The Fool's Journey, Part 2 - On the Road # 28

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

Since Sun and I got a late start from Eugene, we didn’t get far.

Sun suggested we stay the night in Ashland because we’d have a place to crash there - a friend who she had met at EarthDance in September working in his kitchen 

She didn’t tell me her “friend” was the Knight of Cups. I also thought she had a girlfriend, but hey! Sexuality is fluid. 

Since Sun had made 0 book sales on my behalf, I was agreeable to a free place to stay. I also learned yet another lesson in getting what you pay for, but more on that later.

Again, I don’t regret giving Sun a ride because she had great stories, it was another chapter in this grand adventure, and awesome things would come of it. Just not in the way I thought they would.

Before we went to the Knight of Cups, she also turned me on the luscious Jackson Well Springs, a lovely place to soak and sauna naked at night. I wouldn’t have found this wonderful place without Sun.

She ran into another friend from her time in Taos, and ran off to have tea with him.

Finally we made it to our crashpad and the Knight of Cups.

His name was Matava. I’m pretty sure he named himself. He was originally from New York. But once he had awakened to a higher vibration, Matava donned loose, flowing garments to indicate his enlightenment, and made his living with exotic cuisine and Ayurvedic smart drinks.

I think he was a caterer with a New Age edge. 

I had to admit his tea was excellent. But I doubt it made me more intelligent. As far as his healthful cleanse cookies were concerned, they tasted funny - probably because they didn’t have any sugar 

Sun and Matava got reacquainted with a lively discussion over the wisdom of human design and Chinese astrology. Matava consistently referred to the Chinese and Western astrological significance of his absent housemate. I don’t remember her name, but she was at least 10 years older than he and owned the house.

“She’s a Fire Horse AND a Scorpio,” he said. “She’s very Scorpio.”

I suspected that meant he’s her lover who pays no rent, and the Fire Horse Scorpio gets pissed off with her errant Knight of Cups on the regular. 

And then Sun started disrobing.

Like a lot of Pacific Northwest hippies, Sun dressed in layers of heavy sweaters. As she and Matava animated over all things New Age, Sun took off one heavy sweater after another, along with her leggings and woolen socks until she was down to a t-shirt and loose, flowing skirt and bare feet. She also contorted her body in visually appealing stretches that thrust her ample breasts into the limelight.

When Matava slid down to the ground in a bent-knee crouch, Sun followed suit, with her long skirts making a pretense of modesty. Once they overlapped their big toes and gave each other that look, I knew exactly where this night was going.

But I was exhausted and it was time to crash at the crashpad.

Matava had made up a massage table in the living room for me to sleep on and I was out within minutes.

Unfortunately, exhaustion didn’t render me deaf. The High Priestess, Sun, elevated the Knight of Cups, Matava to the state of the Lovers, and woke up the Fool who had given her a free ride. I was tempted to make some noise to disrupt the high vibration of their coupling, but why? 

From what I heard, it sounded rather average.   

The next morning, Sun hinted that she'd forgotten how much she liked "Matava's company," with the implication that she could hang in Ashland even though a storm was coming that we would be wise to beat.  Then we hit Evo's Cafe.  The High Priestess went to the market to replenish the supply of ass-wipes for the Knight of Cups.  The Fool checked email and pulled out my tarot deck and started shuffling, wondering how I was going to gracefully extricate myself from this situation.

Upsidedown Temperance asked me for a reading, even though he had no money.  One of the eccentric, homeless youth that has found some sanctuary in the most tolerant coffee house in the affluent arty community of Ashland - home to the Shakespeare Festival every summer - took a seat and I gave him a reading, which he interpreted for himself.  Once Sebastian had satisfied his need to talk about his neglected talents while he had someone's attention, he left the table after a couple of hints.

A well-preserved, nicely groomed black man with a shaved head and pretty face at the table on my left who had observed the interaction of the reading, started up a conversation.  His speech was as refined as his looks, so I gave him a brief rundown of my story and explained that the cards were a gimmick I used to get people's attention to the book.  He then asked me what I thought it meant that the cards got people's attention.  What did I think people were seeking?  Of course, I didn't know. 

"They're looking for that third voice," he said. 

His name was Amien and he had moved to Ashland from Santa Rosa, California just six months before.  At fifty-two, Amien had had many lives, as a professional dancer and an artist, he had designed sets and done the lighting for many productions, and although settled was in chrysalis for his next life incarnation.  He encouraged me to do a storytelling, although he preferred philosophy and science fiction.  The noise of the cafe distracted him after a couple of minutes, so Amien suggested going by his cottage and doing the storytelling there. 

