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Jean's Blog (Check out links to Guest Blogs in lefthand Column)




My first novel, Footprints On The Heart, has flown out of my reach, winging its way out into the world on wings of the internet to reach out and touch strangers in ways I cannot imagine. It's a little like sending a child off to school for the first time. Will others see the wonder and appeal of this brainchild of mine? Will they read past the first few words and have heated opinions about the characters and the way they behave? Will my readers want to read to the end? Will they laugh and cry where I intended that they should? Will they tell friends to read it and recommend it to their bookclubs, will they feel that the characters will always be present in their hearts, or will they shelve the novel with a sigh and never look at it again.
So many questions and no answers. Just a pulsating silence around my novel's publication.

When I was nine years old I decided that I would become a writer one day. I was a big fan of Enid Blyton. I was a voracious reader who galloped eagerly through any novel that came my way. Taking the bull by the horns, I actually wrote to Enid Blyton and sent her a story for her magazine, Sunny Stories. She wrote back to say that Sunny Stories had ceased to be, but that I should keep writing. I took this to be a message from the gods, and I promised myself that I would keep writing. I could not imagine a life without the stories that glowed in my imagination and filled my dreams.
When I grew up and became a responsible adult, I realized that a paying job was next on the agenda. I was fortunate enough to be able to make books my life-work, books I loved, books written by others I admired, books I was able to help out into the world. And those books filled my dreams and my imagination. And I still knew deep down that one day I would become a writer.
Time passed, and I became a grandmother. I felt impelled to start writing about my unusual childhood growing up in Egypt, to reach out to my grandchildren and give them a piece of their past that they would never be able to imagine if I didn't write about it for them. I wrote in the corners of my life, stealing time, until, with time, I actually had a book, and my memoir, Sipping From the Nile, My Exodus from Egypt, was born.

To my surprise, I had become a writer. But my first love had always been fiction. I wanted to share a story with the world. I  wanted my words to sing all the songs I would never sing, and touch the hearts of people I would never know, and live on well after I left this world.
So I am at last who I was always meant to be. At 81 years old, I have published my first novel. I am sharing thoughts and words that matter to me through the lives of characters as real to me as the living people in my life. I know their innermost hearts. I know who they are. Their story is out in the world.
And there is another story waiting in the wings, if I am given time to write it. The characters are already knocking at the door, asking to be released.

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Looking Back 57 Years




How is it possible that an entire lifetime has gone by since we stepped out of the beautiful little round synagogue in Geneva Switzerland on July 15th 1962, as man and wife. We had nothing planned except to be together forever and ever.

We had known each other vaguely as children in Cairo, Egypt - but in a child's life, three and a half years between us was an unbridgeable gulf. I had been in the same class as Serge's younger brother at the GPS School, taught by the same teachers, playing in the same school yard, unaware that we would ever meet again once life took us into new and larger worlds..

The deepening tension between Israel and Egypt flung Serge's family to France where he went to the Lycee Janson in Paris, my parents later settled in Geneva Switzerland after leaving Egypt following the Suez crisis of 1956.

I had attended boarding school in Brighton, England and college at Westfield College of London University. I loved London. I loved living in Europe. I loved my large boisterous very connected family, now all scattered throughout Europe. The possibility of the Americas never crossed my mind, although a fortune teller had foretold it.

We each had other plans when we met again as adults in Switzerland in March of 1962. We were in our twenties, Serge on a business trip from New York for IBM World Trade. I, certain I would never marry a man from the Middle East. But in three weeks of periodic walking and talking, a little eating, a little dancing, a picnic, a visit to the Chateau de Gruyere, we joyfully committed to spending the rest of our lives together far from our families. All that mattered was to be together. We knew we would work it all out if we were together. We knew that was all that mattered.

We were right. No amount of planning could have prepared us for these past 57 years. We explored our youth together, had so much fun together, had good times and difficult times, and had our children when we were little more than children ourselves. No-one was around to dispense advice or to inflate disputes. There was no social media, no smartphones, no email, no easy phone connection to those we loved. Each crisis overcome brought us closer together. Life was not always kind.

So forgive me if I take a look back and dispense some advice strange to the ears of the meticulous young planners of today: The heart speaks truth. Don't plan. Don't waste time waiting for the timing to be perfect. To be exactly right.

Plunge. You'll find the way to get it right.

