#BookReview: The Lloyd Haynes Story

The Lloyd Haynes Story by Carolyn Haynes is an extraordinary memoir!
Carolyn's life as she knows it ends the night she meets a handsome bra salesman – only she still has a lot to discover about him. The strength of her love in this fascinating love story becomes evident in the brilliant way she puts together notes, anecdotes, articles, photos, and stories to weave a beautiful tapestry of this truly remarkable man's life. FIVE STARS! 

Book Review

The Complexities of Love, by M. A. Quigley, is the captivating journey of Mark, who grows up both knowing he's different and feeling tormented by his inability to communicate his desires. At a time when people don't talk about their sexual orientation, this young man also keeps his feelings for Dave a secret and waits, hoping his love will be returned. Will Mark find the love he is seeking? 

The author beautifully depicts the main character and takes the reader on an emotional ride. I highly recommend this book.

Goodbye, November

Goodbye, November.

November has always been a month of lessons for me. This past month has been no exception.

The month started with an old acquaintance reaching out to me and asking me for help with a book she wanted to write. I'd interacted with her before, and what came to my mind immediately was that in my past experiences with her, I'd always felt I'd wasted my time. My instinct told me to turn her down instantly. I don't know why I didn't listen to the voice that has always helped and protected me... Instead, I tried to rationalize everything: Just because I've kept a bad memory of my exchanges with her doesn't mean it will be the same this time... People change... Be kind...

Ten days in, and after I'd spent 26 hours researching other artists' books and other artworks like hers and creating an outline for her book, she told me she'd changed her mind and she wanted her money back, the first half which I always charge all my clients before I begin working for them. I knew I could keep it and justify keeping it in any court of law, but I took a deep breath and decided to give it to her. I just didn't want to waste another second on her. I refunded every cent of the money she'd paid for the potential book and moved on.

On Sunday, November 28, about two weeks after I gave her money back, I received a message from her asking me to give her the research I'd done... because I wasn't going to use it anyway and it would go to waste, right? All I could do was laugh, and, of course, I didn't respond at all.

The lesson here was not a new one, just a reminder. Always listen to your inner voice. Don't doubt it. Don't rationalize it. People don't change that much. Use your experience.

I'm grateful for that reminder.

Toward the middle of the month, someone I considered a friend on Twitter tweeted a lie about me. I was shocked... but I trusted this person and decided to be generous in my assumptions, so I sent her a DM in good humor, pointing out that what she had tweeted wasn't true, and I followed my message with self-deprecating statements just to keep the level of humor up. I expected her to reply something like “oh, crap... I meant to say –,” but, instead, I got “Stop DMing me! Leave me alone!” and the F word, followed by some crisis she was in. Again... I was shocked at her poor reaction to my message, but I decided to be understanding. I apologized for having upset her and told her “I didn't mean to upset you AT ALL.” Then I stopped DMing her and I left her alone, just as she wanted. 

A few days passed. I was expecting an apology from her, but that never came. To make things even clearer about her character and to remove any doubt from my mind that an apology wasn't coming, she played the victim and tweeted about someone having insulted her.

This was a friend, someone I trusted... someone who had given me valuable advice and help in the past, and, in return, I had purchased all her books at once as a thank you. This was someone to whom I had taken the time to explain grammar features she continuously used incorrectly in her books so that she wouldn't repeat these errors in her future books, someone for whom I had written two book reviews, someone whose tweets I had retweeted daily for the past two years. I was sure she was better than that. 

I took the time to write a long letter, just out of respect for what I thought was a friendship and because I hate miscommunication, explaining what my intentions and my expectations were and pointing out the humor in my self-deprecating messages. What I got once again was the F word, along with don't tag me and don't message me. I acknowledged receipt of her message with a thumb up and blocked her. 

I couldn't believe these exchanges, but she had gone out of her way to show me exactly what kind of a person she really was... twice. Goodbye, former friend. I wish you well... I won't stoop to your level. I won't trash your name like you did / are doing mine. As someone before me said, I still want you to eat, just not at my table. What's funny is all this started because she had tweeted a lie... and it has come full circle... with more lies... like her being the victim.

The lesson here was... Well, there were two lessons: 

First, don't ignore the red flags along the way just because you like someone. There were plenty of those, and I ignored them one after the other, the very last one being how I had only published one book whereas she had published so many. I wasn't aware it was a competition. 

Second, if and when someone publicly lies about you, confront them publicly, and don't worry about humiliating them. Remember that they didn't have a problem lying about you. I learned five – almost six – years ago that nobody trashes your name more than someone who's afraid you're going to tell the public the truth. 

I am grateful for these lessons as well.

Another unfortunate incident this month happened last week. I put my phone and my spare car key on the car right before I fastened the dogs' seatbelts, thinking I would pick them up right after; then I got in my car and drove away... I was about five miles away when I remembered what I had done. I pulled over, hoping everything would still be there. I live in the woods and drive slowly because of all the animals crossing the roads, so it wouldn't be completely impossible for the phone and the key to have stayed on the car... but no such luck. I had gone out to buy more bags of concrete for my construction, so I went and picked the bags up and returned home, looking at the road very carefully on the way back. Nothing. Maybe they were crushed by another car? Maybe someone picked them up? I didn't have a password on my phone, and that bothered me a lot.

As soon as I arrived home, I got on the computer and did a quick search. I learned three new facts: 1) You can lock your phone by adding a password to it remotely. 2) You can find the approximate location of your phone online. 3) You can make your phone ring loudly for five minutes even if it is set on silent. I did this and drove back with my four windows down, and about three miles out, I heard my phone. I pulled over and found it in the weeds on the side of the road, and, just a few feet farther, there was my spare key. I couldn't believe it! I felt so grateful.

Besides these three helpful facts, the lesson here was the reminder to never put anything on your car.

Goodbye, November. Thanks for the lessons. I appreciate them. I survived another November, and, for that I am grateful.

 

Almost...

Today is November 20^th. I have exactly one month – a self-imposed deadline, really – to finish the cabin. I started building the cabin from scratch on December 21^st, 2018, and on that day, I told myself this will be a three-year project.

