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Back In The Saddle

A couple years ago, I quit the business of publishing for a while. I even wrote a letter and posted it here and on social media. I was frustrated with the way the publishing world treated people, the way many authors treated other authors, with the amount of plagiarism I saw in this business, with the amount of … I don’t know … hate I saw in the writing community. 

When I left everything behind, I went through a period of mourning. You see, I loved writing. I loved the act of telling a story. I loved sharing those stories with the world. That period of time was slightly depressing, almost like a lesser version of Runner’s Depression. In case you don’t know what that is, let me try and explain it in as few words as I can. This happens to people who run, who love to run and all of a sudden, they can’t. They were born to run. They lived for that alive feeling they had when they were finished running. It’s an exhilaration that is similar to an adrenaline rush. Not being able to run can sometimes send a runner into a depression that could last a long time or just a little while. It’s as if part of them has died. It’s a mourning period.

After a few weeks, I started writing again without the pressures of wanting to put out a story, without feeling like the story needed to be amazing or I was wasting my time. I wrote a lot of bad stories during that time period. They were pieces that had been inside of me but I refused to write because I knew they would be crap and ain’t nobody got time for that. 

I also wrote some really good pieces, some I think will end up getting published at some point. 

Though I was writing, I can honestly say, I wasn’t really happy or content with what I was doing. I had been part of the writing community for over twenty years and by leaving it, I also left part of me behind. Hence, the mourning.

A few months after leaving publishing, I was convinced by two friends to give it another go. So, I did. I put together a collection of stories, titled A Color of Sorrows and began querying publishers. Not long after submitting to this one particular publisher, they responded saying they loved the collection. Yes. Awesome. I was excited. A contract was worked out. They did an analysis of my writing and deemed my style was similar to this exceptional author of horror whose initials just happen to be S.K., who also just happened to be my favorite author. 

Things were going well. Discussions were had and I did a lot of work on my end. About six months before the book was to be released, I was sent a formatted copy of the book to look over. It looked great, but there was one problem. I still hadn’t been assigned an editor. I had received edits, but those had been done by software, not a person. I had rejected half of them because they made no sense within the context of the stories. A month of so later, I enquired about an editor, more specifically, when was I going to work with one. 

I was told they don’t provide editors unless the writer pays for it. Umm … no. Up until right then, I had been excited. The discussions after that were not as cordial as they had been. I told them I expected an editor and that editing the stories was part of the process and the publisher should be the one paying for the editor. They didn’t see it that way and my excitement went from on fire to ice, ice cold. 

My enthusiasm for getting back into the publishing world tanked. You see, this was one of the things that made me want to get out of the business, poor treatment by publishers. 

Still, I was under contract and I didn’t want an unedited book to be released to the world. I asked my editor to go over it, even though she had done so before I submitted the collection. I wanted one more pass. She found two things that needed correcting, one of which was a change I had made because of the software suggestions. 

They released the book in May of 2023. I promoted it … Just. Once.

You see, the very first publisher I worked with after getting up and dusting myself off, didn’t do things the right way. 

And just like that, the experience was soured for me. To say I was frustrated and aggravated was an understatement. 

I’ve released two books since then, but I have to be honest, my heart wasn’t into promoting them and I did a bad job of letting people know about them. I’ll talk about those later. There are other things to get to for now. 

Not only did I lose enthusiasm for publishing, I neglected my website. I mean, seriously neglected it. Don’t believe me? Go look at the last post. It was in February, it’s June now. I also shut down my Patreon page. I mean, really, I just kinda said screw it.

Now for some hard truths I had to tell myself. I wrote a book called Motivational Shit You Didn’t Ask For. Great title, right? I think the title will sell the book all by itself. The book isn’t huge and most of the chapters are under two thousand words. Yeah, it’s short. Something I mention in the book multiple times is making excuses. We humans make excuses to not do things. We might say we want to do them, but if we don’t then do we really want to? Nah, I didn’t think so. 

I sat back recently and thought about why I didn’t promote my work. Sure, maybe I had some valid points with the publisher issue, since it felt like I did all the work except formatting (which I could have done) and cover layout (which I could have done, also). However, it was MY book, those were MY stories. Okay, let’s just say I had valid reasons instead of excuses for not promoting The Color of Sorrows. What about Six Strands To Lost Sanity? What about Human Touch? What about two books I believe are really good? I mean, seriously, what is the reason behind not promoting them? I have no valid reason. Only excuses. 

