Nicholas Sparks ... an inside and intimate look.

                                           Nicholas Sparks 

  She was young and beautiful, the college student sitting next to me.

       "So, why are you here?" I asked. "You're a writer, a reader, or both?"

       "I love everything he writes. Reader," she said. 

        Over 1,000 people waited for Nicholas Sparks in a packed auditorium at the University of South Florida's Lecture Series. He would speak about the fortunate breaks in his writing career, what inspired him to write his different books, how he met his wife....

    

SOME INTERESTING FACTS SHARED BY SPARKS AT THE TALK.

       

     1. Nicholas Spark wrote his first novel at the age of 19 after injuring his foot. While recuperating, his mother said, "Do something." So he wrote. According to him, "It wasn't  good." It would be years down the road before he would try this again.

     2. He wanted to go to law school but wasn't accepted.

    

     3. He met his wife at Spring Break at Sanabel Island, Florida on a Monday night. Tuesday night she didn't remember him but he told her anyway that someday he would marry her. 

  

 4. His first published book, The Notebook, was based on the love affair and marriage of his wife's grandparents. He found out about it the day after he and his wife were married when they visited them. The grandparents were unable to go to the wedding because of illnesses so Nicholas' wife asked him to put on his tuxedo again and she dressed in her bridal attire and  they went to see them. That's when her grandfather revealed the story of how his wife's mother hid letters he had written her and many other elements that Nicholas believed made a very sweet story. Thus, The Notebook! 

   5. What inspired Message In A Bottle? 

        His father and mother went horseback riding. His mother fell off her horse and hit her head on a rock, hemorrhaged and died. His father became very despondent and wore black all the time. After seven years he found someone else he could love. He tells Nicholas about it and Nicholas is very happy for him. Then his father falls asleep driving; his car hits a tree and he dies. Many similar  elements play a large part of Message In A Bottle.

  6. What inspired A Walk To Remember?

       His sister. She is the girl in the book who carries her Bible to school and gets sick and dies. His sister dies of a brain tumor. She carried her Bible to school and the one thing she wanted was to be married. She marries a fellow that at first had no desire to be with her. (Seems familiar?) He loved her and even proposed marriage to her on one knee. Incredible! 

   7. How did he get his agent?  

       He bought a book on how to get an agent. Wrote a query letter. Sent it out to 25 agents. One agent wrote back but is not one of the 25. He asked her how she got his query letter. "The agent you sent it to died. They gave me her mail," she said. This twenty-six year old woman was fresh out of law school and had never sold a book to anyone in her life. She calls him with an offer. She sold his book for a million dollars! Incredible, but true! 

   8. Nicholas Sparks has five children and speaks very lovingly about his wife. 

   9. Sparks had eight of his books made into movies. (Gets to help pick out actors to do the parts in the movies.) 

  10. He's inspired to write books by situations of members of his family or stories of friends. 

  11. He encourages writers to know what they want to do with their writing and to focus on that goal. 

  12. He's witty. A very enjoyable speaker with a certain humility about him that makes him very likable. 

        I'm so glad I went to hear him speak. His success can be an inspiration to all of us who love to write.    

TWICE A PEDRO PAN ... From Memoir, "A Dot In Time."

                              Twice A Pedro Pan           From Memoir, A Dot In Time

                 

                           For all the Pedro Panes I know and for all those I'll never know.

I sat in a chair at the circle of twelve people in the room that held acting and dancing classes. I waited for him to call me while something rattled within me. Would I be next?

 I could hear the voices of the others taking the class. Some whispered, some muttered. A mixed group of different ages and races. Most fidgeted. I sat quietly, staring at one of the  windows at the top of the front wall of the room. This was my third acting class and my eyes always seemed to go to the same comforting object standing regal out the window when I waited for the teacher to give us the next instruction. A very tall royal palm tree. An icon from my past.

I heard another name called and it wasn't mine. I glanced at our instructor, his white T-shirt creating a beautiful contrast with his ebony black skin. I smiled. He appeared to be the only one relaxed. Not us. We had learned to expect the unexpected in the class. Those impromptu assignments he sprung up for us to think through fast.

"Amarilys." I saw the young fellow leaving the seat in front of our instructor and the teacher motion for me to come and sit. I plunked down on the cold metal chair and he smiled. That smile had a dance going with his eyes. I felt pulled right into it and for a moment that magic chased my nerves away.   

"Finished the first part? The assignment for this week?" He drew his hand to the pad ready to write. "What part then?"        