"It's very peaceful, I'll make some tea, and it'll be much better."

Never, never, never go off with strangers, always said my mother, the Empress.  You may come across the Devil, maybe even Death, and then what are you going to do?

But I am the Fool, and I am no longer a little girl.  Amien gave off a good vibe-ration, my instincts told me it was safe, so I went.  Besides, I thought he was gay. 

Besides, it is the Fool's nature to trust.  Will this step send me careening over the cliff or dancing over the rainbow?

If one doesn't trust, one doesn't get to meet the Magician...or the man who makes things happen.

Amien was a highly talented artist from what I saw of the pieces in the mother in law apartment.  After listening to "The Birth of Ella Bandita," he bought two books, offered me his spare bedroom - a good hidey-hole for the Hermit - and said he'd like to throw a party for me. 

"We'll make it very nice, very selective," Amien said.  "So you will meet the kind of people who can help you." 

The best part, it really was no strings.  Amien had his libido and his attention distracted by a sweet young thing, half his age, who led him around by the nose...or the head.  I provided good conversation, a sympathetic ear, and good counsel.    

"It'll be my first soiree," he said. 

Ain't it grand how artists support each other?

That night, he introduced me to the Hierophant, who had the mother-in-law apartment he lived in.  Melody was a teacher, whose daughter also was a self-published writer.  She was also throwing a dinner party that same night, so Amien suggested they coordinate their events and I be the guest storyteller for both parties. 

He helped with making up the flyer/invites, thinking up such refinements as "intimate setting," and "light refreshment provided" and a discreet "Books for sale." 

The party had a good turn-out, and The Fool got to take a turn as the Star, entertaining the Court with a tale.  Emperors, Scholarly Hermits, Lovers, and Empresses made up the audience.

It was grand, but alas not perfect.

As much as the Magician warned the Fool to be selective, I gave a flyer to a woman whose Tower had come crashing down.  He had met her and was surprised that I gave her an invite.

"She strikes me as somebody with a Ramona complex," Amien said.  "I suspect she's missing parts."

He shrugged and said it'll be what it'll be, but the Magician called it.  Just as the Star had told the climax to an audience of enthralled Courtiers, and was forty-five seconds away from the end, a Queen in the audience interrupted.

"There's somebody out in the cold."

Turning around there was the woman of the fallen Tower peeking in the windows, wanting to be let in.  The Fool did, and gathering my wits, finished the tale.  Honestly, it was more disruptive to the audience than it was to me.

An hour later, the Fool realized what a mistake inviting the fallen Tower to the party.

"That's why I consider myself legitimately schizophrenic," she hooted in laughter at her own joke. 

The Magician gave the Fool many a pointed look until there was an opportunity to generously volunteer a ride in the Chariot of my Brown Beast.   

It occurred to me that I shouldn't be compassionate at the expense of others.  After all, this sanctuary was home to the gracious Hierophant and Magician.   

They didn't ask for this. 

"I told you so," said Amien as soon as I came back from giving Julia a ride home. 

Other than that, The Fool took a step off the cliff and ended up with the World in his pocket. 

I love Ashland!!!!

Peace,

Montgomery

 

The Fool's Journey, Part 1 - On the Road # 27

Image by komahouse from Pixabay 

Hey y'all,

I love being on the road.  

As exhausting as it is, I absolutely fucking love being on the road.  There's something about throwing oneself in the path of chance...

Not to mention that being on the road is sweet living at its most distilled. All the sour, bitter, and not so tasty parts are culled from the nectar every time I start up the Beast and ride into the sunset.

Even if there is no sunset, I always feel more and more amazing the further and further I get away from that place where not so wonderful things have happened.

Is it also immature?

Of course it is. 

But to throw oneself in the path of chance is to be the Eternal Fool at the start of one’s journey in the Tarot, leaving myself open to the domino effect of things as they happen.

After Thanksgiving, I left Eugene to go back to Seattle to the bazaar managed by an eighty year old clown at the former elementary school.  

This time it was a waste of time and money, not to mention that Marcia (pronounced Mar-See-Yaa) Moonstar just had to come by my booth to bitch and complain every chance she got. 