The four walls, the roof, the doors, and the windows are all in place. The cabin is one big room, like a studio, divided into four parts: an office on my right and a kitchen on my left as I walk in the main door, and a bedroom and a bathroom, respectively on the right and left, in the back.

The bedroom is done. The bathroom is almost completed. The kitchen cabinets and my bookshelves are all just planks of wood sitting on blocks. I've built myself a desk. The only piece of furniture I have bought for this cabin is a desk chair, and I just got that today because its price was finally lowered, probably for black Friday, and my back desperately needed something more comfortable than the blocks I was sitting on.

I still have a lot to do, mostly little tasks, but I'm also making a sunroom in front of the cabin, and that's a rather big project. The floor is done. I still have to make the walls and the roof for it. I'm doing my best, and I still hope I can make it by the end of fall... if the weather allows it.

I love that I can say I've built this by myself. Of course, I've hired people to help with the tasks I didn't feel safe doing myself – like the wiring and the roof – but, still, I designed everything myself, and I've been living in it since February of this year so that I could work on little things around the house without having to leave the dogs alone. During the last three years, I've learned a great deal about construction work and developed muscles I didn't know I had. It's been an interesting journey.

 

Done That...

“Forget safety.
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.”
Rumi

Book Review

I read The Gift followed by Michael's Choice, by Barbara Avon, and loved them both.

I was hooked from page one of the first book, The Gift, and couldn't stop reading until I finished both books. The author's excellent pace and character development have made me want a book three (and four, five, etc.) – hint to author – just to spend more time with Michael, a handsome man – he is strong, Italian, in love, and he can cook. These two books are thrillers with a touch of romance and suspense. I give these books five stars and recommend them.

Communication & Assumptions

A few days ago, I read and commented on another one of Philip Anderson's thought-provoking posts – this one was on patience: https://www.independentliving.co.uk/philip-anderson/what-stretches-your-patience/

I specifically commented on one sentence: “From the moment the ambulance crew transfer me on my back from my bed to the hospital trolley, I prepare myself mentally for being separated from my loved ones and my true self, and for being at the mercy of strangers.”

Responding to my comment, he wrote about being carted off to hospital, and clarified, “being separated from my true self, I am referring to people (including hospital staff) who assume I am unable to communicate clearly, which is a frightening and potentially dangerous disconnection I’m powerless to overcome.”

Maybe that hospital staff could benefit from reading this post.

Philip Anderson's response reminded me of two distinct interactions I've had in my life, one with a former student and one with a paraplegic man.

The Former Student...

She was from Bulgaria. She and her family – husband and two sons – moved to the United States, and she took my test prep class to prepare for the TOEFL-iBT, a test all international students must take before they can enter a university in the US. She was a dentist in her own country, a brilliant one, one of the best in her city in Bulgaria, with excellent recommendations from professors and patients, but she had to take some courses here to get a degree here in the US to be able to work as a dentist in this country.

Her English writing wasn't bad, but her speaking needed a lot of work, mainly because she got nervous. She was a perfectionist, not the best attitude for language learning because she didn't allow herself to make mistakes, so she either didn't speak at all – which meant didn't practice enough – or if she did because I forced her to, she would get nervous and her voice would start to shake and she would stop whenever she wasn't sure if her sentence was structurally and grammatically correct.

Having taught for decades, I was familiar with this type of learner and behavior, so it wasn't a new case to me... but... one day she came to school in tears because some ignorant person had called her stupid. She explained that it had taken her a while to express what she needed and the employee – who clearly wasn't fit to be in customer service – had lost her patience, refused to help her, and called her stupid.

If and when a person doesn't or can't communicate perfectly or even properly in another language, it doesn't mean they are stupid. They may be remarkable scientists in their own country, using their own language. If you've read my book, Languages & Life Lessons (by Afarin Rava, my pen name), you know about the Chinese scientists I used to teach. I also knew a Korean lady who was the director of a television channel as well as the host of a television program in Korea. She came to my grammar and conversation classes to learn English and told the class she had been insulted by an employee at a hardware store who couldn't understand her accent during her first month in the US.

I know many people who don't use their first language correctly. I even know many Americans who can't communicate in their first language. In fact, I've taught Americans who needed help with reading (including the alphabet, sounds, and intonation) and writing (including spelling, grammar, structure), and I've even taught American English teachers both grammar and how to teach it to international students. Not once did I think any of them was stupid.

Language learning and teaching needs practice. Period. Just because someone doesn't communicate well in a language doesn't mean they are any less intelligent than anyone else. Often, it is people who speak only one language and who have never attempted to learn a second one who make such assumptions.

The Paraplegic Man...

Over two decades ago, I regularly checked the free magazine delivered to me weekly, to see if anyone needed help learning English. One “help-needed” ad got my attention week after week. It had nothing to do with English learning, but its recurrence intrigued me. It was a paraplegic man needing help in the evenings. I called and told him I had no experience whatsoever, but the recurring ad meant he couldn't find anyone, and I was willing to help him out the best I could. I gave him my name and phone number, and he thanked me.

About ten days later, he called and said he could use my help. That evening I drove 18 miles to get to his place. He lived with his parents, but they were too old to do some of the tasks such as helping him transfer from his wheelchair to his bed. I didn't know anything about any of the equipment, but he gave me clear step-by-step instructions, and I managed to help him. 

That first time took longer, but I eventually learned and went there weekly on those two nights his regular nurse couldn't go. The pay was ridiculously low – probably also the reason he couldn't find a helper. It barely paid for the gas I had to put in the car to drive there, but I considered the experience rewarding because I felt I helped someone in need and I learned how to work with a dozen new machines I'd never seen in my life before meeting this man. I continued to go there for nearly a year... until he finally found full-time help.

The point is that he was in a wheelchair and his speaking was slurred, but he communicated what needed to be done perfectly. It would have been easy to assume he wouldn't be able to communicate clearly, but that wasn't the case.

Back to Philip Anderson...

