When something really resonates, I often find myself writing in my sleep. During my dreams I sometimes capture the perfect words to describe my thoughts and what is lingering my heart. When I wake the words have flown, and I struggle to recapture them so I can voice myself, my heart, my mind. Last night was the same. I wrote in my dream, had the perfect words to describe what the lyrics of “Strange Fruit” sung by Billie Holiday woke inside me. It was perfect, my words, my thoughts, accurately displayed. But with the rising sun they have faded and I am left trying to stumble my way through all I feel inside. 

I have always known of slavery, of lynching, of the horrors done to Black men and women. I read of them in black words on white pages, in history books and articles. I knew, but somehow, never “knew”. How is it that we can be taught dates and times and names and are never told the story? We’re never told in history class the way it smelled. The bodies hanging on trees, how the flies gather and the crows cry with greedy voices to devour our family. We’re never told how it would feel to stand beneath the shadow of your mother’s dead body, her eyes plucked away, her tongue sticking out, swollen in death because she choked and struggled at the end of a rope. A rope tied by angry, selfish men. We’re told and not. This is information, a picture we should all see and for some reason we have to hunt it out. Why? Why haven’t we been told ALL the stories? Why haven’t we been made to connect and feel like this is OUR history? Why do we say it is Black history when it is all of ours? The horror of it is ours. The pain they endured, all of it is OURS. They are US. They are our family and they are ignored. 

They cry, they hurt. They are WE. This horrible past is our responsibility. And don’t start the argument of “my family never owned slaves”, “my family-“ 

Shut up! That’s not the point. OWN THIS HISTORY. OWN THE HORROR. OWN AND ACKNOWLEDGE THEIR PAIN!

It happened, so show me. Show US. Make it REAL. 

Stop hiding behind shame and take responsibility. It belongs to us. It belongs to me. 

This is the history of my people, because they are MINE.

Make is Real – A Poem by L Becker

When you read of things in history class

It looks and feels the distant past

Very rarely do we compare

The distance in time from here to there

I read of slavery and do not see

Bodies swinging on the trees

I read words in black and white

Never feeling the urgency in the fight

For justice and equality

For human beings just to be free

It seems separate, disconnected from me

To this past I’ve been partially blind

Disconnected and not claiming it as mine

I have no distant relative

Who were killed because of their skin

I say what does this have to do with me?

Because what’s written doesn’t make me see

Doesn’t make me feel and realize

What children watching parents eaten by flies

I do not live inside their hearts

Having read only bits and parts

I am disconnected to the truth, to reality

Living in a bubble, white washed, so pretty

Tell me more than what is written and told

Make me feel, see, smell what it was like to be sold

Tell me more than facts and a date

Make me understand the root of hate

Bring the truth home to me

So I can finally truly be

Connected to the world in which I live

So at long last we can outlive

The past so broken and wrong

To acknowledge a people made strong

No longer shall I be

Disconnected from my world’s history.

I’m a pagan who very rarely gets to be. Who doesn’t always have the choice to observe the high holidays, the sabbats and esbats and traditions of my chosen faith. I don’t even get to observe the traditional holidays most of the world does. In part it is by choice. A large part by necessity and through survival. Self-employed people don’t always get to choose their time off. I get days off when no one wants my services, not because I choose not to work. I’ve worked on Easter, 4^th of July, Thanksgiving, every Memorial Day and Labor Day for the past ten years. I’ve worked Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and the  day after. I’ve worked more New Year’s eves than I can count and my share of Valentine’s and Halloween. It is part of being self-employed. I take the work when I can get it, which means many of my holy days you’ll find me at work, wishing I was out in nature, celebrating, commemorating and connecting to my faith.

Today is Ostara, and I am at work. I did not get to watch the sunrise over a circle, I will not get to walk under trees in the new light of spring. 

Still, I will celebrate in my way. I will take a moment to acknowledge this day, this rebirth of the sun. To revel in new warmth, new life, new everything. Spring is my season, my time. I am an April baby and with the new found sun I come alive each year. The cold melts away and I feel renewed like flowers coming back from a long winters slumber.