Even though she had the benefits of my boom box playing music in her booth because I didn't have batteries and that was the only outlet in the room, the energy vampire still had more juju to suck out of me. 

Mar-SEE-YA Moonstar was a wannabe High Priestess, while she was truly Upside Down Justice because she was also the one making money.

The unfairness of it all got to me. I had to get out of there. I got in the Chariot of my Beast by 2 in the PM, left the flea market early and drove to Portland. 

As soon as I left the city limits of Seattle, I felt lighter and breathed easier. It felt great to cut short the unnecessary suffering of a bad decision and just move on.

The flea market idea wasn't so great after all...

I'd been hearing about craigslist ever since I got down to the lower forty-eight, and I came up with a crazy idea in regards to rideshare. 

"Good at sales and need ride to Denver?" so began my ad.

In a nutshell, I made it clear that anybody who sold my books would get a free ride with no gas money.

I thought what the hell?  It's free to post an ad on this site, so what did I have to lose? I didn’t even expect anybody to answer since I put it up at the last minute.

What enterprising salesman-types would be looking for rides to anywhere?

Well, somebody did answer my post. I didn’t get an enterprising salesman type, but I did get Sun. Just imagine my surprise when my post was answered by another Fool on her own Journey.

"I'm in Eugene and am ready to leave right now."

Yet another stop in Eugene to meet my prospective saleswoman eager for a ride free of gas money.

Sun, nee Susan, was born and bred in the farming plains of Iowa. She was a robust blonde with slightly cocked blue eyes.

At twenty-four, Sun was as cosmic a hippie as one who had come of age in the late 60’s. She spent at least a year living naked and homeless in the island wilderness of Kauai. Somehow she ended up there after flunking out of college due to her activism in things that matter.

Sun recommended herself with the claim that in her gypsy travels of joblessness, she often went door to door canvassing for the Sierra Club for the going rate of 50 bucks a day whenever she was broke. So she would likely be comfortable approaching strangers to sell my collection of original fairy tales.

She'd been road-tripping around the West Coast for two months, but was really compelled to keep her promise to her folks in Iowa and return for visit by Christmas. I was heading to Denver, which was on the way more or less, and Sun had a cousin there she could stay with.

Knowing Sun made me fully understand why those who are just passing through are looked at sideways by those who have put down roots, paid their dues, and accepted the benefits of staying in one place. 

The nomadic don't invest in any one town, therefore how can they be trusted?    

Back in Homer at the beginning of this DIY book tour/road trip, Lia, the woman who let me sleep in the Beast on her property had a saying:

“We are all interconnected.”

How true. And there's nothing quite like giving a stranger a ride in good faith a road trip to prove it.

If nothing else, Sun had great stories and was fascinating to talk to.

Our first hours on the road, Sun showed me a picture of her girlfriend, her “baby” as she called her, and told me all about the paradise of living naked in Kauai.

She had been part of a gaggle of transients who moved their encampment from place to place around the wilderness of Kauai to avoid getting busted and kicked off.

She said it was glorious to l to eat mangoes from trees and not need any money until the day some guy showed up who took a dislike to her. He nudged and nudged until she was exiled from the village.

Even Paradise has a dark underbelly.

But as far as our original agreement was concerned, I often had to remind Sun to talk me up whenever we made a pit stop.

"Oh...yeah..." said Sun every time.

Unfortunately, my enterprising saleswoman had the attention span of a two year old.

She didn’t sell one book. But I don’t regret giving her a ride because the risk of giving cosmic hippie Sun a ride to Denver lead to other more wonderful things.

More to come on my Fool’s Journey in the next email.

Peace,

Mana

The Long Game is Built on Relationships

Hey y’all,

Much has changed in the world of publishing and self-publishing. This past weekend, I attended the Willamette Writers’ Conference in Portland, Oregon. This was my first Conference in several years.

About 10-12 years ago, I went to quite a few.

At that time, I was hungry for an agent or an editor or both because, like most of us who had been writing for many years, it was my dream to get published.

By my 3rd Conference, I was a pro at finding where the agents and editors would be, at angling for an opportune conversation where I could pitch my story that was not yet a novel.

I had an agenda.

So did every other writer who was at the same conference.

We were sharks circling a handful of meaty minnows. It was exhausting for us, and it was highly unpleasant for the agents and editors who attended these conferences. There wasn’t an agent or editor at any conference I went to who didn’t have some over-the-top stories of being stalked by 100’s of writers – some more overzealous than others.

