Thursday, December 12, 2013

Connecticut Poet and Activist

I Stumbled upon some great poetry by a Connecticut resident, David Morse.

I've included a sample (below)

Actually, I didn't just find Mr. Morse, by chance. I had a friend once, a mentor, a talented professor and poet. I took one of her poetry courses at the University of Connecticut. Her name was Joan Joffe Hall. She loved my narrative poetry (more than me) and encouraged my writing. She wrote me letters of recommendation. When I won the Jennie Hackman Memorial Award for Short Fiction, she put an arm around me and said "You got it...the Hackman." It was a poignant moment, for me. I won a thousand dollars,(I was in shock...for a story!) an opportunity to read from my story "Yielding", and publication in the Long River Review. It was the first time I took myself seriously as a fiction writer. My English professors inquired about my writing, asked me what I planned on doing. I had no idea why they asked, or what I might do. I completed graduate school, became an English teacher, and, later, when I couldn't quit the writing bug, Joan helped me get into an MFA program (which I decided to quit). She was always rooting for me, even if we didn't keep in touch, she was on my mind. I was going to forward her my latest publications, small gains but something, and I discovered she had passed on in September, 2013. David Morse was her talented husband.

"Honor the Stones", from David's chapbook. Available from Dogwood Press.

Waiting for Spring
I take the first pew in this rough church,
seat myself on flat stones and look up
at fractured bedrock bulging skyward,
vertical black stripe painted by groundwater
curved into a bow, picture the arrow flying
across the valley and try not to think about
Darfur, or the woman at the embassy of Sudan
whose job is to delay requests for visas,
or flies dabbling in a dead baby's wound,
women's eyes dulled by rape and loss
of everything; helicopter gunships, devils
on horseback. This is Connecticut,
green land waiting for spring to untie
the black knot of winter. Soon will come
choirs of spring peepers, skunk cabbage.
Last night on a hill I inhaled the soft
sweet fragrance of maple sap funneling
moonlit steam into the shape of Africa.

Links to Joan Joffe Hall's publications

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Empty Sink Publishing and FUGUE Up Now

"Fugue" has been published in Empty Sink Publishing second issue. Brendan Hart has chosen it for the Editor's Choice, too, which is an additional honor for me.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Publication updates

More updates on my short stories. In a week or so "Fugue" will be published in Empty Sink Publishing. Originally, it was going to be a serial (due to its length). Yet the editor, Branden Hart, decided it deserved to be read in one sitting. Thanks to Nathaniel Tower, "Only Heaven" will also be published next week in Bartleby Snopes (Dec 2013). "Peter" has been accepted by Susan Solomon editor of Sleet Magazine for a spring appearance. Waiting on my latest "Poetess"--seeking home.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Short Story "He" published in TreeHouse

I am thrilled to say that my short story "He" has been published in TreeHouse. The setting is San Francisco--Stow Lake. I discovered the perfect photograph of the lake. The green hue and dense low hanging growth gives it a sort of claustrophobic feel, which reflects Suri's frame of mind, and there is also the underpinnings of a fecundity element as well.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

A Halloween Snippet from latest Story, "He"

"Bradley! Bradley!" A mother's voice called and the boy vanished like a wisp of smoke, surreptitiously, into the deepest dusk of the woods. The sun waned. The air festered with wanton entities, unseen. She felt him --his flesh, his breath. The despoiling rushed over her like a spell. She bore it, a branding.

Photo by Vincent Bongiovanni

Thursday, October 10, 2013

From the Potty-Chair to the Grind?

My latest(Hartford Courant) on 3 and 4 year olds being "plucked from the land of creativity and corralled into the land of common core values and high stakes testing."

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Short Stories Accepted for Publication

I am thrilled to announce that two of my short stories, "Fugue" and "Coveted" were both accepted for publication--"Coveted" in BareBack Magazine and "Fugue" in Empty Sink Publishing.

Due to its length, editor, Branden Hart of Empty Sink Publishing, proposed serializing my story, "Fugue". I agreed, of course, so the first half will be in the December issue and the second half in the January issue.

"Coveted" was accepted by editor, Peter Jelen of BareBack Magazine and it will appear in the November issue.

It is wonderful to know my stories found homes in two fabulous literary and arts magazines and will sit alongside other like-minded artists.

Monday, September 16, 2013

The Art of Immediacy in Present Tense

I have an infatuation with first person, present tense so I sought out some of my favorites to determine why.

Excerpt from The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

A group of people is coming towards us. They're tourists, from Japan it looks like, a trade delegation perhaps, on a tour of the historic landmarks or out for local color. They're diminutive and neatly turned out; each has his or her camera, his or her smile. They look around, bright-eyed, cocking their heads to one side like robins, their very cheerfulness aggressive, and I can't help staring. It's been a long time since I've seen skirts that short on women. The skirts reach just below the knee and the legs come out from beneath them, nearly naked in their thin stockings, blatant, the high-heeled shoes with their straps attached to the feet like delicate instruments of torture. The women teeter on their spiked feet as if on stilts, but off balance, their backs arch at the waist, thrusting the buttocks out. Their heads are uncovered and their hair too is exposed, in all its darkness and sexuality. They wear lipstick, red, outlining the damp cavities of their mouths, like scrawls on a washroom wall, of the time before.

I stop walking. Ofglen stops beside me and I know that she too cannot take her eyes off these women. We are fascinated, but also repelled. They seem undressed. It has taken so little time to change our minds about things like this.

