Latest review in Hollywood's glamorous Artist Interviews Magazine
Current mood: stoked
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

"Once again, James Houston Turner writes a captivating, thrilling novel, with characters and actions that push your imagination to the limits."

As you can imagine, I was stoked to get this review. Operating out of Los Angeles and attracting over one million visitors per month, Artist Interviews Magazine is one of the first online magazines to hit the internet. It is also the winner of seven international awards, and it recently featured an in-depth interview on yours truly. If you want to check it out, here is the link: www.artistinterviews.com/books/books.php.

2:18 AM - 14 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Blessed are the persistent...again
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry

Blessed are the persistent, for they will inherit everything. I know I've said that before but I think it bears saying again. Blessed are the persistent. You may not inherit literally everything, but you've certainly got everything to lose if you give up.

Former US President, Calvin Coolidge said this way: "Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistance and determination alone are omnipotent." And in the words of former House Speaker, Newt Gingrich: "Persistance is the hard work that you do after you are tired of doing the hard work you already did."

The road to getting published is often long and dusty. Rejection becomes your companion. Discouragement circles like a vulture. Distraction whispers in your ear and offers delectable temptations: begin a new website, start a writers forum, administer a critique group.

Do anything but write.

My personal journey has been all of what I have just described. I have been distracted, discouraged, and almost broken on many occasions. But for those of you who have followed by blogs, you know I've kept pushing on thanks to lessons learned in the proverbial school of hard knocks. (Thank you, Jim Harrison, once again.)  The rewards have definitely been worth it. And what it demonstrates is this: an obscure writer - one of the little guys - from one of the farthest corners of the planet, can overcome incredible odds and become a published author. Here is a summary of what's been happening:

My previous novel, The Second Thirteen, is currently optioned for film. More information about that is available on my website (see link below).

My latest novel, The Identity Factor, has been scooping some awards and wonderful reviews. (Click HERE to read the reviews posted on Amazon.com. Other reviews and award announcements are posted on my website.)

My January 19, 2008 book signing (and Jacob's Creek wine tasting) at The Mystery Bookstore was an official satellite event for the "G'day USA" festivities in Los Angeles (click HERE to visit the G'day USA website). With music by The Veronicas, last year's prestigious event honored actors Russell Crowe and Naomi Watts, plus Australia's irreplaceable "Crocodile Hunter," the late Steve Irwin. Australian film, music, tourism - this and more was presented to the world during two weeks of G'day USA activities in Los Angeles and New York, reaching a worldwide audience of 400,000,000. That's right: four hundred million. That's quite a stage. And for the first time, authors were invited onto the G'day USA platform. To say that I was excited to be the first author to host a satellite event is an understatement.

Yes, I know I've said it before, but I think it bears saying again: blessed are the persistent.

2:34 PM - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Writer's Life 107 - The Importance of Research
Current mood: amused
Category: Writing and Poetry

Kazik drove them out into a remote valley as far as vehicles were permitted. Snow was beginning to fall and the remaining daylight was disappearing as he parked the dented car on the gravel. "Now we walk," the gaunt translator told Matson as The Woodsman led the way beyond a barricade of boulders and onto a cobblestone path.

The uneven surface of the path was actually an old road which was closed to all vehicular traffic except trucks taking supplies to an inn at the far end of the rolling valley. Following the edge of a tumbling stream, the road wound upward through woods and past outcroppings of rock, the low clouds from frigid skies now enveloping the three men as the evening turned steadily darker.

Like the widening of a great funnel, the lines of fir trees abruptly receded from the path and into the shrouded distance. As the men hurried along, vague black cubes soon came into view - one-room shepherd's huts made of hewn, square-cut logs - their squat shapes and pointed roofs standing in deserted silence. Matson kept himself in good shape, but The Woodsman and Kazik, both in their seventies, were remarkable in their ability to march up the winding road. Accustomed to the high altitude, the two World War II veterans maintained a brisk pace without noticeable signs of fatigue. They strode past four, five, six of the darkened huts, their silhouettes soon fading into the darkness as eerily as they had appeared. Suddenly, a wisp of smoke reached Matson's nostrils, and in the inky void off to his right he could see a faint dot of yellow.

