I commute against the rush hours on a big highway and some days it’s a mix between Fury Road and Frogger. When the construction is done it’ll be a mind-boggling ribbon of asphalt 10-12 lanes wide out to the far southeast suburbs of the Valley, which is where I now work, across from the last big cornfield in the area.

Dear Reader, I am so happy to report that my new day job is fantastic. Worth the 20 minute commute against traffic out to BFE.

I now supervise a staff of eleven, four of whom also drive Camry’s - and getting to know my new coworkers has been wonderful.

My boss, the branch manager, is great. We work together well and have a similar style and philosophy on library services and the same GenX touchpoints.

She has made it known that she’s thrilled to have me on board and the staff has, too. I fit right in, and they’ve all welcomed me and gotten me trained up.

They’ve told me she’s the best boss they’ve ever had and I believe them.

Unlike my last boss, she’s created a low-key and low-pressure environment. There is no tension, no politics, no drama, no sabotage. It’s very straightforward and helpful, with clear policies and expectations. No big egos, no power trips, no disputes, no tiptoeing around, no hidden agenda.

It’s professional, customer-centered, and polite, but it’s also real, and it’s so amazing to be back in my natural habitat.

Out here in the cornfield, I feel right at home.

—

One of the many responsibilities of this new position is to help with programming - which basically means to create classes and events for the community that take place at the library.

I’ve been doing programming for 20 years, so of course, I had a list of ideas during the interview process, and I didn’t hide that I was a writer, or that I had been freelancing with my publishing/editing/coaching over the past few years.

My new boss thought it was awesome. After I was hired, her boss, the regional manager, actually read my book and loved it and knew I’d be a perfect fit for the position.

Sex, drugs, rock n’ roll - my Metalhead Librarian story continues to connect me to good people. This is the power of memoir.

With their enthusiastic support, in January, I will launch my first writing program: a Silent Writing Group at the library.

I borrowed the idea from my friend Lauren Sapala, who hosts regular Silent Writing groups and reports wonderful results from this method. No prompts, no critiques, no sharing required. It’s an accountability group for introverts, a way to find community, and a tool to help form a regular writing habit.

Of course, I’ll facilitate, but I’ll also participate. The idea is to build a community of writers around the library and then to serve that community with regular programs, resources, and support. Right in my wheelhouse.

I think I’ve found a little pocket of paradise out here in the sticks.

–

I was reminded of this idea again recently, like it was a sign.

First it was Liz Gilbert, then I heard it from Steven Pressfield - that you should not ask your writing to support you. That you should not place any kind of monetary pressure on your creative output.

The idea, instead, is that you work to support it. All the choices you make, you work to support the writing.

If the writing takes off - awesome. If you can retire from a day job because of your writing - wonderful. If someone wants to buy the rights to your book to turn into a screenplay - brilliant. But the writing comes first, and the money follows.

(...unless you’ve been hired to ghostwrite a book or are actually employed as a writer, like on a TV show or at a magazine - but in those circumstances sometimes you aren’t working on YOUR stuff. You’re flipping literary burgers, working for someone else to earn a paycheck. Which is great, of course, but not the same thing as working on your own passion project for free and on faith…)

Having a paycheck flowing into my checking account again has helped unlock whatever has been stuck, creatively.

Lately, I feel ON FIRE.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my increased creative flow is linked to the increased money flow.

In fact, it might be a key factor in getting the next two books finished, edited and done. With a regular paycheck, I don’t feel guilty about writing expenses, I don’t feel broke, and I don’t feel desperate. I can just do my thing, on my timeline.

I’m not going to lie: being away from home 50 hours a week is rough, but it’s doable for the purpose of supporting my writing and getting my kids through college. I still have at least one hour every day that I can spend writing.

Honestly, besides being a mom, being a librarian is the one thing I’m “good” at in life. Both came naturally to me, with no big struggle.

But the writing? I struggle with it so much.

Now, at least, I can afford to struggle.

And, it’s a relief to be good at something, again.

I’m so grateful.

-

If I look out across the cornfield, I can see beautiful mountains all around me - the Superstitions, Four Peaks, Red Mountain, The McDowells, and Camelback Mountain, a small triangle hunched out in the distance. The drive to work at sunrise is spectacular.

I’ve come a long way to be here.

And if I look out the front doors of the library and across the parking lot I can see three horses, a couple of goats, and some chickens pecking about a small, old ranchette.

This makes me unspeakably happy for some reason. Horses, goats and chickens, right there!

We are near a high school and a retirement community so we have teens and oldsters, but we also have three storytimes a week, so there are lots of families and little people, too. I love it. We have no issues with vagrants, hippies, or the unhoused. I’m only half-kidding, but seriously - I feel SAFE out here.

One minute, I’m answering payroll questions for HR and filling out schedules and spreadsheets, the next I’m laughing at children’s books, then I’m recruited to help decorate the library, then I’m getting ready for interviews to hire a new Library Assistant. I set up displays, I help customers, I have conversations with dozens of people every day.

My social battery is drained, but I feel like what I do matters. I was born to be a librarian - as much as I was born to be a writer, and a mom.

The thing is, after almost eighteen years at my last job, and with the last five of them spent in a silent war with a mentally unstable, vindictive library director - I had lost hope, I had lost motivation, I had lost confidence.

I wasn’t even myself anymore. I was dealing with something that seemed - supernatural. A dark force. Evil, maybe even. It’s taken me a while to get over it.

But I’m here now and I realize - I AM Ok. I AM over it. I have the story.

Holy shit, do I have the story.

It was all worth it. Painful, but worth it. I lost friends and burned bridges, but I did the right thing. I’ve always known it, but now I can explain it.

I won the war, and this new job is the reward.

There’s a pot of gold out here in this cornfield.

~2000 words / 15 minute read~

Looking back on it, I guess you could call it a Midlife Crisis.

I quit my library job and became a Swiftie.

Four years ago when I left my library career, we were just coming off of lockdowns, my kids were entering a new high school and a new middle school after missing 18 months of in-person learning, and I was burned to complete ash from an intense, ongoing situation at work.

While listening to me describe another average crazy day at the library, my husband finally said to me:

“Seriously, babe. Fuck that place. When can you quit? Can we make it work for a while?”

I had been back full time at the library for three years after coming off of breast cancer. I was taking into account a pension, benefits, vacation days, all that, after almost eighteen years. It wasn’t a decision we made lightly.

And also the fact: this was a career that I had once loved. I’d invested a lot of myself into the pursuit of it. I was proud of my work. The thought of NOT being a librarian anymore bummed me out.

It really came down to this: was the good paycheck and benefits worth my health, happiness, and sanity? Was it worth the risk of getting sick again?

I mean, we still had kids to finish raising. And between my cancer, and then Covid - they’d been through some shit. As a family, we had some new priorities. We decided to call it a sabbatical.

Going down to one income for a while was weird, but doable. Just doable.

I left the job six weeks later.

–

I’ve never in my life walked away from a good job, or been unemployed for more than a couple of weeks. I’ve never collected unemployment. I worked my entire adult life, and throughout my kids’ childhoods, taking on different roles at the library to accommodate our needs as a family.

While on this sabbatical, my plans were to continue my side hustle - teach memoir classes, coach writers, and do freelance editing and consulting. This went well for a while. I did take on quite a few projects, worked with some awesome writers, and earned just enough to cover operating expenses.

Being a stay-at-home-mom is what I really focused on, though. The CFO and family budget queen, procurement specialist, chef, chauffeur, housekeeper, psychologist, organizer, worrier, photographer, laundry-doer, sandwich-maker, snack-maven, errand-runner, in-house barber, cake-baker, and holistic wellness coach for the family.

I’ve loved every minute of it. What a gift - we got to spend good time with our kids as a family, and not just in the margins of two careers.

Over these past four years, I’ve had good time to reflect on my priorities, as a mom, wife, and creative person. I’ve had time to really examine my money issues and beliefs. I’ve always earned a paycheck, and I’ve always WANTED to earn a paycheck. What is my value if I’m not earning for the family? Am I OK depending on my husband, financially? Is this good for us? Is this good for me? What do I bring to the table?

As I’ve thought about it, I’ve realized that all the invisible work I’ve done caregiving and housekeeping and cooking and mothering DO have real value, immense value. This work had value to me, to my family, to my home environment, to my peace of mind. My kids are solid. My marriage, strong. Being a stay-at-home mom enriched our family in numerous, non-monetary ways.

I was lucky to be able to have the choice. I am lucky to have a husband who supported the choice. But, like, we also worked for it and planned well.

And I realized: I don’t have to bring anything to the table.

I AM THE TABLE. I’ve provided stability, comfort, safety, nourishment, empathy, and abundance. We are raising up humans, here.

For this season of my life, it has actually been my MOST IMPORTANT work.

–

I woke up six months ago and knew that my sabbatical needed to end. Kid going off to college, hub eyeballing his retirement in a few years.

I love the idea of being a savvy entrepreneur and working from home, but the reality is: I’m a paycheck person. I need a paycheck to support my family AND my writing.

I also realized: I don’t have a message. I just want to write my books and work on my projects.

As much as I enjoy helping other writers - I’ve realized for now that I don’t want to work on other people’s projects. I don’t want to send marketing emails. I don’t want to teach classes. I don’t want to coach or work as an editor. I don’t want to write copy, I don’t want to build webpages, or create sales funnels, do lots of Zoom calls, or record videos.

Unless it’s regarding me, my writing, my books, for my audience. And I’ll figure that out as I go. I need to finish something - anything - first.

I wrestled with this truth for a few months, tried to rework it into something compelling to monetize, but it always comes down to my feeling that while I know I do have some unique talents and gifts - there are other writing helpers, coaches, editors, and specialists who are skilled at connecting with people and getting their message out to their audience, and who have a lot more energy, focus, and enthusiasm for that kind of work than I do.

I can monetize myself again with a regular old day job. Like, duh.

AND IT’S 100% OK. Not all of us are built for the freelance hustle. At least, not in this season of my life.

I don’t feel bad about it at all. In fact, I feel enlightened and relieved.

–

Once I decided that my sabbatical was over, I started applying for jobs right away.

At first, I wanted something part-time and flexible, and I’ve never been a snob about jobs. I worked fast food as a teen, then retail and sales - I’ve sold shoes, cosmetics, custom furniture, insurance, jewelry, appliances. I’ve waitressed at Chili’s and I’ve been a cashier and admin at Whole Foods. I’ve worked at numerous temp agencies. I’ve been a legal assistant, an executive assistant, a library assistant, and customer service assistant at a bank.

I envisioned myself like the great Barbara Ehrenreich, author of Nickel & Dimed - able to go out and do just about any job, consider it an interesting experience, and use it in a book or to further my writing somehow.

Like, I don’t care if I have a Master’s degree. A job is a job. Maybe I should go sell cars? Maybe I should go get my insurance license again? Find something at Costco? The job market is either awful or terrible depending on who you get your news from.

I also considered being a nanny, a pet-sitter, a family helper/chef/meal-prepper.

But I started thinking about it.

I am 54 years old. I haven’t worked a day job in four years. If I’m going to get showered, dressed, ready, and out of the house with pants on, - and a bra! - I’ll need to use my degrees to get within striking range of a decent paycheck.

Let’s get this kid through college and this man retired. Yeah baby!

I won’t be able to work a day job forever - and I won’t want to. Now is the time.

–

Six months. That’s how long I’ve been at the job hunt. I started applying in April.

For each job I applied for, I tweaked my resume and wrote a unique cover letter. For as much as I hate writing sales copy - I did OK at doing this. A lot of work, but hey, what else am I doing with my life?

First, I applied as an admin to the dean of a big school at Arizona State University: Nothing.

Then, I applied as an investigative assistant in a local police department: Nothing.

Then, for the heck of it: as a librarian with a local adjacent municipality: Nothing

Then, as a library operations supervisor with a different municipality: Nothing

Then I applied as an archival assistant at Arizona State: I GOT AN INTERVIEW, but I wasn’t selected because they reclassified the job into an academic professional position as an archivist, which I reapplied for last month, but still: Nothing. However, the pay is super-low. Embarrassingly low. But to be an archivist…sigh.

Then I applied as library manager at a far-away branch 25 miles away: I GOT AN INTERVIEW, A SECOND INTERVIEW and didn’t get the job. I was crushed, yet grateful. Grinder of a commute.

Then I went for a Library manager position at a smaller, closer branch: Nothing. Gah.

I applied for an insurance sales position with a big carrier - something I could do from home, and I GOT AN INTERVIEW - but I had such an bizarre experience with a person in another country whom I could barely understand and who was using some kind of AI to record my answers, and then made me repeat my answers multiple times, who then called me on a SUNDAY MORNING at 6:30am to arrange a second interview for later that day so I could prep for the third interview with a hiring manager later that week - well, I didn’t even bother to call them back. Sundays are mine, fuckers.

Then I applied for a Reference Librarian job with the State of Arizona. Nothing.

Then, I applied as a librarian with a Tribal Library. I GOT AN INTERVIEW.

The interview did not go well.

Why? When prepping for the interview, I couldn’t find their library web page on the main website, and when I did find it, it was five-clicks deep. The activity calendar hadn’t been updated since May of last year. I found two storytimes a month listed in a newsletter in the Parks & Rec department, but it was buried. When I found the Catalog, it looked like a free version from a vendor, had a bunch of drop-down menus and was barely functional. Their Facebook page wasn’t helpful at all.

This is like Librarianship 101. Ranganathan’s 4th Law: Save the time of the user/reader.

When I expressed my findings to my interviewers during a question, and that I’d advocate for placing a “Library” link on their main webpage, and doing a few tweaks to link up the catalog to make it easier to find, they shared with me that the tribe had just spent the past TWO YEARS re-doing and updating their entire website, newsletter, and social media.

Oopsie.

At the end of the interview when I had a chance to ask questions, I asked what challenges the new librarian might face, one lady looked at me and said:

“Our users generally don’t like outsiders.”

Not surprising - I never heard back from them.

Then I applied for a Librarian job with the City of Phoenix and I GOT AN INTERVIEW - but I declined it when they wanted me to give a 15 minute presentation on outreach and programming. Naw. I ain’t got no time for that. Let the young whippersnappers have at it.

–

In early August as we were moving our daughter to college, I applied for a Library Supervisor position at a branch not too far away.

Perfect job. Perfect opportunity.

I GOT AN INTERVIEW.

I GOT A SECOND INTERVIEW.

I START THE JOB NEXT WEEK.

It almost feels like a miracle. A MIDLIFE MIRACLE.

And get this - my salary will be higher than when I left my career four years ago. Say wha??

I’m completely astonished, actually.

I am also relieved and excited and so grateful.

My Library Confidential book is still simmering while I go live out the last chapters of it. I am eager to finish it and I have a lot of drafting done, but I realize - I was writing from an open wound. I need to let things scar over a bit more.

The new job and paycheck will help with this. I think it will help immensely.

My Papa Project book has been coming in hot - I don’t know if it’s a memoir, a history, or a narrative non-fiction project, but I’ll sort it out as I go. It feels good to get into the flow again.

I feel like I’m getting my groove back.

I’m getting back on the horse that threw me off.

I am officially declaring that my Midlife Crisis is over.

My self-imposed library exile has ended. The Mothership has called me home.

I am rejoining my people.

My season in the abyss is done.

The Metalhead Librarian rides again.

The month of July felt like a year. The year so far has felt like a decade. Ozzy is dead, my daughter is leaving for college, nothing in the world feels normal anymore, but I think music will save us all.

–

My old boss, Brian Slagel over at Metal Blade Records, often explains to people about growing up in the 1970s: you were either a Black Sabbath person or you were a Led Zeppelin person, and your identity as a heavy-music lover was defined by this preference.

I think he’s right.

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I totally grew up a Led Zeppelin person. I LOVED Robert Plant and Jimmy Page - more than I loved John and Paul, more than I loved Keith and Mick. Led Zeppelin was my first rock n’ roll obsession. I wasn’t into Black Sabbath at all.

But, I started listening to Ozzy Osbourne in high school. I loved Ozzy.

My BFF Kathy and I were obsessed with what MTV was dishing up in the mid-1980’s and I have fond memories of us dialing in to vote for Mötley Crüe’s Home Sweet Home video as the #1 request.

In hot competition for the #1 spot was Shot in the Dark, by Ozzy. It was a cool video, showing four metal chicks cruising the Sunset Strip in a convertable, ending up at an Ozzy concert, with hotties Jake E. Lee, Phil Soussan, and Randy Castillo backing Ozzy. One of the girls keeps hearing a weird sound and turns into the red-eyed, werwolfy-chick on the album cover. This is what I aspired to as a teenage girl - to move to LA, look dangerous, cruise the strip, and hang out with hot rockers.

Which I actually did a few short years later, yay me.

Unfortunately, I missed The Ultimate Sin tour when it came through Columbus in July 1986 - I was fourteen. My BFF Kathy went. And Metallica opened. I should have gone. I still kick myself.

Diary of a Madman, Blizzard of Oz, and The Ultimate Sin were in constant rotation in my music collection in the 80’s. I always had an Ozzy tape in the car.

And look, none of us cared what trouble Ozzy got himself into. Biting the head off of a bat? Pissing on The Alamo? Snorting ants? Gross? Disrespectful? Dangerous?

Yes.

But also, fucking legendary.

All of these antics upset the PMRC and the conservative Moral Majority of the 1980s, which was fine by me. Let them think the worst - we knew the music wasn’t satanic. While Keith Richards was Rock n’ Roll cool in his heroin chic of the 70’s, Ozzy was a level above. Or below, if you think he’s going to hell.

I certainly don’t.

–

I have a few friends who attended the Back to the Beginning Black Sabbath and Ozzy charity event in Birmingham in early July.

I watched many of the sets and at the end, with Ozzy up there, looking so frail, determined, heroic - I choked up a few times. He used to run around the stage clapping like a happy seal. Seeing Zakk up there beside him onstage for the last time - ever steady, ever loyal.

Gah, I’m teary even now.

The weight of the moment hung so heavy. So happy, so wonderful, so heavy. The end of an era.

Time marches on. Our bodies are breaking down and doing things we aren’t expecting. Our bodies hurt. People my age and older - we are feeling it.

But seeing so much joy at this concert, I was reminded that our rock n’ roll hearts beat strong and clear, no matter the infirmity.

Seeing the outpouring of love and gratitude for Ozzy has really touched this old GenX rocker chick.

Ozzy made good music, wrote good songs, and by any measure of good deeds and a thoughtful life - he was a good man. Despite his many mistakes and antics - he atoned. He suffered. He triumphed.

In the end he was a beloved artist. A generous man, a kind man, a funny man, and a family man.

A world without Ozzy doesn’t seem right.

I just saw footage of the city of Birmingham cleaning up the flowers, gifts, and tributes. They are creating an archive and catalog of every single gift, bouquet, stuffie, and personal note left in honor of him. After that, every single bouquet is being mulched to be used around his gravesite. Isn’t that lovely? What an epic move by the family.

RIP Ozzy. You were a fabulous part of my rock n’ roll experience.

See you on the other side

–

In June, I landed on my left foot the wrong way and I felt a deep, awful, tendony-twinge - and it’s been bothering me since, so much so that I skipped going to King’s Island with my family while we were in Ohio a few weeks ago.

My family is balls-to-the-walls at amusement parks - they get there when the gates open, and leave when the park shuts down. This time they rode 22 coasters and walked 12 miles.

Now, I might ride the water log ride and the swinging Viking ship, and I’ll go to the top of the Eiffel tower and maybe even ride the Speed Racers. I don’t do big coasters anymore, and this time - I didn’t want to slow them down because of my bum foot. The only thing that feels good is walking barefoot, or in orthopedic flip-flops. But for an all-day outing to an amusement park?

Knock yourself out, fam. I’m out.

Instead, at the last minute, I reached out to Aaron, an old friend from high school.

Monday night? No problem. Aaron’s ex-girlfriend, Erin was playing an open mic set at Eldorado’s with her good friend, Kyle Gass - the other half of the comedy/rock group Tenacious D.

