M.L. Doyle's Blog

It’s been a very long time since I’ve posted to this blog. Frankly, I’ve been far more upset and on edge about where we are as a nation than I was able to admit to myself.

Then, while watching the news, I cried.

I got chocked up when I first saw video of delivery people rolling boxes from their trucks into hospitals. These weren’t just any trucks. They were refrigerator trucks capable of keeping their contents at a temperature of -90 degrees Fahrenheit.

I admit, I didn’t understand why I was feeling verklempt at these images. What was this about?

The first tears began to fall as the vaccines arrived. They continued when I watched a doctor administer the vaccine into the arm of a healthcare worker. Once the tears started, it was difficult to turn the waterworks off. So, I let them flow. I felt ridiculous, especially when I really started blubbering and sniffling … a real ugly cry. Because of a vaccine.

Then later in the morning, I began to feel even better when the Electoral College votes started airing across the country. Despite the lunatic GOP attempts at shoving their “alternate” Electoral College representatives into state buildings and despite the threats of violence scattered across the states, the United States democratic process prevailed and the 306 votes President Biden and Vice President Harris had earned on Nov. 3, were officially stacked in their win columns.

I may have shed a few tears during the Electoral College process as well, the one we'd never really seen before because no other sitting president has ever forced us to go through this to prove to him that he lost. (Eye roll) Since I was home alone, teleworking for the gazillionth day since this nightmare began, and since it felt like the final thing needed to end this nightmare, I may have had some dust in my eyes.

Then last night, I had a long talk with my brother. It was just like our old talks. A rambling conversation, flitting from one topic to the next on subjects like books, TV, movies, politics, old friends, weird things in the news. It was the first such conversation we’d had in months and months and I didn’t realize how much I had missed them, until I hung up. The call ended just like they used to, with one of us begging off because we simply couldn't stay on the line any longer. (My back teeth were floating!)

Which brings me back to the main topic. I was so relieved. So very relieved that the initial steps back from the long, long road of the pandemic and the election and the protests and the upheavals had started.

It was all a sign that it was time to write a blog post. So, here it is.

BTW, I’m writing again. Not fiction. I have a ghost writing job that I’m really excited about and one that I hope will continue for some time. So far the working relationship has been great and I’m loving it. I won’t be talking about it much, but just know that I feel lucky and engaged and happy to be putting words on a page, even if they mostly are not my own.

Now, as we’re looking toward the end of this isolation, what have you done to keep yourself sane? I’ve been going crafting crazy. Knitting and crocheting like a mad woman. You?

P.S. I released the Master Sergeant Harper series in one box set. You can get all three mysteries plus some bonus content here.

I will not be writing fiction or much of anything else for the
foreseeable future.

I know withdrawing from writing fiction at this time won’t make much of a difference in the scheme of things. My small group of readers haven’t read anything new from me for almost a year already. The last time I posted to this blog was in April. There are millions of fantastic books and short stories out there to keep everyone entertained forever. I have no illusions that anything new I might produce would be missed.

I’m not boycotting the writing world as some kind of call to
action, nor do I think declaring an end to my fiction writing will result in
some kind of change that will impact how people think. Between the pandemic and
the arguments over masks, the lives lost and the massive economic hardships
millions are facing, my imaginary characters, their lives, their issues …  well, who gives a shit? Certainly not me.

Every single day I've felt guilt and insecurities because I
can't do more than stare at the empty page. I wish I could fill it with my fear,
frustration and the extreme anxiety that washes over me every time I consider
what will happen to my country, to the world, if the same thing happens in
November 2020 that happened in November 2016. If the politics aren’t enough, watching
George Floyd die and the callous indifference on Chauvin’s face broke me. I
didn’t think I could take one more story of police brutality and the wrongful
deaths of innocents at the hands of people who simply didn’t care. Then there
was Breonna Taylor and Elijah McClain and Venessa Guillen, a sister in arms
whose murder inexcusably went unsolved for so long even when the killer was the
most obvious person imaginable. If her murder had been a novel, readers would
have excoriated the author for making the solution to the puzzle so damn
obvious.

Why is it so hard for Americans to wear a damn mask? How could
parents support a president who demands they send their children into virus
riddled infection chambers? How do we allow news organizations to spread propaganda
against Black Lives Matter as if this civil rights group is some sort of
terrorist organization? How is it okay for the party of POTUS to put a mentally
ill rapper on the ballot in a scheme to draw votes from his opponent? How do we
allow our neighbors or, more importantly, our employees to scream the N word and
call the police on people simply for walking down the street? How does anyone
make excuses for people who stand on their front lawn and point weapons at
people exercising their first amendment rights? Did that cop really think it
made things better to help a 16 year-old girl sit up, after he made her and her
sisters lay face down on the ground and put handcuffs on them? And even after
people from around the world have expressed their anger, shock and horror over our
handling of this pandemic, and indeed, ban Americans from visiting most
countries around the world because of it, how can the architect of this
disaster claim we are the envy of the world? Worse, how can his followers think
this is all okay?

The horrific destruction left in the wake of the explosion in that Beirut warehouse seems almost representative of the collective pressure we are all facing. I’ve had enough.

Every single day my frustration and feelings of helplessness
have grown in the face of all of this madness.  At the same time my guilt over not being able
to put words on a page multiplied exponentially. The horrific destruction left
in the wake of the explosion in that Beirut warehouse seems almost representative
of the collective pressure we are all facing. I’ve had enough.

I wish I could control the fear so many millions feel over their
need for that extra $600 congress can’t come to an agreement on. I wish I could
control the guilt some cops may be wrestling with as they start to understand the
realities of the systematic racism they have unknowingly supported. I wish I
could control the risk to health so many teachers will face. I wish I could control
the gut-wrenching feelings low income, hardworking parents must be facing who know
their children won’t get the homeschooling they need. I wish I could have
control over how much further behind those low income kids will become. I wish
I could control the hatred in the hearts of so many who become incensed,
outraged and violent over a simple demand that no lives matter until Black, Brown
and Native lives matter.     

I know that many people share my frustration and feelings of helplessness in the face of all of this. By saying I'm not going to write anymore, I'm finally taking control of the one stone of guilt I can lift off my shoulders. Unlike COVID or federal troops on the streets or those who refuse to wear masks or the lunatic in the White House and all of the evil monsters who support him, this one thing, the guilt I feel over my inability to write, I can control. So I will.

My gratitude that I and everyone in my immediate family have
jobs that allow us to telecommute and still earn a paycheck is endless.