Then I think: I used to dress like that. That was freedom.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Language Deconstruction Susan Howe

That This
by Susan Howe
Day is a type when visible
objects change then put

on form but the anti-type
That thing not shadowed

The way music is formed of
cloud and fire once actually

concrete now accidental as
half truth or as whole truth

Is light anything like this
stray pencil commonplace

copy as to one aberrant
onward-gliding mystery

A secular arietta variation
Grass angels perish in this

harmonic collision because
non-being cannot be 'this'

Not spirit not space finite
Not infinite to those fixed—

That this millstone as such
Quiet which side on which—

Is one mind put into another
in us unknown to ourselves
by going about among trees
and fields in moonlight or in
a garden to ease distance to
fetch home spiritual things

That a solitary person bears
witness to law in the ark to

an altar of snow and every
age or century for a day is

Friday, August 30, 2013

Seamus Heaney Tribute to a Great Poet

The Tollund Man
By Seamus Heaney

Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.

In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,

Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.


I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate

The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,

Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.


Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,

Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.

Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

The Man on the Dump--this one is a gem by Wallace Stevens

Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.
The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche
Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho…The dump is full
Of images. Days pass like papers from a press.
The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun,
And so the moon, both come, and the janitor's poems
Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears,
The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box
From Esthonia: the tiger chest, for tea.

The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says
That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs
More than, less than or it puffs like this or that.
The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea
On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew
For buttons, how many women have covered themselves
With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads
Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew.
One grows to hate these things except on the dump.

Now in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums,
Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox) ,
Between that disgust and this, between the things
That are on the dump (azaleas and so on)
And those that will be (azaleas and so on) ,
One feels the purifying change. One rejects
The trash.

That's the moment when the moon creeps up
To the bubbling of bassoons. That's the time
One looks at the elephant-colorings of tires.
Everything is shed; and the moon comes up as the moon
(All its images are in the dump) and you see
As a man (not like an image of a man) ,
You see the moon rise in the empty sky.

One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.
One beats and beats for that which one believes.
That's what one wants to get near. Could it after all
Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear
To a crow's voice? Did the nightingale torture the ear,
Pack the heart and scratch the mind? And does the ear
Solace itself in peevish birds? Is it peace,
Is it a philosopher's honeymoon, one finds
On the dump? Is it to sit among mattresses of the dead,
Bottles, pots, shoes, and grass and murmur aptest eve:
Is it to hear the blatter of grackles and say
Invisible priest; is it to eject, to pull
The day to pieces and cry stanza my stone?
Where was it one first heard of the truth? The the.

Wallace Stevens (1942)

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Word of Pia Novella...a morsel

Now available on Amazon.

Great writing from my favorite moralist W.H. Auden

Canibal to his Audience (W.H. Auden, The Sea and the Mirror, 1944)

Yet, at this very moment when we do at last see ourselves as we are, neither cosy nor playful, but swaying out on the ultimate wind-whipped cornice that overhangs the unabiding void--we have never stood anywhere else,--when our reasons are silenced by the heavy huge derision,--there is nothing to say. There never has been,--and our wills chuck in their hands--There is no way out. There never was,--it is at this moment that for the first time in our lives we hear, not the sounds which, as born actors, we have hitherto condescended to use as an excellent vehicle for displaying our personalities and looks, but the real Word which is our only raison d'ĂȘtre. Not that we have improved; everything, the massacres, the whippings, the lies, the twaddle, and all their carbon copies are still present, more obviously than ever; nothing has been reconstructed; our shame, our fear, our incorrigible staginess, all wish and no resolve, are still, and more intensely than ever, all we have: only now it is not in spite of them but with them that we are blessed by that Wholly Other Life from which we are separated by an essential emphatic gulf of which our contrived fissures of mirror and proscenium arch--we understand them at last--are feebly figurative signs, so that all our meanings are reversed and it is precisely in its negative image of Judgment that we can positively envisage Mercy; it is just here, among the ruins and the bones, that we may rejoice in the perfected Work which is not ours. Its great coherences stand out through our secular blur in all their overwhelmingly righteous obligation; its voice speaks through our muffling banks of artificial flowers and unflinchingly delivers its authentic molar pardon; its spaces greet us with all their grand old prospect of wonder and width; the working charm is the full bloom of the unbothered state; the sounded note is the restored relation.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Word of Pia (Novella) newly released

I have completed my novella, Word of Pia. I combined parts I and II and added lots I didn't expect to add. So it is no longer a trilogy. It ends with a sense that there will be more to come. But I plan on working on some other projects. I'll just let this one go for awhile. It is odd in areas and mysteriously surreal in others. Dali's painting comes to mind when I think of the end.

Overall, good quick read for those that like to dwell in the land of the psychological, science fiction genre. I don't know how to place it, actually. It is what it is.


Saturday, June 15, 2013

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Monday, June 3, 2013

Word of Pia: A Psychological Thriller Part II SOON!

Too much time away from my writing. I've been busy. Little by little, I am making progress--up to 70 pages. And it's taking shape, becoming. Free promo for part I will occur in the next few days. Here is another sneak peak of part II soon to be released:

