Sweat Your Prayers - That'll Give You Something to Write About

Image by Gerhard Lipold from Pixabay

Given the intense heat wave that is taking over the Pacific Northwest right now, I thought it appropriate to re-post this blog from early June, last year.

What’s happening now is a far cry from a sweat lodge; but in its own way, this may be another opportune time to sweat my prayers. Hear ye!

Since cultural appropriation has been a hot topic for a few years, I start with the disclaimer that there was none of that here.

A Blackfoot Native taught his tradition, along with songs and prayers in his language to this community of copacetic and lovely Caucasian humans.

The story he told of being a watchdog as a child truly made clear the significance of what I was about to do. He said he was forced to go to the Native boarding school, and that their traditional sweat lodges were deemed illegal by the US government.

But the Blackfoot continued them anyway.

Dillon (name changed to protect his privacy) said that his job, along with the other kids, was to hide in the tall grass while their parents snuck the rocks, sticks, wood, canvas, and everything else needed to make a temporary sweat lodge in baskets to look as if they were going out for a picnic or something.

If the kids saw any government officials coming, they were to blow their whistles to warn the elders of coming trouble, who would then stop what they were doing and hide the evidence.

It’s unbelievable that such a practice was ever illegal. There was no reason for that beyond oppression.

I would have thought that as a Blackfoot, Dillon would take offense at the white people who wanted to use his spiritual traditions for themselves.

But nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dillon made it very clear that he was grateful for communities like this one, where the Caucasian nation wanted to form sweat lodges and do the spiritual practice as it was meant to be practiced.

“With your participation,” he said to us assembled there, “the practice of praying in a sweat lodge stays alive. And that’s crucial for us to keep it going.”

This was my first sweat lodge and I really couldn’t have chosen any better.

I used to be scared of sweat lodges.

Until a couple of years ago, I always avoided saunas, and preferred steam. But then one of my best friends and I started a daily sauna marathon after a retreat we attended together a couple of times.

Maybe the retreat was more arduous than most. All I know was that the saunas I shared with my former roommate burst through any resistance to heat and sweating.

Because now I love the feeling of rivers of sweat pouring down my body.

It’s both cleansing and kind of dirty.

There is something primal about it. It’s even more primal within the womb-like darkness of a sweat lodge.

The heat is even more intense and your sweat pours, all while crammed into a confined space with a lot people who are also drenched with body fluid. Throughout we’re singing, calling out prayers, and setting intentions.

This year, I went to the retreat alone.

A new friend I made there invited me to the sweat lodge the following Sunday, after I told him I was staying in the area for a few days longer after the end of the retreat.

“I’m intimidated by sweat lodges.”

“You should be,” he said. “So are you coming or not?”

I did.

I went to the Wal Mart parking lot early that Sunday morning to meet my friend from the retreat and get a ride to the sweat lodge.

I figured the bearded hippie dude doing tai chi in the empty parking lot was likely headed for there.

I was right.

“Just you wait until the water hits the rocks,” he said. “That’s always my favorite part. There’s something ancient and primitive about it that runs deep for me.”

This particular sweat was special in that it was the inauguration of a new lodge. I found out afterwards that these monthly sweat lodges had been suspended for about a year and a half.

The previous hosts were in their late 70’s, and got tired. They insisted that the next generation pick up the ball, and it was a while before somebody did.

The lodge was already assembled with various sticks and branches nailed together and covered with canvas to make a mound. In the center, a hole was dug out.

This held the rocks — aka the Grandfathers — and we carried them to the edge of the pyre that would later become the fire that would heat them up.

There was an air of excited anticipation as we prepared for the sweat lodge. Doing the work of building up the sweat was a crucial part of being here.

The strongest and hardiest of us split logs of varying lengths, while the rest of us carried them to the pile where others built up the pyre. The fire would burn directly in front of the opening to the lodge.

“That’s the fire line. It’s very important to not cross it when you’re coming in and out of the lodge.”

A woman explained to me the points of significance once she knew this was my first time.

Pointing to a small mound to the right of the entrance to the sweat lodge, she explained to me that was where we leave our offerings and prayers, and that the four sticks with long, narrow ribbons in different colors represented the four nations of the races of the world.