He may be in a wheelchair and he may be weak in some respects, but he writes some of the most wonderful posts I've ever read, and I for one am always looking forward to his articles – always beautifully written and clearly expressed. I also look forward to reading his memoir. Assuming a person can't communicate because they have some weakness is ridiculously wrong.

So... when it comes to communication, like in many other things in life, don't judge a book by its cover. 

Kia

October 10 marks the anniversary of Kia's death.

I met Kia over twenty years ago, when she was about two years old. She was a chihuahua, more specifically a terrier chihuahua, and weighed about ten pounds.

A friend had gotten her at an auction. He brought her to work with him because otherwise his live-in girlfriend, apparently not a dog lover, would lock her up in the bathroom all day.

Kia was shy at first but became playful after a few weeks. I would stop by my friend’s office after work just to play with her, and she seemed to look forward to my visits.

Kia was fast and smart, and she had the most beautiful eyes. She was very friendly with everyone she met when she was young and, as she grew older and got to know people better, she was more cautious in choosing friends. Kia’s character earned the love and respect of everyone around her.

Kia seldom acted like a dog. She was more like a two-year-old child: She was interested in snacks and play but hated to be left alone. She ignored silly things and gave us “the look” when our jokes weren’t funny; then, she would turn her back to us and yawn, showing her boredom… and maybe her disappointment. She was quite the character.

I gave Kia several nicknames: “Princess” when she was fussy about her food, “Jordy” when she jumped high, “Baby” when she acted like one, “Little Dragon” when she hyperventilated, and “Lion” every summer when her body got shaved and she sunbathed, looking naked with a head full of long hair. She answered to all these names.

A few years later, when I found out Kia was spending a lot of time alone on weekends, I suggested keeping her with me during the weekend. I would pick her up on Friday afternoon and drop her off Sunday night at her house or Monday morning at work. And just like that, Kia became my part-time companion. She wasn’t left alone anymore, and I enjoyed my weekends with her.

We both ate home-cooked meals, walked a few times a day, lay down on the couch to read and nap, watched movies, and did housework… Well, I did the housework while Kia watched me and inspected my work. If I went out, no matter where I went, I would take her with me.

Eventually, Kia became my full-time companion. I enjoyed every moment we spent together and felt guilty every morning I had to leave her home to go to work. I soon found out she didn’t mind staying alone when I left her, though. Maybe it was because before I went out the door I talked to her for a minute or two... and kissed her goodbye. Also, in the evening, I made up for leaving her alone. We played, wrestled, and went for a long walk before going to bed.

In 2009, when Kia was about twelve years old, one day I was busy with a project, so I took Kia to her dad's place to have some time to myself, take my laptop to a coffee shop, and work without worrying about her. We agreed Kia would spend the night with him and he would bring her back to me the next day, Saturday, around noon.

When I got in my car to leave, Kia wanted to get in the car and come with me. I ordered her to sit and stay, so she did, but when I started driving, she chased my car. I watched her in the rear-view mirror and drove faster so she would stop following me. She looked sad, and I hated leaving her like that, but I thought she’d be safe with her dad. Besides, it was only for one night.

The next day, at around one o’clock in the afternoon, I answered the doorbell and Kia’s dad walked in. I kept the door open and looked down behind him, “Where is she?” He didn’t answer. I looked out again and got nervous. “Where’s Kia?” I asked loudly. He finally whispered, “She’s gone.”

He explained he had fallen asleep on the couch and forgotten to walk her the previous night, so when he had woken up a little after one o’clock in the morning, he’d been sleepy and just opened the door for her and let her out alone to do her business while he had gone to brush his teeth in the bathroom. He’d heard a screech and rushed outside to see a coyote take Kia away.

My little Kia, the little girl whose presence had brought so much joy to my heart and to my life, had been killed, and it had been my own fault. My heart was broken. I shouldn’t have left her. 

Losing Kia taught me one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned in life. It taught me to think about what or who matters more to me and to prioritize my time accordingly. It was a valuable and extremely painful lesson.

That project I was looking forward to working on while Kia stayed with her previous owner was really to help an employer who didn’t even appreciate my efforts or the work I had done. That employer was a horrible person. She and her entire business weren’t worth losing even a day with Kia, and I had left my precious dog behind to complete a project for them.

All my days following that incident would start the same way for months. I’d open my eyes in the morning hoping it had all been a bad dream, then I’d look down at her empty bed next to mine... My tears would roll down my cheeks, and the terrifying thoughts would come back: Had she suffered? Did she know how much I loved her? Did she think I had abandoned her?

I still see Kia everywhere… in the street, in stories, in my dreams. Her picture is on my wall, and I talk to her all the time. Sometimes I tell her how much I miss her, and sometimes I ask her to forgive me for leaving her like that when she showed me she wanted to come with me.

Twelve years later, I still think about that day, about how I left her there, about how sad her eyes looked when I told her to stay, about how she chased my car. I don’t know what she was thinking when she realized she was in trouble, and I don’t know if she suffered a long time.

I drive myself mad with these thoughts until my tears come to my rescue and help me calm down. Then my thoughts turn to I hope it was quick and she didn’t suffer and I’m grateful for the time I had with her. Then I think about the lesson this loss taught me and say I’m grateful for the lesson I learned.

I’m grateful and honored for having known Kia for approximately ten years, during which I grew more and more fond of her. I’m grateful for everything her presence taught me. I’m grateful for everything her absence taught me. I’m grateful. Rest in peace, my little girl.

Book Review

A Click That Changed My Life, a memoir by Victoria Vorel, is a story of hope. The author's journey begins when she meets a man online. A simple friendship takes an unexpected turn as the Queen of the Forest finds herself in unfamiliar surroundings after she follows her “internet lover” to his world. The sincerity of this openminded woman and her true feelings are reflected in the authentic language she uses to describe her adventures. I recommend this book and thank Victoria Vorel for sharing her story of love, courage, and respect.

Languages & Life Lessons

I started writing when I learned to write, but I started writing every day in 2016.

It was meant to be therapeutic. I wrote what I couldn't say.

Over 5,000 pages later, in 2019, after I got settled in my cabin in the woods, I started organizing my notes to turn my writing into a book.