I have neglected a lot since first walking away, then coming back, then making excuses. That passion and drive I had when I first started out have been gone for almost three full years now. I’m trying really hard to find it again. So what have I done about it? I started mentoring again, which is going well. I’ve written a bunch of stories. I’ve joined the staff over at Memento Mori Ink, where you can read the first article at the end of August. More on that later. I’ve started submitting stories to publications again. 

And … I’m posting here. I recently realized I don’t have to post long pieces like this one. I can simply post something like: It’s coming, and post the cover of a book. And I can post as many times as I want. Once a day, once a week, 18 times a day. It doesn’t matter. You’re either going to stick around or not. If you do, thank you. Also, thank you for sticking around while I’ve been gone.

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Posted on by ajbrown · 1 Comment

Human Touch (Cover Reveal)

A couple years ago I was in a rut with writing. A couple? Seriously, A.J.? It’s been five years. Back in 2019, I was in a rut with writing. My editor, Larissa Bennett, challenged me, literally, to write a story I didn’t want to write. I told her about an idea I had but was hesitant to write because it was a ~GASP~ love story. 

“You should write it,” she said. 

I said, “I don’t want to,” like a petulant child about to pitch a fit.

After a bit of back and forth, I finally said, “Okay,” but it was more like one of those moments where your parents told you to apologize for saying something rude to your sibling. You apologize begrudgingly but really don’t mean it.

At some point I sat down and wrote the first couple lines to the story: 

The coffee shop was quiet. The few people talking did so in whispers as if they were in a library and the librarian was an ancient old biddy with blue hair, triangle lensed glasses and a mallet behind her back. Talk too loudly and get a smack to the head you might not wake up from. Charlie liked it that way. 

It wasn’t like the Starbucks a few blocks over that garnered most of the public who were willing to spend their money on their favorite caffeinated drinks. There weren’t a bunch of college students with their laptops and schoolbooks, and there were no groups of more than four people who liked to talk and laugh loud enough to disturb those reading books (or possibly doing schoolwork on one of those laptops). No, this was a little mom and pop place not owned by a mom or a pop, but a woman in her mid-thirties who married, divorced, and had no children that he was aware of. She spent her mornings and most afternoons behind the counter of the Coffee Dee-Light serving the regulars, like Charlie, with a smile and a bottom-line price that should have competed with Starbucks, but somehow didn’t. 

I liked the first few paragraphs and decided to write more. Though I would walk away from the story and come back to it later, the story of Charlie Massingale and Dani Overton never left my mind. I finished the story close to the end of 2020 after a few starts and stops. 

I had no intentions of releasing this book. It was going to be my dirty little secret. I, author of dark, emotional stories, wrote a love story. No, no one could find out about this. But I really like the characters, even Dee, who owns the little coffee shop they meet in.

So, here we are, you and I and this book, this story, Human Touch. It’s a love story. It’s Clean Romance. It’s completely different from anything I’ve written, simply because I intended for the two main characters to fall in love. 

Why post about this now? Well, because I’m releasing it soon and I need to talk about it. I want you to read it. If you don’t know about it, well, you can’t read it.

With that said, below are both the cover, which has a Take On Me by A-Ha vibe and the synopsis.

Charlie Massingale has mastered the art of fading into the background. Haunted by the tragic loss of his wife, he seeks solace in a quiet South Carolina town, hoping to escape his past and bury his pain. For years, he succeeds in his quest for anonymity.

Everything changes when a young woman recognizes him at a coffee shop and strikes up a conversation. Plagued by his own guilt and desires to stay missing from the world he once thrived in, he denies their connection, leaving Dani yearning for more.

Determined to unravel the enigma that is Charlie Massingale, Dani reaches out to her beloved author, hoping to connect with a man no one has heard from in nine years. To her surprise, Charlie responds, sparking a fragile bond that neither can ignore. As their correspondence deepens, Charlie finds himself captivated by Dani, awakening emotions long dormant within him.

Caught between the past and the present, Charlie faces a crossroads. Will he allow himself to embrace the possibility of love once again? Can he overcome the weight of his past and accept the warmth of the Human Touch? With their lives intertwined, Charlie and Dani must navigate the complexities of age, and the lingering shadows of the past that threaten to tear them apart.

