Friday, October 17, 2014

"Burnt Yellow and Red"


Dedication
To Brig, my wife!
You are the light of my life, my muse,
my Goddess of Dreams!

To my wonderful children:
I hope that all of your dreams come true.
Know that I love you—always!

To all the men and women who have given 
the ultimate measure of sacrifice in the defense of freedom.
In defense of our great nation!
You are more than just a number,
More than just a name etched in stone.

Burnt Yellow and Red is more than a terrific story of the unsung heroes of the Global War on Terror – the warriors of the United States Special Operations Forces.  It tells the story of the heart of these warriors, something that few people outside the brothers on their team ever get to know. While these truly Special warriors are “larger than life”, they also have a love and caring for their families and each other that only those who have gone into battle can ever achieve.  Steve Newman has captured this love and the heart and spirit of these warriors in Burnt Yellow and Red – it is a MUST read for ALL Americans!
Jeff Falkel Gold Star Father, Author  of “The Making of OurWarrior"


Monday, September 15, 2014

My Latest Project!

Title: “One More Christmas” 

Genre: Drama – Romance:  Central Hero, Character Driven, Faith Based, Family Friendly, Love Story.  Overcoming Obstacles, Rural Setting, Strong Male Lead, Teens, Wide Audience, Tragedy, War - Military.

Author:  Steven B. Newman

Logline:  A grizzly ole Vietnam Veteran with a soldier’s heart finds new purpose when his teenage great grandsons unexpectedly come into his life.  

Synopsis: “One More Christmas” is a story about coming to grips with the reality of a soldier’s heart.  Set with a back drop of “Bode’s Christmas Tree Farm,” it is as much about coming home as anything else.  Vernon Bode is a Veteran of both the Korean and Vietnam conflicts and he unexpectedly takes on the responsibility of raising his great grandsons, Brian and Leo who are devastated with the sudden passing of their mother.

Under Bode’s care the teens learn to grow up quick.  Bode teaches them how to become men and how to treat people with respect and dignity.  He trains them how to work, how to play, and more importantly, how to recognize true love and what it means to be a warrior. 

After he returns from war, Leo the younger brother must reconcile the reality of who he is, with who he was. Now a wounded warrior, he must figure out how to balance his own expectations against the certainty of his new capabilities.  Before finally realizing his new purpose in life, Leo finds peace through God and at home surrounded by family, immersed with love as he too comes to grips with the moving reality of a soldier’s heart. 


Bio:  Hailing from Norman, Oklahoma, Steve Newman graduated Cum Laude with a BSBA at Columbia College before retiring form of the United States Army.  Today, Steve has returned to his home in Oklahoma so he may continue helping others, especially Veterans, achieve their creative dreams.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Seeking Executive Producers for the Movie! "Kill or Capture."


"Kill or Capture."

A true combat story about a team of Green Berets. Ambushed and surrounded, this small band of brothers take on thousands of heavily armed Taliban fighters. With fearless personal example they inspire their Afghan brothers to fight against overwhelming odds. Not since "Black Hawk Down" has there been such an example of heroism in action. Learn more from CBS News!

Green Berets Recount Deadly Taliban AmbushGreen Berets Recount Deadly Taliban Ambush

I've written this as a screenplay for the families with input from the team and the encouragement of the Special Forces Community to include the Green Beret Foundation! A vast majority of any funds raised by my efforts will go to the heroic families and members of the ODA. Special thanks to Jenny "Mrs. Boss Lady" Paquette CEO of the GBF and my SF Brothers for their support of my efforts to tell the "True Story" of our nations finest warriors. These stories need to be told, they must be!

A very special thanks to the members of the team for giving me the opportunity to write their story.

Thank you all very much!