This process alone took over a year, and by the end of 2020, I finally had about 200 pages.

The editing didn't seem to get anywhere for a while...

One day, working on the manuscript, I realized this was going to be three books, not one.

When I divided my work into three sections, I began to make progress with the editing.

Languages & Life Lessons (by Afarin Rava, my pen name) is one of those three books -- the first to be published.

My pen name is the last part of my first name and the first part of my last name:

noosh(afarin rava)ghi

Languages & Life Lessons -- Kindle

https://www.amazon.com/Languages-Life-Lessons-Afarin-Rava-ebook/dp/B09GMYGGQ1/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=afarin+rava+languages+and+life+lessons&qid=1632829059&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

Languages & Life Lessons -- Paperback

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09HG6KHB3/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Book Review

Productive Accidents: a playbook for personal and professional adventure, by Peter B. Williams, is a fascinating memoir recounting a decade of the author's life including all his adventures – the product of what he calls “a mid-life crisis that just won't quit.”

The author manages to turn each of his connections and encounters into a collaboration that leads to a positive outcome. “When you view your life as an adventure, you expect a rollercoaster ride of experiences – sudden ups, downs, acceleration, speed, twists, turns, and the eventual sudden jolt at the end. The main thing is to maintain your balance and perspective – stay on track and keep moving, breathing, and creating.”

This well-written book generates ideas and motivates the reader. The author's enthusiasm is contagious and will make the reader want to step out of their comfort zone to create.

Book Review

In Meandering Muses, Gail Boenning beautifully illustrates, with the help of her three fascinating muses, that our minds are messy places where thoughts constantly compete with and interrupt each other, evaluating various perspectives.

I love the muses' contrasting personalities, their authentic conversations, and the foreword, by Stuart James – which tells us how Calliope, Thalia, and Urania have landed in Gail's head.

Enjoy the lessons these fabulous muses offer, and try not to let them stay in your head too long – or you'll find yourself arguing out loud with no one around.

Book Review

The Package, by Bryan Quinn, a well-written international thriller, takes the reader back and forth in time and space to deliver all the elements of the story. The suspense kept me reading, and even though I don't like – and generally avoid – books that include talks about religion, I must say the thought-provoking discussions – both religious and political in nature – between sets of protagonists were fascinating and reflected a great deal of research.

I liked the story with all its twists and turns, the author's word choice, and the main character, Marco Arrigoni.

I give it five stars and recommend it to open-minded readers who enjoy thrillers, religious debates, and historical fiction.

Book Review

The Awful Truth about the Herbert Quarry Affair, by Marco Ocram, also known as Denis Shaughnessy, also known as Comical Genius, is another fantastic, absurd, and hilarious book by this author, brought to the reader with actual lessons on writing.

Ocram, who is the author of the book as well as the writer in the story, once again writes the events as they happen in his life and fights crime alongside Como Galahad, but this time things are a bit more personal. Will Marco be able to help his friend and mentor against whom there is evidence of a gruesome crime?

I absolutely loved this book.

The clever play with words and idioms, Marco's conversations with his mentor, and the interactions between Ocram and Galahad are all priceless.

I look forward to the next book by this author.

Book Review

David Perlmutter's books, Write to Kill and Write to Survive, two thrillers, part of a trilogy, are real page turners. I couldn't put them down and just read all night to finish one and then the other. It was like watching an action-packed movie. 

I can't wait to read the third book, Write to Live, coming out in October. I think this trilogy would make a great movie, or even series. 

I give both five stars because they kept me up... and left me waiting in suspense for the third, which I just pre-ordered.

Book Review

Holly Dobbie's novel Fifteen Point Nine, the story of a teenager and her struggles both at home and at school, addresses serious current issues many teenagers face, including neglect, bullying, and suicide.

The author has done a fantastic job with the writing, character development, and storytelling. Her remarkable insight and brilliant humor make this book a great read. I couldn't put it down. It may be classified as a young adult novel, but I recommend it to anyone between 13 and 113.

Teenagers, Parents, Teachers, Principals, & Humans: This book is for you!
Thank you, Holly Dobbie, for writing this: You are beautiful!

Official Book Awesomeness Scale – 10/10
Official Author Awesomeness Scale – off the charts

Fifty Point Ten

Anthology

Update:

The #book ...said the editor: anthology 2021 has been published and is now available on Amazon. 

Ava is now accepting submissions for ...said the editor: anthology 2022.

If you would like to contribute to this anthology, please feel free to send your piece directly to Ava: avasafran@gmail.com

The rules are the same:

All writers and editors are invited to participate and share their knowledge, perspective, and experience.

If you would like to participate, please know that...

- the deadline for all submissions is September 30, 2022.

- you can use a pen name if you wish;

- your contribution must be between 200 words and 1,000* words;

- you can include a short bio – up to 75* words.

- you can submit more than one piece;

- it's free, so you don't have to pay;

- you won't be paid, whether or not your submission is published;

- you will be notified whether or not your submission is selected;

- your submission must be original and unpublished;

- you will be asked to give your written permission for your contribution to be published;

- your discretion and etiquette are required;

- all submissions must be copied and pasted** directly into the email;

- all submissions must be sent to avasafran@gmail.com with ANTHOLOGY as the subject.

*Submissions below or over the word limits will not be considered.

**Attachments will not be considered.

Thank you!

Post from August 3, 2021:

Ava Safran has been writing about her adventures in editing. Instead of publishing her book, she has decided to create an anthology. The theme is, of course, editing. Her goal is to provide a safe place for editors to freely open up about their challenges. She hopes to create a collection of writings – funny stories, misunderstandings, failures, lessons, articles, letters, and tips – for other editors and for writers.

All writers and editors are invited to participate and share their knowledge, perspective, and experience.

If you would like to participate, please know that...

- the deadline for submission is October 5, 2021;

- you can use a pen name if you wish;

- your contribution must be between 200 words and 1,000* words;

- you can include a short bio – up to 75* words.