My 88-year old aunt is the only person I know of within my extended family who has COVID-19. She was intubated but is off the ventilator now and prognosis looks good.

My 88-year old Aunt is a tough old bird!

My apartment has never been this clean. My closets and
drawers are organized, for a change, and I’d really like to keep them that way.

Craft projects are much more fun when you finish them.

Make one person a mask and everyone wants a mask. Making
masks can be cathartic. Making masks makes you feel as if you’re doing
something that can help others. After a while, you might get tired of making
masks, but you keep doing it, because, making masks makes you feel as if you’re
doing something that can help others.

Making masks makes you realize how many craft projects you
started and didn’t finish because of all the random cotton, elastic and thread
you already have on hand.

I have always hated antibacterial gel.

I can’t stop thinking about how lonely it must be to die of
COVID-19.

There is nothing more liberating during excruciatingly long
conference calls than the speaker and mute buttons.

Happiness is, weeks into the stay-at-home order, and you realize there are two seasons of Homeland you haven’t watched yet.

When we first started this social distancing business, I never, ever would have thought it would last this long. Everything I hear makes me think we're only at the beginning.

My cats always begged me to pay attention to them. My cats
can only take so much attention.

Every time I start a new roll of toilet paper I feel a
little guilty.

I looked it up. It’s called stir-crazy because stir is supposed to be a 19th century British slag for prison, that derived from start, which is what they used to call Newgate prison and then that somehow morphed into stir and then stir became what they called all prisons and then when someone was in prison for a long time and they started acting crazy they were said to have been made crazy by being confined in prison for a long time so then the phrase stir-crazy was supposed to describe that condition. I think that’s all a stupid and unsatisfactory way of explaining why it's called stir-crazy.

Even though I am lucky enough to live near many different
walking paths and trails, I almost always take the same one.

You’d think a stay-at-home order would mean lots of writing
time. Wrong.

I really, really, really, really, really need a pedicure.

I was glad to hear congress had passed a bill to bring relief to people with unemployment and relief checks. They need to get those checks to the people who need them. Congress do you job!

I have not been sleeping well. I can only imagine how little sleep I would be getting if I were stressed out about not getting a damn paycheck. Congress do you job!

People should stop ignoring the one way signs in the grocery store. I like the one way signs in the grocery store.

I have a deep and lasting respect for people who work in
grocery stores … including my sister who works in a grocery store part time. Always
be kind to people who work in grocery stores.

I tried talking to the woman at the bakery counter. I
repeated myself several times thinking she couldn’t hear me because of my mask.
Finally she said, “I’m sorry, I’m deaf.” I apologized. I was also kind of glad
I was wearing a mask.

What will deaf people do if everyone wears masks all the
time?

My resting bitch face must look much worse behind a mask.

Our healthcare system is a disaster.

When my only choice is to shop online, I make are far fewer impulse buys. I have spent a hell of a lot less money this month. I had a hard time controlling my impulses before.

I am ridiculously excited about receiving the new mop I ordered. It's a regular old mop. Did I mention how clean my apartment is?

Grocery stores should quadruple the employees they have
pulling groceries for pickup and delivery. I searched a month out and all of
the pickup and delivery dates are sold out. Missed opportunity!

One thing I rarely kept in the house before but have multiple choices of today ... snacks!

Will we talk about our lives in terms of B.C. (Before Covid)
and A.C. (After Covid)?

A good thing about COVID-19 is that social media
know-it-alls are being proven wrong about so many things. A bad thing about
COVID-19 is that social media know-it-alls will only find other stuff to be
wrong about.

Stay away from social media as much as possible.

COVID-19 is proof positive that the election in November is the
most important election of my lifetime.

Let me say up front, my decision was mostly a financial one.

Two days before I was scheduled to head to San Antonio for The Association of Writers and Writing Convention (AWP), where I was schedule to appear on a panel, the convention organizers announced they were considering whether or not to cancel the event. San Antonio had just had a major scare, and there was reason to be concerned.  

Since the virus hit our newsfeeds I’d heard of events being canceled or of people canceling their travel plans. During those weeks, I’d check in with my travel partner over and over again, saying, “Oh, we’re going. For sure. No doubt. I’m not letting a little fear of coronavirus stop me.”

And surely, this convention would not turn the 10 to 12 thousand people who usually attend away, many of them powerhouses in the literary community.

Truth is, AWP is expensive. The registration alone is hundreds of dollars. Our hotel was over a grand and that was, by far, one of the cheaper hotels available. The airfare was more than what I usually pay to visit family in Minnesota. Attending this four-day convention puts a big dent in my travel budget. In the past I've been able to justify it. This year was different.

Despite the expense, I usually go because it’s the one time a year I get to be around a large section of my cohort … the veteran writing community. It’s a chance to mingle with thousands of new writers and readers. It’s an opportunity to appear on panels and be in talks that let me advance my point of view. This year, I was going to help man the table The Wrath-Bearing Tree and Collateral -- both literary journals that I assist with fiction editing -- had a shared table in the book fair hall. For months I looked forward to sharing that table with some of my most favorite people and savored the idea of having rare hours of time to spend with them.

But, when I considered the attendance this year would be much diminished because of the virus threat, the potential cancellation announcements just days before the convention, the fact that I had purchased travel insurance (we shall see if the insurer makes good on their policy) and the mayor of San Antonio declaring a medical emergency, I couldn’t square the financial outlay with the threat of infection and a greatly contracted attendance.

This book fair is usually teaming with people. It makes me sad to see so many empty tables representing the scores of organizations that canceled their attendance. Photo/Andria Williams

Not to mention, according to this administration's health experts, not only am I "elderly" by their definition, I've had pneumonia before, so getting this thing could result in more serious consequences for me than for younger people without my medical history.

"... the US Department of Health and Human Services "is in the process of doing targeted outreach to the elderly community and those that have serious underlying health conditions."

"Dr. William Schaffner, a Vanderbilt University professor and longtime adviser to the CDC, said these two groups should consider avoiding activities such as traveling by airplane, going to movie theaters, attending family events, shopping at crowded malls, and going to religious services."

Fri. March 6, 2020, CNN report by Elizabeth Cohen

They define elderly as those "over 60." Soooooo, that's me!? Elderly? Really??

Did I make the right decision? My head says, no. My wallet says, yes. My heart says, DAMN YOU CORONAVIRUS!  