Aaron and Andy, his housemate, were happy to have me tag along. Between the two of them, they know every musician in town, and when we grabbed a burger at a hip brewpub, a group of various players gathered around to say hello and I briefly met a former member of The James Gang, one of the finest bands to ever come out of Ohio.

Aaron and I dated for about six months when we were in high school, and we’ve always had a great musical connection. All these years later and I consider him a brother - chosen family. Andy has been his BFF and bandmate since they were both in a middle school band called Prophecy. They are both gifted musicians and have played in dozens of bands and projects in Columbus over the years.

Andy works as a professional guitar tech and is away from home 9-10 months of the year. He’s currently working with Billy Gibbons, but his most regular gig over the years has been working for Sheryl Crow. He’s done the Foo’s, Katie Perry, Macklemore. Always steady work. Lucky for me, he wasn’t on tour and we got to catch up.

It’s so nice to have old friends - like, people who knew you before you even knew yourself, with the same stupid jokes and musical connections.

When we got to Eldorado’s, the house band was playing: The Geezers - and HOLY SHIT did they rock. All of them, older than me, except for the bass player. A barefoot lady belting it out with two smokin’ guitar players and drummer with a long gray ponytail. I was right up front and bathed in their bluesy guitar solos and stellar harmonies. Good sonic medicine, it was.

It just so happened to be Kyle Gass’s birthday, so there was a small celebration before he took the stage. The evening did not disappoint. It was funny, ridiculous, and joyful. Erin, Aaron’s ex, did a great job. She looked and sounded amazing. Kyle commented on how much he loves Columbus because of how the people there love and appreciate live music

I’ve always viewed Columbus as one of the great “music cities” - so much hidden talent and deep musical appreciation - especially for rock music. And sure, there were younger people in the audience that night, but most of us were in our 50’s, 60’s and beyond. Old Geezers indeed.

I broke my own rule about proper footwear in clubs. I always wear closed-toed shoes because I’ve been stepped on too many times by meaty metalheads over the years. But on this lovely Monday night, I was happy to hobble about the club in my orthopedic flip-flops.

Looking around at the crowd - I was not the only one wearing them.

—

In a week, my daughter leaves for college, and I am not OK.

I mean, I’m FINE, but I am not OK. She’s my firstborn. Her childhood went by in a blink. It’s going to be weird not having her in the house on an everyday basis.

Here is the thing: She’s only moving twenty miles away, to downtown Phoenix.

THANK GOD.

I’m still a mess.

Some of her friends are moving to DC, to Wisconsin, to California. At least my girl won’t be too far away.

But, still. My baby is leaving my house. This mama bird is happy and sad. So proud of her, so happy to see her launch, so sad that her time in my home is winding down.

And, I’ll confess, I’ve not been myself. My writing has wandered off into the wilderness. It’s all been midlife madness, big adjustments, and recalibration. Who am I even?

All I know is,

My foot hurts.

Ozzy is dead.

My girl is moving away.

And, Reality Bites.

But not the heads off bats.

(Sorry. OZZY FOREVER!!!)

The best medicine is in the music, and through it I will sort myself out. I’ll keep you posted.

Until next time, rock on.

AMO

–

I wanted to let you know that my friend and very talented writer, author Christopher Long, has a new Substack.

Chris is the author of Garage Sale Vinyl, which I published on Bibliozona Books last year, and he plans on posting pieces of his sparkling, cozy writing a few times a week.

Chris has been pumping out book reviews, album reviews, movie reviews, interviews, podcasts and appearances on behalf of a variety of media outlets for years now, and I finally convinced him to start a Substack so he could have a permanent home and grow his own audience.

If you like pop culture with a good dash of nostalgia, please do subscribe to Chris’s Substack.

Thanks for your support.

–

AMO

“Where are you going to put him?” My mom asked.

“I’ll know when I get there.” I told her.

He grew up on Oahu, an adopted orphan, a mystery of post-war Hawaii that he never solved.

He spoke fondly of his island childhood. He was an avid surfer, telling me of the beaches he surfed along the North Shore back in the late 50’s, early 60’s. He spoke Hawaiian and could rattle off place-names and phrases. He loved Asian food and culture, and knew so much about Hawaiian history.

Grief is a funny thing. Watching your parents grow old, dealing with multiple health issues - it's hard to process. He was bedridden at the end, nothing like the robust and jolly man I’d known since I was 14.

This past year, I’ve missed him a lot. And I’ve been in a funk. A big funk.

I wish I had paid more attention.

I wish I had asked more questions.

–

While planning the trip, Jim mentioned that he wanted to go check out a giant sandbar in the middle of a large bay.

“A sandbar? What’s at the sandbar?”

I wasn’t happy with the idea. Beaches, hot ponds and swimming holes are one thing, but big water kind of intimidates me, and a sandbar out in the middle of the ocean sounded scary AF.

“It’s a sandbar! There will be fish! It’ll be so cool! We’ll snorkel!” He said.

I still didn’t like the sound of it. Sketchy. Dangerous.

“How do we get to this so-called sandbar?” I said, annoyed.

“Well, we could get on a licensed charter boat with 60 other tourists, which I know you won’t like, or we can find a guy,” he said.

“What do you mean find a guy? A stranger with a boat? A psychopath who is going to take our money and leave us stranded out on a sandbar in the middle of open water? With our kids? Are you kidding me?”

There she is, my inner Sicilian - her words just pop right out of my mouth sometimes.

He acknowledged my outrageous fears and then he found a guy with a boat.

-

His name was Kai. We met up with him in the Safeway parking lot in Kaneohe, where he gave me a warm Aloha hug and assured me we were in for an amazing day. He had good energy and I felt immediately at ease. We followed him and his boat up to the tiny little marina where we parked and launched into the bay.

Kai knew the bay well, he’d grown up in the area and he captained his Whaler with confidence. As we talked, we learned that he was a retired firefighter. I felt even more at ease. We outran a few rain clouds and then headed for the sandbar that glimmered bright turquoise in the distant sunshine.

Kai set the anchor, and when I jumped out of the boat in the middle of this magnificent bay into clear, knee-high water and soft sand - I was giddy.

I’m not a good snorkeler, but I persist. Despite choking on sea water a few times, I saw a ton of fish, and then a honu.

I had this overwhelming feeling that my Daddy D was present, so when I got back on the boat I said a few words and sprinkled some of his ashes into the water. Not all of them. We still had more places to visit on the island. But this seemed like the perfect place to start scattering him.

Moments later, as we were leaving the sandbar, a swarm of Manta Rays were gathered, circling, just 20 feet away from the boat. We slowed down so we could observe their meaty fins flapping against each other in an orbit of joy. Kai said he’s only seen it a few times in all his years. My eyes filled with tears. Just…WOW.

It felt like a blessing.

Kai took us out and around Chinaman’s Hat, then we visited a secret cove and had lunch. Kai had packed some sodas for us, and some fresh fruit. I drank a grape soda, which tasted beyond delicious paired with my Safeway sandwich and macaroni salad. I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever had a grape soda, but if I did it was sometime in the early 1980’s.

Kai had a few rods on board and my James caught his first fish. Kai offered it to us, but I’m like - I’m not prepared to clean or cook a fish back at our rental - so he kept it, bagged it, and put it in the cooler.

After fishing, we headed for a reef and snorkeled a bit more. More beautiful fish to see. More honu. An eel was spotted. Coral was avoided.

We spent four amazing hours with Kai, the stranger with a boat who felt like a brother, a guy we would love to spend more time with. He invited us to his family BBQ that next weekend, but we would be homeward bound by then.

–

I also scattered Daddy D at Ehukai Beach, also known as the Pipeline - where the BIG surfing waves hit in winter and where I know that he surfed regularly. I stepped foot onto the beach and knew immediately - yep, this is a good place for him.

Then, near the end of our trip, I scattered the last of his ashes in Waimea Bay. I knew it then, too.

Moments after I was in the water, scattering the ashes, I witnessed from the beach spinner dolphins leaping mightily - pods and pods of them - jumping with happiness and abandon.

You could hear the murmurations of joy coming from everyone - on the beach and in the water - as the dolphins played. I was overwhelmed with emotion. What a beautiful thing to witness.

Luckily, Jim was out with them in the water. He’s good in the ocean - a good swimmer, scuba certified, former Navy, comfortable in big water - but he’s never experienced anything like this. He got it all on the GoPro. On the recordings, you can hear their underwater noises and squeaks.

One of the most amazing experiences he’s ever had, he says.

The entire trip was amazing. I didn’t want to leave. I was calculating how we could cash out in Arizona and go all in on being beach bums on Oahu.

And maybe, after the kids are done with college and we are in the position to do it - we will do it. Or at least visit more often. But for now, Daddy D was back home and we made some amazing memories with our kids.

Back to the Arizona heat we came, but we left our hearts in the ocean.

2025 has been a hell of a year so far, but one thing I know is that it’s going to be transformational for ALL OF US as it unfolds.

–

I read recently that there are only four species on earth that experience menopause - Whales, Elephants, Giraffes…and humans. One theory - the “Grandmother Hypothesis" - is that given an extended life-span, menopause evolved to enable older females who are no longer fertile to assist their children in raising the next generation. In other words, menopause is a unique adaptation which increases the odds of species survival. The grandmothers, the crones, have wisdom and experience to pass along to the next generations.

I didn’t know either of my grandma’s really well. One passed away when I was seven, the other moved away when I was eight. I had good grandmother substitutes, though. My husbands’ grandmothers were terrific. Sit around and play a few hands of Gin Rummy with an 85-year old and you will LEARN things. One of them being - if they want a pour of bourbon, or a dish of butter pecan ice cream while visiting or playing cards - you always say yes.

–

I’d like to think that humans are as smart as the other three mammals, but lately I’m not so sure.

Now that I have landed on Magical Menopause Island, there are days I feel dumb. Just dumb. And clumsy. Like, why am I standing in my pantry and what am I looking for, again? Why can’t I get more than four solid hours of sleep? And why do I have this weird bruise?

I’ve always understood that this phase of life is not only an evolution, but a HUGE recalibration.

Physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And it can take some time, Going Crone.

I didn’t understand until recently that there is an adjustment period into the Crone phase. I know it settles down eventually, but right now it all looks like and feels like a damn big hot mess - and that’s what it is. And that’s where I’m at.

I saw a series of posts on Threads from an account called kara.is.still.ticking and I wrote down most of it because it was a real “a-ha” moment for me. This reset my thinking in many ways:

• Hot flashes are not about being hot: it’s about BURNING AWAY THE PEOPLE PLEASING PATTERNS THAT NO LONGER SERVE YOU. Holy shit. I’d also add that it’s the hot fire of TRUTH in your throat, burning to be spoken.

• 3am Wakeups: it’s your body saying “Hey remember all the times YOU SAID YES WHEN YOU REALLY MEANT NO? Wake Up! It’s OK to say NO. In fact, you must.

• Mood Swings? You’re not moody: YOU’RE DONE. Done swallowing your rage. Managing other’s feelings. Managing all the details. Making yourself smaller. Keeping the peace. You’re not hormonal, you’re righteously ANGRY. (and might I add, TIRED)

• Brain fog, memory problems? YOU’RE DELETING YOUR PROGRAMMING and anything that no longer serves you. You’re clearing space for your actual desires. You’re finally prioritizing your needs. Your memory isn’t failing - it’s being selective about WHAT REALLY MATTERS. (Again, holy shit.)

• Menopause is about liberation and truth. You stop apologizing for everything. You quit managing everyone’s comfort. You call out bullshit. You honor your own rhythms, live your values, and speak your truth. Which can be a bit incendiary at times to those who aren’t ready for it.

(hint: not your problem)

Honestly, I’ve been waiting for this phase my whole life. I’m READY. And I’m so grateful to be here.

–

As we women go through these adjustment periods, it’s so important to have grace for yourself.

Grace for your own struggles, for your coping methods, for the time it takes to get things done. Especially if you’re an artist or a writer or creator and ALSO a parent or caregiver - sometimes life sucks you into the undertow and you lose momentum. You lose the thread, the point, the story. Your voice.Your nerve.

This is where I’m at, lately. Floating along with the current. Not wanting to struggle. Not sure how to proceed with this Substack. Not sure of my point. Not sure of my value to you. Not sure of the stories I should share or what my responsibility is to my “audience”. Not sure how much of my books, or myself to share. Not sure how to “market” myself, and frankly, I’m tired of trying. I could write about three dozen different topics with ease. Not sure I can pick one. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll continue to wing it. Substack is nice, but it’s just another thing that distracts me in a world of distractions. I’ve been at this for almost four years, and I’m not sure there is a payoff, other than knowing I’ve written a lot of words here and made fun connections.

Book progress? Does it matter to anyone but me? I’ve been working on my Papa project, mostly. Researching. Writing to historical societies. Finding more sources. My computer took a big dump, so there was a delay (and a minor heart attack at realizing it) in reloading my files to a new machine. I realize that I need to beg someone in Ohio for a library card number so I can research a few newspapers that are only held in local digital collections and not in the fancy Newspapers.com archive that I splurged on recently.

Meanwhile, I’ve had almost a dozen people contact me in the last eight weeks about help with their books - either editing, coaching, formatting, a publishing deal, a partnership - and I’ve only said yes to a few small things because I want to keep my schedule open.

Priorities: MY Life happens first. Then my writing. Then someone else’s writing.

–

Recently, I had a member of a metal band from back in the day contact me through a friend. They’d written a book to “set the record straight” and wanted to get it published. We had a great round of emails, and a terrific phone conversation, and I felt like we understood each other.

We agreed on terms, I sent a contract, and then…nothing. He ghosted me. Four weeks of nothing. And this was a friend of a friend!

You know, in the past - I wouldn’t have followed up. Silence speaks volumes - and I get the message. Not worth my time. But this time, it struck me differently. He actually wasted my time. This is what Going Crone looks like:

Dear xx,

I’ll take from your non-response that there was something that you found unacceptable in our communications regarding your book project. When you indicated that you wanted everything in writing and we agreed on terms - I sent a contract based on those terms. Did this piss you off in some way? Did I assume something incorrectly from our conversation and emails? I do my very best to be understanding and flexible. I was super-excited about the project. The contract was a starting point, nothing more.

Still, I can’t help but feel that you did me a huge favor.

How you treat people really does matter. You don’t know me, and I’m good with not knowing you. But I’ll tell you - that’s some bush-league childish behavior by a grown man. No response? No - “hey, I’ve decided to go a different direction…?” Or “hey, I need a few more weeks to get my shit together?”

Silence? It’s a coward’s way out. It’s not the way I deal with people, and it shouldn’t be yours either.

Best of luck to you.

AMO

—

Good manners and courtesy are everything. Honesty is EVERYTHING. Being up-front saves so much time, energy, and emotion. And at this stage of Going Crone, I give zero fucks about saying so.

–

I’ve mentioned before, my girl is going to college this year, and my boy will start driving. The super-intense “mom years” are fading and it feels like I’m emerging from the fog of war. A good war. A blessed war. Totally worth it, but WOW, what an experience. My husband and I marvel at these kids and how fast it went. We are both getting a little misty at times, knowing what the next few years will be like. It’ll be back to the two of us, back to the beginning.

So, we’re going to enjoy our time as a family. Going to shows. Travelling. Family visits. Experiences together. I’m not going to feel guilty for not writing faster, better, more strategically. I’ll find my footing again. I’m not worried. I’ve been at this long enough to know the truth.

And the truth is: The undertow is part of the creative process at times. At some point I’ll break away and swim to shore. I’ve got a life jacket. There is no danger. Only I can decide how long to be in the water.

No need to struggle. I’m going to enjoy the undertow while Going Crone. There is wisdom in the surrender.

See you in the water, or maybe on the shore

.

I’ve loved you since I was a teenager, and I love you still now that I’m old.

Moving from the flat, boring, Midwestern place that I came from when I was younger, your earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides were always part of your charm. I knew the risks but dared to love you anyways.

For a while, at least. While I could.

What I’m seeing now is breaking my heart.

A Great American City under siege by wildfire is shocking. The Palisades are gone.

The videos are horrific. Seeing people abandon their cars to flee on foot down Sunset Boulevard is unreal to me.

This should not be happening.

The tragedy is still unfolding, so we can reserve judgement and blame until we know more, but I have feelings. Big feelings.

I hope you’re OK. I hope you recover. This is a doozy.

We still have people sleeping in tents in North Carolina, which is horrific enough. But somehow there is $500 billion in aid to Ukraine announced while the wildfires are still raging in Los Angeles - and I’m just gobsmacked. I am NOT ok.

What the actual fuck. Are you paying attention?

People have lost everything. The most affluent area of Los Angeles had no water pressure. What is going on?

This one feels different.

I am so sorry. No one deserves this.

Love always,

AMO

—

LA is a place that attracts the dreamers and the doers and the odd ducks like me who felt different and energized in a city where almost anything was possible, where almost any dream could come true. I moved there when I was 18 to pursue my heavy-metal dreams, and again when I was 29, to get my MLIS.

I loved it, but I had to leave it both times. I knew I’d spend my life in survival mode if I’d stayed. Even if I’d found fame and fortune there - LA still asks a price of you that sometimes you can’t pay.

I long for it sometimes, though - the most creative city in the world, full of writers, filmmakers, book-lovers, artists, passion and purpose. Reality and make-believe collide in spectacular fashion there. It’s a city full of characters and story-tellers and culture and great food. A city that is so good to you when you’re riding high, and impossibly indifferent when you’re low.

But the thing about LA is that you can always take a drive.

A drive down Sunset, through history, time, legend and lore, through architecture and landscape, through thickets of memories and secret ambitions and hidden stories. Through old Hollywood, West Hollywood, The Strip, Beverly Hills and Bel-Air, past UCLA and into Brentwood and Pacific Palisades and up along the coast into the wilds of Malibu.

You could drive away from your misery all the way to the ocean. Find a place to pull off, to sit on a beach, and to reset your mind and your heart. A place to talk to God.

Los Angeles is a beautiful city, but it is not an easy city. It requires some sacrifice - and the people who choose to stay and take that bargain work hard for what they have. Generations of families are now uprooted. Insurance coverage? Who knows at this point.

It’s easy to give LA a bad rap if you haven’t lived there. It really is a magical place.

It’s easy to blame “climate change” when you are still processing the incompetence, irony, and reality of the politicians and bureaucrats who left these neighborhoods without enough water. No amount of magical thinking will escape that reality.

Wildfires are a part of life out here in the west. We have them here in Arizona every year. And look, we don’t have great forestry practices either.

I’ll be honest though - this time it feels different. Sinister. I can’t shake the thought that these fires all over the city were intentional, set during an opportune moment by evil-doers. The winds were forecasted.

I haven’t lived in LA in 20 years, but seeing all of this makes me angry, and sad.

So sad. I don’t know what else to say.

To my friends and readers in Los Angeles - Be safe.

Thoughts and prayers, of course.

And then I hope we get some answers.

With love, always.

AMO

It’s been in the 80’s here in Phoenix and people have put Santa hats on their cactuses to help remind us that we live in an alternate reality when it comes to winter weather here in the desert, and I love it.

I’m not much of a shopper or a planner, so Christmas is a holiday I endure on behalf of the children, who are now teenagers, who have always had an enchanting and magical Christmas experience thanks to their dad.

He puts a lot more effort into gift buying, gift wrapping, decorating, and light-hanging than I ever have. He starts buying Christmas gifts in January and it’s always too much but he sure does know how to surprise and delight the kids, and for that I am very grateful. If left to my own devices, I’d struggle miserably.

He’s the Santa, I’m the Yule log. Somehow we make it work.

I always want to speed through Christmas to get to the New Year, but this is our last Christmas with both of our kids as kids. Baby Girl turns eighteen in 2025 and then starts college a few weeks later. My baby boy will be driving near the end of the year.

The time with them has gone so quickly, and now I just want to slow everything down. Maybe even reverse it a little just for a few minutes, back to the time when they were small so I could smell their heads again.

Life is busy, life is good.

The library memoir I’m currently writing has taken a turn towards darker and more divisive topics that I have thus avoided so far on this Substack - POLITICS and COVID, ANYONE? - and honestly, I’ve been struggling with what and how to present it to this mostly peaceful and energetically positive mailing list.

