My "books" are  at Amazon.com for 99 cents and sometimes free.

Here is how I write.

I write everyday. I write about things that matter and things that don't matter. I write about women's anger and men's control. I write about feelings of rage, of love and of atonement.

If you want to write, you have to just do it. Don't think about format or layout or anything like that. Don't worry about misspelled words and weird paragraphs. Just write. Write words that flow out of your mind as fast as you can.  You can fix it later. Writing is a blood and guts job so be prepared to suffer. You will be exposed and criticized. You will have to bear it. You will have to have another job, maybe two. You need to write stories that your readers will be part of the characters and part of the scenery. You have to get it all down.

Then you have to rewrite it and correct it. Then lay it out as a story line.  Rewrite it. Get somebody to proof it for you because you likely won't catch all your mistakes. Read it aloud. Or get your laptop to read it to you will it speak. Imagine how is going be heard in the readers' mind.  Give it your all and don't whine. It is hard work.

My work  (short stories) are at Amazon.com

This is the newest story:

http://www.amazon.com/Face-the-Rain-ebook/dp/B00EL74A4K

Father's Day Jokes

Okay, you all know what kind of kid I was. Father's Day was a big deal to me. Pop taught me a lot. Like how to string barbwire and how to throw rocks like a boy. He taught me to punch in the nose when someone disrespected me or my mother. One time Gerald said my mother wore Army Boots. I said, politely enough, "No she doesn't. She wears peep toe heels in red or white or black."

"Nanannaaaaaaaaaaaaa, your big fat mother wears Army Boots," said Gerald. I looked at him as mean as I could.

"I told you what she wears. Peep-toe heels. And she isn't fat. She is just fleshy." I knew that is how she referred to herself. Either fleshy or chunky. Never would she approve of being called fat. So I punched Gerald in the nose.

Wonder of wonders, both me and my Pop got called on "the carpet."  That is a nice way of saying the teacher, the principal and my mother had words with me in the principal's office. My  Pop came too, in his work clothes and boots. He nicely took off his fedora and laid it in his lap.

I could smell earth and sweat from where I sat on the red stool in the corner facing out. I could smell my mother's Evening in Paris. The teacher and the principle smelled like school chalk and Clorox. I chewed on my braid until Mama jerked it out of my mouth.  Pop's blue eyes twinkled at me and his lips curved up ever so slightly.

"Why did you hit this boy?" My mother stood up in front of me and I couldn't see my Pop, the teacher, or the principal.

"I can't tell you. It would hurt your feelings." I said as bravely as I could. Heck, I knew she didn't care a whit what anybody thought about her but it was for family honor.

" I will chastise you until you tell me." Her finger jiggled in front of my nose. "You must not hit anyone."

"What if they are mean and rude? Should I just let them get away with it? Somebody has to stop them." I sort of stood up, but she gave me a shove and I landed on my butt with a thunk.

The teacher spoke ethereally from behind my mother. "I am sure she didn't mean it. She must have misunderstood."

The Principal hawked a booger out of her throat and growled. "I will not have figthing in this school!"

She kind of bumped my mother over. And there they were -- two big old hens all beaky and bright-eyed.

I started to worry a bit for my immortal soul since it was starting to sound like a major crime. "Look, I didn't hurt him. At least not much. He only got a bloody nose. I get them all the time."

"Listen to me, missy, you better start behaving or else . . . "

My heart sunk to my toes. I had been bad. When I meant to do good. How did that make sense? I kind of blinked as I heard my dad's chair scrape back.

"Now, here, here ladies, let see what the girl has to say in own behalf." He stood up and peered over and around the three women. They were all of a generous size. The kind of ladies my pop noted as being "seven ax handles across."

"Pop, he said Mama was fat," I screeched. "Fat! Gerald callled Mama fat."

The ladies all talked at once. Then they all stopped at once when Pop held up his hand.

"I think Rosie here," pointing to me he continued, "was defending her mother and we all understand how much kids love their mother. I think it is a waste of time to pursue this incident any further."

His voice rumbled around in my stomach and gave me a hiccup. Then I sneezed.

"Well, don't do it again," said the Principal.

"Keep your hands to yourself," said the teacher.

My mother sighed and said, "Oh, Baby, don't you remember about sticks and stones? If I have told you once I told you a thousand times .  .  ."

She was winding up for long throw to home plate.

"Well, I am sure Rose will make a good apology to Gerald as soon as he apologizes for calling the wife fat."

That was like a rock on a still pond. He reached over and around the women and picked me up. As we were going out the door, I could hear his chest laughing while the beaky hens were discussing my bad side.

So, Pop, after all these years, thanks for saving my butt all those times. You were a great father and if you weren't passed away I would tell you. Again.