I know the correct emotion is to feel happy for her instead of jealous.
I know I’m supposed love hearing her stories about it, instead of wishing I had
stories of my own to tell. And of course I know that if I really wanted one, I
could and should form one of my own. Somehow, I can’t convince myself that if I
did make one of my own, that it would ever be as cool as hers.

The “her” I’m talking about is my sister, and the thing she has, the
thing I wish I had, is a book club.

Not just any book club. This is a group of smart, accomplished,
worldly, successful black women who enjoy each other’s company so much, they
not only talk about great books, they also go on trips inspired by the books
they read. They’ve traveled to Soprlo Island, Charleston, the Gulf Coast of
Florida, the mountains of North, Georgia, just to name a few. The Book Trekkers
have been meeting and discussing books for over ten years. They read everything
from memoir to mystery to, thank goodness, urban fantasy.

I was both excited and nervous when my sister told me she had selected
my book, The Bonding Spell, for the club to read at their most recent meeting.

Excited, because I thought it was cool as hell that this group of women
I had admired for so long was going to read my work. Nervous, of course, that
they would enjoy it.

My sister called me the afternoon of their club meeting. There was lots
of laughter and conversation, everyone talking over each other as I heard the
names of my characters bouncing around the room. They asked fantastic questions
and I could tell by what they asked, that they really understood what I had
been trying to do with the book. They had laughed at the right places, had
understood the conflicts, and had loved the characters I had drawn on the page.

The whole experience was inspiring.

If your book club is looking for something fun to read, let me know.
Cookie’s club members all received autograph copies of the book and I was happy
to answer all of their questions as well as provide some questions they could
use to spark discussion.

The Book Trekkers. Lower left, Marilynn, Terri, Wanda and my sister, Cookie. Top left is Aishea, Janis, Debbie and Faye.

Thanks for letting me participate in your group!

I’m not big
into numerology, but I think we can all agree that the numbers 2020 are just
damn cool. No matter how you write it, there’s something magical about it. Twenty-twenty,
2020, two-zero, two-zero. Am I right?

So, it’s with
anticipation for all the great things I’ll read in 2020, that I provide the
best of what I read (or listened to) in 2019. In previous years, I read books
and occasionally had an audio book going at the same time. This year, on any of
the 365 days of 2019, my sitting and reading time was spent with a print or
ebook and my walking, doing chores or driving time was spent listening to a
different audio book. As a result, I listened more than read books this year.
That said, by absorbing words while doing other things at the same time I was
able to enjoy the written word even more than before.

As always, it
was difficult to choose only a few to recognize.

Midnight Son, by James Dommek, Jr. – Not to be confused with The Midnight Son by Joe Nesbo … This Midnight Son is a free Audible Original. Unfortunately, originals are exclusive to Audible, which is truly sad, because I want everyone to hear this thing. It might be worth the free 30-day trial just for this story alone. (No, I don’t own Amazon stock).

With datelines
and place markers, James Dommek, Jr. narrates this true story the way his Iñupiaq tribe ancestors would have told it.
Like a podcast with cinema verite-style sounds and conversations, Dommek unfolds
the winding tale of Teddy Kyle Smith, a man who grew up in the author’s small,
remote Alaskan town and went on to became an actor. Smith had appeared in
several independent films and had a burgeoning acting career going before he
returned to Kayana, Alaska, his hometown, for a visit. What happens next is
told by the narrator in a voice that demonstrates his shock and confusion.

I’ve
seen other Audible Originals end up in print and available to a wider audience.
I hope that happens to this story.

The Water Dancer, by Te-Nehisi Coats – Coats is known for his fearless nonfiction writing. His Between the World and Me, championed by both Oprah and Obama, set a shift in the tone of how people, especially black people, speak about race in a post-Obama world.  

With his fiction
debut, he continues to demonstrate he will pull no punches in pursuit of his
narrative. In The Water Dancer, Hiram
Walker, the product of what happens when a master continually rapes his slaves,
makes use of his photographic memory to better his lot. Later, with the help of
Moses – Harriet Tubman – Walker is able to harness his powers of perfect
visualization to change his world and the lives of the people closest to him.

Difficult to
read at times, but other times hopeful, The
Water Dancer is a, curl-up-in-bed-with-a-hot-cup-of-tea, kind of book. A
satisfying escape.

Looking Glass, Murder Theory and Dark Pattern,
by Andrew Mayne - Books
two, three and four of Mayne’s mystery series, which started with The
Naturalist. This straight up mystery-serial killer-series features the
most unusual accidental sleuth I’ve ever read and mysteries which, by book
three, I was finally starting to understand to a point where I would venture to
make guesses.  Dr. Theo Cray is a
computational biologist—whatever that means—who uses computerized models to
follow patterns and to theorize who is killing people.

When you
consider that Mayne is an illusionist by trade and went on tour with the likes
of Copperfield, and, Pen and Teller, you begin to understand that this writer’s
brain, and that of his main character, works a bit differently than your
average human. This is a series I read one after the other, immediately
starting the next as the previous ended. Page turners all, that will keep you
up long past your bedtime.

The Girl Who Saved The King of Sweden, by Jonas Jonasson – I love a book that takes a bunch of serious subjects, forces you to see them from a completely different perspective, and makes you think the world’s problems aren’t as insurmountable as you thought.

Nombeko Mayeki, born
in the poorest part of Soweto and destined to a short life of poverty and
abuse, refuses to take her fate sitting down. She gets a job as a cleaner, escapes
sexual assaults, teaches herself to read, advises her bosses, rubs elbows with
world leaders and scrambles to save the world from nuclear annihilation, all
the while holding the most positive attitude a person could have.

This story had me laughing
out loud, going back and rereading to convince myself that what I’d just read
was actually what I’d just read and completely sad when I was finished. This is
one of those books that leaves you feeling as if anything else you pick up won’t
hold a candle to the world you’ve just left. I was thrilled to hear that
someone has optioned the book for a movie. One of my 2020 reads will be
Jonasson’s first book, The
100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared.    

14, by Peter Clines – Now this book is just plain freaky, but once you get through the set up – which admittedly is a bit slow – you’ll be hooked, and, much like the characters in the story, you will feel an impossible-to-resist urge to unravel the mystery.

Nate Tucker
thinks his luck has changed for the better when he leases an incredible apartment
in L. A. The deal came along at the perfect time, since Nate is out of work and
money is tight. As the out-of-work Nate grows increasingly bored, his attention
is drawn to one apartment in his new building that is closed behind a conspicuous
padlock. The more Nate gets to know his new neighbors, the more he begins to
realize they all have a strange story to tell in relation to that apartment.