Do I keep it private? Keep dancing around it? Save it for the book only?

I’m not sure. I just know that I can’t write this memoir without exploring politics and my own experiences and perceptions over the years.

Libraries are political entities and becoming a librarian was a political act. A commitment to public service, spurred on by my belief in the First Amendment and that an informed citizenry was essential for living in a well-functioning democratic republic. It was my way of living my values.

Ahh, I was so naïve…

This is how I feel about writing about politics on Substack - a funny piece.

Should I Do Anal?

You know, there’s a tiny bit of that ‘ick’ factor. To me at least. I don’t judge other people, it’s not my business, it’s also not my thing. I’ve never “done” it.

“It”, or politics.

THAT SAID, I HAVE THIS URGE.

I kinda just want to let it hang out and enjoy myself. Get my freak on. Did I really just say that?

I’ve come to accept that I’m going to offend or disappoint some of my readers. Maybe not today, but at some point over the next year, or whenever.

And I hate that thought. But also, not enough to not do it.

So, for 2025, to hell with fear and loathing. It’s going in the trash.

For me, 2025 is about truth and disclosure. There is big “liberation” energy afoot - new ways of thinking, new perspectives, a return to our purpose.

I, for one, am optimistic. Terribly, wonderfully, optimistic. Whatever awaits - bring it on. I am ready.

Balls to the Wall.

In addition to the memoir, and the other projects I’m pecking away at and circling around, I want to post more often to Substack, do some librarian shit like book reviews, write random essays on obscure topics, and share interesting tidbits and commentary on the social order.

Some people just ain’t gonna vibe with the direction I need to go, and that’s OK.

If you’re an open-minded, free-thinking person, a rational individual who appreciates diverse viewpoints, an avid reader of controversial things, a questioner of authority and official narrative, who perhaps has a dark sense of humor or irony, a realist who seeks truth and vibrates in a higher realm where truth matters, who wants to expand their own consciousness, and human consciousness, and who won’t become weird if I have a different, darker viewpoint - you’re my people.

I hope you’ll stick around. It might get spicy.

I often look through old pictures to help the memoir-writing process, and I came across one recently that definitely spurred a part of my story, so I’m sharing below. Still rough, but it’ll be in the book.

When I stated in my 8th grade American History class that George Washington probably died of syphilis, my bespeckled and bearded teacher, Mr. Woodruff, choked on his coffee. I was usually quiet in school, but I loved history.

And look, I wasn’t the greatest student either. Solidly average until I went off the rails and almost failed out of high school. But, I was always reading. Whatever caught my fancy at the library - I would devour.

“I also read that Lincoln suffered from the affliction, as well. And probably Hitler, too, if we’re being honest”. I don’t even remember where I read it, because this was the early 1980’s, long before STD’s became a mainstream subject and the focus of public health education.

My classmates snickered and laughed. Saying “syphilis” out loud, I might as well have said “fuck” in class. I was a little surprised at their reaction.

Luckily, Mr. Woodruff was a cool teacher and a low-key funny guy. Instead of ridicule or scorn, he looked amused.

“Well, it could definitely be a possibility as we just didn’t know much about historical afflictions of that sort. Officially, they say he died of pneumonia, but who knows? ” he offered.

I saw Mr. Woodruff a few years later while I was working my first paycheck job at Sister’s Chicken & Biscuits, a brilliant little offshoot of Wendy’s, which was founded in Columbus, not too far away from where I lived in Westerville.

I made $3.45 per hour, I could walk there after school, and I ate for free every shift. I worked with my BFF, Kathy, which made the job fun - and we didn’t mind that the fry cooks listened to Van Halen and Def Leppard. I occasionally got stoned with them out back while taking the trash to the dumpster. We served breakfast, but I usually worked the dinner and closing shifts.

My favorite position was the biscuit station/salad bar, where your only assignment was to mix up, punch out, and bake trays upon trays of delicious buttermilk biscuits from a big double-door oven, as well as take care of the salad bar and refill it as necessary from bins in the refrigerated walk-in.

You didn’t have to deal with customers or a money drawer, but you were hot, you were cold. If it was busy, you hustled. People ordered those biscuits by the dozen.

We used real butter and buttermilk. And it was a terrific salad bar.

In fact - everything we served was pretty amazing. Sausage gravy, creamed chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with ham, baked beans with bacon, creamy coleslaw, seasoned rice, chicken breast fillet sandwiches, wedge fries, and the most perfect strawberry shortcake - a thing of beauty, legendary around Ohio. A ladle of strawberries and syrup on a buttermilk biscuit, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a squirt of whipped cream.

*CHEFS KISS*

And for the record, THE FRIED CHICKEN WAS EXCEPTIONAL, ESPECIALLY THE SPICY BLEND.

I’ve always loved the spicy stuff.

The menu was brilliant. Fucking brilliant. I mean, it was a fast food joint.

Anyways, all that to say, sometimes I did work the drive through window, and one evening, Mr. Woodruff drove through. His voice sounded familiar on the speaker. When he pulled up and I saw it was him, I couldn’t help myself.

“Hey Mr. Woodruff! Do you remember me?”

He peered up at me through his glasses from his little brown Honda hatchback.

“Why of course I remember you! George Washington’s syphilis!” He grinned.

“Yes! That’s me!” I was delighted.

He paid, and I handed him his Diet Coke, chicken sandwich and wedge fries, bid him a “take care!” and he was on his way.

He didn’t remember my name, but he remembered what I’d said in class, even years later.

It was even better than being recognized as a good student. I was never a good student - I didn’t think I was capable. Not until I started college at the age of 25, at least.

But, I was a reader. And I just like knowing things. Sometimes things that most people don’t know. Sometimes things people don’t like to talk about.

You know, the spicy stuff. Stuff that makes you think, feel, burn a little.

It’s like I’ve always been searching for the secrets of the Universe, the meaning of Life, and how to find Everlasting Happiness. Like an itch I can’t scratch.

And with those questions that bugged me like a bad wool sweater, I always found relief at the Library.

—

Happy Festivus, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Thank you for being here and see you soon.

With love,

AMO

I’ll be honest, I’ve felt a disturbance in the force these past couple of weeks, seeing the death toll and aftermath of Hurricane Helene. And now with Milton bearing down, I have multiple friends currently evacuating their homes in Florida.

My heart is heavy, as I’m sure yours is. I am saying prayers for all those affected.

With that, I’ve been trying to wrestle this post into something readable for two weeks now and I think it’s time to just send it as is and move along to the next thing. 

There are lots of “next things”.

And! I almost forgot: To celebrate its five-year publishing anniversary, I still have my first book Adventures of a Metalhead Librarian on sale right now on Amazon.

The paperback can be all yours, freshly printed, for $9.99. 

–

As a part of my ongoing effort to adhere to a daily writing routine, I’ve also started declaring Wednesdays all for myself.  Writing Wednesdays. With our family schedules, it’s the best day. 

I don’t make appointments or plan any errands.  No grocery store trips, no fussing over dinner.  I abandon myself to the writing work and leave the family to fend for themselves in a fully stocked house.  

It’s been going fairly well so far. We’ve found a routine with the school schedule, but when the kids are on a break, like this past week, I adapt. 

I still get up early and do my morning routine, and as I was settling in this past Wednesday to work at my desk, I stumbled across a one-hour video I wanted to indulge in - a conversation between author Elizabeth Gilbert and writer/entrepreneur Marie Forleo. 

Liz's Big Magic is one of the best creativity books out there, and I thought, ooo, I can’t wait to dive in. I knew it was just the medicine I needed - a creative pep talk from Sister Liz. 

I got about five minutes into the video, then, the distractions set in.

The dog, the cat. Hunger. Husband. Lunch. Texts come in. Amazon delivery. Kids come out of their rooms, bang around the kitchen, and one of them starts watching a movie. 

The normal stuff. People gotta live. I’m just sitting in the middle of it all, trying to keep a loving attitude, knowing - it won’t always be like this. 

And so, the one hour video took me almost five hours to watch. It was almost comical given the topic of the video.

The thing that struck me most was the advice she gave to women, especially to women who have children (she herself is child-free by choice):

People will take and take and take from you until you have nothing left to give because you've been trained, as a woman, to serve, to give, to be available all the time, and to sacrifice on behalf of your career and family. 

Your alone time, your creative time, is of no value to anyone else BUT YOU. 

I burst out in a quick fit of tears. Oh the truth of it! I thought to myself. I felt so SEEN.

Liz Gilbert’s advice: If you’re a writer, you must be GREEDY for your time. 

Oy. 

Greedy?  Not a term that goes hand in hand with family life, you know?

First thing that pops in my mind: Gordon Gekko: Greed is Good. 

Do I have to be ruthless? 

Well, shoot. 

Maybe the Mom guilt and constant accommodation is yet another convenient block. Resistance, in Mommy form.

My kids are young adults. Almost 15, and 17. They’ve been watching me work on my writing for ten years now. They are good kids, grateful, good students, affectionate, polite, funny. They are competent in basic life skills. 

They know I need time and space to think and write, even if I do have to remind them sometimes.

I’m never going to stop worrying about or thinking of them.  Even when they fly my little suburban cottage nest, they know they will always have a safe place in my home. 

But Mama’s gotta write, little birdies. Mama’s gotta write. 

Wednesdays are MINE. 

–

I've had some really great, inspiring conversations these past couple of months, and it reminds me of how much I NEED to talk and engage with other writers.

It’s weird to say it, but as a person I rarely get lonely. I putter, I tinker, I cook, I read, I paint. I was an only child. I’m built for alone.

As a writer - real loneliness is almost a daily thing. 

I’m on a deserted island, and I don’t have a Wilson to talk to.  I think a lot of writers are this way, and it really does feel good to connect with other creatives.

 In early August, during a quick trip to Las Vegas for my friend Lonn’s birthday party, I was surprised at how many people wanted to talk about the books they were writing, or wanted to write. It was so refreshing to be surrounded by that kind of creative energy and enthusiasm. 

These were my people - eclectic, interesting, real, fun.  Rock n’ Roll types. Vegas types. What I loved most was how downright vulnerable and open they got with me, right away, about their writing projects. 

Of course, I went into coaching mode immediately. Or maybe it’s Librarian mode?  I answered questions about publishing, how to actually “start” a memoir (this can stump people), legal implications of sharing personal stories (especially about famous people), and the hardships and joys of drafting and editing. I asked questions about their plans, I encouraged, I advised. 

About a week after I got home, I had a great conversation with Jasraj Hothi, a writer and creative based out of the UK. It had been a year since we’d last touched base.

In the past, he’d had me on his podcast, and included me in author interviews for his previous book. Since we last connected, he’d traveled, taken a sabbatical from his work to regroup, had a few epiphanies, including his new book, which I’m reading right now. He’s a gentle soul with a sharp marketing mind, and I adore our chats. 

Jas introduced me to his friend, Shelly Francis, of Creative Courage Press, and I’m so glad that we connected. Shelly and I have a lot in common, and I’m so impressed by all that she’s done both as a writer and running an independent, hybrid publishing company - it gave me so many ideas for the direction I could take Bibliozona Books in the future. 

Shelly created a really helpful set of oracle cards called Supposing Oracle Cards: Reflections for Accessing Your Wise Inner Artist. I love the many ways you can use them in your daily journaling or creative practice.  

Both conversations were so refreshing, and it also helped put things in perspective.

For the first two years of my retirement, I focused on creating an income stream with teaching and coaching, but for this past year I’ve let it all kind of fall away.  No classes, no outlines, no marketing myself as a coach.  I blew up my website, ignored my mailing lists and let my free giveaway go stale.

It’s been a relief, actually. I was able to just focus on the needs of the family, and growing Bibliozona Books with the publication of Garage Sale Vinyl, as well as working on my own stuff. I still take clients - just by referral. So much easier this way.

And the perspective I gained from my writing friends is that - every writer who also coaches (or offers services and help to other writers) often sacrifices their own creative projects and desires in order to keep their author-business thriving. 

I know I did it. I know others have been stumped on how to balance everything. But I’ve gotten to the point where I’m not going to worry too much. I’ll get back to it at some point. No timeline.

I just don’t have the capacity to do all the busywork behind the scenes - writing copy, marketing, website, graphics, etc. That energy needs to go towards my books, my screenplays, and…me. My needs. My wellness. ME.

Greed is Good.

I do love “coaching” and consulting and memoir and being a resource for writers, but not at my own expense. Any help I give is hollow if I am not willing to help myself first. Right?

I’ll admit something, though - even with my past experience with a super-awesome and wonderfully chill writing coach, Lauren Sapala, who helped me so much with my first book - when I hear the term “COACH” the ONLY image that pops in my mind is former Pittsburgh Steelers Coach, Bill Cowher.

“The Jaw.’ 

I think the reason he was such a great coach was that he had three daughters, who undoubtedly kept him in check at home.

On the field - hoo-boy, look out. You might get hit with neck veins, hilarious fits of rage, and spittle. Watching him on the sidelines was as much fun as watching Troy Polamalu and Jerome Bettis make great plays. 

But, you know, this is writing and that is football, and although I feel football can be incredibly creative, it is not writing, and writing definitely doesn’t need to be shouted at. 

Writing, I think, does better with coercion and bribery, like with chocolate, or new pens.  

And if writing did need shouting at, I wouldn’t be the one doing it. I’d be eating the chocolate. And buying the pens.  

But then again, if Coach Cowher were yelling at me from the sidelines, I probably would have had my book done a year ago. 

-

Thank you for reading.

Please feel free to share or reply - I love hearing from you. Also, you can follow me in the Substack App and read and interact there.

Meanwhile, I’ll be in here in Arizona, waiting on the temperature to dip below 100 Degrees. Happy October!

Substack sent me an email with a recap of my “Summer Reading” a few days ago and somehow I clicked a button and it was sent out to my email list - on my old account, that I’m not using any longer. Sorry for the spam to your inbox! 

I also have a few more posts planned and half-drafted - all of a sudden, ideas are coming in faster than I can write. Here is the latest.

Happy Autumn to you!

September 

For my birthday last week, I had mentioned to my husband that I wanted to drive to Sedona to see a guy named Darryl Anka, who channels an alien entity named Bashar, who is a first-contact specialist from another planet in our multi-dimensional Universe. I’ve been familiar with Bashar for a few years or so, and I took it as a good sign that Mr. Anka was appearing in Sedona on my actual birthday. 

Still, talking about Bashar with a straight face to my husband - I know it sounds “out there”. But he’s used to this by now, my woo-woo interests. 

He’s a scientist, too - like, a real one - and you’d think he’d be closed-minded about metaphysics and woo topics, but no - he understands that metaphysics is really just - physics.

If you can wrap your mind around a few concepts about the quantum field, then all of it explains itself, really. 

Anyways, we didn’t end up going to see Bashar because a plan came together (with Hubs’ four siblings) to surprise his parents for his Dad’s 85th birthday - a couple of days before mine - in Ohio. He flew out for the weekend.

Bashar will have to wait, and the birthday gift was the alone time.

Hub and I are home together every day. We’ve been married 27 years. A few days apart is always a nice reset. I’m glad he was able to go.

I thought I’d get a lot of writing done but the weather changed and I cleaned the house. I was able to purge a closet that had been neglected for a while. 

As I sorted through my stuff, I was reminded that when you grow up poor, you tend to hang on to things forever.  I’m not a hoarder by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m pretty frugal and tend to tuck usable things away if I have the space. 

Three years after retiring and leaving my day job - I still had a full work wardrobe there in my closet. 

Some pieces I bought twenty years ago. I’ve kept them “just in case.” 

But really, just in case of what? I’ve asked myself. 

What am I fearful of, exactly?  Do I need 9 pairs of dusty work pants that don’t fit anymore? 

Truth is, I don’t need any kind of professional wardrobe at this stage of life. What a relief it is to realize it. And if I do need something, it’s OK to buy something.  Even if it’s off a clearance rack or thrifted. 

I don’t know how to get over being frugal. Maybe I don’t need to. These days it’s more about the thrill of the deal and not being stupid with money.

(Toothpaste at Target: $3.99. Exact same tube at Dollar Tree: $1.25. This thrills me, friends, to no end.)

But I do need to work on the fears that motivated the frugality for so many years. 

After a while, holding onto all that stuff in my closet just becomes clutter. It’s stuck, dead energy. 

Mentally and physically. 

Purging gets energy moving. It puts intention into action. I ask myself:

How will I have room for new things if I don’t purge old things? 

How will I have room for new habits if I don’t purge old habits? 

How will I recognize blessings if I don’t let go of fear?

How will I ascend to new levels if I don’t cut the dead weight? 

–

About two years ago, just as I was hitting the big changeover from juicy hormones to dry rage (just kidding) - I was just feeling bloated for a few weeks. Too much bread, probably, I thought. 

But it was twenty pounds that appeared out of nowhere. I was told it would happen by ladies older than me who went through it, but I somehow thought I’d be exempt. 

Nope. Not exempt.

It’s been a little surreal, honestly.  I’ve always been naturally “medium” and active, not too thin, not too thick, BMI in the low 20’s and overall pretty healthy except for the boob-cancer thing eight years ago. 

Now that I understand why and where the weight came from, I decided to spend  most of August going through a detox cleanse, and part of September, too, to kick off my 53rd year.   

I won’t go into specifics, but it’s been quite thorough.

I have seen things. I’ve already lost five pounds. 

I think our physical space represents our mental state - and our mental state generally is reflected in our bodies and in our living atmosphere. 

Generally.

A purge of both is necessary sometimes. 

Gotta clean your only home.

–

I always perceived creativity as an entirely mental process - that writing, especially a memoir - was a MENTAL thing. 

But no, It is also a very very PHYSICAL thing. 

It never really occurred to me until recently that a serious exercise program would help release emotions up and out of me.

I just read somewhere that our bodies are actually built for energy storage and transmission and that the crystalline structures inside our bodies - our bones, our Pineal gland, our very DNA - are part of our antennae. Our bodies pick up, record, interpret and remember information just as surely as our brain memory.  

You know, when you can “feel it in your bones” or your “gut feelings”. It exists beyond our logical mind.  

Instinct. Intuition. Muscle memory. Dreams.  Our bodies are a hard drive, and we can transmit that information to future generations - whether it be through books or writing or art, food, other culture, in a thousand different forms. 

We know that emotions affect our physiology, too. Living in a state of fear or constant stress will age you faster, suppress your immune system and make you more susceptible to disease. We know that those gene expressions can be transmitted across generations, as well. 

I wonder, what generational information lives in my body? What do I need to do to learn from and honor it? What are my ancestors telling me about survival? 

What can I do to adapt and stay clear in the modern age, surrounded by physical and energetic toxins?

I don’t watch the mainstream news. I don’t watch violence. I stay away from negative people.

We also know that certain organisms, like mold, fungus, parasites, heavy metals, and virus’ can affect both our emotions and physiology. 

And so, I purge. I clean. I organize. Physically, mentally. 

For writers who are introverted and intuitive, taking care of the physical form and clearing those energy centers are a way to tap into those memories, and venture into the Quantum Field - where there are infinite timelines to harvest ideas from, where there is pure love and intention for the act of creating, and where the past, present and future can collide into a story that only you can tell.  

Clear the body. Clear the mind. Open the channels. Release the old and receive the new.  

I’ve been tapping, slapping, brushing, bouncing, stretching, sweating, spending time in the sun, eating clean with no seed oils, sleeping more, taking my buffet of supplements, purging, solarizing my water, listening to binaural tones, talking to trees and animals as usual, and I’m getting plenty of good living enzymes and minerals from the earth. 

Things are moving along. My body feels recalibrated a bit, much less stiff, a lot more tan. My frozen shoulder is better, my sore knee is no longer bothersome.

Next, comes the weight lifting.  

-

When I was a little kid, running would put me into panic. 

My heart hurt, I couldn’t breathe, I’d often feel like crying. Quick, fun spurts were fine, but having to run around a track at school? Awful. Just awful for me. My heart skipping beats and racing always had a weird effect on my mental state. 

Many years later, a few years into my career as a librarian, I had the same racing, wonky heartbeat without running around a track. A cardiologist diagnosed a heart issue. 

