The Lost Country

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I like to write about childhood, for different reasons. There were times when everything was perfect, like when I was 7-9 years old and my family lived in a serene (then) and beautiful neighborhood in Santa Monica, California. My best friend lived a few houses away, my piano teacher lived on the opposite corner, my babysitter was just down the street, and my first crush, a blonde, freckle-faced cutie named Linda Coss, lived at the bottom of the street in the only pink house in the whole neighborhood. Flowers perpetually smiled through the white picket fence surrounding her garden, and bluebirds and butterflies circled above her room constantly. (In my memory, anyway.)

We moved fifteen times before I was fifteen years old. Some kids are given the tools to be okay with that. I wasn’t one of them. Perpetually the new kid, and very small in stature (one of my older brother’s nicknames for me was “Pail and Frail”), I got bullied a lot. I resented my parents for disrupting my life every year or two because they were unhappy, and blamed them for everything that went wrong. I was like a sapling getting yanked out of the soil every time I started putting down roots. As a result, I grew more confused and angry as my teenage years came along, eventually developing severe shyness and low self-esteem. The bullies had accomplished what they wanted to do to me.

When I got out of high school and got my first car, I would often drive to that old neighborhood and walk around. Of all the neighborhoods we lived in, that was the one that felt like home to me. It was where my “wonder years” happened. But it wasn’t the same, of course. Everyone I knew as a child had moved. Other people lived in our house. I resented them, even though we moved out over ten years earlier. My brother had become a heroin addict, my father was cut down to skin and bone by cancer, my high school girlfriend had an abortion that killed me spiritually, and I had no college or career aspirations. In fact, I had no idea what I wanted to do or be. This all caused a desire as overwhelming as it was unrealistic – to go back to the time when everything was still ahead of me and my family, when no mistakes had been made yet. I was like a ghost haunting my own life too early.

As I got older and started writing, childhood was one of my favorite subjects. It still is. They say writing is living twice. Maybe that’s why. I’m still trying to find what I lost, fix what was broken, and relive the moments when everything was perfect. Moments of pure joy, like when I saw Santa Claus fly right over my house while laying on my front lawn. I even heard the reindeer bells. Or my best friend Dana and I sitting in trees and rooftops with walkie-talkie’s, pretending the neighbors walking below were enemy spies. Or making gelatinous bugs and snakes in our Mattel Thing-Maker oven, then scaring the girls on the street with them. Or watching Sci-Fi movies in chair-and-blanket forts while stuffing our faces with candy. Or my teenage babysitter Shirley arriving with a handful of toys and puzzles for my brother and I to play with. As the saying goes, “God was in His universe and all was right with the world.” 

While reading a book by Gail Carson Levine called Writing Magic – Creating Stories That Fly, I came across a perfect description of the desire to somehow access childhood again through writing. She wrote:

“I used to think, long ago, that when I grew up, I’d remember what it felt like to be a child and that I’d always be able to get back to my child self. But I can’t. When you become a teenager, you step onto a bridge. You may already be on it. The opposite shore is adulthood. Childhood lies behind. The bridge is made of wood. As you cross, it burns behind you. If you save what you write, you still won’t be able to cross back to childhood. But you’ll be able to see yourself in that lost country. You’ll be able to wave to yourself across that wide river. Whether or not you continue to write, you will be glad to have the souvenirs of your earlier self.”

I’m a father of two girls now, three and six years old. They are bringing the magic back to me. Before I became a dad, I used to be annoyed when parents would say “Really? Wow!” to their young children with false enthusiasm in response to something nonsensical they had just said. But I get it now. Today, my youngest daughter said to me, very excitedly, “Jelly Bean has a tail!” and I found myself saying, “Really? Wow!” Still not wanting to be one of “those” parents, however, I asked her to explain the comment. But her answer confused me even more.

I concluded that saying “Really? Wow!” is actually a very wise admission, a surrender to the fact that children live in a world grown-up’s are not allowed in. As Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet –

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Not wanting to give up so easily, I asked my daughter if I could go with her to her world, to visit Jelly Bean and see his tail. She said, “Yes, daddy!” very exuberantly. We walked across the room, sat down and played for a while, despite the spaces between us – between her innocence and my world-weariness, her perfectly unfettered joy and my comfortless logic. But still, all I could do is watch her in wonder and envy at the delicious irresponsibility and frivolity of her life, a frivolity I encourage and protect. The bubble of childhood will pop soon enough, and always too early.

