Reading has always been my drug of choice. I choose to medicate my senses with words rather than chemicals. I’ve been bookworm as long as I can remember. As a kid, summer vacation meant bringing as many books home from the library as I could carry. My reading room was a tent built by clothes-pinning mom’s sheets and towels to the fence and backs of lawn chairs. I passed hours reading in my makeshift tent, soothed by the familiar summer sounds of lawnmowers, neighbors voices, and prop planes droning towards the nearby air force base.

With the exception of the backyard tent, nothing much has changed since childhood. With a book in my hands, I hold the rudder of the craft that whisks me through the space-time continuum and on until morning. I can try another time period on for size, immerse myself in another country and culture, and explore the emotional depths of someone’s life journey. Looking out at the world from behind someone elses eyes sometimes allows me to view the slide show of my own life with a healthy detachment. I can disengage, stand back, and see The Big Picture. A least most of the time.

I’ve always preferred books written by woman. I find women to be more complex creatures than men, and their perspectives are richer and more interesting. Broad statement (excuse the pun), but there you have it! But every once in a while I stumble across a book, written by a man, that challenges this perspective, as was the case with Roxanne Slade, written by Reynolds Price. I actually picked this one up and read it without ever reading the bio of the author. I was honestly stunned when I realized this deeply honest story, told from the POV of an elderly woman looking back on her life, had come from the heart and imagination of a male author. Here’s my review on Goodreads. If you haven’t read this one, I recommend giving it a try.  
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/270208.Roxanna_Slade

I've been a hobbyist photographer since I was ten. My very first camera was a hand-me-down, a Brownie box-style that I think belonged to my grandmother. Back then it was all too easy to double expose frames by forgetting to advance the film between shots, or completely ruin an entire roll of pictures if the film was carelessly exposed it to light. I was guilty of both. With my first cameras, the biggest challenge to ending up with decent pictures was finding a dark, shaded place to change the roll of film. Cartridges were an amazing innovation introduced back in the 70s. You just dropped the film cartridge into the camera, wound it to the first frame, and you were good to go. Best thing since sliced bread.

My early photographs were all black and white. Even as a young adult I could rarely afford the luxury of color film. I recently came across a picture of me taken on my nineteenth birthday. Trust me when I say that black-and-white film just doesn’t capture the full impact of a wild, pink and orange, paisley, mini dress, worn with white fishnet stockings and orange pumps. Maybe that’s just as well.

Today, black-and-white photography is an art form. It’s a way of seeing rather than a sign that one is financially challenged. I have to admit that I love the depth of detail and shadow that you can often only get in what is now called Monochrome Mode. Some of my favorite subjects are bare, twisted trees and the stark skeletons of cacti, or rocky outcrops where the shading from lightest grey to deepest black draws the eye and tells a story.

So, the photograph I am sharing with you here is the first photo I have ever had published (SandScript Art and Literary Magazine, 2018.) I call it Feed Me. As austere as this remnant of a living cactus might be, it made me smile. Not sure what that says about my sense of humor.

As of early this summer, my novel manuscript is undergoing a professional content edit. Based on input from this critique, I will make additional revisions.

I hope the publication process for DANCING BETWEEN THE BEATS will begin in 2019.