"YOU want FREE," sighs THE TURQUOISE WOMAN

For a LIMITED TIME ...

    THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS is FREE!
http://www.amazon.com/BEAR-TWO-SHADOWS-ebook/dp/B004MDLWD0/

In a land just beyond your mirror lies a realm few discover.

It is a magical, dangerous dimension. There lurks your darkest nightmares and your fondest hopes.

And the mysterious Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, who walks in the shadow of the dreaded Turquoise Woman.




You two-leggeds ...

Always you search for that which is FREE.

Do you not know?  Have you not heard?

Your very EXISTENCE was FREE.

Free yet fragile.

Nothing makes you more aware of the fragility

of existence than a son nfinished.

Here is a secret:

We are all songs unfinished.

We start with names. But what illusions are names.

Some call me Turquoise Woman.

Others call me Gaia. I call all of you temporary ...

Some I call cherished.

Others of you are but a fleeting rash upon my surface.

Irritating, viral, and in the end, self-destructive.

Sadly, your race is like a tick that will gorge itself until it bursts.

Bemused, I watch you scurry along my skin, moaning you are bringing an end to me.

I would laugh if it were not so pathetic.

You are merely bringing an end to yourselves.

I count the moments. You make my scalp itch.

You think you know what life is. Sad. Do you know what life is?

A firefly's flicker in the night,

the breath of a buffalo in winter,

a cloud shadow that races across the green grass to lose itself in the blood-red of the sunset.

Do not try to understand me.

I look, not only down upon you,

but out across the vast glittering sea of eternal night.

The colors of my thoughts are the Northern Lights

and the reach of them is from horizon to horizon and unto the vastness of the stars.

The electro-magnetic field of my body gave birth to my consciousness

long before there were human hands to chisel stone into mute, blind idols

or to brush your world in paint upon cave walls.

Your only true contribution to me was your language.

Before you crafted words into being, my consciousness was unfocused.

I listened with wonder as you spoke to one another,

slowly piecing the concept of language together in my thoughts.

Through the prism of your languages, my awareness crystalized.

I became aware.

Now, I know a haunted melancholy. Like a windmill's blades, my thoughts dip into my memories.

In misty after-images, I see your fleeting lives walking soft like prayers across my green fields only to fade into the inflamed oblivion of the sunset.

My son, Elu, will survive.

Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, I have spirited safely away into a sister dimension.

But Samuel, my sad-eyed, adopted son, will soon die I think.

Not at the hands of his life-long enemy, DayStar. But by the two-edged sword of his love for his wife, Meilori.

And that trickster scamp, Victor Standish, he, too, will die. I will miss him, for he, also, will be "consumed" by his love for the unnatural creature called Alice.

You are wondering why I am talking to you?

You are close to my heart as well, for all of you craft with words.

So I have come to say seven words to you:

"Live well. Soon I will miss you."
***
For more of THE TURQUOISE WOMAN:

THE LAST SHAMAN  (Just 99 cents plus audiobook then only $1.99!)
http://www.amazon.com/THE-LAST-SHAMAN-ebook/dp/B00534OEL4/

WILLIAM FAULKNER'S GHOST_ONLY THE DEAD SEE CLEARLY

Don't forget to vote for Roland's GateKeeper entry (THE LEGEND OF VICTOR STANDISH) :

http://www.wattpad.com/1073509-the-legend-of-victor-standish#comments


William Faulkner, ghost, here :

Roland is sleeping, his head settled on his folded arms as he sprawls in front of his electronic journal ... laptop he calls it.

I wanted to check in on him. We ghosts have a fondness for him. He listens.

You'd be surprised how few undead or living do that. Most spirits and living souls just wait impatiently for you to take in a breath so they can jump in with their concerns.

Samuel Clemens couldn't wait to inform me how Roland had gone wrong with his "mud or stars" post. Old Sam seemed sure he knew how he'd gone wrong.

And as usual that old talespinner was both right and wrong.

Like Roland, I taught creative writing in a university. I had been so sure I had a firm grasp of reality and how to portray it. Death showed me that only the dead see clearly.

So I do know where Roland went wrong, where so many of us writers go wrong :

People do not read to see what you think or to learn about you. No.

They read to learn about themselves, to come into contact with who they truly are.

They read that which speaks of their own hopes, their own dreams, and their own fears.