“Oh my children! Do they cry? Do they hear their father sigh? Now they look abroad to see. Now return and weep for me.” Minnie was singing a song Maura had never heard. It sounded like an old poem, or maybe a hymn. It was familiar. She had been singing this for a few days now and Maura ignored it, figured she learned it at preschool or heard it in church. But she didn’t recall
“Please, what is it doll? What is that song you keep singing?”
Minnie looked up from her stirring. She pressed the wood stick up against her forehead, held it there as if she were trying to hide behind it.”
“Darling, stop that. You’ll hurt yourself. Now tell me where you learned that song.”
“Stick Grammy. Stick, please!” she bellowed. Maura had taught her to say please. Maura couldn’t resist her now or ever when she made this particular face— the way her nose scrunched up just like Daddy's when he was the sad or scared; the resemblance was uncanny. Even the freckle under her right eyebrow and Maura saw her son in these moments and then recalled it like yesterday, the breaking news, smells of meatloaf baking, the news reporter’s voice blaring out the speaker of a vintage pink commodore transistor radio: Young officer of Robertson county killed in the line of duty, Cool Spring Road...the Zimmermann property. Gunshot wound to the head looks to be self-inflicted. The details as of yet are unclear. The mug’s weight was enormous. Maura’s legs wobbled over to Minnie—little Minnie on the couch, snuggled into her furry teddy bear blanket, waiting for Daddy, pink horses galloping across the screen with songs and merry children smiling and laughing. It was all over. Maura knew it was gone, that any semblance of the old life was no more for Minnie or for herself. First, she loses a mother and now...Maura couldn’t consider it. She knew like a mother knows. When the phone rang she rushed into the kitchen to retrieve it, put the cup down but missed the counter and it crashed to the ground. Minnie crawled over to her “Boo boo, Grammy?”

Saturday, May 11, 2013

No Happy Endings

2 star review for Autism Denied. What to say. Reviewer liked the connection, stories made her feel as if she wasn't crazy afer all. But she did not like that there was no resolution. What is that? Of course there is none that I can think of. It is a continuous struggle--yes, that's it. I"m sorry. I can't supply a happy ending. Only in fairy tales. My stories are fiction, but they are realistic. I am thankful, nonetheless, for the review--another reader who gleaned some solace, some comfort from my stories.
Read review here.


I am almost ready to release Word of Pia Trilogy part II. I've been going off in many directoins and as it happens I'm not sure where this one will take me. Here is a peek:

Maurice, where are you Maurice. I need you. You’re calling me. I hear you. I need to go, Markel. I need to go home. I need Maurice. I don’t say that. “Will you be okay?”
“I’m always okay,” he says, dazed, trance-like. The cat lopes towards him. I see Markel pull the cat to him. Go now. Get out. I reach for the door handle. A wind whips my hair. Debris flies by. The trees bend, limbs crack. A black shelf forms overhead and I look back again at Markel, walking quickly towards me as if he might try to prevent me from leaving. I freeze. He is holding the cat, but something is different. It’s not the black and white one. It’s an orange one. “Where did you…?” My words trail off. “I need to go, Markel.”
"Pia is here. The storm is coming. The storm is gaining speed.” He points to the sky.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Third 5 Star Review and Thankful to Reader

I just received my THIRD 5 star review for Autism Denied from a UK reader. I'm so thankful that this kind reader gleaned some wisdom and was able to connect with the experiences in the stories. Wonderful. Find review here.

Leave a comment. Please do. Share your own experiences.

One day, mark my words, when one of my best sellers (that I haven't written yet) is viral, I will look back on these lonely blogging days and say how do you like that...dreams do come true.

Thanks for the read!


Mainstreaming No Panacea

My latest publication in the Hartford Courant. Find it here: Mainstreaming No Panacea

Mainstreaming No Panacea (Hartford Courant)

My latest take on mainstreaming kids with special needs in the regular classroom without appropriate support published in the Hartford Courant.

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Reviews are Bread and Butter for Indie Authors

I don't want to write in a vaccuum. I don't think any writer does. Writers spend countless hours in isolation tweaking, editing, researching, finding just the right way to create a scene. So when I receive my second 5 star review for Autism Denied, I'm thankful someone took the time to read my collection and actually found it "very touching" and even cried at parts. These stories, two in particular, are close to my heart. It touches me that I touched someone with my words.

And when I receive a 3 star review and the reader who doesn't normally read short stories enjoyed mine, Dying for Dusty, and will "definitely watch for more from this author" that makes my day.

So, thanks to my readers. You make it all worth it.

Leave a comment with a link to your blog or website!

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

No Hitting Allowed, Ever

Our world is ripe with hate, violence, and threats. I write to try to quell the angst, the confusion, to try to get at some semblance of truth as to why so many choose to use their free will to harm rather than heal.

Hence my latest publication/letter to the Hartford Courant. Maybe it is a stretch--an analogy between a fourth grade lashing out in anger and an impending missile strike. Hm. Well, I'll let you be the judge.

More Paw Bo Excerpts

She sees it, the absence of purity. I am devoid of devotion. She is confused, waiting for the unconditional love. Instead I am a bloodsucker, ravaging, seeking some emotive passion before I vanish, before Pia Zimmermann returns and suckles the last bit of life out of me. Already her voice is etching itself into my head and maybe into Paw Bo’s head. The storm is coming. I hear the rumbling, the steady unearthing tremble, as I lift Paw Bo out of the carriage and pull her into me. I am not surprised. I knew she was close. The knowing unsettles me, fastens to my psyche like a leech.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

5 Star Review for Autism Denied

Excited to see a five star review for Autism Denied, my new collection of stories which includes Liza Bear from my first collection--They Think That I Am Somewhat. It is always great to see readers enjoying my work. The reviewer referred to it as "Fantastic" and "sad" but recommended for aspies and their families. Nice. Just what I like to read. Other reviewers have referred to my work as "sad" and I decided that I write about life, which is sad. I try to capture it, the pain and sorrow, the troubles, the conflicts and realities of relationships. It is cathartic. The more clarity, the better. If the emotions are apparent in my writing, I'm doing the job.

I am working on my Word of Pia trilogy, part ii and once I'm finished I will return, finally, to The Sins of Dom Novella, Book II. I realize it is long long overdue.

Thanks for the read. Leave a comment, feedback, and I will be sure to reciprocate.