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Message across the Decades


My parents

Joyce and Guido Mosseri on their honeymoon in Aswan, Egypt 

My parents, Joyce Smouha and Guido Mosseri, were married in Alexandria, Egypt, on February 21, 1937. They were both readers, and I remember that they had a cupboard in their little sitting room in the big house where I grew up, where they kept the special books they loved, and over time shared with their children. One of those books was BUSMAN'S HONEYMOON, by Dorothy Sayers.
Time passed, and the Suez crisis of 1956 saw a dramatic change in the fortunes of the Jews from Egypt. Those with Egyptian passports were expelled immediately, forced to surrender their passports and claim to Egyptian citizenship. Those with foreign passports left too, but somewhat less precipitously. Of 80,000 Jews in Egypt, within a year or two, most had left. Only an aging handful remain, intent on staying out of the public eye.
We were among the more fortunate. We had Italian passports, and in 1957, we left our home and Egypt forever. My aunts settled in Rome. My parents in Geneva Switzerland, until my mother joined my brother and myself in New York after the death of our father in 1969. Books and possessions followed my mother to New York, some broken, some lost, in this new transition.
Imagine my wonder and amazement when I received a message from a publishing colleague with whom I had long lost touch. He had seen my Facebook post that my memoir, Sipping From The Nile, was in a promotion for 99c. on Amazon, for the entire month of May.
"Were your parents Joyce and Guido Mosseri?" He asked. And then went on to tell me that his copy of Dorothy Sayers' novel, BUSMAN'S HONEYMOON, bore an inscription to them, from gift-givers unknown to me, in Alexandria, dated February 21, 1937, their wedding day. He sent me a photo of the inscription, and I saw my mother's distinctive handwriting.

If only books could talk!

Way beyond the call of duty, the kind publishing colleague has sent me the book. I will treasure it.

So there is a message here, but I can't quite decipher the code. Except, perhaps, that the love of books transcends time and place, and that this book has somehow brought together some of the disconnects in my life, blending beginnings and endings.

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The Terrible Month of May

The exuberance of early daffodils

The drabness of winter trees seemed to echo the drabness in my heart. And suddenly this week, almost overnight, the city  exploded into young green, lacy delicate leaves shivering in the chilly breezes, casting a hazy bloom over every street tree,  everywhere showing off apple blossom, quince, redbud and cherry blossom, punctuated by the bold gold of forsythia and daffodils, the massed red and yellow tulips in tiny flower beds of brilliant color, surprising the eye and the heart.

I am a lady in waiting. I have to effect a few small changes on the finished FOOTPRINTS ON THE HEART, as I await creative surprises from the jacket designer. The anticipation is making it hard to get through every day, but I hope that something will flower on my computer soon, and that I will love her ideas. I am tackling the ever-demanding and never-reducing piles of mail and documents that each require something of me, as they float in, day by day, a relentless tide of mess and obligation.

May will hurt. Alan's birthday was May 18th, and before that I must navigate Mother's Day. His was usually the first call, and he never forgot. He lives on vividly in my heart, that beautiful baby with a mass of dark hair, a gorgeous smile, and an irresistible chuckle, who became that big man with the kind and generous heart, the ever-present humor, and the wonderful enveloping hug.

May will also bring joy and laughter to us, as my nineteen-year-old granddaughter Anna from Seattle arrives from college with her beautiful youth and energy, to park herself with us for a month while she works at her daily summer internship in a midtown company. Dinner will blossom with tales of the day's experiences, discussions of what to wear if she is going out, and how she will get to and from everywhere safely. I can hardly wait. Anna is also the irresistible magnet for my other nineteen-year-old granddaughter, her cousin Sarah. The two of them will stir the air like music, and usher us back into youth for a brief stint of happiness.

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Two years ago, I had an idea for a novel. It would have its roots in Egypt, but would quickly move to a community of exiles living in New York, centering on one character in particular, JAMILA, a girl from a small Nile village who became Jasmine, a celebrity model. What fun to research clothes and fashion agencies, and an entire world I knew so little about.

I gave Jamila a brother, Ali, left behind in the Nile village while his beloved sister disappeared into a life he could not even imagine. I plunged energetically into Ali's bitterness, stirred it about, and started to research how terrorism might take hold in the malleable minds of the young. I wrote and wrote, researching behaviors and evolving plots and wonderful scenarios that would link my growing list of characters to each other and to the larger worlds they navigated. Entire plot lines came and went, The novel covered decades, sprawling into dark corners of possibility. I loved it. I loved writing it. I loved every word.

Then my personal life received a blow from which I knew I could never recover. I lost my eldest son. Writing a novel became a ridiculous frivolity totally at odds with the pain and drama of my real life.  The novel had a title by then, FOOTPRINTS ON THE HEART. I set it aside and tried to regain some personal equilibrium. It lay fallow for many many months. Two months ago I found the courage to pick up the manuscript and read it again. Suddenly, links to plots that had long ago bitten the dust, or characters whose motivations had swerved and changed direction stood out from the story I was reading. They didn't belong at all. How had I not noticed this before? Intrigued, I began to move sequences and characters into a different file in the computer. I could not bear to actually delete any of my beloved work.( Anyone else been there?) I swallowed the multiplying losses and moved on, streamlining the flow of the book.

