e Journey to Becoming a Published Author

Announcing to the world (and to yourself) that you are ofcially an author may, in fact, be one of the all-tme most amazing, life-changing moments. It sure was for me.

I had been (sort of) trying to become an author on and of since the 4th grade. Decades later in graduate school, I foated the idea of turning my master’s thesis into a book, but I was so tred of reading the material there was no way I could have hunkered down to fnish the project. Truth be told the topic was niche online datng and that book never would have held up in today’s swipe right world.

It wasn’t untl I became a Powerful Women Today Mentor Expert that my dreams of becoming a published author fnally came true.

With PWT, I have had the pleasure of co-creatng alongside dozens of women in collaboratve books, and now, my personal book Book Marketng AUTHORity is on the verge of being published through our PWT publishing house. n the 1970s, a “cult” was a weird, dangerous group of people who were defnitely outside mainstream America. What no one seemed to grasp was... sometmes a “cult” can be right down the street.

The beauty of being part of a mult-author book is that you gain membership into something bigger – a mission-driven story from a chorus of voices, each chapter highlightng something diferent and wonderful. There is a special camaraderie that emerges from having a shared vision. If you haven’t yet been part of a collaboratve book, I highly recommend it. My goal for publishing my personal book is what some might call “my why”: to be able to help as many nonfcton and children’s book authors as possible by ofering them strategies and tactcs to amplify their voices and share their message with the world.

Are you ready to tell your story? Find out more about book marketng opportunites and get Your Ultmate Book Marketng Checklist at vipbookmarketng.com .

Part I One

High school for Sadie was a fun, happy tme – a tme of freedom, fun, and the expectaton of a bright future. Life was full of promise, and things were only going to get beter. She found her soulmate, she went to an all-girls Catholic school where even the nuns were relaxed and laid back. He lived in a great city, New Orleans, The Big Easy, so-called because life was meant to be lived easily, slow, happy, musically, and beautfully.

Sadie’s friend, Beau (short for Beauregarde Jasper Boudreax), invited her to join a garage band. Beau, Mickey, Sadie and Ace (short for Alexander Patrick Thibodeau) magically blended their voices into something mesmerizing.

They called themselves The West Banke, and they knew they had something great. Their hopes of making demos and getng local gigs were inevitable. More importantly, stars, sparks, or whatever you want to call it were practcally visible when Sadie and Mickey frst saw each other. From that moment, Sadie and Mickey were inseparable. They wrote music together, rode the ferry back and forth from Algiers to the Quarter, and wandered, listening to the city, listening to its heart beat and its music. Mickey was a poet, a writer, and a musician. He had a generous heart, a genuinely spiritual aura, and he was talented. Everyone knew he would be successful. And everyone knew Sadie and Mickey would be together forever.

Sadie spent her school days at the Archbishop Blenk High School for girls. When she and her friends were bored, they’d skip class and sit up on the roof and smoke. Everything was funny and easy. Life was full of possibility. Afer school, she would practce with the band, then ride the ferry with Mickey. On the weekends, they’d hang out at The Flower Pot, a night club that was supposedly for kids under 21. The air was foggy with pot, the music was fantastc, and they’d stay ‘tl closing. Listening to other bands sometmes inspired a music writng session with Mickey and occasionally the other guys in the band. Other tmes, Sadie and Mickey would walk down to the levee and lay in the grass looking at the stars. She was always late getng home. There was a window she could climb in if she was really late.

There was always some place to explore in the crescent city. You could ride the streetcars or hang out in the centuries-old cemeteries full of beautfully carved crypts. The Quarter was full of shops and fortune tellers and music. They spent a lot of tme at Cafe Du Monde, drinking cafe au lait tl dawn when they’d walk up to the top of the levee and watch the sun come up.

Then there was Mardi Gras – Sadie’s drill team always marched in parades. The parades that were community-oriented and atended by entre families, the grandmas and grandpas, litle kids, and parents. Folks would bring their lawn chairs and food and drink and the kids would yell, “throw me something mister!” It was fun, exhaustng, and wonderful all at the same tme.

Mardi Gras begins on Twelfh Night and ends at Midnight on the day before Lent. Very religiously oriented. As the season built to its Fat Tuesday crescendo, Sadie and her friends loved to roam the Quarter, laughing and dancing, hooking arms, winding through the alleyways and back again into the crowd. Ace or Beau (or both) usually drank too much and had to be carried back to the ferry.