So, what do you think? Interested? Let me know in the comments below.

Until we meet again, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Posted on by ajbrown · 2 Comments

Three Seconds of Life

I want to tell you a story. Well, it’s not really a story, but a moment in life, a few minutes of a day that was pretty much like any other day, except for these few minutes. But aren’t these moments what stories are made of? Aren’t these moments the times that we recall later in life, the stories we tell people? Moments like this are exactly what stories are made of.

It was a wet day. Gray outside. Rain coming in fits and starts. Just two days earlier it had been in the upper seventies. Pollen dusted most outside surfaces. People had been out and about enjoying the beautiful weather. But, like I said, that had been two days earlier. On this day it was in the mid-forties, rainy and windy. I’m not sure that really plays into the moment, but it might have. I’ll let you decide.

The events took place after a routine morning of stretching, coffee, getting ready for work, and going to that job I got ready for. 

I went to the post office, something I do from time to time when there is no one else there to do it. I had my raincoat on and I walked the two blocks there only getting rained on a little. At the post office I said good morning to Mrs. Cathy and we exchanged about thirty seconds worth of pleasantries. We gave our “Have a good days” and I left. The rain had picked up by then and I flipped my hood up.

Normally, I will make a left at the corner and walk along the sidewalk until I reached the next corner, where I cross the many lanes of traffic one way, then the many lanes of traffic the other way. I then walk the half block to the backside of the building I work in. It’s pretty simple and usually takes about ten minutes round trip. 

This day should have been no different.

I reached the corner of the block and stopped. Though I had the little white walkie man on the sign and the light was red for cars traveling in that direction, I reached the corner the same time as a car did. It was a burgundy Toyota, nothing new but certainly not something older than ten years. It had slowed a little faster than I liked and came to a stop halfway in the crosswalk. I waited for a couple of seconds to see if the person driving was going to make a right turn, even though I had the right of way. When the car did not go, I stepped into the road and started to round the front of the car. 

That is when things went south. 

I glanced at the car when i was about halfway by it. It lurched forward. Time did not stand still but it slowed down considerably like in the movies or a good book. There was no way to avoid what happened next. I didn’t jump but somehow ‘lifted’ myself a little. The car struck my left knee. I tensed up and lowered my elbow and shoulder as I fell onto the car’s hood. My elbow struck first, then my shoulder. I rolled to my right and off the car, landing on my right foot, then my left. Then I took a step backward.

The entire incident was maybe three seconds, but they could have been far more devastating than what they were. 

I was shocked.

I was stunned.

I was pissed.

I honestly believe the person in the car had struck me on purpose. I thought for a second there that the person had gotten angry that I decided to cross at the crosswalk when I had the light and drove into me on purpose. I imagined this angry guy with a scowl on his face and wearing a wife beater sitting behind the wheel and cursing me for having the balls to cross when I had the right of way. Or maybe he was just impatient and thought I was walking too slowly. I didn’t know.

I held my arms out at my side and yelled, “What the heck are you doing?” Yes, I said heck and not any of the other words that probably could have come out of my mouth. 

I stood in the road, mail rubber banded together in my left hand, and stared at the car for maybe ten seconds. When the driver didn’t open the door I thought, “They’re going to run.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my phone, certain I was going to have to take a picture of a fleeing vehicle’s license plate. 

During all of this, the light turned green. I stepped out of the road, my phone in hand and watched the burgundy Toyota. I flexed my left knee, rotated my shoulder and bent my elbow several times to make sure I was okay. Thankfully, there was no immediate notice of injury. 

The light turned red and the car had not moved. The hazard lights were now on and blinking their orange warnings. Then the door opened, and sitting in the car was not some crazed guy wearing a wife beater, but a woman who was possibly eighty or so (and if not, she missed a good chance to be). Her hands were shaking and she was crying—I’m talking ugly crying with tears and her face scrunched up and snot dribbling from her nose like a sniffly three-year-old. 

“Oh my God, Oh My God. I am so sorry.” She said this over and over again. 

Suddenly, I felt like crap standing there on the side of the road. I had yelled, not at the woman, but at my perception of who had to be driving that car. But that wasn’t who was there. Instead there she was, crying—sobbing—and shaking like a leaf in the wind. She was pale and constantly saying “I’m sorry.”

