Family Secrets Lies & Alibi’s – A Must Read

You received the phone call, your loved one has died.
Over the past two years your relationship has been frayed, separated by Secrets & Lies.

As executor of the will, you find there are more legal ties.
More family, people you don’t know, more Secrets & Lies

Money changes people they all seek what has been left by your loved one the decease
You’ve been put in an uncomfortable position, you need an emotional release.

Your girl is a “gold digger” this you already know,
With the estate making you wealthy your relationship is about to blow

There’s one you’ve been talking to, she’s been tugging at your heart
You spend the week spending steamy moments with her setting off emotional sparks

Neither of you know the connection you’ve found a new beginning, a new love
But from the grave your father’s Secrets & Lies reveal another shock, you need help from above.

You find yourself dealing with a wife and family you never knew he had
You look at those expecting part of his estate and now you’re questioning “Dad”

Can a life that held Secrets & Lies reach you from the grave?
Can your family be the same, can new relationships be saved?

Will the wife finally confront the mistress who has been in her marriage from the start?
Will the mistress find she is the only woman who held the deceased close to her heart?

Can the son understand why his father didn’t tell his Secrets are there more Lies does he have an Alibi?
Will he lose his new love or find the truth while keeping his own secrets those he must hide.

Will the Mince family be secured as they were before D.Q.’s death?
You’ll have to read…..Family Secret’s Lies & Albi’s to learn the rest.

www.ipendesigns.com

www.myspace.com/ipendesigns

www.amazon.com

www.justbookz.com

CNN Black in America- Andrea Version

 

CNN’s Black in America

My Version of That Story

by Andrea Blackstone

 


    Last night, I met with some friends in a cozy spot, chatting about business and life. To the right of our booth, a flat screen commanded our attention. In my between laughs and brainstorming, the majority of patrons paused when the segment began. In fact, nearly everything ceased. Forks rested on plates, and robust chatter quieted. Most of the patrons of the quaint spot in DC, were people of color who stopped by to unwind after a long day at work. If someone is speaking about a group to which he or she belongs, most people instinctually take interest in wanting to know exactly what will be said about them. In this case, “them” was “us.” You know, black folk.  My eyes followed a few scenes that included a glimpse of a neighborhood, then a shot of black hands clenching steel prison bars. I can’t speak to the entire show, since I couldn’t manage to stomach the entire presentation, but when large images of the stereotypical black inner life city met my eyes, I sighed with sheer disappointment. I expected something else that could make me feel like someone with the power to bring issues to the public would tell more about us…this time. Initially, my heart was filled with hope, but my attention span soon waned in a familiar way. I also observed several other patrons resume conversations and continue eating. My neighborhood doesn’t look like that, nor the one where I grew up. I don’t know anyone in jail, although I’m not saying that I’ve never known anyone who hasn’t been incarcerated. With that said, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t truly say that I couldn’t relate to those images. 

 

    I was sitting in the presence of a young woman who has been a business owner since 18, and a former DEA agent who is highly respected, not just in The District, but all around the world. Both are females–African-American females. I consider the stories that my father told me of wearing under clothes passed down from white troops, when he was a young man in the military. They were patched up to inspire a second life. He also explained that worn out shoes were repaired and given to black troops to use. These examples are only the beginning of the discourse that dovetails with equality. There were countless substandard conditions, before integration. Nevertheless, many African-Americans persevered, and proudly served and made great contributions to the United States. I also consider someone else who came to sit at our booth–a witty black surgeon who worked at Howard University Hospital. He wasn’t stuffy or arrogant. He greeted me like any other person would. When his friend revealed who he was, and what he’d done, he waved her off, as if his accomplishments were nothing special. Always “the smart kid,” it turned out that he broke some sort of age record, but I won’t spend all of my time name dropping here.