A bit like the
unusual mysteries in Lost or even Twin Peaks, the strangeness increases as
the secrets unravel, and the reader is left to hope that the final solution is
worth the journey. I think it is.

Directly after reading
14, I read Grady Hendrix’s, Horrorstör. A somewhat funny, somewhat
horrifying tale that takes place in a store that closely resembles that big
blue furniture store with yellow letters … Anyway, if I hadn’t read 14 first, Horrorstör might have made my top ten.  

The Book of Etta, and The Book of
Flora, by Meg Elison. Last year, I saw The
Book of the Unnamed Midwife on several, best of lists. Once I read it, I
not only understood why it was so highly recommended, I was sucked into the
other two books in the series, The Book
of Etta and The Book of Flora.

In Ellison’s
post-apocalyptic world, live births are extremely rare and female births even
rarer. In short, women are literally at a premium. Enslaved, bought and sold,
traded and abused, the world is a dark and dangerous place if you have boobs
and a vajajay.

By the second and third books, Ellison expands her exploration to ask questions like, what kind of power does a woman have over the men who want her? What happens to relationships when the opportunity for sis-gendered love is so rare? More importantly, when procreation is next to impossible and even dangerous, what is the value of gender in the first place?  

A bit like
Harlan Ellison’s (no relation, I checked), 1969, A
Boy and His Dog, each community
has their own way of dealing with the new reality, some much more honest and
accepting than others. I think this series is important in our world as we all
become more informed about  gender
neutrality and fluidity.  

The
Tumbling Turner Sisters,
by Juliette Fay –
Part of the reason I picked this one up is because, when we were kids, my
sisters and I took dance lessons together and each year, had a routine we
practiced and performed. I’d always wanted to make a living somehow, dancing
and singing like Shirley Temple … only with my sisters.

So this story,
about a family of women who take to the vaudeville stage in a desperate attempt
to keep a roof over their heads, appealed to me. The girls grow into women on
the road, improving their act and learning lessons about life. With a glimpse
into what vaudeville was like in 1919, this story is like Water
For Elephants but on the stage instead of the circus. I loved this one.
   

The Worldship Humility, The Code Book series by RR Haywood. Another book which started as an Audible Original, but is now available in ebook and paperback and we’re all the better for it. It's no secret that I'm an unabashed RR Haywood fan and will read anything he puts out. For a new series, I thought this got off to a good start.

This post-apocalyptic story finds the last of earth’s humans living on a fleet of ships aimlessly puttering through the dark universe while they use unmanned drones to desperately search for a livable planet that can replace the one they destroyed. I know Haywood is mad at work on the next book in this series featuring Yasmine, a petty thief who wants to live on the upper decks, and Sam, an airlock operator, bored with his on-ship existence.

Yasmine learns about Sam's knack with technology and comes up with a scheme she hopes will buy her a ticket to utopia. The two of them get up to some mischief that is both funny and dangerous.  

I’m looking
forward to seeing what happens next.

An Heir to Thorns and Steel, By Vow and Royal Blood Bath
and On Wings of Bone and Glass,
the Blood Ladders Trilogy, by M.C.A. Hogarth – I
don’t remember why I first started reading this series. I don’t know if someone
recommended it, or if I just lucked into it on a one-click wish, but once I started,
I couldn’t walk away.

Subject to
constant pain and the humiliation of seizures, Morgan Locke feels he is
imprisoned in a body that curses him daily. He wishes for something, anything
to save him from his torture. What is it they say? Be careful what you wish
for. An interesting cast of characters and creatures, journeys and quests that
drag you along and a satisfying ending. Each book seems just long enough to
keep you lost for a while.

And finally, Zero Hour, is book 1 in the Order of the Dragon series, by Tina Glasneck – I have to admit, I haven’t read this yet, but I was so excited to meet another black, female, fantasy/mystery author online, I had to include her work here. I downloaded my free copy of Zero Hour and plan to read it this weekend. Here’s how it’s described:

Vampires + Dark Magic = Zero Hour.

The road to destruction is only one tempting spell away.
What happens when an untrained seer possesses the most powerful grimoire ever to exist?

Leslie's a romance author, who happens to be conjuring magic. She's researching sigils for her latest Highlander romance, but her intentions have powered something sinister.

I love Tina's covers too.

I could go on and on about the great things I read this year. I couldn't even get to The Cutting Season, by Attica Locke -- another new favorite author of mine -- which tackles two mysteries at once. One modern day. The other during the dying days of slavery on the plantation where the story takes place.

Very close to my heart was Radio Girls, by Sarah-Jane Stratford. It's about the beginnings of the BBC and the role women played in the early years of radio production.

And it breaks my heart that I didn't include The Belles, by Dhonielle Clayton -- another author with a library of books I'm adding to my 2020 reading list. Her richly told fantasy takes place in a land called Orleans, where everyone is born grey and can only become beautiful with the help of a Belle. I loved it and wanted more.

Now, I'm working on my reading wish list for 2020. Which book did you read this year that stuck with you the longest? What was the best thing you read? And what are you looking forward to reading next year?

I need words. Give me some words. Don't make me beg.

All I want for Christmas ... are my words back.

I used to have lots of words. Thousands and thousands of
them. I would sit down at the keyboard and weave tales and create worlds and
imagine characters that weren’t just characters to me. They were living
breathing people.

But, to be perfectly honest, I haven’t been writing. I’ve
lost all my words. I’ve tried, but I can’t find them.

Help!

I have multiple projects in progress. Projects I’m excited
about and ones that should be relatively easy to finish. The characters,
locations and plot points are right there, waiting to be fleshed out and
realized. I see them. I feel them. I just can’t write them.

Instead, I spent most of the summer having every single one
of my titles reedited. There were a bunch of nagging issues and my known
weakness is that I never, ever catch all of my editing errors. Never. So, I always
hire the work out, but still, I’ve known there were issues with books already
out there. I decided to have every book reedited. It wasn’t cheap and it took a
long time.

Then, I was having all kinds of issues with my website. I
had never been able to get it to look the way I wanted. So damn frustrating. I
hired a web designer to finally have the kind of website I wanted and the look
I was after.

I sometimes find words in fire, but I've looked and they aren't there. Even Sojue has helped search.

