5 star Review for Collection of Fiction

5 star Review for Collection of Fiction

Cheryl A. Clay reviewed my collection of fiction, They Think That I Am Somewhat, and she was more than pleased, referring to the stories as “profound” and “poetically written”. I am so thankful!

Each story was meant to be heartfelt, but, tactfully handled. I had hoped readers might gain insights.

Yet, when you send your finished product out there, you never know how it will be interpreted.

Thank you, Cheryl!

Find full review here: They Think That I Am Somewhat

Dying for Dusty 4 Star Reviews

Dying for Dusty 4 Star Reviews

A couple 4 star reviews on Goodreads always makes me smile. I love readers and appreciate all and any feedback.

Dying for Dusty was fun to write; it came to me quickly. But I do recall having trouble with the ending. It wasn’t my best ending and it felt unnatural. I usually know when it’s time. I guess it wasn’t ready to end. I hadn’t considered a longer work. Now I will… after my current project.

See review from Goodreads below:

“At sixteen pages, it only took me forty minutes to read. The material in this novelette could have made a novel, but this short snack of a read still made me feel attached to the characters. I can only imagine the impact of this book if it had more detail; more showing rather than telling…”

Thanks, Amanda!

The Milo Review LENORE

The Milo Review LENORE

My short story “Lenore”, which inspired my psych novel, is published in The Milo Review spring 2014, ed. I’m thrilled to be a contributor alongside fantastic authors and their works.
The Milo Review

The photo is the charter oak tree in Connecticut before it fell. Great oak. Great history. Apropos as Lenore fears wind and trees.

Hope springs eternal in dystopia

Hope springs eternal in dystopia

Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
~Alexander Pope (“Essay on Man”)

Pope sums it up well–our ability to find light in the dreariest and darkest of times. I want to keep it in mind– as Lenore wakes in St. Simeon Home for the mentally incompetent ( placed there by her brother) at the same time Eliot wakes from a nightmare, only to discover reality isn’t much better as he has been summoned for a mysterious mission in the West.

Happy first day of spring.

Lenore and Illusion

Lenore and Illusion

Publication Update: My short story “Lenore” (which inspired my character in my psychological, dystopian novel) will appear in The Milo Review online and in print) 3/22. Thrilled!!!

While writing Lenore, MC, I’m getting a sense that her suffering is numbing her to the point where she
has trouble distinguishing between reality and illusion. But that’s what makes her so uniquely appealing (I hope) is that chronic ambiguity. I am plowing along at a rapid pace and close to working draft at 200 words. Oddly, my MC’s are writing their own stories and I’m still not sure how they will reunite. One remains in the East. The other is trying to adapt in the West, hiding out on Haight Street, experiencing old world living, with her brother and his liberated nudist girlfriend, Moonie–well actually just decided it will be Moonie– just this very moment. I needed to get her back in the picture. Sh. Don’t tell.

Dystopia obscurities

Dystopia obscurities

Lenore awakening

She woke alone. The air was menacingly still, A low pitched hum droned in the distance. The tall window was ajar; sun streamed in, illumined whorls of dust like bedlam; splinters of light snaked across polished white and grey tile. And in the midst of it, Lenore heard the voice of Elise, Imagined curls like tendrils shading blue eyes and darkened brows, sifting sand in frail fingers.
She saw herself, outside the window, eyes wide and vacuous; She wiggled her hands, and then her toes, emerged, felt herself reviving. But the wind howling, rustling the cedar tree, vexed her, and somewhere in the house, beyond the wall, colors surfaced: the honey brown chest in the corner. The scarlet blossoms outside. The lime green throw on the chai; the teal painted walls–the color of her dress, Freda’s dress–the one who called her mother.