Annie is late today. She is committed to her job, to her patients—the mentally ill, the scared, the delusional, the paranoid, like me; I pretend that it is not the truth, that I am like one of her patients. I know it is something else, something unfathomable, an external entity, inexplicable—Pia Zimmermann. Annie would never believe me. Only Maggie believes me. Only Maggie knows.

I watch Paw Bo crawl across the floor. She prefers it, even though she can walk. I think if I could be infantile I might; it is a time when life is bliss, raw and real, a time when all faculties are heightened. If Annie wants to leave, I won’t argue. I’ll say fine, just go then. I have had it with your bullshit. I have played it out, the various scenarios. Maybe not profanity...too much not like me and she will suspect. I almost took a shower today but couldn’t do it. Annie will ask me if I took a shower. The thought of water on my skin makes me cringe. I can’t tell. She is starting to suspect. She knows the signs of a deteriorating mind—hygiene goes first. I think she told me that. Someone did.

“No no,” I say, gently. She startles, looks at me oddly as if she can see the words exiting my mouth. “What do you see?” I ask her and she turns away from me. “You want some lunch?” I open the cupboard and see the empty shelves, remember I was supposed to go to the store. The idea of shopping feels burdensome. “You can’t keep eating out. It’s not healthy,” Annie had said. I know all that already. But it’s easier. I'm weak, heavy feeling. I quickly slip on Paw Bo’s white Hush Puppy sandals; “Chick a chick a boom boom,” I say, and she smiles. I should say it again and she’ll laugh. I’m too tired for it all; she stares down at my hands whenever I buckle her shoe; “One two buckle my shoe,” more smiles and a small giggle. “More?” she says. I swing her up to my side and her thin downy hair sweeps my cheek, smells like peaches; I could cry from the sweetness.

We walk outside. The air is thick and morose. A spate of dark clouds encroaches. Just take each moment as it comes. Moment to moment—Maggie, she said it. It was after the Zimmermann incident, the time when we clung to each other, to our sanity, hearing Pia’s voice in our heads, hallucinating; it was the time when I wanted to die and Maggie saved me with her kisses, both of us saving each other with flesh and lust and next Paw Bo, her teeny face, eager, reaching arms. I walk quickly to the safety of the car. Paw Bo says “We go now?” repeatedly. She will keep saying it until she gets a response. “Yes, going.” I finally answer. When I buckle her into her seat she squirms and then makes sounds like “NOAP!” which could be a combination of no and stop. Annie might tickle her and make her giggle, distract her. I’m inept.

The drive settles her and me. I glance out the window at the neatly painted houses, too neat, the dolor rows of taupe, steel-grey, white, and then the repeated pattern that has evolved into a searing dullness. I try to recall the days when it may have evoked a comfortable feeling of predictability; but now I find it too obscure a memory, too distant and tainted; I stare at it in an attempt to make it real--the sharp green hedges and sleek white fences marking boundaries, lush and blossoming fruit trees dropping petals and spotting well manicured lawns, tall stemmed dahlias top heavy and leaning against sides of chimneys like frail birds, miniature roses thorny and blood-red languishing on trellises, gleaming metal of bikes and scooters and pogo sticks tipped onto their sides, stray balls rolling along like tumbleweeds in some phantom breeze. I imagine the neighborhood evacuated, leaving behind a hollow vacancy. It is more alive if I imagine it this way. I glance upwards and see dark clouds gathering, plotting as if in secret concession.
"Storm, Da Da." I tighten my grip on the wheel. "No, no," I say, gently. I fix my eyes on the road, resolute, readying for some battle...Pia Zimmermann is here--the idea snakes itself into my mind like an unwavering melancholy.


Saturday, March 23, 2013

The Great Gatsby Official Trailer #2 (2012) - Leonardo DiCaprio Movie HD

This teaser looks good. You can't lose with Fitzgerald--powerful story, themes. Coming in December.  Music complements the scenes, beautifully. Great cast. Leonardo DiCaprio perfect for Gatsby. Looking forward to it as I perdict a stellar peformance.

A writer (like myself) toils to create scenes like the ones in this trailer. I always fall short.

Bill 374 Mandatory Mental Health Screening Invasive

Bill 374, the proposed bill to enforce mandatory mental health screening for all kids is unnecessary, costly, and invasive. Even if it were to get passed, which is unlikely, the kids most vulnerable and targeted will be the ones who are poor--the ones who come from homes where English is a second language, or who are new to the country, the ones who struggle to navigate their daily lives. Affluent kids from healthy intact families will find ways to bypass the screening; these parents know the definition of advocacy, have the resources to fight back, have access to lawyers, and the best therapists who will counter the report, or deem it inaccurate.

Regardless, this Bill is ludicrous and seeks to identify kids who are falling through the cracks. Idyllically, yes, it would be nice to save all the children. But it's not realistic. We have scarce resources to meet the current needs of our mentally ill population. I came across another op-ed arguing against the screening by Leslie Wolfgang.

Proposed Mental Health Screening Targets the Poor

Below are my comments to an op-ed posted in the Hartford Courant by Andrea Spencer entitled Screening Kids for Mental Health Critical.

