"The Autumn Wind, Anxiety, Madness, Writing, and Sweet Dreams..."

Let us begin with a bit of a poem...for as my old "Chick from South Africa" friend Sam used to say, for she liked poems...

"The Autumn Wind is a pirate Blustering in from sea, With a rollicking song, he sweeps along, Swaggering boisterously. His face is weather beaten. He wears a hooded sash, With a silver hat about his head, And a bristling black mustache..."

This is from "The Autumn Wind," by NFL Films voice artist John Facenda. Were he still with us, he would be the one I'd want to narrate my life.

So much has occurred in the past month or so, and to be honest, I just have little to no time to blog anymore. I've poured what little I have left of late into my creativity, as much as I feel a lot of it is going to waste.

There are developments on the writing front. I'm still flogging "Live from the Cafe," and I feel still this is a good story, one worth telling, one that will take you somewhere, perhaps even take you home. I did kind of go back to my hometown to get some of the inspiration for "Live..." but a lot of it went to other, strange and dark places.

"He growls as he storms the country, A villain big and bold. And the trees all shake and quiver and quake, As he robs them of their gold..."

One that has occurred is by publisher, Sunbury Press Books is spinning off our works into several imprints. The history that Sunbury is best known for, mostly of Pennsylvania-centric topics has expanded to many genres.

The fiction imprint is now Brown Posey Press.

This is the only picture or image I could find. It is a nice one, I think. We are still under Sunbury Press' umbrella, but now with a new name and logo, which I find pretty cool.

Odd things, as I finally am starting to figure out what works and what does not. In order to justify my expensive hobby I need to go to the places where people actually spend money to buy books...and you hope, read them.

That's another thing...I don't know how true it is, but I was at a reader's association event with my fellow author, Joe Harvey (On Blue Ground is a very good YA historical story, go check that out). Joe says he'd learned that Amazon.com will RECOMMEND your book if you get 50 reviews.

Okay, did you read my book? Please, go do that! Leave it at Amazon, at Sunbury, lots of places!

Call to action completed.

Now...what other things...I managed to finish a rough draft of a novel called, The Feels. It is about a group of young people trying to find themselves in a modern, everyday world, and seeking to establish their own identities.

There's a lot of stuff that needs to be worked on by the characters, all of whom are a little weird, a little quirky, varying degrees of self-worth, and with plenty of skeletons in their closets.

Needless to say, fucked-up Pre-Millennials.

Now, Millennials...guess what? I dig them.

I do not have a problem with that generation, not a bit. I do have a problem with Wannabe Hipsters. The people who think buying into a trend makes you one of the crowd.


You just spent money to get into the club, you didn't feel it, and you are not living it much.

The 1924 haircuts, the neckbeards, the fascination with $40 vinyl records, and drinking your coffee out of a mini-mason jar does not make you hip, cool, or trendy, if you do these things consciously.

If you fell into it by accident, see this is who you are as a person, and these are your natural interests, all good.

I will say this...the real-deal Millennials are finding a new way to work, to travel, to appreciate, and to BE. There are things to be learned by the way.

I do not consider myself in the shadows of 50-something to be hip in anyway. I have no interest in it (BTW, RIP Gord Downie of Tragically Hip. So sad, you left us too young); I don't have time for that shit.

Also, let's roll up to the other end of the spectrum: the Baby Boomers who bitch and complain that the Millennials are the whiny ones.


Not all, but some Boomers...IT IS YOU who are the whiny bitches.

The ones who had everything given them, and then kept on taking, and now expect their grandkids to pick up the mess.

Again, NOT all. SOME.

The ones who derided the young generations as slackers, pot smokers, drug addicts, losers, living in Mommy's basement, etc. Look in the mirror when you whine about how no one respects you anymore. No one loves you, no one turns to you for your experience, no one likes you anymore.

How much pot did you smoke in the 60's?

How much coke did you snort in the 70's and 80's?

How much booze did you drink, and then throw up all the decades?

When did you go from "cocaine to Rogaine?" (Thank you, George Carlin)

We have become the truest example of a society written about in the drunken ravings of Charles Bukowski, the non-magical realism of Ayn Rand's psychosis, the "I just want to be loved/I want to just let the tide in and drown me" split personality of Sylvia Plath, and the howls of those who would see doom and eventual suicide, such as Hunter S. Thompson indulged in.

We read dystopian novels, and watch their all to realistic interpretations on TV, or in the theaters, or on Hulu or these other forms of media I've no time for.

Why do we read these things? We want to live in a horrible, depraved, unbrave world...but only in the pages of a book or on a screen.

We are this close to living the real fucking thing right now. Actually, too many in our world already do!

It is too easy to consume, digest, ingest, and regress than it is to actually DO something.

Okay, the point? Here it is...my inner voice (hence the italics):

"I don't honestly expect anyone to love, or even remotely like me. I must seem really awkward to people who have never met me before, or have only heard of me. I almost have never watched myself on video, and while I do have to listen to my voice pretty often in the journalistic world, I don't take too much time to marvel at how fabulous I am.

Because I'm not. I'm me.

Me is a loner, a depressive, anxious, obsessive character.