 

    In the midst of that conversation, the series continued to play. An avid people watcher, I felt dizzy with mixed images. One played on TV, while others continued to unfold in real time. The ironic thing was that CNN’s story of being black in America was nothing like the story that had been written in the place where I was seated. I soon noticed a small business owner slumped over, feeling tired. He sat down on a padded stool to take a break from standing on his feet all day. He obviously put in a hard day’s work, where people stop in to unwind and enjoy home cooked victuals. His wife continued serving customers as he wiped his face. I watched him drift off, until someone said goodbye. When he heard his name called, he perked up and answered, lively and warm. My imagination ran wild in that little dive. Everyone there had a story. The kind of story each patron owned probably won’t ever make it TV, yet they too are black people living in America. And for the record, affirmative action was not relevant to any story that I heard that evening. Each individual worked hard to qualify, and press forward, just like any other American. We have a history of overcoming obstacles, yet all too often, the ills of a certain segment of our population becomes the focus of what gets dissected and discussed at length. Here we go again, but do most of “us” expect anything other than the status quo? When one person makes a mistake or commits a crime, does society hold it against our entire race?

 

    I learned to have faith in more than what the media tells me, during my formative years. I read so much news online, and listen to so much talk radio, I often forget to power on the bube tube. My father raised me to value news and business programming like CNN. He always told me that watching certain programming, and listening to certain types of discourse, provides insight regarding how to prepare for tomorrow. As a result, I quickly grew eager to find out what was going on all around the world. By age nine, I was addicted to The Diane Rehm Show on 88.5. I soon learned that Rush Linmbal’s views could make me heated in a hurry. Nevertheless, my father, who was a single parent, taught me a lesson in something far bigger. The media is a powerful force. Within the structure of it, viewers or listeners will enjoy the manner in which a given topic was explored, while others will leave segments feeling the sting of the power to inform. Opinions are just that, yet interpretations of social ills, and how various people rise and fall, are a part of the grand presentation. How we deal with life, and how we interact with others in this world, gets jammed into segments, which will also undergo editing. Every angle can’t be covered. In fairness, that’s just an impossible task. Although most of us are well aware of the aforementioned, the final product is at the heart of the matter. Thus, my version of CNN’s Black in America Series connects with the issue of responsible journalism. Do journalists have a moral obligation to explore both sides of any issue? That premise can’t be enforced, but lately, I’ve been questioning what I feel “good” journalism entails. I’ve grown weary of recycled issues with stale presentations. Some conclude that the lack of diversity in presenting stories is an intentional endeavor, while others chalk it up to the way media works, because it’s just too hard to change their game. You choose; I’m just here to give you yet one more version of my feelings of being black in America. I too can’t cover it all in one opinion piece. What I can do is offer food for thought, based on my experiences living as a black citizen in America.   


    After my time with my friends came to a close, with a sheet of plastic over my head, I ran toward my door, my mind twisted with introspection. I wondered how I’m going to get to the next level in my life, and what the world could assume about me, just because I’m black. All I can do is put in time and effort, hoping that a substantial door will open some day. To date, much of my life has been spent in school, or trying to find one solid job where I can put my skills to use. With that said, something is better than nothing. Life is not a perfect experience, whether you’re black, white, or other. I thought of the story I’ll soon be penning about my father’s relatives. It doesn’t involve gossip, sex, scandal or drugs. It’s just a human interest story that speaks to humanity–to people of all colors– as well as the reality of an ultimate sacrifice. I also consider role models like every black man who goes to work wearing a suit and tie, or blue jeans and a crisp T-shirt. All of them are gainfully employed. Professional or blue collar, they are not sitting in jail, or taking advantage of sisters or the system. Would someone please remind us of the number of black men who do hold degrees, own a business, or did fight for custody of their children? If the goal is to educate others about black people, these stories exist too, so why do producers often neglect to include more of their stories? 

 

