul from a living, breathing mind, heart, and soul who researches you in your entirety with an unbiased, unemotional grasp of reality.
Ghostwriting = telling your story, only better! In your voice, with your words, with clarity, directness, and emphasis on the important message that will launch your business, your principles, and your creative endeavors. Telling your story without compromise, shyness, hesitation, or even too much ego. It reveals your story as the truth it always has been from another point of view. A viewpoint that presents you at your very best!
Contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org for a no-charge consultation to see how your true story can put $$$ and “sense” into your story.