The following is an excerpt from the book Broken
by William Cope Moyers with Katherine Ketcham
Published by Penguin Books; August 2007;$15.00US/$18.50CAN;
978-0-14-311245-7
Copyright C 2006 William Cope Moyers and Katherine Ketcham

Prologue

October 1994

There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by a muffled but unmistakable command from a voice outside in the hallway.

“We want the white guy, just the white guy. We know he’s in there. He comes out now and there’s no trouble for anyone later.”

I was the “white guy.” I knew in that instant that my family’s desperate search to track me down had ended at this decayed two-story apartment in a violent pocket of Atlanta’s inner city. Terrified, I rushed around the room, trying to warn the other crack heads to sit still and keep quiet.

“Don’t panic,” I whispered. “They’ll go away.” But nobody was listening because everybody was as high and as scared as I was. We bumped into one another as we tried to find a way out, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. We were like wild animals trapped by a wind-whipped forest fire.

Who was out there banging on the door? Was it my father? My mother? My wife? My mind flashed back to the morning four days earlier when I left my house
in suburban Atlanta. I remembered kissing four-month-old Thomas and two-year-old Henry good-bye. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I told Allison I needed to run some errands before dinner. I drove to the parking lot on the corner of Boulevard and Ponce de Leon, approached a drug dealer with a thick scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth, and paid him one hundred dollars for six marble-sized rocks of crack cocaine. I held them in my hand and thought, “These will keep me going for a day or two.” They were gone in four hours.

The knocking became a relentless pounding that shook the door frame. I thought about escaping out the back porch door to the vacant lot and just running, running, running. But where could I go? They would find me, just like they had in Harlem and St. Paul. I’d been running for five years. Now I had run out of options.

I sat down at the old wood table in the kitchen, the place where the deals were made, the pipe was fired up, and the crack was consumed. I couldn’t run anymore — my legs felt weak and shaky. I couldn’t hide — there was no place left. I couldn’t think, but I could still react, and with the instincts of the addict I did the only thing that was left to do. I reached into my sock and pulled out the cellophane cigarette wrapper with the rocks carefully stored inside like precious stones. My hands were shaking and I noticed for the first time that the tips of my fingers were scorched and blistered from lighter burns. I loaded the pipe, flicked the lighter, and inhaled deeply.

The sizzle of the crack and the euphoric rush exploding inside my head were suddenly all that mattered to me. The banging on the door was like thunder on the horizon. I heard the warning, but I didn’t feel threatened anymore because I was back in my element, that faraway place where nothing on this earth could touch me. The rush hijacked my brain, and the knocking, scurrying, and fear disappeared. The memories of wife and children were gone. I was gone.

I tried to grab on and hold tight to the high, and for a few moments time stood still. I was a Roman candle on the Fourth of July, bright colors and showers of sparks. This, I thought, is what it’s all about — stopping time, going higher and higher, explosions of light and heat, one after another after another. The rapture filled me for a minute or two, and then it began to fade, the sparks died down, the flame became a dying star far, far away.

I folded my arms over my chest, longing for comfort, for peace. I was so sick. So sick and tired of it all. In that moment I realized the hopelessness of my situation, and in a sudden, brief flash of clarity, I asked myself: Now what? I stared at the filthy wood floor littered with half-empty beer cans, cigarette butts, and used syringes. The answer wasn’t here in this room anymore. It was all over. I was done.

I stood up and made my way past BJ, the Old Man, and the other addicts with whom I was living and slowly dying for the last four days. My steps were deliberate but out of my control as I walked into the hallway and out the front door, flanked by the two armed off-duty policemen who were part of the intervention team hired to get me out of the crack house and back into treatment.

A hard, steady rain was falling as we approached the gray van parked on the curb. The sliding door opened, and I collapsed into the backseat.

My father was sitting in the front passenger seat. Turning around to look at me, he saw a thirty-five-year-old crack addict who hadn’t shaved, showered, or eaten in four days. A man who walked out on his wife and two young children and ditched his promising career at CNN. A broken shell of a man, a pale shadow of the human being he had raised to be honest, loving, responsible. His firstborn son.

Silence.

“You’re angry,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“That’s hardly the word for it.” His voice was harsh and cold, like the rain outside.

More silence.

“There’s nothing more I can do,” he said. “I’m finished.”

All these years later, he tells me that’s where the conversation ended. But
whether I imagined it or not, I heard him say something else.

“I hate you.”