Andrea Spencer is describing an inner city child. The children targeted for these potential mental health screenings would be the ones most targeted now, the most vulnerable-- the poor. Children, all children, need time to develop. Screening and diagnosing them early on puts them at risk, high risk, for a cocktail of meds--this is not the answer. The ones most likely to be screened and diagnosed come from poverty ridden areas and suffer from emotional stresses that present as anxiety and depression. Academic support is not always there. They are promoted through no fault of their own. And their mental health problems are triggered by environmental factors rather than neurological factors; so instead of a diagnosis and drugs, these kids need the right school environment, the right role models, mentors, a positive learning environment. On the contrary, where these kids spend most of their day is not always so healthy; many of the inner city elementary schools are in need of fixing. But we don't do it. We are creating many magnet schools that are refurbished and filled with new materials that are modern and aesthetically designed. and it's a step in the right direction. But, still, the inner city kids experience more academic failure, humiliation, teasing, bullying, fighting, aggression--it is a miracle some emerge unscathed. And then there are the older schools, the ones that are not magnets. Our youngest and most fragile children attend these schools, sit in less than par classrooms with old desks and mismatched chairs, collapsing ceilings, chipped paint, exposed pipes and asbestos; and many of these buildings should no longer be called schools; they should be condemned. Mental health issues will continue to grow and become even more complicated and unmanageable if we don't take care of the inequity in our educational system. As Andrea Spencer points out, if we go back to the school records, there is an origin.

Friday, March 22, 2013


Below you can find my WIP, Word of Pia Trilogy II; Here, Pia returns--not physically, yet. She is in her brother's and Maggie's mind, sending William Blake's verses from The Dream --apropos as Maggie feels herself trapped in a foggy dream-like state of mind. Find Part I here.

Once a dream did weave a shade…O’er my angel guarded bed…That an emmet lost its way…Where on grass methought I lay. I hear her. I hear her now. But where is she? I don’t see her. The wind eddied at her feet. The sun, a canary yellow, jettied its last rays outward—spindly fingers groping, grasping.

I am not here. I will come for you soon. I will tell you what I know. Look to the sky an you will see the signs. See the clouds, brother. They speak in words no one knows.

“Here she comes. She says she’s not. But I feel her. She likes to trick."

You know nothing, brother; you are weary, trapped in your small world. The storm is coming. And you must spread the word to others. It is big. It will destroy those who have turned away.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Publication updates #1 best seller n UK

I'm thrilled to discover my collection of stories They Think That I Am Somewhat is #1 in UK Special Education category. It is free for three more days. I have also accrued two new reviews--one five star and one four star. Things are picking up. I will be releasing my new publication Word of Pia: Suspense Trilogy Part I (tentative title) before the close of the day.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

A Five Star Review for The Sins of Dom

The Sins of Dom is faring well, especially in the UK--at 57k ranking. And I was pleasantly surprised by a new 5 star review! The reader referred to my novella as a "super novel" and a "page turner" and even thanked me for writing it. I am always so excited to gain a fan. I work endlessly and sometimes it feels as if it's all for naught, that I'm writing in a vaccuum. So, Thank you reader, fan--whoever should find this blog, read my books, glean some pleasure, wisdom or entertainment from my publications. I have two readers who wished the end didn't happen so soon. Well, part II of the series is on its way! You can find excerpts here.


Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Lightning struck St Peter's dome at the Vatican after Pope Resigns

A sight to behold on the heels of controversy surrounding Pope Benedict XVI's decision to resign. The hand of God at work, or mere coincidence? Some skeptics say the government is putting on a light show. Hm. Now, that sounds the least credible. I know that Saint Peter's Bascilica is the holiest church for catholics. I was raised a Roman Catholic. Many have turned their backs on the church for various reasons, citing hypocrisy, cover-ups, scandalous happenings. rigidity or lack of progression. But, all in all, I'm sure other religions could score just as high in the department of fallibility.

Nevertheless, popes usually don't resign. They depart when God has called a new pope. So, is Pope Benedict XVI overriding God's will?

I'm left awestruck,humbled, believing it very well could be a mysterious divine power.  I know the Pope worked hard, tirelessly, at promoting global peace and love. He devoted his entire life to his faith, to improving humanity.  We may never know why the bolts of lightening hit the Vatican. But it can't hurt to say a prayer for the Pope and the world. As the great poet W.H.Auden put it "We must love one another or die." And love, the kind of selfless love people of all faith are taught, includes forgiveness.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Writing is Solitary and Divine

Book updates: Free promo for a couple days has brought some attention to The Sins of Dom. It's #85 or so in both UK and US best seller list for thriller.

I think I could be better at self-promotion. But, I'm not. I am satisfied just to write and publish. Writing is akin to raising children, instructing children--this same kind of feeling--rewarding that way. A job that's well done, a complete and utter feeling of satisfaction, fulfillment. When I don't write for a few days, a story sits there, unattended. And I feel antsy, careless. It calls me back like the child seeking attention. Then when I return to it, I find areas to tweak, enhance, delete. It's a piece of art, fickle and flexible--evolving into itself, taking on a life of its own, outside of me. I don't plan. It just happens. And when it's grown big enough, I send it off, out of the nest.

Writing is always solitary--you sit with your work and words, alone, like the teacher in the classroom, or the stay at home parent. What you say, how you say it, matters enormously. There is no one there to consult, no one to tell you it's right or wrong. You have faith, a divine pulse--a moral conscience to guide you.

Thursday, February 7, 2013


Okay, well, it is taking longer to rewrite Blue Jackson, so I've officially republished it. For whatever reason, it is a highly visible, and maybe draws an audience to my other works.

Now, for bad reviews. I'm finding that my books are evoking sharp variations in responses. One says "thought provoking" and another says "no depth" for the same work! Shortly after publishing a blog about bad reviews boosting sales, I got my first one star review for They Think That I Am Somewhat. The reviewer referred to it as "profoundly uncomfortable" but then described it as "brilliant" but missing the mark in terms of educating the autistic population in the right way. FWIW, I wrote all my stories at different stages, and I didn't set out to publish a collection.