Prior to this summer, my books were all exclusive to Amazon.
I wanted to change that, so I went through the business of researching and
deciding the best way to get them published to a wider market. I even
considered issuing them in hardcover. When I finally made a choice, I went
through the business of reissuing all of my books on multiple platforms, which
also takes a great deal of time.

And as the political animal that I am, I can’t ignore that
all of what is going on in Washington is a distraction that has virtually
paralyzed me. Every time RGB sneezes, my heart stops. Each new revelation and
public testimony restricts my airways. I know one day this nightmare will be
over, but right now, I don’t recognize my country. In light of that it’s
difficult to follow Hester, Quincy, and Rashid into sewers to battle trolls.  

I know it may sound like I’m making excuses, but all of
these things drain the sand from the clock, sap your energy, and frankly
squeeze every single bit of fun out of the business of writing.

Finding and hiring an editor, building a relationship, trusting them to work through each manuscript, making the changes and adjustments, all went as I expected. But then, just last week, I received a new review. She loved the story, but I was absolutely crushed when she withheld one star because she’d become frustrated with the errors she found in one of my books. ERRORS? STILL?

Then, imagine my frustration when I realized the web
designer I hired had built fatal flaws into the site, breaking things that
weren’t broken and leaving me with plugins and themes that couldn’t be updated.
I had to hire yet another person to redo what I’d spent a great deal of money to
have done. The website is back up and running now, but my trust in hiring
freelancers is trounced. Not that I won’t do it again. I just don’t know what I
could have done differently to improve the outcome I’d had with the first one.  

Unfortunately, much of this happened just before and during the publication of The Bonding Blade. I’d worked diligently on the book and I absolutely love the story. From Subaru, to Clark, to Erika and Sarah, the characters and situations are some of the favorites I’ve ever written. It’s a damn good book and continues The Desert Goddess series -- both books, The Bonding Spell and The Bonding Blade could use some review love by the way -- with the kind of twisting mystery, dark and serious situations and wry sense of humor the series embodies. The release was … not a letdown exactly. It just didn’t bring me the kind of joy I usually feel when sending one of my babies out into the world.

Purchased from 13 Magickal Moons in Occoquan, VA. Reminds me a bit like Logan Fredricks' shop in St. Paul, only that place is only in my imagination.

I owe readers of the series a next book and I WILL fulfill
that promise. The problem is, I’m a bit lost. I’ve lost my words. I’m searching
for them, but so far, they have remained elusive.

I’m going on a trip soon and hope I’ll find some words under some rocks there, maybe buried in the ashes of a fireplace. I really am looking for them everywhere. I wish my mom would send some word from Heaven that I’ve left them in my sock drawer. I can’t hire Master Sergeant Lauren Harper to figure out where they’ve gone. I’m sure she and Harry are on Holiday leave.

So, if you have a good lead on where I can find some words,
please let me know. I will take them in the form of inspiration gift cards, or
writing prompt packages, a word download infusion, a sage cleansing, or magical
talisman like the Muse Touch I purchased from a witches shop in Occoquan,
Virginia. I bought it a few years ago, so it probably needs a refresher spell. I
wish I had Quincy’s grimoire database. But I don’t. So, I guess I’ll just keep
looking.

Happy Holidays! Here’s hoping you get everything you’re
wishing for.

My siblings and I have always enjoyed having the bejesus scared out of us.

Our mother sometimes worked a swing shift. Our dad worked odd hours so we never really knew when or if he’d be home. By the time my older sister was about 12, my middle sister, my brother who was the youngest, and myself – all of us about two years apart from the next one — were pretty much on our own after school, living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, casseroles warmed in the oven (there weren’t any microwaves back then), or stovetop cooked cans of tomato soup.

Growing up in Minnesota, there are many days when it’s just too dang cold to go outside. While alone in the house, our most favorite thing to do was to watch scary movies. Of course this is before VCRs, or DVRs or even cable. We had five measly channels to choose from, but somehow, we were able to find movies that scratched that horror itch. On Sundays, when the weekly listings came out, we would go on a search making note of any movies that might make us scream in terror and then plan all activities around it.

A local TV station had a weekly program of horror features that opened with a coffin, smoke, and white, skeletal fingers peeking out of the lid. Horror Incorporated, was a big favorite of ours. The opening segment starts with a high-pitched scream and ends with a high-pitched scream. We loved to mimic it, screaming at the top of our lungs. We lived on a five-acre lot with no neighbors around to dampen our volume. We could scream as much as we wanted, and we wanted to often.

Dracula, The Werewolf, The Blob, Frankenstein, The Mummy, The Monster from the Surf, Godzilla, The Creature From the Black Lagoon. Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, Jr., Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi and bug-eyed Peter Lorre. If we saw a film starring one of them, it made our “must see” list. We’d sit side by side on the sofa, a shared blanket clutched to our chins, looking forward to the thing that would make us jump and scream.

As we grew older, the fright somehow changed to hilarity. By the time The War of the Gargantuas,  came out, we were ready to laugh, and laugh hard. The story is about two Godzilla-sized creatures, hairy and monstrous looking, who rise from the sea, one good and one evil. At one point in the film, a woman is in a rooftop lounge singing a song that includes the line, “… the wooooords get stuck in my throat.” She repeats the line over and over. “The wooooords get stuck in my throat.”

Then one of the Gargantuas picks her up, eats her and spits out her clothes. To this day, all we have to do is sing that line from the song and we all crack up.

As we grew older, our tastes developed and the reruns of The Mummy, or the Three Stooges or Charlie Chan versions of those films didn’t interest us anymore. We wanted the truly scary films, like The Thing From Another World. That artic mission, the discovery of the space ship under the ice, the isolation, the killer vegetable and the dry wit and snappy dialogue, had all the makings of a classic. The remakes have never lived up to the original black and white.

Most of our favorites had themes of science gone wild. We were still doing “duck and roll” drills in elementary school. Nuclear science was frightening stuff. There was a real fear that man would mess around with the wrong mixture of something dubious and we’d never see the horror coming before it was too late.

An amazing trailer for one of our favorites starts with a montage of images, all pointing to secrets the government is keeping from us. Then a news announcer, in a dramatic voice, warns that, “Unless something is done and done quickly, man as the dominant species on earth with be dead within a year.”

Wow. A time frame and everything. Evidently, all that nuclear dust from testing has created monsters … biblical in nature … that are bent on the destruction of the human race. There are images of cars driving down main street America, with speakers blasting. “Stay in your homes! Stay. In. Your. Homes! This is not a drill.”