- you can submit more than one piece;

- it's free, so you don't have to pay;

- you won't be paid, whether or not your submission is published;

- you will be notified whether or not your submission is selected by October 20, 2021;

- your submission must be original and unpublished;

- you will be asked to give your written permission for your contribution to be published;

- your discretion and etiquette are required;

- all submissions must be copied and pasted** directly into the email;

- all submissions must be sent to avasafran@gmail.com with ANTHOLOGY as the subject.

*Submissions below or over the word limits will not be considered.
**Attachments will not be considered.

Ugh!

I'm still in my cave, editing. I only went on Twitter to do my daily one-writer lift when I saw a tweet addressed to me, asking me to follow them back, which, by the way, I already was... This person felt the need to talk about their religion and how they had converted from Islam to Christianity as an introduction.

I found this tweet disturbing on so many levels.

Let's forget for a second how stupid it sounds for someone to say they used to be Muslim but are now Christian. It's simply ignorant because true Muslims already accept, respect, and follow Jesus Christ; they don't need to convert to Christianity. (Yes. I'm aware many people don't know this because they don't bother to educate themselves, and their ignorance is used by clever assholes in the world who benefit in some way from this ignorance.) This statement makes sense only to other ignorant people – and why would anyone want such followers (unless they are one of said clever assholes)?

That fact set aside, please know your audience. If you're addressing me personally, you should know the first thing about me: I don't care if you're a man or a woman or undecided, if you're young or old, if you're pretty or ugly on the outside, if you're poor or rich, if you're Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Buddhist, (...), or an atheist. I've traveled enough and known enough people in my life to know that people are either decent or dishonest, either educated – and I don't mean holding a degree – or ignorant, either kind or inconsiderate, regardless of their race, color, religion, social status, gender, and age.

On Twitter, I follow everyone who has the word writer or author in their profile. It doesn't mean I agree with their views on life. It simply means this is a writing community, and I don't care what people's favorite sex position, religion, color, race, or car model is. I follow writers because I hope they have a story to share in their written work, one that I might benefit from in the form of knowledge or entertainment. I follow everyone until they prove they are dishonest, ignorant, or inconsiderate. Then I block them – just to make sure I don't follow them again by mistake.

I hope all writers learn to know, love, and respect themselves. Only then can they understand, love, and respect others enough to communicate a message to them through their written work.

Rose Water

Yesterday I read “Remembering and Being Remembered,” an article written by Philip Anderson (https://www.independentliving.co.uk/philip-anderson/remembering-and-being-remembered/) and, as is the case every time I read any of Philip's articles, so many thoughts ran through my mind.

In Remembrance of Things Past, Marcel Proust asks:
“Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy?”

For Proust, it was the taste and smell of the morsels of a madeleine – a tiny shell-shaped sponge cake.

For many, it's petrichor or the aroma of apple pie or the smell of black licorice that triggers memories.

For me?

Various scents take me back, each to a different place and time in my life.

I have no recollection of ever drinking root beer as a child, and yet every time I smell it, I'm a five-year-old living in Virginia.

The smell of chlorine takes me to nine-year-old Noosha in the swimming pool in Tunis and brings with it Tuesdays, sliced lemons, and sunsets.

A whiff of cardamom takes me to my adolescence in Tehran, where my father crushed the light-green papery shell of a single pod with his fingers above the tea pot and let the little black seeds fall in.

And the fragrance of rose water takes me back to my grandmother – and so many memories come flooding back from different times in my life – and all I feel is love and joy. 
https://gratigi.blogspot.com/2021/06/heshmat-ravaghi.html

Gratitude Journey

Today, Chris Palmore announced the release of the first volume of his journal, Gratitude Journey. This  journal was created as a workbook to help patients in hospitals with their struggles.

The journal is the result of several productive accidents -- one person's generosity and another person's vision -- which Chris describes in the introduction. One thing led to another, and here we are with a book which therapists will use to help people begin their "personal journey of reflection, hope, and healing, where gratitude is the destination."

I love how this book will be used and I am honored to have been a part of this project. 

Paperback:
https://amazon.com/dp/1736130226

Kindle: 
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0977D6YN1

The Noosha Winfrey Show

I wonder if there's an "Oprah Ravaghi" show somewhere out there...

Marco Ocram is one of my favorite writers.

I read his first published book, The Awful Truth about the Sushing Prize, in 2019 and immediately loved his style of writing and his sense of humor. I wrote a review for the book (https://nooshasblog.blogspot.com/2020/02/the-awful-truth-about-thesushing-prize.html) and reached out to the author, whose real name is Denis Shaughnessy, on Twitter, to congratulate him for being brilliant. 

Having instantly become an ocramist, I naturally bought and read his second book, The Awful Truth about the Name of the Rose, another masterpiece. Shortly after reading this book, I listened to Denis Shaughnessy being interviewed. He was as funny in his interview as he is in his books. I contacted the author again and told him how much I enjoyed reading his books.

Denis Shaughnessy / Marco Ocram shared he was working on his third book, and, months later, I had the privilege to read an advance copy of The Awful Truth about the Herbert Quarry Affair, which is officially being published next week, specifically on June 15. In it, the author refers to a "Noosha Winfrey" show... and I am simply honored. 

In a recent interview with Sarah Meckler at GSMC - Book Review Podcast, he explains this reference:

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/gsmc-book-review-podcast-episode-290-interview-denis/id1123769087?i=1000524215930

A Few Productive Accidents

One day in March 2009, I was sitting at my desk at Soka University in Aliso Viejo, California, when I got a message from a friend asking me if I had a Twitter account. I didn't. In fact, I didn't even know what Twitter was back then. I had a few minutes until my next student was supposed to show up, so I went online and created an account, hoping to learn more about Twitter when I had time.

An entire decade passed...

In March 2019, I was living in the woods in Arkansas when I got an email message from Twitter congratulating me on my tenth anniversary.  

I went on Twitter and joined the Writing Community because I was writing a memoir and I thought it would be nice to connect with other writers. It took me a while to figure out how to use this platform... 

Here I am over two years later, and I've learned so much from other writers. I've worked with authors  — proofreading, copy editing, and editing several works — and I've met some wonderful people I call friends.