Whether it be from confrontations with patrons or staff, public speaking, performing story-times - it was a constant fight-or-flight. Whether the work was actually stressful, or whether I was perceiving it as stressful - same result. I was bathing in adrenaline and cortisol every day.  

I’d get home from work, feeling like I’d run a marathon. I smelled like stress-sweat and would have to shower sometimes. I had no capacity for anything other than mothering my children and maybe being a halfway decent spouse.

Creatively, I was dead for many years as I struggled in survival mode. 

Living in survival mode was ingrained from childhood, I’ve realized. 

Physical fitness wasn’t ever talked about. There was only working for the paycheck, and breaking yourself for it. Anything else was considered lazy.  It’s what my family did, what my grandparents did, what my mom did. There were no “mental health” days. 

As my mom used to say “No one owes you anything.” Meaning, if you wanted something you had to work for it.

Retail, waitressing, front-facing customer service, caregiving - all physically and mentally exhausting. I know this from experience. To take time from already physically and mentally demanding work to go to the gym for a workout - that wasn’t a thing when I grew up, like ever. 

But, I’m a big girl now and retired from my day job. I’m doing the thing I’ve always wanted to do. 

It really is OK to take care of myself now, finally. 

I do not have to be in survival mode any longer, because…

I SURVIVED.  I’ve survived A LOT. And I’m OK.

It’s just an old habit of mind, and body, and it served its purpose. I’m of an age now where I can handle my shit. 

As I’ve worked on the money and body issues over this past year, I understand better now how survival mode, money, physical health, and creativity are connected. 

I feel like I’ve done some good work, but it’s time to do the heavy lifting. 

I have a weight bench (currently covered in teenage-boy sweat), weights, kettlebells, resistance bands, yoga mats, and fascia blasters - all here at home.  

Ironically, it turns out my grandfather, Papa, was a competitive body-builder, before he had a family. I inherited his competition photos, as well as a pair of eight pound iron dumb bells.

I love using them, they feel so good and solid in the hand. I feel his energy there.

I think it’s part of my genetic inheritance. He’s telling me: Lift heavy, lift hard, get strong, build your bones, stay mobile, grow old.

He lived to be 91.

Time to show myself the same loving patience and encouragement that I’ve shown my children. 

Time to care for my body like I care for my house. 

At 53, I’m finally starting to relax.

Like, FOR REAL, Relax. 

I can let survival mode go. I can let it all go.

There is no more “just in case.” 

There is only right here, right now.

Bashar’s Five Laws: 

1. You exist…you always have and you always will. (immortality of existence)

2. Everything is Here and Now (no past, no future)

3. The One is the All and the All are The One (consciousness)

4. What you put out is what you get back. (reality is a reflection)

5. Everything changes except for the first four Laws. (Change is the only constant).

She lived in a nice little colonial on Samaritan Avenue with a backyard full of trees and roses. It was the kind of house that had a Davenport and fancy drapery. She and her husband had one daughter, whom they’d adopted because they couldn’t have children of their own. That daughter was grown, living in Florida, and was single with no kids. 

I stayed with Laura May while my mom was going to college, working, and taking care of my dying grandmother. I remember missing my mom and being sick a lot myself, but Laura May took good care of me. In many ways, she became my surrogate grandmother. And I, perhaps, her surrogate grandchild. 

I know she enjoyed having me around. 

In summer, I’d get to Laura May’s house early, while she was still in her modest cotton nightgown and robe, with her long gray hair in a braid down her back. I’d go sit with her while set her hair for the day: she’d spray it with a little mist of water, section it, brush it, roll it around her fingers and the pointy end of the brush, and pin it properly all over her head. 

She made us eggs and toast and peppermint tea for breakfast a lot, but sometimes it was oatmeal and black tea with milk and cubes of sugar. The house had one of those old-fashioned kitchens with huge wooden pantry built-ins and a door for the milkman. The tea was loose-leaf, in tins in one of the drawers. We used a little hinged spoon with small holes that you’d snap the tea into and pour the boiling water over.  

We’d have simple soup-and-sandwich lunches eaten at the sunny kitchen booth, sometimes I’d stay for dinner and it was always hearty - a roast, a chicken, pork chops, potatoes mashed or boiled, eaten with her husband in the formal dining room after he got home from the car dealership he owned. 

Laura May was a Christian woman, and I had a lot of Jesus-learning from her. Of course, this was also during the time where I was starting to listen to KISS, hoping and fantasizing that Gene Simmons, The Demon, was my father - so I had that at least. 

Thinking back on it though, that Bible stuff is probably what piqued my curiosity about the supernatural - about prophecies and revelations, signs and symbols, miracles and magic. It’s everywhere in the Bible. The Book of Revelation especially fascinated me. 

In addition to Bible books, Laura May also had a small library in her sunroom, plus all the books that her daughter had left behind. Even though I was in a quiet house with an old woman, I was never bored. 

What I remember most about Laura May, though, was that she was an expert at crochet. 

She had a hook in my hands at 6 years old, and she had bins full of yarn. She showed me, hand to hand, sitting on the Davenport, how to make the chain and each of the stitches. 

I was crocheting granny squares and Barbie blankets in no time at all. Sometimes they turned out really wonky, but I was young.  I never learned to read a crochet pattern. I’d freehand everything and would sometimes get frustrated. 

–

Over the years, I’ve always kept a few hooks and skeins around. I’ve never made anything more than a few potholders and bad scarves. I’d check out books at the library on crochet, but pictures and patterns were hard for me to understand. 

In March of 2020, just as Covid was ramping up, I pulled out some yarn and started crocheting a mask because I was in such a state as to believe that a crochet mask with yarn holes a mile wide would somehow protect me from the a virus so small that no one has ever seen it under a microscope. 

I didn’t use my crocheted mask. It was white cotton yarn with a red decorative border and it looked like a maxi-pad hanging off my face. 

During this time, my daughter wanted to learn a few crochet stitches. We started with the basics, of course, but she was hopelessly frustrated. How do you make it look so easy? She asked. Her little fingers struggled. 

I had no answer other than I just retained the muscle memory. 

–

About a month ago, I saw an Instagram post showing a crocheted cat hammock - that’s right, a CAT HAMMOCK - and I wanted to make one for my cat. 

So, I pulled out the hooks again. Found a full skein of yarn. I told my husband I was just noodling around. The yarn felt so good on the fingers. 

I watched a couple of Instagram reels, then a few YouTube videos, and I made the hammock. 

I still have to mount it, but the cat sleeps on it in a cardboard box that she’s adopted as her bed. You know how cats are. 

Dear reader, I’m obsessed. With the cat, yes of course, but also the yarn. Just like my writing, I’ve been crocheting every day. Stealing 15 minutes here or there, while dinner cooks, or while we’re watching Jeopardy.  

There is something to the rhythm of it - the fingers being engaged - that works out the knots in my brain. It puts me into a zone that is similar to when I’m in a writing zone. 

Maybe The Zone is The Zone no matter what you’re practicing. 

–

Over this past month, with all of this new yarn now coming into the house, watching my recliner chair and TV area and desk be overtaken by at least 4 projects in various states of completion, with baskets overflowing, my husband eyeballed the scene and stated the obvious:  

“Babe, we live in Phoenix. How many blankets do we actually need?” 

(Ironically, his grandmother, Ethel, was also a master at crochet. We have her blankets in our linen closet.)

Ha! Of course. Yes.

We don’t NEED another blanket. He’s right. We have plenty of blankets. Too many, probably. 

But then I thought, we have plenty of books, too. 

How many more books do we really need? Will I never buy another book to read because I think I’ve got too many? Should I never write another book because there are too many already?

No. Heck no. 

I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t NEED to.  

The point in crocheting the blanket isn’t necessarily the blanket. 

The point in writing another book isn’t necessarily the book. 

It’s the process, the learning, the up-leveling of skill and expertise. It’s the doing. The faith in your creative vision. The completion.

The product is the happy result of the process. 

I can’t wait to finish the blanket, and I can’t wait to finish the book. 

They are related activities. At least in my mind.

I’ve created a life so that having a few extra blankets or books around the house doesn’t really matter. If I have too many, I can gift them away with love.

What a luxury. 

I learned recently that they’ve not yet invented a machine that can duplicate hand-crocheting. It’s a completely human, analog effort. 

Crochet will never be taken over by AI. 

ONLY HUMANS CAN DO IT. Just like good writing. 

YES. That parallel suits me just fine.  

–

Recently, I was able to meet up with my friend, photographer Mike Savoia. He lives up in Seattle, is an old-school metalhead, and his mom, Charlotte, lives here in Phoenix. 

Mike and I were introduced by dear Lonn a few years ago, and have stayed in touch on the socials. I don’t do Facebook much anymore, but Charlotte friended me there, and we started chatting, and the last time Mike was in town to visit her, we all met up for lunch and it was like I’d known her for decades. She’s 82, sharp as a tack, and very stylish. 

Anyways, recently I saw in a post she was selling her house and moving up to Seattle - sick of the Phoenix heat. When I saw that Mike was in town with Journey, I reached out to see if we could meet up so I could bid her farewell. 

It worked out and we met up and had a great breakfast two weeks ago. I gave them each a copy of Garage Sale Vinyl and Charlotte told me she had something for me as well, so we went to her car and she pulled a big heavy shopping bag out of her trunk. It had a ribbon on the handles. 

I reached in, touched it, caught a glimpse, and said OH MY GOD!! 

I unfolded a big, beautiful, hand-crocheted blanket in the restaurant parking lot. I was so touched and shocked, I almost started crying. 

Dear Reader, IT’S ALMOST UNCANNY the timing of this gift, mere weeks after I started crocheting again.  It’s a whisper of something, an affirmation. 

I’ll cherish Charlotte’s blanket forever. A labor of love by a surrogate elder. The colors of the blanket match the colors in my living room rug almost perfectly. I couldn’t have chosen better yarn myself. 

What a beautiful reminder of the things and people I’ve loved, and the time and care it takes to craft these things: blankets, and stories, and books. 

There can never be too many. It’s evidence of our humanity. 

May the legacy of Laura May live on in me.

May Charlotte’s blanket be enjoyed for decades. 

May Ethel’s blankets be cherished as heirlooms.

May the writing flow. May the Zone come easy. 

Even if we’re just noodling. 

Until soon,

AMO 

Hope you are having a terrific August so far. 

I do love Arizona in so many ways but August in Phoenix is a season unto itself- one that must be endured, as I have learned to do for the last 29 years of living in the desert. 

August is my lay-low and take-stock month before my birthday.

In September, my first book, Adventures of a Metalhead Librarian, turns five, I turn 53, and I’ve been retired from my library job for three years.

I’ve come to a few realizations, and I’m finally feeling - I don’t know - settled? At peace? There is an adjustment period, for sure, but I think I’m finally adjusting into my middle age and able to set new routines so that I can thrive into my old age.

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a note to myself that I wanted to take a solo road trip in August, with the idea of maybe a cabin in the high country, or at least a Groupon-cheap local resort pass where I could write and go swimming and take a couple of days away from my mom-wife life. 

What happened instead is that I drove to Las Vegas to see my friend Lonn and attend a birthday party & book signing event for him.

And then I met up with my old boss Brian, and watched live stand-up comedy by one of my favorite comics and artists. 

No writing got done, but here I am now, and it turns out it was exactly what I needed to recharge my battery. 

–

When I was laid off from my job at Metal Blade Records in 1992, Slayer’s manager, Rick,  told me to call Lonn M. Friend over at RIP Magazine to see about a job - and it sounded like a great idea.

Everyone knew who Lonn was. RIP was THE premier heavy rock magazine back in the day, brainchild of Althea Flynt, who’d plugged into the punk and metal scenes that had exploded in LA in the 80’s. RIP was published by her husband Larry Flynt, under the Hustler umbrella.  I’d been a fan of Lonn’s since he put Guns N’ Roses on the cover of RIP in 1988 when I was a junior in high school. 

(If you’ve read my memoir, then you might know some of this…)

Anyways, I wrote Lonn’s number on a post-it note at Rick’s insistence, and stuck it in my address book -  and like a fool, I never called him. 

It was a week after the Rodney King Riots in LA. The city was still smoldering.  It was a strange time. I was debating whether to stay in LA - tired of hustling to survive. 

A week later, I was gone. 

-

Flash forward to six years ago, early 2018, when I had just gone back to my Librarian job after being treated for breast cancer.

Lonn popped into my Instagram comments. We had a lot of mutual friends of course, but it was a fun surprise to finally meet him this way. 

Instagram has turned out to be one of the best tools I’ve used to connect with people. As a writer, it’s been downright magical. 

When we first met, I was still writing my memoir, Adventures of A Metalhead Librarian, my hair was growing out, I was still super-weak from chemo - but  Lonn gave me some encouragement and attention that I desperately needed as a writer. And as a human being. 

We messaged a bit, got familiar via email, and then he came to Phoenix for a visit. I asked him to write the foreword to my book. And we’ve been dear friends ever since. 

–

From Phoenix, the drive to Vegas is a mixed bag. It takes a solid hour to get out of the Metro area, even with traffic flowing and no slow-downs. Phoenix - it’s BIG. 

The next three hours, the road is terrible but the scenery is magnificent. Desert, cactus, mountains, Joshua Trees, iconic western skies. Then you hit the highway chaos of I-40 for a little ways and cut north through Kingman for a rough and ugly hour’s drive before crossing the Hoover Dam and Lake Mead, which is awe-inspiring.    

I won’t lie. I listened to Taylor Swift the entire way there. 

I thought my Camry was going to lose a part or two on the grinder of a road, but she held together just fine. She’s nine years old now, but in Toyota years, that’s like, three. We bought her last year as a second car, a run-around car, something the teen driver could use without us flinching. For this trip, it was my Getaway Car and she was flawless. 

Some days, I have to take the newer, bigger 4x4 SUV out and about on my errands, but honestly, I adore driving the middle-aged, ordinary sedan. 

There is something very “metal” about the ordinary. I made it to Vegas on ¾ tank of gas. She’s efficient, comfortable, dependable, non-fussy. A bit of wear and tear and a few nicks, but no major damage. Still looks respectable, maybe even a little edgy since I put black hubcaps on her. She’s built for the long-game, not flash. 

As a person, I relate very much to being a reliable, competent, low-maintenance, middle aged sedan. Instead of hubcaps, I put black eyeliner on myself everyday for a little edge.  As a human, and as a writer, I’m also hoping for the long-game. 

–

Upon arriving at the venue for Lonn’s gathering, I started meeting people who knew who I was, or who had read AMHL, and to my delight, many of them were already my Instagram friends. I had to ask their handles so I could put names and faces together. I also ended up selling the last copies of my book that I had on hand - as well as Garage Sale Vinyl. It was such a fun event. 

Lonn’s friends are eclectic, artistic, interesting characters. I met Lisa, and Val, and Mel, and Julia, and so many others.  I loved hearing their stories and being able to connect with them. I even met former Kiss guitarist, Bruce Kulick, whom I saw on the Hot in the Shade tour, 1990, Long Beach Arena - which I write about in AMHL, so I gave him a copy.  I also made sure he had a copy of Garage Sale Vinyl, since it has a KISS chapter. 

What surprised me most were how many people who told me they were writing a book or a memoir. Knowing I’m a writer, and a former librarian - people talked. I loved it.  I answered more questions about writing and publishing than I have in a good, long while. Who knows, maybe amongst them is my next publishing project?

A photographer friend who I’d met at the Metal Blade Anniversary party in 2022, mentioned he had extra tickets to see Brian Posehn at a comedy club not far away, so I took him up on the offer, and I ran into my old boss, Brian Slagel, which was awesome. Talk about a small world. We were sat right next to each other one row apart, so we got caught up, and afterwards, he invited me to stay and meet Brian Posehn.

I’ve been a fan of Brian Posehn’s for a long time and I wish I could have asked questions about his long career, his Just Shoot Me, Californication, and Big Bang Theory episodes and experiences - but instead of all that,  me and the two Brian’s talked about heavy metal music. 

I mean, what else would we talk about? Just look at us.

I made it back to my hotel late, slept intermittently, was up at six to shower and pack up and meet Lonn at 8am for the shockingly decent free breakfast down in my non-casino lobby. We made plans for another visit soon, and I was home in Phoenix by 2pm - exhausted, energized, and extremely grateful for the creative boost, the good energy, the solitude and beauty of a long drive, and all the great people I was able to connect, and reconnect, with. 

Writing is a solitary endeavor, and then there are days I am lost in the tasks of life - kids, pets, groceries, laundry, meal prep, plus being a decent partner to my husband, and making sure my mom has what she needs as she adjusts to her new life - but for 36 hours I was just me again, solo, AMO, The Metalhead Librarian, the girl who shows up and expects magic to happen. 

I am never disappointed. 

Sometimes, showing up is all you have to do.

Thanks, Lonn. 

And thanks, Jimbo, my hub, for letting me be me.

–

Part Two: Coming Soon.

~ 2300 words ~ 15 minute read ~

Whenever the energy is big and I’m feeling wonky, I check the planets to see what’s going on and sure enough - we are coming up to the end of a big cycle, not only globally and galactically, but on personal levels, too.

Have you felt it? Like, wanting to close out old business, re-evaluate everything and start fresh? Move to somewhere new? Reinvent yourself in some way? Turn the page?

For me, all signs point to yes. This Substack was one place it was apparent. More about that in a minute.

Don’t get me wrong, my life is good. I don’t really want to change anything about it, except myself, and for the better. 

Maybe the Phoenix summer is making me restless, but personally, I’m sick of this version of me and want some relief from the imposter syndrome that keeps popping up like a funhouse clown every time I sit down to write.

Any other creatives feel me? Overthinking? Distracted? Things are taking so much longer than I had anticipated.

But I also have to allow myself some grace. I’ve got teenagers, and a disabled, newly-widowed mom. The dog has an ear infection. A kid needs new glasses. School starts next week - and my routines will change yet again. 

You know - real life. Sometimes it’s intense. It’s hard to get to that '“other place” in my mind where I can go deep. When it comes to my kids, I don’t want to miss a thing - and I know my blocks of time will widen as they get older.  *sob*

I also know that I’ve got a touch of the post-partum book-launch blues from launching Garage Sale Vinyl, by Christopher Long, back in May.

Even though I didn’t write GSV, I gave it a lot of love this past year. It’s such a good book, and I’m proud of the product Chris and I put out into the world. It’ll find its readers, as good books always do. 

Now, it’s MY time. 

And hopefully, I’ll clobber the imposter syndrome with a scuffed baseball to win the prize. I’ll keep taking shots at it until I do. It’s a game of “Down the Clown”.

The prize? Finishing my own book. I’m looking forward to the relief of it. 

Chris is already writing another book. 

I gotta giddy-up to get this one done and in the pipeline.  

—

In the 1970’s, when I was a kid, my mom went to college. It was pretty unusual back then, especially in our small town. She was almost 30 and divorced, and like single mom’s everywhere, she somehow made it work. 

I bounced around to different sitters, and when my mom couldn’t find one, I just tagged along to her jobs, to her classes, and to her study groups and student events. 

My absolute favorite place to go with her was to the Ashland College Library. I was never a loud or rowdy kid, so letting me free-range in the library while she studied or met with her group was no big deal. Even though it was an academic library and not exactly kid-friendly, there was plenty there for me to discover. 

This was when academic libraries still had robust and deep reference collections, walls and walls of indices and guidebooks, and of course: 

The massive and beloved Card Catalog. *drool*. 

There is something quite sensual to me, at least in my memory, about pulling out that LONG drawer and working with the cards, making notes. 

I was reading at a pretty early age, so once my mom showed me how the subject catalog worked and the basics of how the LC call numbers worked, I learned how to find books on topics that interested me. 

I mean, who hasn’t known the absolute joy of clutching a fistful of neatly-cut scraps of paper with secret codes written in tiny golf-pencil scratch while wandering giant shelves of books, looking for the treasure? 

C’mon, now, that’s straight up thrilling to me. A ticket to paradise. 

Often, I wouldn’t find my book, but I would stumble on to something better. 

Anticipation. Disappointment. Serendipity. Delight. All right there in the stacks.

These were academic books, too, with big words and illustrations, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing for a seven-year-old to be exposed to.