Steve





Wednesday, June 18, 2014

What Christmas is as We Grow Older


Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped everything and every one around the Christmas fire; and made the little picture shining in our bright young eyes, complete. 
        Time came, perhaps, all so soon, when our thoughts over-leaped that narrow boundary; when there was some one (very dear, we thought then, very beautiful, and absolutely perfect) wanting to the fullness of our happiness; when we were wanting too (or we thought so, which did just as well) at the Christmas hearth by which that some one sat; and when we intertwined with every wreath and garland of our life that some one's name.
        That was the time for the bright visionary Christmases which have long arisen from us to show faintly, after summer rain, in the palest edges of the rainbow! That was the time for the beatified enjoyment of the things that were to be, and never were, and yet the things that were so real in our resolute hope that it would be hard to say, now, what realities achieved since, have been stronger!
        What! Did that Christmas never really come when we and the priceless pearl who was our young choice were received, after the happiest of totally impossible marriages, by the two united families previously at daggers--drawn on our account? When brothers and sisters-in-law who had always been rather cool to us before our relationship was affected, perfectly doted on us, and when fathers and mothers overwhelmed us with unlimited incomes? Was that Christmas dinner never really eaten, after which we arose, and generously and eloquently rendered honor to our late rival, present in the company, then and there exchanging friendship and forgiveness, and founding an attachment, not to be surpassed in Greek or Roman story, which subsisted until death? Has that same rival long ceased to care for that same priceless pearl, and married for money, and become usurious? Above all, do we really know, now, that we should probably have been miserable if we had won and worn the pearl, and that we are better without her?
        That Christmas when we had recently achieved so much fame; when we had been carried in triumph somewhere, for doing something great and good; when we had won an honored and ennobled name, and arrived and were received at home in a shower of tears of joy; is it possible that THAT Christmas has not come yet?
        And is our life here, at the best, so constituted that, pausing as we advance at such a noticeable mile-stone in the track as this great birthday, we look back on the things that never were, as naturally and full as gravely as on the things that have been and are gone, or have been and still are? If it be so, and so it seems to be, must we come to the conclusion that life is little better than a dream, and little worth the loves and strivings that we crowd into it? 
        No! Far be such miscalled philosophy from us, dear Reader, on Christmas Day! Nearer and closer to our hearts be the Christmas spirit, which is the spirit of active usefulness, perseverance, cheerful discharge of duty, kindness and forbearance! It is in the last virtues especially, that we are, or should be, strengthened by the unaccomplished visions of our youth; for, who shall say that they are not our teachers to deal gently even with the impalpable nothings of the earth!
        Therefore, as we grow older, let us be more thankful that the circle of our Christmas associations and of the lessons that they bring, expands! Let us welcome every one of them, and summon them to take their places by the Christmas hearth. 
        Welcome, old aspirations, glittering creatures of an ardent fancy, to your shelter underneath the holly! We know you, and have not outlived you yet. Welcome, old projects and old loves, however fleeting, to your nooks among the steadier lights that burn around us. Welcome, all that was ever real to our hearts; and for the earnestness that made you real, thanks to Heaven! Do we build no Christmas castles in the clouds now? Let our thoughts, fluttering like butterflies among these flowers of children, bear witness! Before this boy, there stretches out a Future, brighter than we ever looked on in our old romantic time, but bright with honor and with truth. Around this little head on which the sunny curls lie heaped, the graces sport, as prettily, as airily, as when there was no scythe within the reach of Time to shear away the curls of our first-love. Upon another girl's face near it--placider but smiling bright--a quiet and contented little face, we see Home fairly written. Shining from the word, as rays shine from a star, we see how, when our graves are old, other hopes than ours are young, other hearts than ours are moved; how other ways are smoothed; how other happiness blooms, ripens, and decays--no, not decays, for other homes and other bands of children, not yet in being nor for ages yet to be, arise, and bloom and ripen to the end of all!
        Welcome, everything! Welcome, alike what has been, and what never was, and what we hope may be, to your shelter underneath the holly, to your places round the Christmas fire, where what is sits open- hearted! In yonder shadow, do we see obtruding furtively upon the blaze, an enemy's face? By Christmas Day we do forgive him! If the injury he has done us may admit of such companionship, let him come here and take his place. If otherwise, unhappily, let him go hence, assured that we will never injure nor accuse him. On this day we shut out Nothing!
"Pause," says a low voice. "Nothing? Think!"
"On Christmas Day, we will shut out from our fireside, Nothing."
"Not the shadow of a vast City where the withered leaves are lying deep?" the voice replies. "Not the shadow that darkens the whole globe? Not the shadow of the City of the Dead?" 
        Not even that. Of all days in the year, we will turn our faces towards that City upon Christmas Day, and from its silent hosts bring those we loved, among us. City of the Dead, in the blessed name wherein we are gathered together at this time, and in the Presence that is here among us according to the promise, we will receive, and not dismiss, thy people who are dear to us!
        Yes. We can look upon these children angels that alight, so solemnly, so beautifully among the living children by the fire, and can bear to think how they departed from us. Entertaining angels unawares, as the Patriarchs did, the playful children are unconscious of their guests; but we can see them--can see a radiant arm around one favorite neck, as if there were a tempting of that child away. Among the celestial figures there is one, a poor misshapen boy on earth, of a glorious beauty now, of whom his dying mother said it grieved her much to leave him here, alone, for so many years as it was likely would elapse before he came to her-- being such a little child. But he went quickly, and was laid upon her breast, and in her hand she leads him.
        There was a gallant boy, who fell, far away, upon a burning sand beneath a burning sun, and said, "Tell them at home, with my last love, how much I could have wished to kiss them once, but that I died contented and had done my duty!" Or there was another, over whom they read the words, "Therefore we commit his body to the deep," and so consigned him to the lonely ocean and sailed on. Or there was another, who lay down to his rest in the dark shadow of great forests, and, on earth, awoke no more. O shall they not, from sand and sea and forest, be brought home at such a time!
        There was a dear girl--almost a woman--never to be one--who made a mourning Christmas in a house of joy, and went her trackless way to the silent City. Do we recollect her, worn out, faintly whispering what could not be heard, and falling into that last sleep for weariness? O look upon her now! O look upon her beauty, her serenity, her changeless youth, her happiness! The daughter of Jairus was recalled to life, to die; but she, more blest, has heard the same voice, saying unto her, "Arise for ever!"
        We had a friend who was our friend from early days, with whom we often pictured the changes that were to come upon our lives, and merrily imagined how we would speak, and walk, and think, and talk, when we came to be old. His destined habitation in the City of the Dead received him in his prime. Shall he be shut out from our Christmas remembrance? Would his love have so excluded us? Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, we will not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in our Christmas hearts, and by our Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, we will shut out Nothing!
        The winter sun goes down over town and village; on the sea it makes a rosy path, as if the Sacred tread were fresh upon the water. A few more moments, and it sinks, and night comes on, and lights begin to sparkle in the prospect. On the hill-side beyond the shapelessly-diffused town, and in the quiet keeping of the trees that gird the village-steeple, remembrances are cut in stone, planted in common flowers, growing in grass, entwined with lowly brambles around many a mound of earth. In town and village, there are doors and windows closed against the weather, there are flaming logs heaped high, there are joyful faces, there is healthy music of voices. Be all ungentleness and harm excluded from the temples of the Household Gods, but be those remembrances admitted with tender encouragement! They are of the time and all its comforting and peaceful reassurances; and of the history that re-united even upon earth the living and the dead; and of the broad beneficence and goodness that too many men have tried to tear to narrow shreds.