If a tale resonates with the haunting music of their unhealed wounds and silent insecurities, they will be drawn to it as if to a magnet. Only that story which tells of a heart in conflict with itself is truly literature.

That is why you must read, my friends. Read. Read everything -- trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it.

Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master.

Then write. If it's good, you'll find out.

If it's not, throw it out of the window and start again wiser.

Don't be 'a writer'.

Be writing.

A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station.

And to work well you must write with the embers of truth stinging your eyes.

You can have 13 people looking at a black bird and none of them will get it right. No one individual can look at truth.

Even simple truth. Look deep enough, and the simplicity disappears in the murky depths.

Truth blinds you. It is too much for one set of perceptions to take in. To a man with rose-tinted glasses, the whole world is rose.

And so it is with the writer looking at Man.

We call ourselves Homo Sapien, the reasoning animal. But Man is not made of reason.

A man is the sum of his misfortunes.

One day you'd think misfortune would get tired, but then time is its own misfortune as well.


And so all human behavior is unpredictable.

Considering Man's fragility and the ramshackle universe he functions in, how could it be otherwise?

So how does that affect you as a writer?

1) The writer must not set himself up as judge :

He must focus on action, the character's behavior.

Maybe your protagonist, like so many people, has no concept of morality,

only an integrity to hold always to what he believes to be facts and truths of the human condition.

2) The character does what his nature dictates.

He acts not as the writer would, not as a man should do, but what he will do --

maybe what he can't help but do. Which leads me to my greatest fear :

3) I fear that Man is losing his individualism, his sense of self, in doing what the herd does in order to stay safe.

Which is why I do not belong to anything besides the Human Race, and I try to be a first rate member of that.

4) You are first rate as a human being and a writer if :

you do the best you can with what talents you have to make something positive that wasn't there yesterday.

How do you do that you ask :

The man who removes a mountain begins by carrying away small stones. And he makes his home of the stones of his efforts.

How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home until I realized that home to a writer is where his mind, his heart is.

5) Most men are a little better than their circumstances give them a chance to be. Strive to thrive where you are. "How?" you ask again. And I will tell you :

You cannot swim for new horizons until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore. Take chances. It may be bad, but it's the only way you can do anything good.

You have to have courage. Courage is not so hard to have in writing if you remember that :

All of us have failed to match our dream of perfection.

6) I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible. If I could write all my work again, I'm convinced I could do it better.

This is the healthiest condition for an artist. That's why he keeps working, trying again: he believes each time that this time he will do it, bring it off.

Of course he won't. Which leads us to the next point.

7) The phenomenon of writing is its hermaphroditism:

the principles of victory and of defeat inhabit the same body

and the necessary opponent, the blank page, is merely the bed he self-exhausts on.

8) I learned in the university as did Roland : You can learn writing, but you cannot teach it. A paradox but true despite that.

And what have I learned from my novels?

I learned how to approach language, words:

not with seriousness so much as an essayist does,

but with a kind of alert respect, as you approach dynamite;

even with joy, as you approach women: perhaps with the same secretly unscrupulous intentions.

Are you a writer? Really? Then, what are you doing about it?

Go, write. And remember :

Dreams have only one owner at a time. That's why dreamers are lonely.

And that's why a dream is not a very safe thing to be near...

I know; I had one once.

It's like a loaded pistol with a hair trigger: if it stays alive long enough,

somebody is going to be hurt. But if it's a good dream, it's worth it.
***
Hibbs, the bear with two shadows, should have looked at this before entering the Land of Fae and Sidhe.

TALE'S END_Tara's HOT KISS BLOGFEST entry

The lovely Tara Fouts is having her HOT KISS BLOGFEST today :

http://t-fouts.blogspot.com/

Please vote :

http://www.wattpad.com/1073509-the-legend-of-victor-standish?d=ud

Many of you have come to love Fallen, the haunted Sidhe. She appears in THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS, asking Hibbs to bring her Blake back to her.

Before Victor Standish, there was Blake Adamson. And here is the end of the tale for Fallen and her Blake, told through his eyes.

{Blake has been stabbed in the back by the hate of Fallen given living form. Solomon, the Angelus of man's body and panther face, is racing the chariot of Death to Valhalla in a mad attempt to save Blake's life.}


Her faerie eyes seemed to be on the brink of breaking down completely.