—

My favorite place, though, was the Reference area. I loved the huge shelf of the Oxford English Dictionary, the way it was bound and printed, the smell of it, the font - all of it was a delight to me. 

The maps and atlases - loved those so much.

And don’t even get me started on the encyclopedia sets.

There was a student copy center/bookstore in the lobby area of the library, and sometimes I’d wander over there, too, just to look at all the notebooks, pens, and school supplies. Sometimes my mom would buy me a new pen, or a little spiral notebook, and they had a machine that, if you placed a nickel in the tray and jammed it in, a new fresh pencil would spit out the bottom.

A MAGIC PENCIL. There was a crank sharpener fastened to the wall near the reference desk. 

It’s an obsession that I still have - pens, pencils, notebooks, notecards - much to the bemusement of my husband who doesn’t quite understand, but indulges me anyway.  He’s a left-handed scientist. He’s the kind of guy that finds one cheap Bic pen, puts it somewhere logical, and happily uses it for years until it’s dry. And he’ll gripe if it goes missing. It’s HIS pen. Out of all the hundreds in the house. 

Me: I need all the pens everywhere because surely one of them will unlock all the writing that is stuck in my mind.

And they will be bought randomly and hoarded, tucked away in spots all over the house because who knows where inspiration will strike.

– 

After mom graduated, we moved to a different small town with an excellent public library that was only a mile or so from our apartment and not far from any of my schools, so I spent a lot of time there, too. 

The Westerville Public Library was the first place I ever used a real computer.

They were an early adopter of a computerized, digital library catalog. The PAC - Public Access Catalog. We had field trips from school to learn how to use it.

It was something like:

Press F2 for Title search

Press F3 for Author search

Press F4 for Subject search

—

For years, they maintained the analog card catalog for the old timers, but I found myself using it less and less. 

This was like 1982, I was in 6th grade, and here I was using a goddamn computer and just starting my life in the exciting digital future that my generation was promised. 

I suppose all of this roaming around libraries and love of pen and paper set me up for a future life as a librarian, and a writer, and I’ve loved watching technology develop over these past decades. I’ve loved learning to use it, personally and professionally. And I’ll keep using it. On the whole I think it’s been revolutionary. A net positive. 

But we, my generation, are not digital natives. Our brains are still a little feral, free-range, and analog. 

It’s part of the legacy of being Gen X.

–

I’m a curious person and always have been. I love researching random and various topics and for years, I’ve struggled with how to manage my intellectual life - how to gather and organize my ideas, my reading, my notes and tidbits. 

As a librarian, I love and appreciate systems of order for information retrieval. I just assumed that in this day and age, it all had to be digital. 

Over the years, I’ve tried a lot of different ways: keeping stuff in Google Notebooks, then One Note, then Evernote. I’ve tried literally dozens of digital-organization tools, everything from link-keepers to mind-maps, to wiki’s, to Notion - and for YEARS I’ve been searching in vain for a way to engage and organize my own personal notes and ideas in a way that goes beyond tagging, or notebooks, or anything linear or time-based.

Because the moment I open any of those tools on my computer, I get sucked away - distracted from the original intent and I end up looking at houses on the beach in Malibu, or I’m on Amazon ordering more pens. 

—

I stumbled onto the idea of a Zettlekasten many years ago, but couldn’t quite comprehend then how it would be useful. 

More recently, as I was doom scrolling and not writing, I came across a book called Antinet Zettelkasten by Scott P. Scheper. 

If you’ve been reading this stack for a while you know that I use note cards, and I’m a jotter. I have a couple of large piles of notes - tidbits, outlines, scraps, scenes, sources, quotes -  but have been struggling to find a way to organize them in a way that will work for my writing projects, and for my life.

Then I read this book by this dude and my brain caught on fire.

Maybe the answer to my frustrations isn’t to be found in a digital format. 

Maybe it’s time to go back to the old school. Analog. 

—

I’ve always kept notebooks and journals - especially during high-stress or emotional times - and I think it’s good for mental health, in general, to journal things out by hand. I know many writers who write entire books in longhand. 

But when working on non-fiction ideas, as a writer, using journals and notebooks isn’t ideal. Even bullet journaling wasn’t quite what I’ve been looking for. It triggers my perfectionism. 

It felt tedious and too precious, because I really dislike messing up a notebook.

That’s why I love note cards. Non-linear, portable, sortable, permanent, yet disposable, and doesn’t ruin the entire thing if you need to add or remove parts of it.  

The author explains so much in this book about how our brains learn, think, compute - the power of handwriting, and how ideas from deep, intentional reading can be recorded and harnessed. 

He calls it an ANTI-NET Zettelkasten. 

OMG, the brilliance. 

He even talks a little metaphysics - as in, your Zettelkasten becomes an entity of its own that you will communicate with as you work on your ideas as a writer. It’s supposed to act like a second brain, and to provide the opportunity for serendipity as your ideas and sources develop.  

If it’s my second brain, well, then, it’s my family.  I’ve named this second brain Serafina, after my Great-Great Grandmother, born in 1823, Sicily. May she be a steady force and provide me the wisdom and enlightenment I seek over these next years.

It has set my writer heart aflame with possibility, and with hope. 

It’s an amazing concept and I resonated at it’s usefulness immediately because finally - a non-linear way to record my ideas, and to find them again, and engage my mind in the deep, non-distracting environment that going analog provides. 

—

But let me back up a minute.

You ask: So, what the hell IS a Zettelkasten? 

MY VERY OWN CARD CATALOG!!!

Do you understand how thrilling this is? 

The nice thing about it is that it grows with you as you work on your projects, and it’s meant to be developed over time. Just like a library catalog.

Although the author shares his way of numbering and filing the cards with dashes and dots and symbols - meh, too fancy. No need to reinvent the wheel.

For me, it’s Dewey Decimal all the way. It is what I know and how I think about organizing subjects and authors.  It’s simple, effective, and infinitely flexible. 

And I tell you what: Letting go of the idea that there is a perfect digital solution for all of my organizational and creative needs is absolutely liberating.

There is no next thing to search for, no more wasted time. No forgotten folders buried in other folders. No subscriptions or passwords.

This is it. Me and the notecards. And the pens. All the pens.

I’m going back to the basics. Back to the simple joys of my childhood. Ink, paper, serendipity. Analog. 

Meet my Zettelkasten, Serafina. Hope in a note box.

As we finish out the big energy cycles and reevaluate our futures, I know for me personally, this analog enlightenment kind of feels like I’m looking at things with fresh eyes, turning a page, and starting anew. 

Happy full moon weekend! May your next chapters start imminently.

–

Housekeeping tidbit:

In the theme of starting anew, I recently discovered that I broke my Substack in such a way that I could no longer process new subscribers.  

After going around with tech support of both Substack and Stripe for six weeks, there was no resolution at all. 

Yes, I’m annoyed. But, I also love the platform and want to keep using it. 

That’s what I tell myself. 

Truth: I just don’t want to deal with any tech stuff right now.  I need every brain cell for writing. I’M TRYING TO FINISH MY BOOKS AND A SCREENPLAY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!! 

So, I said to hell with it and I chucked the old account. 

I mean, it’s still there, but I won’t be posting to it. Thankfully, I had a spare account, unused, because I’m a digital hoarder. I still have some tech stuff to tweak on the new account, but it can wait, and I was able to migrate my posts and my subscribers.

However, my followers on the app may want to find me again at @annamarieobrien.substack.com. 

Also!

I’ve turned paid subscriptions back on. 

To celebrate the relaunch and keeping with the theme of starting fresh, I’m discounting the monthly and annual subscriptions by 20% for the next couple of weeks.

(There wasn’t a way to discount the Founding Member plan, because you choose the amount you want to chip in there).

Maybe in the future, when I get a few more writing samples done, and I go shopping for an agent, and they sign me, and we find a big market for my books and/or screenplays, and I make a million dollars from my ideas and stories - Substack will be obsolete to me. 

But for now, I am an independent writer cobbling together an income. I write, I coach, I edit, I publish, I consult. But there are cycles, and there is churn. Most artists and writers have multiple streams of income.

It would be so awesome if I could make Substack one of mine.

—

And finally - a big shoutout to Abby, my long-time subscriber, who not only pointed out the problem with my Substack, but acted as my beta-tester multiple times, and then came in as a Founding Member when I got things working again - what a blessing she is, and I am so, so appreciative.

Writing can be lonely and fraught. Your sharing, reposting, interacting, reaching out with thoughts or encouragement - all of it is a type of energetic support that is needed, and welcome, from my community.

So, I’ll keep doing the work and sharing it with you. The more I write, the less imposterish I feel.  A book will be born! You’re watching it manifest, right here, and in real time.

So, thank you for your continued support - energetic or otherwise.

With love and gratitude,

AMO

PS: If you made it all the way down here, and you don’t know and didn’t Google “Rage For Order” - it’s an album by Queensrÿche, one of my favorite bands from back in the day.

I have it on vinyl. Screaming in Digital is a track from the album.

When I try to come up with titles for my newsletters, I almost always default to Rock n’ Roll. I can’t help myself. I’m the Metalhead Librarian, after all. :-)

~ 2000 words ~ 15 minute read ~

Flying into Columbus, the greenery shocks the eye. I grew up here, but I’m always astonished at the full humid lushness of an Ohio summer.  Living in the desert tunes the body differently. Our greens are gentle and sage-y, the air is dry, the sky big and open most of the time. I never feel socked in or claustrophobic.

I am calibrated to Arizona.

This visit was oppressively hot, too. Ohio during a heatwave doesn’t feel much different than Arizona except our air conditioning works much better, even during humid monsoon season. I forgot that it stays light until 9:30pm in Ohio, and that’s a big ‘no thank you’ from me. I enjoy Mountain Standard Time all year long.

Ohio also has tornados, which no one wants to experience, truly. There is nothing pretty or fun about a tornado. I remember all the sirens and drills. I’ll take the lightning drama and desert dust of an Arizona monsoon any day over a tornado. 

But even with all that I don’t like about Ohio, I do still love it. I never get tired of the pizza. I love the wildlife and flowers. And family, of course.

I think when you’re born in a place - the molecules from that place never leave you.

–

I have quite a few projects going on right now in various states of being, and I’m fighting different fears with each of them, so instead of completely stalling on one thing, I poke at another project and consider it progress.

One of those projects is The Many Adventures of Little Giacomo - which started off as curiosity at family rumors and lore and has now taken on a life of its own as I unravel a fascinating story about a 5’1” Sicilian immigrant, my grandfather. 

When I look out at the green lushness and humidity and big rolling rivers and old-growth forests of the Buckeye State, I try to look at it with the appreciation that my grandfather must have felt for this place when he arrived here in 1911, aged 18. Fertile, safe, full of promise, not too crowded.

I know from my work as a memoir coach and teacher that many of my readers are working on memoirs, and I’ve come to find out that I have quite a few of you also writing family histories. 

And as I am doing both of those things, I realize now that there is a connection. Writing Papa’s story is part of my story. I feel like he’s communicating something through me, and I’m gently pulling at the threads to unravel it to share with you. 

–

There are many chapters to his story, and most of them are set in Ohio, aside from his birthplace in a village in Sicily that has a history going back thousands of years. 

If you’re a long-time reader, you may remember that Papa, as a younger man in Marion, Ohio, owned a fruit store. I have some evidence that he was being extorted by another Sicilian, or possibly the Black Hand Society, notorious for such crimes in Ohio at the time. The man he had a feud with ended up dead. Papa was convicted of manslaughter, along with his brother, Tony.  Both were sent to the Ohio State Reformatory, in Mansfield, Ohio - a place made famous in The Shawshank Redemption. 

They both served 18 months in what surely was hell on earth. Papa got out and registered for the draft in 1917. He listed his occupation as a waiter in a restaurant in Ashland, Ohio. He started over, again.

He started over again many times, as I’m finding out.

—

Of course, I didn’t know ANY of this years ago when I inherited an old hotel register book from The New Delmont Hotel, an establishment that Papa owned in Lorain, Ohio, from 1921-1925. It’s a giant book, too big to store upright vertically, so it lays flat, just as it was meant to do when it was a work-a-day book. 

In that big book are signatures of hundreds of people from all over the upper Midwest, including the signature, multiple times, of a well-known Mafioso - but I can’t verify for sure if this is THE Frank Costello. 

Not yet, at least. But wouldn’t that be something?  

My mom has told me for years that Papa was offered a thousand dollars a month (back then!) by the mafia to run liquor and keep prostitutes at his hotel - which he staunchly refused to do even though it would have been easy.

The address, 21 E. Erie Street, no longer exists in Lorain, so I went to the Sanborn Fire Maps at the Library of Congress, and I found exactly where the building was. 

The New Delmont was located next to the Black River, near the shore of Lake Erie. Shipyards and railroad tracks served one of the busiest ports on the lake and the hotel was just a block east of downtown Lorain along the Erie Viaduct Bridge, as it was called. 

Then I started looking at old photos of Lorain, and researched the railroad and shipyards, and I found aerial shots and all kinds of visual information, and finally - there she was. A white 2-story building with a porch that led directly to the footpath across the bridge, and a unique cupola that made it stand out once you know what you’re looking at.  She’s there, on the left, in the photo, taken about 1914. 

The Lorain Historical Society was able to find the original lease that Papa signed.

(I love historians, archivists, and librarians. I will always be a part of that tribe.)

Anyways, the building had been a beer brewery owned by a German man. I’m assuming, with Prohibition in full swing, he could no longer do that. After researching the history of the German brewers in Cleveland and Cincinnati and realizing how many were decimated by Prohibition, I think it’s a safe assumption at this point. 

I don’t suspect that The New Delmont was a high-class place given its very blue-collar location, but it seemed to have steady business except for a six-week interruption in guest signatures and dates in the summer of 1924. 

-

I’m coming to the conclusion that Papa spent his life trying to outrun and outwit the Mob to some degree.

They’d extorted him and his brother in Marion and he ended up in prison. They were after him in Lorain. In Ashland, where he eventually settled and raised his family, he was visited by federal agents in the early 1950’s at his cement block factory asking if he knew anything about another certain mobster.  

Papa was a smart man, self-educated, fluent in five languages, toughened by a hard life. My mom says he told the agents that he knew nothing, and even if he did know something, he wasn’t stupid enough to cooperate with the police. He was in his 60’s at that point. My mom was a little girl.

He didn’t want to be involved. He wanted to run a business, raise his family, and fully participate in the American way of life without being at the mercy of mobsters or the law.  He’s had enough of both.

But Mother Nature?

She can be a real gangster.

–

On June 28, 1924 - One hundred years ago today, on a brutally hot Saturday afternoon - probably not unlike the week I just experienced - the deadliest tornado in Ohio’s history hit downtown Lorain.

It blew in off the lake, hit Sandusky first, then came ashore at the crowded beach at Lorain. It leveled the public bathhouse, made its way south through downtown and devastated the entire city. 

I’d never heard about this tornado until I was researching Papa and Lorain. 

Growing up in Ohio, all we ever heard about was the horrific Xenia tornado of 1974. It leveled the town in a mile-wide swath, and 32 people died. 

The Lorain tornado of 1924 killed 85 people in total. It swept people out into the lake to drown, it toppled buildings onto children, it threw railroad cars around like toys and stripped houses clean off their foundations. 

It’s a tornado that not many people remember anymore. 

–

I asked my Uncle Johnny before he passed away last year, “Did Papa ever talk about a great tornado in Lorain?” 

“Why, yes he did!” He said in astonishment. “Papa did tell me that there was a great storm in Lorain - he didn’t call it a tornado - that killed many many people. He was at the post office at the time the storm hit, and they huddled in a vault until the storm passed.”

Wow. 

I found the old Post Office in Lorain.  One of those solid federal buildings, it was only a half a mile away from The New Delmont, south on Broadway. 

This is what Broadway looked like as he emerged from the Post Office.

. 

His hotel is the white building at the bottom middle of the above photo. It survived! 

The hotel register shows the last person checked in on June 26th. The next person checked in August 17th.  He stayed open for almost another year.

I don’t know what Papa did during those six weeks after the tornado. Most able-bodied males volunteered for clean up and civic duty so I assume Papa did the same. It is estimated that more than 7000 people were left homeless. 

The Red Cross took over and provided soup kitchens and tents for people to live in for the summer and Lorain rebuilt quickly.

In December of 1924, at the age of 32, Papa became a full American citizen at the Lorain County courthouse, nearby.

In 1925, he was back in Ashland, taking college classes and entering fitness contests. He had his picture published in Strength Magazine. He took correspondence courses for writing, and he wrote short stories and tried to get published. I have a couple of dozen of his rough drafts, written in his elegant hand, or typed out on the typewriter that lived in his office. 

To make a living during these years, he opened a restaurant along Main Street in Ashland which he operated until mid-1929. He also had a torrid affair with a married woman who worked for him. 

In October of 1929 he returned to his village in Sicily to marry my grandmother, stayed six months, and was back in Ashland by July of 1930, waiting tables again. I have his handwritten diary of this trip.

Mama joined him with their son, my Uncle Jim, in September 1931. Two more sons were born in 1936 and ‘37. My mom arrived in 1947, when Papa was 55 years old. 

Born Giacomo Baptista Bonfiglio in Sicily, Convicted as James Bonfiglio in Marion, Naturalized as James B. Bon in Lorain. Known to his friends as Jim or Jimmy. 

He was my Papa. He passed away at the age of 91 in 1983 when I was 11.

I didn’t know him well, but I do remember him. I understand that this project is one of his gifts to me. This is the next best thing to a real relationship I could have with him as his youngest grandchild, the only daughter of his only daughter. 

Getting to know him this way helps me understand the ancestral lineage and resilience that flows through my veins. An absolute refusal to quit trying to live a life of freedom and dignity. 

And now I need to finish this thing. 

I need to finish ALL the things.

I’ve got a screenplay, a memoir, and a fiction project to work on. Many more books to publish. He’ll be there. I can’t help but think he’s watching over me. 

He survived that tornado in Lorain one hundred years ago today and I am the only person left to know about it in our family, to figure it out, to bear witness to what I know he experienced. He was there.

And I am here. One hundred years later. Through him, I feel like a time-traveler.

And that’s why I have to write about it. I can’t write HIS memoir, but this might be close enough.  

Thanks for leaving me all the clues, Papa. 

I usually have the alerts on my phone turned off, but the weird, cosmic ringtone interrupted us and made us jump and laugh. I don’t even know how I got that ringtone. I miss calls all the time. I barely know how to use my phone, sometimes. Tonight for some reason, it rang.

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 It was my step-dads hospice nurse, Sharnae, sobbing for me to “come quick, Miss Anna-Marie.” I didn’t even ask. I just knew. 

I ran to pee, yelled to my daughter to put some water and ice into my Yeti, grabbed my flip flops and purse and keys and phone and a long-sleeve shirt because I was wearing a tank top with no bra, and I wasn’t about to put on a bra. I was out the door in 90 seconds. 

My parents live 11 miles away from me and it normally takes 20-25 minutes to get there on surface streets. Tonight though, I got on the freeway, pushed hard in rush hour, and made it in thirteen. 

Paramedics had been called, and the police showed up to take reports. Emergency vehicles were everywhere. I parked askew amongst them and ran to the condo. Sharnae met me in the carport. We hugged, and sobbed.

She’d been my stepdad’s nurse for 6 months. My mom, who is 4’10” and uses a walker, got to the point that she couldn’t do it by herself anymore after almost two years of full-time caregiving. Sharnae was good, and she loved him. Of this, I have no doubt.

This woman is my sister, now.

When she first started, they’d bonded, and she caught glimpses of his humor and spark even through the challenges of congestive heart failure. I have no doubt that he loved her, too. She cared for him with a gentle touch, like a mother would. 

And in the end, he was too weak to swallow the pills. All the fucking pills. They’d tried to save him, but he was gone in an instant.

—

He was born an orphan on the island of Kauai in 1946, shortly after the war, and before Hawaii was a state. He was adopted by a nice family and raised on Oahu with an adopted younger sister.  He was told his biological father had been in the war and was of Scottish descent, and his mother had been young, like 16. It was all he knew about his birth.