Athough some might say autism is the overarching theme in my collection, it is not necessarily written to be used as a guide or for research. As a matter of fact, autism is only mentioned in one of the stories. What I do include in all stories are observable traits, a realistic look at what happens when autism is either not diagnosed or misdiagnosed.

Nonetheless, there it is a big fat ONE STAR! And it drags my book down to a four star book. I can't say I'm not disapointed. I mean, when you have twenty reviews, a few one-star reviews don't matter as much.

That's that. I'm moving forward, hoping for another 5 star review.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Curiosity is the Lust of the Mind

So sayeth the wise Thomas Hobbes, indeed--curiosity is the lust of the mind. And could it be curiosity, a penchant for the hostile, sardonic remarks, that draws readers to the books with the bad reviews--and even boosts sales?

I read an article entitled Bad Reviews Can Boost Sales. Heres Why by Jonah Berger, which refers to a study that found for unknown authors one star reviews can actually boost sales. I guess human beings are curious by nature. I was reminded of my failed project that received an entire blog entry (read it here) and the remarks were scathing, so much so that I found it humorous, laugh aloud funny. I guess the idea that this critic would go to such great length to disparage my work was both jarring and impressive.

So, according to the study, Blue Jackson should be selling like hotcakes. I mean, this one blog entry is equal to about ten one star reviews. Truth be told, if I sold even one I'd be thrilled. Okay, so the language is deep southern slang, and I guess I should have paid attention to my sister's gasp when I told her I published it, realized that most people don't want to read more than a paragraph of dat and dem. Nevertheless, I'm still committed as an artist and lover of authenticity. It had so many possibilities, so much potential; maybe it was the blog? Or, maybe it was just plain unreadable. At any rate, I've accepted defeat. I'm rewriting it in easier to read language, regular old Queen's English with a sprinkling of slang. I decided it will be a thriller trilogy too. I already have part II (in my head).

Even though I'm knee-deep in an unexpected short story that's growing possibly into a novella, and my two other novellas, left undone, I couldn't bear to look at Blue Jackson anymore, climbing steadily upwards to the 900k range so I took her down and am making it a priority to get her fixed up with a new look and improved readability.

Updates to follow.

Monday, January 21, 2013


And then there was the pain, the gut wrenching pain, the punches in his groin and one on his cheek, the taste of blood. Shortly after, he was in a new school with Father O’Rourke, leaning in close to him, so close he could smell the coffee on his breath, “I want you to tell me immediately if anyone bothers you. You are too damn smart for this nonsense. I will take care of it.” Leonard felt a rage surging up inside him; up to this point he had been holding his last piece of toast, in hopes that he might finish it. But now it was cold; he threw his napkin onto the plate to signify his disgust. It was all a guy like Leonard Whitman could do.


Sunday, January 20, 2013

The Last Stand - RED BAND Trailer

One of Arnold's last lines is "I'm home." And his fans will concur--he is back in the movies where he belongs. We lost him to politics for awhile, and now he can entertain us once again. The Last Stand is great--action, characters, script...lots of fun with interesting story, build up of suspense, comedic edge. It's all there. Check it out!

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

The Slow Death of Habeas Corpus CHP 2 EXCERPT

Ten years since Esther. The bedroom, moonlit, casting an ominous blue pall over her face. “What have we done?”  I said it. My words were like salve. She calmed.

“I love you, Jesus, I love you.”  Ellie behind me, her nakedness, warm breath, soft fingertips up and down my arm. Elise stirred, whimpered in the bassinet in the corner of the room.

“Sh. I love you, too, Eliot. We love each other. That’s all. How could that be a crime? Please, tell me. I think you want to leave me. I think you’re tired of me. I don’t know anymore. I can’t even trust anyone, not even my husband.”

“You don’t get it. You don’t get it do you? What we just did? We made love the way we were supposed to in a normal world. But, Ellie, in case you haven't noticed, we don’t live in a normal world. They can see us right now.”

I was manic, gesturing wildly: “We can’t see them. But they’re in the corner and outside the window and on the ceiling and in the fucking walls! Believe me. They are here and they just saw us. Yes, they saw me on top of you. They saw our naked bodies!  They saw it all! So now they’re going to seize you and our baby. I don’t know where. I won’t know when.”

I was sobbing now. The truth was unimaginable for her, for me. It stuck like sharp pins in my chest. But I had to confront it. She stared at me, blankly. Her eyes were black dots like a child’s doll, round and devoid of expression, programmed. Her complexion was ghostly, ashen, her aura a flimsy veil of misty coral—morose, displaced.

“You’re lying All of this is just a ploy. You don’t want me anymore. Just say it damn you. Just tell me the truth for once. Don’t do this to me, Eliot. Don’t do this to your baby. It makes no sense, no sense at all. You’re a viper—a monster, to do this to your wife and baby.”

She didn’t get it. She never would get it until she was seized and her baby was taken away. And then it would be too late. She lived in a perpetual dream zone. A place inaccessible to me. I couldn't reach her. Maybe they were tainting the food or water supply. Maybe we were all being poisoned.

“Ellie it is a crime. You know it. I know it. In our world, our passion is a crime.”

A siren sounded outside. Ellie froze. The air became stitled, unbreathable.

Beware of Purchased or Fake Amazon Reviews

Reviews for the indie author are essential. Yet, they are not always easy to get--the honest way, I mean to say.

In every profession, you'll get some bad apples, those who refuse bo play by the rules. Follow this link and you will see a clear example of why Amazon needs to crack down more on fake reviews.