 "A Pedro Pan. I'm going to be a Pedro Pan child."

He looked up from his pad. His eyebrows furrowed. "You said that's how you came here?"

 I nodded.

He placed his pen down on the pad. "You sure?"

I bit my lower lip and nodded.

"Why?" He looked at me and gave me another of those smiles.

I pressed my lips together and sighed. I felt my throat tightening.

"Never mind," he said. "I'll help you." He started to write.

"Here. To write the part. Consider what I've written." He turned the pad around.

"Read it."

"Number one: The moment before. Number two: The moment after." It was my turn to furrow my brow. "What do you mean?"

"Your assignment is to write a character in a short scene, right?"

"Yes?"

"While you write it hold close the moment the character experienced before the scene. And, hold close the moment the character experienced after the scene. Understand?"

The room was filled with silence. The group had heard what the instructor spoke and knew something of value had been said.

 "Write your character. Remember, the character has to want something. What is it? And, then, write dialogue. The whole scene. Not long. Just strong. Bring it to class next week. Any prop that will help you, bring. I'll read it and then feed you lines. They'll draw the character out." He did that dance with the eyes and mouth again. "I'll help you."

 Every day that week I labored on the assignment. I wrote the character, a nine year old  girl leaving in a Pedro Pan flight from Cuba with her five year old sister. What did she want? To stay close to her sister. What was the character to perform? The nine year old communicating to authorities receiving her that she wants to stay with her sister.

 I  wrote the scene holding fast the moment before it. The moment both girls found themselves in the airplane alone without their parents. A scene I once lived. I wrote the scene holding close the moment after the scene I would perform. The moment the older girl was separated from her sister ... a  picture that unraveled in me all kinds of tearing emotions. Why was I attempting this? Would I fall apart performing the part in a wrong way? Would I numb myself to the pain of the character to protect myself and not do justice to the acting?

The next week our instructor called out for volunteers to act out their character in the scene written. I held  to my prop, an empty cigar box, like the one I brought from Cuba, with one hand, and raised the other high ... "Me!"

I stood before the instructor, clasping my invisible little sister's hand with my one hand and holding tightly to the cigar box with the other, ready to play the Pedro Pan, Maria del Carmen.

"Your name?"

"Nombre? Maria del Carmen."

"Ah, you speak English."

I swayed slowly from side to side, swinging the hand of my little sister. Looking down, back and forth, to my little sister. "Sí, Jes! Un poquito. Mi hermana, sis-ter, con me, sí?

 "What's your sister's name?"

"Liliana. Lili." I swayed my body faster, side to side. "Lili, conmigo. Me." I pushed the cigar box against me. Hitting my chest. "Juntas. To-ge-ther." I kept looking at my little sister. "Sí, Lili? Junticas siempre. Sí, Señor?"

The instructor shook his head. "No. So sorry."

Tears rolled down my face. "No, señor. Ay." I looked down at my little sister. "Ay, no. Lili." I swayed faster and faster and pulled my little sister to my side. "Ay, no,no.Mami!,Papi." I sobbed.

Then ...

I wiped my face and bowed my head. For an instant I felt a lifting of a weight from my heart. I knew  why I had to write and play that part. They were out there and in some way writing and playing the part had connected me with them. The Pedro Panes I would never know.  

The Instructor whispered. "Well done, Amarilys."

I wiped away more tears.  

"We'll take a break now," he said.

Chairs screeched as people got up to take the break outside. A lady stayed behind.

"That was brutal. I had to turn away or lose it. How could you act like that?"

I dug a Kleenex out of my pocketbook, blew my nose, and smiled. "I wasn't acting."

"What?"

"I was a Pedro Pan child."

She shook her head. "Really?"

I nodded. Her arms went around me. "I'm sorry," she said.

After a few minutes the lady left. I sat on a chair facing the high windows on the front wall. I fixed my sight out the window at an object. An icon from my past.

Marggie With Two Gs Fish Recipe

         Hello, Friends!  Want to make fish? Here's one of my recipes!
   
      Marggie With Two Gs Fish Recipe    Easy, not too many ingredients, pretty fast!

4 or 5 pieces of Tilapia

2 cans crab meat (drained of their water)

1 stick of butter (you won't be using it all)

1/4 cup sweet onion

1/4 cup green pepper

Paprika

1/2 cup of bread crumbs

 a little cream, or half and half

 a little dab of sugar

Cayenne Pepper to taste. (I sprinkle some all over it lightly!)

