Award-winning author of more than a dozen books whose readers span the globe, Mark David Gerson electrifies groups and individuals around the world with his inspiring stories and motivational workshops, seminars, talks and retreats.
Mark David's books include critically acclaimed personal development and self-help titles, compelling memoirs and spellbinding fiction. In addition, Mark David’s books for writers are considered classics in the field and his screenplay adaptations of his Q’ntana fantasy novels are on their way to theaters as a trio of epic feature films.
As a personal growth coach and creativity catalyst and mentor, Mark David works with an international roster of clients to help them foster their intuition, connect with their inner wisdom, express their innate creativity and live more passion- and purpose-filled lives.
Having overcome his own personal and creative blocks and challenges, Mark David is uniquely qualified to motivate and inspire individuals in all walks of life and from all backgrounds to unleash the power of their potential.
Look for Mark David's books at all major online booksellers and on his website.
Cemeteries play a pivotal role in all of my Sara Stories novels. Both Sara's Year and After Sara's Year begin and end in a graveyard, and The Emmeline Papers opens with a death. But that doesn't make any of these stories morbid or depressing. Quite the reverse: Although death shows up in all three novels, each story is a powerful affirmation of the good that can flow from adversity, perhaps no more so than in After Sara's Year, where Sadie experiences an unexpected and profound transformation...in spite of herself. And it all starts in a cemetery.
After Sara's Year
Sadie steadied herself on “Rosalie Friedman, Died 5th Aug. 1915 Aged 72 yrs.,” who stood upright and more solid than she felt after weaving through the jumbled jungle of gravestones for nearly forty-five minutes. Rather, she felt like Rosalie looked: cracked, dulled and faded after three-quarters of a century in this farkakte maze of a farkakte cemetery. At least Rosalie didn’t have to worry about puddles. Sadie’s right sneaker was spattered with mud from the one she had tripped into. She wiped the perspiration from her neck and forehead, glared at Rosalie and stumbled on and past “Gerald Rotenburg,” “Sylvia & Isidore Finkelstein” and a dozen more stones too worn to read. “The good news,” she muttered to “Chaim Sternberg, Dear Husband, Brother, Father & Son, 1893-1917,” stopping to scowl at him, “is that if I die, they can bury me right where they find me.” She strained to see past the dense wall of poplars that marked some sort of boundary up ahead. If they find me.