I said my goodbye to him as he lay on the hospital bed in the living room, still warm to the touch, just a whisper of the vibrant, loud, and jolly man I’d known since I was 15 years old. My Daddy D. A left-handed fellow Virgo. He loved stationary and pens. He loved history. He was the hardest worker I’ve ever known. He had a huge impact on my life and in so many ways.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was good.

My real dad, the Vietnam Vet, the Marine, passed away more than a decade ago. I think about him all the time, especially around Memorial Day. He used to walk in Memorial Day parades and a couple of times had joined Rolling Thunder, traveling to DC on his Harley to honor fellow veterans. Vietnam messed him up, and boy did he suffer - medically, emotionally, PTSD, alcoholism, drug addiction. He died alone and drunk in a trailer park, and it still haunts me. 

And it occurs to me that I’ve really lost two dads. Two very different, imperfect men whom I loved. 

–

I sat with my mom and Sharnae in the kitchen while his body was still in the living room until the funeral home came to pick him up, almost three hours later. I texted my hub, asked him to tell the kids; and to take care of dinner. I went in and talked to Daddy D every so often. I felt his presence still *right* there nearby, and didn’t want him to be lonely or scared. 

He used to tell me of his childhood, spent surfing and swimming and roaming the North Shore, sunburned with curly hair blonded by the sun, working in the Dole pineapple fields, eating fresh fish and island food and driving a VW Beetle with his surfboard sticking out, never knowing a season of weather until he moved to the mainland. He’d suffered a rather gruesome foot injury as a teenager (he stepped in a pineapple crusher) which exempted him from military service, so he went to college instead. 

He’d tried to find information on his birth parents over the years and when he did a DNA test a few years ago, the shock of his life was that he was actually an Eastern European Jew. We all had a good laugh about it, and wondered how that came to be, but it reminds me now that sometimes the greatest mysteries of our lives are never solved. 

He loved that I was looking for my Sicilian family line. He’d gone through my mom’s inherited family documents and put them all in plastic binders with sheet protectors long before I’d become curious about my family history. He made sure things were organized and preserved, and it was only years later that I recognized all the work he’d already done. 

As I sat in the living room with him for a few minutes, in the hours after he passed, I pictured him back there in Hawaii, in the wide blue Pacific, surfing freely with a lean and healthy body, swimming with dolphins in the glinting sunshine, being a teenager again in the 1960’s with his whole life still before him. 

And I thanked him. I thanked him for being what he was for me and teaching me how to use chopsticks and to drive a stick shift and for buying me pens, for encouraging me to follow my dreams to Los Angeles, to Arizona, to write my books. I thanked him for being a good husband to my mom, a good father-in-law to my husband, and a good grandpa to my kids.

The man from the funeral home finally showed up. My mom said goodbye to her husband of 38 years. I went home and stayed up with my husband for a while. I took a Benadryl for sleep, and in my dreams I talked to Daddy D all over again, in full conversation. He looked great, and was joyful, and he was very glad to be where he was. He was just fine, he assured me.

–

The next day, Saturday, happened to be my daughter’s junior prom. She’d been fussing and preparing for weeks.  I drove my daughter to the park with a bunch of her friends, all of them decked out in prom dresses and fresh mani/pedi’s. 

For almost two hours, we took pictures and the girls had fun, and all of us parents stood around and chit-chatted. I didn’t mention anything to anyone.

I just took it all in. Such a beautiful day. There were geese honking and baby ducks swimming and bunnies hopping and bright sunshine and a fountain spraying water in the lake nearby and making rainbows.  

It almost felt surreal. The grief, the joy, the bittersweetness of life as we get older. Watching our parents die and witnessing our kids bloom -  all within 24 hours, sometimes. 

–

In the month since he’s passed, my mom is starting to recuperate, my kids have finished school with honors and awards, I debuted as a publisher with Garage Sale Vinyl, life is mostly good, and I’m grateful, and I'm sad, and I miss my stepdad. Like the ocean waves, grief creeps in and then recedes.  

My son starts his freshman year this year, back at the same school as his older sister for the first time since Kindergarten. She’ll use my car to drive them both to school, which starts in July.  I realized today that last week was the last time I’d be driving either one of them to school on a regular basis. She’ll be off to college next year. 

Ahh, the waves. Sometimes they come out of nowhere and knock you over.  

We are planning a family trip to Hawaii in 2025 to celebrate my daughter’s high school graduation. We took the kids over in 2014 when they were small, and we stayed on the Big Island in an area that is now under lava.  This time we’ve decided to stay on Oahu so that we can take the kids to visit Pearl Harbor, and the USS Arizona Memorial. 

Of course, Daddy D is coming with us, too. At least maybe a tablespoon of him, in a baggie, to sprinkle upon some beautiful beach along the North Shore. I think he’d like that. 

Then a little part of him will finally be home, back where he started. 

May he surf in the sunshine, eternally. 

Richard T. McKee

9/12/46-4/26/24

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First things first. 

I’ve been talking about it for months now, and the day is finally here - Garage Sale Vinyl, by Christopher Long, is out now and available for purchase via my imprint, Bibliozona Books. If you’re interested and just want to order instead of reading this whole thing, here are the links. 

Garage Sale Vinyl - Amazon Paperback 

Garage Sale Vinyl - Amazon Kindle eBook  

Garage Sale Vinyl - Barnes & Noble Paperback

It’s also available at independent bookstores if you prefer - just ask them to order it for you. ISBN 978-1733247047.

Quite a few people have reached out wanting to know how they can support GSV, and I went ahead and compiled my best suggestions below.  These can apply for any reader or fan who wants to support indie writers and publishers in general. 

I’m sure there are a ton of things I’m missing or forgetting, and many people don’t participate in social media - that’s ok. But if you like the book, help a girl out and do consider at least reviewing or sharing it with other people who you think might also like the book. 

Other ideas:

• Mark Garage Sale Vinyl as “want to read” in your GoodReads account, and then read it and rate it. 

• Actually purchase the book - we tried to keep it at a very fair price point. 

• THIS IS HUGE! After purchasing, leave your positive review on Amazon, and rate with stars.

• Reviews don’t have to be a dissertation - just write what you enjoyed about the book, why you think others would enjoy it, and how it made you feel. 3-5 sentences will do the trick! CONSIDER IT A PUBLIC SERVICE! 

• If you have a blog or newsletter, or a podcast, consider reviewing/highlighting/sharing GSV with your audience. Chris is available for interviews (and so am I, for that matter!) THANK YOU! Just reach out.

• If you’re on socials, make sure you’re following the Garage Sale Vinyl VIP page on Facebook, as well as Bibliozona Books - and like, share and comment on our posts to your feed and/or page. 

• If you’re comfortable, share a post or a story on Facebook or Instagram - a selfie with the book, or a picture of Garage Sale Vinyl “in the wild” - at the coffee shop, or on vacation. (It’s a great “beach read”, by the way!) 

• Share your favorite quotes from the book. What parts made you laugh out loud? 

• If you already have any of the albums covered in Garage Sale Vinyl - make a post and tag us.

Instagram:@bibliozonabooks and @author_christopher_long

Facebook pages: https://www.facebook.com/GarageSaleVinylVIP https://www.facebook.com/AuthorChristopherLong https://www.facebook.com/bibliozonabooks

Use tags: #GarageSaleVinyl #BibliozonaBooks

• If you don’t have the means to purchase GSV or want to share it with your community, make a purchase request at your local public library. When I was a librarian, even one request by a patron would trigger a purchase for the library collection. 

• Do you have a favorite independent vinyl shop that also sells books or collectibles? Mention GSV so they can order wholesale for their store. 

– 

Garage Sale Vinyl started with Chris stumbling into some great old albums and being inspired to pitch a weekly column in the awesome online magazine, Ink19, whom he’s written for, for years.  After seeing its popularity with readers, the editor there, Rose, mentioned to Chris she thought the whole of it could be a book.

So, when Chris and I had a phone conversation last July about his idea and the concept for Garage Sale Vinyl, he was already about 80% done writing and editing it. He had a vision for the book. I saw it. We made it happen.  He was a wonderful author to work with because of his work ethic and his unwavering eye for detail. 

I have a ton of things I want to share about this process and what I’ve learned, but I’ll include that in a follow-up. I wanted to get this published and out to you so you can enjoy Garage Sale Vinyl ASAP. 

Thanks for your support.

I hope you all have a terrific and safe long holiday weekend!

Big love,

AMO

—

Again, the purchase links are here:

Garage Sale Vinyl - Amazon Paperback 

Garage Sale Vinyl - Amazon Kindle eBook  

Garage Sale Vinyl - Barnes & Noble Paperback

(I have to figure out how to get it into iBooks on Apple, and when I do, I will let you know!)

Thanks again, everyone! 

I’m working on Library Confidential, the memoir, and getting ready to release Garage Sale Vinyl on Bibliozona Books. As I promised in my last newsletter, I have a story to share with you as related to both projects - with an Anthrax twist. I’m writing this in real time for the newsletter; it is roughly drafted and will be edited and adapted for the memoir. 

Thanks for reading Life of O'Brien (formerly Library Confidential)! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

—

In 1993, I was 21 years old and living at home with my parents at their condo in Columbus. I’d moved back to Ohio the previous summer after spending two wild years in Los Angeles working with Megadeth, and then working for Metal Blade - as documented in my first book, Adventures of a Metalhead Librarian.

Upon moving back and needing a job, I started working retail, selling appliances and big-screen televisions on commission - and I started making the first decent money of my life. I was trying to figure out a future plan, and was having fun treating myself, finally, after being dirt-scratch poor for so many years. 

Two great things happened in August of that year: I bought my first brand-new car, and Anthrax did their first tour with singer John Bush of Armored Saint, who was a friend of mine from Metal Blade. He’d joined Anthrax the year prior, and I’d been super-stoked for him at the opportunity. They were out promoting their first album with this lineup: The Sound of White Noise

When I saw the Anthrax tour dates getting close by a few weeks, I called John at his 818 number and I left him a voicemail saying - hey, saw you’re coming through town, would love to say hello.

 He then left me a voicemail saying - hey, awesome, I’ll put you on the list with passes +1. 

Then I called him back on voicemail to say - hey, thank you, I’ll see you after the show.  

Then he called me back on voicemail to tell me - hey, we actually have a day off in Columbus the Sunday before the show, do you want to go have lunch?

Then I called him back on voicemail and said - great, let me know where you’re staying and what time to pick you up, and then he called me back with that information on voicemail –  and I met him in the lobby of the downtown Hyatt in Columbus at 1pm without ever speaking on the phone over that few weeks.

That’s how it was done in the days before cell phones.  

I drove us around Columbus in my new car - a silver 5-speed manual Mitsubishi Eclipse. I hadn’t really NEEDED a new car, but I’d upgraded from my 10-year old Honda and only increased my payments by $60. Financially, things were much better in Columbus than they ever were for me in Los Angeles, and slinging refrigerators and VCR’s was pretty easy. It wasn’t as glamorous as Metal Blade Records had been, but it was definitely better money. 

We chatted as I drove. He understood about money - he’d worked his fair share of day jobs for money between tours with Armored Saint.  He still had his old Hyundai, parked in LA while he was away. He was hoping to get a Mustang, maybe after the tour.

I took him to a great old brewpub in German Village, called Hoster’s. We both ordered a beer with our lunch and spent a couple of hours catching up. John is an easy guy to talk to and very unassuming - just down to earth and funny.  

After lunch, as I was dropping him off at the hotel, he says - the guys were thinking about going out for drinks later - are you up for doing something, maybe? 

And I said, sure, I can meet you guys somewhere or I can drive. Do you mind if my friend Kathy joins us?  Of course he didn’t mind. 

So, I called Kathy and we made a plan, I picked her up, and a few hours later we were back down at the Hyatt.  This time I parked the Mitsubishi and Kathy and I headed up to John’s room. It was bigger and much nicer than I expected. 

John opened the door and met Kathy and we settled in for a minute. He called Scott, who arrived a few minutes later, and then Charlie and Frank showed up. 

Charlie had a hot pink quarter-sheet promo flier in his hand for a new metal/rock n’ roll club in the Short North. Kathy and I’d both seen it advertised in the Columbus alternative newspaper but hadn’t been there yet. The club wasn’t too far away though - just a couple of miles north, up High Street, and south of Campus, where the venue for tomorrow night’s show was located. 

So, the six of us stood there in a loose circle on the fancy hotel-room carpet with sculpted roses and made a plan to go to this bar, and I looked at John and asked him - how are we going to do this? My car is pretty tiny. 

He was like, hey, guys, do you want me to call for a taxi, or do you want to cram into her Mitsubishi Eclipse? 

The three guys - Scott, Charlie, and Frank - were all in agreement - let’s cram into the Eclipse!

I wasn’t even sure 6 adults could cram into the Eclipse, but we did. Kathy riding shotgun, John riding bitch between us with the transmission between his legs, and Charlie, Frank, and Scott crammed into the backseat. 

As I put the car into reverse to back out of the parking spot in the parking garage, I racked John in the nuts with my elbow from the stick shift, which the other guys found hilarious, and it had us all cackling like old birds at stupid nonsense the whole way up High Street. 

I was laughing my ass off, but I drove very, very carefully. 

I found parking on the street near our destination and we extracted ourselves from the clown car. We approached the building where the club was located and noticed the throbbing dance music as well as a few people in drag milling about. 

Now, Columbus has always had an active LGTBQ community. There were gay bars all over the city, and for the most part, Columbus was considered a gay-friendly community. No big deal. 

We just didn’t know that the heavy-metal/rock n’ roll bar on Fridays and Saturdays turned into a gay bar/drag night on Sundays. 

Once we realized it, I was like, OMG, you guys, it’s a gay bar. I didn’t know they changed formats! Do you want to try somewhere else?

Of course, it was a Sunday night in Columbus - this was not an up-all-night kind of city. I had no idea if there were other “cool” bars to take Anthrax to, other than maybe a few campus watering holes that were nothing special. 

The guys in Anthrax could not have cared less about the gay-bar factor. They shrugged and laughed and were like - Heck no, let’s go in! This will be fun. We need drinks!

And so, we paid the cover charge - but the drag lady at the window recognized Scott and let him in for free. We emerged into a dark and pulsating night club full of disco balls and purple strobe lighting and people in costumes. 

We made our way to the bar and got our drinks and were kind of mingling in a circle and bopping in the sea of bodies, then that lady from that songs says:

“Everybody Dance Now!” 

Anthrax didn’t miss a beat. They effing danced. Someone may have break-danced on the floor. Kathy and I were dying of laughter at the edge of the circle around them. 

Charlie, Scott, Frank and John looked like they were having a blast and were being total goofballs. Not one ounce of rock-star pretension or weirdness at being in a gay bar. A few of the  Queens started noticing them - especially Scott, with his trademark goatee - and started fawning on them a bit - which was quite funny. The long-haired, hetero-metalheads just rolled with it and had a good time. 

We stayed for about an hour. Finally, the DJ played Anthrax’s Bring the Noise and it felt like a cue; upon its conclusion Scott looked at me and nodded and I knew he was ready, so we rounded up our group and Anthrax said lively goodbyes to the crowd. We made our exit, piled back into the Eclipse, and drove back to the Hyatt, all of us slightly buzzed.  I dropped them off at the curb and we made plans to say hello/goodbye the following night. 

–

Their show the next night was at the Newport Music Hall - built in 1921 as the State Theater, it became an Agora, and then the Newport in the mid-80’s. It’s one of the longest-operating live-music venues in the country and it sits just across the street from the mighty Ohio State University. 

The Newport has hosted everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - who has played live music on tour in Columbus in the last 60 years. I’d seen dozens of shows there over the years and it still retains its historic, classical architecture. . 

It was my first time hearing or seeing the opener, White Zombie, and I was pretty blown away. 

Anthrax were their usual stompy selves, and maybe just a bit more melodic with John’s superior (in my opinion) voice. After the show, Kathy and I exited the venue and made our way around back to where the tour bus was parked. My car was parked nearby. 

We stood there for a minute, but then John poked his head out and had us come on board the bus. 

Everyone was starving; they were going to stop and get something to eat, and had to get on the road for an overnight to the next show. 

The bus driver knew his routes well and had chosen TJ’s Country Place - a local chain restaurant - which was located a few more miles up High Street, and close to the exit on Morse Road for I71 North to Cleveland. 

John decided to join us in the Mitsubishi as we followed the bus slowly up High Street. It had started raining pretty hard.  We all met up in the restaurant lobby, and this time, Dan Spitz - the other,  now former - guitar player, joined us, as well as a couple of their techs.  We took up a humongous booth and ordered a 2am breakfast, all of us damp, coming in from the rain. 

I have no clear recollection of what everyone ordered, but I know for sure what I ordered: The Barnyard Buster with extra sausage gravy. It was a “famous” local dish, and my go-to.  I may have influenced their ordering with my praise of it. There is only one Barnyard Buster, after all. 

The guys paid our tab and we bid farewell and safe travels to them. I’d stay friends with John for many years, but I’ve never run into any of the other guys in Anthrax, even though I have multiple friends who are very close with them.

They wouldn’t know me at all, either - unless they remember that one night out with John Bush’s friend at a drag bar in Columbus on The Sound of White Noise tour. 

This story is one I hold dear because it was so memorable and funny. They were cool guys, up for adventure and silliness, at ease in the world, and generous of spirit. 

And the reason I share this story is two-fold: Firstly, to finally document this event and put it in context as to where I was in my life as I stretch my memoir muscle for this next book, and secondly: to share a bit more recent Anthrax magic. 

As you know, Bibliozona Books, my imprint, is publishing an upcoming book called Garage Sale Vinyl, by Christopher Long. Our big release is 5/23, and we are so excited to get this out into the world. 

As Chris was putting the book together, he decided to send a cold email to Charlie Benante - well, to his publicist - to ask for a contribution on a specific artist, and Charlie responded straightaway to the request while on tour last year with Pantera. He sent a huge and generous email. We excerpted much of it for a chapter in Garage Sale Vinyl, which I will leave you to discover. 

(Don’t worry, I’ll send a reminder when we launch in 13 days!) 

Aside from Anthrax and Pantera shows, I haven’t seen Charlie, Scott or Frank in person since that last night in Columbus in 1993. 

Of course, I’ve seen John over the years - both back in LA while I was in grad school, and while he’s been out on tour. In fact, Armored Saint is rolling through town next week - and if I can force myself to stay up late, I’ll go say hello to my old friends and perhaps deliver a copy of Garage Sale Vinyl for their reading pleasure while on the road. 

There will be future editions of Garage Sale Vinyl, and I’d love to have more rockers contribute their commentary and thoughts as we put them together, so I’d like to get the word out. 

My vision for Bibliozona Books is to publish memoirs, essays, narrative non-fiction type books, with a rock n’ roll twist. Recently, I’ve thought about publishing a series  - essays about rock and metal bands written by fans and friends. Something like – “Love Letters to Alice in Chains”, or “Love Letters to Iron Maiden.”  

I kind of consider my first book, my memoir, to be a love letter to Mötley Crüe. 

Now that I think about it, in fact, this chapter could be my love letter to Anthrax. 

So, thanks guys, you were awesome human beings to me and I appreciate you. 

And thanks for your generosity with Garage Sale Vinyl, Charlie! 

I’d love to connect with Charlie personally to thank him for the contribution and to get him a copy of the book - and to share this fun, silly memory. It’s a small world. Some of my people are his people. 

I guess I could cold-email his publicist with all this.

But really, with all this? 

Do I have to? 

Yes, but until I do, I’m going to send out this newsletter and leave it to the Universe and my awesome network of friends. Please forward to the appropriate people as you see fit. Maybe we can make magic happen. 

Eventually - soon - I’ll bite my social anxiety and cold-email. I’m not good at it. I always feel like such an ass.

I was thinking I should title the email with something professional, like: RE: Follow up with Charlie on Garage Sale Vinyl Book. 

Or maybe I could try: RE: The One Time I took Anthrax to a Drag Bar in Columbus, Ohio. 

Which one would you open if it made it to your inbox?

–

As a writer and an independent publisher, I appreciate any and all support as I share my work, and help other writers share theirs. Liking my newsletter and stories, buying books, and leaving reviews, following and amplifying on social media - it’s all HUGELY appreciated. 