Dab of dry Parsley (optional)

Procedure:)  Chop your onions and green pepper very fine. Cook them slowly in 1/2 stick of butter.

Prepare a glass casserole dish by melting a tablespoon of butter and using it to grease the pan. Cut your Tilapia in four large pieces cutting off four small thin pieces and placing them aside.

Place your larger Tilapia slices three or four on dish. 

In your frying pan where you have "limping SOFRITO," cooking (Sofrito usually has 3 legs, onion, green pepper, and garlic.) This does not have garlic! Cook it till tender. Drain some of the butter from this "limping SOFRITO," off.  Add the drained two cans of Crab. Add a little dab of sugar to it to taste. Add the Cayenne Pepper. (Better less than too much!) You can always add more later after all is mixed and you taste it. Add about 1/4 cup of cream and the bread crumbs. Mix well. Simmer. Do not add SALT. The butter will do the trick, we're not through.  Spread this mixture of the crab over the pieces of Tilapia in casserole dish. 

Place the small pieces of the Tilapia you left on the side on top of each piece. I put a tooth pick  through this. Easier to transport after. Spread the rest of the butter melted on top of the fish. Sprinkle Paprika over it. DONE!  Bake in the oven at 350* for a half hour or until the fish is done. Flaky!  Enjoy!   Not hard to make. If your mate says, "Boy, why don't we eat this more often?" Then, you'll know you got it right!  

   Where The Natural Meets The Supernatural ... Beyond The Veil . 

                    The Other Side of Me   by Amarilys Gacio Rassler 

                                                              (Marggie)

      

  To most I'm a wife, mom, nana, writer, friend. To others I'm one who has suffered greatly at the hands of evil spirits.

       December 11, my birthday. Reflecting on my life I take the opportunity to share where I've been and where I'm going.

    Beyond The Veil   

       In 1979, I decide to give myself over to the search for the truth about the supernatural. My passion for the knowledge of what happens after death prompted my focused seeking. I plunged into occult practices and opened my mind and heart to another world. The world of the supernatural.      

     How I experienced evil spirits and how my life dove into insanity through their constant voices and apparitions and their aims to bring me to death through madness is the story I tell in Beyond The Veil. Not all symptoms that appear to be mental illness are mental illness.

     How the only thing that brought me succor was a complete turning of myself over to God and seeking His help is also in the book.

     The process of recovery was not easy. At first I became very angry with God for not taking the evil spirits away immediately. Yet, I learned there was a reason. A plan He had for me to follow. The process provided time for training. You see, He had a purpose. Not only was I to survive but later on I was to help many to do the same.

     Not long after sanity returned to me, without doctors, medications, or hospitalization but through Him, I attended church where the people heard about my story and asked me to share it with others. Thus began years of speaking in parents' groups, women's groups, church groups, college groups and even in centers for delinquent young people. Through my speaking engagements began the ministry of counseling those oppressed by evil spirits. With the need to know more began  over thirty years of reading, training and studying the process of setting people free. I interned with others who had worked at it longer than I had and were able to teach me what they had learned in the trenches.

     For many years our house became a refuge for counseling the spiritually oppressed till my mother needed more of my help.

    It was then that a pastor friend encouraged me to begin to write. "Marggie, he said, why don't you leave what you've learned with others? Imagine how God might use that to help people even after you're gone." 

    Presently, I'm still working on Beyond The Veil, a hard book to write, especially now that my mother has gone home.  I'm determined, though, to finish it. Pray for me.

     A View Into The Spirit Realm ... Stories of the Supernatural

    The above title is for yet another book on which I'm working. I want so much to share facts about the spirit realm I have learned.  This book is an anthology of fictional stories to inspire, entertain and inform ... stories of the supernatural intertwined with suspense and strong loving relationships. Stories that reflect my work of many years. It's my desire that through my writing, many, lost in spiritual oppression, learn there's a Way out ... One Who will set them free.

     After one of my talks, years ago, a man came up to me and said, "I've heard you speak twice. The first time I couldn't hear what you were saying. Just a ringing in my ears. This time I heard it all. What you describe is the hell I've been in for many years. Will you help me?"

    We worked together and The Lord set him free. The voices stopped. The nightmares disappeared and now he's helping others to be set free.

    I dedicate this blog to him and the many others who have made my life rich. They've allowed me to see the Hand of God touch them and set them free.

                                                  To Him be the glory! 

