In a land where mesas loom above numerous traffic circles testing drivers’ sobriety, I continue to persevere. The result after five weeks of a demanding recording regimen? Eleven (of 18) chapters have been meticulously recorded by a superb audio engineer here.
This means the Audible for How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) is more than 50 percent complete.
I am the sole narrator of this collection of absurd happenings encountered over seven decades. They need to be told, at least that’s what Alice keeps telling me.
Consequently, I keep this website going, even while on the western slope of the Rockies. And if you want to wish me a joyous holiday season in return for heartfelt wishes for you, leave a comment. My late mother would add, “The more the merrier!”
Since arriving in late July to Grand Junction, Colorado, I endured an affront to my senses. A filthy toilet and an infestation of gnats were only some of the many hazards discovered in Mary Schenk’s condo next to a busy, extremely noisy intersection. Then there was her “welcoming dinner” that featured ground beef she never drained but instead incorporated into the meal. And she was unable to cook more than one dish for any meal.
Therefore, my gall bladder started acting up. So yes, I had to take over the cooking duties. That’s part of why last week the woman who promised so much, demanded that I take my possessions and move out. To where? She could care less, even though I knew nothing about Grand Junction.
When did she issue her impatient demand? On the very morning I was scheduled to begin recording an Audible of How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories).
Schenk’s attempt at sabotage failed miserably. After a week-long stay at a spotless, quiet hotel next to Grand Junction’s airport, three days ago I found an extended-stay facility with kitchenette at a reasonable, yet professional, rate. Best of all, I managed to keep two productive appointments with a studio engineer whose soundproof home and sense of excellence reveal his musical sensibilities.
Happy hour at the Grand Vista Hotel has a great benefit: A complete meatloaf dinner for 10 bucks!
My book’s introduction, preface and three chapters have been recorded already, so I’m on a roll. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel alone. Thanksgiving is upcoming. Yet look at what this 81-year-old author has accomplished under the harshest of circumstances.
My days with Buckingham’s Quakers and as meditation facilitator at Pebble Hill tell me to express gratitude. Just look at the remarkable view from my new place, and I feel better about this sudden twist of face. No wonder traveling musicians find inspiration within the facility’s secure structure.
I complimented Travis on his weather-beaten hat. Little did I know he is a rancher with his own homestead above 8,000 feet. He is authentic, and his wife, Stephanie, agrees.
But before I can take a deep exhale, I need to update my address to several medical insurance contacts, my bank and credit cards. And I must stay positive; otherwise, it will show up while recording the Audible.
Keep the faith, baby. Keep the faith.
Moon over a multicolored dush adorning one of many mesas surrounding Grand Junction.
Take a good look at the woman above. It’s not the professional image she normally touts; instead, it’s the perfect representation of an experienced Realtor, whose 30 years of legwork make deals happen.
Tami Cheatley’s ability to examine construction and its flaws allows her to be candid with would-be sellers and buyers alike. I realized that right off the bat, because when I became a Realtor in Miami for three months, one truth sank in: Sellers have an inflated view of what their property is worth. So when Cheatley suggested a listing price, I didn’t argue. She priced it to sell.
This turned out to be a wise decision, because Realtors are besieged today with federal, state and local regulations spiraling out of control.
Once the wheels of selling my condo set in, I had no idea how the disposal of its furnishings would cost me emotionally. Alice McCormick’s vision was everywhere, and to pull it apart felt sacrilegious. Sparing me any further grief, Cheatley located a reputable estate liquidator named Stan, who managed a series of garage sales through local advertising and secure Facebook ads. In addition, he oversaw the cleaning of windows, rugs, bathrooms and kitchen, removing all worthless junk, and finally documented a fair profit from myriad sales of Alice and my lesbian life together.
The photo above shows what Cheatley had to do to deal responsibly with an unnecessarily finicky condo association and a newly elected president eager to create pitfalls as soon as he could think of them.
All this razzmatazz allows the proceeds that was won in the condo sale to be used to record an Audible right here in Grand Junction. We begin recording in earnest next month.
We do not plan to create a turkey! How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) with fuzzy typeface and all, and its Kindle companion will remain available on amazon.com. But soon it will be available on Audible. And if sales are good, can a republished book be far behind?
On July 23, I drove 625 miles from Longview, Washington to Twin Falls, Idaho, exactly a thousand kilometers for those who prefer the metric scale.
Why such an exhausting day of travel? An out-of-control wildfire known as the Durkee Fire closed Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge interstate-highway from Pendleton to Baker City, forcing us to cross over the Cascades to US Highway 20 where we motored through the mind-bending scenic Malheur Canyon. a seldom touted area of East Oregon west of the town of Burns.
The remaining 500 miles on July 25 transversing mostly interstate highways through Salt Lake City to Grand Junction, Colorado, was a relative piece of Angel’s Food Cake. Arriving shortly after 5 pm, I chose to celebrate the safe end of our sojourn at the Grand Valley Grill’s happy hour, sipping on godmothers (Amaretto and vodka) while feasting on a savory large slice of meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans. The complete dinner was only 10 bucks.