In his song Too Many Angels, Jackson Browne wrote:

There are photographs of children
all in their silver frames
on the windowsills and tabletops
lit by candle flames.
And upon their angel faces,
life’s expectations climb
as the moment has preserved them
from the ravages of time.”

I did not begin to let go of my childhood until I had children of my own. How could I when only my life concerned me? Their effortless ability to save me from endless reminiscing was and still is my salvation. Their future is more important to me now than my own, or my past. I’ll still visit it in my writing, but with far less aching melancholy because now, anytime I need to see what joy is, I just have to find them and watch them play. I will not allow my restlessness to uproot my little saplings. I will not allow any unhappiness I feel to disrupt theirs.

On Writing Greatness – The Saga of Donovan Stone

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Donovan Stone wanted to be a writer more than anyone had since the first hieroglyphs were scratched onto the wall of the first pyramid. He had read just about every book written on the craft, attended every fiction writing class he could, and had even changed his name to something he thought sounded more writer-ish. His actual name was Cedric Weatherwax, which he considered singularly inglorious and not in keeping with the illustrious future he had planned for himself.

In one of his writing books, the author outlined his formula for greatness. “There are three kinds of writers,” he wrote –

  1. Those who stink and don’t know they stink. This type of writer’s efforts will only be a big waste of everyone’s time, primarily his own. One lifetime is never enough to overcome pure, unadulterated stinkiness.
  2. Those who stink and are determined to become less stinky. This type of writer faces an uphill climb but may someday create something passable, albeit inconsistently, and then, usually, only by dumb luck.”
  3. Those who are great by divine intervention or some accident of nature and who couldn’t write poorly if they were being suspended over a pool of sharks. Only this kind of writer will ever be truly great, and even he doesn’t know how he does it. If you’re wondering if you’re this kind of writer, you’re not. You wouldn’t have to ask. Quit now.

Donovan wept uncontrollably after reading this, fearing he was a category two writer. When his wrenching sobs subsided, he steeled his resolve to achieve greatness. Still, every effort was met with severe frustration. There was just nothing in there. He loved poetry, but every word he wrote – nay, every letter – was a struggle he likened to childbirth.

One of his first poems read:

Her love reminds me of flowers.
I don’t need her tomorrow, but nowers.

He saw nothing wrong with the use of the non-word “nowers” because he once read that Shakespeare created many words when ordinary language failed him.

Donovan’s poem continued:

She’s hot, like a jalapeno squirt.
I would cut off my ear, but it would hurt.

He thought the Van Gogh reference was pure genius. Others, not so much. In fact, when he shared it with the crowd at The Daily Grind Coffeehouse, a normally gracious group, they laughed unguardedly, assuming his poem was meant to be funny.

With sweat beading on his upper lip, he continued,

“My love is a sponge,
On our love raft, we will plunge.”

The laughter grew louder. Trembling with a mixture of embarrassment and rage, he pressed on,

“Her love is a towel
cooling my weary browel.”

That was it. The room erupted. He could have saved himself some humiliation if he had pretended he meant it to be funny, but he was cut to the quick. He threw his Gauloise cigarette on the floor, spit in a very French manner, and said, “You people wouldn’t know talent if it bit you on your fat, pimply asses!” He then kicked over a table and stormed out the back door into the alley. He kicked over trash cans all the way home, cursing about how most great artists were misunderstood and how that audience of barn animals was just too ignorant to grasp someone as brilliant and tortured as he.

The next week was spent in a bottomless purple funk. He drank excessively, didn’t bathe, and barely ate. If his phone ever rang, he wouldn’t have even answered it.

He felt comforted by the tragic lives many great artists had. Hemingway shot himself. Plath had electroshock therapy in an attempt to cure suicidal tendencies. Dostoyevsky was exiled in Siberia for his political opinions. He felt he was suffering along with them, equally unappreciated. The more he suffered, the more romantic it felt. Unfortunately, he was the only one who felt it.

His father was no help. The last time he had spoken to him, he said, “Son, it’s time to grow up. How much of your life are you planning to waste on this pipe dream? Even the best writers struggle to eke out a living, and frankly, you ain’t one of ‘em. I found a poem in a notebook you left in the back yard and it stunk. Wait here, I’ll get it.”

He walked away and returned with a tattered, coffee-stained notebook, flipped through it and found the page.