And I remember looking in his eyes and speaking my deepest truth.

“I hate me, too.”

Copyright C 2006 William Cope Moyers and Katherine Ketcham

by Alan Alda

Actor and author of Things I Overheard While Talking To Myself

A friend who had seen me in a play came backstage and asked if I still get nervous before I go onstage. She imagined I feel a little fright, being in front of a live audience with no chance for a second take. She was surprised when I told her that I don’t feel nervous; just very alert. In fact, if I’m rehearsed and focused, the performance can be like stepping into a safe place where everything goes right. Even tiny mistakes are lucky grace notes that never happened before and will never happen again.

But there is a certain fear for me in acting, and it happens much earlier than opening night: it’s when I’m in a chair, reading the script for the first time and wondering how I could possibly play such a part. When I’m faced with a kind of character I’ve never tried before, the fear can rise to the level of terror. But, it’s a terror I look forward to, and I don’t like to take on a part unless it scares me a little.

I’ve found a tremendous value in this kind of fear, because if I don’t wonder how I’m going to accomplish something, I’m in danger of doing it the way I’ve done it before, or even worse, the way I’ve seen someone else do it. Being scared can be a sign that I’m not headed toward an easy stereotype.

But, here’s where it gets weird. I don’t just scare myself with playacting. I scare myself in the rest of my life, too. Somehow, it seems to make me feel more alive. Once my name became known to a number of people, I was asked speak before groups of people where I had no business showing up. They probably asked me because my name was a drawing card, and they didn’t expect much; it was supposed to be smooth sailing. But when that moment comes that I realize people will be spending their evening listening to what I have to say, the boat turns over and I feel the heaviness of an ocean that has just gone from being under me to resting on top of me.

I’ve been asked to speak in front of young doctors who were graduating from medical school, graduating classes of physicists and mathematicians; I’ve even been asked to speak about Jefferson on the lawn of Monticello in front of Jefferson scholars. Sane people would not give in to the impulse to go speak at these places, but once every year or so, I agree to go. And I immediately begin to feel the familiar tingle of fear.

I know this sounds crazy, but it’s a useful experience. I know I won’t be able to coast. I’ll have to come up with something interesting. It will have to be something they’ve never heard before, but which also happens to be true. All this commotion makes me dig a little deeper, and introduces me to parts of myself I didn’t know were there.

In high school, I had been thrown out of the glee club because I couldn’t carry a tune. I would drift from key to key and not even realize it. It didn’t seem sensible that in my twenties I should audition for the male lead in a Broadway musical. But the writing was beautiful and I wanted to play the part. The fear took over and made me work harder on singing in tune than I ever had before. I was hired, and after we opened, I was even nominated for a Tony. So, I came through all right. Fear can make you come up with strengths you didn’t know you had.

The show was “The Apple Tree,” directed by Mike Nichols, and every few years Mike and I run into each other and catch up on our lives. The last time I saw him was about four decades after we’d first worked together. He was now one of the most successful directors we’ve ever had, on stage or screen. Here was a guy who could coast into his autumn years if he wanted to. I asked him how things were going and he said, “I’m amazed. I’m still scaring myself. I’m opening a play in a few weeks and I’m terrified.”

And I thought: I have to see this play. This is going to be good.
Alan Alda played Hawkeye Pierce for eleven years in the television series M*A*S*H and has acted in, written, and directed many feature films. He has starred often on Broadway, and his avid interest in science has led to his hosting PBS’s Scientific American Frontiers for eleven years. He was nominated for an Academy Award in 2005 and has been nominated for thirty-one (and has won five) Emmy Awards. He is married to the children’s book author and photographer Arlene Alda. They have three grown children and seven grandchildren. For more information on his new book Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself, visit www.alanaldabook.com

In 1918, polite women didn’t walk into saloons to discuss ousting political figures. They didn’t have illicit affairs with a married man, much less a preacher. Myra Kelly did both these things.

While she didn’t succeed in getting self-proclaimed mayor, Seamus O’Flannery ousted from office, she did help Theodore Sonnet win the battle over the church he was building for the town of Prosperity. A mutual sexual attraction develops between Myra and Theo, which turns into a full-blown obsession when Theo’s family arrives in town.

Myra loses her job as a teacher after a nasty miscarriage betrays her affair to the O’Flannery clan. She is a marked woman now, but she is determined to get back at Theo for his deceit and the O’Flannerys for their treachery. Neither of these men know the boundlessness of her hatred until it is too late.

