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I’m So Ronery

Have you ever forgotten where you've been? Yeah. That's me these days. I'm blessed to be able to get out there, slap skin and meet potential readers. For a finite time, I'm living my dream. Dreams whitewash reality. I've never been this tired. Not when I worked eighteen-hour-days during tax season. Or when I performed onstage in a string of late nights. Wherever people show up, they expect my best self......and they deserve it to reward their sacrifice of valuable time.

 

Have you ever forgotten where you’ve been?

Yeah. That’s me these days. I’m blessed to be able to get out there, slap skin and meet potential readers. For a finite time, I’m living my dream.

Dreams whitewash reality.

I’ve never been this tired. Not when I worked eighteen-hour-days during tax season. Or when I performed onstage in a string of late nights. Wherever people show up, they expect my best self……and they deserve it to reward their sacrifice of valuable time.

I’m always ‘on’………..
even when I feel ‘off.’

And I haven’t been more “on-and-off” than Tuesday. As a writer, I want to be recognized by literary organizations and snooty reviewers. Yes, I get there and realize why that shouldn’t matter, but for the first time, it happened. I was invited to read with fellow writers, men with deeper resumes, bigger connections and more written words than me.

I peed my pants a little.

On Tuesday, I was star of my very first literary reading at an actual literary group, and I was freaking stoked. I invited fifty or so people. I practiced. And practiced. AND PRACTICED. I was ready to leave my mark on a bunch of writing elite.

Not a single invited person came. Exactly one person responded to tell me why they couldn’t be there. I stood in a room of my dreams, and I performed. When I cried during my reading, my tears weren’t rehearsed emotional blather.

I shed genuine tears for me.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. A non-response to an invitation doesn’t mean “no.” It leaves the inviter hoping a few people meant to get to it, praying they’ll show up for the big moment, wishing for a miracle.

It’s rude.

It’s thoughtless.

And it really, really hurts.

making memories

 

If you’ve been waiting to read Not Without My Father (because you think you don’t like memoir; because your to-read pile is too high; because you assume I no longer need your help; because you followed my walk blog and believe that’s the book; because you’re too busy; because you say you can’t afford $3.99; yes, these are actual excuses I hear ALL THE DAMN TIME), there’s no better time than RIGHT NOW to pick up a book that will change your life.

In April, I’m sharing what anonymous readers from all over say about this story, people who picked it up thinking it was another self-involved memoir and finished in tears. Their lists of mended relationships and stories of change make me cry happy tears almost every day.

You need to read this story for what it will give YOU. For what it will give people who matter to YOU. I may not take you everywhere, but I’ll send you somewhere you’ve never been.

The Huffington Post calls Not Without My Father
one literary ride you don’t want to miss!

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Click to read a sample of Not Without My Father

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