“Oh, here it is,” he said. “Explain this one to me, if you even can. He began to read, “Flaming doorknobs tumble down my blasphemous eyebrows. The tragic sand screams oblong operettas to my parched bicycle seat. I am.”

He set the notebook down and asked, “What in hell’s blue blazes is that supposed to mean, Cedric? Why can’t you write a nice, rhyming poem that tells a story like Robert Frost or that Longfellow guy used to do?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he replied, “and my name is Donovan.”
“That’s another thing,” his father continued. “That name might work if, A, it was 1957, and, B, you were a teen idol.”
“Look, daddio,” Donovan argued, “Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds. You know who said that? Einstein! That’s who!”
“Daddio? What is this? 1968? It’s 2017! Wake up and smell the failure, hepcat!”

After a pause, his father softened and said, “Look, son. I just want you to be happy. I hate seeing you running down a dead end like this, because there’s a big, brick wall at the end of it and you’re not gonna see it coming until it’s too late. I mean, of all things to choose to be, you had to pick a writer? Nothing has ever happened to you! I did two tours in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war, and survived cancer that damn Agent Orange gave me! If anyone should be a writer, it’s me!”
“Oh, so that’s it!” Donovan snapped. “You’re jealous because I’m a writer and you’re not!”
“Yeah, I’m real jealous I don’t have flaming door knobs tumbling down my blasphemous eyebrows. Think about it, son. All the great writers lived through some heavy stuff. Tennessee Williams had diphtheria as a kid, was tormented by a sadistic father, lived most of his life as a repressed homosexual, and died penniless after a nervous breakdown. But his sister one-upped him by getting a frontal lobotomy! So, again, what have you been through? What gives you the right to call yourself a writer? I would suggest you do some living first, then grace the world with your insights. You’re putting the cart before the horse, boy!”

Donovan couldn’t take anymore. He stormed out. He was good at storming. He didn’t speak to his father for weeks after that argument, which was difficult because he still lived at home. Though he cursed him inwardly, he couldn’t get his words out of his mind. What did give him the right to call himself a writer? Maybe his father was right. Maybe writing was so hard for him because nothing worth writing about had ever happened to him.

He decided to change that. He would do things, dammit, and starting right now. He showered, found clothes that smelled the least bad, and walked to a military recruiting office in his local mall. Many great writers had brushes with death and killed many men in battle. He would, too. That would show his dad.

He tried to enlist in the Army but was rejected because the minimum push-up requirement was forty-two and he was only able to do seven. The reviewer also mentioned a comment he had made in his application about hating America for runaway Capitalism and Imperialistic foreign policies.

Dejected but still determined to have something bad happen to him, he put on a white suit and costume jewelry rings, stuffed his wallet with toilet paper until it bulged, and walked through the worst neighborhood he could find on Saturday at midnight. A group of gang-bangers pulled up in a car next to him and yelled very hurtful things. His mania was such that he had no fear for his safety, but instead thought, “This will make a great story!” One of the men got out of the car and started pushing him around, but an elderly woman ran out of a nearby house and yelled, “You get on home and leave that boy alone! He’s obviously not right in the head!”

She drove Donovan back to his car, driving so slow pedestrians walked past them on the sidewalks. Oblivious to the cars honking their horns behind her, she gave him a lecture he thought would never end. When they finally arrived at his Ford Aspire, she handed him a Bible and said, “You need a whole lot of Jesus, son.”

The old lady’s lecture was the worst ordeal he had ever endured, much worse than being beaten and robbed would have been, so he figured he was off to a great start on his quest to collect bad experiences.

As he lay in bed that night, it dawned on him that he was going about things all wrong. Instead of trying to make bad things happen to him, he would do bad things himself! Be pro-active! His father always said he lacked initiative and was hiding in writing as a way to avoid taking real chances in life. This would show him once and for all!

The next morning, he bought a pellet gun at Big 5 and a pair of nylon stockings at 7/11, drove to his local credit union, pulled the stocking over his head, took out the gun, walked in and yelled, “This is a stick up!”

None of the customers paid much attention because his voice lacked the requisite amount of bass to properly scare anyone. To make matters worse, one of the tellers recognized his voice because he chose to rob a bank he’d had an account at for several years.
“Cedric, what are you doing?” she asked.
“It’s not me,” he said. “Uh, I mean, who’s Cedric?”
“I know your voice, Cedric Weatherwax,” she replied.

Cedric made a run for it but was tackled by an elderly security guard who had been awakened by the conversation. However, due to his advanced age, he began to clutch his chest. He had a heart attack and was dead in under a minute.