Whoopee! Accompanying me on such a treacherous sojourn was Mary Schenk (shown above), who volunteered to host my hasty retreat from the Washington townhouse that was sublimely decorated by my late love in life, Alice McCormick. I could not have pulled off such an audacious relocation without generous assistance from Mary, a former neighbor who grew up several houses away from my childhood home in Hialeah, Florida.
My tenancy required approval from two spirits shown above.
In case you don’t know, during the 1950s Hialeah contained America’s premier thoroughbred horse racing track. I was too young to enter the grounds then, except for Sundays. Since no racing was allowed on “the Lord’s Day,” the general public was admitted free to gawk at the hordes of white and pink flamingos taking up South Florida residence around the racetrack’s encircled manmade lake. Needless to say, I was enthralled.
Now that I have my computer finally set up, I am prepared to deal with the aftermath from Amazon’s unreadable publication of my memoir/love story, “How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories)”. And I think there is a solution. A professional musician in the foothills of the Poconos suggested I create an Audible version of the book before attempting its reissue. “More people are listening to Audible than are buying books,” he said. Considering my regard for his musicianship and history of providing assistance to fellow musicians, I have decided to follow up on this plan of action.
What do you think? Would you be interested in acquiring an Audible copy of the book? Does this idea sound good to you?
Feel free to give some feedback, because I don’t need a different kind of feedback while narrating my story in a recording studio. And if you don’t understand my play on words here, wait until you hear all of it!
Unless some unforeseen miracle occurs, I must put How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) on hold.
The only way to get hold of a poorly printed copy is to order one from Amazon. Until I finish unpacking in Grand Junction (Colorado), my mind is focused on immediate priorities.
I must decide whatever memories from my 81 years of life, clothes and personal necessities can fit in the 2010 Ford Escape that sits in my garage. Alice bought it for us in Doylestown.
This is serious downsizing, because I am moving in with a woman from Hialeah, Florida, my boyhood hometown. There’s more to the story, but so far it’s incomplete. Let it be said that she is saving space in her ground-floor condo for a wayfaring writer.
Visitors to my website have been here for over 10 years. You deserve to know what’s going on. Wish me well.
Two days ago, all monies paid Amazon Publications by me were returned, marking its admission the printing quality of How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) cannot be upgraded. I promptly phoned James Dean at the newly renamed E-book Publications for his explanation.
Dean tersely explained, “Because you filed a dispute for marketing.”
Indeed, I did exactly that.
Once Cousin Margaret Johnston warned me about flaws in the book’s printing, I put a stop to Amazon Publications’ $2,000 charge for marketing, disputing it with my credit card company. As of Monday, June 3, 2024, Amazon consents to my outrage, and, in addition to its three-month marketing charge, has returned ALL payments I gave in anticipation of publishing the story of my life.
Why did I stand up for quality? I grew up in Hialeah and Miami, Fla., surrounded by literary ghosts. My mother was an esteemed English teacher whose library was filled with classics. I never would hawk a flawed book, not even mine.
Therefore, I advise you to look on the bright side: The book has been published, with a fuzzy typeface that makes it a challenging read, though another avenue doesn’t share such a handicap: Kindle. That is the only way left to comfortably consume my work of a lifetime.
I have become skeptical that we will see improvements to the book’s flaws anytime soon. But, to continue making lemonades out of lemons, rejoice in knowing I escaped a pool of carnivorous sharks who feed upon their prey in the deep seas of Marketing.
The book, with fuzzy typeface and all, and its Kindle companion remain available on amazon.com.
If you ordered a print copy of How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories), feel free to return it to Amazon and get a refund. The typography is horrendous.
No one has complained yet about its appearance on Kindle, but, then again, the book is newly published. My ears are highly sensitive to feedback. Until confidence is restored, marketing of the book has been discontinued.
Any decisions regarding the book’s future must be postponed until after I move 1400 miles east – from the Pacific Northwest to the western side of the Rocky Mountains – known as Grand Junction, Colorado.
My time here on the West Coast has come to an end.
Uh-oh. Earlier this Mother’s Day, I received an alarming report. One of my literate readers wrote me with a sad review of How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories).
“The printing is awful,” she wrote. “It looks like a scan, fuzzy, out of focus and printed very lightly. I’m contacting Amazon to see if it is eligible for re-printing or return.”
Later she added, “I went ahead and downloaded the Kindle version so I can more easily read. Struggling with fonts is not my thing.”
I contacted another reader, who confirmed a similar state of her printed book. Apparently, Amazon couldn’t have done a better job of discrediting its print capabilities than by distributing my books. Therefore, I caution my friends and supporters to forget about obtaining a printed copy until Amazon cleans up its act.
The Kindle price is $6.99, and it’s available NOW.
Saturday morning, I heard from Kindle, and it’s official. Anyone waiting to read How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) who can’t afford a printed copy can now find it on Kindle.
My book is unlike anything I have read, and its organization was up to me (and Alice, who is working hand in hand with my late mother) to lead me through the process. There is sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll galore, because that’s what you find on the Internet.
Nothing is presented salaciously; everything is told how it really happened. I use a practiced journalist’s approach, always being wary of not tooting my horn. I leave that to you, my dear readers.
Now I wait for the reaction, because 432 pages are a lot for a memoir, but it’s also a love story. The Kindle price is $6.99, and it’s available NOW.