Leaving the road, the three men crossed a stretch of grass to a split rail fence, the wind now whipping wildly about them. After stepping through an open gate, they continued up a small slope toward another black cube. It was another of the shepherd's huts and its windows had been boarded shut, although the covering on the corner of one had been cracked enough to permit the tiny beacon that Matson had seen earlier.

The Woodsman approached the door and without knocking, pushed it open. Inside were four men and a woman, also in their seventies, all seated on stumps around an open fire that had been built in the center of a dirt floor. The men were in worn slacks and sweaters, the woman in a cotton print dress and a frayed brown cardigan. With grunts, they stood to greet The Woodsman and Kazik, the men all shaking hands, the woman receiving kisses on each cheek. After smiling and nodding to Matson, the woman went to a darkened corner of the hut to prepare food on a table of heavy planks.

After more sections of wood had been rolled over for additional seating, the men all began speaking at once. Was this not the American who was captured by Domagalski and then turned over to the militia? Was this not the killer of Dr. Baranowski? Rumors were circulating about a daring escape from the train. Why was the great Domagalski now protecting the American, and why was he bringing him into the mountains and asking for their help? Terrorists were reported to be in Krakow and were said to be everywhere. What was going on?

The chattering paused when loaves of dense brown peasant bread and hand-formed balls of sheep's milk cheese were placed before the men, the cheese having been made in this very hut weeks before. Several bottles of vodka were then distributed among the men.

The woman left and The Woodsman began by recounting his battle against the wild-eyed fanatic near the Wawel Hill, the men occasionally looking at Matson as the esteemed Legend of the Tatras talked with animated gestures. Slowly the food and vodka disappeared as more wood was fed to the flames. Unable to understand Polish, Matson let his eyes roam up to the ceiling, which was the hewn underside of the logs that comprised the roof. They angled up to a ridge where the smoke collected before escaping through a small slot, the surfaces of the logs having been blackened to a glistening sheen by the soot of countless fires built to flavor the loaves of salty cheese now filling their bellies.

Matson looked back at The Woodsman, who sat perched on the edge of a stump, leading the lively discussion. What was he saying? What were they thinking? Matson wished he could understand.

From the swirl of smoke and conversation, the gravelly voice of Kazik brought the conversation to a halt. He looked over at Matson and said, "They want now to know what are your thoughts. Tomorrow, the life of Danusia rests in your hands."

At that moment, Matson realized how fragile this alliance really was. True, he had not committed the brutal acts for which he had been blamed, but Danusia's life was now in jeopardy because of her efforts to try and help him.

In your hands: that's how Kazik had phrased it. And not just any life, but Danusia's.

Danusia. The Woodsman's granddaughter.

******

The quality of a novel is influenced greatly by the quality of the research that goes into it.

I heard someone say that once and I've found it to be true. And not just any research - such as th4e kind found in books or on the web - but field research, as this excerpt from my first novel, The Search for the Sword of St Peter, serves to illustrate, at least to a degree. My book - as amateurish as it is in many ways (remember, I cut my teeth on this novel) - would have suffered without the benefit of accurate research. I would not have been able to describe that wintry conference around an open fire had I not visited that shepherd's hut myself and stood there, on its barren dirt floor, looking up at its glistening black ceiling after having hiked up that very valley along a winding cobblestone path. Kazik and The Woodsman, I met elsewhere. But I did meet them, and interview them, and photograph them.

The walk out of the valley was equally as memorable and serves to illustrate another lesson for the writer: being prepared for emergencies in the field.

After touring many shepherd's huts that day and meeting their occupants, we hurried back down the cobblestone path through the forest toward the parking lot. It was actually late summer, not winter (although I was in the Tatra Mountains on another occasion during the winter), and because it was so late in the day, there was but one more bus to city. And the bus stop was two miles away.

Thankfully, it was still tourist season and that meant the presence of several horse-drawn carriages waiting for passengers like us. The carriages were from a bygone era: large spoked wheels, seats with wooden inlays and carved ornamentation, straps of leather, fixtrues of brass, and a chubby driver with Germanic-looking outfit of lederhosen, thick shirt and suspenders, and a saucer-like leather cap.

My companion spoke fluent Polish and asked the fare for a ride to the bus stop. The driver told her. She countered. He countered. She objected and called the driver a thief. He smiled and shrugged.

