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Writers Secrets Releases FREE Book on Boston Marathon Bombing “Boston, April 15, 2013. Too Painful to Remember. Too Important to Forget.”

An intimate account of the Boston Marathon bombing by the only journalist within the perimeter.

Dr. Jeffrey Lant reporting from the inside for CNN.

This is a gripping first person account from the well known author, journalist and commentator.

Dr. Lant was a resident in Cambridge as the new war was delivered to his very doorstep. His whole neighborhood was put in lock-down. Dr. Lant was the only journalist inside the lock-down perimeter. All other journalists were kept interned by police and military authorities and had no direct access to the unfolding events.

Dr. Lant was there, on the spot in a situation reminiscent of Edward R. Murrow and his famous broadcasts during the London Blitz in 1940.

This book and Dr. Lant’s unique way of telling the story bring you inside one of the tragedies of this generation.

You are there as were the over one billion worldwide (numbers provided through CNN) who through CNN were able to follow the gripping story, the insights, the drama and the murderous events.

To commemorate the third anniversary of Boston Marathon Bombing

Dr. Lant and Writers Secrets bring the story directly to you

in this book given freely to you and the world.

For other ways Writers Secrets is changing the world for the better go to www.writerssecrets.com

ebook cover Boston BombingRemembering on the 3rd Anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing…

FREE eBook –

“Boston, April 15, 2013

Too painful to remember.

Too important to forget.”

Share and Keep the Memory Alive.

Get your FREE copy at: http://dashboard.sendreach.com/index.php/lists/yt910v65kcb35/subscribe

 

 

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Excerpts From “Boston, April 15, 2013 Too painful to remember. Too important to forget.” Plus a Program That Reached Over a Billion People

Smart tips For Your Personal And Business Success

Today. . . . . . . . . . .

What it is to report or write on Current Events and Dealing with the Emotional Impact.

Dr. Lant reached over a billion with his Boston Marathon Bombing program.

Join him and hear his unique story of this event, all covered in the

Writers Secrets LIVE Interactive Session and recorded for the member’s archives.

Become a Writers Secrets VIP Member at http://writerssecrets.co

Nearing the anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing, Dr. Lant is presenting his book

“Boston, April 15, 2013
Too painful to remember.
Too important to forget.”

Here’s some excerpts from his book:

Afterword

When I think about those days, I see sickening loss and
astonishing courage. I see everyday people who, at the
need, become real life heroes. I see butchery, and I see
selflessness beyond mere words. I see tears which will
break your heart, and I see tears that will not be daunted,
propelling as they do a great city to return to its immemorial
mission on the Hill, where all the world may see it and
learn.

This was Boston April 15, 2013, and like everyone else
I had a role to play; a role each of us would never forget.
Mine started when a friend called me, shouting to turn on
the television where life and death were engaged in another
episode of their epic battle; where the stakes could not
possibly be greater, or so we thought before they were.

Officer Sean Collier, aged 26.

The body of the slain security guard had already been removed;
a riot of flashing lights took its place. Just moments before this
guard had been young, a loving father and spouse; an expert
at joshing with the M.I.T. students who had reason to thank him
for his smile and light touch. Now riddled with bullets he was a thing
of horror and regret.

The murderer had fired and fired and fired into the slumped body;
Then he maneuvered the get-away car up Massachusetts Avenue,
towards the heart of my neighborhood, red splotches a la Picasso
marking the way.

The terror begun earlier this day now had new tasks to do, more
grisly promises to keep, more miles to go before it would sleep,
and the neighborhood try to regain the peace if had once known and
for so many years. Peace! The very word reeked of irony now.

“When do you want me to start?” “Now!”

I was asleep when the phone rang. It was CNN Manitoba, Canada
Was I aware that  I was the only journalist  inside the perimeter;
that all the other journalists were being kept from the story by the
police who didn’t understand those journalists would give anything
to be in the story….like I was.  But the authorities had determined
my role in the bloody and fast-moving events now taking place
on the doorstep.

