Category: writers

The Critique Question Every Writer Must Answer: Are You Here for an Ego Stroke, or Are You Here to Get Better?

Happy Friday Fellow Authors, Writers and those of you who are interested in such things.

Sit with that question for a moment. How you answer it, honestly, in the quiet space between your pride and your ambition, will determine whether you grow as a writer or spend years polishing the same unfinished draft while wondering why no one’s clapping.Every writer says they want feedback. Far fewer actually want it. And the gap between those two truths is where most writing careers quietly stall.

Why Critiques Matter More Than Compliments

Writing is a strange craft. You spend hours, weeks, sometimes years alone with your own words, and after a while, you can no longer see them clearly. Sentences that felt sharp in draft three read like sandpaper by draft seven. Plot holes disappear because your brain fills them in automatically. Characters you love become opaque to everyone but you.You cannot edit your way out of your own blind spots. That isn’t a personal failing; it’s neurology. You know what you meant to say, so your eyes read what you meant, not what’s on the page.A good critique is a borrowed pair of eyes. It’s someone standing where your reader will stand and telling you what they actually see, not what you hoped they’d see. That’s worth more than gold, and it’s usually offered for free.Critiques matter because they:

Reveal what isn’t working before an agent, editor, or reader silently closes the tab.
Sharpen your instincts by teaching you to anticipate reader reactions.
Break the echo chamber of your own preferences and habits.
Build resilience, a muscle you’ll need every day of a writing life.
Show you your patterns, both the beautiful ones and the ones you overuse.

Compliments feel wonderful. They also teach you almost nothing.

The Moment of Truth: How You React

Here’s where most writers reveal themselves. Someone finishes reading your work. They open their mouth to offer thoughts. And in the next sixty seconds, you decide, often without realizing it, whether this feedback session will actually help you.Watch yourself carefully in that moment. Do you:

Interrupt to explain what you meant?
Justify a choice before the critic has finished their sentence?
Point out that another reader loved that exact part?
Feel your jaw tighten, your arms cross, your tone sharpen?
Start mentally cataloging why this person “doesn’t get it”?

If so, congratulations: you’ve just told the person offering feedback that their time is being wasted. And if they’re wise, they’ll stop talking. Not because they’re offended, but because they’ve realized something important. You’re not listening. You’re defending.

A Rule for Critics: If They Get Defensive, Stop

This part is for the people offering the critique. You are a limited resource. Your attention, your honesty, your willingness to engage with someone else’s work: these things cost you something real. Spend them where they’ll be respected.If the writer becomes defensive, arguing every point, explaining away every concern, treating your observations as attacks rather than information, stop giving feedback. Politely, gracefully, but firmly. Say something like, “It sounds like this draft is where you want it to be. I’ll step back.” And mean it.You are not obligated to bulldoze someone into growth they haven’t asked for. A writer who isn’t ready to hear feedback won’t absorb it no matter how carefully you phrase it. Your notes will bounce off the armor and land nowhere. Worse, you’ll leave the conversation frustrated, and they’ll leave it convinced that critics just “don’t understand their vision.”Save your energy for the writers who lean in. They exist, and they’re the ones who become great.

What Listening Actually Looks Like

Listening, real listening, the kind that makes critique useful, is a discipline. Try this the next time someone offers you feedback:

Say nothing until they’re finished. Not a word. Not even “yeah, but …”
Take notes, even if you disagree. Especially if you disagree.
Ask clarifying questions, not defensive ones. “Can you say more about where you got confused?” beats “But didn’t you notice the foreshadowing on page four?”
Thank them, sincerely, and then go away. Don’t decide on the spot which notes to take. Let them settle for a day or two.
Look for patterns across readers. If three people trip on the same paragraph, the paragraph is the problem, not the readers.

You don’t have to accept every note. In fact, you shouldn’t. Part of being a writer is developing the judgment to know which feedback serves the work and which pulls it in a direction you don’t want. But you can’t exercise that judgment if you never let the feedback in to begin with.

The Ego Stroke Trap

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: seeking validation disguised as critique is one of the most common, and most invisible, ways writers stall out. You share your work with people you know will be gentle. You post excerpts to audiences who applaud. You ask for “feedback” but subtly signal that you want reassurance.And it works. You feel great. For about a day.Then you sit back down with the draft, and it still isn’t right, and you still don’t know why, and no amount of applause is going to fix it. Applause isn’t information. Applause is a mirror, and mirrors can’t tell you what your book looks like from the outside.If what you need right now is encouragement, that’s okay. Say so. Ask a friend to cheer you on. But don’t disguise that need as a call for critique, because you’ll waste a critic’s time and rob yourself of the actual help you claimed to want.