One of the classes I went to this weekend taught me that my mindset back then had been a mistake.

Since I am committed to the self-published path, I hadn’t signed up for any pitches. I couldn’t care less about who the agents and editors were – unless they were freelance and good, because I need one. I went to this WW Conference because they had a lot of classes on self-publishing and marketing tips.

I was there for what I needed to learn.

Russell Nohelty taught most of the classes on self-publishing, building an audience, and making a profit. His core theme surprised me though. In his class on building an audience from scratch and on pitching, what he had to say came down to one thing. Connection.

“Publishing is a long game. And it is a game that is built on relationships.”

In his talk on building an audience, Russell said he spends about 10 hours a week communicating with some of his fan base. He asks questions about themselves, their lives, their favorite books, movies, shows, hobbies, and interests.

“Instead of treating them like a $20 bill, I find out who they are as 3-dimensional humans. Be a human treating somebody else like a human. Then go out and find other humans who have similar interests to the human who likes your stuff. Chances are you will find more.”

When I went to his pitch class, he said pretty much the same thing.

“Go into the pitch session and take a minute to find out what the agents like, and what they are looking for. Treat them like a human, not an opportunity. Even if they don’t want what you are looking for, you might have something like that later. And in the meantime, you’ve made a friend because you’ve treated them like a human. And if they can’t help you, they might direct you to somebody who could.”

And in that class is when Russell said.

“This is a long game. And it’s built on relationships. Chances are none of you will sell your book or your script from this conference. But you can make connections. From those connections, you could make some friends. That is what will serve you in the long game.”

As I listened, I cringed a little when I thought back to those early conferences, my sharp eyes, and restlessness that probably made the agent or editor very uneasy. I was not being a human trying to connect with another human. I was a predator looking for something to feast on. When I think back on those conferences, I’m pretty embarrassed.

My agenda mindset may have accounted for some less than fabulous perceptions I had ultimately of the publishing industry. Yet in defense of hungry writers stalking agents and editors for a chance, the Monolith of Traditional Publishing set it up that way when it became a business rather than a forum for the art of the written word.

Ours is an aggressive culture that is very focused on the outward trappings of success measured in tangible units like money, and less tangible ideals of elitism and exclusion. Something happens to creativity when the focus is on money, not the finished piece of art, whether this is writing or painting or music or theater or film or dance. When the focus is on getting in, getting up, and getting more, how can the creative juices flow? How can new ideas and fresh perspectives flourish when the pressure is on to make money, Money, MONEY?

To backtrack to the Conferences I had gone to more than a decade ago…

My journey through the Conferences started during my DIY booktour/roadtrip, an odyssey of self-publishing.

With the Beast filled with 100’s of my self-published copies of “Ella Bandita and other stories,” I went to the San Diego Writers’ Conference in the spring of 2006. Yet the advice given to me was: Do NOT bring attention to the fact that I had self-published.

There was a strong stigma to being a self-published author, and I was told that would be the kiss of death for anybody who was somebody in New York publishing.

Marla Miller, an editor and writer who had her non-fiction published, but still couldn’t get her fiction published, was very blunt in talking about how publishing was a tough business and we all had to play the game.

A lot of classes talked about all the rules and regulations, the have-to-do-this and the don’t-you-dare-do-that RULES TO LIVE BY, for any of us to have even a snowball’s chance in Hell of ever getting published.

Oh, and the market for fiction was shrinking faster than a receding glacier.

The pressure was on. Those who were in the Industry were all-powerful. Those who had been published in that Industry had oversized egos.

They were the cool kids and the writers (unpublished) were the outsiders. Of course, many of the cool kids were very nice people.

Most of them were quite reserved – obviously necessary for the sake of self-preservation with all the hungry writers stalking them. But it wasn’t long before I began to feel like the pathetic geek trying to get the cool kids to accept me.

That really sucked.

And frankly, I think the dynamic of in-group vs. outcast is grossly inappropriate.

Writers are, as a general rule, odd and eccentric people.

Most of us were not in popular crowds in high school, college, or even adulthood. We were the introverts, the watchers, the geeks, and the freaks.

Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club) said in a fantastic speech: “I believe writers became writers because we were the ones who were never invited to the party.”

This was at the last Willamette Writers Conference I went to several years ago. Of course, this pithy line was part of a hilarious story he shared about an exclusive yacht party he’d been invited to because he was now “THE Chuck Palahniuk, Famous Author.”