Could I provide commentary on the events at hand? “When?,” I
asked. “Now!” And so one minute after I picked up the phone,
exhausted, disheveled , dismayed by the unfolding events, I was
on the air. I had been born for this moment…

Later CNN told me over one billion people worldwide heard my
programs. I was running on pure adrenaline  But I was never alone.

I had the full support and assistance of CNN; too, of the late
Elizabeth (“Liz”) English, and  from  Larry Spagnold who advised
CNN to contact me. You ride in my heart, always with me.

Just 8 then,  just 11 now. Martin Richard.

I also did it for Martin, the boy cut down in his joy and the full measure
of his love and devotion.

“Peace”, he said “No more hurting people”, he said.

Pray for us, Martin. Pray for us all. We need you so.

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling…:

 

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‘and the ladies they will all turn out.’ How war came to Main Street enlisting every single one of us. Some thoughts.

Proudly presented from www.writerssecrets.com E-Book Series.

Excerpt from the book: “Boston April 15, 2013
Too painful to remember.
Too important to forget.”

Author’s program note. I was restless the evening of April 18 and so did what I almost never do, turning on the television for some light entertainment. This, however, was not destined to take place. Indeed, there was to be nothing light and no mirth at all for that day and the excruciatingly long day to come…

I saw the feature that so often distinguishes late night newscasts, video feed from a crime scene, the place usually being somewhere in the inner city no sensible person would ever go to, much less in dead of night. Sirens blared. The sharp reds and blues pierced the night. Police swaggered, made the kinds of adamant gestures which look so officious and ridiculous but which we card-carrying members of the middle class are glad at moments like this are on our side.

Yes, it was the usual late-night distraction that would be buried on page 8 or so in tomorrow’s paper. Nothing to do with me… not even the caption on the bottom of the screen: “MIT security officer killed.” But from then on, through the long night and the longer day that followed everything was direct, personal, everything to do with me.

The reporter noted the crime scene as Vassar Street, Cambridge while the on-screen video showed a great fortress-like structure that was a building well known to me. There the overflow of my pack-rat life is stored… copies of my books and articles, my father’s letters from the Pacific front in World War II, both sides of the voluminous correspondence when my mother and I were working out the rough patches in a relationship where loving each other did not keep us from saying the sharpest, often wounding of words, she in her copperplate hand, mine rushed and illegible.

Such things and so many others were the crucial artifacts of life, things to be stored in boxes now, to be considered at leisure, some day, I promise… It was all in the building behind the reporter… and I glanced at the time, just about 11 p.m. Life was about to change forever as the total war of our times swept me up, imperious, without thought of who I was, what I had been doing, no matter how important. My desires, wishes, priorities counted for nothing… and neither did yours.

“When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

The lyrics to   “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” were written by the Irish-American band leader Patrick Gilmore. Its first sheet music publication was deposited in the Library of Congress on September 26,1863, with words and music credited to “Louis Lambert”, a pseudonym Gilmore unaccountably used instead of his own name. The copyright was retained by the publisher, Henry Tolman & Co., of Boston.

Determining who actually composed the music is much trickier. There is, for instance, a melodic resemblance to an earlier drinking song entitled “Johnny Fill Up the Bowl”. Someone named J. Durnal claimed credit for its arrangement, though not its composition. This in turn had a distinct melodic resemblance to a tune by Robert Burns, “John Anderson, my Jo”, which harked back to a tune of 1630 entitled “The Three Ravens,”… which harked back to… but you get the picture.

The important thing is how popular it became both with Confederate and Union troops. And no wonder… it’s a grand marching song… the music urging tired feet to go farther and never waver… while the lyrics remind them of the delights of home, theirs soon to savor and enjoy, just one more battle… just one. Before continuing, go to any search engine where you’ll find several fine versions. Listen carefully to lyrics which are now ironic and as far away as ancient Troy.

“The men will cheer and the boys will shout.”

This was how wars were fought in those days… and, until just the other day, in ours. We knew who the enemy was. We knew where he was. We knew what he was fighting for and we knew he had a martial code of honor which would (at least occasionally) cause him to think twice before doing the unspeakable. To be sure, it was a code more often honored in the breach… but it did exist, if only in one Geneva convention or another.