I'd done a lot of editing over the last three decades of my life, but I'd only worked with people I personally knew. Working with authors I'd never met in person has been quite educational. I learned a lot from this experience and realized I needed to be more selective. 

In the last eight months, I've had nothing but beautiful experiences with various authors, and it's been wonderful. 

On Sunday, May 23rd, I was asked to join a virtual book tour. I didn't join — because I didn't see the invitation in time — but was pleasantly surprised to see three out of the four authors talking about their books were people I had worked with. 

I'd like to share this video with everyone and tell the whole world about these authors and their books. I'd also like to thank each of these remarkable people for their kind mentions of me in their talks. Working with each one of them has been an honor and a privilege.

Thank you, Chris Palmore!
I enjoyed working with you and helping you create your anthologies.
Also, if it weren't for you, I would have never met Gail or Peter.

Thank you, Gail Boenning!
I love you and your book... and I look forward to your future books.

Thank you, Peter B. Williams!
You are awesome... and working with you is truly a productive accident.

Video:
https://youtu.be/sSD3QIAgfP0

Book Review

Chris Palmore has done it again: another anthology! Dear 2020 is a collection of letters to the year that changed so many people's lives, written by individuals from all over the world, each with a unique perspective on life. It teaches us about growth, transformation, strength, and the spectrum of human emotions in a year that brought us loss and showed us what really matters. Dear 2020 is a collection of life lessons for those of us who made it to “the other side of lockdown.” 

World Book Day

It's World Book Day, and I'd like to take this opportunity to recommend a few good nonfiction books I've read:

The End of Fear Itself - Steve Bivans

The Life and Times of Clyde Kennard - Derek R. King

Nontraditional - Nan Kuhlman

When I Was Lost - Glenna Gill

The Little Book of Awesomeness - Martin Grosvenor

Happy World Book Day!

Happy Reading!

Book Review

Please Wipe Your Boots, a memoir by Stanley George, recounts his humorous adventures as an apprentice telephone engineer trained by the GPO in England. This book was a fun read, and I found myself laughing out loud at some of the pranks they pulled.

Book Review

Weird Stort Shories by Sean Newberg is a collection of eight strange tales of karma. I enjoyed reading each of these thought-provoking stories, which gave me, the justice-seeking reader, the satisfaction I awaited.

Book Review

Wandering Words: A Walk from A to Z, by Gail Boenning, is a collection of thought-provoking observations made by a beautiful soul. From its dedication all the way through to its epilogue, this little gem is peace in the shape of a book.

Book Review

The Secret Language of Women by Nina Romano, a historical fiction set in China in the late 1800s, is the story of a Eurasian healer, Lian, and an Italian sailor, Giacomo, who fall in love after a brief encounter at the Summer Palace, where Lian has accompanied her father, a doctor, to tend the Italian ambassador.

These lovers get separated due to circumstances and try to find their way back to each other despite the many obstacles they face, a journey Lian chronicles in Nushu, a secret language women use, which she has learned from her Chinese mother.

In this fascinating tale of love and loss and search for freedom, the author's descriptions beautifully depict the setting as well as the characters and everything they go through. I enjoyed reading The Secret Language of Women, which is the first installment of the Wayfarer Trilogy, and look forward to reading the next one.

Catching Up

To my friends in the Writing Community...

Finally, the weather seems to be gradually changing for the better, at least where I live.

I haven't done much writing the last few days, but I have been reading... a lot. I stayed under the covers as much as I could -- just so I wouldn't freeze to death -- and read as many books as time allowed, the way I usually do, simultaneously. These were books by Kristin Hannah, Madeleine L'Engle, Fredrik Backman, Philippa Perry, and Nina Romano.

My dogs were in bed with me. They suffered much more than I did. They'd never experienced such weather -- even I had never been this cold in my life. After ten years of being good dogs and not peeing in the house, they are still confused that I now beg them to go on the pads I laid out for them inside, and they only go when they can't hold it in anymore. Each time, the two boys seem apologetic, but not the girl, who insists on standing out as the bitch she is.

We survived this one, and things will go back to normal, whatever "normal" means, soon.

So... I have book reviews to write. Until then, let me say these authors are all worth checking out if you haven't done so already.

All the best,

N

My First Night

I thought it would be a good idea to go camping in the new cabin for the weekend. It would allow me to get some work done and the dogs would gradually get used to the idea of living there.

There is no plumbing in the cabin yet, and there are only a few electrical outlets available. Of course I brought the heater with me as well as both my sleeping bag and the dogs'. Since the floor is concrete and the weather outside very cold, I put a large piece of plywood on the floor where we were going to sleep. The dogs got comfortable in their sleeping bag and I took my jacket off and lay down to read in mine.

Even though I was wearing my warm pajamas, I felt so cold all my muscles felt tense and I couldn't focus on my book. I got up and put my jacket back on and went to “bed” again. I was still cold. I started to wonder why I was cold in my sleeping bag. I thought, maybe this bag isn't as effective as my old one. 

My old sleeping bag was very warm and comfortable, and I had given it to my furry friend Kia who came over to stay with me from time to time. Kia loved sleeping in it. I would place it in the corner of the room, right by my bed, and we used to face each other and stare until we fell asleep. 

In the morning, as soon as she woke up, she would stretch and then jump on my bed. I would say “What just happened?” and she would jump right back down and stretch some more looking at me with her beautiful eyes and jump up again. I would speak the same words again and she would go back down. We would dance around the boundaries of her coming on my bed a few times before I'd get up. I miss that little girl.

Kia's been gone for ten years now, and I think about her all the time. Her death broke my heart. I had nightmares for months and the first thing I did every morning was look at that red and gray sleeping bag in the corner of my bedroom, hoping to see her beautiful eyes staring at me, hoping her death had just been a bad dream. After torturing myself for months, I washed that sleeping bag and donated it to a dog shelter. That was around the time I started tutoring Liza and noticed her Chihuahua was pregnant. A month later, I was driving home with two little Terrier Chihuahuas, one boy and one girl.