After all those months it began to fall into an intensely readable progression. The characters refused to be pushed into moments that did not fit their lives. Their voices became stronger, more distinct. FOOTPRINTS ON THE HEART became a novel as I worked, no longer a pile of connected incidents. The voices of Jasmine, Ali and Sol created a new music. I knew the sound was a rich and blended harmony. I had excavated my novel from the morass of its past. Stay tuned. Publication is close.

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 Alan Naggar

Years have gone by. Days weeks months have gone by. At the very end of December 2017, my world shattered. My eldest son, Alan, died in Los Angeles, in a sudden septic shock situation following what he had taken to be a gastric upset. He had been in New York for Thanksgiving, and to help organize my surprise 80th birthday celebration with his siblings. Within a few days, I plunged from a state of heady happiness, surrounded by husband, children and grandchildren, to a terrible crash into a boundless, borderless, unchanging relationship with anguish. My son was gone, suddenly and irrevocably. The wound still gapes a year and a half later, but now I can contain it for some of the time, and weep alone at night when the reality of my huge loss sweeps over me. The wound will never heal. The pain will never go away.

But now it is time to reclaim whatever remnants of myself remain.

That is the challenge I see ahead as I prepare to welcome my first novel later this year.

Meanwhile, I post today in memory of my firstborn son, a poem written months ago from the depths of my pain.



In the deepest black of night I cry your name,
Tortured by memories of a past when you were small
And I could tell you where to be.
"Don't run" I cry, "Don't get there before me.
You were never supposed to get there first.
Come back. Please, Oh please come back. You'll get lost."
I listen, holding my breath, but no-one replies.
Pain swells out and wraps my soul in fire.
Those are such bitter tears I cry for you my son,
Wrenched from your life out of your turn.
I can know nothing of you now except this silence.
My firstborn son, where are you now?
Are you alone? Afraid? Lost in eternity?
So much love I had for you from the first faint flutter
I recognized as yours, long before you were born.
You made me a mother and my mother's heart
Cannot believe that you have ceased to be.
And yet I call your name
And strain to hear, but no-one answers me.
Pain leaks from my heart with every breath
As alone and lost in the dark
I try to understand your death.


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A month ago, my son-in-law brought me some plants for our terrace, since various annoying setbacks prevented me from reveling in my usual happy spring foray at Saunderskill Farms in upstate New York, almost walking distance from our country house. He had chosen a glorious array of purple and white petunias, delicate spires of purple florets, pink fuschias that revealed silky purple interiors, and a magnificent hanging fuschia bursting with fat pink buds, that quite took my breath away. I imagined drinking my morning coffee under the swaying blooms once they had all opened.
We have a ficus tree that winters behind our white reclining couch in the living room, and then settles decoratively into a corner of our small terrace when the last frosts are over. We nursed it from a sprig, many years ago, to its present impressive height, and every year it gets a little harder to maneuver it back and forth between apartment and terrace. My husband heaved a sigh of relief when he had pushed and pulled it to its usual corner, and it was only later that we realized that one of its branches was in the way of the hanging fuschia, which immediately reacted to sharing its sparse light and sun by dropping buds and blooms all over the terrace floor. It had become a mass of swaying green leaves. I was devastated.
Meanwhile, the ficus, dancing in the light spring breezes, began to unfurl new leaves of delicate green, mixing in with its dark and dusty winter foliage. I noticed that the hanging fuschia seemed to have developed bunches of low hanging buds, and sprigs waved above the ficus with sprays of new buds reaching upward to the light. Today, they all opened, creating a gorgeous lacy filigree of pink and white between and above the leaves and branches of the ficus. They adapted to each other and created a superb counterbalance of shades of green and bursting clusters of color. Their combined beauty outshone their separate existences. A lesson to be learned?

I read somewhere "You don't get harmony when everyone sings the same note."

