Good afternoon, Readers:

You probably have received the message from Inkshares about new policies. I won't go into the details - you can do that yourself - but here's what it means for you and "Nowhere Else I Want to Be":

1. I will move my campaign to the new structure: 750 pre-orders instead of 1,000.

2. The price of the book will rise from $8.99 to $20.00 on Friday, October 30 at 12 noon PST.

3. I've launched a week-long marketing campaign to encourage pre-orders at the $8.99 price point.

What does all this mean for you?

1. You will NOT pay the higher price for any books you pre-order BEFORE Friday, October 30 at 12 noon Pacific time. That includes books you've already ordered.

2. If you were starting to plan gift-giving -- it's never too early to begin shopping for 2016 birthdays and holidays -- you'd do best to order extra books (you can order as many as ten) in the next seven days.

3. Please share the message (below) -- facebook, twitter, email and by word of mouth -- with friends, family, colleagues, and people interested in social justice, AIDS, race and women's issues. 

Copy and paste this message:

Now until Friday, October 30 at 12 noon PST -- pre-order "Nowhere Else I Want to Be" for only $8.99. After that, you will pay $20.00. A memoir written by the founder of Miriam's House - residence for Washington, DC's homeless women with AIDS - the book is full of humorous, tragic and fascinating stories about life in a community of women defying the odds. Read excerpts and pre-order here. 

One final thing. Here is a photo of my niece's work door. How's that for marketing? Thanks, Heather!

Thank you, readerly friends! Feel free to contact me (carold.marsh@gmail.com) if you have any questions, would like to have some book cards to distribute, or want to share ideas as to the best way to make the most of this special marketing week.

Peace,

Carol D. Marsh

Website; Facebook

Last week while I was in the airport flying from San Diego back to Memphis, I started getting pings on my phone saying, "My copy of Wailing Wall has been shipped!" Mid-October snuck up on me, it seems, and the book will be in YOUR hands before it will be in mine since I won't be back in Michigan until October 25. I hope you enjoy the read and I hope that the beauty of Joshua's story touches you in some way. I also hope you'll post pictures on Facebook (tag me, please!) and, if you feel so moved, reviews on Amazon so that others will get a sense of what the story is about before they buy. 

Whew, I guess it's time to get started on the next project. "Got Down on my Knees" follows the story of drugs and alcohol through my family with moments of deep sadness and huge triumph. I hope you'll be along for the ride.

~ Dee

They came from as far away as UCLA and Albany, New York. And they included everyone from animal advocates to the American Bar.

What do they have in common?  They read an advance copy of Encounters with Rikki: From Hurricane Katrina Rescue to Exceptional Therapy Dog and gave it a glowing review!

Of course, that would have never been possible if not for you – our supporters who believed in the idea of telling Rikki’s story and pre-ordered the book. Thank you!

And now, for what they have to say…

“Heartfully captures the amazing power animals have to lift the human spirit.” —Barbara Natterson, MD, coauthor of Zoobiquity and professor of medicine, UCLA Division of Cardiology

“Children who enter the criminal court system as victims may have to relive the abuse they experienced by testifying . . . Encounters with Rikki tells the story of an amazing therapy dog who helps children cope with this stress so they can tell their stories and so justice can be served. It’s essential reading . . .” —Cynthia J. Najdowski, PhD, Assistant Professor, School of Criminal Justice, University at Albany

“A compelling story of the human-animal bond at its absolute finest.”

—Mary R. Burch, PhD, director of the AKC Canine Good Citizen & Therapy Dog Program

“This beautiful book shines a light on what vulnerable crime victims encounter and how the loving touch of a paw can provide the strength on the path to healing. We need more Rikki and Chuck teams in the world.”

—Allie Phillips, cofounder of Therapy Animals Supporting Kids (TASK) Program

“This riveting story will forever change how you view the power of animal therapy.” —Martha Barnett, Former President of the American Bar Association

“Encounters with Rikki tells the story of a truly amazing bond between man and dog and the life-saving healing and companionship their relationship has inspired . . . [It captures] the magical way in which therapy animals unlock love and trust for those who most desperately need it.” —Lauren Book, MS.Ed, founder and CEO of Lauren’s Kids foundation

“A wonderful read . . . told with the details that make the possibilities of therapy through animals real and will stir even a pessimist to optimism.”

—Talbot “Sandy” D’Alemberte, former president of the American Bar Association

“A moving account of how a loving dog and a determined man can make a world of difference in the lives of those who need it most.” —Janice Gary, author of Short Leash: A Memoir of Dog Walking and Deliverance

“An extremely moving book . . . A profoundly human journey told through the unlikely story of a canine.” —Armand B. Cognetta Jr, chief of dermatology, Florida State University College of Medicine

Look for your copy of Encounters with Rikki: From Hurricane Katrina Rescue to Exceptional Therapy Dog January 2016!

 Please consider sharing your favorite review on Facebook, Twitter and via email...

To my faithful Pre-order Partners:

Thanks to all of you, we now have 313 pre-orders: almost one-third of the way to the 1,000 goal set for February 10, 2016. 

Today I thought you might want to read one of the excerpts I've been reading at the book events sponsored by N Street Village, the organization Miriam's House merged with in 2011.