The trial was only a formality. Due to a recent rash of bank robberies, and because he had induced the guard’s death, the judge made an example of him. He received the maximum sentence of thirty years for robbery and involuntary manslaughter.

During his first year in prison, he was subjected to every atrocity imaginable, but his mania to amass colorful experiences to someday write about still overrode even his own retched misery. Finally, he was experiencing something extreme and dramatic, fodder for great literature.

To pass the time one day, he sat talking to his cellmate, a psychotic, sexually ambiguous brute nicknamed Animal.
“I’m here voluntarily, I’ll have you know,” Donovan said. “All this stuff that’s happening to me, including what you did to me last night, is going to be in a book someday. Remember my name because I’m going to be famous.”
“Cedric Weatherwax?” Animal replied.
“No! Donovan Stone, man!”
Animal laughed and said, “Don’t you know federal law prohibits you from profiting from your crime or anything that happens to you in here? You’ll never get that book through the bars!”

After a few months of severe depression, Donovan signed up to read a poem at the prison talent show. Surely, he thought, this menagerie of nincompoops would be impressed with his talent. He walked to the stage, cleared his throat, and said,

“Her love reminds me of flowers.
I don’t need her tomorrow but nowers.”

The prisoners laughed and laughed, and Donovan stormed back to his cell.

Memories of John Denver

My parents moved fifteen times before I was fifteen years old so I spent a lot of time alone. I remember sitting in my room in a house on a hill in Sun Valley, California, listening to music with headphones on, finding comfort and even guidance in some lyrics, but only annoyance and more confusion in other music of the time. (The 1970’s) One can only deduce that much of it was written under the influence of psychotropic, hallucinogenic substances. To a kid or anyone else struggling to figure out the world and people, clear guidance is a wonderful thing. Unfortunately, songs that became popular and were played over and over again were not clear at all. Here are a few examples.

1.
In and around the lake
Mountains come out of the sky and they
STAND THERE!
(Roundabout by Yes. Not helpful.)

2.
Mars ain’t the kind of place
to raise your kids.
In fact, it’s cold as hell
and there’s no one there to raise them
if you did.
(Rocket Man by Elton John. Again, not helpful.)

3.
Some people call me Maurice ’cause I speak of the pompitous of love.

(The Joker by The Steve Miller Band. I really like this song but what the heck is going on with this lyric? I heard Steve even made up the word “pompitous” just to confuse people even more. File under Not Helpful.)

4.
“I am”… I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair

(I am, I Said by Neil Diamond, apparently tiring of his rich and famous singer life and attempting to tap into Rene Descartes’ territory.)

5.
Muskrat Suzie, Muskrat Sam
Do the jitterbug at a Muskrat Land
And they shimmy, Sam is so skinny

(Muskrat Love by Captain and Tennille. Originally recorded by America. I remember liking this song’s soft, gentle, soothing quality but I didn’t know what a muskrat was, and just having the word “rat” in its name made the song hard to like because one of them that got stuck in our garage took a chunk out of the front wheel of my beloved Big Wheel, either because it was starving or dulling its front teeth, which I hear will grow and grow forever (kind of like human fingernails) and cause the rat to starve to death because it can’t shut its mouth. Yet another reason to not like rats, muskrats, or any other kind of rat. Or songs about rat love.)

6.
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
’cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again

(MacArthur Park by Donna Summer. Even as a kid, I knew a weird metaphor when I heard one.)

7.
A Horse With No Name by America – the entire song, but here are the more confusing lyrics of the entire nightmarish bunch.

You see I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain

And yet a hit song played repeatedly forever and ever.

8.
‘Cause the free wind is blowin’ through your hair
And the days surround your daylight there
Seasons crying no despair
Alligator lizards in the air, in the air

(Ventura Highway – America. I like this song melodically, too, but again, these lyrics only added to the already immense confusion of my youth.)

One singer more than any other rescued me. His name was John Denver.

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He was the best-selling singer of the 1970’s. In other words, what Elvis was to the 50’s and The Beatles were to the 60’s, John was to the 70’s.  He was so popular then and even today because he was able to write easy-to-understand but deeply emotional lyrics.

I had a speech teacher in college who said if I had a choice between a simple word and an obscure one, I should choose the simple one because, though the obscure one might impress a few people, it would cause many others to lose track of what I was saying, and if the audience didn’t understand, it was my fault, not theirs.