Thank you for allowing me to haunt your inbox on occasion.  Please reach out with comments, questions, connections, thoughts. I’ll be emailing soon with more details about Garage Sale Vinyl.

Big love,

AMO

annamarieobrien@gmail.com

–

Thanks for reading Life of O'Brien (formerly Library Confidential)! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

My hub handed me the package while I sat at my desk. I was grinning as I tore into it.

Thanks for reading Life of O'Brien (formerly Library Confidential)! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

“Ooo, I beta-read this book almost three years ago, and here it is! It’s ALIVE! And I blurbed it!” I pointed out the blurb and handed it to Hub.

He flipped through the pages, impressed. Who doesn’t love holding a freshly-published book?

Back in 2021, Todd found me through a mutual friend, and he asked me to give the draft a read through and some feedback. He’d been working on it for years.

I was so floored. It was a delightful read, and poignant, and honestly one of the best books I’ve ever read.

I asked the few questions I had, and I shared with him my emotional reaction to the book and overall thoughts.

I told him that without a doubt - this book needed to find a publishing home, and by golly, it did.

I’m so excited for Todd. He had a long, long journey birthing this book.

Dinner at God’s House, by Todd Lieman. The book drops on April 24th, in just a few days. Put it on your Goodreads list, or calendar, or preorder the eBook - and of course, please post a review if you can spare a few minutes.

You can learn more about Todd and his work here.

That I was a small part of this huge milestone for him is a special kind of satisfaction. Helping a book get born and to hold the evidence in your hands - it’s a bit euphoric.

And look, I think this book contains a special kind of soul medicine. Medicine that makes you laugh, and cry, and reflect - and maybe even make peace with yourself.

—

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written an update or really worked on my memoir, but the time away was good and I was able to recalibrate a few things and work on a big project. More on that in a minute.

I’ve changed the name of this Substack to Life of O’Brien, mostly just to freshen things up and evolve a bit.

Originally, my plan for the memoir, Library Confidential, didn’t really include the “lost years” from 1992-2001 - that pivotal time in-between my Los Angeles residencies. I alluded to some of it in Metalhead Librarian, and a few of my readers have expressed interest - but I didn’t really think of it as important.

But then I stumbled upon an old, old diary entry a few weeks ago - and the lightbulb in my brain blinked ON. 

Yep. I need to write it. Dang it.

Since I need to kick-start things again, anyways, I’ll be sending out a rough chapter of that work in the next week or so. And then maybe a couple of more as I muddle through the process. It’s all a mess. I hate it. I love it. I’m fine. 

I’m still wrestling with a screenplay story that is vexing me (O structure, where art thou?) a family history that is still unraveling, and a fiction project so large I cannot even comprehend the amount of mental effort or the sustained longevity my tired menopausal body will have to endure in order to finish it. 

(I’m beginning to understand why writers “go away” to write. I’m looking into it. Maybe in August? The mountains? The beach? Joshua Tree? The off-season bargain resort right here in Phoenix with a pool and cheap margaritas? We shall see…)

But for now, I’m back to working on the memoir , and living the Life of O’Brien (yes - it’s a nod to Monty Python) and life is really mostly amazingly good. My kids are growing up. My parents are getting old. Another Arizona summer is on deck. Distractions are endless.

But, once school is out, I’ll be back into my morning routine, writing on the back patio until the heat chases me away.

—

By far the very best distraction these past few months has been getting Garage Sale Vinyl, by Christopher Long, ready for publication for its launch on May 23th, on Bibliozona Books. 

Ever since I worked for Brian Slagel all those years ago at Metal Blade Records, the idea of having an independent business which served artists, with residual income potential, was super appealing to me. 

Back then, I was part of the production pipeline for a few heavy metal albums.

Books aren’t really that much different. 

I had so much fun editing this book. I listened to many of the albums that Chris writes about - fifty albums! Fifty chapters! I couldn’t make it through all of them as I was editing, but I’ll keep going. If you follow me on Instagram, you’re getting sneak-peaks of those albums.

I don’t know about you, but as a child of the 70’s and 80’s, I grew up listening to and collecting vinyl albums. Every music aficionado and/or musician I know is an active and avid vinyl collector.

(However, full disclosure: Currently, my vinyl collection is meager and stale. Upon inspecting, somehow I have two copies of Love Drive by The Scorpions. Not sure why. I do have a thing for used books, though, and I actively collect those. Shocking, I know.)

I’d like to grow Bibliozona Books into releasing a few titles a year - finding projects and writers that I vibe with that need a cozy, loving home for essay collections, memoirs, and narrative nonfiction projects - with a rock n’ roll twist, of course. 

My books will be in that pipeline, too.

And with all of the turmoil in Big Publishing, agenting, and distributing, there is a movement afoot for independent, author driven, transparent, collaborative publishing. 

I see it as a natural development that fills a need in between other sometimes-less-than-ideal options for writers. 

I’ll still take on coaching and consulting clients, and I’ll still offer writers services like beta-reading and book formatting, for sure. Expanding a bit with a publishing component seems like a no-brainer.

All of it is midwifery, to some degree - helping writers deliver book babies.

Midwifing a book lets you experience the joy and euphoria of birth and delivery without the all labor pains of authorship.

I can’t wait to show you pictures.

Here is a teaser for Garage Sale Vinyl: 

One of the most exciting music trends in recent years has been the roaring resurgence of the vinyl record format. Enthusiasts worldwide now are rediscovering the magic of music — on cozy and (sometimes) crackly LPs.

Join author Christopher Long as he rummages through garage sales, thrift stores, and flea markets along Florida’s sunny Space Coast (and beyond) in his pursuit of vinyl treasure — for "a song."

Based on his popular weekly Ink19.com column, Garage Sale Vinyl offers Long's lively analysis of his favorite finds — enhanced by his personal feel-good stories and peppered with commentary from an array of famed music and entertainment industry insiders.

As a small spoiler, one of the “famed music and entertainment industry insiders” who offers commentary in Garage Sale Vinyl is Anthrax drummer, Charlie Benante. He will also appear in a scene from Library Confidential - the part that I’ll be sharing next week.

Ironic, but not surprising. The hard rock world is pretty small and he is a super nice guy.

Like I mentioned, Garage Sale Vinyl goes on sale May 23rd.

I’ll send out a reminder when we launch.

But before then, I’ll send a bit more Library Confidential, with an Anthrax twist.

See you soon.

Big love,

AMO

P.S. If you’re a writer, creator, or podcaster and would like an advance copy of Garage Sale Vinyl to include in your content or reviews, or if you’d like to interview Chris, (or both!) please let me know and I’ll hook you up. Thanks for your support!

annamarieobrien@gmail.com, or info@bibliozonabooks.com

Thanks for reading Life of O'Brien (formerly Library Confidential)! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Winter break is over and I am finally back at my desk. I hope everyone had a good holiday season.  

Thanks for reading Library Confidential ! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

2023 felt chaotic at times, but as the year advanced, I found some clarity - or maybe it found me. And then all of a sudden, I got really busy with coaching, consulting, and editing. I see opportunity everywhere, I love working with creatives, and…it’s hard to say no.  

Of course right now, most of my own projects are half-done, dangling, orphaned a bit - and my biggest creative priority for 2024 is to give them the dignity of being finished. 

I think the order of priority has changed a bit, though, and that’s OK. I gotta go where the energy flows, and sometimes work needs room to breathe - especially a memoir.  

In addition to working on edits for the upcoming book I’m publishing on Bilbiozona Books (more on that, later) I’ve been heavily into research for the book about my grandfather - and the story keeps getting more juicy. This is a great way to flex my history degree and library background. Digging around in a database is so satisfying, like a good cup of coffee. Mmm, yum.

The screenplay I’m working on, which is loosely based on the memoir, needs a lot more love, but I’m seeing my way through and trying to make it better.  The Universe keeps sending me material for it and it’s too good not to include, somehow. 

–

For instance, recently, another whacky (just wait) story popped up in the news about a man who was masturbating near children in the computer area at my former library. 

I had to read the article linked below a couple of times, because I couldn’t believe what I was reading. Are they inferring what I think they are inferring? Here is what security did (emphasis mine): 

"The suspect's actions caused a significant disturbance inside the Tempe Public Library, requiring two security guards to deviate from their normal duties to report his behavior, while also ensuring the numerous children inside the library did not walk near the suspect while he was actively offending”. 

Court documents contained graphic descriptions of what happened during the incident. Investigators allege the sexual act lasted for about 15 minutes. - FOX 10 Phoenix

Wait, whut? 

They made a report, and shielded children from him while he was actively offending? They didn’t stop him right away?!??  No one jumped on this nut job (ha), or threw cold water on him? 

THEY LET THIS GUY MASTURBATE IN PUBLIC FOR 15 MINUTES? 

THEY LET HIM FINISH?!? 

Is that what I’m reading? 

I couldn’t make this shit up, honestly. 

–

A few weeks ago, a screenwriter friend reached out for some background information on book banning and librarians and as I was typing out some answers, it reminded me

1. How much I missed being a librarian 

2. How much I didn’t miss being a librarian. 

3. That once a librarian, always a librarian, and…

4. Why I couldn’t work as a librarian no mo. 

Besides corrupt city officials, a deranged library director, a pandemic, random masturbators, and library poopers - a  lot of it had to do with politics. 

And I’ll be super honest - I really want to talk about the politics of librarianship, the politics of ideas and information, the politics of censorship, the politics of freedom. These are all big topics, and I have very personal things I want to say and share, but I’m not sure here, in this newsletter,  is the place to do it. 

I know many people are absolutely triggered by politics and in all the worst ways. These days, a person might show up on my doorstep, or harass my kids. 

I want to trigger deep thought and introspection and growth and humor and joy and acceptance - not outrage.

No matter how good the intention, someone is going to be offended or not like it. It’s the way of art. You put it out there and hope for the best. 

And I don’t want to live in fear. Even if I still struggle with it, as a woman and a mom. 

My warm-hearted, caring, helpful, metaphysical woo-woo self doesn’t want to offend anyone, and is sorry if she does. 

The long-haired chick who loves old-school heavy metal and hard rock music? The one dedicated to artistic expression and good old-fashioned rebellion and free speech, who grew up on Shout At The Devil - The Metalhead Librarian?

She doesn’t give a shit either way if people are offended.

Who cares? They’re adults. Get over it and move on. She has other things to worry about - like writing more books. 

I have to constantly remind myself to be that second chick when it comes to being authentic and writing true and having the guts to write what I need to write. 

And so it goes. 

–

I am trying to ascend here and level up, not down. 

It’s why I don’t talk politics or share political memes in my public writing life. It’s just too low-energy and divisive. But at the same time, I want people to wake up and save themselves from this agenda of fear, division, and hate.

It is poison. It grows like black mold in a damp basement. It’s everywhere.

Love is the way. Humor is the way. Gentle acceptance of free will is the way. Compassion for our fellow humans is the way.

And if my words help do that, then great.

And if not - it’s not my problem. I wonder, do male writers and artists struggle with expressing their truth? Or is it just me? 

How do I get over artistic fear, and free myself?

What would Christopher Hitchens do? What would David Bowie advise? What would George Carlin say? 

I LOVE STANDUP COMEDY.

Watching it, not performing it. 

I have many, many comedic artists that I adore. New and old. 

At the very top of the list is George Carlin. My God, how we need another one like him right now.  

I think Chappelle might be the closest thing these days.   

Unfortunately, and to my great horror, there now appears to be an AI generated comedy special based on the work of George Carlin. His family was not a part of the “show” and his daughter was not informed of the use of his images.

That’s just - gross, honestly. GROSS. The ethics of AI, especially in the arts, are slippery at best. 

Comedy is one of the greatest features of the human condition and I don’t want it generated by computer code. I want it to come from heartbeats and flesh. 

No one can copy or imitate the greatness of George Carlin, and his takes on politics, religion, so much. He offended people and told the truth - his truth. Just as Chappelle does. Just as so many comics bravely do when sharing their stories.  

Making us laugh, and sometimes, making us cry. 

As I document my library career, both in the memoir and in the screenplay,  there will be politics, and maybe religion, and maybe some GenX grumpiness and twisted humor at all of it. 

I did experience an uncomfortable but necessary transformation over the course of many years of being a librarian and working for a city government. My view of myself, the profession, and the country - evoloved in a big way. 

Some of it was downright funny. Some of  it was tragic. 

It was a microcosm of what was going on in the bigger culture.

These are truths and fears that an AI can never mimic.

And I am wrestling with how to present it with love, in service to a higher good, without stepping on a landmine or self-immolating. 

–

As we head into another election year, I am relieved to admit that I am completely politically homeless. 

It’s pretty nice. The skies are blue.  I’m a free bird out here. I realize that both sides are actually the same side, and they’re just making us argue amongst ourselves while they get away with crimes.

George Carlin would be proud. 

I don’t think I’m alone. Even as I was typing this today, I came across this article:  The Great Scramble | The Free Press

Of course, instead of politically homeless, the correct term these days is: 

A POLITICALLY UNHOUSED VOTER or, A VOTER EXPERIENCING HOMELESSNESS. 

But whatever. 

– 

Sometime during my last years as a librarian, I was informed in a staff meeting that the simple, short, and accurate term “homeless” was demeaning to those experiencing it.  

Oh, OK. Sure. My bad.

Every bone in my body wanted to call out the “thought police” amongst my co-workers. We had been discussing policy amongst ourselves in the safety of a meeting room, after all. Ugh, these Millennials! 

But, I did remind them that we actually had a City department - conveniently located right upstairs on the main floor of the library -  with a sign on the door that literally said HOMELESS OUTREACH.

Their full acronym was HOPE : Homeless Outreach and Prevention Effort. 

Were they changing their name to “The Department That Helps Persons Currently Unhoused?” 

No, of course not. 

HOPE was installed there because we did have a large community of unhoused people using the library. The new free Orbit Bus system provided them with mobility throughout the city, and a dozen tents pitched on the north side of the library at one point allowed everyone to see how “compassionate” we were as a library and as a City.

Until a staff member was assaulted. Then the police broke up the encampment. 

And I found the word “demeaning” to be particularly amusing - as if shitting in the streets and injecting yourself with drugs and selling sex in our parking lot wasn’t demeaning. But referring to a homeless person as  “homeless” was going too far. 

We were more worried about correct language than about good solutions. All the “good solutions” seemed to make things worse, anyways. 

Now, I certainly wouldn’t want to deprive any human being of their dignity, so, I’ll call people what they prefer to be called, of course. 

But I doubt that those experiencing homelessness really cared at all what we called them. We had air conditioning. We had computers. We had bathrooms and water. Staff - we wanted to help. 

And we did, with compassion, empathy, and sometimes, a sandwich from our packed lunches, or cash out of our own pockets. We weren’t supposed to do that, but sometimes we did. I also had sanitary products and extra diapers at my desk for women and parents who were in need. 

Just like we’d pack extra sandwiches or snacks from home for the hungry teenagers that showed up after school with no food or money. We weren’t supposed to do that, either. 

But, if they came knocking around the work area, I always tried to have something to hand to them. If I can help it, I’m not about to let kids go hungry. What’s an extra box of granola bars, or a bag of microwave popcorn, or a turkey sandwich? 

I’ll tell you what it was: It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t ever enough. 

But for the one person in front of me - it was something.

–

With Love,

AMO

Thanks for reading and allowing me to haunt your inbox every so often. I love hearing from readers, and you can email me at annamarieobrien@gmail.com. 

If you want a sneak peak at the book I’m publishing on my Bibliozona Books label, click below and sign up for updates, presale info, and more details, if you’re interested. We are editing now. Production starts soon. I’m so excited for this project! 

Garage Sale Vinyl

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I hope everyone had a terrific and productive November and Thanksgiving holiday, if you celebrate.  

I’ve been pecking away at my NaNoWriMo project, and NOT working on my memoir, so I have no new chapters to share, and I may not for another month or two. December is my month to reflect, realign, and recharge my batteries. Writing will happen, but not under pressure. I’ve got cookies to bake and a few house projects that need doing, plus some fun editing work for clients. 

I know that many of my readers are also writers, so I offer this month’s newsletter as a little snack for the season. Actually, it’s pretty long, so maybe it’s a full meal. Either way, I hope it helps nourish you on your writing journey. 

Subscribe now

I am contacted almost every week by people who want to write their memoir, or who are blocked, or who need help in some way with the book they’re writing or want to write. 

When people reach out to me for help or connection, it’s not something I take lightly. I know how hard it is to bear the weight of a story unwritten. 

And I know how difficult it can be to ask for help. Writing is hard enough - but NOT writing? Much harder. 

Back when I was not writing, but pregnant with my second baby and managing a library department and stressed out of my gourd, my good friend had a friend who wanted to write a book, and they asked me if I could take a look at what they had so far. 

I agreed, and I received a first-draft of a story from this friend-of-a-friend. And it was fine, typical first-draft stuff, a little more telling than showing, nothing that couldn’t be edited, tweaked, rearranged. It could have been good with more work.

But the thing is, back then I hadn’t developed the vocabulary or understanding of the writing process yet. 

I’d done plenty of academic writing, but I’d never written a first-draft of a book. I knew nothing about editing, or story structure, or voice. These things were invisible to me as a reader, and I couldn’t articulate what needed work in the draft as a writer to a writer.  

I’m sure what I offered wasn’t much help at all, and may have even discouraged her from going further. I totally fumbled the ball.

I really wish I could have been a better writing friend to this person.

It still bugs me to this day. 

So now that I’m finally on the path, I try to be a decent writing friend, offering support, advice, and resources to writers who reach out to me.  

I did it for years as a librarian, and I plan on doing it for many more years as a writer. Like, you can’t be a librarian without the natural impulse to help people, and that impulse certainly didn’t go away when I left my job. 

Plus, the positive energy that I put out to writers and creatives is the exact same energy that I need for myself from time to time. A bank of goodwill and support is not a bad thing to create, and you only do it by being generous of spirit and heart. 

As NaNoWriMo winds down I feel pretty good about the progress I’ve made so far on my script project this month. 

But then,  I re-watched the pilot episode of Six Feet Under, thinking it would help me as I peck my way through a screenplay. 

The pilot sets everything up so perfectly. The entire show is a thing of beauty.

We watched the series twenty years ago and I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard at a final episode of any TV show, ever. It affected me for months, I’m telling you.

If I’m being really honest, watching it again with the eye and ear of a writer - it threw me right off my horse for a week or so.  To write a TV show even 1/10th that excellent would be a feat of unimaginable talent that I feel is way, way out of my grasp. 

However! I also felt like this when I was struggling to write my first book.

Heck, I felt like this when I tried to write my first 5-page college paper as a 25-year old freshman. I’d almost failed out of high school, and I really thought for a while that I couldn’t do it. 

But I did. 

Is it easy? No.

 Is it worth it? YES. 

What I’ve learned about writing over these past many years is that no one shows up to the page automatically brilliant the first time they try to write something. It takes time to draft, to find your voice, your style, your point. Especially in a new format. 

And, isn’t that the point of writing?

Sure, it’s to share stories and enrich humanity - but you can’t do that unless you keep working toward that thing that’s just out of your grasp. To push against the deep and hard places of resistance while being vulnerable on the page. To expand the definition of what you thought possible for yourself.

That’s what writing is. 

It’s GROWTH. 

Like, if you have an idea for a book or a screenplay and you can’t shake it, or a storyline that keeps nagging you, or you have characters talking to you, begging you for attention, or maybe you’ve wanted to write a memoir or a self-help book for years - the truth of the matter is it’s your job to do the work and write the thing that ONLY YOU CAN WRITE. How you feel about it, what you think of yourself or your writing - kind of doesn’t matter. 

I’m here to tell you: You wouldn’t have the impulse to do it if you couldn’t do it. 

You shouldn’t argue with the thing that’s bugging you because it’s your higher self, your intuition, telling you that you CAN do it.

Your intuitive higher self is smarter than your logical, linear brain.

It knows you better than you do. It wants you to grow, and to succeed. Your logical, fear-based brain will try to sabotage it with excuses and resistance. 