“Yellow is for the Asian nations, white for Caucasian nations, Red for Indigenous nations, and black for African nations.”

That lady was very kind to tell me all this.

“The rocks are the Grandfathers, whereas the fire and the lodge are the Grandmothers. The lodge in particular is the womb of the Grandmother, and the heated rocks are the Grandfathers and Grandmothers united.”

“How long does it take for the rocks to get hot enough?”

“At least an hour.”

Finally, it was time to light the fire to marry the Grandfathers with the Grandmothers.

The air was festive on this Sunday. More than 70 people showed up to this and I couldn’t believe it when most of them were able to fit inside that sweat lodge.

Their elation and joy was palpable as the people chatted and waited for the grandfathers to get hot enough and the first round to begin.

“There will be 4 rounds of about 15–20 minutes each,” the kind lady explained. “Each round has a theme.”

During the 1st round, we called in the Great Spirit.

During the 2nd round, we called out our Intentions.

During the 3rd round, we asked for Healing.

During the 4th round, we offered our Gratitude.

There were only a few minutes between rounds to leave the lodge — which a lot of people didn’t — to stretch, pee, and drink more water before going back in for more.

Each sweat got more intense than the last.

I’ll never forget my awe when I saw those fiery rocks, smoldering like wood embers in those moments the Grandfathers united with the Grandmothers came into the womb of the sweat lodge.

They came in one by one, in groups of eleven, at the end of a pitchfork to be dropped in the hole in the middle of the sweat lodge.

We called out each time:

“Welcome, Grandfather.”

Once the eleven for that round was gathered, the door to the sweat lodge was dropped, all was dark. The water poured and the steam rose.

The time had come to sweat our prayers.

4 Steps and 40 days to Healthy Habits For Writers Who Struggle With the Juggle!

Hey y’all,

Did you know that it takes 40 days to change a habit?

According to the late Yogi Bhajan, it is so. It also takes 90 days to confirm the new habit; after 120 days, the new habit is who you are; and if you keep it up for 1000 days, you have mastered the new habit.

I’ve found that 120 days will make some profound changes. 120 days was enough to quit smoking. I did this by replacing a bad habit with a good one. Instead of puffing on a cigarette, I practiced the Kundalini breathing exercises Yogi Bhajan passed on to Western culture.

I focused on 1 or 2 meditations and mantras at a time for 40-day runs. At the end of that winter, I had transformed into a non-smoker rather than an ex-smoker craving a cigarette. That was more than 15 years ago.

Some would say Yogi Bhajan was a cult leader. And maybe that is true. Either way, smoking is a gnarly addiction for a lot of people; it was for me, so the man and his memory have my respect, as well as my gratitude. 

Since then the 40-day method has been my standard go-to when it comes to making constructive changes in my life.

I’ll get back to this later.

A few days ago, a gentleman responded to a meme on my Twitter page about writer’s block. From what he had to say with very young children to raise, I gathered that he doesn’t have time to write.

Since I’m new to parenting via the stepmother path, I could sort of relate to what he was talking about.

I got to thinking about all we have to juggle in life – and then there’s the writing. It’s a balancing act that I’m not comfortable with. There was a time when I had the time to isolate for several weeks to write a rough draft because I didn’t really have to worry about anybody but myself.

Even if the loneliness of being that single got to me so much that I suffered some serious writer’s block as a result, I miss having that kind of space to immerse myself in another world. Now, I only get 2 hours of daily writing time - 4 if I’m lucky - before I have to move on with everything else that needs to be done.

As an independent author, I’m also a publisher. I have to find my editors, artists, graphic designers, printers, and whoever else will be involved in the process of giving birth to a new book.

Independent author or not, there’s no getting away from all the social media stuff that needs to be done. Instead of simply working on the creative juice of novels and stories, writers now have to have a platform. We have to blog, tweet, pin, Facebook, and Instagram, etc.

All this for the sake of getting our name out there in the hopes that the world knows our stuff exists and will come to read it and love it. Traditionally published authors have to do the social media thing just as much as the Indies do.

Then there is the stuff of life - relationship, friendships, parenting, day jobs, and beloved hobbies for those who have the time.