Author

Deborah Woehr is the editor of the 2006 Writer’s Blog Anthology and The Writer’s Buzz. This is her first book, originally written for the 2005 National Novel Writers Month contest. For more information about her upcoming books, please visit DeborahWoehr.com/blog/.

I received quite a surprise when I logged onto my webmail account and found hundreds of Mailer Daemon emails waiting for me. Someone has collected my email address and has been using it since yesterday to spam countless number of people. If you are one of the people who received spam from my address, I apologize. I have alerted my webhost to this problem and will be looking into reporting this theft to the appropriate authorities, whatever that agency may be.

I will keep you updated about this situation because email identity theft has become a widespread problem.

Kind regards,
Deborah Woehr

William Cope Moyers, son of famed journalist Bill Moyers, paints an intimate portrait of his decade-long addiction to alcohol, cocaine and crack cocaine, describing in harrowing detail his experiences in crack houses in Harlem, St. Paul, and Atlanta. His consequent decision to make sobriety the center of his life caused him to walk away from a journalism career at CNN and follow an inner-voice that ultimately led to a vocation to help people just like himself – alcoholics and other addicted people.

AUTHOR:

Moyers is the vice president for external affairs at the Hazelden Foundation in Minnesota. A former newspaper journalist and writer for CNN, he lives with his wife and three children in St. Paul, Minnesota. For more information, please visit http://www.williammoyers.com/.

In a dusty, turn-of-the-century Catalan village, the bequest of a cello bow sets young Feliu Delargo on the unlikely path of becoming a musician. Anarchist Barcelona and the court of the embattled monarchy in Madrid teach him his first serious lessons in creativity, principle, and passion—and their consequences. When he meets up with the charming and eccentric piano prodigy Justo Al-Cerraz, their lifelong friendship and rivalry orchestrate a tumultuous course for them both. Over the span of half a century of creative struggle and international turmoil that sees them paying house calls on Picasso one year and being courted by dictators the next, they make glorious music together, and clash over virtually everything else: love, politics, and the purpose of art. When the tensions propelling a war-torn world toward catastrophe bring Aviva, an Italian violinist with a haunted past, into their lives, Feliu and Justo embark upon their final and most dangerous collaboration.

Author

Andromeda Romano-Lax has been a journalist, a travel writer, and an amateur cellist, as well as the author of numerous nonfiction books. The Spanish Bow is her first novel. For further information on the author, go to her Web site at www.RomanoLax.com

London, 1931. On the night before the opening of his new and much-anticipated exhibition at a famed Mayfair gallery, Nicholas Bassington-Hope falls to his death. The police declare it an accident, but the dead man’s twin sister, Georgina, isn’t convinced. When the authorities refuse to conduct further investigations and instead close the case, Georgina takes matters into her own hands, seeking out a fellow graduate from Girton College: Maisie Dobbs, psychologist and investigator.

The case soon takes Maisie to the desolate beaches of Dungeness in Kent, and through the sinister underbelly of the city’s art world. But to solve the mystery of the artist’s death, she will have to remain steady as the forces behind his fall come out of the shadows to silence her.

Messenger of Truth is another vivid, thrilling, and utterly unique episode in the life of Maisie Dobbs.

Author

Jacqueline Winspear is the author of three previous Maisie Dobbs novels, Maisie Dobbs, Birds of a Feather, and Pardonable Lies. A finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel, Maisie Dobbs won the Agatha, Alex, and Macavity Awards, and Birds of a Feather won the Agatha Award. Originally from the United Kingdom, Winspear now lives in California.

For more information, please visit www.jacquelinewinspear.com

I just finished watching a couple of videos from this company. The first was for the book Forever Alice, a paranormal suspense novel. I’m currently finishing up a ghost story and wanted to see how this book trailer looked. Overall, I liked it.

Have any of you used this service? If so, what did you think of it? I’ve included their infomercial below, in the event that you haven’t heard of this company and would like to research video production companies for your book trailer. Writers in Motion also helps promote books.

Cal Burton backed his red Porsche Carrera 911 cabriolette near a pine tree in front of the Armstrongs’ to prevent a bump or scratch from a drunk or careless partier. He strolled through the front door without a knock, looking for John. Cal was always impeccably dressed, and today he was dapper in his polo shirt and pressed pants. He arrived just in time to catch the end of Rick’s diatribe.