My brother went to the dark side, listening to not only confusing lyrics but deeply toxic ones by death metal groups. I warned him that music is like a chant – it gets into our psyches more deeply than anything else because we listen to it hundreds, even thousands of times, and melodies (using the term loosely) and rhyming verse are easy for the human mind to remember. We can be purified or polluted by music. As with everything in life, it is always our choice whether we see the bars of our prison or the stars beyond them.

John helped audiences put their own difficult feelings into words, not confuse them even more. That’s what great writers, poets and singers should do. For example, after all the lyrics above, isn’t this refreshing?

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry.
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely.
Sunshine almost always makes me high.
(Sunshine)

I am the eagle. I live in high country
in rocky cathedrals that reach to the sky.
I am the hawk and there’s blood on my feathers
but time is still turning, they soon will be dry.
And all those who see me, and all who believe in me
share in the freedom I feel when I fly.
(The Eagle and The Hawk)

Well, I got me a fine wife, I got my old fiddle.
When the sun’s coming’ up, I got cakes on the griddle.
Life ain’t nothin’ but a funny, funny riddle.
(Thank God I’m a Country Boy.)

Almost heaven, West Virginia.
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River.
Life is old there, older than the trees.
Younger than the mountains, blowin’ like the breeze.
Country roads, take me home
to the place I belong.
West Virginia, mountain momma,
take me home, country roads.”
(Take Me Home, Country Roads)

You fill up my senses
like a night in a forest,
like the mountains in springtime,
like a walk in the rain,
like a storm in the desert,
like a sleepy blue ocean,
you fill up my senses,
come fill me again.
(Annie’s Song)

I learned how to write from John Denver, how to love and respect nature, and how to live a good and decent life. He helped me climb out of one of the loneliest times in my life and invited me to explore the fields, forests, rivers and mountains of Colorado with him that he loved so much. The best artists can do that. They take you along. They transport you out of the world you’re in and show you how great life can be if you never knew, or remind you if you’ve forgotten. That’s the kind of artist I want to be. 

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Get John’s music here – https://www.amazon.com/John-Denver/e/B000AR80Z0/mrw02-20

Chicken Soup for the Soul Podcast – How to Get a Literary Agent and Get Published.

Click the link below to hear Chicken Soup for the Soul publisher Amy Newmark’s podcast called:

THOUGHTFUL THURSDAY: The Quest for an Agent – How Two Writers Found Theirs and Got Published

 

 

 

You Know You’re a Writer When . . .

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1. The longer you go without writing something – anything – the more anxious you feel.

2. Something good happens to you and you can’t help writing about it.

3. Something terrible happens to you and you can’t help writing about it.

4. You send just about everything that happens to you to that part of your mind that stories come from.

5. You see your life and your friends’ lives as a movie/story, watching yourself and them from the outside, always trying to figure out how to make the happy ending happen.

6. You constantly correct your friends’ grammar in conversation, and their spelling and punctuation on Facebook.

7. Your friends say, “Oh, no! Another long story!” when you’re all shooting the breeze, knowing you have an endless trove of stories to tell, all of which are very, very, very long.

8. Friends are always asking you to help them write important emails, or just the best way to say something important to someone.

9. When you say something particularly astute or profound, your friends ask you who wrote it, assuming you’re quoting a famous author, sort of like in the movie Dead Poet’s Society when Robin Williams recited a poem line, “For only in their dreams can men be truly free. T’was always thus, and always thus shall be.” The other teacher says, “Longfellow?” Robin says, “Keating.” (His last name. It was from his poem.)

10. You no longer read for enjoyment completely, but with an eye toward story structure.

11. Everything in your life – the highest highest and lowest lows – is fodder for stories.

What else would you add to this list?

New Book Release: Chicken Soup for the Soul – The Spirit of America

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America

My story “The Sixty-Year Old Little Girl” is in this new book – Chicken Soup for the Soul book – The Spirit of America, available now at Walmart, Barnes and Noble and online.

