Lori Lesko Supportive Twitter Friends, Writing & Beta Readers @LeskoLori #AmWriting #Thriller

If you could study any subject at university what would you pick?

I would take every English and Creative Writing course they offered.

If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

That’s easy, Paris, France.

How do you write – lap top, pen, paper, in bed, at a desk?

At a desk, always and with the door closed, I play music also.

Where do you get support from? Do you have friends in the industry?

Believe it or not, my twitter followers cheer me on quite a bit and yes, I do have other friends who write too. They are very supportive.

How much sleep do you need to be your best?

I need at least six hours, eight is perfect though.

Every writer has their own idea of what a successful career in writing is, what does success in writing look like to you?

That people connect to the story on some emotional level, I don’t care which one. It’s the connection I’m aiming for.

Tell us about your new book? What’s it about and why did you write it?

With all the indie writers using beta readers and giving away their books for free, not worrying if their idea or novel got stolen, this sparked the idea for my novel Copyright.  I kept thinking, what if it was a famous author whose book got stolen? And it came to me very quickly, all hell would break lose.

When you are not writing, how do you like to relax?

Reading or going to the movies, I don’t ever watch the news and very little TV.

Do you have any tips on how writers can relax?

Besides reading, I would say exercise and be outside as much as possible.

How often do you write? And when do you write?

I try to write every day. If I am not working on my novel, I usually blog.

Do you have an organized process or tips for writing well? Do you have a writing schedule?

I’m not a morning person, so I get to writing in the afternoons, Monday through Saturday.

Amber Tyler is living every author’s dream: her books are all best sellers and she writes full time. She has worked hard and is well-accomplished in her career, and she has the support and love of her beautiful children and girlfriend. 

But the dream soon turns into a terrible nightmare when her latest manuscript is stolen. She decides to fight for what is rightfully hers, only to find that the harder she tries, the easier it all slips through her fingers, putting her career, her family, and her life in jeopardy.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Thriller

Rating – PG-13

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John W. Mefford's #WriteTip on Coping With the Dreaded Blank Screen @JWMefford #Suspense

A blank screen morphs into a visual version of white noise. You begin to hear your heartbeat thumping, wondering if it will match the cadence of the blinking cursor. Before you know it, thirty minutes have drifted by, then an hour. You awake from your mental stupor and ponder how you can ever re-capture time wasted, your mind grasping for a coherent thought. Not just any coherent thought, but the next great sentence of the greatest novel in the twenty first century.

We’ve all been there. So, how do you cope with it?

Writer’s block. Okay, I said it. The elephant in the room. Honestly, I rarely use the term. Because I just don’t give in to suffering from it. Ever.

Why? For the most part—this is my own personal way of addressing life’s ups and downs—I think it’s more of a crutch. If I allowed myself to go there, I could find many excuses to not write. We’re not robots or a manufacturing plant. We’re eating, breathing, mind-straying humans, who, at times, can lose our focus, or our groove. That’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up. Don’t pound your fist in frustration, or dig a trench in the floor from pacing yourself to death. It’s counter-productive.

For starters, I’m a believer that we’re all as unique as snowflakes. Many of us are writers in some form or fashion, while a few of us create in other ways, music, painting, sculpture. But we’re all going to respond to bumps in our journey to share our creative endeavors in different manners.

Back in the day, I cranked out story after story as a newspaper reporter. At times, I’d have no more than thirty minutes to whip out a twenty-inch story. Early on in my journalism career, I’d let the pressure get to me. Finally, in an attempt to free myself from the mental torture and inevitable stress, I thought through the deadline scenario while I was jogging one day. There was a correlation, I could see, to my running workouts. If I was tense, my breath was shortened, I’d have a miserable run, my time would suck and I simply wasn’t going to get better.

I learned to prepare myself for those deadline stories. I quickly understood that you perform your best when your mind is calm, free of clutter, and your body relaxed. Focused, yes, tense, not so much.

I realized I didn’t want to be my own worst enemy. Countless other things in life either purposely or coincidentally create hurdles for us to overcome. I was determined—and still am—to not let my mental psyche be on the enemy side of the ledger. In other words, I want my stride over the hurdle to be as smooth as I can make it. And I will make it. Every time.

Expressing your creative self is one of life’s greatest gifts. You deserve an honest, but encouraging signal from within your own mind. Be real, be productive. Be true to yourself. But if you have a brief period of time when you’re not feeling the mojo, don’t sweat it. Let confidence flow through your bloodstream, cut yourself a break and come back to it refreshed and ready to establish yourself as the greatest author of this decade. Just don’t blame…you know, it.