Right then, I had a choice. I could be a jerk and be rude to her or I could console her. Though it should have been the other way around—after all, I was the one hit by the car—I chose to console her. I squatted down in her doorway and we talked. Well, that’s not quite accurate. I talked, she cried and said she was sorry over and over again. 

As I squatted in her door trying to calm her down, I discovered there had been a witness. It turns out, a man who was maybe my age or a little younger, had seen the incident. He walks by the car where I am with this distraught woman and he said to me, “You need to call the cops.” He didn’t asks if either of us were okay. He just saw me do a slow motion Dukes of Hazzard style roll off the hood of a car and all he could say was, “You need to call the cops.” And it wasn’t just what he said, but how he said it, as if he couldn’t see the crying woman. In his eyes, I was the victim and she was the criminal. This was an opportunity for this guy to step in and be somewhat of a hero. Instead, well … you can see what I think of him two sentences from now.

Yes, I got pissed a second time. 

I turned to him and in my amazing wisdom, I said, “You don’t need to be a d*ck.”

It was his turn to have a shocked look on his face. I continued. “If you’re not going to help the situation, stay out of it.” He said something, but I don’t know what it was. He did, however, walk away. 

I turned my attention back to the woman. I learned a couple of things from her: 1) she parks in the garage not thirty yards away from where we were, 2) she works in the building we currently were in front of, and 3) she had just found out her sister was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The last of those three things told me her mind was elsewhere. She had said, multiple times, she had not seen me. She looked left then right and didn’t see me. Of course she didn’t. Her mind was on her sister—her terminally ill sister. 

With her still crying, I knew right then she was having a far more difficult go of things. Her hitting me was the straw that broke the floodgates open. It was my turn to ask if she was okay. She was not. I knew that. We sat and talked as cars went by, some honking because they were impatient and we were an inconvenience to them. 

Finally, after about fifteen minutes of trying to calm her down, she said she was sorry one last time. I reached over and took one of her shaking hands and said, “Ma’am, don’t say you’re sorry again. You’ve said it forty times. I forgive you. I am okay. Okay?”

I held her hand for probably thirty seconds. One thing I have learned in life is the importance of the human touch. The human touch is personal. It can have a calming effect or a damaging one. This is why hugs in hard times are so important and often lead to people letting their guards down long enough to get a good cry out. This is why physical or sexual abuse is so damaging, because it should never happen and it’s a personal attack on our bodies (and psyches). It can comfort in a time of stress. 

After getting assurance she was finally calm enough to drive the thirty yards to the parking garage, I stood, closed her door and backed out of the road. I watched her make the turn and drive away. 

As I made my way back to the office, this lady was on my mind. I had yelled at her after she hit me. I think it was a natural reaction, but I can’t help but believe that part of the reason she didn’t open her door right away is because of my dramatic display of anger and she was, possibly, scared of me. I felt terrible about that. 

When I arrived back at the office, most of my co-workers were already there. I walked in and one of them looked at me and said something, which I don’t really recall now. 

My response? “If you get hit by a car, do you get to go home?”

It was a tension joke all the way. It was at that moment that it sunk in: I had been hit by a car. Three seconds of my life could have ended much worse than it did. Three seconds either way and this story is different—or maybe not told at all. 

But there’s more to this than those three seconds. There were choices made. I had a choice: call the police and file a police report or look at this woman with compassion and console her. I chose to console her. I chose to look at someone—a complete stranger—as a human being, not as someone who struck me with their car, not as someone I could sue and get money from, not as someone who was negligent and needed to be punished. I looked at her like I would my grandmother, and I hurt for her. I can only imagine what went through her head as she sat in her car: “I could have killed him.” Yeah, that might have been one of the thoughts she had. I can only imagine.

I chose compassion over anger. I chose not to pursue a legal course of action. I chose to forgive and go on with my life. Unlike the guy who passed us and didn’t offer help or even ask if we were okay, I chose to not make this woman’s life any harder. 

There are moments in life where you can do the right thing or the thing you want to do or even the thing everyone else would do. Those are the moments that define you as a person, they show you—and the world—the type of character you have. Sometimes the right thing is easier to do than you think. It’s called having a heart and caring. 

A moment in life—three seconds—and things could have been different in a worse way. This is life. This is the way life happens and life is the very heart of every story.

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.