She took my right hand in hers gently. "Oh, hold on, Blake."

I shook my head. "C-Can’t."

"Don’t say that," she sobbed, bending down and placing her head on my chest.

She jerked up, her eyes wild with the desperation of finding some way of holding on to me. "Together. T-The Father told you we’d - we’d always be together. You can’t die. You can’t die."

I tried to hold up my left hand. No good. Like Fallen’s Hate had told me, I was all washed up.

I lifted it with my mind fingers, and even then, it took all I had to do it. I placed my trembling hand over her heart and tried for a smile. I don’t think I made it.

"H-Here. Always together. Here."

She looked up in agony as if there’d be an answer in the heavens. "Not good enough," she wailed. "Not good enough."

Black tears streaming down her face, she held my hand tight as if willing her life force into me. "Don’t leave me, Blake. Don’t leave me."

As black as her tears became the world around her, so that all I could make out was her face in a ever-thickening mist. My eyes must have been glazing over because I heard her crying low. She squeezed my hand even harder.

"If - If you st-stay, I-I’ll tell you a secret."

I forced my eyes open wide to clear them. It worked. A little.

This time I did manage a small smile. With my mind fingers, I wiggled my ears.

"I-I’m all ears."

She cocked her head as if she couldn’t bear the pain inside her. "Oh, y-you and y-your dumb jo-jokes."

She reached out and gently brushed that stubborn lock of hair from my eyes. "You know all those times you flew at night?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"W-Well, I ... I crept into your room then."

"What?"

She turned her head to the left as if the memory was killing her.

"I ... I used to go to your chest of drawers and touch your - your combs and brush, running my fingers along them. I’d imagine you fighting to get that mop y-you call hair to stay down."

She smiled a smile of agony, her lips trembling. "I’d - I’d laugh and sit on your bed and s-smell your pillow, that always smelled of pine trees."

I tried for a swallow and didn’t make it. Tears started to blind me. She knew what my hair smelled like. Fallen looked as she were about to shatter inside.

"Th-Then, I’d pick up whatever book you were reading at the time, and ... and I’d open it, looking at the parts you - you underlined -"

She mewed soft and long as if she were about to break down. And I think she might have except that Solomon choked down a sob himself.

She looked up. He turned his head away and slapped the black reins with a sharp snap.

The chariot took off faster in a lurch that sent a jagged bolt of agony through me. Fallen picked me up to cushion me. And meaning to help me, she sent another spear of pain through me.

But in a way that was a good thing, for it cleared my vision and hearing. She stroked my right cheek softly.

"Those - those parts you underlined. I read them out loud, pretending you were rea-reading them to me."

She sniffed back the tears. "Your books. To my eyes, they burned with so many different colors. So many. I - I could tell what books made you sad, or laugh, or angry."

Suddenly, she wrapped me in a fierce embrace. "But the book that burned the brightest was the one that had ‘Annabel Lee’ in it."

She sniffed wetter this time. "I knew all about that poem, B-Blake, all this time. All this time."

She clutched me tighter, holding her cheek against mine and rocking and rocking. "Y-You want to know what the color of love is?"

"Wh-What?"

"The color of love is you," she sobbed.

"Is you!"

She turned to Solomon, who was blinking back tears himself, and wailed, "You’re the Angel of The Most High. Tell me. Why does evil always win? Why? WHY?"

She raised her head and howled gut-deep like a shot animal. I couldn’t take it. And neither could Solomon.

He turned his head away, choking down another sob. I lifted my hand with my mind fingers and stroked her cheek.

She shook her head that shivered in spasms. "I always thought I would be Annabel Lee. Not you. Not you!"

I forced my traitor throat to work, and it rebelled, making my words hoarse, almost impossible to understand even for me. "A-As long as you live, I live - in you."

Her lower lip trembled so I thought she’d break down, but she managed to get out, "You big, d-dumb b-boy scout. I don’t want to go on living if you die. Don’t you know that?"

I tried to speak, but the world grew hazy and dark again. My head nodded to my chest. She shook me hard.

"Blake!"

I fluttered my eyes open and saw her reach frantic inside her mind. "I - I know your secret."

"What - what secret could ... a boy scout like me have?"