   "So, how much does it cost?" I asked, taking a large wad of money from my pocket. (In those days, one US Dollar would buy a huge stack of local currency.)
   "No!" my companion said, trying to cover the money.
   Too late. The price immediately tripled.
   "You are a thief!" she cried, insisting on his original quote.
   Back and forth they argued, and finally a compromise was agreed.
   "This is piracy, but we have no choice," she told me quietly, taking the correct amount from my stash and paying the driver. "If we don't reach the bus stop within twenty minutes, it will be a walk of many hours to the city.
   We climbed into the carriage, the driver switched the horse, and it began its slow plod along the road.
   We had not gone far before the carriage began to slow down.
   "What's wrong?" asked my companion.
   "My horse wants you to sing him a song," answered the driver. "An American song. National Anthem."
   "Are you crazy?" asked my companion.
   The driver slowed the carriage even more. "My horse is lonely and tired, and needs music to make him happy."
   "This is absurd!" protested my companion.
   "What's wrong?" I whispered.
   "He says his horse wants us to sing him a song. Something American."
   "His horse wants us to sing a song?"
   "That is what he said."
   "Are you serious?"
   "I know this sounds crazy, but yes. Your National Anthem."
   "I'm not going to sing some stupid horse a song!"
   The driver stopped the carriage.
   "Please. We cannot miss the bus."
   Cool dude writers, of course, are always prepared for emergencies in the field. We think on our feet... on the run.
   My trouble - I was sitting down.
   But I was not about to start singing to a horse.
   "Please!" she pleaded, looking worriedly at her watch. "We cannot miss the bus."
   The carriage stopped and the driver looked around.
   "Ohh-oh say can you see," I began, "by the dawn's early light..."
   The driver smiled and switched his horse.
   "What so proudly we hail, at the twilight's last gleaming..."
   With my voice ringing off-key over the gentle splashing of the stream to our left, we plodded along over the cobblestone pavement toward the bus stop. After finishing the song, I settled back in my seat.
   Bastard.
   The carriage began to slow.
   "What's wrong now?" demanded my companion.
   "Another," commanded the driver.
   "We have fulfilled your silly request!"
   "My horse likes your music and wants more."
   "This is ridiculous!" yelled my companion.
    The carriage stopped.
   "Do you know any more songs?" she pleaded, looking at her watch.
   "You're kidding!"
   "Please! You must keep singing!"
   "This is extortion!"
   My companion looked again at her watch.
   "Camptown races, sing this song, do-dah, do-dah," I began.
   "Camptown races?" asked my companion. "That's like, ancient."
   "College beer drinking song," I said. "You try singing Top 40 at a time like this. Camptown races five miles off, oh do-dah dayyyy."
   "Louder!" shouted the driver. "My horse is hard of hearing."
   I was tempted to strangle the driver, but instead turned up the volume. "Why'd you drink all night? Why'd you drink all day..."
   Figuring the horse did not know the real words, I finished my version and fell back.
   "Another!" said the driver, slowing the carriage.
   My companion was nearing panic - she knew how far it was back to town - so I raised my voice to a sort of wailing shout and began another.
   We ended up making the bus that day.
   Barely.
   Leaping from the carriage, I ran to the open door and jumped on. Hopping onto the step behind me, my companion turned and gave the driver the finger as the door hissed shut. She sidled her way down the crowded aisle and fell into the seat beside me. "If you're thinking of becoming a singer - don't," she said as the bus belched fumes and sputtered down the highway. "Camptown races?"
   To this day, she still reads my first thriller and laughs.

Yes, my life as a cool dude writer.

Someone always discovers the truth...


James Houston Turner once considered becoming a rock star. This experience concinced him to become a writer instead. You can read more about his latest thriller, The Identity Factor, on his website: www.jameshoustonturner.com

James Houston Turner has not serenaded a horse since that day.

12:43 PM - 6 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Parlez vous Frankensteinische?
Current mood: accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry

Cool Dude Diaries (Writer's Life 105)

Everyone knows that cool dude writers are vast reservoirs of knowledge and ability. Multi-lingual and multi-skilled. We even multiply (no, not like rabbits. You know - that thing you do with numbers and calculators). And on those rare occasions when we aren't (or don't), we do what we do best: we BS. And on those rare occasions when we don't even know how to do that, we still BS. Which, of course, frequently lands us in hot water, which - of course - provides fodder for future books while we sit and wait for bail to be posted.