Behind the façade of every corporate takeover executives pull levers this way and that, squeezing the last profitable nickel out of the deal. But no one knows the true intent of every so-called merger. 

No one knows the secret bonds that exist. 

An Indian technology giant swallows up another private company that has deep roots in North Texas. For one unassuming man the thought of layoffs, of losing his own job to a bunch of arrogant assholes feels like a kick to the jewels. 

Until the day Michael’s life changes forever.   

Perverse alliances. An affair of the heart. A grisly murder. A spiraling string of events thrusts Michael into a life-or-death fight to save a tortured soul and hunt down a brutal killer…one who lurks closer than he ever imagined. 

Greed knows no boundaries.

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Genre – Suspense, Thriller

Rating – R

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Website http://www.johnwmefford.com

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Mike Hartner on #Writing is Resting & More on His Writing Process @MHartnerAuthor #Historical

Why Writing is a Form of Personal Therapy

Every day has stresses. The kid’s not feeling well, the bills need paid, the doctor’s appointments need taken, yada, yada, yada,… Every life has its stressors.

For me, sitting in my office, or on my bed, and pouring out my innermost thoughts onto a Word document is Therapy.

I get to concentrate on things that are not my normal life. In the case of The Eternity Series, I was able to start by concentrating on Walter Crofter and his life. Walter was the inspiration for I,Walter and would pour out his life a little at a time so that I could write it down.

Toward the end, James Crofter jumped up and started to instruct me on his life adventure.

Both of these books have been written during late evenings, early mornings, and quiet times during the day. As a parent, many people know that quiet times are few and far between. These are the times when the house is quiet, and when the to-do list can be put off for a few more hours. These are the quiet times when sitting in the hot tub, or the recreation room, or the meeting room with the lights off and nobody else around, can lead to new cha[ters and more research on the life of the next main character.

Writing is resting. It’s the chance to envelop myself in a world where my role is transcription, and I’m listening to the life and death decisions, rather than making them. Writing is the therapy that lowers the blood pressure that stimulates the mind, and brings a smile to the face.

James Crofter was ripped from his family at age 11. 
Within a year the prince was a pauper in a foreign land. 
Is nature stronger than nurture? And even if it is, can James find the happiness he so richly desires? 

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Genre - Historical Fiction, Romance

Rating – PG

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Kirsten Mortensen on Her Greatest Strength as a Writer @KirstenWriter #AmWriting #Suspense

Kirsten Mortensen has been writing fiction ever since she picked up her first crayon. And no, her illustrated picture book "Mic and Mac the Bunnies" will never be a best seller, but it hinted at two of her future lifelong loves: writing and animals.

Today, Mortensen's plots are a bit more involved than the adventures of Mic and Mac. And her novels also span a number of categories including comedy ("Can Job" and the novella "BJs on the Roof"), light literary romance ("Loose Dogs" and "When Libby Met the Fairies"), and, with her latest title, romantic suspense ("Dark Chemistry").

Her non-fiction books include "Dog of Your Dreams: How to Pick a Companion Dog Who Will Fit Into Your Home and Your Life" (a Kindle book), "Outwitting Dogs" (co-written with professional dog trainer Terry Ryan; Lyons Press), and "101 Dog Training Tips" (Lyons Press). Do you find the time to read?
Absolutely. I read topical material on a daily basis, during the daylight hours: blog posts, news pieces both online and in print, and magazine articles on culture, pop culture, media, and politics. Evenings, I read books. I almost always read from either an ebook or a print book for an hour or so before bedtime. It’s not a huge amount of time, but I manage to finish a fair number of books every year.

Last book you purchased? Tell us about it.
It’s a non-fiction book titled Dreamways of the Iroquois by Robert Moss. Moss was born in Australia, and has always had intense, vivid dreams (as I do). Then, in one dream, he “met” a native American woman who began speaking to him in a language he didn’t understand. He did some research afterward and learned it was an archaic form of Mohawk (one of the tribes of the Haudenosaunee [Iroquois]). The book is about what this dream woman taught Moss, and relates many other extraordinary experiences he’s had as he works to teach people how to use their dreams to connect with spirit and find healing.