She smiled as if that secret was a knife in her heart. "That ‘full on the lips’ kiss you wrote about in your diary."

"You read my diary!," I moaned.

She shook her mane, a bitterness twisting her face. "Such a silly thing. A simple thing. And ... And I teased you so with it."

I had tried to stay with her, but it was no good. Her face. I could barely make it out anymore. Only her tortured eyes, and them only in a thick haze. My head nodded, then my chin settled on my chest, and I heard her from far, far off.

"A-And now, wh-when it is too late, when y-you will not even feel it, I shall give you our f-first, our last, ... my only kiss."

I prayed silently, 'Oh, Father, grant me strength just one more time.’

I smiled with all the love I had burning in me for her.

"Another thing you said a long time ago, Fallen, was - was that sometimes the best words were actions."

And with that, I wrapped my left arm around her and pulled her to me. I leaned in to her face. She sobbed, then her trembling lips parted.

Her lids went all heavy. And she kissed me, fierce, hungry, wild, just like she was deep inside. She crushed me to her. Her tongue touched mine.

I - I had never been kissed like that before. I didn’t know what to do.

I touched back as hard as I could. It must have been the right thing to do ‘cause she ran her tongue along mine, and I did the same to hers.

That had to have been the right thing to do, too, as she leaned her whole body into me, her lips crushing mine. I squeezed back.

She felt so soft, yet hard at the same time, in my arms. Her lips were soft, too, even as they pressed hard against mine.

And for one small magic moment, we were one.

Not in body, but in the heart, the spirit, the very soul. We were one. And she was mine. Mine.

Fallen was mine.

Our first kiss was all I had hoped it would be. No. A hundred times better. It was wonderful.

Wonder-

It was as if a plug had been pulled deep, deep within me, and all I was got sucked down a black hungry whirlpool that was darker than just sleep or fainting. Down, down, down, I went, being tugged down into a cold, black, starless sea that billowed all about me.

I went limp in Fallen’s arms. She screamed then, as if the very heart of her had been cut out. Strange. It had sounded as if she were three miles away. How odd.

Then, before I was pulled under completely, I heard someone else. Solomon.

But he was even fainter, so far off, so very far off. His voice seemed all but choked out with tears.

"S-Sorry, Sidhe, but - but even good souls die."

I was a child, and she was a child
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee.
***

HOW TO GET AN AGENT FAST!

Please vote for my GateKeeper Contest entry. Victor's mother is beginning to grumble about the lack of votes. Ah, Death has no sense of humor.

http://www.wattpad.com/1073509-the-legend-of-victor-standish?d=ud

Now, to my post title : HOW TO GET AN AGENT FAST!

One sentence answer :

Make the sale for her.

Before you get your hackles up, bear with me for a second.

I didn't say it was fair. It's just how to get an agent fast. You make the sale yourself.

Besides, in a way, it is quite fair :

Who else knows your novel as intimately as you do?

Who else can see its market potential, how best to phrase its strengths, illuminate why what might seem a weakness is in fact a strength?

Your carefully crafted query will more than likely be the essence of your agent's pitch to weary, skeptical editors.

Making your query shine not only makes your agent look better, it makes her sale easier.

And after all, 85% of the money from that sale will go to you.

Then why do you need agents in the first place?

Cliff Notes answer :

Most publishers won't look at you without one.

Agents will fight for you to get more money for a long list of rights you know nothing about, and when your editor moves on, your agent will make sure you're not shoved to the bottom of the stack

(which you will be if you don't have an agent.)

All right. How do you make the sale for them?

1) Make your own market :
Conventional wisdom says start your own blog. Be unconventional. Make the "Pet Rock" of blogs. How?

You do daily posts. Don't groan. You need to build a following. Daily posts will do that for you.

You make short posts for shorter attention spans.

You make each one funny. Be the Christopher Moore of blogdom. How?

Nothing is shorter than a one panel cartoon. Create a zombie Ziggy (creation by Tom Wilson.) Call him "Nearly Dead Ned." Place him in a post-apocalyptic New York City.

First cartoon :
Ned is happily eating his own forefinger. The caption reads : "The trouble with finger sandwiches is that none are as good as homemade."

Second cartoon :
Ned is looking odd at a cobwebbed skeleton by a doorway. The skeleton is wearing sunglasses and a badge " Help the Blind." The skeleton is pressing a door buzzer under a sign which reads : "School for the Deaf."