Feel free to forward this message to anyone you think may be interested in Nowhere Else I Want to Be. I have placed one pre-order link at the bottom of the page, and one HERE. 

This period of time, from spring to winter 1998, turned out to be the first of several over the years about which we staff members later learned to tell one another enjoy the lull now, take care of yourself and rest, because it will all change soon enough.

            But at that point we had not yet learned that bit of wisdom, so the change, when it came, caught us by surprise. As I enjoyed the bit of quiet that I could not know would end abruptly in December, I somehow thought that we would go on together, these women, the staff and Miriam's House, forever. Perhaps, in believing the worst times were over now that we were three years into being, I forgot that death and relapse and chaos could cycle back. I did not know that the not-worst times could still be very, very difficult. And, of course, we didn't know that Nickie, who had just moved in that May, was coming to the end of her life that December.

            We didn't know until she was just about gone, until our nurse, Kathy, who was with Nickie to help her dress one morning, saw her suddenly collapse with a groan; until she raced up the hall shouting for me to dial 911 before running back to Nickie. What I remember is the look on Kathy's face as she knelt at Nickie's side, there on the floor in the bathroom, and that Kathy's eyes told me what we hadn't known.

            I followed the ambulance to Howard Hospital, just a few blocks away, I saw them pull the stretcher out of the back of the vehicle, the oxygen canister on her abdomen and a mask over her face, one EMT scrambling alongside the stretcher performing CPR while the others rushed it indoors. I parked the car and ran into the ER and they let me into the back without question once I said who I was and why I was there. But I was not allowed into the trauma unit, its curtain billowing outward with the hurried movements of multiple doctors and nurses, so I sat in a chair in the hallway, heart pounding. Twenty minutes later, a doctor sat down next to me to tell me, kindly and softly, that they had not been able to revive her.

            "May I see her?"

            "We need to clean her up first, but in about fifteen minutes, you can go in."

            I told her that we had a community of people who loved Nickie and asked if I could call them to come up and say good-bye. The doctor conferred with other ER staff, then returned to say we could have half an hour. I called Miriam's House to tell Tim and Angie. Then, seeing the activity in the trauma unit had ceased, I stepped in to say good-bye. But I could not control myself and was afraid that if I were heard the permission to visit Nickie would be withdrawn. So I gave Nickie a kiss on her forehead and went outdoors to wait for my friends from Miriam's House, take some deep breaths, and let the sun dry my cheeks.

            Tim drove a group up in the van, and the rest walked. I recall standing with one hand resting on Nickie's foot, the other grasping Angie's hand. I tried to comfort the residents as they slowly entered the unit, stunned.

            But I don't know what happened after that, because I had to go to Nickie's father's apartment to tell him his one remaining daughter had died. He lived in senior citizen subsidized housing near Union Station. I drove there filled with dread, unsure of what to say and how to say it. I remember the smell of stale urine in the elevator. I remember wishing I had taken the stairs but then realizing they probably smelled worse and might be unsafe to boot. I remember the greasy feel of the air in the hallway, the dingy, indeterminate color of paint applied ages ago, the scuffed tile floor scattered with trash and cigarette butts, the yellowed ceiling above. 

            I waited long moments after I knocked, listening to the shuffling sound of his approach, the wheeze of his breathing. Struggling for composure, I breathed deeply but choked on the stench.  As Nickie's father opened the door I saw that the apartment was dark. Roaches scuttled away from the splash of hallway light on the kitchen floor and counters.

            "Mr. Moore? My name is Carol. I work at Miriam's House, where your daughter, um, lives. May I come in?"

            He opened the door further and I walked in to the same smell as the hallway, only concentrated. Breathing through my mouth, I wrenched my mind away from the wretched place and the disturbing thought of his living there. The elderly, infirm man shuffled and wheezed his way to the only chair in the tiny space. 

            "Who are you?" He had sat down heavily and he peered at me from rheumy eyes that I was not sure could distinguish anything much at all. I stood uneasily before him.

            "I'm Carol." I tried again, "I work at Miriam's House with Nickie. I came to talk with you about her."

            "Nickie?"

            "Your daughter," I said faintly, quelling the rising nausea that now had less to do with the smell than it did with consuming sorrow that any human being had to live like this. I looked around the dingy apartment to find a phone, a conviction growing in me that I would be unable to make him understand, and hoping to call someone, maybe a neighbor, to come over.

            "Sir, I'm afraid I have bad news for you. I am so very sorry. Sir?"

            He had dropped his head and I noticed for the first time a fine trembling of all his body, as though within him sounded a tightly tuned cello string. I could not tell whether he had understood what I'd said.

            "Sir?"

            "Nickie."

            "Yes. Yes, sir, I have come to tell you about Nickie. Your daughter." A fathomless river of suffering flooded ancient banks and boiled up through the soles of my feet.

            He shook his head. "Nickie? Where is she?"

            "Mr. Moore, do you have a friend living here? On this floor? Is there someone who can help us right now?"

            "Herman. Next door."

            And that is where my memory stops. I must have found Herman, he must have helped me find phone numbers for Mr. Moore's two sons. We must have called them, because I know I left with the assurance that a son was on his way. It would be a family member and not a stranger who would try to make this father understand that his only daughter was dead

Pre-order HERE