But he was so right it hurt. A publishing industry constructed on popularity dynamics becomes an environment where the creative minds of voyeuristic screwballs cannot and will not thrive.

I remember many of the agents and editors wanted something that was “a lot like Jodi Picoult.” A lot were looking for Urban Fantasy, which was really hot at that time. One agent suggested I rewrite my pre-Industrial Revolution fairy tale of Ella Bandita into an Urban Fantasy, and maybe she’d be interested.

What did I write that was a lot like what somebody else had written? We were encouraged to define ourselves as effective copycats of somebody else who had already succeeded.

They were looking for the next hot book to be the next runaway bestseller. It was all about money.

The world was addicted to self-help. A non-fiction book on how to lose 100 pounds in 6 months or less, or how to get rich in 3 years, would have a shot. But the fiction market was shriveling up.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with ambition, wanting to do a good job, wanting to be successful, or even wanting to make a profit. But there has to be a limit and there has to be balance.

And if the publishing houses want profitable stories, they need to nourish and support the weirdoes who will be the ones to bring them something different – that might actually become that next runaway bestseller. But you have to support them, not choke them. Creative minds don’t flourish under pressure like that.

Also, the upstart Amazon was stirring things up at this time.

With the burgeoning ebook market, Amazon was coming out with guns blazing and suddenly, there was an endless vista of possibility for self-published authors.

Many agents and editors expressed nervousness about what was happening, because of course, Amazon was totally undercutting the Monolith of New York Publishing and their overpriced books.

One agent compared Amazon and the state of publishing as the Wild West where anything goes because it was lawless.

In other words, New York Publishing was no longer all-powerful and invincible. What was going on at that time would change the world forever, when it came to publishing and even better, doing away with the stigma of self-publishing.

Now, it’s a badge of courage to claim yourself as an Indie Author. It also sounds more rock star.

Of course, publishing and those who played in that arena have adapted to the changing market and what needs to be done. The Big 6 publishers are still going strong.

But there are now hybrid authors who do both traditional and self-publishing. Even those with Big Publishing Houses behind them still have to do all the promotion that Indie Author has to.

Back to this past weekend…

Since I didn’t go to any of the panels with agents and editors lined up like ducks in a row, I have no idea the current attitude of the players from the Big Publishing World. So there’s no way to compare then and now.

It was refreshing to go to a Conference, and not give a hoot who the agents and editors were - unless they were freelance editors, but stalking was not necessary. I can simply hire one.

I’m sure there were writers stalking agents, but none of those sharks was me.

Instead I focused on the classes geared towards Indie Authors, what I could learn, and the only thing I kept an eye out for were other writers who needed a writers’ group.

I found them too. In the classes geared towards Indie Authors. Our first meeting is at the end of the month.

So, in this long game built on relationships, perhaps now, I’m on the right path.

Thanks for reading!

Peace,

Montgomery

 

The Beautiful Beast

I despised the Patron’s Daughter for many reasons. For starters, she was as beautiful as I was ugly. At least, on the outside, she was.

Her hair was as black as a raven’s wings; creamy, alabaster skin was flawless and unscarred. Her features were aligned in almost perfect symmetry.

The only flaw in her face was the only asset in mine. Her eyes were small, and I found her limpid blue gaze simpering.

But that was no consolation because everybody waxed eloquent over her startling coloring, her shining black hair, her blue eyes, and her perfect white skin.

Her figure was rather voluptuous for the highborn class, but that only added to her appeal.

She was celebrated as a beauty far and wide, and I absolutely hated her.

It didn’t help that we were the same age, our birthdays a few weeks apart.

I couldn’t stop myself from comparing the hell of my life with the heaven of hers, and the differences made my bones quake at night.

As self-defeating as it was to brood on that, I couldn’t help myself because I saw her every day on her rides.

I was hardly alone in my hatred of her. But I was alone in my obsession with her life.

All the workers scowled when the Patron’s Daughter made her appearance, but they had the good sense to forget about her after she was gone.

Not me. I tracked everything she did.

Because she was so spoiled, the Patron’s Daughter threw temper tantrums well past childhood to satisfy every whim that crossed her mind.

It was through a tantrum that she was able to make her debut a year earlier than her peers.

It was the custom for young ladies to come out in Society when they were eighteen, unless they were exceptionally accomplished, which she wasn’t, or they had older sisters who had already married, which she hadn’t.

So the Patron’s Daughter was still presented at court right after her seventeenth birthday.

