On the Road Again

Last night I was cleaning up some files on my computer and came across some old photos on a flash drive I had set aside. Many of the pictures were from my last residency at the Fairhope Center for the Writing Arts.

The Shed 023

That’s me with Martin, one of the fellas who helped run the Center.

The reason I went to Alabama to write a book was because the book I was writing – Karly Sheehan: The True Crime Story behind Karly’s Law – was a disturbing one. I did not want to write about the murder of a child in my home office. Going to Fairhope offered me the opportunity to write in complete solitude. I didn’t know but a couple of people in town at the time. And the center is located directly behind the back door of one of the most beautiful of libraries.

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Star-crossed Lovers

Hilary Trump


Pulling her close, he whispered, “I’ve waited a long time for this.” Despite the closeness of their hips, she could not yet feel his manhood. They were going to have to wait a while longer. That pill he took earlier was not yet working.  A man of 70 sometimes requires a little help, Mogul told her shortly before tossing back a mixture of Viagra and bourbon.

“No worries,” she replied. If Evergreen was anything, she was a patient woman.

Sliding his hand up underneath her silk blouse, Mogul snapped loose her DKNY full-figure bra. She responded by pulling his head into her breasts. He moaned with delight. For the past 30 years, the only breasts he’d felt had all been fake. They were nice to look at, but they felt like play-dough hardened.

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Earl’s Stupid Human Tricks




Sitting in the courtroom, listening to Earl’s momma lie through her pearly white teeth, Morgan wished upon her momma’s grave that she had not thrown out that book. She wished she’d read it cover-to-cover. Wished for all things fried in deep fat that she had read it like her momma urged her to do, but when it arrived at her house that hot June day (by an Amazon drone for pity’s sake) Morgan had cut away the cardboard wrapper, took one look at the title and tossed it immediately into the recycle bin out back before Earl come home and found it.

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That God and Gay Thingy



Maybe it’s the Orlando shooting.

Maybe it’s the access to military-style weapons.

Maybe it’s 13 months of temperatures rising.

Maybe it’s Donald Trump.

I’ve been torn from pillar to post over one thing over another lately. I find myself discombobulated much of the time. You feeling that way, too? Maybe we need a collective day at the spa, or a night around the campfire roasting marshmallows?

Years ago, when I wrote that memoir about my father, I encountered many Gold Star families. Sometimes, albeit infrequently, I would hear stories of estrangement. Death does that to families, causes sore feelings over one thing or another. Sometimes these are major offenses. Sometimes these are offenses that seem major because of the rawness that comes with death. Whatever the cause, it usually resulted in one thing – children being used as a bartering chip.

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Immigration is not to blame




My heart is broken for all those mothers, those fathers, those loved ones who were on the receiving end of those terrifying text messages, the ones that said a madman with an assault weapon was on a rampage, hunting them down.

I’m gonna die.

He’s here with us.

Call the cops.

Tell them I’m hiding in the bathroom.

Tell them to hurry.

Tell them it’s too late.

I’m gonna die.

They call their mothers, the terrified do. In the last moments of their lives, the dying will call out to the one who gave them life. It is their mothers they reach out to for comfort, for assurances, the last voice they long to hear. The one voice that has always steadied them, reminded them of their value and worth.

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