Expert Reviews of my contest entry

Here are the complete reviews posted by judges on my private account in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest about my book, Shadows of Damascus. I hope it gives you a better idea about the book.

ABNA Expert Reviewer

What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt?

It didn't waste any time showing the root of Adam's struggles. The war scene was very vivid. PTSD is a very real problem and more needs to be written about it.

I also felt Adam's sense of disorientation even 5 years later when he was home.

What aspect needs the most work?

Fadi's accent seemed a little ridiculous with the b's instead of p's. I'm sure that's the way it really is but it didn't read well.

What is your overall opinion of this excerpt?

The idea is very timely. The excerpt gave the background information quite nicely. It made me want to know more about Adam and his struggles. My curiosity was piques about Yasmeen and how she will cope.

ABNA Expert Reviewer

What is the strongest aspect of this excerpt?

Oh my, what action and suspense in this excerpt! My eyes were transfixed in fear as I read this at a faster-than-normal pace. What better way to start off a story than with a graphic combat scene? Even the Arabic accent seems real, as Arabs can not pronounce the /p/ sound and instead use the /b/ sound. There is suspense and thrill all throughout the plot as is given here, and the pitch promises even more.

What aspect needs the most work?

Stylistical there's nothing that needs work that I can tell. I truly like this story. My question is more factual. In Chapter 2 the protagonist is back in his hometown of Platteville, Wisconsin. He had planted an orange and a lemon tree in his mother's back yard. I don't think citrus trees can even thrive in such a cold climate as that found in Wisconsin. These trees are very sensitive to frost and prolonged cold.

What is your overall opinion of this excerpt?

Based on the pitch, the real plot hasn't started yet. All we get is the setting and some motive. There is a love story here, a theme of redemption and gratefulness, all which haven't been introduced yet. What is presented in the excerpt promises to give the story some heart-pounding thrills, based on real events that are happening in Syria right now. The author has succeeded in introducing political suspense into this story that many who have seen action in Iraq (like I have) can appreciate and relate to. This story should appeal to a wide generation of readers.

Hopeful

I've learned that my book Shadows of Damascus has passed through the second round of eliminations in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Out of the original 10,000 entries down to 500 at this stage, Shadows of Damascus one of them. The book is a fictional novel about current events taking place in Syria. I'm excited, hopeful and delighted.

Mid April, another round of eliminations will take place and the semi-finalists will be announced. I pray to be one of them. The prize is a publishing contract so the book might actually see the light. Judges are basing their reviews on four criteria:

Overall strength of excerpt - Prose/style - Plot/hook - Originality of idea.

You can check out an excerpt of the book on Amazon.com under my name. You'd be able to download an excerpt and leave a review if you're an Amazon member. Here's the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Of-Damascus-Entry-ebook/dp/B00B9N41ZW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363361312&sr=8-1&keywords=Lilas+Taha

Change

As an adult, I’ve made many decisions in my life that taxed my nerves and my resolve. I’ve let go of a few convictions and adopted others, realized certain biases that stuck to my skin like dirt and tried to shake them off, made mental decisions to take specific stances, crossed my heart with promises to let go of lies and strive for truths.

No different than any other person, I’ve journeyed through the growing years discovering things about myself, some I liked, many I embraced with a grain of salt, and many more I resisted to acknowledge, struggled to change, and then had to shamefully accept and try to control.

When I worked with domestic abuse victims, I repeated a sentence many times to the clients who’d been through Hell and back with their abusive partners, and still expected their relationships to improve.

No one changes his or her nature.

In my clients’ eyes, there was the expectation that something foreign triggered the abuser into action. Most victims believed they were that foreign element. If only they could change whatever trait they had that caused the abusive treatment, their lives would be better.  Very few, and I think they were the lucky ones, realized that it’s inherent in the abuser’s nature to treat them that way.

But he’s taken the anger management course.

But he’s been going to therapy.

But he changed jobs, and he’s no longer stressed.

But he’s promised to keep taking his medication this time.

But his parents are out of our lives now.

But he loves me.

I know many therapists, counselors and reformed abusers would have a fit with what I stated. But I truly believe that no one can change his or her nature. That’s what I tried to drill into my clients, the ones who listened, anyway. The ones who didn’t, and kept going back to their partners after each trial to break away, asked for help again and again. Sometimes, it took them months, sometimes years, and unfortunately most of the times, way too late.

Examining my own struggles to improve the kind of person I am, I see how difficult it is to shed an undesirable trait, whatever that may be. It takes determination, with all the inner strength I can muster. If I take telling lies, as an example of such a trait, I’d have to be constantly aware of what comes out of my mouth, my mind fact checking all the time, my conscience awake and alert (and yes, my conscience takes long naps sometimes.)