Too many authors are buying reviews, 5 star reviews, or finding deceitful ways to get them (check out NY Times Best Selling novelist Jodi Picoult's FB post). The readers lose faith and it is unfair  to the many authors (like myself) who work hard at drumming up a readership for my work. 

The Forgotten World of Pad and Pencil

"You don't need anything but a pad and a pencil," according to Ray Bradbury. Oh, Lord... the old wise ones who easily bore the dickens out of a younger Google generation brought up on fast paced, give it to me quick, get-to-the-point kind of discussions.

Well, this one is worth a like, a tweet, a post, a listen. Bradbury has that good old fashioned wit; he is part of an old world, a vanishing world, a pre-digital era. Bradbury promotes resourcefulness, simplicity. Make no mistake, he is far from simple and encourages complexity, minus the technology. His method is cheap, simple, and readily available--it's called the book.

In 2013 ,and for the past decade or more, we are breeding nonbook readers. The hard cover book is at risk for becoming archaic, a relic in its time. Well, maybe that's a tad hyperbolic. But as Bradbury insists, we need to be mindful of resourcefulness. Undeniably, we are tech-dependent, and frequently glued to a screen, knee deep in technology, networking, sloshing through the mire of social media, increasing followers with a tweet, liking pages, subscribing, promoting this and that. I can have 20K followers on my twitter account, 30k, 90k ... but what does it all mean? Critics will argue that  it is an isolating, impersonal connecting of sorts--the ruin of us. I don't know if I agree, entirely. But admit that a phone conversation, or a lunch date, or a hug, or face to face conversation is always much better than a like on my FB page.

(Warning: Grossly self-indulgent, self-promotion coming up)

In my latest wip, which is a dystopian novel, I explore the repercussions of a section of the population that is stripped of all technology, forced backwards in time. They are powerless, easily controlled by DEF (Digital Enforcement Faction); in this dystopian world, freedoms are removed, and even book reading is prohibited. Needless to say, it is not a nice place to live if you happen to reside in the mid-west or eastern sections of what was once the U.S.

Maybe I'm biased. I always espoused to the notion that you are what you read. Now, I'm wiser, realize that there other ways of knowing. Still, I agree with Bradbury that books teach us everything we need to know, empower us, encourage us to consider other viewpoints, realities, and fantastical musings. It is no wonder that in a dystopian world books are removed.

I know that schools promote good old fashioned instruction, and it's not working. I know the copier is the greatest asset in any school. It is always overused and always breaking down. The paper wasted in our schools is astronomical. Yet, most students abhor paper and pencil, worksheet packets, heavy text books. They are part of a digital age; one might say they enter the classroom digitally programmed to learn in a new way. Why make 200 copies when you can use an LCD and project the same information on the screen? Or give the students the URL and they can find it themselves and read online? For assessment of learning, have students respond in a blog.

The classroom is lagging behind. That's the reality. So, we either get with the program and allow for more self-study, more integration of technology, or we stand to keep losing ground. Students are saavy, know they can Google what they want to know. So, why not allow it?  Ray Bradbury, a critic of current formal schooling, is on board with self-study; he suggests the library is your schooling. You can learn anything you want in a book. You can find your match. As he states "We are all looking for someone like ourselves...Jesus, God, if I were to go to a deserted island tomorrow what books would I bring?...the Bible of course and the essays of George Bernard Shaw."

I'm going to try to get my hands on those Shaw essays. They must be something if Bradbury liked them so much. I'll Google and more than likely come up with numerous hits. I don't know if Bradbury would approve or not. But he said it himself "Whatever works."

thx for the read. follow me on twitter bethbrown555.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Aaron Swartz keynote - "How we stopped SOPA"

Aaron Swartz fought, vehemently, for the freedom of information, and our constitutional rights and he was threatened for two years with years of imprisonment and a million dollar fine. Although we've lost this bright star, we need to continue his fight against the abuses of Government and an overreaching power.

The Government's Boorish Bullying of Aaron Swartz

Aaron Swartz, innovator, MIT student, contributor to the creation of RSS and at the helm of SOPA, twenty-five, brilliant-minded, hounded for hacking scholarly papers from the MIT database. US Attorney Carmen Diaz decided to pursue the case, going after the lad with a venomous desire to prosecute him for unlawful hacking with 13 felonies, including prison time and a million dollar fine. A genius mind is often fragile, as was the case with Aaron. Perhaps he couldn't stand the notion of prison time, or the continued expense of lawyer fees, and he took his life. Check out more here.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Quentin Tarantino Epic Response Refusing to Kowtow

That Tarantino has fire-- love it just like his two adversarial players--Christopher Waltz and Leonardo DeCaprio-- in his latest movie Django Unchained; Tarantino portrays an era expertly enough with a stroke of artistic flair and opens up a long overdue debate regarding slavery, which he claims is the holocaust of the antebellum era. But, yes, it's in Tarantino style--embellished blood baths etc., I admit myself to a few moments of cover the eyes and ears. But, all in all, it beats Chainsaw Massacre hands down; the script, characters, music, setting, dark aspects of slavery are profound and brilliantly executed. A must see.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Slow Death of Habeas Corpus: A Dystopian Novella Excerpt CHP 1

EXCERPT FROM CHP 1 A Dystopian Novella


“Read to me.” Moonie—glimmering green eyes, pudgy cheeks, blush ripened lips, desirous, the naivetĂ© of youth in her expression, a brief blossom; and, even now, a hint of weathering, if the light hits just right, a frown forming, a settling into a pallid dullness from defeat, a weathered soul. We are side by side,, legs outstretched and entangled, on the side of the Scribe 2-A Work Building on Luxembourg Avenue, shrouded by a tall row of arborvitaes.She hands me a small white book, 8 x 5 or so, a short collection from an anonymous author, the image on the front is faded along with the title. The only visible letters are the initials, CNB.