It was a sunny, crisp winter day and you could see fresh powder glistening on the peaks of the Alps below. I was on a Swiss Air flight from Milano to the north of Europe and was looking out the window at the spectacle when two women in front of me began talking across the aisle to one another in loud, animated French.

Don't you just hate it when this happens? Two people from someplace else showing off by talking in a language you can't understand. Don't people know how rude it is not to speak English on flights out of Italy? Well, on and on they went, gesticulating and throwing their heads back in discreet laughter, then lowering their voices to a conspiratorial level when they came to the juicy parts. (I hate missing out on gossip!)

After five minutes of this, I had had enough. I scooted from my window seat to the aisle and leaned forward. "Ardonpay eemay, utbay ooday ooyay eakspay igpay atinlay?"

The women were immediately intrigued by this cool dude stranger speaking in an even cooler - dare I say, exotic - tongue.

"What language is that? Where are you from? Will you have children with me?" they gushed in French-accented English, their blue eyes pleading with subtle mixes of desperation and urgency. (Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. One of them may have had brown eyes.) Bottom line: they were hooked. I had them in my hands. Like proverbial putty.

"Eiway antkay ay-say," I replied. "Esethay ingsthay arentway osay implesay."
"You must tell me what language this is," one of them pleaded. "It is like nothing I have ever heard."
"Yes, please, tell us!" the other agreed. "What language do you speak?"
I replied with a thoughtful frown, as if I didn't understand.
"Pig Latin," the guy in jeans and a Western shirt across the aisle explained in an easy Texas accent without looking up from his in-flight magazine. "He's talkin' Pig Latin."

The women stared at him for a moment then looked at me as I shrank back, their inquisitive expressions hardening into galvanized glares. With growls of disgust they turned away.

"Orrysay," he remarked quietly.
"No you're not," I replied with a grin.
He laughed and nodded.
The women looked around. "Where are you really from?" one of them asked.
"Are you going to believe me?" I said.
"Probably not," she replied.
"We are - how do you say - onto your tricks," said the other with amused disbelief.
Multi-lingual and multi-skilled.
I smiled and shrugged.

Yes, my life as a cool dude writer.

Someone always discovers the truth.

NEWS FLASH: As you probably know, publishers send out advance review copies (known as ARCs) to various media, and my publisher was no exception. And just this morning, while I was writing this blog, I received the following comment from my publisher, who received it from Mr. Robert Denson, a newspaper editor in Alabama: "Yes, I did receive the book, and I must tell you: When I receive a book, I usually read the prologue and maybe the first chapter to get a fill and then I put it in the order of the many, many books I receive. In the case of "The Identity Factor", I have moved all the other books to the side because I have not been able to put it down! I'm almost finished----I love the characters, I love the twists and I love the nuances he puts in his words. This should be a movie."

Those of you who know me through my blogs and e-mails know I'm the excitable type, and I can tell you, this made me excited! But no more than I was with the other wonderful review comments that have come to me recently from many of you, my Myspace mates.

Last night, we went to see Robert Redford's film, "Lions for Lambs," starring Redford, Meryl Streep, and Tom Cruise. If you have not seen the film, I urge you to see it, for in typical Redford style, it asks many poignant questions: What do you stand for? What will you fight for? Will you be part of a greater solution or continue merrily on your self-absorbed way?

Wendy and I came away from that film inspired, and I realized, this book of mine - The Identity Factor - contains what I stand for. Those of you who have read it will know what I mean. This book has taken over thirty years to come into print. For me, those years of hard work and perseverance have been worth it, especially when people like you take the time to buy and read it and then write and tell me your thoughts. So while I do indeed like poking fun at myself with my "Cool Dude Diaries," I want to close by saying thanks to all of you.

YOU are the reason I write.

The Identity Factor
Available now at amazon.com

3:01 PM - 7 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

The Identity Factor: the story behind the story (part 1)
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Writing and Poetry

It has been said the only real fiction in a novel is the statement in the front of the book that the characters contained herein are fictitious. And while I am obligated as a novelist to maintain the veracity of that claim, if truth be told - I know: asking a professional liar to tell the truth is really stretching it - the fact is, I, like many writers, glean inspiration from actual people, places, and events. Case in point: for those of you who have followed my blogs, you may recall how "Aunt Hazel" - my mom's tempestuous younger sister - taught me the proper way to open a bottle of Champagne. Well, Aunt Hazel also influenced the creation of my headstrong rookie CIA profiler, Zoë Gustaves. I used to love the way Aunt Hazel's temper would flare. Who knows - I may have even inherited a bit of that fiery temperment myself, though I would never admit to that. Point is: I had seen Aunt Hazel's temper in action, at times experienced it (never, of course, for anything I had done), and thus had at my disposal a reservoir of vivid memories on which I could draw inspiration for the creation of an action figure with a personality that served both as a strength and also a weakness. The proverbial "double-edged sword."

But there is another story behind this story that I would also like to share.

When I moved from Kansas to Dallas to attend graduate school, one of my first friends was Isaac Levi, a personal trainer in the gym where I worked out. Originally from Israel, Isaac was at one time the holder of the "Mr. Israel" weightlifting title. He reminded me of a blond-haired Steve Reeves.

When Isaac was a teenager, he came out of school one day to see some kids taunting an old Arab man with a push cart full of vegetables. The kids knocked over the cart, scattered the vegetables, and began throwing rocks at the man. Isaac chased the kids away and helped the old man gather his vegetables back onto his cart. He then saw the old man safely on his way.

Some weeks later, late one day, Isaac had to run an errand to the other side of the city and decided to take a shortcut through the Arab sector. The streets were twisting and narrow, it was starting to get dark, and before long Isaac was lost. He tried to backtrack, took a wrong turn, then saw that he was being followed by several men. Being athletic, Isaac easily outran the men, but because of another wrong turn, ended up in a blind alley. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. At the entrance were three men with curved daggers. Isaac ran back into the alley, looking for a way to escape. But the lane was bounded by the high walls of houses too high for him to jump. He was trapped, three against one.

Suddenly, from nowhere, the old Arab appeared.

"I don't know where he came from," I remember Isaac telling me. "He was just there, between me and those men."
"This man is a friend," the old man said.
There was a tense moment of silence. Then, suddenly, the three men put away their daggers and left.
"Come, I will show you the way," the old man said, leading Isaac to safety. "Go in peace."

Enemies who become friends. Help in the most unlikely of circumstances. An actual event impacting a book about people who don't exist, doing things that never occurred. I love the possibilities reality gives to fiction. I love the possibilities fiction gives to reality.

Yes, the characters in my book are fictitious, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The earth is flat.

The Identity Factor
Available now on Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/0958666415/ref=dp_olp_0/002-3703348-7435216?ie=UTF8&qid=1190443681&sr=11-1&c..all

7:53 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Opening Champagne
Current mood: ecstatic
Category: Writing and Poetry

All cool dude writers should know how to open a bottle of Champagne. Whether aste spumante, sparkling cider, or the real stuff - there is simply no better way to celebrate a book deal, a film deal, a rave review, or a book FINALLY going online with Amazon.com.

I was instructed in the fine art of opening Champagne (as well as how to dance the tango and cook a soufflé) by a close friend of Stanley Marcus, of legendary Neiman-Marcus fame. That close friend was none other than my Aunt Hazel. Aunt Hazel was a world class, jet-setting, socialite ballroom dancer - the original Auntie Mame - my mom's fiery, red-headed younger sister. I still have the full-length Neiman-Marcus faux-fur coat that she bought me just after I'd graduated from college. Eat your heart out, fluffy pink bathrobe...

But back to Champagne.

"Piper Heidsick, of course, is the best and you open it this way," Aunt Hazel told me in the formal dining room of her luxurious Dallas high-rise apartment, on the banks of Turtle Creek. She carefully unfastened the wire cage, being careful to keep a hand on top of the cork to prevent it from shooting out unexpectedly. She then tipped the bottle to a forty-five degree angle, grasped the cork firmly and twisted the bottle. "Remember: twist the bottle, not the cork, at forty-five degrees; this is most important. The angle allows the carbon dioxide to escape without foaming the champagne." She paused, an empty flute in one hand, the bottle of Heidsick in the other. "Have you got all that?"

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Forty five degrees."

"Are you sure? One mustn't waste a drop."

"I'm sure," I said, nodding toward the empty glass in her hand.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow, then poured.

Some weeks later, my girlfriend from Kansas City came for a visit and I decided to impress her with my new-found skill. I was in my research paper writing days (a skill that enabled me to wriggle out of many a test), and - naturally - I certainly considered myself a cool dude. I mean - I drank the finest Champagne. None of that cheap stuff with the plastic stopper. Cool. Really cool. So I filled a picnic basket with the finest gourmet items, loaded everything into my dune buggy (bright orange, no less), and down to the grassy banks of Turtle Creek we went. I spread a blanket out on the grass, and with a confident smile, opened the picnic basket and produced the bottle of Heidsick.

"M'lady," I said, allowing her to inspect the label.

She was clearly impressed.

Turtle Creek was more of a long narrow lake, the energetic stream of bygone years now tamed and lined with thousands of shade trees and flowering azaleas. While several black swans glided by offshore, I handed her two empty flutes, and with the cavalier flair of a cool dude, removed the wire cage from the neck of the bottle and tossed it aside.

The cork shot out of the bottle like a bullet, striking me in the forehead before richocheting out into the middle of the lake like a homerun over the center field fence. Champagne spewed out of the bottle as I reeled back, unable to see anything but spinning white spots. By the time my vision had cleared, a "goose egg" had formed on my forehead.

I learned a lesson that day but still can't remember what it was.

Obviously.

The lesson, of course, is this: my life as a cool dude writer. Someone always discovers the truth.

I guess some things never change.

Some things, thankfully, do. I now keep a firm hand on the cork.

So tilt your bottle of Heidsick, asti spumante, or sparkling cider, and join me as I celebrate the launch of The Identity Factor. It is finally available!!!

For a quick link to Amazon.com, click http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0958666415/ref=sr_11_1/102-8753796-8056152?ie=UTF8&qid=1190443681&sr=11-1.

1:41 AM - 22 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

The Fluffy Pink Bathrobe Lives On (sigh...)
Current mood: amused
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

Blogcritics magazine has just published an interview with the thriller miller who...wears a fluffy pink bathrobe? Surely, you jest? I mean, I was an Iron Curtain smuggler! I've been followed by the KGB! I learned martial arts and studied the way of the Samurai under the legendary Jim Harrison, a man Bruce Lee once described as "one of the most dangerous men in the world." And of course I would love to be known as an author who writes dynamite thrillers.

But what is fast becoming the legend of the fluffy pink bathrobe stubbornly keeps popping up! Fleiger Adler, one of blogcritic magazine's blogger of bloggers, picked up on the story and wanted to know more. I resisted. He insisted. And I caved. (Sigh...)

I am, in all seriousness, pleased with the interview, for it samples some of the adventures I've been privileged to experience in my journey as a writer. Some have been funny. Some have been inspirational. Some have been sobering and dangerous, as you will read in the interview. All have helped me grow.

So, for those gluttons for punishment among you, here is the link to the blogcritics magazine interview: http://blogcritics.org/archives/2007/10/02/135601.php

Enjoy!

Blessings and cheers,
James
www.jameshoustonturner.com

3:05 PM - 8 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Writer’s Life 103 - An Iron Curtain story
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Writing and Poetry

I was in Poland in my early days as a smuggler behind the old Iron Curtain. The East German guards had reluctantly allowed us past, having looked in every imaginable hiding place using sniffer dogs and mirrors on long handles that showed every nook and cranny of the undercarriage of our car. But they found nothing and so had waved us on. I had been taking copious notes of everything in micro-scrawl in a tiny notebook that I kept hidden in my shoe. It was a soft, golden summer and I was bringing U.S. Dollars for the support of a pastor and his family.

While there, I had the privilege of attending a children's camp. Ages 9-14, the children spoke no English except for a beaming young boy named Norbert, who ran up and yelled, "Pizza...Mickey Mouse...Disneyland!" "You know the essentials," I replied. He gave me a hug and called his friends over, who also began hugging me and laughing and talking in rapid Polish. They were wonderful kids: generous and giving and honest in their affection, like most kids are.

Case in point: the village had a train station that saw an old steam engine belching black smoke and steam hiss to a stop twice a week, a sooty string of carriages in tow. Huge trees shaded streets lined with square three-story houses with louvered shutters and slate roofs and crumbling plaster walls. The War years had been hard and no one could afford upkeep or repairs on the deterioration.

The children all sang songs as we walked to the station to watch the train arrive. The station itself was an old wooden structure, once grand and picturesque but now rundown like everything else. Up the ramp and onto the concrete platform we walked, the children singing happily as we approached an old woman with a wooden push cart piled high with local strawberries and cherries. She was bent with age and wore a faded floral dress and a bandana over her hair. The kids pooled their meager savings and bought two small paper sacks of her fruit. I offered to buy each of them a sack but the children would not let me. Naturally, they then offered me some of theirs. Over twenty kids sharing two small sacks of fruit. I politely declined but they insisted.

I will never forget that luscious fruit. Or those children that taught me so much about generosity and happiness. But they also taught me something else.

Meals for the camp were furnished by a local restaurant in the village where we were staying. Breakfast consisted of a huge pot of spaghetti boiled in milk. Lunch was sandwiches of dense white bread and homemade jam. Dinner was chicken and vegetables. Remember, these were Iron Curtain days and food was both scarce and expensive. The East Bloc existed purely for the benefit of the Soviet Union, which took the best of everythng Poland and other occupied Eastern European countries had to offer.  I have personally stood in a bread line for over three hours (starting before dawn) in order to buy a rationed single loaf of bread. I once gave a half-pound, vacuum-packed "brick" of coffee to a woman on a train and she grabbed me in a tearful hug and said, "this would cost me two month's salary."

Anyway, for dinner the first day we enjoyed chicken breast and vegetables. The second day, we had chicken thighs and vegetables. The third day, we had chicken wings and vegetables. The fourth day, we had chicken intestines and vegetables. Yes, chicken intestines. They had been prepared in a sweet and sour sauce in order to masquerade the taste of intestine and giblet paste that had been packed inside them.

Naturally, I wasn't about to let these kids see me as a spoiled American. I was tough. I could eat anything and not complain. So I dug in and made a big deal of how much I loved the meal. "Ummm, yum," I moaned with mock delight. I could see the kids watching me while eating their vegetables. Vegetables only, mind you, which should have been a major clue to a cool dude writer/surveillance expert like me. But I was oblivious to the clue because I was so focused on letting them know how cool I thought I was. I sliced off more bites - "Ummm, yum," I exclaimed while washing them down with the artificially brilliant yellow drink we had been given (it looked like petrochemical solvent). Suddenly, nearly every kid at the table scooted their plates over and began scraping their sweet-and-sour chicken intestines onto my plate. "I'm not eating this stuff; you can have it!" they all began saying.  The translaters, who interpreted for me, howled with laughter at the shocked look on my face.

Yes, those kids taught me something that day: don't try to be someone you're not. It's okay to be who you are. It's okay not to like chicken intestines.  So I guess this is the time to confess the truth: I don't like chicken intestines. I never have and I never will, no matter how much sweet and sour sauce they're swimming in.

Yes, my life as a cool dude writer.

Someone always discovers the truth.

www.jameshoustonturner.com

3:37 PM - 11 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

The Identity Factor scoops 5 star review
Current mood: ecstatic
Category: Writing and Poetry

I am out of fingernails and would have gnawed my toes if I could reach them. But I can't, and just as well. Apex Reviews has just published their review of The Identity Factor, and let me tell you - the wait has been worth it! "Peer review" is necessary for novels just as it is for academic dissertations. It's a measuring stick...a benchmark...an indication of what "the professionals" think.

Four stars is a really good rating, so imagine the string of cartwheels I was doing when I found out The Identity Factor picked up five! Five stars!!!  Cartwheels and backflips and tumble rolls (to be followed by a number of sessions at the chiropractor...)

But before I give you the link, allow me to share another review that just came in.

I knew I was walking a tightrope when I wrote The Identity Factor. At the heart of the story is an ancient stone tablet discovered in the Sinai Peninsula in 1919. Written by the patriarch Ishmael, the tablet makes a stunning declaration about the ownership of the most hotly-contested piece of real estate on earth - the Holy Land.   I base the tablet on research conducted as part of my Master's Degree at the University of Houston. It is sound research, but controversial.

I appreciate what Valley Scene magazine's Bookstew had to say about the way I handled this issue of ownership: "At the heart of the story is the tablet, written by the patriarch Ishmael. Duplicating the seventh section of Genesis, the tablet has explosive implications for the ownership of Palestine, especially when it is learned [the terrorist] Abu Nazer has his sights set on the tablet. It is here Turner navigates carefully in order to maintain control of a highly charged issue...   Turner's book has a graceful presence about it; a written conscience that sets it apart from being just another whitewater rush of adrenalin...."