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems there are more demands on time and attention and energy than ever before. Or maybe it’s because a child has been thrown into the mix of life, and I’m still getting used to that.

I’ve never been organized in my life, and now I have to be at least a little competent at it. Which brings us back to habits because I had to improve mine.

So about that 40-day method of creating healthy habits…

Or 90 day.

Or 120 day.

Last year, I made a commitment of 4 small yet mighty changes of habit - daily meditation, walking, chores, and writing. I started the day with meditation and walking before getting my morning coffee. Then I wrote at least 2 pages every day and did at least 1 chore.

I did this for 120 days.

Small changes led to big results.

Meditation balanced me a lot more and I could concentrate so much more.

I lost about 15 pounds from walking – just walking.

I usually wrote more than 2 pages a day.

One chore often led to another chore, sometimes 2 or 3 more.

I’m not saying that I’m a neat freak now, but I tidy more than I used to and it has made a difference in how functional I am.

In that 120 days, I finished the rough draft of the novel that I am well immersed into my second draft now. In that time, I finished rewriting and polishing a fairy tale I wrote years ago.

I was more productive during that 120 days than I had been in years. With all the demands on my time and energy, I was much more productive than when I had the time and space to dive into an imaginary world for weeks at a time.

Just in case anybody would like a to-do checklist on consciously changing habits, I got some great tips from the guys at JumpCut, and their Viral Academy on making Youtube videos. Here ya go:

1) Identify the bad habit you need to change.

We lie to ourselves all the time about our habits, and justify them. Don’t do that.

2) Replace the bad habit with a good one.

We rely on our habits to get through the day. Taking away a bad habit without putting something else in its place won’t work. For example: Meditate for 5-10 minutes first thing in the morning, instead of opening your phone to check Facebook. Or do deep breathing exercises that will give you a head rush instead of reaching for a cigarette. That’s what I did.

3) Plant a seed habit.

Start small and build from there. It helps if you put yourself in the position that you have to do it. That makes it easier to do it every day. For example: Walk or ride bike to work. Write 2 pages before checking social media, etc.

4) Don’t break the chain.

This is where the 40 days comes in. If you don’t have a wall calendar, get one. Put a big fat X in any color you want on each day that you do your new, healthy habit. Do this for as many days as you can. Doing this feels deliciously satisfying.

If you make it to 40, try to push it to 90 days. Maybe spread to 120 days. And then…

I should probably aim for 1000 days to make sure these new habits stay with me forever.

Are there any writers out there who have any healthy habit forming tricks you’d like to share? What tools do you have to make it all happen? If you have any insights, please check in with a comment or two. Check in if you struggle with the juggle. Because I’m pretty sure we all do.

Truthfully, I should start another 40-day challenge to get the second draft done. Or 90 day. I’m sure I could get this draft done in 120 days.

For anybody who wants to be a Youtube influencer, or to check out some of Jumpcut’s courses, click here. For the record, this is NOT an affiliate link, and I do not get a commission if you anybody signs up. That one video they did on changing bad habits did me a lot of good and I want to spread the love.

Thanks for reading.

Peace,

Montgomery

The Gifts of Writing Haiku

So, I’ve been writing for Medium, and writing a lot of haiku lately.

I’m not going to lie. The primary reason is they’re simple and I can write them quickly.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately. Some days I’m slammed and don’t have much time because I have to drive. I can crank out a haiku of multiple stanzas in less than 15 minutes, find a picture, and post it.

Thus my daily commitment of posting to Medium has been met.

Now that I’m trying to get some attention in publications, haiku serves an even more vital purpose in that I can get a piece out there immediately, while waiting to see if a much longer piece will be accepted. And it will be some days before I find out, and before that piece will be out there.

American Haiku will either ride or die within hours. I just found them. Wish I’d known about that publication earlier.

Anyway, I digress.

An unexpected benefit has arisen from writing haiku. I found out that it’s good therapy.

What surprised me the most was that writing haiku made it easy for me to let go.

The precise rules of the 5, 7, 5 syllable count forced me to streamline in a way that my verbose self doesn’t come to naturally.

It’s a relief to write with such precision. It’s actually kind of addictive.