Third cartoon :
Ned is lumbering down a street in the red light district. He has passed two bars. One advertises : "Live Nudes." The second : "Undead Nudes."
Ned is stopped in front of the third with his now classic puzzled look. Its window reads : "Don't Ask."

You do a year's worth of cartoons. Pick the ones with the largest number of favorable comments. Bind them up and submit to agents with the comments to each attached, along with the daily stats for your blog.

{Now, obviously this is just an example of an unconventional "Pet Rock" blog. You have to use your own muse to take off and run with the concept.}

2) Fan the flames of off-line and on-line interest :
As I will do shortly with my blog tour for the next classic fantasy to take America's imagination by storm : THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS.

And wouldn't you have loved to have been one of the first readers to have read and been amazed by the magic of THE LORD OF THE RINGS? Don't believe me? Download those first free chapters. You'll be a believer.

Get a local reporter to do a review of your novel for your local newspaper. Hopscotch that into another review from the newspaper of a near-by town.

3) Make a book trailer of your novel.
Using the students from a local university, create a book trailer. Utilize public domain music and images.

Splice the images with teases from your novel. Put the book trailer on your blog and on YouTube.

Advertise your book trailer on the blogs of your friends, in the local newspaper, and in the local college newspaper (hawking the fact that you used students from said college.)

4) Petition your local newspaper and those free newspapers at the doors to every grocery store to do free reviews for upcoming books and movies. Keep a record of each and every article you do for different newpapers with names and dates.

5) Be sure you state all of the above quickly and tersely at the end of every query to every agent.

And there you have the five easy steps to get an agent fast. They might even work. May we all get agents faster than we believe possible.
{Cartoon by the comic genius, Chuck Ingwersen http://wordsandtoons.com/2009/05/ }
***************************************
And a movie that succeeded due to its unconventional take on a classic subject is :

I WANT THE SAME THING ... BUT DIFFERENT

Schumel Gelbfisz was born in Warsaw, Poland. As a very young man, he left that city on foot and penniless.

After an epic journey, he made his way to Birmingham, England where he stayed for a few hard years, using the Vonnegut-like name Samuel Goldfish.

In 1898, he emigrated to the U.S {in steerage.} But fearing refusal of entry due to his quick-silver identity changes, he got off the boat in Nova Scotia, Canada.

He finally made it to New York where he soared in success as a salesman in the garment industry. He was a Jewish Ulysses, living by his wits.

He became a naturalized citizen in 1902. Scanning the landscape for financial opportunities, Gelbfisz found one in his beloved past-time, going to the movies.

He went into the movie business with a vaudeville performer and a theater owner, using an unknown director, Cecil B. DeMille.

As it usually does, business got nasty.

And he left ... the company not the dream. He partnered with the Broadway producers, the brothers Selwyn. They named their studio in a meld of their names : the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation.

Wily as ever, Gelbfisz changed his name to Samuel Goldwyn.

He got forced out of the business, never becoming part of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. But he never gave up on his dream.

He created the Samuel Goldwyn Studio and for 35 years made classics that people like me still enjoy :

WUTHERING HEIGHTS, THE LITTLE FOXES, THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, GUYS & DOLLS, PORKY & BESS, THE SECRET LIFE OF WALTER MITTY, THE WESTERNER {Gary Cooper}, and the fascinating but utterly silly, THE ADVENTURES OF MARCO POLO {Gary Cooper.}

Samuel Goldwyn was a dreamer that refused to quit.

And sadly, most of what he is remembered for is his misuse of the language that was not his first. How many of us who laugh at his words know a second language?

And his sharp wit was what enabled him to survive a trek clear across Europe, a journey over the seas, and battles in the shark-infested waters of Hollywood.

Often his wit is mistaken for a verbal flub as in : "I don't think anybody should write their autobiography until after they're dead. A hospital is no place to be sick. {And if you've ever been ill in the hospital, you know that statement is oddly true.}

I was thinking of two of his "Goldwynism's" : "What we need are some new, fresh cliches." and "I want the same thing ... only different."

I was thinking of them as I was contemplating our uphill struggle to get agents to consider our novels.

On one hand, they universally complain of being submitted the same kind of "handsome vampire/angst-ridden teenage girl" fantasy or the young wizard in today's world fantasy.