Ostara for me is the birth of that new life. A new year, refreshed and invigorated. I am ready to embrace the sun, the flowers. I am desperate to be outside and alive.  These sabbats are more than the acknowledgement of gods, old and new. They mark the passage of time, the reminder to be grateful because life is short and precious. The reminder to acknowledge the passing seasons, the ebb and flow of the tide of time. To remember we are connected to the earth, to nature. That we do not live apart, but a part of this amazing world. 

I start fresh, I start anew each sabbat, each turning of the wheel. I reaffirm myself to myself. I set new goals, shake off old doubts and begin again. Rebirthed and reborn so many times throughout the year, every shedding the old to don new layers of self. 

Ostara for me is another rebirth. The quickening of life and energy inside my mind. It brings me hope and happiness and, I will confess, a little fear. Not fear that time is passing or that my birthday is quickly approaching to count down the years of my life. No, the fear that something more will awaken me, the fearful mania of my Bipolar. This is the season I will go manic if I do. So while I am awake and happy, I am watching myself. Waiting, worrying that this joy is not real and will spiral into a storm of manic anxiety that will lead to fear and self-destruction. 

Still, I love the spring. It is my time.

What does success look like to you? Fame, fortune? Contentment? For me defining success is a struggle, a tight rope I walk in balance drive/ambition and joy. How do you define success? I’m working to define mine.

Until next time,

L

For me the best fiction has fully developed, real-feeling characters that I can love and hate. As a writer of Romantic fiction it’s important to develop the proper balance of power in the main couple. Here’s my two cents.

Until next time,

L

So, for years I’ve been a PC girl and have been happy. Mostly. However, over the past few years I’ve been leaning more and more towards getting a Mac and switching OS. Most of this decision was prompted by the random virus, slowly degrading usability of my PC’s and the necessity of having to purchase a new PC every 2 years. I kept trying to find the perfect PC. But my discontent kept growing, so, after much debate I finally broke down and am now officially a MacBook owner. I knew it would happen, I’m an Apple girl all the way, owning an Apple Watch, 2 iPhones (one personal, one business) and an iPad. So, you would think the transition would have happened sooner. Honestly, I had considered a Mac, but the idea of learning a whole new OS, not to mention the price tag that is attached to one of these bad boys deterred me. Now, at long last, I gave in and bought the Mac I’ve been wanting for a long time. 

After lots of research I opted for the MacBook Air, a lightweight, mobile friendly version with a nice, bouncy keyboard, and all the benefits of an Apple product. After downloading Windows/Word for Mac OS I’ve got to say I’m already in love. Yes, there is a learning curve, but not as big of one as I had feared. I’m still trying to learn all the shortcuts, but I’m a quick study. I’m a happy girl and can’t wait to write my next book on this bad boy.

So, tell me, are you a Mac or PC user? Which do you prefer and why? Let me know. 

Until next time, 

L

Storytime again! This time we’re getting a tidbit from Chapter 2 of Angel’s Gate. Angel’s Gate is the first book in my ShadowGate Series. Available now for purchase. Today I wanted to give you a little preview, the beginning of Chapter 2. We are introduced to our MC, AG’s, childhood home. Read on for a teaser of Angel’s Gate or click the video above to have me read to you!

Chapter 2 – Angel’s Gate:

It still looked the same.

With the gray of dawn spreading through the streets, it looked to AG as if no time had passed since she had left Shelter Cove. As if the last decade had simply been erased. The mountains cupped it on three sides, their shoulders heavy with the deep green of pine and hemlock. The slinking mists of early dawn rolled in off the lake, disguising the signs of progress, the scars left by time. It was easy not to notice the scattering of new houses set back in the trees or the new marina, swallowed by the morning fog as it stretched out into the still, dark waters. There were other signs time hadn’t stood still, yet not enough to remove the strange and sinking sensation that she had never really escaped.

