Writing Reality

  How to Speak with a Publisher—Phobias and All In 2006 I was urged by a friend of mine in the arts to meet her with a large group of possible investors for her movie. Mind you I hate the city. I am a country bumpkin. Going into the city for me is worse than having an old wisdom tooth pulled out without any anesthesia. Trust me I know. Been there done that. However, for a friend who I wanted to see succeed. And her journey in being a writer and filmmaker—I saw it as a noble task. She was an incredibly hard worker. So, I forged ahead driving over the GWB and arrived near the Empire State Building, which I’d never been that close to before this day since 1966. Yeah, that’s a long ass time. So, here I was after I’d given my valet key to the parking garage attendant—always a scary proposition for me. I arrived out of the garage walked a block, looked around. I made visual notes of exactly what everything looked like. I held the address on a piece of paper, stared at the paper then lo

  What’s Your Motivation? Today as I sat editing, reading, and writing. The material was heavy. I knew this dank, cloudy, practically snowless winter had truly gotten to me by now. Along with other recent stresses, I hadn’t yet pulled out of the Covid-mode of life. Or so it seemed. It’s not that I’m social. I do that because I have to, not because I want to. Socialize that is. You cannot wrestle or grapple or box with yourself. I claimed to myself that it was the temporary healthy thing to do for our children—and besides I knew cash would be tighter if I’d gone back into any gym of any real value with my rolling gi or no-gi. Refraining from fighting and grappling would give me plenty of time to go back to school, learn something new, be open for any new job opportunity that came along. Also, it would afford me more time to write and edit books and screenplays. And the money I’d save not rolling with my gi and no-gi buddies, I could use to enter writing competitions. And so, I did.

"Yes. He Called Me 'The Tank'." This day twenty-five years ago. Tom Brunetto (he has since passed 2014) and I met at the Ridgewood Duck Pond at 4:15am.  We made a pact a couple weeks leading up to this day. We both had topped off at 36 miles.  So, we promised each other we would do a 40 miler together.  Tom overdressed and forgot shorts, he was wearing long running pants.  The temperatures soared passed eighty degrees. I think it hit a blistering eighty-eight degrees.  The sky was clear blue. The last eight miles Tom was beside himself. He said he couldn't finish. Instead of my getting upset, I bribed him for the last eight miles to get us to forty. I had no energy left and still had work at 11am till 8:45pm that day. The only rest I'd get was a shower, and a drive at 3:45pm to a doctors office for four more pain patients to treat. So, Tom having other stress in life I decided, since I helped mangle his legs for perhaps a week's recovery I said, "I

From: "Not Exactly Don Juan...and The Liberated Woman" Chapter Nine-She Won’t Go Away       Phil Dunlap began, “I told Scott Morgan of New Breed Fighters, ‘I think I have a fighter. In the last two months she’s broken her finger, comes back in for the next class. Then she breaks her nose. I set her nose. And then she stays for the rest of the class still and rolls. After that session she goes back to her office, and works.”       “Then she gets cauliflower ear, they stitched her ear. She came back to the next class. Then she breaks and dislocates her ribs sparring with Dan, keeps fighting till he nails her with a liver shot. Then she thinks she’s a wimp, because the liver shot stopped her. She goes to stand up, and the ribs pop out. She wants to stay and work. But she couldn’t move without pain. I told her that she was done for the night. She’s upset that she can’t get punched a while.”        Phil continues, “The next class she comes back in with an ace bandage,

Many people are probably are unaware that if you ever wanted to write an Op-Ed for "The Washington Post", you don't have to have a degree, neither be famous. Their editors do read your opinion. They will publish it regardless of your position in life, socio-economics, race, color, religion creed, culture, etc...  They will publish it based on timeliness, single thought (remaining direct), size (750-800 words), topic, appropriate language and a few other (read their rules, too you should also know you may be asked for footnotes) stipulations. Their editors do help edit your piece. You do have to give your name to the article (with very few exceptions).  The reason why I am encouraging this, is two-fold. First, it is good to know that self-expression properly done through writing is recognized; even by a large news media such as The Washington Post.  Secondly, hopefully this knowledge will help people become more interested in researching different media outlets to ponder l

March 13 th , 2020, A Friday “Well, we may not see each other for a while.” He remarked as I wrote out the paid receipt for him. I nodded. “We saw this coming last year. You know it was already hitting people I knew in December. We were just unaware of what to call it.” I remarked. He nodded. He then led me out the glassed-in room protecting us from the cold. I followed him, as I carried my therapy gear to my car.   We ambled our way down a flight and half of stairs and then through his garage. We chatted in the cool, damp air as I loaded up my car. Then I parted, I prayed and whispered in my car. “Tell me which way to go.” I stated into the visually empty car, yet I knew the spirit that had always been with me was ever present. As I drove, there was an eerie essence. Doctors had warned ahead, and I watched eye fully and listened to clients who’s business travels had been cancelled two months prior. Many medical offices were slowing their foot traffic as well. So much so, our den