What do you consider the most challenging about writing a novel?
By far, it’s building a world and holding it in your head—as an intact, coherent world—for as long as it takes to complete the novel. The effort this requires is extraordinary. And you can’t mess it up. You can’t have a character’s eyes be blue in one spot and then brown in another, to cite a simple example. You have to somehow imagine a character with blue eyes, and those blue eyes have to remain real to you from the day you first start to write until the day you put your novel into the hands of your readers. And eye color is only one element: it has to be everything, from the layout of buildings and streets, to characters’ speech patterns and histories and quirks and motivations.

Have you developed a specific writing style?
I think I have. People tell me my writing has something of a noir feel. That’s not something I set out to do, but I greatly admired Hemingway when I was a teenager, and I’ve retained an admiration for what I guess you’d call “stripped down” writing. Hemingway intentionally left things out: he communicated as much by what he left out as what he said. I like that as a reader, because I enjoy the process of discovery. It’s like real life.

Do you ever play a game, say in a restaurant, where you try to figure out peoples’ stories? I love to do this. I was in a restaurant the other day, and I watched a family: an older couple, a middle-aged couple, and two kids. And I don’t think the middle-aged couple was married. The kids were her kids, but I’m not sure he was their father. He might have been her brother. He might have been her boyfriend. And of course it’s all speculation on my part. But there were little clues. So if these people were characters in a novel I wrote, I wouldn’t come right out and tell you the middle-aged couple wasn’t married. But I might find a way to let you know there was no wedding ring on the woman’s finger. Or that she asked the man, twice, if he wanted to sit next to her—something that suggested that they didn’t have established habits about who would sit where. I’d drop clues, and let you slowly figure out that the man was a boyfriend, not a husband. Like with life.

What is your greatest strength as a writer?
My insight into the human heart. Like a lot of writers, I’m a great “reader” of people. Sometimes, it feels like I can meet someone, and in a very short time know an awful lot about them. I have a great deal of agility when it comes to using words, and that’s a strength as well, but knowing people and being able to tell my characters stories is what I think means the most for me as a writer.

Have you always enjoyed writing?
Absolutely, and it’s always been a central part of my life. I’ve kept journals my entire life—by the time I hit my early 20s, I started keeping them in 5-subject, college ruled spiral notebooks, and I now have a huge box of them (someday I will go through them for material for a memoir!) For many years, now, I’ve earned money by writing articles for corporate clients, and even within the constraints you have to deal with for those types of projects—you’re writing to satisfy the needs of marketing programs, not your Muse—I enjoy the challenge of articulating complex ideas simply and clearly. And when I’m writing for myself—my novels, short stories, and essays—it’s pure heaven.

What do you hope your obituary will say about you?
That my novels were read and enjoyed by millions—and that I died peacefully, and surrounded by my family and loved ones. If my obit includes those comments, I’ll know that I lived the life I was born to live.

How did you develop your writing?
Like a lot of writers, I did it by reading a lot, and writing a lot. There’s really no substitute for practicing, even though when you first start working within a given form—whether it’s a novel, an essay, a press release or a non-fiction article—it’s sometimes really hard to know how awful you are. It’s a matter, I think, of “you don’t know what you don’t know.” I’ll illustrate with a story. Back in the early 2000s, I submitted a novel to an agent I’d met at a conference. She was my dream agent, and I was so excited she was interested in my book. To my deep disappointment, however, she rejected it with a note saying that she didn’t think my plotting was up to snuff. And—this makes me smile, today—I had NO idea what she was talking about. The story had a beginning, a middle, and an end. Stuff happened in it. My characters did things. Wasn’t that plot? Objects moving around in imaginary space—wasn’t that plot?

But once I’d recovered from my disappointment, I set my jaw and began teaching myself about plotting novels. I read books, I read articles, and today, one of the things you’ll see people praise about my novels is the plotting.

I was a lousy plotter. I didn’t know how to plot. But I didn’t know that I didn’t know how to plot. It took writing and showing my writing to people with experience in the industry for me to learn what I didn’t know, so that I could fix it.

Do you find it hard to share your work?
Not when it’s done. But I never show partially-finished work to anyone—not ever. And frankly, I think that’s some advice all writers should consider. There’s a period, when you’re writing, when it’s really important to keep the “judger” side of your brain cordoned off. When you’re drafting a piece, you don’t want to interrupt the process by wondering whether what you’re writing is “any good.” You just want to keep the words flowing. If you show your work to someone too soon, and he or she makes comments about it, the judger steps in, and that can torpedo the entire project. You end up second-guessing yourself and that’s simply not appropriate when you’re in the early draft stage.