The Writers Who Make It

The writers who improve, really improve, the ones whose fifth book is unrecognizably better than their first, share a single trait. It isn’t talent. It isn’t discipline, though that helps. It isn’t even reading widely, though every serious writer does.It’s this: they can hear the truth about their work without flinching.They’ve decoupled their identity from any given sentence. They’ve learned that a critique of the writing is not a critique of the writer. They treat feedback like weather: sometimes pleasant, sometimes rough, always information about the environment they’re working in.That skill is available to anyone. It just requires answering the opening question honestly, again and again, every time you hand your work to another human being.So the next time you ask for a critique, pause before you open your mouth to respond. Take a breath. And ask yourself one more time:Am I here for an ego stroke, or am I here to get better?Your answer is the whole game.

As for me…What I’m Working On: The Ocean Within Trilogy

Readers, I have to tell you about the project that’s been keeping me up at night, and I mean that in the best possible way.I’m deep into a trilogy called The Ocean Within, and it started with a question that wouldn’t let me go.

Picture This

Imagine a hidden ocean. Not a metaphor. An actual, staggering body of water buried beneath the American heartland. It waters the crops on your dinner plate. It sustains the livestock that feeds a nation. Farmers from South Dakota to Texas depend on it, whether they know its name or not.It’s called the Ogallala Aquifer, and it’s disappearing faster than the earth can refill it.Most people have never heard of it. That is exactly why I had to write this book.

Then It Gets Worse

Now imagine money-hungry corporations looking at that same stretch of land and seeing dollar signs. Not for food. Not for the families who’ve farmed there for generations. For data centers. Massive, water-guzzling server farms that will drink from the same well feeding the country, planted right on top of one of our most vulnerable natural resources.Food, or servers? That’s the collision at the heart of this trilogy.

Book One: The Ocean Within

The story opens with fracking. A fissure cracks open where it never should have, and what follows is disaster on a scale that reminded me, as I was writing it, of Dante’s Peak, that same slow-dawning horror where the warning signs were there all along and nobody wanted to see them. Except this time, the ground isn’t exploding. It’s collapsing. Poisoning. Draining. And the people who live above it are the last to know.This is the book that introduces the Ogallala to readers who’ve never heard its name. By the time you turn the last page, you won’t forget it.

Why I Couldn’t Stop at One Book

Here’s the thing. I couldn’t leave it there, because the story isn’t finished in real life. Data centers are being built right now, in places they have no business being, and I believe with everything in me that if we don’t regulate this industry properly, it’s going to become a clear and present danger to the very ground we stand on and the food we grow.That’s not fiction. That’s Tuesday.So the trilogy grew. Two more books are taking shape, each one pulling the thread a little tighter, each one asking a bigger question than the last. What happens when we break what we can’t rebuild? Who profits from the wreckage? And is it too late to change course?

Stay With Me

I’ll be sharing more as the trilogy develops, sneak peeks, research rabbit holes I’ve fallen down, characters who’ve moved in and refused to leave. If the idea of a thriller that reads like tomorrow’s headlines sounds like your kind of read, you’re in the right place.The Ocean Within is coming. And once you know what’s beneath us, you won’t be able to unknow it. Follow the link to see my current books. Thanks!

Fireflies and Front Porches

Old Tom eased himself down onto the weathered porch swing, the same one his grandmother used to sit on back when the world was smaller and Sundays lasted forever. The chains creaked out that familiar song, the one that had rocked him to sleep more times than he could count. He set his coffee down on the arm of the swing, just the way Granny used to, and let his eyes drift out over the yard.

Lord, how that yard used to sing.

He could still see himself, no bigger than a bushel basket, running barefoot through Granny’s sprinkler on a July afternoon so hot the crickets forgot to sing. His cousins would be hollerin’, and Granny would be shellin’ peas on this very porch, laughing that laugh of hers that sounded like wind chimes in a summer storm. There was a tire swing hangin’ from the old oak back then, the one Papaw hung the summer before he passed, and Tom reckoned he’d spent half his childhood spinnin’ round on that thing till the whole world went dizzy.

And then there was Ginger.

Ginger Mae Halloway, with her freckles like somebody’d taken a pepper shaker to her cheeks, and hair the color of a copper penny left out in the sun. She lived three houses down, and from the time they were both knee-high to a grasshopper, wherever you found one, the other wasn’t far behind. He remembered the first time he ever thought maybe girls weren’t so bad after all. It was a June evening, the kind where the sky turns purple like a bruise, and the fireflies came out by the thousands down in the woods behind Granny’s place.