    In the coolness of the night, I sprawled out on top of my comforter, realizing that my mother’s birthday is quickly approaching. What am I going do to this year? Somehow I’ll find a way to celebrate. This will be my fourth trip of remembering my best friend for life, the best way I can. I have no husband or kids to soften the blow, but that’s okay. Wait a minute–I don’t fit the mold either. No kids, no baby daddies? I spent so much time in school, taking note of broken marriages, and kids going through hell, I’ve walked on eggshells, trying to dodge pointless drama. I could’ve teetered on the edge of living a good or settled life, but I opted to keep striving for myself, on my own. The road has been difficult, but it is what it is. And as far as mom, I now choose to focus on the good times, not the manner in which I lost her. When life got rough, mom lifted me. “Don’t worry about it. Keep trying.” That was her mantra. I had a strong bond with my mother, and I always will. Now a motherless black woman, I didn’t lose my mother to drugs or violence. I lost her to cancer. My brother, a black man who holds an advanced degree in divinity, stood by her side, until the very end. Would a story like ours make it to a segment or a show? I doubt it. It probably wouldn’t make ratings soar, not even the part about my brother being attacked for recording our mother’s last few days of her life. Pardon me, I do know someone who has been to jail. My brother was arrested for doing that. A jury of his peers were all white men from our hometown. Nearly four years later, my brother called to inform me that he lost his lawsuit, thanks to police immunity, and more details that illustrate the other side of  black life in America. His story was brushed under the rug.  I was left feeling that any time we look at Mom saying hello to her friends and family on tape, the memory of that experience will resurface. My brother never even had a speeding ticket, but he soon found out what it felt like to be locked up, or go through the trauma of getting his record expunged. A few days after that experience, our mother died. Despite this occurrence, my brother hasn’t changed or become a bitter man. He finds strength through his faith in God, just as many African-Americans do in America. Many black people don’t hate white people, nor do a great portion of us judge people we don’t even know. Our mother was our best example. She still reminds me how much love can carry you through anything. That’s not a black thing; it’s a people thing. I suppose that’s why people of all colors and races loved her so much. In turn, we too embrace those who embrace us. 

     

    I recall a time when my first book was nestled inside of her tote bag. I sat next to her in a treatment room for cancer patients. Some accused me of being a gold digger, not realizing fiction was just that. I have no interest in taking advantage of a man who cracked the code. I want mine by earning it. The reason why I attempted to try my hand at writing urban fiction was rather simple. I couldn’t land a job in my field. As a reward to myself, I took matters into my own hands. Whatever people were reading most, I decided that I was going to try to write it. As an English major who attended a historically black college, I wondered if attending another school would’ve given me more clout in corporate America. I tried the other side, since things seemed to be more about strategy than if you’re trainable. I earned my M.A. in a year and a half, in a rare program, where few blacks rarely enrolled. After I finished graduate school, I recall sitting in interviews, qualified, yet chided for what I’d done. “What made you pick that program?” I’ve been told by recruiters to remove some of my credentials, just to land a so-so job. I worked hard for them, so why should I? My counterparts are praised for finishing the very same program. I crack open newspapers and magazines, and I never get an inkling that the majority thought it was a bad thing. I hear catty remarks all of the time, and get the brush off from both sides of the fence.

 

    Most recently, one person told me that she was looking to hire someone right away, yet her behavior indicated that I wasn’t even in the running to be considered. “Do you have an A.A. degree?” she asked. “Yes I do. I have a Master’s and two years of law school,” I explained. “Well, I’ll take your resume, but I’m still looking.” She floated over toward the coffee area, nearly rubbing in her ability to help me pay off my student loans, or keep me in misery. “Oh this coffee is perfect,” she crooned with a smile. Her co-worker stood next to her, sipping mocha, as they both indulged in office gossip. By the way, this woman was not white. (Figure it out.) Not to sound like a pessimist, but sitting in the lobby nearly an hour, then experiencing that little dig already told me I shouldn’t wait by the phone for her call. Been there, experienced that. How many years have I been through his? In a who-you-know-town, a degree can justify people being in the loop, while other qualified applicants would never be welcomed there. Deep down, I thought of throwing my hat in the ring to try to earn a PhD. If I did, it wouldn’t be for the right reasons. It would only be to gain a little more respect in this world, as well as this town. I want to be the head cheese, primarily because of cheesy people, and the possibility of better job security. Is another student loan bill worth it? Maybe so, maybe not. I’ve done all of the things I was supposed to do to live a normal life, yet recruiters yawn when I remind them of my degrees or student loan obligations. What they often are willing to pay is no less than insulting.

 

Even so, (repeat after me), something is better than nothing. I’ve held jobs that didn’t require a college degree, and taken trips to South East, shaking as I left work at night, as police escorted staff. I’ve also felt the sting of working for years with no benefits. Still, I reminded myself that many people out there had it far worse than I did, and still do. I often let the sun warm my face, crank my easy listening music, then slide up the highway. I had chains on me, and yes, they’re still there. I can’t find the groove I was groomed to like, so I fake it and hustle hard where my heart is happy. The writing profession is undervalued, and in my opinion, it’s much too hard to make a living solely by writing, at least for the average author. I contemplate returning to law school with mixed emotions. All of those things cross my mind, many days. It all comes back to someone who did embrace me with unwavering faith.

 

    I recall sitting next to my mom, trying to ease her worried mind, as she sat in a special recliner. Her veins were filling with bone strengthener, and all I could think was “I’ve got to sell these books for her.” Realizing success is of our own making, completing one little task for “us” would make me feel like I’d done something kind of cool before I die. But along the way, I promised I’d clean up the content and talk about things like this, in a book. 

 

I want to weave tales of my grandparents, two modestly paid professors in the South, at a time when mostly anyone didn’t have a degree. Mom’s wisdom planted that seed, and it has sprouted over the past few years. I’m fighting to officially pen those stories, as well as others that can reach young adults. I’m working hard to earn the right to take that ride, even if landing a book deal of that nature will prove to be extremely difficult. CNN’s special reminded me that more stories of the other side of black life should not only be told, but also supported. Our people have suffered various realities that some feel we should forget. How can we forget something if equity is lagging in 2008? That’s my biggest question about being black in America. 
    

    My first taste of that reality was getting the shaft in law school, simply because I picked the wrong school for the color of my skin. Although I grew up in the suburbs, Cinderella I am not. Now that mom’s gone, I have to face something else too. Where is the rest of her family? Some are lightly kissed by the sun, while others have faded into the trenches of white America. Even more complex, some are white, and our relation is very close. And where is the tiny little town in Virginia where my other grandmother grew up? Her mother raised a crew of children alone, so I understand. Native American ties, this time. 
What does it feel like to be black in America, knowing that blood of other races flow through your veins? Some of us still won’t mention it, even if that reality hits close to home, and some people regard mixture as a point of interest or disdain, so you’re not supposed to mention it, unless people pry. Most of the time, if people shoot a “high yella” joke your way, you’re supposed to laugh it off. At the other end of my gene pool, I consider my other grandmother who died when I was an infant. She was a maid, faithful church member, and part-time cook in her daughter’s popular soul food restaurant. My dad, the cashier in that establishment, from the age of 11, became a graduate from one of the most prestigious institutions around. He completed homework in the backroom, on top of a crate in between breaks or before his shift. Many of his siblings made it too. He also pulled groceries in wagons, and shined shoes to pay for his school clothes, during The Depression. Many other kids from the old neighborhood, who shined shoes, in brick-filled streets of a sleepy town, are now at the top of the heap. Once again, these people are black in America, too. Will someone ever interview more black people like them?    Lastly, my mind shifts toward two young people. One is nine, and was attacked in the inner city, by fellow students. It was a simple case of bullying the kid who was behaving as a normal student–no frills or wild antics in tow. The school did nothing but brush the event under the rug. Hearing that my niece had to endure many stitches, just for being the soul she is, auntie now has to plan a day to be with her, in hopes of doing a little damage control. I don’t want her to hate school because of what was done to her. The other is barely 21, battling a heart condition. I root for this young black man who is fighting to make his life better. Last year, he struggled through summer school. “Did you ask your professor for help?” I asked. I was informed that his mathematics professor wasn’t too helpful. He repeated the course, and began moving ahead after transferring to another community college with a mixed population. Now his health is failing, due to the stress of simply trying to make his start better than his beginning. Every day he took the bus in the city to get to college in the county, he navigated past gangs where wearing the wrong color shirt could get him killed. He too has been picked on for trying to make something out of himself. Should we not consider why things have spiraled out of control, and how such instances can impact our youth?  Some of them want to be saved. Will the world see their plight?    In closing, black life is not perfect, nor are people. Every race has its share of issues to overcome, and all of us are capable of making mistakes. Nevertheless, we should be judged as individuals, not as a group. Considering all that we have endured, I still feel that there’s more good to celebrate than bad to emphasize. I encounter so many people of color, struggling to make life better for their families and themselves. Some have been on the bottom of the totem pole, and vowed to sit at the top some day. Others are in mid-stroke, simply trying to stay afloat like most of us. Another segment may fall into the categories of those scenes I initially spoke of, during the beginning of this piece. Nevertheless, African-American people are diverse. All too often, we’ve been placed in one box. For those of us who are tired of sitting there, it’s time to take ourselves out of it, and expose our eclectic experiences, in this thing called black life. We’ve been there for too long, and I’m not sure if the average mainstream media outlets will ever give us a chance to set the record straight. To me, the most logical thing that some of us can do is hold hope near, making adequate efforts to distance ourselves from whatever statistics say. Personally, my inspiration comes from something simple and free. It comes from all of the positive black people who I observe doing great things in America! 

 

 
 
Andrea Blackstone majored in English and minored in Spanish at Morgan State University. After a two-year stint in law school, she later changed her career path. While recovering from an illness, she earned an M.A. from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland ahead of schedule and with honors. Andrea self-published her first two urban novels, and recently completed her first book deal with Q-Boro Books. Her nonfiction debut can be found in Chicken Soup for the African-American Woman’s Soul. A lover of all genres and outrageous characters, Andrea aspires to write a wide array of stories. Her future work will range from inspirational nonfiction to unconventional plots written under one of many pseudonyms. You may contact her at dreamweaverpress@aol.com.

 

————————————————————

 

Andrea Blackstone was born in Long Island, New York, and moved to Annapolis, Maryland at the age of two. She majored in English and minored in Spanish at Morgan State University. While attending Morgan, she received many recommendations to consider a career in writing and was the recipient of The Zora Neale Hurston Scholarship Award.

After a two-year stint in law school, she later changed her career path. While recovering from an illness, she earned an M.A. from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland ahead of schedule and with honors. Afterward, Andrea became frustrated with her inability to find an entry-level job in journalism and considered returning to law school.

Jotting down notes on restaurant napkins and scraps of paper became a habit that she couldn’t shake. In 2003, she grew tired of waiting for her first professional break and decided to create Dream Weaver Press. A short time later she self-published  Schemin’: Confessions of a Gold Digger, and the sequel, Short Changed.  Andrea is also a finalist in  Chicken Soup for the African-American Woman’s Soul , and some of her original work will also be included in an upcoming urban fiction anthology. A lover of all genres and outrageous characters, Andrea aspires to write a wide array of stories. Her work will range from inspirational nonfiction to unconventional plots written under one of many pseudonyms. Andrea recently signed her first book deal with Q-Boro Books and looks forward to having a new work released under a publishing house.  

EDC Creations,EDC Creations Virtual Tours,Black Authors Network,Sankofa Literary Society,Ella Curry,African American Literature

Early Withdrawal-An Excerpt

             After dinner, the verbal embargo continued on the car ride home. Not having to work the next day, it was a given that Sonia would be spending the night with him. Upon arriving at his apartment, she gave in to the drained feelings the entire day had created. Without a word, she headed straight for the bedroom with him following close behind. Since he usually preferred to fall asleep in front of the television, Sonia was surprised to sense him swiftly approaching. Turning around to see what he wanted, he startled her by how quickly he came up on her, slipping his strong cocoa brown arms around her waist. He nuzzled his face into her neck as his arms tightened around her.

             “What are we doing?” Sonia asked as he raised one hand up to palm her breast.

             “They say, ‘never go to bed angry.’ I say let’s just go to bed.”

             Sonia’s breath escaped her leaving a feeling of light-headedness as Cedric pressed his engorged pelvic region against her while squeezing her round firm breasts.

             Regardless of the tension between them and the numerous times Sonia had found herself reliving this same moment with him, he always seemed to know how to gain her sexual compliance. Conflicted between the need to resist and the urge to give in, her mind raced as he coaxed her toward the bed. Cedric released his grip just long enough to untie her hunter green silk wrap-dress. The dress fell apart revealing Sonia’s matching flesh colored lace demi-bra and thong. She felt like a Victoria’s Secret model on full display as he stepped back to take in the sight of her.

             Sonia knew one carefully chosen phrase could ruin the mood. Luckily, her body was winning over her mind. She fixed her eyes on him as he began to undress. Her body started to ache when his erection came into full view as his pants fell to the floor. He stepped out of them and moved closer to her in one fluid motion. Reaching for her hips, he picked her up off the floor prompting Sonia to wrap her legs around his waist. As his bulge rubbed against her sweet spot, Cedric pulled her bra’s half-cup down to reveal her left nipple. She gasped when he sucked the nipple between his teeth and jabbed the end of it with his tongue.

             Carrying her, Cedric moved to the bed. From suckling her breast to kissing the length of her neck, he continued to ravage her. To Sonia, this was very different from the obligatory sex she was use to. Relishing every touch, her mind raced. Is it possible that I got through to him? Is he finally taking this seriously? Sonia reveled in his obvious intent to pleasure her. While his lips continued to savor her breasts, the fingers of his right hand began to pry apart the wanton lips that hid her throbbing core beneath her thong. As Sonia felt herself dampen with desire, Cedric pulled away just as she began to ride the climax. Overcome with confusion and frustration, she watched as he rolled over and opened the nightstand drawer. Feelings of recognition and disappointment took over as Sonia listened to Cedric rip the wrapper from the condom before sliding it into place.  There’s my answer. Her heart burned as she realized the baby making she thought was about to commence was really just Cedric’s calculated attempt to get his needs met and his needs alone.

             Sonia remained still as Cedric parted her legs and entered her. Reminiscent of the last time her legs were parted that day, she drew in a sharp breath and stared at the ceiling as the thrusting began. A few moments into it, she diverted her gaze onto his face and unlike previous encounters, he didn’t make eye contact.

             “So this is all about you, huh?”

             The question stung her throat as it pierced the space between them. The only response Cedric gave was a guttural grunt followed by a ratcheted increase in his thrusts.

             Every pump fueled Sonia’s anger. Being pinned underneath him as the object of his lust, she sunk her nails into the base of his neck just above his shoulder blades and raked them deep along the full length of his back. She did not stop until her nails had dug welts deep along the flesh of his buttocks.

             “What the hell was that?” He shouted as he arched his back in response to his stinging skin.

             “From the pressure in those thrusts, I thought you liked it rough.”

 

If you liked what you’ve read so far, find out more about Laura at http://www.lauramajor.com. For her nonfiction writing stay tuned here or checkout http:www.SableLitReviews.com

Writing for the World to Read – Forever!

Sinful revelations only a loving God can make right!

My Son's Wife -Sinful revelations only a loving God can make right!

The world of writing is opening doors that have never been opened.  I am one who has been blessed to walk through the literary door and claim my place on the podium alongside literary giants.  I see myself as a giant in a huge world where there are tens of thousands of people who wear the label ‘author.’  Yet, it is not a competitive spirit that I have when I hear this or read the statistics about new writers releasing books every day.  Instead, I know that no one can write quite like me.  Just as the word of God says, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”  I am a unique creation and there is no one in all the rest of humanity that is like me.  Therefore, the words that God gives me to place from pen to paper are unique.  My story can only be written by me.  Knowing that I am one of a kind and uniquely created gives me a sebse of greatness and gratefulness. I am humble yet I boldly step forward with the best of the best and claim my space. A space in time that only God can give, and only God himself can ever take away. I am thankful by the very fact that God chose me to write and tell stories that pour out from Him, through my spirit and then the finished product is printed for all the world to read!  I sit among the best of the literary divas.  I fulfill a purpose that no one else can fulfill. I stand toe to toe with Morrison, Angelou, Sheldon and Cooper, MacMillan and Harris. I believe that there is a calling on my life to write, to speak, to share, to reach, to tell and to spread the words in the form of books.  A book never dies.  Though our human body decays, books, like our souls, live on. Somewhere, long after I have shed this earthly shell, my words will resonate in someone’s life. And even now, today, and on into our tomorrow, while I still wear this human shell, someone, somewhere will be moved, touched and enticed to read my books. I know it in my spirit. I have the calm assurance from the one and only one I believe is sovereign. Though bookstores and publishers say the shelf life of a new book is basically 3 months before it fades out and new  books take its place, I thank God that I have read books that are hundreds of years old.  One day, I believe that someone, somewhere will pick up one or more of my novels.  They will read stories perfectly written and executed about imperfect people like me and you, and you, and you.  They will find hope, acceptance, joy, peace.  They will find that God truly is love and that crooked paths can be made straight again.  One day, I believe that someone, somewhere will pick up a book by Shelia E. Lipsey and the answers to problems and situations in life will be answered.  One day the world will see and read.  New dimensions and being reached in the world of reading.  A new path is being paved.  A new road is being laid.  And I am totally grateful to God for choosing me as one of his servants to carry out His purpose.

www.shelialipsey.com
shelialipsey@yahoo.com
lipseyshelia@yahoo.com
http://www.myspace.com/shelialipsey
MY SON’S WIFE AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD – OCTOBER 1, 2008 (CLICK BOOK COVER TO PREORDER)

Why I wrote, “Family Secrets, Lies & Alibi’s”

I was raised as an only child, but lived with a cousin who was an only child also. I shared my home with her, my mother and step father. I didn’t meet my real father until I was graduating from high school on my way to college. It was then I was told I had two brothers, one older, one younger. To this date (I’m now a grandmother) I have not met either of them. I have often wondered if our paths crossed. Did we attend some of the same events? Well you get the idea.

I married my husband and he has a sister and two brothers but his sister is handicapped and he often wondered what having a sister would be like if she hadn’t been paralyzed on one side and unable to speak. I had been working with a young woman who had recently lost her brother. At the funeral she was told by members of his father’s family that she need not contact them since she was not a “real” family member. They had different father’s. She began questioning me about my husband. She had been told that her father had the same name as my husbands. I had known this woman for ten years and she never questioned it but after her lost she wanted to connect with her father’s other children. It was my husband, his brothers, and his sister that were missing in her life as she was in their’s.

“Family Secrets, Lies & Alibi’s was sparked from the thought…. What if they had met after the death of their father and no one told them the truth. My husband knew nothing about her. Suppose their paths had crossed and they did meet on a level of dating, relationships, suppose they didn’t have a strong family tie. What would the out come be? Most of us immediately say incest. We tend to forget they have no idea they’re related (The Family Secret), no one told the truth when asked (Lies) and the father is dead. (and Alibi’s).

Please visit my site and purchase my debut novel: http://www.myspace.com/ipendesigns

It presents the drama, unveils the truth and …..well you tell me.

Inspiration plus Mystery


What would you do if after your loved one died, you found out they were living a double life? A life that could possibly get you killed. That’s what happened to Rahkel Williams, in the mystery novel, Searchable Whereabouts by Tinisha Nicole Johnson.

Rahkel’s beloved uncle who she treated as a father was mysteriously killed. However, afterwards she began finding clues into his life that had her thinking he wasn’t the man she thought he was. In fact, he may have been hiding a horrible family secret that affected three generations of her family.

After hiring private investigator Darrin Miller, Rahkel begins her search to find the truth aside from the police. Soon she will find she’s in over her head and it becomes evident somebody does not want her to know the truth, and they may even kill her in order to stop her from finding the truth. 

 

Searchable Whereabouts by Tinisha Nicole Johnson is available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and at bookstores everywhere. Visit the author: www.tinishanicolejohnson.com

 

**********

Have you ever been in a situation where you were on bended knees because of a situation you were in? Have you ever felt alone in this world and thought no one could understand or cared about your circumstances?

 

Well there is always hope through prayer. In Somebody Prayed For Me by literary sisters, Allyson M. Deese, Linda R. Herman and Tinisha Nicole Johnson you will witness awe inspiring stories, poems and letters that may hit home and cause your emotions to filter. The power of prayer is just that: POWERFUL!

 

Somebody Prayed For Me is an inspirational book for any age and is the perfect gift for any occasion. Visit www.somebodyprayed4me.webs.com to learn more. Pre-order your copy at www.tinishanicolejohnson.com and receive a free DVD of the book trailer and personalized signed book marks.