Mind you, it’s always hard to expose your writing to others, in some respects, because all writing is personal. It’s your words, your thoughts. We’re all vulnerable when we share our writing with other people. But generally speaking, when I’ve finished working on a piece, I’m confident that readers—at least, most readers—will like it. So in that respect, I don’t find sharing my work difficult.

Do you plan to publish more books?
I sure do. I plan to keep writing and publishing until I drop dead. Right now, I’m working on my next project, which will be a paranormal series. I have two other novels that are partially written that I’ll finish at some point, and one day I’ll publish a memoir. I also have outlines of a half dozen non-fiction books in the works.

Every writer has their own idea of what a successful career in writing is, what does success in writing look like to you?
For me, there is an inward success and an outward success. Inward success means that I’ve written the best possible piece—no matter what it is, a novel, an essay, a non-fiction article—that I can possibly write. The more I learn about the craft of novel-writing, for example, the better I become as a novelist. When I finish a novel and feel that I’ve brought the best of what I know, as a writer, to that book, then to me I’ve succeeded at that piece of my career.

Outward success is measurable by the effect my writing has on others. When I get positive feedback and reviews by readers, for example, that definitely represents success to me.

Reach is another measure that’s important to me. I hope my novels get read by a lot of people. This has to do with how I view myself. I think of myself as a novelist—it’s my place in the world. Being read by large numbers of people is therefore important to me.

A woman's worst nightmare

Drugged by something...that makes her think she's fallen in love.

All Haley Dubose has ever known is beaches and malls, clubs and cocktail dresses.

But now her father is dead.

And if she wants to inherit her father's fortune, she has to leave sunny Southern California
for a backwater little town near Syracuse, New York. She has to run RMB, the multimillion dollar
chemical company her father founded. And she has to run it well.

Keep RMB on track, and she'll be rich. Grow it, and she'll be even richer. But mess it up, and her inheritance will shrink away before she gets a chance to spend a dime.

Donavon Todde is her true love. But is it too late?

He's RMB's head of sales – and the more Donavon sees of Haley, the more he's smitten.
Sure, she comes across at first as naïve and superficial. But Donavon knew Haley's father. He can see the man's better qualities stirring to life in her eyes. And Donavon senses something else: Haley's father left her a legacy more important than money. He left her the chance to discover her true self.

Donavon has demons of his own.
 
He's reeling from a heartbreak that's taking far too long to heal. But he's captivated by this blond Californian, and not only because of her beauty. It's chemistry. They're right for each other. But has Donavon waited too long to woo this woman of his dreams? Because to his horror, his beautiful Haley falls under another spell. Gerad's spell.

A web of evil.

Gerad Picket was second-in-command at RMB when Haley's father was alive. And with Haley on the scene, he's in charge of her training. But there are things about RMB that Gerad doesn't want Haley to know.

And he must control her. Any way he can.

Romantic suspense for your Kindle

Will Haley realize that her feelings are not her TRUE feelings?
Does Donavon have the strength left to fight for the woman he loves?
Will the two of them uncover Gerad's plot to use RMB pheromones to enslave the world?
And even if they do – can they stop it?

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Romantic suspense

Rating – PG-13

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Connect with Kirsten Mortensen through Facebook & Twitter

Website http://kirstenmortensen.com/

#Excerpt from INSIDE/OUTSIDE by Jenny Hayworth (#Memoir) @JennyHayworth1 #AmReading

The breathing is what I remember noticing first. Heavy, rapid, and sharp intakes of breath increasing in volume as whoever it was came closer. It struck me as odd in the library setting I was in, sitting at a computer. I looked up from processing my Internet banking and hesitated.

Then I heard a female voice speaking rapidly and heard fear and panic intermingled in her words. “Someone tried to abduct her. He had her by the arm and on the ground.” The voice rose in volume. I stood up as the breathing became louder and laced with sobs, and a stab of pain went through my chest and caught there within a block of fear as I recognised the sobs were coming from my eleven-year-old daughter, Rose. She suddenly materialised, walking out from an aisle to the right of me, with a lady alongside her, holding on to her.

Everything then erupted.