For abusers, it should be logical to let go of a behavior that causes harm to the people they supposedly love, shouldn’t it? But it’s not logical. And it’s not easy. It’s not something that can be handled with outside forces, a disease that can be treated with pills or therapy. Abusive behavior is a lifestyle choice. It’s a conviction, a belief by the abuser that he has the right and the power to dominate. Like a religious persuasion, an unwavering faith that needs to be shaken from the core to be able to adjust it. But first, he’d have to make the decision to accept his behavior as his own manufactured product. Accept it, and then try to modify it.

I’ve had many clients with success stories, moving on in life and finding a measure of fulfillment. Many clients remained stuck in their own bubbles, not for lack of trying, but for lack of understanding the roots of the issue. Those are the ones that wake up my conscience when it falls to sleep, exhausted, frustrated and sometimes defeated.

So, if you are in an abusive relationship, get out. Don’t wait. Don’t cling to a hope that will never materialize. He will not change.

If you know someone who’s being abused, help her break away. If you can’t do it yourself, do the research on her behalf. Find out about Women centers and organizations in her area and give her the information. If you can’t do that, tell her she deserves better, that she’s worth more in everyone’s eyes but his. Empower her.

If you know an abuser, do something about it. Don’t have a drink with him and laugh at his jokes, wincing internally at your helplessness. Tell him. Confront him. Better yet, smack him around for once and see how he likes it. Look him in the eye and show him what kind of man he is. If you can’t do that, then for God’s sake, find someone who can.

Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

Useless

You Wake up to horrible news. Your home area is blown to pieces.

You run to the phone, call every number you have for family members, aunts, uncles, cousins. No one answers. You start calling neighbors, friends, friends of friends, friends of neighbors. Nothing.

You run back to the TV, see the news coverage, then the Internet, more detailed coverage. Pictures of charred bodies in the streets.

You close your eyes.

You pick up the phone again, dial and count the endless beeps. No one answers. You go into the bathroom. Throw up your panic. Come out and watch more footage. Black smoke covers the screen. And then, a glimpse in the corner: part of a dwelling, a hole where your bedroom used to be.

You close your eyes again.

Stones, nothing more, you tell yourself. Not important. You run to the phone again, call friends who might know more, or have other sources of information.

The phone is useless.

You, standing in your living room thousands of miles away, are useless. You drop to the ground, double over and scream, then curse, then screams some more.

And finally, you break down and cry.

If you are lucky, the phone rings, or your computer beeps the arrival of a message from someone who made it and thought to let you know who’s injured, who’s not, and who won’t be coming home.

If you’re lucky.

Practice

It takes practice to protect the ones you love.

You have to work hard

Give warm hugs

Wipe flowing tears

Grant shoulder rides

Tell half-truths

Invent pure lies

Use simple words to explain complicated matters.

You may need to cull certain people out of your life

Keep a watchful eye

Monitor small changes

Look for clues to determine possible heartache.

You can pray to a higher power when your hands are tied
Depend on lessons taught
Wait for a miracle

Swallow your fears
Hold your breath for sudden enlightenment to strike.

At times, you watch in silence.

Others, you scream away.

Use your fists on someone else’s face, blocking danger.

And some times, there’s nothing left to do but point a gun.

It takes practice to protect the ones you love.

Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

It's Time

I had to call on M’sieur BuĆhar again. For those of you who don’t know my friend, you can check out my post on October 19, 2012.

Two people were arguing, a difference of opinion between colleagues that should have passed amicably. I arrived late for the meeting, and had to filter through some comments to figure out what the main topic was all about. Once the heated discussion took full hold, one of the men involved started shifting in his seat, turning his body sideways away from the one opposing his view. That was a clear indication that he was not willing to consider the other man’s idea. Faces turned red, arms crossed in defiance, voices elevated considerably.

I looked around the room, people had their heads down, some fiddling with papers and folders, most likely pretending to read. I did the same and waited for the tantrum wave to pass, hoping we could get back to the main topic before the end of the meeting. But the two men kept at it, back and forth exchanging insults. Shouldn’t someone say something to end this childish behavior? Maybe if I stood up, quietly withdrew from the room, it would send a clear message to the quarrelling couple that they’ve stretched it far enough. Better than saying anything that might be taken for one side against the other.

I closed my folder, tucked my pen in my purse, put my hands on the table intending to push my seat back to get to my feet.

One of the arguing men called my name.

I looked up.

“What do you think?” he asked, his yes focused on me.

I was cornered. Any comment I thought of might have caused damage to either party.

You’ve probably watched a scene like this in many movies. The actor in place would have stumbled, stuttered, made some general comment that could be understood in many positive ways, or made a silly joke and the tension would break.