To NOT listen to that intuition is a kind of self-betrayal. It leads to a kind of regret and heartbreak that will reverberate out into your life and affect your future self.

Your future self is depending on your current self to make good decisions.

The simple truth is: You become a better writer - by writing. You also become a better writer by trusting your intuition, your higher self.

And, look, even the most brilliant and experienced writers sometimes struggle with all the things new writers struggle with. 

The difference is that experienced writers know what's on the other side of the doubt and fear. They keep working. 

And so, you get back on the horse and keep going. Regardless of NaNoWritMo, regardless of what others think, and no matter how long it takes.

Go fast. Go slow. Just don’t quit. 

One of the  many things I’m most grateful for these past few years are the relationships and friendships I’ve found with other writers.

It’s been shocking to me actually, because I wasn’t expecting the amount of love and support that came my way once I started to commit to the idea that I could be a writer. 

I’ve always been hyper-independant and really hate asking for help, or depending on other people for anything. My friend circle has always been lean, and it’s gotten even more so as I’ve gotten older.

My extended family had a dynamic of people who judged, took offense easily, overreacted, and who were snarky at others’ success and happiness, and it always made me feel icky. So, I removed myself from all that as a teenager. I removed myself from other people’s expectations of me. I figured out early on that I wasn’t responsible for anyone else’s feelings.  

That instinct allowed me to keep my dignity, learn something, move along with my life, and just be genuinely happy for people. Who needs the drama, negativity and baggage, you know? It’s exhausting carrying that shit around. 

I think they call  this Lone Wolf Syndrome, but I also now know it is a trauma response from an impoverished and unstable childhood, where I was left feeling disappointed much of the time. 

As I grew older, my goal in life was to not disappoint MYSELF. 

This Lone Wolf outlook served me well for a long time. It’s kept me out of a lot of trouble and heartache, emotionally. But once I had the courage to start writing and telling my story,  I realized - this lone-wolfing it isn’t going to work. I needed help, I needed advice, I needed just one person who had done it to tell me that I could do it. 

When I found that one person, I made great progress. And as I made progress on my path, it became apparent that I needed to pay it forward in some way - to engage with, support, cheer on, help, coach, soft-shoulder and warm-hug other writers as much as I can.  

Writing is a solitary thing - it gets lonely and a little scary out on the rocky and steep trail of creation. When you come across another writer who offers you a cold drink of water, or a sandwich - well, you appreciate it beyond just simple gratitude. 

Sometimes it feels like they are saving your life. 

My first true writing friend was Lauren Sapala, and she did all of those things for me way back when I first really started writing my memoir almost 10 years ago. 

And if you resonate with the message of trusting your higher self, your intuition, her new book is pretty amazing. 

It’s called Writing on the Intuitive Side of the Brain, with a foreword by Jacob Nordby.

(He’s amazing, too! The Creative Cure is a true modern classic for all artists, in my opinion.)  

I read Lauren’s new book last week, and I was reminded of all the reasons why I love her and her work. The new book felt like a warm hug from an old friend. 

Over the years, Lauren has been a huge force of good in my life. She had faith in me that I didn’t even have in myself, and she backed it up with action - by asking me to teach workshops, referring clients to me for coaching or editing services, or helping me promote my stuff.

I know that if I’m stuck on something or need advice - she is one amongst the very few people I’d reach out to. In a world of inauthenticity, duplicity, incongruent actions and words - she’s never let me down. Never left a hello unanswered. Never left me wondering if I was being an idiot, even though many times I’m sure I was. 

Sometime in life, I’ve found that you can be your bestest, warmest, most genuine self to people, and they’ll still reject you.

As a writer, it’s going to happen ALL THE TIME. Even with people who at first seemed like they wanted to help. 

And as much as it hurts, you have to remember that they may not be vibrating on the same energetic plane as you, or they don’t have the capacity - whatever. 

I never hold on to hard feelings about rejection - not for long at least. In today’s world with all of the shit going on, who knows what people are really going through? Life is messy for all of us, sometimes.

It’s just best to move on and thank the Universe for the clarity. 

The truth is  - the ones that reject you are doing you a favor. 

They are clearing the path so that you can attract the kind of writing friends who don’t make you feel bad.

It's best to work with people who want to work with you. 

You choose the people who choose you. 

Your writing friends are important. They will help carry you.

If you haven’t found a few writing friends yet - I encourage you to keep trying. I’ve found many of my friends through Lauren, various workshops and classes, online, and from my silly little Instagram account. It’s been so rewarding to connect with like-minded people from all over the world. 

And until you find your writing people, I encourage you to check out Lauren’s website, subscribe to her newsletter, read her articles, sign up for one of her amazing classes  - and definitely, definitely check out her new book. 

Writing on the Intuitive Side of the Brain. 

—

Not long after the publication of Adventures of a Metalhead Librarian, a music journalist and author, Christopher Long, reached out to me for a promo copy of my book for his upcoming review column. He was super-enthusiastic about it, and I was flattered at all the good things he had to say. 

Over the next few years, he gave me all kinds of great coverage for the book - reviews, interviews, social media blasts and podcast appearances. He touted me to one of the publications he writes for, who asked me to write a feature and offered me more work. 

Everyone needs a writing friend like Christopher Long. 

Anyways, he is working on his fifth book right now, and it’s got a terrific theme and premise.  Initially, he asked me to edit the book for him to get it ready to shop to agents and publishers. 

He put together a terrific book proposal package, and I was so impressed by the care and professionalism he put into it. He started querying agents and mid-level publishers, hoping to find a home for it. 

But then, he came up with a really interesting idea. It was something I’d been thinking about doing even before he brought it up.

And, so, I agreed to consider it because really, I want what is best for him and this project, and it sounded like fun.  We put no timeline on it as he still had active queries pending. 

Querying and rejection are part and parcel of traditional publishing. One must expect it along the way. And you can say it doesn’t matter, but it stings sometimes. It’s a really low-energy place to dwell, and it has stymied many writers. 

But again - I try to think of it as a positive. Rejections are just clearing the way.

Once you cut the dead weight of rejections - you start to float. 

Chris wrote me the sweetest and nicest email a few days ago.  And it came at the perfect time and with a perfect message. 

In short, the message was: Let’s publish this book. 

You choose the people who choose you. 

His new book, Garage Sale Vinyl, based on his wildly popular column at INK19.com, will debut in late Spring 2024.

I’ll be acting as editor and publisher, and I’m excited to have it debut with my Bibliozona Books label on it. 

–

And so, over these past few years, my circle of writing friends has expanded. 

My friend Lilly has an awesome screenplay in development and just won a nice contest for the script. My other friend Judi is currently shopping her pilot, with good responses so far. Another friend has her memoir being developed into a TV show. 

My friend Todd had me look at his book manuscript a couple of years ago and I was so blown away by it, I cried - and it’s now done and ready for publication. 

I am so grateful that I’ve made these connections and gotten to know these writers.  I love bearing witness to their growth and success - because it means my success is possible. 

It’s possible for all of us. And we need each other.

–

At the very center of my circle of writing friends is my husband, Jim. 

Except, he’s not a writer. He’s a scientist. 

We met in early 1993, and when we moved into our first apartment later that year, he brought home a brand new computer for me, set it up on an old desk, and proclaimed it my writing space. It took me almost 20 years to finally start writing for real. 

We attended college together at ASU, and as we were finishing up, he is the one who suggested I become a librarian. It was obvious to him, since I loved books, was always at the library, and wanted to be a writer. Librarianship was kind of the next-best thing. He was thrilled when I was accepted to UCLA for my graduate degree. 

He is much more of a TV watcher than I’ve ever been. He’s an expert on pop-culture stuff that I have no clue about - Marvel Universe, Star Wars (way beyond the first three, which are still the best IMHO) and other things, like graphic novels, anime, comic books, and he listens to audiobooks while on his long bikes and hikes - so when we talk story, or scenes, or structure, or character, he understands. 

Ten years ago, when we were looking at buying a house again after the crash of 2008, we could have bought a bigger, more expensive house - but once I floated out that hey, what if I want to quit my job and write full time? - He was on board with the house that we could afford on one income. 

And when I had finally reached the end of my rope in 2021 after years of suffering through a toxic work environment, corrupt city politics, and a deranged library director - he was supportive.

“Fuck those people,” he said. “You’ve given them enough. Write your books.” 

Besides our two children - it’s the single greatest gift I’ve ever received. 

I put in my notice a few weeks later.  

And because we’d been thinking of this possibility for years, the adjustment down to one income wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Truth is, every decision we ever made financially was based on a one-income scenario. We were both raised to be savers in working-class households.

Jim works a highly technical and mentally demanding job as a scientist, and he does it not only to support our family - but to support my dream. OUR DREAM. He wants this for us as much as I want it.

He’s always put me first, even over his own happiness. And he’s backed it up with action, and words, every single day.  

You choose the people who choose you.

We made that choice almost 31 years ago, and he has been my constant and unwavering champion ever since. I definitely wouldn’t be doing this now if he hadn’t been encouraging me for decades.

He is literally the only person I’ve ever depended on as an adult.

So, as we wind out this month of gratitude and NaNoWriMo and head into December to rest and reflect, I want to dedicate this one to Jimbo. 

My husband, my lover, my baby daddy, my ride-or-die - and most of all, the very best writing friend I’ve ever had.  

Thank you, Jim. Thank you for everything.

And thank you, everyone, for allowing me to haunt your inbox every so often.

See you in December.

And as always, if you need a writing friend, or have any questions or comments, feel free to reach out to me at annamarieobrien@gmail.com. I love hearing from you.

Big love,

AMO

Library Confidential is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I’ve always told my memoir clients: rough drafting is not perfection. It’s a placeholder. I expect that all of what I’m sharing with you will be edited extensively for the book. 

Library Confidential is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

I know some of this is touchy subject matter, and I’ve debated how much to share, but I offer it in service. Maybe it will resonate with someone, somewhere.

If you have any comments or want to reach out, please do. I’m happy to answer questions, as well. Comment here or email me at annamarieobrien@gmail.com

See you in November.

Love,

AMO

–

In February 2016 our new Christmas puppy jumped onto me from the back of the sofa while I was laying there prone and sick with the flu. I had a strong immune system, and I hadn’t had the flu since I was a teenager. Unfortunately, it got us all and the whole family was leveled for ten days.  

The puppy, with her adorable puppy energy, landed straight on my left breast on the tenderest flesh just under the nipple, right over my heart. The pain sat me straight up, eyes watering, grasping my poor tit and yelping to Jesus. 

Fully grown now, she’s only seventeen pounds. As a five-month old puppy, she was just a tiny thing, a few pounds really. But the force of the impact left a blue bruise on my boob, and the spot remained tender, as well as a little swollen and painful around my periods.

Incidentally, it was the same area that was painful from a clogged duct when I was nursing my last baby but that was six years prior. 

The spot persisted over the summer, but by then the kids were out of school. I took a wait-and-see mindset, hoping it would resolve. I went ahead and had a great summer break. 

By the end of July, it was time to get it looked at. It was still painful and there was definitely a thickness to it, maybe a lump. It felt like a knotty rope kind of. It wasn’t smooth or defined, but it was there.  

And look, I’m a minimalist when it comes to doctors and procedures and medications, so I made an appointment for an ultrasound. I just wanted a look-see, thinking it was probably just a cyst or a hematoma. I wasn’t ready for another mammogram. My last one had been 5 years prior and they are not fun.  

The spot was black on the ultrasound - I could see it. Almost like negative space. The doctor, a breast specialist in Scottsdale, looked immediately concerned as she pressed the wand around with the jelly on my sore boob. 

She suggested a biopsy, right then and there.  

In retrospect, I should have waited - but I was already in the office, my kids were already with my mom, so I called and told her I’d be a little while longer, and then I called my husband. 

Ironically, the biopsy device was manufactured by my husband’s employer. 

I had a disgustingly long needle jammed into my breast. The doctor misfired the device and had to jam it in again, no doubt irritating the spot - and I left there with a huge bandage on my breast, dripping blood, slightly horrified at what I had just been subjected to on that sunny Thursday afternoon as I drove myself home. 

The next day, the doctor sounded grim. It was a two centimeter tumor. It was hormone negative, HER2 positive. Which meant it was highly aggressive. It was also just millimeters away from growing into my chest wall. 

“However, it is a highly treatable form of cancer that responds well to chemotherapy.” She said. 

I hung up the phone and started crying. 

My husband's response to the news - in addition to the shock and sorrow of the whole thing - was to immediately buy expensive floor seats for the Guns N’ Roses show out at the football stadium. The show was ten days after the diagnosis, and I attended with a bandage on my breast. I knew it would be a while before I could go to a concert again. It was our last hurrah before the shitstorm.

Here in Phoenix we have a number of excellent options for cancer treatment - MD Anderson was on my side of town, so I had my medical records sent there. Then, they did a  mammogram on my recently biopsied breast, which was pure agony, and then they biopsied the lymph node under my left arm. I also had to do genetic testing, to see if I had the BRCA genes - which, thankfully, I do not.

The tumor had grown to seven centimeters - almost triple in size since the biopsy just a few weeks prior. I was stunned. How did a bruise from a dog jump turn into FUCKING CANCER? Doctors said there was no correlation, but I’m still skeptical. I found a study that showed breast trauma could lead to a tumor, but it didn’t matter.

I was presented with many shitty options moving forward. 

I could have a mastectomy. Or a double mastectomy.  I could do reconstruction if I wanted, or I could go flat. 

However, any and all of these options would still involve chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery. 

The thought of chemotherapy? Definitely a worst fear for a girl who leans granola-crunchy. Believe me, I researched alternative therapies. Herbs, keto, and detox sounded fine to me.

But I had small kids, and I couldn’t take the chance. They needed their mommy. 

The doctor was very encouraging when I told her I’d like to try and keep my breasts. 

Her only concern was that my boobs were on the smaller side and this tumor was pretty huge, so it depended on how much tissue they could conserve. We’d need to do chemo first to see how the tumor responded. 

I’ve always liked my boobs. The Creator blessed me with a decent pair. They were never cumbersome or annoying. I nursed two babies, and in a good bra they are still pretty great.  I didn’t think they were trying to kill me and I wanted to keep them if I could. 

“As long as the cancer doesn’t involve the lymph nodes, and assuming we can shrink the tumor, we should be able to perform breast-conserving surgery”, the doctor said. 

I was so relieved to hear it. It was the best of the shitty options I could hope for.

“Will I be able to work?” I asked the Doctor. She knew I was a public librarian. 

Work at the Library had been so stressful for many years, and the last year had been brutal, with the death of my dear friend and coworker, John, who had died of sudden-onset leukemia almost a year to the day I was diagnosed. 

“If you had to, I guess. You’ll do better if you tap into your benefits and take medical leave. The chemo has a lot of unpleasant side effects, unfortunately. You won’t be able to work with the public, because you won’t have an immune system. You’ll want to be at home.” She explained.

We were going over the treatments, the side effects, and the timeline - first, a surgically installed port in my chest to handle the chemo chemicals, and then at least a year, probably 18 months until the entire process was done. We were realizing the impact this was going to have on the family, the job, the finances - everything.

 I looked at my husband and told him - “I’ll be able to finally finish my book.”

During the first few rounds of chemo, I could feel the spot in my breast actually tingling, almost like an internal itch.  I imagined it shrinking, the medicine eating the tumor, like an army of PacMans, munching away.

The chemo was awful. Awful in a way that I can hardly describe without getting graphic. But it was exquisitely painful. My tummy, my skin, losing my hair in handfuls and going completely bald. My fingernails and toenails were lifting off their beds. 

I went into menopause for 18 months. “Chemopause” they call it. I think my vagina literally dried shut. Every part of my body dried up, my joints ached, my teeth were loose, and I lost 30 pounds because my taste buds were burned off and all my pipes felt broken. 

I was on a cocktail of four chemo chemicals: something awful, something awful, something that made my hair fall out, and Herceptin, which is an immuno-therapy specifically for HER2 type breast cancer. 

Unfortunately I was very allergic to Herceptin. On my chemo days every three weeks, after blood tests to make sure I was strong enough to do it - they’d do the chemo cocktail first, and then switch it over to Herceptin last. 

After the first two rounds of going into anaphylactic shock, they gave me benadryl and steroids before every Herceptin infusion. After my scheduled chemo rounds were concluded, I’d have to continue doing those Herceptin infusions every three weeks for almost a year. 

I won’t lie: I always looked forward to the benadryl. 

I’m not even a drinker, but the benadryl dose directly to the port line is like sweet drunken heaven. Ten seconds and I’d be slurring my words and saying funny shit to my husband, twenty seconds before I’d konk out in the chemo chair for a good nap while the Herceptin and the other medicines did their work while likewise wrecking my body. 

Every day, I’d get in the shower, and I’d talk to my tumor. 

I’d tell it THANK YOU, I’ve gotten the message. I understand why you’re here, but you’re not needed any longer. You can go away knowing that I have been changed. Thank you for being here, but you can leave. Your work here is done. 

After the third chemo and during my daily inspection in the shower, I was convinced that 1. The tumor was gone, and 2. Going through three more rounds of chemo was going to kill me. The third one was especially rough. 

I called the doctor and asked for another scan.They normally only do scans at the beginning and at the end of treatment, and I was scheduled for six rounds of chemo. I told her all my reasons - mostly that there was nothing there anymore - like, the spot was gone, I couldn't feel any evidence of a tumor any more. 

To my surprise, she agreed. I think she was curious, too. This thing had been so large.

We did the scan a week later. 

I’d already had my labs done that morning, and the ugly port in my chest was primed for the contrast fluid that a very nice tech would pump into me; but for about 20 minutes, I was waiting as one does to go back to where the big scan machines were. 

I was bald by this point, wearing a black skullcap everywhere I went to cover the baby-duck fuzz of what was left of my hair. I was skinny, constantly nauseated but hungry, with chemo sores on my skin. I was a wreck in so many ways. 

But I had on full makeup, because I’d be goddamned if I couldn’t at least try and feel like myself during this mindfuck of an experience. Black eyeliner helped keep me SANE, I’m telling you.

The waiting area was small, maybe six seats, with gray cubicle walls and fluorescent lights. I was in my comfy, loose yoga pants and I had a hospital gown draped around me. 

An older man waiting there with me kept smiling at me. I wondered what kind of cancer he had.  I smiled back.  Everyone here at the cancer center has always been so kind. 

The very nice tech eventually came to get me. As we said hello and she scanned my ID bracelet, she looked dismayed as she stepped in front of me and discreetly adjusted my hospital gown. 

“Oh Sweetie, let’s get you fixed up here…”

Only then did I realize that my left breast - the sick one, the bedraggled and abused one, the one where the tumor was, or wasn’t, as I was here to find out - had been pretty much hanging out of my gown the whole time I’d been sitting there with that old man, nipple and all.  The whole thing, there for all the world to see. 

I started laughing out loud as I walked with the tech down the hall to the freezing cold scan room.  A feeling of silliness, giddiness, and pure happiness enveloped me. Joy, almost.  

Maybe it was just the look on that man’s face, or the absurdity of my predicament but I laid down on the table shivering and giggling until I had to get serious and listen to the machine give me directions. They brought me a warm blanket until the scan started. I was still smiling like a fool as I went into the tube. 

My poor left tittie - she still had some good mojo. She wasn’t dead yet. She’d been right out there in the wind, enjoying the fresh air and making people smile, even on her worst of days. 

After the scan, I waited an hour and then went to see my oncologist for the results. 

And just like I had thought,  the scan showed that after three rounds of chemo - THE TUMOR WAS INDEED GONE. The doctor was pretty surprised. I was ecstatic. 

“I knew it! Oh my gosh! Thank you!”

There was nothing on the scan. No tumor, no scar tissue. Only the little metal marker clip that had been left after the first biopsy. And so far there was nothing in my lymph nodes. 

I agreed to go through one more round of chemo, just to be sure, but my doctor concluded that the maximum benefit had already been achieved. No need for rounds 5 and 6.

I still had to get through breast surgery to clear the margins, 9 more months of Herceptin, 36 rounds of radiation, and then, eventually, surgery to remove the port. 

But this was a very good start. 

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