Then the rampage began.

Because of her celebrated good looks, many eligible young men called on her. Yet beauty on the outside was a beast on the inside, and the Patron’s Daughter discovered a new source of happiness as she spurned suitor after suitor.

Vanity being a puckish pervert, the men came in droves.

Once word spread that her heart was not easily won, the hand of the Patron’s Daughter became the most valuable trophy to boast of that season.

There wasn’t a highborn gentleman for fifty miles round who could resist the challenge to master the she-devil.

I was mystified at the sheer numbers who came.

All of them were noble and many were desirable. Some were handsome, several had wealth, others had power, quite a few were charming, and one was even celebrated for his comical wit.

But no matter how desirable the match, the Patron’s Daughter was more enamored of the malicious glee coursing through her veins every time she rejected a would-be fiancé without giving him a sliver of a chance.

She loved cruelty, and she became more adept at degradation with each dismissal. Her reputation became so notorious, even her parents were embarrassed.

The Patron’s Daughter was making enemies of other patron families for humiliating their sons.

The next year, everything would change when we were eighteen.

This excerpt is from my WIP, “The Shepherd and the Courtesan.” If you’d like to read the previous excerpt, Ugly Addie, click here.

Do You Want to Be a Writer? Then Give Yourself Something to Write About!

Hey y’all,

Do you want to be a writer? Then give yourself something to write about.

I made a very nice, proper, young girl very uncomfortable with this piece of advice when she asked me about how I became a writer.

Until I said that, she looked at me with hero worship in her eyes when I told her about my year on the road, selling a book out of an old Four-Runner I called the Beast. Once I told her to get out and do some living if she wanted to find her best stories, she averted her eyes and looked down in the posture of shame.

I’m sad to say that there is no writing class that will give anybody the silver bullet. Mastering the mechanics of the art and craft of writing is valuable, but the real juice of inspiration is sucked from experience.

My best stories come from my life – especially vivid happenings that catapulted me out of my comfort zone, brought me to states of ecstasy and/or agony - anything that made me feel alive. There I found the richest fodder for stories, or even pieces of stories.

For example, there’s a really luscious scene in Challenge that I am especially proud of. Challenge is the third book in Ella Bandita and the Wanderer. The illustration above is the setting for that scene.

As you can see, the illustration is a very sensuous image of a beautiful, naked couple soaking in a shallow pool; the Wanderer is combing Ella Bandita’s hair, while she leans into him and lets her fingers dangle in the water. The backdrop is not only a forest, but the type of old growth woods in the temperate rainforest found in the Pacific Northwest and Southeast Alaska; the pool they are soaking in is a hot spring.

How’s that for a luscious setting?

Have I had a sexy interlude in a sexy hot spring that I’m disguising as fiction? Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t. But my points are I have the experience of living in Oregon. I lived in Alaska for 11 years where I went hiking all the time.

AND I LOVE HOT SPRINGS! I especially love hot springs that are found in the woods of a temperate rainforest, and I have the gorgeous experience of finding my bliss in fabulous places such as these. So…what better setting could there possibly be for a scene that builds sexual tension between these antagonistic characters?

That’s only the beginning. Other examples are the On the Road posts that I put up from time to time. Being on the road with a Beast full of books, telling stories and selling them out of my truck was wwwaaayyy out of my comfort zone. There were so many incredible stories that came out of that.

So, a few weeks ago, I gave my blog an official name, and therefore a theme and purpose, which should help on my author’s platform.

This was a necessary step to moving away from the theme started by my former Operations Manager, Jessica Cox. She did a lovely job of building a blog with writing prompts and writing how-to’s, but that blog did not reflect me, my writing, or my tastes.

Writing advice is well and good, and valuable information that people want and need. I will continue to write blogs offering this, as well as writing prompts. But I will add from my experience and perspective, and hopefully, that will fill in the missing pieces.

Knowing the tricks of the trade to execute good writing pieces is essential, but the experience to inspire those tales is priceless. The mechanics will take care of themselves in due time.

I hope this blog more thoroughly reflects my perspective on the journey of being a writer. Apologies on the month long hiatus. I was rather occupied with the experience of an ayahuasca journey. I’m sure eventually that will find its way into my writing.

So go have an adventure and give yourself something to write about. Happy trails!

Peace,

Montgomery

PS: If you’d like to download Challenge, to read that succulent scene for yourself, you’ll find it here!