Thus did our much loved troops dress up in battle kit, self conscious about the last kiss to girlfriend or wife; these held back the tear that will surely fall when alone just minutes from now when the beloved is gone, perhaps forever. Fathers hugged the children they would not recognize when they returned; they grow so fast.

This was the war we knew… cheers on departure, certain victory for our cause was always right and our resort to warfare always reluctant and unwilling… then loud, sustained, enthusiastic cheers when Johnny comes marching home.

Now that kind of antediluvian warfare is only a thing of memory, resemblance, and wishful thinking… for now we do not go to war in full regalia, flags flying, the music brassy, suitable for the high affairs of the Great Republic. No indeed. For now we do not go to and return from the war. That war comes to us and confounds our lives more than even the greatest of battles… for we are all of us fully engaged in this new kind of undeclared, limitless war without any rules and procedures whatsoever, war where the first casualty may well be a child of 8, his life sundered and blown to bits by malefactors whose movements are secret, stealthy, and murderous, utterly without meaning, honor and the respect soldiers in the other wars might give their worthy opponents.

But this new kind of war is entirely different, insidious, taking prosaic objects and situations, turning them into the weapons of fear, anxiety and random death. This is a world where evil can lurk behind young and boyish faces and demeanors. Where there are no military helmets, but rather baseball caps, worn backwards in approved adolescent chic. This is a world where the element of deadly surprise always belongs to the attackers and thus can be wielded with merciless accuracy and acute precision.

This is a world where the elements for the bombs made to maim, dismember, and destroy are no further than your local hardware store, for amidst the waxes, sprays, paints and screws are the essential tools of pitiless catastrophe and the reverberating fear that paralyzes a great city whilst causing millions more worldwide to wonder if this could happen to them, knowing full well in their anxious hearts that these purveyors of death could already be about their cruel, selfish work; perhaps the surly young man who scowled when greeted today… worse, perhaps the handsome young man who smiled, offering a friendly quip or passing pleasantry. You see, the agent of mass pain and suffering can so easily wear the most amiable of faces.

These are the aspects of our new kind of war, the war, here now, here for the rest of our troubled, fretful lives.

“Stay in your house. Do not open your door.”

I had never received such a call before, but I feel sure I will get others like it in the years ahead. I had decided to go out and see what I could see. But I never got the chance because the Cambridge Police Department called to say I was to stay at home and to make sure I didn’t let any strangers in. They called this lockdown; it turned me, and hundreds of thousands of others, into a legion of the interned…

And so all of us, surrounded as we are by a plethora of communications devices, used them to feed our anxiety and disbelief. On the firing line as we were, we listened intently for each piece of often inaccurate, incomplete, and alarming detail. Like any good journalist, we examined, reviewed, made deductions, listened to more suppositions and soon-to-be-discarded “facts”… veering first one way, then another as events unfolded; our attention rapt and disbelieving that so much was happening, so close, so unaccountable, in my city, my neighborhood and on my very doorstep.

It was surreal, unforgettable, riveting, frightening, the new reality of our challenged, jittery, insecure times. And it can all take place anywhere at any time against any of the peoples of this Earth, people whose race, creed, color or disposition are deemed unsuitable by some “superior” group whose first target is killing the very idea of diversity. For in a world which must necessarily value, strive for, and cherish the diverse; they aim for just one truth, theirs, and as such are willing to go to any length, destabilize any society, engage in any barbarity to secure their way. These are the absolutists of world politics… the lordly thugs who hold the rest of us and everything we value at risk…. they offer hate, violence, an agenda of unmitigated evil and unrelenting malice.

Against such a litany of horrors all the good people of this planet must stand united for our credo, tolerance for all, acceptance, humanity, diversity, inclusion and always love, for without love there can be no lasting peace… and lasting peace is what we strive for. This way, the way of unity and community, is the only way. Otherwise random death and the awesome apparatus of response will be our portion… Thus to save our freedom we are forced to give up our freedom, losers whatever happens. We are already on this perilous road, right to be apprehensive and filled with grave foreboding and growing alarm.

“And let each one perform some part/ To fill with joy the warrior’s heart/ And we’ll all feel gay/ When Johnny comes marching home.”