Well, this was not a movie. I was not an actress, though I wished I were. Why didn’t the phone ring at that moment? Why didn’t the secretary come into the room with an important message to relay to one of the guys causing this mayhem? Why didn’t the fire alarm suddenly go off? And why, in God’s name, did he choose me, of all the attendees to ask for my opinion?

It was time for M’sieur BuĆhar.

I closed my eyes and summoned M’sieur BuĆhar into the room. By now, I’ve become addicted to this solution. He was my savior. And true to his mission, he stormed into the room. He would know what to do. He would pull me out of this hole.

M’sieur BuĆhar put a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing my back to have me sit straighter in my chair, leaned his head closer to my face and placed his lips on mine.

“Je pense que vous êtes tous deux comporter comme des enfants. Je ne vais pas être partie à la folie.”

The words flew out of my mouth. M’sieur BuĆhar mouth, I should say. Everyone stared at me with quizzical eyes, confusion clear on their faces.

“Could you repeat that in English, please. We don’t speak French.” Someone said.

I pushed M’sieur BuĆhar head out of the way. He glued his lips to my ear and said in broken English, ”It is time to speak your mind.”

I knew it. I knew if I opened my mouth again, his words would fly out, no matter how hard I tried not to. He was my champion, after all. I took a deep breath and did just that. I spoke my mind. I told the two men they behaved like children and that I would not be part of their foolishness.

You want to know what happened next?

What can I say? M’sieur BuĆhar never failed me.

Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

Too Late

At first I didn't understand why I felt uneasy around this lady. She was articulate, accomplished and reflected the image of a confident woman. I spent a couple of afternoons in her company on one of my trips out of town. We talked about world politics, books we've recently read and loved, family matters, different diets, dreams to be chased and hopefully realized. Through it all, a thread dangled in front of me, beckoning me to tug at it and see what secret weave it might unravel. A look in her eyes when she talked about her teenage son confused me. Not the twinkle of pride and love that I see in every woman's eyes I knew. But a sudden dimming of the soul, as if a switch turned off the lights inside her when she mentioned her son's name. A shadow passed quickly over her gaze, and then disappeared again.

I've met women who lost sons in wars, illnesses or car accidents. Some lost their sons to mean wives that kept them away for years. No matter what the reasons were, none of them had that strange hiccup of a look, an oddity so unique, I can't find the right word to describe it.

From then on, I paid more attention to the words she used, her body language, the nervous laugh she uttered when I asked specific questions. I repeatedly reached out to pull the end of that dangling thread, but held back. Every family has secrets. There was no need to chase hers, I convinced myself. The nagging feeling to find out why I felt uncomfortable with my new friend when she mentioned her son mushroomed inside me.  I kept it in check, hoping it was caused by my over active imagination.

On my last afternoon visit with her, she invited me over for coffee at her house. Though cautious, my curiosity triumphed and I eagerly obliged. With the aroma of rich coffee, and a wonderful slice of apple pie, I lounged lazily in her living room, chastising myself for my suspicions. This was a cozy house, a family home. Her other children roamed around with innocent vitality. Nothing seemed out of place. My friend joined me on the couch, relaxed and joyful.

I heard a rough voice behind me, a man clearing his throat.

My friend's face froze, that weird look returned to her eyes. The coffee cup in her hand shook.

Must be her husband, I reasoned, making an unexpected stop at the house in the middle of the day.

She jumped to her feet, coffee spilled on the cushions.

I turned my head and saw a young man towering over me behind the couch. His eyes fixed on his mother, ignoring me. She launched into a series of apologies. I couldn't understand why she was so flustered. My friend rushed to the kitchen, pulled out a plate from the fridge and put it in the microwave. So she apologized because she was late preparing his meal?

He didn't utter a word.

I rose to my feet to face him. And there it was, slapping me hard, gluing me to the floor. A look in this young man's eyes so severe, so strange. The only way I could describe it is to say his eyes were empty. As if looking into a doll's glass beady eyes. Lifeless. No emotion, threatening or otherwise.

I introduced myself, explained that I was the reason for his mother's tardiness, feeling silly for playing into this abnormal charade. I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could. No, I needed to get out there before I witnessed something more awful. I saw it coming when he went to his mother's side, moving like a lion stalking his pray. He shoved her aside with his fist, took his plate and left. She kept her back to me, head bowed, hands rubbing her upper arm.

This woman was afraid of her own child. What a twisted world she lived in. I spent the remainder of my visit discussing ways to help her. She listened, nodded her head and then offered to drive me to my hotel. Helpless, I left, knowing she would not follow any of the suggestions I presented. Not until something tragic happened, to her or to someone else. Too late. Way too late.


Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.