On the other hand, stroll down the fantasy aisle of the bookstore, and those kinds of novels are the only ones you see.

Before TWILIGHT, the vampire novel was considered old-hat. Before HARRY POTTER, mixing magic with young, impressionable children was considered taboo. Think of your novel.

How is it the same thing but different? Looking for a new road to walk in writing your next novel? Try looking at "Where The Mountain Meets The Moon." It is a coming of age novel, mixing common teenage angst and questions with Chinese myth.

Strive to keep your fantasy from being the same old "cookie-cutter" fantasy that blurs from one title to another. Give your fantasy, or whatever genre you choose, a unique magical allure all its own. Like Schumel Gelbfisz, I will not give up on my dream. Don't give up on yours.

And when I think of never giving up in life, I see the image of an eagle flying high in the sky, being lifted by the currents of the winds, invisible but powerful ... as our dreams are invisible yet capable of lifting us further than we believed possible :
***

I WANT THE SAME THING ... BUT DIFFERENT

Schumel Gelbfisz was born in Warsaw, Poland. As a very young man, he left that city on foot and penniless. After an epic journey, he made his way to Birmingham, England where he stayed for a few hard years, using the Vonnegut-like name Samuel Goldfish. In 1898, he emigrated to the U.S {in steerage.} But fearing refusal of entry due to his quick-silver identity changes, he got off the boat in Nova Scotia, Canada.

He finally made it to New York where he soared in success as a salesman in the garment industry. He was a Jewish Ulysses, living by his wits. He became a naturalized citizen in 1902. Scanning the landscape for financial opportunities, Gelbfisz found one in his beloved past-time, going to the movies. He went into the movie business with a vaudeville performer and a theater owner, using an unknown director, Cecil B. DeMille. As it usually does, business got nasty. And he left ... the company not the dream. He partnered with the Broadway producers, the brothers Selwyn. They named their studio in a meld of their names : the Goldwyn Pictures Corporation. Wily as ever, Gelbfisz changed his name to Samuel Goldwyn.

He got forced out of the business, never becoming part of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. But he never gave up on his dream. He created the Samuel Goldwyn Studio and for 35 years made classics that people like me still enjoy : WUTHERING HEIGHTS, THE LITTLE FOXES, THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, GUYS & DOLLS, PORKY & BESS, THE SECRET LIFE OF WALTER MITTY, THE WESTERNER {Gary Cooper}, and the fascinating but utterly silly, THE ADVENTURES OF MARCO POLO {Gary Cooper.} Samuel Goldwyn was a dreamer that refused to quit.

And sadly, most of what he is remembered for is his misuse of the language that was not his first. How many of us who laugh at his words know a second language? And his sharp wit was what enabled him to survive a trek clear across Europe, a journey over the seas, and battles in the shark-infested waters of Hollywood. Often his wit is mistaken for a verbal flub as in : "I don't think anybody should write their autobiography until after they're dead. A hospital is no place to be sick. {And if you've ever been ill in the hospital, you know that statement is oddly true.}

I was thinking of two of his "Goldwynism's" : "What we need are some new, fresh cliches." and "I want the same thing ... only different."

I was thinking of them as I was contemplating my uphill struggle to get agents to consider THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS. On one hand, they universally complain of being submitted the same kind of "handsome vampire/angst-ridden teenage girl" fantasy or the young wizard in today's world fantasy. But then, they reply to my Native American/Celtic fantasy that publishers only want teenage vampire love or wizardry novels.

Before TWILIGHT, the vampire novel was considered old-hat. Before HARRY POTTER, mixing magic with young, impressionable children was considered taboo. THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS is a bit of "The Wind In The Willows," a bit "Lord of the Rings," a bit of "The Last Unicorn, and a bit of "Where The Mountain Meets The Moon."

My fantasy is not the same old "cookie-cutter" fantasy that blurs from one title to another. THE BEAR WITH 2 SHADOWS has a unique magical allure all its own. Like Schumel Gelbfisz, I will not give up on my dream. Don't give up on yours.

And when I think of never giving up in life, I see the image of an eagle flying high in the sky, being lifted by the currents of the winds, invisible but powerful ... as our dreams are invisible yet capable of lifting us further than we believed possible :