“Then who would attend these wonderful parties?” Cal said. He smiled as he reached up and placed his hand on his host John Armstrong’s shoulder. John noticed that Cal’s short brown hair now had grey streaks in it. Had that many years passed?

“Rick, meet Cal Burton. Trial lawyer and medical malpractice expert. No one is better.”

Rick gave Cal an embarrassed smile. “I sort of got carried away there. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Cal smiled back as only a practiced litigation attorney can. Rick could have cursed Cal’s mother and he would have just grinned. The party was a prime source for his referrals and leads, and he was not going to let a half-drunk redneck radiologist screw it up. “No offense taken. I understand your anger. There’s plenty of resentment between malpractice attorneys and doctors. One thing you have to understand is that we are the only watch-dog there is. Doctors have never policed themselves well enough to prevent bad doctors from practicing. Only bad doctors and people with bad judgment ever have legal problems. Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

John smiled. “Don’t look at me to make your case, counselor.” John moved away and made himself another drink. “Can I get you one, Cal? Or are you working?”

Cal waved Armstrong off with his hand. “Anyway, look at our former President; taken down not by a psychotic younger lover, but by his own bad judgment. Taken another way, by his own air of invincibility. When men start to believe they are above the law, they will inevitably make a mistake and are doomed to failure.”

“Clinton was trying to be like Kennedy, but Monica was no Monroe,” Rick said. “As for malpractice, I only half agree with you. I agree we don’t police ourselves well, but part of that is the government’s fault. They allow bad doctors from every third world country to train here, then stay. If we could keep out these bad foreign doctors, we would be okay.

“You think? Most of the work I get is from regular doctors like yourself. Not foreigners.”

John stepped in smoothly. “Cal is working on an interesting case now where I’m an expert witness. Maybe it’s something you could do in the future.”

Cal’s smile eased the tension. “Yeah. John loves it and thinks it’s very interesting because he gets three hundred dollars an hour!”

John glanced at Cal, anger still in his eyes.

“Oops, I guess I was not supposed to tell you that. Pretend you didn’t hear that from me.”

John managed a smile. “Cal, you’re a real classy guy.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” Rick said. “I would feel like a traitor.”

“Rick, you could work for the defense, helping the doctor defend him or herself. You don’t have to be an expert witness for the plaintiff.” Cal said.

There was a long, awkward pause. “Well, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.” John led them out into the yard.

Excerpted from LOCKED IN by Mike Esposito. Copyright © 2007 by Mike Esposito. All rights reserved. Excerpted by permission of the publisher. www.mikeespositomd.com

Author

Growing up in NYC, Mike Esposito never imagined that he would end up in Florida. After graduating high school on Staten Island, he attended the University of Florida and then went on to medical school at University of South Florida in Tampa.

After his radiology residency in Tampa he finished up his training in fellowship at Duke University. Soon after he took up a job as a radiologist in a Tampa area practice.

“My career in radiology has been rewarding but I needed a new challenge. Writing provided me an outlet but soon became an obsession and a second job. The end was LOCKED IN, my first completed full-length novel. I hope you enjoy it.” - Mike Esposito

For more information, please visit www.mikeespositomd.com

The following is an excerpt from the book A Nail Through the Heart
by Timothy Hallinan
Published by William Morrow; July 2007;$24.95US/$31.50CAN; 978-0-06-125580-9
Copyright © 2007 Timothy Hallinan

The Story: Poke Rafferty is an American expatriate living in Bangkok and the author of a number of “rough travel” books aimed at young, hip travelers who want to go off — way off — the usual tourist paths. He came to Bangkok to write the third book in the series, Looking for Trouble in Thailand, and falls in love with the city and the Thai people, two of them in particular: a former Patpong go-go dancer named Rose, with whom he now lives off and on, and whom he wants to marry; and a wary eight-year-old former street child named Miaow, whom he is trying formally to adopt.

The adoption process for Miaow is complicated and expensive, and to offset the expenses not too long ago, Poke wrote a piece for a magazine in which he demonstrated that virtually all the “missing” Western men in Thailand had gone missing voluntarily and were living very happily somewhere in the Kingdom. The article brought him a young Australian woman whose uncle has disappeared. This quest in turn leads him to a rundown mansion on the banks of the Chao Phraya River and a mysterious older woman — much feared, if others’ reactions to her are to be trusted — named Madame Wing. Poke is now in the house and about to meet Madame Wing for the first time.

