….and maybe why you should, too. — In my day! (Cliche’s, don’t you hate them?) Getting a book published for the first time had to have a draft that stung the publisher into believing they had found a best seller. The hope of them finding that best-selling author, the rest of us mediocre authors ever get a…

A man who wants to be eleven years old again on every page. Love him or hate him, he’s a man trying to be loved. His story is so strong, the writer hopes the reader knows it and can learn from it, and one day forgive him. — At best, I have a wandering heart, at worst, broken, but only in a literary sense. I continue to live with a degree of belief I can write well enough to engage a reader’s interest; it’s called narcissism and is an insanity yet to be cured. (Consider the many times…

America is sliding toward autocracy. — Mrs. Braebrooke, our classroom teacher, rolled down a map of the world from its anchorage on the ceiling. The width of the map stretched almost across the room. She held a long thin cane in her hand, similar to one dad might tie up tomatoes, and pointed to a large…

There’s not much to know. I’ve been fortunate. Now I write. — I started life in an orphanage. Actually, not strictly true, I started life being hidden beneath a shrub on a roundabout in Gants Hill, Essex. I was found by a young couple leaving the Odeon cinema (since demolished) having spent their evening watching a Spencer Tracy movie, Edward, My Son. …

Ready for the first game of the Premiere League Season against Southampton. — We sat by the koi pond, having a cup of tea heading out to get on a train and head to the new White Hart Lane, which is without doubt the best football (soccer) stadium in the British Isles, and possible the world, and the home of Tottenham Hotspur (Spurs). …

Because this is what is necessary, to honor our fallen and the damaged for their sacrifice. — We live in a world of hurt, complaining about the government, politics, corporate greed, abortion rights, the environment, and myriad other social and secret evils in this country. I’m not a simple-minded sort of bloke, nor am I a genius, so I’m constantly asking myself, why have we got problems…

I cried today, silly tears. A longing I’ve never got right in my head. — Pembroke, a nine-year old thoroughbred, strides through the shallow waves. She’s a character alright, head proud, fully aware when people are looking at her. Away from the scatterings of people walking the shoreline, I let her go…give her free rein and ask her to move on. I feel her anticipation…

Bored with shopping, I ventured into a small Norman church — I sat in the mahogany pew, relishing the antiquity and beauty of this small church at the bottom of the High Street in Ruislip, called St. Martin’s, knowing churches like this are common all over the British Isles. St. Martin’s church was built in 1245 AD, before the Norman Conquests…

I am not a man of God, born only of Evil. — It’s a never-ending nightmare. The terror of it brings me to tears and has done since I was twelve. Sixty years of anger, fear, and frustration. Could I leave those years out? Can I convince myself I never heard it? Can I pretend it didn’t come? No, I cannot, any…