She was not the same kid who had left, in that decade she had found her freedom, her strength and one quick trip back couldn’t strip all of it away. Could it? She wasn’t a child anymore and this wasn’t her world. Still the feeling of being sucked back in time remained with her, darkening her heart and thoughts.

The SUV wove its way through the familiar roads and she found herself remembering her childhood at every turn. There was the corner she had crashed her new ten speed on Christmas twenty years before. There was the high school where she had kissed her first boy and done a lot more than that a night or two in senior year. Those were memories she looked back fondly on. She had loved Luke Olson as only a teenage girl could and he had been a sweet boy.

Somewhere she had heard he was married, the father of two. Still a sweet boy.

There was the Midtown Market, where she had worked her first job the summer she turned sixteen…

Shelter Cove was filled with memories, both good and bad, but it would never again be her home. She could not see herself growing old in that place. She couldn’t see herself ever giving up her career and life in San Francisco to live in that postage stamp town. Couldn’t imagine herself marrying and raising a passel of kids, with two cars in the drive and a dog in the yard. She couldn’t imagine that as her life, even though a small voice whispered it would have been easy to if she tried. She didn’t want to try. That domestic vision was what her mother had wanted and had never achieved. She wasn’t going to want the same thing and spend her life regretting when it never happened. She was smarter than that. She would make the life she wanted and her life was in California, three thousand miles away.

When they turned onto the street leading to her childhood home the pain inside of AG seemed to shift, expand. Unconsciously she raised a hand to press it against her heart. Home…

The house still stood as it always had, two stories, rich brown siding with a wide porch and peaked ceiling. Two large windows looked out onto the carefully kept lawn, one from the living room, the other from the breakfast nook. In the dim morning light the house looked tired, sad. Or that was how AG felt inside as she looked at it, knowing it was empty.

Until next time,

L

I’ve been a fan of Steve Alten’s since I was nineteen years old. Ever since I discovered Meg. That book introduced me to sharks in a new way and I’ve loved megalodon’s ever since. I even have a 1.8 million year old Carcharocles Megalodon tooth sitting in my office. My pride and joy. So, being a huge fan of his, when I saw the Loch sitting on the shelf at a local thrift store I just had to buy it. I mean, Steve Alten, and the Loch Ness monster? What more could I ask for.

Apparently, a LOT more. While Mr. Alten is an extremely intelligent and imaginative writer, with great, fast paced action and clear visuals, he really SUCKS at writing humans. While all his characters SUCK, his female characters are enough to make me want to slap the man, almost enough to make me forget how much I loved Meg and the sequel, The Trench. Almost. His females are completely one dimensional, all big boobs and brainless.

I was, to say the least, disappointed. On the Brightside however, I did end up with an amusing rant for my YouTube channel.

Check it out for all the details and why you shouldn’t waste your time reading The Loch by Steve Alten. If you’re going to read anything by him, buy the Meg. I don’t think you’ll regret it.

Until next time,

L

2020 has been a weird year. I know you’ve heard me say that a million times and have said so yourself even more. There’s been so much crazy it can be hard to focus on the good. To slow down and try to make yourself live even when it feels like there’s no end in sight and normal has flown far, far away. All of us have been forced to adapt, forced to isolate away from the ones we love and during this isolation we’ve occasionally neglected ourselves, both the physical and the motional.

With that knowledge in mind my sister, Lily, and I decided we needed a self-care day. In years past we might have gone to our favorite spa for manis and pedis or to Asha, our local bathhouse. But, being as we are still on quarantine here in California, we chose to do an at home spa day. And, for your amusement as well as our own, recorded the whole thing. I hope you enjoy.