           Thank you, Lord, for another birthday, for without You I wouldn't be here.

               

Mountain Happening ...  At The Farm ... Some might see just animals and I see ...
First morning rocking on the porch ...

ANOTHER VIEW                                                      
                                                                                                   
Leaves in multi-shades of crimson dresses,
Drop in slow dance,
With open arms embracing then,
green carpet ground.

Crows chatter back and forth,
Like friends at coffee houses,
Exchanging trivia.

Roosters confused? Constantly
Crow at midday. Maybe on
Overtime shifts.

Tickle of frisky wind,
Brushes my neck,
Kisses my cheek,
And ballet dances
Away to pirouette
Near horse's mane.

AND YET,

Humans interrupt the music
Of this Nature's opus, so
A woodpecker madly
Drills away with faster beat,
Mocking  farmer who hammers
On a white picket fence.

And the prosaic sound of a truck
Drums down a hill,
While a tractor rumbles,
 Forcing wheels up a mountain.

Nearby on a hill, a horse in
Shinny black tux and white cuffs
Around his feet, conducts this
Nature's symphony with
His swaying  tail.

THEN,
The horse,
Disturbed by the homo sapiens's
Insensitivity to the flowing art around them,                                     
Shakes his mane with artful passion
And ... Snorts!

A MOUNTAINTOP EXPERIENCE ... MY DAYS IN WORLD WAR II

     A Mountaintop Experience ... My Days In World War II            

        

          She handed me the manuscript in a black folder when we got to the place we stay at the Georgia mountains. The owner of the cabins said, "Will you read it? Tell me if it's worth anything?"

         The next morning I sat in the rocker of our cabin's porch, manuscript in hand. One more thing to read. I already had plans for the vacation. A couple of books my friends had written I hadn't gotten to yet and other books I brought to read about writing, plus my favorite spiritual material.

         The crisp wind tossed leaves around the trees by the cabin. A confused rooster kept crowing somewhere behind me even though it was not early morning anymore. I sipped my coffee while identifying with the tossed leaves and the confused rooster. I felt confused about what my vacation time was going to look like now that my plans seemed to be tossed around.

         I opened the manuscript and right away observed the format. Letters. Letters written by a POW, from World War II, to his family. His five year old son, his three year old daughter and his wife.

        It wasn't long before the shame gripped me. I had been handed something sacred. He had written page after page of the letters and hidden them in his back pocket. And through those letters I had been transported to his side.

        Soon I was spreading dung over fields in icy cold Germany, with flimsy wear. Then I attended the church services he held for the men, the fellow prisoners captured with him. By his side I stood, without being able to sit in train cars where the only bathroom was a bucket used by many men who stood like sardines for hours ... cars where some of the men acted like caged animals.

         When the threat of the Russians made the Germans force the prisoners to march for days, with just a piece of black bread for food, I was there. When men could not walk one more step, out of illness and exhaustion and were mercilessly shot, I heard the loud sound of their guns penetrating the mind of each man, vibrating in the core of each heart.

          Weeks and weeks without washing ... eaten up by lice. Tormenting lice all over their bodies  that kept them awake at night. Constant danger. Some going insane. Yet the man whose letters I read was a strong believer. A man of faith. He didn't waiver.

           And so I spent a large part of my vacation with a POW of World War II in Germany. What a gift! I thank his daughter for trusting me with his manuscript. Is it worth anything? Priceless! A mountaintop experience. 

   Private C.H. Pollard   was captured October 26, 1945 
      at 2:30 A.M. in Germany
     He obtained his freedom at the end of the war. 

MUSING AROUND ... AH, MUSE!

   MUSING AROUND ... AH, MUSE!

      

AH, MUSE!                                     Poem by Marggie Rassler        

Calling to my little Muse,

Please inspire me to good use.

What? I hear her magic word,

Vow that art, shall be transferred?

"Yes, bethink a potent start,

Really prompt get to their heart.

 

Form those characters to breathe strong,

Let them weep ... then sing a song!

 

Cut out long and sleepy clauses,

Who needs yawns as reader pauses.

 

Move your narrative along,

Pages flipping with that prong.

 

Do away with passive verb,

Make your scenes alive, disturb!

 

And at end of every chapter,

Drop those hooks, that'll make you captor.

 

But, why has Thou, furrowed brow?

Not enough to work with now?"

 

Holy Cow, Muse please say CIAO!

Writer's block has hit me ... POW!


  Writer friend, can you relate?