Tag Archives: Alice

My Book Is In Limbo

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.

The Way Ahead

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.

Aftermath From My Book Launch

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.

Early Reports of Flawed Printing

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.

And Now It’s On Kindle

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.

10 more days to launch

Amazon has revised my book release date. It is now May 6.

Today actually was the deadline for pre-publication work, not the book release date. I apologize for letting impatience get the best of me; I know you are impatient too.

Although I’m embarrassed about confusing the book’s availability, I’m still excited. To use a military term, here’s the “straight skinny.”

How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories) is set for release on Monday, May 6. The memoir/love story consists of 432 pages with 32 color photographs. The softcover sale price will be set at $29.99, and Amazon reserves the right to increase the asking price 30 days after launch. For those who prefer Kindle, the book will be available the same day — on May 6th — for $6.99.

After three years and six months writing this beast, with 18 challenging chapters and an epilogue describing how indeed I became a lesbian, I took a deep breath. But only for a couple days. Then followed three intense months of initial edits followed by another four months to oversee Amazon’s publication process, all with proofreading galore.

Whew! None of my 15 years as a photojournalist can compare, especially since a next-door neighbor unintentionally set a smoldering fire to my townhouse with all my work inside. Fortunately, I arrived home in time to call the fire department and have them put it out.

I’ve written and/or edited two other books, but those were for other people. This book is mine, all mine, and was inspired by love for Alice.

So don’t get your panties in a bunch. The book is almost ready! I’ll keep you posted as events warrant. And the photo above — which is NOT in the book — was taken 12 years ago when Alice proudly escorted me to Cape May, New Jersey. Those were fine times.

Merry Christmas!

To my friends and supporters, I salute you. Accordingly, I have something nice to share this Christmas. It’s as nice as reaching out to a stranger and giving him a toke.

That particular gesture was part and parcel of a South Florida Pink Floyd concert, which is chronicled in my book currently under review at a well-regarded publishing company. The book’s title is How I Became a Lesbian (and other stories), and it’s dedicated to Alice. After she passed, she guided my quest.

Alice and I believed in the power of cannabis; that’s why we went West. I felt intimidated whenever gendarmes appeared in my rear-view mirror back East, Not anymore out here! Paranoid behavior went out the window.

Speaking of cannabis, what were its effects? Rather than inhibit our talents, it enhanced them. Here’s proof.

I finished editing my full-length book, filled with the kind of writing that used to appear in the Bucks County Herald. The entire work now is being reviewed by an enthusiastic, well-known book publisher. Even though Alice was my inspiration, readers on this website convinced me I wasn’t tilting at windmills.

In appreciation, I present a photo taken from an Oregon greenhouse in 2021.

It’s legal to grow your own in Oregon.

The taller plants are known as “sativa,” and the smaller ones, “indica.”

“Sativa” promotes activity and can distract you. It’s great for artists pursuing creative outlets but only when combined with self-discipline.

“Indica” is used for slowing you down, meditating or even sleeping.

“Hybrid” marijuana combines the two kinds above — in different proportions and strengths. Everything else is mumbo-jumbo to confuse the consumer.

A relevant caveat No cannabis or CBD products are known to cure the body; they only serve as an adjunct to medically prescribed practice.

So there you are: A quick primer on cannabis.

Merry Christmas!

Nearing the Finish Line

When I started my memoir/love story, I was numb from loss. Yet I was given a mission.

The love of my life, Alice McCormick, had me promise “to write” ONE DAY before she left this planet. I was not about to let her down.

Then the Aphasia Network stepped in to comfort my loss. Sixty-three days after discovering Alice’s lifeless body, I was invited into a grief session on Zoom but paired with two naive, early-year students. With nothing else to talk about, I sought their input to determine a politically correct way to identify a racial epithet that neighbors and my grandfather used in the 1950s.

The two of them had no clue. They hit the PANIC button. Then they disappeared into the comforting arms of a supervisor who condemned my speech.

Welcome to cancel culture, and the scourge of it. I am anything BUT a racist; yet that word was hurled later at me. Is it because I emerged from that world and wanted to report on it? Do we choose to ignore how much African Americans have evolved since their squalid beginnings?

It makes me wonder what qualifies as history.

I learned about discrimination firsthand in Princeton, New Jersey, because I could not travel with much-whiter boys to perform in 1950s Ohio. That kind of stupidity never fails to enrage me, but I persevere.

I’m running on the fumes. Maybe reviving my Go Fund Me account would help.

No matter what, I’m writing the last two chapters. They’re about Alice.