Rose, the instant she saw me, became hysterical, screaming out, “Mum, Mum.” She took great gulps of breath, and the only clear words I could hear as she forced them out of her lungs, which were constricted by a lack of oxygen and panic as she hyperventilated and collapsed on the ground in front of me, were, “Man….He was touching me, Mum….I couldn’t get away.” I was holding on to one side of her, with the lady I didn’t know on the other side, trying to pull her up.

“Mum, my legs don’t work,” Rose said. She was heavy in my arms. A chair appeared in front of us by the information desk, and we half dragged and half carried Rose the last few feet to sit on it. I stood up and kept my hand on her shoulder.

People were moving around, appearing in front of me and disappearing. I could hear voices around me, but wasn’t aware of their meaning. It must have been only a couple seconds, but it felt like minutes until a lady tapped me on my shoulder. She had two policemen by her side. Suddenly all the sounds and voices became louder and clearer to me, and I was conscious of all the people looking at us. I felt like we had to get away.

“Please, can we move somewhere more private?” I asked, and this time all the held-back emotion came through me and sounded in my voice. I nodded to the doorway I thought led to the sorting room.

“Yes,” said the lady.

I remembered my handbag with everything in it next to the computer about ten feet away. I said, “I just have to get my bag,” and I ran back and grabbed it.

I was conscious of about four other people at each side of me and behind me, staring at their screens and typing. As much as I was grateful that they didn’t meet my eyes or speak to me, as I wanted to rush as quickly as I could, I was also silently asking myself, What are they thinking? Why aren’t they talking to me? Do they blame me? And the huge question, What happened? I could feel my face burning and my heart pounding as I turned and ran back to Rose.

We walked through the door into the back room, and I felt the relief of not being on public view. I could feel that Rose was starting to shake all over. I wanted to pull her onto my knee and hold her and ask her what had happened, but I didn’t.

We sat down at someone’s desk, and papers and items were moved from in front of us. I put my bag on the floor, under the legs of the chair, and suddenly a librarian appeared and said, “Sorry, but we need to ask you these questions quickly so we can try to catch him. What was he wearing? What did he look like?”

Rose said, “His hands were dirty and felt rough on my legs.” She started crying. “He was kissing me all over and on my neck, and I kept telling him to stop, and he wouldn’t.”

The minute she said his hands were rough, I went cold all through me. When I had been assaulted as a child, one of the main things I remembered at the time was how sharp his fingernails had felt and how dirty his hands had been.

It was all swirling around in my head, emotions from past and present. My own emotions and awareness of them and my awareness of my daughter’s emotions and how I needed to keep mine in check for her. The heaviness and weight in my chest tightened, and my head felt light and dizzy.

Someone called out that a librarian had chased him, and they had the registration number of his car. I immediately felt so relieved and grateful for whoever had done this, as I knew it could make a big difference in catching him. Two other women came over with the police and sat down next to us. One of them was about seventeen years old and was crying. They introduced themselves as Julia and Candice, and the older lady said, “Candice saw what happened. She called out to me, and when I came around the corner the man started pulling on Rose’s arm and trying to drag her with him. Then he dropped her and ran out the door.”

Then one of the police said, “We need to speak to Rose on her own and take a statement.” The librarian showed them the kitchen next to us, and they went in there with Rose. It didn’t feel right letting her go in with them on her own, but when she hesitated and looked nervous, one said to her, “It’s all right. Your Mum is right next door, and you can go back to her as soon as we have finished speaking with you.” I gave Rose a quick kiss and hug, and she went with them through the door.

When the door shut, and I was left with Candice and Julia, I asked them, “What did you see happen?”

Candice said, “I came around the corner and looked up, and I saw Rose crouching on the floor with her arms over her head. The man was leaning over her, and she was saying, ‘Leave me alone, leave me alone.’ I first of all thought he was her Dad, the way he had hold of her, but something didn’t feel right or look right about it. He said to me, ‘What are you looking at?’ and I looked away, but Rose was crying. I just called out, ‘Mum’ as she was in the next aisle. Mum came around the corner, and I started to cry and point. The man was dragging Rose by the arm toward the door. He looked up and saw my Mum, and both of us called out, ‘Hey,’ and he dropped Rose’s arm and started to run out the door. A librarian heard us both call out and saw the man run and Rose on the ground, and she chased him out the door.”

I thanked Candice and her Mum repeatedly for what they had done and for helping Rose. I said to Candice that if she hadn’t come around the corner when she did and taken notice of her gut feeling that something wasn’t right, who knew what might have happened.