PHOTO CREDIT: The Atlantic

About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartner in Downers Grove, Illinois, publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned four college degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities, quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 20 books, thousands of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television programs. He has founded several successful corporations and businesses including his latest at …writerssecrets.com

His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” have garnered eight prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now and get a copy of his memoir at http://writerssecrets.co

His new model at Writers Secrets.com helps people to get their messages and stories out to the world! Find out more at: http://writerssecrets.com

 

Get a FREE Copy of “How to Be a Writer Who Makes Money, Flies High and Dazzles the Folks Back Home. Oh Yeah!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

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Div. Jeffrey Lant Associates, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

‘Ma, I’m hurt real bad.’ Boston. April 15, 2013.

Excerpts from www.writerssecrets.com E-Book series.

“We Have Not Forgotten.”

Chapter one.

‘Ma, I’m hurt real bad.’ Boston. April 15, 2013.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author’s program note. To experience the joy of spring in New England and in its first and principal city since its inception in 1630 you must have faced and survived the very real rigors of the New England winter as only the genuine New Englander can do… resolute people… determined people… people for whom the very idea of tenacity was created.

These are the people who know the rancor in the bone rattling chill the old Atlantic has thrown at its stubborn inhabitants each wintry season since there were such inhabitants; daring them to spend yet another exacting season on this inauspicious pied-a-terre the Pilgrims audaciously decreed would be their Godly capital. And so fearing nothing but God they began, little knowing how many challenges there would be, but bolstered by the living God facing each one as it came, no matter what it was or how it seared us.

These are the kind of people who in this often grim, demanding geography built their Shining City on a Hill… these are the kind of people who sustain it. For we are a stern and rigorous people who have grown up sometimes daunted, sometimes misguided, sometimes stumbling, but always advancing… renewing… improving; even when our heart is breaking… as it most assuredly is breaking now.

For the musical accompaniment to this article, I have chosen one of the most soothing and uplifting compositions because I feel sure composer Aaron Copeland meant it especially for moments like now. This is “Appalachian Spring”, and I recommend you go now to any search engine and listen to it carefully… for if your soul has no immediate need of it, there is sure to come the day when it will.

This radiant achievement was first recorded October 7, 1945. It caught the sound of the Great Republic as she moved out of the massive burden of war and took her great place on the world stage as the one certain hope of every person who loved freedom and all its works.

One of the first recordings was made in Boston, the uneasy, restless, aspiring city where every corner, every location, every crooked, narrow lane revealed another aspect of what this place and its people had done for themselves as they forged revolution here in order to secure liberty everywhere. The world took note of Boston and knew that here important things had been done… things which might benefit them.

And so the unyielding land of New England and its principal city changed the world while admonishing the good people everywhere to see what they had done to shape the better life, urging them to do as much for themselves and to do it as well.

Into this great city of liberty came people determined to use that liberty to confound that liberty, wreak grievous havoc, and inflict mayhem and pain on a perfect April day when spirits were high and joyous and all New England was garlanded by the flowers of springtime we had all been waiting for. These people came to kill… and they did kill. Came to maim… and they did maim. Came to show what purposeful menace might do… and they did show.

Thus a mother heard in disbelief and horror what her son called on this April day to say, “Ma, I’m hurt real bad.” He had lost both legs to the people of purposeful menace. Then shortly after she learned a second son had lost both his legs, too, her dismay now complete. In this way the bright promise and happiness of the day died… to be replaced by disbelief, lamentation, and wonder that the work of so few could disrupt so many, so completely, and create so much pain. The universal question was ‘How could this happen?”

Martin Richard.

Of those killed, I felt an immediate affinity for Martin Richard. Why? Because he was a boy who wrote improving messages on poster board. What’s so important about that? Just this: I was such a boy myself and spent happy world-changing hours crafting my posters with Magic Markers like Martin, just so: school election posters, powerful lines taken from a well-thumbed “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations”, the ones designed to decorate my room (often featuring the strongest possible warnings to a younger brother who wanted in when I was determined he should stay out) and, of course, the pieces de resistance, master works laboriously created, to be displayed in presidential elections, then kept proudly for years in my clothes closet, until they, tattered, still venerated and profoundly admired, were in shreds.