***

The silence is pierced by a thin, insistent squealing from somewhere in the house. Rafferty backs away from the fragment of temple wall and seats himself in the armchair. The sound grows louder, and a woman comes around the corner and into view. She is tiny and angular, her sharp joints folded batlike into a wheelchair that is too big for her. The chair stops in the doorway, without entering the room, and the squealing stops with it.

She regards him without expression. For a moment he actually wonders if she is blind, simply directing her eyes where she knows the armchair will be.

“Madame Wing,” he says, just to break the silence.

Her chin comes up a quarter of an inch, and all the planes of her face shift. Her eyes actually register him for the first time. She is thin to the point of being gaunt, the bones of her face as sharp as a Cubist painting, the skull slowly surfacing beneath the flesh. The hands grasping the rubber wheels are all knuckles. The skin stretched over them has turned a peculiar bruised-looking purple.

“You came,” she says with a hint of satisfaction. The voice, low and rough, scrapes Rafferty’s ears. Despite the grandeur of her home, there is nothing refined about the way she sounds. She rolls herself a foot or so into the room. The wheelchair squeals again.

“You should get Jeeves to oil that thing.”

She stops the chair’s motion and regards him coldly. He has been regarded coldly before — he thinks of himself as an expert at being regarded coldly — but this is something entirely new. She looks at him as he might look at a snake coiled on his pillow. “His name is Pak, and you do not tell me what to do.”

“Just a suggestion.”

“Not ever,” she says. Now that he can see her eyes more clearly, he wishes he could not. They are extraordinarily luminous eyes, but the light in them seems all to be reflected. They have the shine of an animal that can see in the dark. He can see the white all the way around the circles of her irises. “You have questions to ask me before I come to my business. Ask them.”

Her business? Rafferty does want any part of this woman’s business, whatever it is. “You had a maid here,” he says. “She may know something about a man I’m trying to find.”

She draws herself up in the chair. It makes her seem both larger and heavier, despite her apparent frailty. “What man?”

“An Australian named–”

“No,” she says, closing the subject. She sits back. “I know nothing of Australians.”

“Actually,” he says, “it’s the maid you can probably help me with.” He holds up the note from Bangkok Domestics. “You wrote a letter about her.”

She extends a skeletal hand, a knot of knuckles and rings. It is absolutely still. Whatever health problems she may have, none of them causes her hands to tremble.

Rafferty begins to unfold the letter, but she gives the hand a peremptory shake and he finds himself getting up to give it to her. “Sit,” she says, the moment she has it. She does not look up to see if he does as he is told.

As she unfolds the letter, he gets a chance to look at her without having to face those unsettling eyes. Her hair, still mostly black, is pulled back into a bun so tight it looks like it hurts. The emaciated face is dark but not heavily lined, and Rafferty revises his estimate of her age. At first sight he thought seventy. Now he thinks she could be anywhere from fifty to sixty.

“This girl,” she says at last, precisely refolding the letter. “She is of no account.”

“She may have information I need.”

She drops the letter into her lap. “Why should I care?”

“Not a reason in the world. You said you’d see me, so I thought–”

“I do not care what you thought. The girl was dismissed because she could not accept discipline. I have no idea where she went.”

“How long did she work here before you fired her?”

The gaze she gives him says the question is an impertinence. “Seven weeks, eight weeks.”

“If you fired her, why did you write her a letter of reference?”

“Why does that matter?”

“It’s a natural question. The letter got her hired by someone else, and now that person is missing, and so is she.”

Something very unpleasant happens to her mouth. “Are you suggesting that this might involve me?”

“It involves you to the extent that it brought me here.”

“I brought you here,” she says imperiously. “Not this stupid girl.”

“And if I came, so will others. Who knows who’ll they’ll be?”

The hands drop to the chair’s wheels as though she intends to leave the room. Instead, she moves it forward several inches, squealing her way closer to Rafferty. When she is close enough to make him wish he could move the chair backward, the squealing stops and the silence of the house once again presses against his ears, like water.

“And who do you think they might be?” she asks.

The intensity of the question unnerves him. “Could be anyone. The police, the Australian embassy.”

She nods a tenth of an inch. Her lids drop slightly, hooding the eyes for a merciful moment, and then she turns to the carved stone on the wall. Her gaze travels left to right, like those of someone reading a newspaper. When she has finished, she says, without looking at him, “That’s hardly anyone.” Then she lifts her hands and claps once. The sound is still ringing in Rafferty’s ears when Jeeves steps into the doorway.
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