I have contributed to eleven Chicken Soup for the Soul titles now and am always proud to do so because of the positivity, inspiration and light they bring to a world that sometimes seems to grow more negative every day. This election is a perfect example. It’s not so much about the politicians. They’ve always been ruthless. What disturbs me more is the Americans becoming violent with each other for having differences of opinion rather than discussing it, even if that means yelling at each other. So at this time more than any other, I’m proud to be part of something that can help bring Americans together. Here is the official press release from Chicken Soup for the Soul headquarters:

This book focuses on what unites us, not what divides us. When Chicken Soup for the Soul’s author, editor-in-chief and publisher Amy Newmark decided to collect stories for a book about the spirit of America more than a year ago, she never anticipated how much we, as a nation, would need this book. “I knew that we would need an antidote to all the negativity that always arises during a presidential election year, but I had no idea it would get this bad,” she said. “We recognize there are significant problems that need to be addressed, but we do live in a wonderful country. We can forget that sometimes amid all the emotions of the election process. 

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America is our chicken soup for our fellow Americans—a reminder of why we are all so passionate about what we believe is best for our country. I hope this collection of 101 stories about everything American will help to unite us, not divide us.”

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America takes us on a journey across our beautiful nation, meeting our veterans, active service members and their families; revisiting the patriotism and unity of 9/11; showing us the ingenuity and positive attitude that we’re known for; displaying the diversity of our geography and our people; relating stories about our favorite American traditions; and introducing us to proud new citizens who remind us how lucky we are to live here—with our freedom to advance, to move, and to express ourselves. There’s even a whole chapter on the American flag, with inspiring stories about how much the red, white and blue means to us, right in time for Flag Day on June 14th.

“As we do often, we are using this book to raise money for a worthy cause – and one that is very relevant to its subject matter – the Bob Woodruff Foundation and its Stand Up for Heroes fundraising program,” said William J. Rouhana, Jr., chief executive officer of Chicken Soup for the Soul. “This is the second time that we have earmarked royalties from one of our books to raise funds for the Bob Woodruff Foundation to support their work with post–9/11 injured service members, veterans and their families.”

The book’s foreword writer Lee Woodruff, who is married to broadcaster Bob Woodruff, says, “The people you meet in these pages, and the tales they tell, will remind you why we are the most fortunate people in the world—Americans.” She talks about her particular passion—the military—in the foreword. After her husband was wounded while embedded as a reporter with the Army in Iraq, Lee saw our military at its best, saving her husband’s life. And she and Bob have given back in a major way, founding the Bob Woodruff Foundation to support programs that provide health and social services for veterans.

ABOUT CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL
Chicken Soup for the Soul, the world’s favorite and most recognized storyteller, publishes the famous Chicken Soup for the Soulbook series. With well over 100 million books sold to date in the U.S. and Canada alone, more than 250 titles, and translations into more than 40 languages, “chicken soup for the soul” is one of the world’s best-known phrases and is regularly referenced in pop culture. Today, 23 years after it first began sharing happiness, inspiration and hope through its books, this socially conscious company continues to publish a new title a month, but has also evolved beyond the bookstore with super premium pet food, television shows and movies, and a variety of other digital content and licensed products, all inspired by stories, as it continues “changing the world one story at a time®.”

To receive a review copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America or to request an interview, please contact Tanya Taylor Miciak at 615.254.9389 or tanya@triple7pr.com

CONTACT: Tanya Taylor Miciak 615.254.9389

New Chicken Soup for the Soul Podcast!

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Amy Newmark, the publisher of the Chicken Soup for the Soul book series, has started a series of inspirational podcasts. Each one will highlight a different Chicken Soup for the Soul book and story. A new podcast will be available each weekday starting February 22nd and they can be downloaded for free the same way that you get other podcasts.

If you are new to podcasts, you may be surprised to learn you already have a podcast button on your smartphone. You can listen to podcasts on your phone, your computer, or your iPad or other tablet. To find the Chicken Soup for the Soul podcast, just search within iTunes or your particular podcast app.

The podcasts are about six or seven minutes long, Monday–Thursday, and they provide entertaining stories as well as great advice and easy-to-implement tips to improve your life. On Fridays, publisher Amy Newmark will ask one of our co-authors or contributors to join her for a longer podcast — about fifteen minutes.

Here’s the rundown of the first week of the podcast:

MOTIVATIONAL MONDAY

Be Kind of Yourself

[story by Sara Matson]
TIP TUESDAY A Smile Is a Boomerang [story by Cristy Trandahl]
WOW WEDNESDAY

Impossible Love

[story by Sharon Graham]
THOUGHTFUL THURSDAY From Dumpster Dog to Service Dog [story by Kathryn Bales]
FRIEND FRIDAY

Supermodel EMME Joins Amy to Talk Self-Esteem, Body Image, and Curvy Women

 

Happy Listening!