He was just 8 and his latest beauty, hand-lettered as usual, said a mouthful, “No more hurting people. Peace.” It was festooned with those hard-to-make symmetrical hearts beloved of the very young and the very young in spirit. The peace symbol anchored the bottom standing alone in majesty, the better to make sure people knew it was a thing of the utmost significance and Martin’s credo.

Of course, as many different colors as the young inventive mind could conceive , were riotously used to create this baby. He reckoned that such an important message called for such an abundance of color as the world had never seen. Thus he applied his choices with verve, lavishly, restraint unthinkable.

In perhaps the last picture of Martin he stands before the world, a wisp of a lad, no heavier than a sack of potatoes as my grandfather used to say, his smile a tad sheepish, proudly showing the message that was the heart of his endeavor.

He died in an instant, his mother and sister were severely injured. And so the youthful advocate for what the world needs now became a mangled thing of blood, disfigurement, and death.

Thus he touched the world and became the very symbol for what we so desperately need and can never have enough: peace. One hopes for the existence of God, if only so that Martin Richard can abide through eternity in serenity with the peace he urged upon us all… the peace he had for himself such a little time.

4:21 p.m. Eastern. “Are you alright?”

The voice at the other end was the best of friends. “Turn on NPR at once. Are you alright?” And so the great matter was brought with urgency to my attention, by someone who watches out for me. By that time, the cell phones of the world were overwhelmed by the calls of the near, dear and concerned, all having but a single refrain: are you okay?

In such ways does love work… and if there was malice that day on the part of a handful, millions demonstrated love. And as these calls were made, so numerous that even the most sophisticated systems were overburdened and crashed, the people of Boston did what they have done since 1630 in the face of every calamity: they said a little prayer, dusted themselves off, and helped the sore afflicted as best they could until the great resources of the great city could be summoned and brought to bear.

For this is the city of the living God, as eternal as the Eternal City itself, the city the Pilgrims wrought from the inhospitable and daunting terrain, the very definition of fortitude, endurance, courage and unflinching resolution. This is the city which gave the men of ’75 the ideas that changed the course of world events and the lives of millions, including generations yet unborn.

We are the people of Boston, current custodians of her universal renown. And if our pain today is sharp, deep, and acute, we have not bowed before the unfolding tragedy. That is not the way of this place and its people even under the greatest duress. There have been great tragedies in these hallowed precincts before; there will be great tragedies again. We shall rise to every occasion, just as we have risen to this one. In this way we honor our ancestors and provide the righteous example for those who, in the fullness of time, will take on this essential burden of our greatness and humanity.

Envoi

Tragedies like this one must be remembered. Yet remembrance is difficult in a society where tragic incidents come thick and fast. We want to remember, we try to remember, but all too soon we cannot remember… and something essential is lost to us and our posterity.

Let us learn from London, a city of important incidents, people and events, all memorialized by blue historical plaques reminding us of what transpired in these critical places, each a thing which might well be forgotten if no conscious effort was made to remember. Yet remember we must for the consequences of negligence put all our crucial memories at risk… and this is unacceptable.

The past is prologue, and we must do everything to ensure that its significance is never lost. Otherwise, the senseless deaths of Martin Richard and his companions for eternity will be unmitigated, their oblivion making a great tragedy more tragic still; thereby further blighting these once perfect spring days in the city of godliness, revolution, and unceasing incident.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartner in Downers Grove, Illinois, publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned four college degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities, quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 30 books, thousands of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television programs. He has founded several successful corporations and businesses including his latest at …writerssecrets.com

 

His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” has garnered eight prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now at www.writerssecrets.co

Check out Dr. Jeffrey Lant’s Author Page at Author Central for all his latest books, events and blog posts.

Go to: http://www.amazon.com/author/jeffreylant/

Get a FREE Copy of “How to Be a Writer Who Makes Money, Flies High and Dazzles the Folks Back Home. Oh Yeah!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

George Quacker Productions

Div. Jeffrey Lant Associates, Inc.

All rights reserved