The actual movie starts with a little blond girl, obviously in shock and standing alone in the debris of her destroyed home, clutching a stuffed animal. Someone asks her what happened. All she can do is scream THEM! Those giant ants were no joke.

I have always loved the science fiction style horror films and still do. The Alien franchise is one of my favorites. All the Predator films are great too. This idea that some alien race would come here because Earth offers a fertile hunting ground, it’s a fantastic premise. Still, there’s nothing like the terror of what normal humans can do to each other.

Alfred Hitchcock rocked our world. The Birds, Rear Window, even his TV show became a favorite. My brother had to work hard to convince me to watch Halloween. I’d never liked the slasher movies, the stupid women who went in the basement or sprained their ankles bored me. But Halloween was different. The first time Jason pops back up after being unquestionably killed was such a satisfying horror moment.

Then I started reading Stephen King –Carrie, Cujo, It—I couldn’t put them down. Since we’d always had dogs and cats for pets, Pet Cemetery was particularly horrifying for me.

One Saturday morning, I got up early to find my older sister sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes bloodshot, her hands clenched in front of her. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night. I asked her what was wrong. She said she’d been to a movie the night before with some friends. “The Exorcist,” she said, then refused to say more. She’d seen it the first night it was released. I think she’s still scared from it.

Of course, now we’ve all been bitten by the zombie bug. One of my sisters lives in Atlanta. My other sister is obsessed with The Walking Dead show, so when she went to visit, they HAD to go where the show was being filmed, driving by “Alexandria” and where the Terminus was filmed. She still talks about that trip.

My brother and I, share a love for R. R. Haywood’s Undead series. More than 24 books into the series and we still snatch them up as soon as they come out. In fact, I’m such a fan, that I actually wrote to him and asked him for an interview. You can read it here. He’s a great guy and I’m crossing my fingers that he’ll get a Netflix deal someday to make his books come to life.

We’ve never really grown out of our love of fear. Several years ago, I went home to Minneapolis just so I could go with my siblings and a few friends to a place called Scream Town. The massive, outdoor park had five different themed areas, darkened and filled with things and people that jumped out at you. We were, by far, the most senior people at the theme park, all of us in our late 50s and early 60s. We didn’t care. It may be our age that made so much of it hilarious.

In one room, you had to walk through a space with what looked like bodies wrapped in plastic, hanging from the ceiling. They were so numerous, you had to bump and bang your way through this horror, the “bodies” swinging sickeningly. We clutched each other, heads ducked, stumbling around in the dark, and laughing our asses off, screaming too.

In another place, you rounded a corner to come face to face with a man in a glass encased electric chair. The red light in the small booth where he sat cast a horrific, shadowy glow over him. The rubbery, trembling and smoking dummy, wrapped in a straitjacket, it’s mouth gaping open with chilling screams piped out of the box, was so life-like he was fascinating.

We made our brother go first, hanging onto his jacket while we made our way through the corn maze, then stood fascinated at the sight of a cow suspended in air as if it was being sucked up by a UFO. Scream Town does not skimp on the props or makeup.

Now, every year when Halloween rolls around, I think about Scream Town and think about my family and consider flying home for the holiday where we have every excuse to act ridiculous, scream at the top of our lungs and laugh until our bellies hurt.

I don’t know about other writers, but my heart still races when I see that someone has reviewed one of my books. It’s a bit like opening a present from a complete stranger. You’re appreciative that someone has gone to the trouble to give you a gift, but you’re a bit frightened of white it might be.

Every writer says it. Reviews mean a lot. The more you have, the more visibility your books get. And while I know some people think writing a review is as appealing as a middle school book report assignment, all a reader has to do is provide a star rating and a couple of sentences that describe what they thought. That’s it.

Every once in a while, you get a review that makes you nod and know that the reader really understood what you were trying to do. They don’t happen every day. When they do, I think they’re worth sharing.

Here are two reviews that had my heart racing this week.

Reviewed By K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite 

The Bonding Blade is a work of urban fantasy fiction based around ancient themes, the second novel in the Desert Goddess Series and was penned by author M. L. Doyle. Written for mature audiences, but without explicitly graphic content, this dark tale of inescapable fate rests once more on the shoulders of our heroine, former sergeant Hester Trueblood. The soldier has been bonded to the Sumerian goddess Inanna for some time now, but that doesn’t make life any easier. Whilst keeping the literal demons at bay and learning to use her goddess-given powers, Hester finds one of her warriors struck down and suspects that something supernatural is at work in his injury.

High action, high drama, and high fantasy all meet in this superb mystery novel with plenty of historical content thrown in. The supernatural elements of the plot are dealt with amusingly and realistically as we see Hester struggle with the magical aspects of her life and the reactions of those around her. Author M. L. Doyle has created a relatable strong female lead, whose adventurous spirit and capable mind inspire readers from the get-go. The goddess elements and ancient Sumerian culture are well injected to give good flavor, but also bear a great deal of authenticity to pique the interest of historical fiction fans. I also really enjoyed the plot structure, which had some truly surprising but credible twists. Overall, I would highly recommend The Bonding Blade for historical, fantasy and mystery fans who enjoy successful genre mash-ups and full-on adventures.

*****High action, high drama, and high fantasy all meet in this superb mystery novel with plenty of historical content thrown in.*****

Reviewed By Lit Amri for Readers’ Favorite 

“In my previous life, before I’d become a soldier and deployed to Iraq, I’d never have imagined that I would be running around in caves searching for supernatural creatures. All of that changed when I picked up a shiny coin in the desert and became the living vessel of the Mesopotamian goddess Inanna. I know. It sounds crazy.” M. L. Doyle’s The Desert Goddess Series continues with Book II: The Bonding Blade. Quincy is ill, and the group finds out that it has something to do with someone from Inanna’s past. A special blade may be the only thing that can save him, but Gilgamesh, for reasons he won’t disclose, refuses to help obtain it. In the meantime, there’s a series of deaths in the city that requires Hester’s attention. Saving a dear friend’s life, solving murders, facing unexpected enemies, family issues and complicated relationships, Hester’s resilience is greatly tested.