They had their life planned out. As soon as they fnished high school, they were moving to an apartment in Treme. They would atend Tulane (Mickey had a fne arts scholarship) and live on the money they made playing in clubs. Since Mickey would graduate a year ahead of Sadie, he decided to work that year and save money.

That’s where things went wrong.

Mickey showed up at Sadie’s school. The halls were open air, and classrooms were all windows so as soon as Mickey drove up, Sadie saw him. She asked for a restroom pass, and went outside. She felt a terrible foreboding. Something was of. It took hours to walk down the stairs into the parking lot. He never took his eyes of Sadie.

“What is it?”

“This,” he said, and handed her a piece of paper.

The world stopped. Time stopped. They didn’t say a word, just stared into each other’s eyes watching the other one’s tears fll their eyes and fall slowly down their face. Mickey had been drafed.

In 1966, that meant one thing. Viet Nam.

Over the next month, Sadie and Mickey both lived in a haze of disbelief and fear. She tried to be encouraging but they both had a terrible sense of doom. Their plans for the future that were so certain and joyous were now at the very least delayed or worse, destroyed.

Mickey brought his guitar to Sadie’s. He didn’t have to say it. They both knew it was just in case. They told each other over and over that he was certainly coming home. The war would probably be over in a few months. Things would be okay.

Afer boot camp, Mickey came home on leave. His mom and dad acted so proud of him, like he was already a hero. Sadie and Mickey talked about going to Canada. They counted their money and tried to fgure out where they could go and how they’d survive. Finally, Mickey said he couldn’t do that to his dad. They played one last gig at The Flower Pot, walked slowly through the Quarter, and rode the ferry home. They laid in the grass and watched the lights on the river. As dawn broke, Mickey walked Sadie home. He took her face in his hands and kissed her sofly.

“I love you forever.”

“I love you longer,” she replied.

She stood on the porch and watched him walk down the street. On the corner, under a street light, he turned and blew a kiss.

Sadie wrote to Mickey every day. His leters usually arrived two or three at a tme with weeks in between. She read his words and his mind, both trying to be upbeat while a dark foreboding grew and grew like a storm on the horizon.

One of Sadie’s assignments in Lit class was to fnd a poem from a poet she was unfamiliar with. She halfeartedly searched through a few books in the library but found nothing remotely interestng. Then she found Sylvia Plath. She picked up Ariel, and it fell open to “Daddy.” The comparison to Nazis and the Holocaust was intense, and Sadie was trying to avoid thinking about war. Contnuing her interminable and seemingly fruitless search, she discovered Auden. Sadie was drawn inexplicably to “Funeral Blues.” Lost in her own thoughts, she tore the page out of the book and put it in her pocket.

Six months later, a yellow cab drove up to Mickey’s parents’ house. His mom was home alone, and the taxi driver handed a telegram to her. She stared at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but just shook his head. He turned and went back to the cab and drove away. She read the telegram and slid to the foor in the doorway.

Across the street, Beau watched in stunned silence. He didn’t have to ask what happened, it happened every day to somebody. He ran down the street and banged on Sadie’s door.

“You gota come. Now.”

And Sadie ran down the street afer Beau.

They found Mickey’s mom stll on the foor sobbing and shaking. They picked her up and took her to the couch in the living room. Sadie grabbed the telegram. Her knees buckled. The room spun round.

No, no, no, no.

Only Sadie couldn’t cry, she could only focus on trying to keep breathing. She was suddenly wretchedly hollow, her insides sucked out by a terrible force, leaving her empty and lifeless.

At the precipice of incredibly cool sh**... that’s where I like to fnd myself. Whether it’s hiking to the summit of a peak in the Sierra Nevada mountains or atractng powerful, amazing clients that are doing cool things in the world, standing on that precipice is a joy that makes my heart smile. Partnering with Powerful Women Today Magazine in the role of Creatve Director for this magazine is an honor, a joy, and a privilege.

Throughout these pages are incredible stories, beautful training, opportunites to connect, and much more.

Pairing wonderful content with fantastcally rich images has made this project incredibly rewarding.

The powerhouse collaboraton with Carolina M. Billings, the Publisher of this magazine, and Melanie Herschorn, the Editor, on this amazing project and seeing it come to fruiton is something that holds a very special spot in my heart.

I’ve always dreamed of being part of a beautful magazine project and now I can put a check mark in that column of my goals!

Hugs, Love, and t. Rex always,

Dortha a.k.a. Rexie (you’ll hear more about that soon enough)