To me, the Arab/Israeli conflict is both understandable and tragic.  Understandable in that Jerusalem is the heart and soul of two religions (three, when Christianity is added into the mix). Tragic because there has been so much resentment and bloodshed.   So what I did NOT want to do is inflame an already volatile issue with a thriller about a terrorist using a controversial tablet for his own ends, thus sparking fresh arguments about who owns what.  I wanted to write a gripping thriller, but did not want to overstep any boundaries.

So I sent an advance review copy to Rabbi David Rosen, Chairman of IJCIC - the International Jewish Committee that represents World Jewry in its relations with other world religions. Rabbi Rosen is Director of the Department for Interreligious Affairs and Director of the Heilbrunn Institute for International Interreligious Understanding of the American Jewish Committee. He is also an Honorary President of the International Council of Christians and Jews, and an International President of the World Conference of Religions for Peace. In November 2005, Rabbi Rosen was named a papal Knight Commander of the Order of St Gregory the Great for his outstanding contributions to promoting Catholic-Jewish reconciliation. Here is what he had to say: "Dear James. Thank you for a fun read! I enjoy a good thriller when I get the opportunity. Your entertaining book has a hopeful, reconciliatory subtext and I applaud your spirit. I am sure you have considered it, but I think it would make a very good movie."

More cartwheels and backflips and tumble rolls...

The final verdict, of course, is yours, and I do hope you enjoy what lies ahead. The wait will not be long. The book will be available October 10 from Amazon.com.

Now, here is the Apex Reviews link: Apex Reviews

Enjoy!

3:52 PM - 6 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Californication
Current mood: optimistic
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

Protests. Fire-and-brimstone sermons. Calls to boycott and ban. Californication has certainly created a firestorm of controversy. Personally, I don't see why there is such an uproar. To me, the message is pretty much a repeat of what Solomon told us several thousand years ago in the book of Ecclesiastes: I've done it all...done them all, if you will (he had, you will remember, 700 wives and 300 concubines and still had a problem with morality, which of course makes David Duchovny's character look like a rank amateur). Solomon's bittersweet verdict: it's meaningless and empty, all of it. None of it satisfies.

To me, Californication is a brilliant medium to communicate a very old message. Sure, it has bouncing boobs, foul language, and crass, vulgar behavior. Some people are that way. If you don't think so, consider this: the amount of pornography on the internet is staggering. Sex slavery, substance abuse, and human trafficking are at monstrous proportions. This is not a kind and gentle world. Thankfully, there are kind and gentle people, but those of us who aspire to that are in the mix with those who are not.

I used to work as a journalist at the Union Rescue Mission, on "Skid Row," in downtown Los Angeles. It was my first writing job and I would interview and photograph residents of the mission. Many were veterans of street life and I would go out and sometimes "walk the beat" in order to better understand their environment and culture. I've seen back alley villages constructed of cardboard boxes. I've been spit on and cursed, threatened and chased. I've also been blessed and had people weep with joy at meeting someone who cared.

One of the men at the mission went by the name of Shorty. I never knew his real name, but he had spent more years in prison than out. He used to go into high schools and ask to speak to their student body about what life was like on the streets. In the assembly, he would ask students to raise their hands if they thought going to prison would be cool. A lot of the "tough" guys raised their hands. He would then describe what it was like to be raped by a gang of inmates, what it was like to have your face slit with razor blades, what it was like to see your best friend get stabbed and bleed to death on the concrete near your feet, what it was like to be someone else's "bitch."

Shorty had a tremendous impact on those students. Many said he helped change the direction of their lives. My point: Shorty was a living example - a visualization - of consequences. And so, to a degree, is David Duchovny's character. And while I don't applaud the immorality of the show, I do applaud the show's writers for showing some of the consequences.

Make no mistake: Californication is on television as entertainment (and because there is a market for that kind of entertainment). But entertainment can be a powerful platform from which to communicate values. When The Identity Factor bursts onto the scene in October, you'll get to see for yourselves the kind of values I think are important. Until then, I say we need more messages about the futility, waste, and loneliness of the Californication lifestyle. It has been glamorized far too long.

Until next time.

www.jameshoustonturner.com

12:33 AM - 9 Comments - 15 Kudos - Add Comment