Doyle’s The Bonding Blade has a slightly faster pace for its plot compared to its predecessor and there’s a lot going on for the human goddess vessel Hester Trueblood. At times it’s slightly chaotic but not confusing. Her bond with the goddess Inanna is still peppered with disagreements but the tolerance between them has slightly improved. Quincy’s past wasn’t an easy read but it revealed more about himself including Inanna, particularly about the source of his predicament. Also, there’s an interesting development regarding one of Hester’s staff, Erika. There are unexpected losses that will further challenge Hester and her companions. All in all, Book II of The Desert Goddess Series is an exciting and commendable continuation from Doyle. Fans of the series will be pleased and look forward to the next book.

*****All in all, Book II of The Desert Goddess Series is an exciting and commendable continuation from Doyle. Fans of the series will be pleased and look forward to the next book.*****

When you sit in your writer cave, wondering if all the toil is worth it, every once in a while, you evidence that, yes. It is. It really is.

We've Got To Fix This Sh*T!

This is a repeat of a post I made on Feb. 23, 2018. It was not too long after the Parkland school shooting and I'd been moved by the eloquence and tenacity of the high school students who chanted, "NOT ONE MORE! NOT ONE MORE!"

Despite the chants, there have been more. A lot more. Far more than this country can stand. Even the world is now saying America is too dangerous to visit. They may not be wrong.

Now, the new chant is "DO SOMETHING! DO SOMETHING!" And that's different, right?

They may not have felt it at the time and they may not feel it now, but those Parkland kids did do something. They may have felt as if their struggle would never end, but one can feel these things. Those kids did turn the tide. Their outrage and eloquence did become a turning point. More people died. A lot more, but this feels different, doesn’t it? El Paso and Dayton, it just feels different. The NRA is being shouted down. The idea of increased and better background checks is sounding like a given, but that's not enough. Not nearly enough at all.

So I'm repeating my post from 2018 that ends with my list of ideas for fixing this sh*t. And we've got to fix this sh*t. Now. Right the hell now.

This is my rifle

February 23, 2018

**Warning** political rant – I know. as an author I’m supposed to keep my trap shut when it comes to this stuff, but feck it. I can’t right now.**

I’m a slick sleeve. I don’t have a combat patch. I don’t know what it’s like to hear a bullet meant to kill me as it zips by my head. I’ve never seen a fellow soldier killed nor have I ever killed anyone. The entire time I was in uniform, if you can imagine it, this country was at peace.  Perhaps my opinion about weapons, for those reasons, count for shit.

Despite the peace through which I served, I still had to fire a weapon at least annually. Every time I aimed my M16 at a human-shaped target, and every time I pulled the trigger, I felt mixed emotions. Part of me loved it. The power, the feeling of success for striking where I aimed –which was rare. I enjoyed the way I imagined I looked—all helmet and ammo pouches and dusty boots and that sleek looking weapon in the hands of a woman in the best shape of her life. I’d smile my wide, white smile, my dark brown skin glistening under a sweat stained helmet band and stroll out to the target, the business end of the weapon pointed down range, and count the holes I’d made. I’d analyze my shot group, which was usually crap, like I knew what I was looking at and knew exactly what to do to improve it. For most of my career in uniform I was a terrible shot.

But that didn’t stop me from looking forward to the times when we checked out weapons and spent a day on the range.

I’d get even more filled with myself when I trained with a nine millimeter pistol. That wide-legged stance, the tight, noise-dampening headphones, the safety glasses, the buck of the pistol in my fists, the unique and pervasive smell of cordite. I was much better with the pistol than I was with an M16. I loved the metallic cranking noise the paper target made as it flew at you along the trolley. That scene had been captured in movies and TV too many times for me to not see myself in some glorified role.

It wasn’t until I deployed to the peacekeeping mission in Bosnia that I had to live with a weapon for months at a time. I carried it and multiple loaded magazines while I also hefted my video camera and tripod, traveling all over the place, capturing video of the action around me, and listening to the stories people told.

I shot video of Bosnian soldiers removing landmines they’d placed but lost track of during the war, standing stupidly close and marveling at their casual attitude about the work. I shot video of old Muslim ladies throwing rocks at Serbians they accused of murdering their loved ones. They turned to me, screaming into my camera, shaking their rock filled fists. Frankly, I couldn’t blame them for their anger. It seemed as if everyone was angry at everyone in Bosnia and the hatred would never cool off long enough for the loathing to stop boiling in their veins.

But much of my time was spent shooting video of American soldiers as they labored long, hot hours in the sun, repairing roads, patrolling destroyed villages, meeting with community leaders and politicians. I went on a night patrol with a scout platoon and ended up spending more than eight hours, covered in manure smelling filth as we tried to free a Humvee from the deepest muck I had ever seen. I kept telling myself it was mud, and hoped I was right when one soldier sank up to his chest in it. No matter what they tried, it seemed, the disastrous scene only grew worse. They ended up having to call for help from an M1 tank. By the end of that night, I had even more respect for the tenacity, the ingenuity, the sheer bullheadedness of young men and women who end up thrown into shit that is literally over their heads but still find some way to get out of it.

For me and my time in uniform, my video camera and the stories I told with it were far more useful weapons than the M16 I wore strapped to my back.

I became so comfortable carrying it, the strap laying crossways on my chest, the weapon with the barrel pointed down, covering my back, that I felt naked without it. It never bothered me as I slept with it next to me on my cot, sometimes inside the sleeping bag with me, the hard metal of it like the hard metal railing of my camp bed. That weapon was my responsibility. The one with the serial number I memorized was my permanent accessory.

After reading theagingmillennialengineer’s blog post, “Fuck you, I like guns,” I felt as if, finally, I’d found someone who served in uniform, who’d fired a deadly weapon and who felt about it the same way I did. In the nine months I was deployed, my weapon was always ready. Cleaned, a magazine loaded, just waiting for me to pull back the charging handle. While I’d grown accustomed to it, while I’d spent long hours training with it, I never, ever wanted to actually use it.

Yes, I served in peacetime. Like I said, I’m a slick sleeve. I don’t have a combat patch. I’ve never been shot at. I’ve never seen a fellow soldier killed nor have I ever killed anyone. And admittedly, perhaps my opinion about weapons, for those reasons, counts for shit.

Except, the kids in that Florida school never had a combat patch either, until now. They’d never been shot at, until now. They’d never seen a fellow student killed, until now. And their opinions, in my book, count for a whole lot. Some asshats are calling them opportunists, fakes, tools of their gun hating parents who influence them.

I think the asshats are saying such things because these kids are changing the game and they are frightened. These kids are simply stating their well thought out opinions. They feel very strongly about them, because someone with a deadly weapon tried to kill them.