I can write haiku even when I can’t concentrate fully because the process doesn’t require much time or effort.

Having gone through a breakup recently, I have a lot of pent up rage and thus, my attention span suffers.

I’m livid with my ex, but that pales in comparison to the anger towards myself— for staying in a dead-end relationship for too long, for abandoning my values, and betraying the principles I hold dear by being in partnership with somebody who is the anti-thesis of everything I love.

So yeah, there’s lots of feelings, and haiku creates a discipline — whether I want it or not — to focus and whittle and get straight to the point.

From a selfish perspective, I also figured out that other writers will generously read haiku pieces because they know it won’t take more than seconds, yet they still get credit for reading and clapping for other writers.

I wonder if this is a great way to introduce my fiction, and my fictional characters. Maybe I will entice a new audience to my actual work of writing novels.

Here is the haiku I did of Ella Bandita. I must say it would make an excellent synopsis on the back. Would probably sell that novel more than the one that’s already there.

Ella Bandita

Is one tough bitch. Mad, bad, and

Dangerous to know,

She will steal your heart

And leave you cold, bereft of hope,

Without will or scope.

She loves to conquer

The invincible, haughty,

Proud sons of Hubris.

These men who take all,

Who love nobody but their

Precious selves until

They succumb to the

Predator’s stare. Cold blue eyes

That glitter and gleam

Large thick teeth, wide mouth,

Knowing sneer draws conquests near.

No man can resist

The lethal allure

Of the ugly seductress,

Called the Thief of Hearts.

She’s fearless and bold.

She is neither bought nor sold.

Nothing fazes her.

Ella Bandita

Aims their arrogance on them.

Sons of Narcissus

Helpless against her,

This huntress hungers for hearts

They discarded and scorned.

So live from your heart,

Lest you lament the loss of

Your most precious part.

This haiku did really well on Medium. Got a lot of views, a lot of fans; and better yet, readers lingered over this piece. It’s an encouraging sign.

So even though I only earn cents, not dollars, for each haiku I write, I kind of dig it.

No, I more than dig it.

And I’m curious to see how this goes.

 

Haiku for Writing Exercise and Therapy

IMAGE BY INNO KURNIA FROM PIXABAY

“Catharsis Through Haiku”

Haiku is easy.

Haiku is nice. Sanity

Preserved in Haiku.

 

Thanks. Thank you Haiku

To distill my angst in counts

Of five seven five

 

Syllables, three lines,

Gives me some kind of control.

Even if it’s not true,

 

I can believe it.

Five syllables at line one.

Seven syllables

 

At line two. And then

Five syllables at line three.

I have control, see?

 

These are the only

Rules in Haiku. Simple to

Follow, don’t need more.

 

I can say nothing

And make it sound important.

Or say anything

 

Quite nonsensical,

Incomprehensible, yes?

No! What do you mean?

 

You think this makes sense?

I ramble and rant and rave,

Give words to my rage.

 

The quirky timing

Of a five seven five count

Takes the sharp bite out,

 

Eccentric and quaint

Haiku softens the striker

And fools the strikee.

 

For Haiku is cute,

Don’t you agree? Who sees it

Coming? This shot below

 

The belt, No fair fight

Here in the realm of Haiku.

It has power near

 

Or far. The power

Haiku sensibility

Is invisible.

 

Can you hurt from a

Blow you can’t feel the impact?

No offense, darling.

 

It’s all done with tact.

Haiku is graceful, discreet,

and sounds awful sweet.

Condensing my angst in counts of 5, 7, 5 was great therapy. Who knew?

“Single Mingle Without a Jingle - The False Love Meet and Greet”

I’m not ready yet,

But I put myself out there.

What is there to lose?

 

There is true freedom

Doing the single mingle

Without a jingle.

 

Do that meet and greet!

Brush up on your people skills,

You have time to kill.

 

No need to invest,

Practice active listening,

Relearn how to charm.

 

Charm on you, charmer!

Be sincere or be guarded,

Or both. You’re free now.

 

It’s nice to go out,

With no agenda to find

That special someone.

 

You were once hungry,

Then you got fed, fed upon.

You learned a lot, yes?

 

Now it is your time.

Nourish yourself this go ‘round.

Guard your treasure chest.

 

I’m not ready yet.

True freedom to socialize

Yet need nothing more.

 

Time to go inward

Fill up my well of being

Relationship free

 

My time is my own.

No pressure demands my way

I’m me. I am free.

 

Speeding up the grief.

I lost time, but not true love.

Time to heal is now.

 

Yet in the meantime,

I meet and I greet new peeps

And I want nothing.

 

No numbers, no texts.

Simply hello, how are you?

And then I move on.

 

I want nothing more,

When we part, we part as art.

I my way, you yours.

 

Simplicity, yes!

Brief connects is best for now,

I’m not ready yet.

Image by 955169 from Pixabay

“Hot Haiku About My Shower”

Soak the hair dripping

With warm droplets down my back

Running the gauntlet.

 

No dry shampoo here!

Frothing and circling fingers

Hair now free of grime.

 

Conditioner in,

Leave it be for duration

of luscious shower.

 

Gentle strokes neck face,

Don’t forget your ears! The back

Or the inside swirl.

 

Soap up massage,

Lather the arms, remember

The pits. Cleanse that smell.

 

Across the chest, under

The breasts, soaping, rubbing,

down over belly.

 

Around stretch the back,

The shoulders and the haunches,

Diagonal strokes

 

To reach the hard spots.

Down the legs and over the feet,

The soles need some grit.

 

Get the dead flesh off.

Rinse, linger, savor water

Running head to toe.

 

Shower completes me!

Ready to begin the day,

So hot, nice, and clean!

********

So I challenge you,

Darling readers and writers,

To write a haiku

It does make the most marvelous therapy, and is a

good stretch for your writing muscles. Efficiency!

Give the art of Haiku a try!

 

The Forgotten Little Bastards - Novel Excerpt from The Shepherd and the Courtesan

This is a novel excerpt from my work-in-progress, “The Shepherd and the Courtesan.” The title may be changed and maybe this scene deleted, because this is between one of the protagonists and a minor character, a courtesan protegee. But I liked the dialogue and I think this scene shows the world the Shepherd has found himself in very well, as well as shed some light on the other protagonist. If you’d like to read another excerpt from this work, click here.

I shook my head.

“You don’t mind?” Astrid persisted. “Or you prefer I leave you be?”

“No. I don’t mind.”

“Good,” Astrid smiled. “Because I wanted to ask you some questions about that scene this morning in the town square.”

“You were there?”

“Of course I was. Everybody was there, even the scrubbers from the dirtiest whorehouse in the Capital were there.”

“What do you want to ask me about?”

“What possessed you and the Wanderer to give the bounty on Ella Bandita to the children of the orphanage?”

“Why do you want to know about that?”

“Because it’s too marvelous! Who would give a fortune for a private education fit for highborn children to a bunch of penniless, nameless forgotten little bastards? Not to mention a modest legacy to start life once they left the orphanage?”

I tensed up. I had not expected this at all. The Wanderer and I had agreed it was the best possible use for what was essentially blood money, but we also believed that such a gesture would silence any questions.

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t. But you could have lived as patrons for the rest of your lives!”

“That means nothing to me.”

Astrid’s hazel eyes were wide in her pale face.

“But everybody wants to be rich.”

I relaxed a little. Nothing in Astrid’s expression indicated suspicion or cunning. She merely seemed amazed and curious.

“I can’t explain how or why. But I’ve never coveted wealth and I’ve always had what I need.”

 Astrid nodded slowly, and her white cheeks flushed a pale pink.

“I can’t claim to understand you, Shepherd. I simply wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart for doing that.”

“I appreciate your kind words. But why are you thanking me?”

“Because I’m one of those forgotten little bastards. Most of us here at the Casa came from the orphanage.”

 “Like who?”

 “Celia and I grew up together there.”

 Astrid nodded to the trio of mandolin players, whose ethereal music filled the air.

“They’re younger than we are, but I remember them from the orphanage. Almost all the servants came from there too.”

 “Are the musicians also protégées?”

Astrid shook her head.

“Not everybody can be for the Life. Originally, they came here as little girls to train to be maids. But Mi’Lady always tests the children, and discovered these girls had a natural talent for music, so she mentored them in their learning. Now they get to be musicians. Not only do they entertain us, but they are often hired to perform at various salons around the City.”

“Do they live here?”

Astrid nodded.

“There are two dormitories at the back of this yard. One is for servants and servants-in-training. The other is for the protégées, as well as the artistic girls.”

“Really? That is extraordinary.”

I stared at Astrid, who smiled at me in appreciation.

“What you and the Wanderer have done is truly wonderful. You saved this generation of boys from a criminal life and eventual hanging, and all of the girls from the drudgery of servitude and prostitution in the brothels. The orphans who had any kind of lucky star on their side end up at the Casa, and the Casa is full. Except for a truly gifted and beautiful girl here and there, Mi’Lady doesn’t have much room to add to her household for at least twenty more years.”

I was speechless. Astrid paused for a moment, then continued.

“There isn’t an orphan, harlot, or servant who wouldn’t sell their soul to be here.”

Let Me Take a Look at You

This is an excerpt from the novel that I’m currently working on, working title “The Shepherd and the Courtesan.” It’s the 2nd novel in The Ella Bandita stories. Although the photo above is not of the characters, I liked it because they are doing a dance with each other. To see the other excerpt I’ve put in already, click here.

“So what do you think of my Vanity Gallery, darling Shepherd?”

The creamy voice of my hostess caught me off guard. But I liked how she sounded. The Courtesan retained the sweet tones of a younger woman.

She stood above me, halfway down the stairs. The candles and crystals from the chandelier cast a warm glow over her lovely features, and her golden eyes sparkled in the incandescent light. The Courtesan was even more breathtaking in person than she was in her portraits.

She smiled and leaned her head to one side when I hesitated to answer.

“May I ask what you’re thinking?” she said. “I adore the way you’re looking at me just now. But your expression is rather singular.”

“I’m wondering how the devil I ended up here, if you must know.”

She chuckled softly.

“The devil may well have had a hand in this. My home is far and away from the natural wilderness where you usually roam.”

My heart ached when she said that. In that moment, I yearned for open space. People and society made life difficult, painful even. I longed for the solitude, for the peace of having only my flock for company. Even though it was snowing hard, I would have given anything to be outside, the cold air stinging my cheeks as I searched for a thick copse of trees near water, listening closely for the soft babbling of a creek that ran beneath the snow. That would have soothed my weary spirit after a day like this.

“Shepherd, you seem distressed. Is there anything you need?”

“Not at all. You’ve been very attentive to our comfort, Madame.”

“Please call me Adrianna,” she replied. “Madame is so priggish. I only allow my Butler to address me as such.”

“I don’t know you to address you by your Christian name.”

The Courtesan smirked, and cocked her right brow.

“There’s nothing Christian about any part of my name. Would you be more at ease with ‘Mi’Lady’ like the other servants? Those are your only choices.”

I paused, knowing how foolish that would be. I was a guest in her Casa, and I had no doubt the Wanderer wouldn’t hesitate at the informal address of her first name.

“As you wish, Adrianna.”

Her smirk broadened to a smile.

“Before I forget to mention it, I ran into your friend. The Wanderer said he would catch up with you in a few minutes. He also said to tell you he didn’t want to interrupt your reverie of my portraits.”

Adrianna smiled impishly, while the heat rose to my face. The Courtesan glided smoothly down the stairs, evoking a sense of leisure with each step until she came beside me. It was a shock that she only stood to my shoulder. I know I’m very tall, and her average height would make her appear diminutive next to me. But with her startling presence, I expected such a woman to be rather tall herself.

Apparently our differences in height didn’t intimidate her, while Adrianna unnerved me immediately. She took my hands and turned me to face her. The gesture was personal, if not intimate. Then Adrianna held my arms to my sides and, with no attempt at discretion, she looked me up and down.

“What are you doing?”

“My dear Shepherd, you’ve had the advantage of seeing me naked at every age, and from every angle for the better part of an hour. I would simply like the pleasure to really look at you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to take in your form for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”

“I mind very much. You openly display your portraits and I believe posing nude was your choice.”

She glanced at me and winked, her golden eyes mischievous as she squeezed my hands.

“Please,” she murmured. “Be a darling and humor me, Shepherd.”

She had me so off balance I didn’t have the presence of mind to continue to protest. I nodded reluctantly, and that was all the permission Adrianna needed. There was nothing lascivious in the way she looked at me. She simply examined me as she would for the quality of a gown, the elegance of a piece of furniture, or the beauty of a work of art. Even though I had clothes on, I was exposed, even more naked than Adrianna had been in her portraits.

“How I adore tall men,” she purred. “Especially those who have such lovely, long limbs.”

She ran her hands along my shoulders and down my arms. The intimacy unsettled me - especially from a woman I had only met that afternoon. Yet there was nothing quite like the thrill of a woman’s touch. It had been a long time since I had last enjoyed that. The tingles along my skin made me shiver. Adrianna smiled slightly, her gaze sharp as she continued her appraisal in a buttery voice.

“You’re lean with a strength that is felt rather than seen. Tanned skin may not be the fashion of the Capital, but I love rugged men who weather well.”

She even took my chin in hand. Her grip was gentle, but I flinched. She stopped her assessment, the haze gone from her eyes when she saw into me.

“How uncomfortable does this make you, Shepherd?”

Adrianna still held my chin as she asked.

“Thoroughly uneasy.”

“That sounds unpleasant. Do you want me to stop?”

“I do. But go ahead and finish what you started.”

Her eyes glazed over again as she returned to her examination, turning my face each way.

“Salt and pepper hair becomes you nicely, and I like your brow, Shepherd. You have what I call an intelligent brow, the brow of a man who loves to think and reflect. Do you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“High cheekbones,” she continued. “Beneath your beard, I can see a strong jaw. Straight nose. How fine and chiseled your features are.”

The Courtesan then looked at me, her gaze open and penetrating at the same time. She smiled slowly.

“And your eyes,” she said in a singsong tone. “Clear green and piercing, as if you could see inside my soul. Can you, Shepherd? See to my deepest thoughts and feelings so you can know my secrets?”

“Not at all. But I suspect you can see into mine.”

Adrianna let go of my chin. She threw her head back and roared with laughter. The sudden shift in mood startled me. Her manner of laughing was surprisingly masculine from a woman with an excess of feminine wile. But the mannerism was also familiar. She stopped laughing with same abrupt manner that she started.

“Time has been extremely kind to you,” Adrianna concluded. “You are the most handsome man I’ve seen in a long time.”

Then she brought a palm to my face and stroked my cheek. Her expression shifted to that of wonder, even wistfulness.

“You must have been so beautiful when you were young, Shepherd.”

The sudden tenderness touched something buried deep inside. I struggled to breathe and froze. I couldn’t do anything but gaze into those large, feral eyes.

“I can’t say I’ve ever thought much about it.”

I was relieved when words finally came out of my mouth. Adrianna also seemed relieved, but I couldn’t be sure when she smiled.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she replied. “Isn’t that part of your charm?”

“Are you always so personal with men you just met?”

Adrianna paused for a moment, her hand still resting against my cheek.

“No,” she whispered. “Never.”

Storytelling and the Power of Space

I love storytelling. I grew up with it, and when I found my ‘writer’s voice,’ it was in the form of the oral art of telling a story with simple language and basic tools. I used to throw Story Circles where everybody had to share a story, and it was pretty awesome to discover what people came up with, especially those who were shy or very left-brained.

So I use storytelling to promote my work. I have for years. All of my blast from the past blogs are from that year I was on the road, telling stories and selling a book of original fairy tales out of my truck. I was living new stories as I was selling the ones I’d made up. It was an amazing year, one of the hardest and most exciting of my life, when I was fully out of my comfort zone. And I sold most of my books during that time, and met a lot of intriguing and open-minded people. Had some good adventures, each one unique in and of itself. I still use storytelling as a method of getting my work out there, and eventually, I will start a podcast. I go to open mics, and of course, I prefer the ones that allow 10-15 minutes, and 20 minutes are a dream come true. But most of them have become 5-minute open mics and I’m not a fan of those. I get it that the emcee wants as many people as possible to have their chance, but that’s just not enough time for anybody.