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Blurred Beauty

I am becoming fascinated with the different way that time impacts my life now that I do not have a measurable job to go to. Hours drift past, indistinguishable, tumbling and swirling in the quiet until they cede space to the next hour, and the next. Sometimes no words are spoken for many hours, so they pass me by in silence, offering no interaction with others. There is no schedule to brush against, nothing to push against nothing with which to make contact in the soft slurring of the days. Time is mine now. But how to fashion something meaningful out of it ?
In between the long stretches of road with nothing to mark my passage, there are suddenly stretches where a complex scenery defines itself. A flurry of phone calls, obligations, emergencies, doctor visits, plans, everything crashes at once into the baffling serenity, stirring up clumps of purpose that flower and dazzle in the calm.
I start the old "master of the universe" stride, but realize that it no more exists than the many years that refined it. Now I walk carefully, gauging the pavement, looking for seating here and there, sighing with relief that there is no more need for hurry, there are fewer sharp edges to avoid. It is almost pleasant to wander in a blurred landscape. There is much to do, much to see, much to savor.
There is always a growing sense that the last time never announces itself, so each time is fragrant with the poignancy that it could be the last. Few angers warrant stoking. Many loves crowd in to embrace. So much in this beautiful world to admire. I have seen and enjoyed so much. Fear for the future recedes. The future will take care of itself. I can only watch and hope.
People smile and pass me by. My panoply of needs and desires lose their urgency. I have one more revision to undertake on my novel. My heart clings to the hope that it will fly out into the world and be seen, that all that I need to say will be heard. I may be old, but I will not be invisible.

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A year ago, I plunged into my novel and stopped writing my monthly blogs, wanting to channel all the energy of my creativity toward the one goal that beckoned enticingly from the shadows. Now winter has passed, an astoundingly mild winter, but one that seems reluctant to cede its place to spring. Clouds race across the sky, propelled by an unseasonal wind. Storms and hail batter the middle of the country. Here we are, in May 2016, and the chill in the air still makes the crocuses and daffodils shiver along with the rest of us.
I spent a year of writing and thinking about writing. My novel is done, except for responding to advice from agent and editor. I have neither. I am stranded in the nether world of doubt and despair from which I rescued other writers for years. Who will love my brain-child? Who will make it all real? I wait. Answers will eventually come. They may not be the answers I so desire. I am not a patient person I discover, although I always thought I was.
I set out to write that novel, clear about where it would begin and where it would end. I knew the beginning. I knew how it ended. I was fuzzy, but hopeful that I would be able to sharpen focus on everything that needed to happen in between. What I had not anticipated was the way certain characters, just a name at first, struggled and elbowed their way to importance, and in doing so, unfurled infinite possibilities, influenced interaction with others, tilted the story differently and through their motivations and individual needs skewed the involvement with their environment and world events their way. I felt myself being dragged along to unpremeditated scenarios by the energy the characters themselves projected. It was a mind-blowing experience.
Now, like so many other writers of first novels, I sit on hot coals, pretending to do and say all that is expected of me in my real world, while the world and characters I created bang on the door of my consciousness, demanding to know what will happen next. The novel (tentative title, CHILDREN OF THE NILE), is finished, but not final, as I wait for responses.
This the mere beginning. But what of the people whose lives I explored, whose lives I lived as I wrote them? They became more real to me than flesh and blood. We lived together for so many months, shared Eureka moments, struggled against each other, flew above the clouds into the zone together and emerged dazed but triumphant to read words that wrote themselves, words I loved, and was unaware of having written.
Now there is only the pain of waiting.

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Wedding of Joseph Smouha and Rosa Ades in Manchester, England

Writing my memoir, The catalyst that started the process of writing my memoir came zooming out of left field soon after the births of my first grandchildren. I realized then, that while they held the key to the future, I held the key to their past. They were entitled to find it, if they ever went seeking. The community and the world I had known as a child before the Suez crisis of 1956 had completely disappeared. It seemed increasingly important to write it back into being, to preserve the vibrant personalities and idiosyncrasies of beloved family members, along with the rich and complicated world in which they flourished.
I never meant to share my reflections with the world. I wrote for my family, in an attempt to make sense of it all, to seek out the vanished past that left its faint footprint in the present. But as I began to open locked doors and allow the past back in, more and more memories, more scenes, more scents and sounds of a lost world swelled into being and jostled in my mind for attention. There was a profound satisfaction in feeling that I was rendering homage to those who came before me, and laying a path for those in search of themselves to follow. I began to see myself as a mere fragment in time, the sum of choices made by unknown ancestors, in a distant past.
Each memoir is both unique, and universal. I learned that each personal memoir holds truths and commonalities way beyond those experienced by the writer. Every life, whatever the circumstances, turns out to be a universal tale of reversals and transformations, shaped by the storms of politics, economics, wars, and losses; the prism through which each tale is viewed is what bends the experience into widely differing shapes for each individual.
In striving to make sense of our own lives, we are drawn to read about the lives of others. Whether those lives mirror our own or offer a taste of exotica or trauma we have not shared, we enter them for a brief time, taking pleasure or pain in the sharing, and always finding a common humanity.

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