My Amazon love

Remembering N-town

Sixty-three days after Alice McCormick passed away in 2020, the Aphasia Network planned its annual couples’ retreat. Because of Covid, they made it a “virtual event.” Aware of Alice’s demise, I was summarily invited as a “surviving widower.”

I accepted the invitation. It would have been stupid to refuse.

Both Alice and I loved the stroke survivors we met and several students-in-training, and I wanted to commiserate with them again. I suspected that seeing them on Zoom might help console me, but the virtual mass communication felt pretty empty.

In one of the sessions, two unfamiliar women in their 20s were chosen randomly to be my student counselors, and I determined I wasn’t going to cry for them. Instead, I looked for something else to focus on, so in desperation I grabbed hold of a page containing proposed chapter titles for my upcoming book. After a few strange-sounding niceties, I pointed to the proposed chapter titles. Chapter 4 stood out.

Typed in was a profane version of the N-word bandied about by white people in the 1950s describing the slum community close to downtown Miami. I knew if I ignored the epithets I heard about N-town, my book would be a fraud. Therefore, I tiptoed uncertainly. (I was denied a plum opportunity early in life because my skin color was too dark. Now that my childhood color has dissipated, I look like any old white man. But memories don’t disappear, so vivid moments from the past were relived in my head before currently residing in my manuscript.)

I read the objectionable word aloud and posed a follow-up question to the two students: “Do you think that’s appropriate?” I read the word again. “Is there another way to describe this?” Since these were university students, I wanted their input. We could work together to find acceptable terminology, right?

Wrong!

All of sudden, their live images disappeared, a blank wall took their place and a supervisor appeared forthwith on my computer monitor castigating me for saying and repeating an offensive word. Perhaps I was stupid. Or Pollyannaish. Or something. Nevertheless, my grief losing Alice was magnified.

This conundrum occurred three years ago. I’m a writer, not a coward, right? So afterward, while struggling to rewrite the harsh chapter title, I came up with a politically correct replacement: “N-town with three syllables.” And today, Chapter 4 has been completely written, rewritten and edited to conform to modern-day sensibilities.

Meanwhile, Portland’s Aphasia Network has risen from the dead. A gathering of old friends and adversaries is looming for a renewed camping experience June 9-11, this time in person at the familiar Methodist facility north of the fishing town of Garibaldi on the Pacific Coast. That’s fine with me. However, in anticipation of revisiting treasured memories, I’m being dragged through mud from the past. Former close friends in the group no longer communicate with me, and I suspect I’m being ostracized.

The Aphasia Network coordinates its camping weekends with Pacific University. This year’s event may be its last, so memories of our interactions are important. I also want to refresh the participants’ memories of Alice. But I don’t want any hint of a scandalous character assassination.

Historically, Pacific University once participated in eradicating Indian cultures, seizing their children to create strict boarding schools to “civilize” the “savages.” The infamous Carlisle School in Pennsylvania is an apt comparison. And Pacific originated in a state whose intent was to be lilywhite, threatening black people to leave its boundaries or face the sting of 39 lashes from a bullwhip in retribution.

Much of the state’s discredited liberal policies stem from an overreaction to its racist past. And that hasn’t changed much. Portland is still the whitest big city in the United States. That’s a fact.

Almost in tears three years ago, I related the hue and cry from my sorry interaction with students to my cousin, Margaret Johnston. She advised, “You will have to find a way to truly describe Oregonians – so open-minded but so un-worldly. So quick to judge and ostracize, while all the time touting to be fiercely liberal. But only as long as you think and act as they see fit.”

Margaret was “right on.” She now lives in Arizona.

In their book, The Coddling of the American Mind, Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt reveal three false mantras guiding college students today: “Strive to avoid unpleasant experiences at all costs,” “always trust your emotions over reason” and “the world is a black-and-white battle between good people and bad people. There is no middle ground.” With all the money students commit to attending college, the university experience now panders to students and avoids controversy. Period.

Meanwhile, my three-year-plus writer’s narrative is transitioning to the day I met Alice. I remember how on September 24, 2010, Alice draped her long, sinewy arm around me inside Andre’s, a subterranean wine-and-cheese bar inside the Doylestown (PA) Marketplace, and cooed loudly in my ear, “Oh, here you are, dear. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

That’s when I was smitten. And I had it bad. It took 67 years to finally meet the girl I was made to love.

So I’m trying to avoid stupid distractions. Alice sometimes comes alive in my head, and I trust she will guide me.

At least, I hope she will, because this shit is getting old.