My most recent open mic in Portland, I read my first sex scene to a room full of strangers. Given that this particular Open Mic is around sexuality, that was the right venue and the right audience of a sex positive crowd. It’s a way for people to find out who I am and I still sell most of my books this way.

But nothing beats a space I created and a vibe that I have some control over, as well as much time as I care to give the stories I share. So Tea & Tales is my favorite. I have 2 more before the sun gets high in the sky and the people get restless for being outside. At my next Tea & Tales, I’m telling an excerpt out of my novel, Ella Bandita and the Wanderer, as well as the Tlingit tale of How Raven Ruined Crow’s Voice. I don’t think that’s the official title, but it’s how I remember it. If anybody reading this is in the Portland, Oregon area and would like to attend, drop a comment and I’ll give you the Facebook event page with the info. It’s on April 7th.

Ode to the Brown Beast, King of Resilience - On the Road #1

In 2005, I was extremely blessed to receive a grant from the Rasmussen Foundation in Anchorage, Alaska to self-publish a collection of original fairy tales and hit the road, telling stories and selling a book out of the back of my truck. I was on the road for a year. It was one of the greatest adventures of my life. I kept an email journal that I sent out to my friends, which eventually became a blog due to one of my friends being into it on Juneaumusic.com. I don't know if that site is still up, but if it is, my blog is not there. And self-publishing has changed a lot since then. We rely far more on the internet and more people are doing what I did now. Whereas no other writers were then. Anyway, it seems fitting as adventures in self-publishing continue to resurrect those stories from that time. Enjoy!

Ode to the Brown Beast
King of Resilience
(At least, I hope so)

Cursed be the blockhead that twisted the oil cap too
lightly,

The Brown Beast lost precious blood on the first run
of his long journey.

Clanking its death rattle into Tok, Alaska,
the rider of the Brown Beast was alarmed to
receive the news from a twelve year old with braces
that the Brown Beast would be lucky to make it to
Anchorage...

The Brown Beast would need bypass surgery, if not a
transplant...

"It's got an old heart, and old hearts get tired," 
said the shaman grandfather of the boy.

The boy offered to buy the Brown Beast, if the rider
cared to sell...

No, the rider most certainly did not.
Fear not! 

The Brown Beast rattled and rolled its way out of Tok,

determined to make its way to the City of Muck.

The death rattles wound down to an occasional clank on
slowing to a walk and stop, and the rider was
reassured. Sort of.

The Brown Beast made its way to the city, coming to
life when called upon to do its duty.

But the need for a doctor is imminent, if not
immediate...

Will the Brown Beast ride again, valiantly to the end
of the road, holding out for the Carnival?

Or is it a terminal case?

Either way it sucks that my emergency fund is needed,
oh... immediately.

At least I had a place to crash...

Peace,
Montgomery

Why Do We Pin?

Hey y’all,

It is overwhelming taking the helm and learning the steps of the social media dance that Jessica set up in the last four years. On one hand, I’ve never been a huge fan of social media. Yet, on the other hand, I use it in my personal life and I’m a little addicted – my partner would say I’m addicted A LOT. Be that as it may, I might as well use it for my work and work with it until I “get it,” which I really don’t right now.

I will learn a lot in the coming months. I’m pinning on Pinterest without a clear idea as to why I should do this. I’ve heard that it has helped with driving traffic towards my website, where people can find out I exist and about my work, etc. So I’m going through these images and pinning, without really understand what I’m doing.

Also, this lovely young woman I interviewed - who is likely to be the book designer for The Golden Pedestal - said she used to use Pinterest as a knitter, but she has found it to be full of ads and not as useful as a marketing tool. I'm scared she may be right, but I don't know enough to know that yet. So I continue to pin on a daily basis, and hopefully that will do something wonderful. And if it doesn't, I'm sure another social media site will come up and maybe I'll get in on that as the wave is coming up, not after it has peaked and crested and fallen down.

But I'm here now and I can see why people get really into Pinterest. It’s pretty amazing all the stuff I am finding there. In fact, it's fascinating enough that it’s distracting me from what I should really be doing.

Which is writing…

Any extra insights on how and why to use Pinterest would be gratefully appreciated. Thoughts?

Peace,

Montgomery