That night in the field, stuck in mud I could have drowned in, most of the soldiers I was with weren’t much older than those high school kids. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. If we can send kids that young to war they absolutely have the right to offer their opinions and to be heard and not to be accused of being mouthpieces for some nefarious purpose.

From what I hear them saying, what they really want is for grownups to be grownups. They’re asking, why haven’t we fixed this shit yet? They want to know how come, with all of our talk about what a great country we live in, we can’t come together to try to ensure a basic tenant of our constitution. Life.

Other countries do it. Why can’t we?

The conversation becomes polarizing, as soon as it begins. Mostly because, as theagingmillennialengineer’s post says:

“ We restrict what types of businesses can operate in which zones of the city or county. We have a whole system of permitting for just about any activity a person wants to conduct since those activities could affect others, and we realize, as a society, that we need to try to minimize the risk to other people that comes from the chosen activities of those around them in which they have no say. Gun ownership is the one thing our country collectively refuses to manage, and the result is a lot of dead people.”

I have a few ideas for how we can manage gun ownership in a way that will keep us from a lot more dead people. Here are just a few. They are not perfect. Some might not even be possible, but they are ideas that don’t include kicking in doors and taking people’s precious deadly weapons. All I ask is that you give them consideration.

Reinstate funding for the CDC to conduct studies into gun deaths and gun use and apply that scientific research to stopping it. We used science to study car fatalities to make driving safer. Let’s use the same methods to study gun fatalities. Remove everything that hampers the CDC and other scientific outlets from doing such research.
Treat mass shootings and gun deaths as the public health epidemic it is and put our best public health professionals on the issue. Study it in terms of mental health, public safety, individual rights and science. Use those studies to develop a multi-phased program to reduce gun violence and death.
Start immediate and massive communication campaigns that are aimed at reducing gun violence, and supporting responsible gun ownership so that those responsible owners are held up as examples of what right looks like. We need to stop vilifying people simply for owning guns. People who own guns are not all evil, war mongering turds. Those who support responsible ownership should be held up as examples so that more will follow their lead. We need communications campaigns that help us think that way. You may think, with all the crap going on, that a bunch of PSAs aren’t going to do anything, but at nine o’clock, I bet we all know where the hell our damn children are now, don’t we? That kind of shit works.
When a product is manufactured in a way that negligently harms people, we can sue the manufacturer. Repeal the laws that prevent people from suing gun manufacturers.
Invest in effective registration and tracking. Car registries are on national databases. With a plate number, you can easily track who that car belongs to and any patrolman, detective and law enforcement officer can trace the plate. You can even track it via GPS. We can’t do that with guns because most registries are not in useable databases and many registries are manually input and tracked … in 2018! Fix that shit! Make it easy for new information that violates registration to be added. Revoke registrations the way a driver’s license is revoked.  When a gun license is revoked, go get the weapons! (This might already be happening, I doubt it.)
BTW, that gun registration, license, permit, whatever you have…make that an annual or bi-annual renewal. In Florida, a gun license is good for SEVEN YEARS. A lot can happen in seven years. You want to own a gun, prove you know how to own it safely every dang year. Charge fees to pay for upgrading the technology to support the requirement.
From their own website, the ATF says:

“ ATF’s National Tracing Center (NTC) is the only organization authorized to trace U.S. and foreign manufactured firearms for international, Federal, State, and local law enforcement agencies. Its purpose is to provide investigative leads in the fight against violent crime and terrorism and to enhance public safety.”

Ah, WHY? Why are they the ONLY ORGANIZATION AUTHORIZED? Stop it! Just stop. It’s nonsensical, it’s putting the information in a silo and it’s just fucking stupid. Make that shit EASY to get to. Make it easy to update and upload and keep it as technically efficient as possible.

You can’t sell a car without legally transferring the title and you can’t sell a car unless you legally vouch for its safety and maintenance. Make the same true for transferring ownership of a weapon. That shouldn’t be hard. A lot of this can be done with a new cubicle at the DMV. Take a number pal.
I can chip my cat. Why can’t weapons be chipped to track ownership? Make it impossible to remove serial numbers. Use implanted chips on the weapons to track them. Again, from the ATF website:

“The NIBIN (National Integrated Ballistic Information Network) Program automates ballistics evaluations and provides actionable investigative leads in a timely manner. NIBIN is the only interstate automated ballistic imaging network in operation in the United States and is available to most major population centers in the United States.”

MOST major population centers? Why not ALL population centers, major or minor? Not to mention, why are they crowing about having a “national network.” In this day and age, shouldn’t that be a given? Well, it isn’t.

Use pin numbers or thumb prints to unlock a weapon before it can be taken off safe. Add alarms that will alert an owner if a weapon is being used without their permission. Someone told me some gun manufacturer tried this. It didn’t work. Well, we tried going to the moon a few times too before we did it? Did we let that stop us? Why, WHY do we let people with these kinds of shithole arguments win?
Above all, find out what the hell is wrong with these men! It’s not enough to call them crazy. It’s not enough to say the school was a target of opportunity. Do we really think that if that school was impregnable, that kid wouldn’t have gone somewhere else to test his assault style weapon? This is why the CDC needs to be on this crap. There’s a sickness going around. How the hell can’t we stop young men and old men from being so damn violent? It’s not an easy answer. There are lots of smart people in this country. We need to put them on it.

I went to basic training in the era when we learned the old saying, “this is my rifle, this is my gun, (as the DI grabbed his crotch). One is for killing, one is for fun.”

But as wise as drill instructors were and still are, whether you call it a rifle or a gun, if it goes bang, it can kill. At some point we have to put the lives of citizens over the recreational pleasure or even the false constitutional claims of others. At some point we have to say a child’s life is more important than your right to own every killing machine you can get your hands on. And at some point we as a society have to say, we are sick. We’ve got a serious problem. And we need to put our best and brightest onto solving it, and guess what? Our best ain’t those dumb shits in Washington.

They have no idea what they’re doing and right now, all they can talk about are guns to ban, or which clips to ban or which rights we lose and that’s all bullshit. Their NRA funded cerebrums are FUBAR* when it comes to this crap. The AR15 and weapons that copy it need to go. That’s obvious. Stop mucking about with what we know and get on with it.

Let’s do one thing right. Let’s start by putting our best and brightest scientists and public health experts, specifically the CDC, onto figuring out what is eating away our brains. Let’s prove to our young people that we can be adults and figure this shit out. Because right now, those kids in Florida are adulting far better than we are.

*Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition