Tuesday, January 31, 2023
Tuesday, January 24, 2023
The latest writing has been published - through a Chicago publishing house, my short story picked up last year and now part of this anthology. It made it to #1 in Amazon new releases the day it was released and will be available in bookstores (paperback and hardcover). The authors include award-winning professional writers, producers, actors, and playwrights and I was honored to be selected to be part of it. All royalties on my part will go to the animal rescue groups, as always.
The book is a collection of stories that capture love in its many forms, not just that of romantic partners, but of children, parents, animals, friends, and passionate interests. The theme spoke to me, as it did to the authors within this work, as we recall first loves, lost loves, pets, family members, and that crazy time we ignored all reason and did the impossible
Praise on my story "Letting Go", so far (from authors and professional book critics)""L. B. Johnson’s prose is glorious. Her words put you right there—in the place and in the head of the narrator—as well as any author I’ve read."
"Gorgeous. An absolute heartache."
I think it would make a great Valentine's Gift, (that's a clue by four, as my husband would say).
Friday, January 13, 2023
Treats. Bacon. Stuffie.
But Mom decided to write about books.
She didn't know what she would do without her books. Remember the book Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury? It was set in a dystopian future in which firemen intentionally burn any house in which a book is located because it's against the law to possess them. In the end, a fireman who had grown to love books escapes the city of quick, mindless but big-screen, reality-based entertainment, to find a small group of book-loving refugees banded together. Each person is assigned the memorization of one complete book -- Aristotle, Dickens, James Joyce, and more -- so the books will survive until society is ready to embrace them again
Reading for her was not just intellectual but embracive. She loved the way the spine of a book feels in the crook of her fingers. The smooth, hard end boards snug on either side of the pages are sewn together, their edges flush and perfect. The smell of ink, the texture of a page as her fingers gently turn it.
Between two pages here is a photo of her Mother in her garden. Outside the window here now, a plant opens up, spilling forth its seed onto the soil. She remembered days of working in the flowerbeds that her Mom so lovingly maintained. After her death, She kept it going as long as she could for her Dad until adulthood called me away. As she toiled in the garden, the sun kissed the top of her head, the touch a benediction, a blessing.
Let the weather play God with her itinerary, let the tanker bringing in supplies break down somewhere, let the post sell the last bottle of whiskey, but if she'd laid up alone in the middle of nowhere after she busts a move down the Himalayas and breaks her leg, she wants a book. Curled up in strange places among a couple artifacts of family that get toted around in her suitcase, she may be lonely, but she will be content.
It's a big old paper dead tree book because she wants to hold something in her hand that feels alive, to me even if a living thing died to create its pages. It's words that form pictures, laid out upon a living thing that never slept, never dreamed of the soft perch of birds or the sharp blade of the ax, never mourned the tender leaves that it nourished and abandoned. It’s a piece of wood, that can be warmth, support, and shelter, or the perfect, pristine bed of memory laid down bare.
Her housework is put aside for at least an hour or two before bed and she'll pick up that book. She'll let it transport her to somewhere far away until a chime will toll for warriors, for battles won and those so easily lost. As her hand turns the pages, she will move among people who lived and died, or perhaps never existed at all, their shadows not of flesh or blood but of imagination, shadows as strong as finely honed steel and shadows as quiet as murmuring breath, forgotten until they were put upon paper.
Tuesday, January 10, 2023
Someone heard the sandwich-makings come out.
When no cheese shows up the Elvis Lip Curl does.
Lorelei has Left the Building.
Friday, December 30, 2022
Sunday, December 25, 2022
We hope you are all having a wonderful Christmas day, however you celebrate it.
Just some of our gifts to one another to bring a smile.
Saturday, December 24, 2022
Thursday, December 22, 2022
Sunday, December 18, 2022
There was a lot of stuff packed away in boxes when I sold the sprawling home that I had prior to meeting my husband, as well as things I'd shipped back from Dad's after my brother passed away. Sitting here this morning looking at an old photo on an even older refrigerator I remember the day I finally had a chance to go through it before moving here, where space is limited and only things most precious are on display.