Until next time,

L

Forgive and forget…we hear this and expect it to be true. That we can forgive someone and move on. That we’ll never have to face that hurt, the betrayal or the emotions that caused our hurt and anger in the first place. In my life I’ve found that not to be the case. Forgiveness is a continual process. It takes work. You can forgive someone, understand they have human frailties and still be hurt. Forgiveness isn’t a magical act that takes away the memories or the pain. Forgiveness simply means that you understand they are human and you don’t expect anything more from them. Forgiveness means that you’re letting the injury go, that you are opening up the door to maybe trust them again. But it doesn’t mean you will automatically trust them again just because you have forgiven how they have hurt you. It doesn’t mean that everything is magically ok now. Forgiveness is a work in progress. Forgiveness takes time and sometimes you have to re-forgive them a hundred times as you work out the issues their betrayal caused. You may need to forgive them again and again as you work past the hurt because, like them, you are only human. Emotional injuries, like all injuries need time to heal. Forgiveness in the beginning is the bandage needed to allow the heart to heal.

Forgiveness isn’t magic, forgiveness is work. I’ve been hurt and I’ve forgiven those who have injured my heart. I understand why they did what they did, I can understand and even empathize and still I hurt. Forgiveness doesn’t heal the wounds, it simply means your letting go and moving on, that you’re not pursuing revenge, or trying to ‘get even’.

I’ve forgiven my sister for hurting me, for betraying me and stealing years of my life. I’ve forgiven her and still, I hate that bitch.

A contradiction, huh? Not really. I understand and empathize with her. I understand the trauma and injuries in her life that formed her. I can even see her position, but that doesn’t take away the pain. I can forgive her for hurting me, understanding where she came from and why she felt she had to. I’ve forgiven her, but until she seeks absolution, until the person who broke your heart or betrayed you seeks you out for absolution and forgiveness, the issue is never fully closed.

Forgiveness isn’t closure, forgiveness just means you’re letting the wound heal and not picking at it and letting get infected. Let the wound heal. You’ll have a scar, but soon the pain recedes and it becomes a memory.

Time and forgiveness heals all wounds. Someday the pain in my heart will also fully heal. I’ll never trust my sister again, but I won’t hate her, I won’t feel anything for her. I’ll be able to look back at our memories together, the good ones and feel fondness. Remember who she used to be and accept who she became. The scar will be there, but the hate and hurt won’t be.

Until then I’ll take it one day at a time, forgiving her as I continue to heal and grow.

Until next time,

L

It’s been two months since I finished my last book. Two months in which I went through the usual ups and downs, the weird paranoid panic that I may never write again. That maybe this time the magic won’t come back and I’ll never finish another book.

You would think after writing forty six novels I’d be over that paranoia, but I’m not. I mean, it’s a little less vibrant of a worry inside of me, but the worry is still there. It still sneaks in a few weeks into the lull between books. The sly little whisper that says, “That was the last one. It was all a fluke, a onetime deal and now that magic is gone.” Of course now that I’m a mature woman I can tell that little voice to fuck off, that of course I’ll write the next story, but it just laughs, a little knowingly, a lot mean. Like it knows something I don’t, that it knows I’ve only been lucky this far.

This time the Imposter Syndrome has more ammo, new and shiny ammo that it can lob at me like a wet blanket grenade, effectively smothering the joy I feel when I finish a new story. It’s very happy with this new weapon, and turns it on me quite effectively mere days after I write “The End”. This time it says, “Yeah, you might write again, but will you be able to write the next book in the series? Will you be able to finish THIS story? Finish this series that you somehow know is going to be your life’s work? Finish this series that this is the story you were meant to tell from the very first moment you put ink to paper at seven?”

It’s an evil bastard, this Imposter Syndrome, and it takes up residence in the heart of everyone at some point in their life. It is especially fond of kicking you right at the height of your triumph, snatching away those golden moments. It revels and grows within our own self-doubt. And I’ve learned it never goes away, no matter how confident you may become, no matter how successful and skilled you might be.

But it can be caged. It can be silenced and pushed aside to sulk in the corner of your mind.

How you ask?

By pushing through, by starting that next book, that next project, by reminding yourself that it thrives on lies. That it doesn’t know you and that you’re not going to fail, because you’re not done yet. You’re just getting better from here.

How do I know this?

Because I just started DownCast Angel, Book 5 of my ShadowGate Series. The one it said I would never start.

It lies.

I don’t.

Until next time keep writing, keep dreaming, and cage that little bastard,

L