The sound of a plane flying over my head brought me back to the freezing cabin, and I realized I needed to go to the bathroom even though I hadn't had any beverage in the last four hours. As I was contemplating my options – cheat by using the bathroom in my old cabin or pee in the woods – I remembered the time I used to visit my grandparents when I was a kid.

They had four bathrooms in their huge L-shaped house, two at each end of the L, and I was afraid to go by myself, especially at night. When I needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I would sit there and stare at my grandmother, sound asleep, hoping something or someone other than me would wake her so that she would go with me. I didn't have the heart to wake her up. Somehow, she would always open her kind eyes and immediately get up, scolding me for holding it and suffering instead of waking her up.

I smiled at the memory of my time with my grandparents. They loved me so much, and I always felt so spoiled when I was with them. My grandmother always prepared all my favorite dishes when I went to visit. I also felt safe to be myself and do what I liked when I was there. It was the only time I wasn't afraid of doing something that would trigger my dad's anger. He had a temper and would yell at me, but he didn't dare say anything to me in front of them, especially in front of my grandfather. 

The day my grandfather died, nineteen years ago, I lost my rock. He and I had a special connection. We didn't exchange many words. It was as if we read each other's minds. I miss him and my grandmother, who passed nine years later.

Bathroom, my bladder reminded me. It's freezing outside, but no cheating. The woods it is. There's a first time for everything. My first night at my new cabin is the first time I peed in the woods. Maybe this is the beginning of a different way of living in the woods? Maybe not.

Book Review

Nontraditional, written by Nan Kuhlman, is a collection of encounters she has with her students – her own children whom she homeschools and the ones attending college when she is an adjunct professor teaching composition – interspersed with stories of the author's own life.

Mrs. Kuhlman takes an interest in her students' complicated lives and learns how manageable her own problems are in comparison. Her constant attention to the challenges her individual students face that prevent them from succeeding at school and her willingness to assist in any way she can are a testament to her character. She is not only caring but also honest, acknowledging her own mistakes in judgement and in handling some situations, particularly at the beginning of her teaching career.

As an adjunct who has had the privilege of teaching students of various backgrounds, I know how valuable such an instructor is for students and how effective that connection can be in the students' performance. I found the stories relatable and enjoyed reading this book a great deal. Anyone in the teaching profession and anyone involved with students in any way can benefit from reading this well-written and engaging nonfiction.

Book Review

The Life and Times of Clyde Kennard, a nonfiction book by Derek R. King, is an incredibly well researched account of one man's formidable story and the obstacles he faces when he decides to go to college in Mississippi, or rather “in the deeply segregated education system in Mississippi.”

The author's remarkable endeavor in delivering historical background information brings forth the setting, beautifully illustrating the time of racial segregation. This well-written book recounts the true story of Clyde Kennard, a hero of the civil rights movement, the atrocities he endures, his patience, and his resilience.

I believe this educational book should be read by every citizen of the United States, for many of the issues discussed are sadly still very relevant, particularly in some parts of the country. Following the tragic events of May 25, 2020, and the uprising they resulted in, more and more people are becoming aware of all the racial prejudices they have unknowingly learned and carried around. Unlearning them requires effort and cannot be achieved without knowing and understanding the history of the United States, specifically what people have been through for the rest of us to have the freedom we take for granted.

I also highly recommend that reading The Life and Times of Clyde Kennard become required in all United States schools. This fascinating book gives an insight into where the country has been, what struggles and challenges its citizens have faced, what sacrifices have been made to fight for civil rights in the face of ignorance, how far the country has come, and the dangers of prejudice.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Derek R. King for dedicating a decade of his life to the research and writing of this extraordinary book. I've learned so much from reading it, and for that I'm so very grateful.

https://www.amazon.com/Life-Times-Clyde-Kennard/dp/1483491366

Nina

Nina challenged me to write a word for 2021 that starts with the first letter of my name.

I was the N in her NOSTALGIA.

Nina, this is for you.

New is the year 2021.

Nondescript?

Nameless?

Newness and novelty come to mind.

Novel.

Nonpareil.

Negative notions could take over.

Necrology, nuisance, …

Notwithstanding

Nincompoops, ninnies, nitwits,

Nonchalant numbskulls neglecting safety...

Nonplus!

Naught.

Niggling over noxious thoughts?

Never.

Nugatory nonsense!

Nobody knows what the future will bring.

Nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing to do.

Nevertheless.

Nourishing and nurturing...

   body?

Nutritious nuts.

   soul?

Noticing nature.

   mind?

Narration and non de plume.

Her

I'm not sure how I feel about her death. I must say I was close... but I wasn't quite done forgiving her for what she put me through, all because she was trying to save her ass and stay out of prison, which she did... or did she?

Is she really dead? Or did she fake her death and escape? If she is dead, was it really cancer that took her life? I know that's the official version, but I've learned not to trust everything the media presents as truth.

What I know for sure is I didn't want her to die. In fact, I wanted her to live a long life... to allow time to give her back everything she did to others, everything she did to me. I wanted her to publicly be held accountable for her crimes, to go to prison, to get a taste of the suffering she put others through.

I'm not referring to the slander or even the four attempts on my life – four that I know of – each of which, in legal terms, is attempted murder. I'm talking about the reason behind her publicly discrediting me, about what I witnessed.

That was never made public, obviously. When a criminal abuses her power, connections, money, and uniform, the corruption is kept quiet because the truth would compromise not only that one criminal, but also all the connections. I was the scapegoat, the distraction.

A plausible story that the ignorant public, the public exposed to years of brainwashing and devoid of the practice of using their brain, would easily accept was delivered... a story that would justify terminating my employment, a story based on evidence planted only to cover up the truth, a story that would make my testimony sound retaliatory, like that of a disgruntled former employee.

The law, a courtroom, a decent judge, and a jury should have decided what her sentence would be for the long list of charges against her – from fraud and embezzlement and destroying evidence to verbal, physical, and sexual assault to intimidation, torture, attempted murder, and murder. I pictured her standing trial, wearing orange instead of green, knowing none of her power, connections, and money would come to her rescue, feeling as powerless as her victims, her many many victims, who now will never get justice.

She left without making amends, and her departure makes me think of the lyrics to The Noose by A Perfect Circle:

But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about making your amends 
To the dead
To the dead

She never faced the consequences of her actions. Living a long life paying for her crimes and thinking about her deeds is what I wanted for her. Assuming she is dead, if cancer is the real reason for her death, and that's a big if, it's not enough.

Was it really cancer, or did she take the easy way out, like the coward that she was. Cancer is a bad way to go, but innocent people get cancer and suffer.

She was far from innocent, but I never wanted death for her. If I'd wished for her death, I would have wanted something more appropriate for her, something more special, like being skinned alive or death by a thousand cuts or being burned alive... a death worthy of the kind of person she was and the kind of things she did – only after she had confessed. However, I never wished for her death. I didn't even care what kind of prison sentence the judge would give her.

For me, the truth coming out would have been enough. I only wanted her to acknowledge what she'd done. That would have meant justice for me. I don't know if it would have been enough for her other victims, though.

Someone once asked me why I didn't sue her. I thought about doing just that at first, but as time went by and I saw how easily she raised her hand and swore to tell the truth then lied in court, I realized I would never win a case against her. It was a mental struggle for me for months, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized suing her, or her department, wouldn't reveal the truth. She'd been sued before, and she had always settled out of court. For me, it was never about financial retribution. I just wanted the truth to come out, and it wouldn't, not the way she manipulated things.

She'd been forced to resign once for killing a young man, and she'd managed to weasel her way back in the system, only to commit more crimes, many more. No... There was never any hope for the truth to come out, not through her.

That left me feeling powerless and angry. It was more than anger. It was rage... for months... maybe a year... maybe longer. That rage was only intensified by the attempts on my life. Writing saved me. It was therapeutic at a time when I couldn't talk to anyone about what had really happened. My daily writing routine allowed me to vent. I wrote all the things I couldn't say.

Announcing her death, the media praised her bravery and integrity. She had neither. If she had been brave or if she'd had integrity, she would have never done any of those things. If she had made a mistake, she would have acknowledged all of it, and righted the wrong. No.

There was no bravery or integrity whatsoever in her. She tried to kill me to keep herself out of prison because she believed I had a video recording of what I had witnessed. That's not integrity or bravery.

My rage gradually turned into a desire for survival. My focus turned to getting my peace back and putting these despicable criminals behind me. So I did. I got my life back. Despite her multiple attempts to have me killed, somehow the universe protected me.

Look who's dead now. I guess I should take the gift the universe has given me at the beginning of this new year, be grateful for it, and say “Goodbye, Shit Head”...

I can't, however. I hated what that corrupt clown did to me, but I have to admit her criminal actions were the catalyst that got me from the life I had, and enjoyed, to the life I'd always dreamed of having.

My life in the US hasn't been easy, but I've managed by myself, and I've felt proud of my efforts and independence. I've spent all my adult life in this country working toward realizing my dreams. I've worked hard for three decades. I've always obeyed the law. I've always been a no-nonsense person, and that, of course, has never sat well with people who think everyone can be manipulated or bought. Despite all the hardship, I've always enjoyed my own struggles and achievements. I've celebrated accomplishing smaller tasks, done my best to reach my bigger goals, and worked hard to have a simple, quiet, and peaceful life.

I gave up a lot for this life. Had I stayed in Iran, I would have continued to live in a mansion, taught at the most prestigious university in the country, and retired after thirty years of work, which in my case would have been at the age of forty-six. Also, I would have stayed close to my entire family and enjoyed their love and support. Therefore, making the decision to move wasn't easy.

I decided to leave Iran, however, because there were many aspects of that culture I didn't like. I'd spent most of my childhood in Europe and the clash I felt was too much for me. Most of all, I despised the corruption in the country. That was my ultimate reason for my immigration.

I moved to the US in the hope of making a better life: a modest life with less corruption and more peace. It may not be much by most people's standards, but for me it was everything. Besides, I never wanted a big house. In fact, I'd always loved tiny homes. Also, I made my peace with having to work twenty more years than I would in Iran. I was a workaholic anyway. As for the corruption...

For the longest time, I stupidly believed there was no corruption here, at least not any that would affect my life. Corruption, I thought, happened among politicians, and I had no connection to that life. I was just a girl teaching, tutoring, editing, and learning. I was minding my own business... until I accidentally witnessed something I shouldn't have.

Then my world came crumbling down. Not because I did anything, but because she saw me as a loose end. I was a witness; therefore, I was dangerous. Overnight, I lost everything: I was attacked in my home, my possessions were broken or stolen, evidence was planted, my integrity was questioned, and I was wrongly accused.

Accused, threatened, homeless, hunted, I survived it all. For all that, I am so proud of myself and so amazed at how strong I have been. I didn't even realize all this until I started reading all the things I had written down since that time. Reviewing those writings, I saw how my rage changed to gratitude.

I wrote this piece, an acrostic about her, in May 2016:

(“An acrostic is a poem in which the first letter of each line spells out a word, message or the alphabet.” Wikipedia)

Cooked up a fine story
Only to save her tail,
Called me a criminal
Knowing she would prevail
Supported by her drove.
Used all of her power,
Corrupt and deceitful,
Knavish, cunning, and sly,
Eluding justice. Then
Rejoicing in her lie.

I wrote this piece, a letter addressed to her, in September 2020:

You attacked me with all your might.

I took your attack;

I used it to make myself the life I always wanted.

You threw stones at me, hoping to kill me;

I picked them up one by one;

I built myself the house I always wanted.

The truth is...

Without your viciousness,

I wouldn't have the beautiful life I have today.

The universe put your ugliness in my way to make me change tracks.

All bad things are blessings in disguise.

I am grateful for you.

I see my transformation, and it's hard for me to believe all of this happened in less than five years. I'm grateful for my guardian angels, my dogs, and my true friends. I'm grateful for all the ugliness in my life, too. I can't have any regrets because without every single one of those lessons, including her, I wouldn't be the me I am today. I am grateful for where I am now, in this moment in time and space. I'm alive today, living my dream life.