“Where did you get this?”

“Rummaging…junk yard.”

You should stay away from the junk yards. You might get bit by a stray dog or cat. And if DEF finds out you have a book, they could shoot you on the spot. You know that right?”

“What are they going to do to me? I can’t even read for God’s sakes.”

“I’ll teach you. Let me teach you, Moonie. You’re too smart to be illiterate.”

“No fucking way. I can read enough to get by. I can’t read this abstract stuff.”

She looks down, fanning the pages, her expression dour, defeated, so unlike Moonie, the Moonie I know with the spirit of a hundred wild mustangs. “Just read, okay?” She lays back, puts her hands behind her head.

“Sweet, sweet fall, fall of birds & other animals, tonight, no liberty, no pass to the combat zone or drunk at McSorley’s or a wide open highway:  I have had all that, even a cowboy hat from Cheyenne & Roaming with a friend, looking for elk & ex-Nazis, even warm June smell of blue flowers moist as grass or little tits of the black widow spider:  only Herodotus to read and the sniffles, banging out these dead or live rhythms…”

“Jesus this guy was brilliant, huh?”

“I’m not done.”

“No more poetry. I want to know about reality, you, what happened in the East.”

“Like what?”

“Like are you East people really all inbreeds with so much massive cell destruction that you’re defects and dangerous to society? Because that’s what they are saying about you in the West.”

“Oh, Lord. You know far too much. I’ll have to kill you.” I grab her; my jaw clamps her neck. I growl. She laughs. I love when Moonie laughs. I love Moonie more than myself.

“But seriously—tell me. I want to know.”

“Know what?”

“What the fuck happened after Esther.”

“Fix your star first and then—

“And then what?” She grabs the inside of my leg and squeezes. I feel it-- a sharp pang of desire.

“Well, we can do that instead, I suppose—“

“Oh, no you don’t. I want to know. So, talk first and then maybe we can have some fun.”

“Star fixed?”

“Yes, Holy Jesus, just get on with it.”

“Just check it for me.  Remember last week, what happened?”

“Oh, you mean that son of a bitch Digital Enforcement Fuck who told us we couldn’t take a walk in the afternoon hours?”

“He heard us, Moonie. Thank God that DEF officer didn’t hear enough, but you need to make sure the points are okay.”

“This baby will protect us—at least 10 feet or so.” She pats her chest.

“But it needs to be on right.”

 Moonie moves her fingers up to her mantle, pinned on the inside of her shirt. “Yup, she’s good. Now talk!”

I felt her elbow jab my side. “Okay, silence whippersnapper. I don’t know what you want me to say. I mean, poetry is one thing. The other—well, it’s hard to talk about it.”

“Forgive me Mr. sentimental baby, but I think I’m entitled to know. So you’re going to have to tell me or I’ll bite your arm off.”  She holds my arm against her mouth and opens wide. I pull it away and laugh. I crave her like sun or water.

“Okay, okay. First of all, we didn’t expect it. Or if we did--if we did— no one said it. I imagine the scientists knew and the government officials knew. Someone knew. But your average Joe, like me or you, we didn’t know that the big one was brewing, one that would flatten us, change our whole lifestyle permanently.

“How do you know they didn’t do it?

“Do what?”

“Change the weather systems? Lots of people say it was DEF that did it.”

I watch her pluck the grass now, blade by blade—long blades, unusually firm and thick at the roots. The new weather created hardy, plush grass.

“Are you planning on eating that?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“Hm? Well, yes—sure. Anything is possible with DEF.  That was a suspicion for some time.”

“So what the heck were you guys doing then? How come all you brilliant people, all you artists and poets and scientists, couldn’t stop them?”

Because, my sweet Moonie, before, it hit we were slovenly, insatiable freaks; we had knowledge at our fingertips; we became lazy, inept, slobs, weak; we filled up with as much as we could get, fast, while the storms ate into our budgets left trillion dollar deficits. But still no one could have predicted Esther. And it was at our most pitiful moment, after she hit, that we lost everything,

“Freaky shit. I was outside playing hopscotch when she hit. You ever hear of hopscotch?

Friday, January 4, 2013

Venice is Sinking and Updates

Updates are in order. I recently published Venice is Sinking: A Trio of Short Stories. Odd, somewhat, these stories begged for completion. I can’t explain. It is what it is. I was compelled to write and complete these three thematically connected stories. Collection is hitting top 100 in Best Selling category for short fiction and literary fiction, globally--—big category I’m pleased. The more visibility, the better the chances I will increase my readership. So, now they are done, published. Now, I can devote my full time to the bigger works—The Slow Death of Habeas Corpus and the sequel to The Sins of Dom. The former is almost complete. Yet, I’m not sure where I’m headed. It will be a novella, I know that much. It's taking some interesting twists. Moonie for one. She is an added character--youthful, curious, smart but illiterate, living in the tunnels, she represents youth in a dystopian society. She mysteriously vanishes and then reappears in the West--Sections 1-3, DEF's home base.

I am anxious to return to The Sins of Dom sequel. I did have agent wanting to see sequel, after it was written. But so much time has passed—big agent. I should be working diligently on this…why I’m not? I don’t know. I like the feel of being in charge, regardless of the indie bias. It is what it is.

I republished Blogging to the dead and it is available in both print and kindle.

If you made it this far, thx.

Annointing up in Sleet Magazine and other

New publication here Sleet Magazine    And cute pic of Jack, the greatest showman And excerpt... Ro was a good boy, Josi felt.  She n...