When Rose at last came out of the staff kitchen after having given her statement to the police, I was so relieved to see her again. She seemed calmer. She sat next to me and smiled, and laid her head on my shoulder.

Candice said, “Are you all right, love?”

Rose said yes and smiled at them and me.

She told me he kept kissing her neck and face, and his hands were all over her breasts and legs and up her skirt. He kept saying something under his breath like, “So beautiful, so beautiful….” Then she started crying again. I felt like crying, but nothing would happen.

I just held on to her. I felt sick and upset and angry and in shock. I couldn’t believe this had happened to my girl, and even more, going through my head was the question, “Why Rose?” Why, out of all the people in the library, did he have to pick on Rose?

She was the only one out of my three eldest children who had not been sexually abused, and now she had. It seemed unbelievable, especially as it was ten o’clock in the morning, and we were in a public place. We had to keep waiting in the library until police took all the statements from everybody concerned. Rose had to walk the police through the library and show them exactly where everything had happened. They took her books, which the man had held on to, for fingerprinting reasons, and that upset Rose again as she had been looking forward to reading the ones she had chosen. The police surveyed the closed-circuit television camera footage and identified the man walking directly behind Rose and me as we had entered the library, and following her as she went to the young-adult section.

We both were hungry, and the police let us walk over to the shopping centre, which was five minutes away, to buy something to eat and come straight back. Once we were in the mall, I noticed Rose’s head moving around, looking everywhere, and she clung to my hand tightly.

“What happens if we see him, Mum?” she whispered to me with tears running down her face.

I held her hand tightly and said, “He can’t hurt you anymore. I am here, and he would run a mile if he saw you now, as he would know he is in trouble.”

When we were standing in line, people were walking past behind her and bumping into her. She kept grabbing me; she was terrified. I was so upset and angry that this man, a stranger, had in one instant taken away her sense of safety in the world. Her ability to stand in a public place and feel safe and not worry about whether someone would grab her or touch her inappropriately had disappeared.

After we walked back to the library, we had to go down to the police beat for Rose to describe the man to a sketch artist, who would do a “wanted” poster from it. After we had done that, we were allowed to go home. By that time it was nearly three in the afternoon. We had been at the library since ten that morning. Both of us were exhausted. I had rung Rose’s Dad and arranged for him to go pick Thomas from school, and to let him know what had happened. It was a boiling-hot day. We had parked just down the road from the library, and as we got back into the car to start it, I couldn’t help but think how much had changed from when we had parked it there that morning.

Then the car wouldn’t start.

I turned the key in the ignition for half an hour. Both of us sat in the car with sweat pouring down our faces and backs as the sun poured in the windows and I tried to start it. I felt like bursting into tears. I wanted a cold drink, and I knew Rose did too, but I had no money left to buy one. I desperately wanted friends and family around for support.

Eventually the car started, and we drove home.

***Award winning book (finalist) in 2014 Beverley Hills International Book Awards***
Jenny Hayworth grew up within the construct of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which she describes as a fundamentalist cult-like religion. She devoted her life to it for over thirty years. Then she left it. The church “unfellowshipped” her-rendering her dead to those family and friends still committed to the church.Hayworth is a sexual abuse survivor. The trauma changed her self-perception, emotional development, trust, and every interaction with the world.

Inside/Outside is her exploration of sexual abuse, religious fundamentalism, and recovery. Her childhood circumstances and tragedies forced her to live “inside.” This memoir chronicles her journey from experiencing comfort and emotional satisfaction only within her fantasy world to developing the ability to feel and express real life emotion on the “outside.”

It is a story that begins with tragic multigenerational abuse, within an oppressive society, and ends with hope and rebirth into a life where she experiences real connections and satisfaction with the outside world.

Those who have ever felt trapped by trauma or circumstances will find Inside/Outside a dramatic reassurance that they are not alone in the world, and they have the ability to have a fulfilling life, both inside and out.

Foreward Clarion Review – “What keeps the pages of Hayworth’s life story turning is her honesty, tenacity, and sheer will to survive through an astounding number of setbacks. Inside/Outside proves the resilience of the human spirit and shows that the cycle of abuse can indeed be broken”

Kirkus Review – “A harrowing memoir of one woman’s struggle to cope with sexual abuse and depression while living in – and eventually leaving – the Jehovah’s Witnesses”

Readers Favourite 5 Star Review – “The book is an inspiring story for those who are going through traumatic times…”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with Jenny Hayworth on Facebook & Twitter