“Catch me one, Tommy!” she’d hollered, and off they went, tearin’ through the honeysuckle and the tall grass, cupping those little glowin’ bugs in their hands like they were catchin’ stars. He caught her hand instead of a firefly that night, and she didn’t pull away. He was nine years old, and he knew, knew the way a boy knows things before he has words for ’em, that Ginger was his girl.

They grew up tangled together like the wild roses on Granny’s fence. Homework at her kitchen table. Church on Sundays, sittin’ three pews apart tryin’ not to giggle. High school dances where he stepped on her toes and she pretended not to notice. By the time they were eighteen, everybody in town just figured, well, that’s Tom and Ginger. Been Tom and Ginger since they were shorter than the corn.

He gave her his grandmother’s ring on the porch, right where he sat now, the fireflies just startin’ to blink awake in the woods. She cried. He cried. Granny cried loudest of all.

Then life happened, the way life does.

There was a job in the city, a good one, they said. Just for a few years, he told Ginger. Just till we get on our feet. She smiled that copper-penny smile and packed his lunches and kissed him goodbye at 5:30 every mornin’. The apartment was small, and the city was loud, and there were no fireflies, just streetlights that hummed and never blinked.

The job turned into a career. The career turned into a title. The title turned into a corner office with a view of somebody else’s corner office. And every year, Tom would say, Just till the next promotion, honey. Then things’ll slow down.But things never slow down.

Not for a man chasin’ something he can’t quite name.Ginger became what folks call a work widow, sittin’ at supper tables set for two with only one plate touched. She’d call him at the office and get his secretary. She’d wait up till 10, then 11, then she’d stop waitin’ up. She never complained. That was Ginger. She’d just say, I’ll be here, Tommy. You do what you gotta do.

The promotion came. And with it, more hours. More trips. More dinners with clients whose names he couldn’t remember the next morning. His boss clapped him on the back and called him a rising star. His secretary sent flowers to Ginger on their anniversary because Tom forgot. Again.

He didn’t make it home when Granny passed. Big meeting in Chicago. He sent lilies.

And now here he was, all these years later, back on that porch. The swing still creaked. The oak still stood, though the tire was long gone. The woods still whispered at the edge of the yard.

And Ginger, Lord bless her, Ginger was inside, humming to herself while she washed the supper dishes, her copper hair gone silver now, but that smile still the same when he’d walked through the door last week and said, Honey, I retired. I’m home. I’m really home this time.

The first firefly of the evening blinked on down by the tree line. Then another. Then a hundred more, till the whole woods lit up like Christmas.

The screen door creaked open behind him. “Tommy?” she said. “You comin’ in?”

He reached back and caught her hand, just like he did when he was nine.”In a minute, Ginger Mae,” he said, his voice soft as porch light. “Come sit with me a spell. The fireflies are out.”

The Moral

A man can spend his whole life chasin’ after somethin’: a bigger paycheck, a fancier title, a pat on the back from a boss who’ll forget his name the day he retires. He can trade his mornings and his evenings and his Sundays for a corner office and call it success.

But at the end of it all, when the swing stops creakin’ and the porch light goes dim, ain’t nobody ever laid on their deathbed wishin’ they’d spent one more hour at the office.

The job will replace you before your desk is cold. The money spends and it’s gone. The accolades fade quicker than perfume on a Sunday dress.

But the girl with the copper hair? The porch swing? The fireflies in the woods?

Those are the things worth keepin’ your eyes on. Because those are the things that keep their eyes on you.

***

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend. If you have fireflies where you are…Well…you know what to do. =Scott

Many of you are asking how do I get people to find my book?

How Authors Can Thrive in the Digital Age

Nothing But Time: A Story About What We Lose When We’re Too Busy to Notice

There’s a particular kind of silence that fills a downtown apartment at 3 PM on a Tuesday. It’s not the peaceful quiet of a weekend morning or the contemplative hush of a late evening. It’s the silence of a man who suddenly has nowhere to be, and worse, no one waiting for him to arrive.This is where we meet Jack.

The Weight of an Empty Calendar

For forty-three years, Jack’s identity was stitched into the fabric of a company logo. He knew the precise angle of morning light through his corner office window. He could recite quarterly projections in his sleep. His fingers knew the keyboard shortcuts of Excel the way a pianist knows Chopin.Then came the merger.They called it “restructuring.” They handed him a plaque, a modest severance, and a handshake from someone half his age who couldn’t quite meet his eyes. Just like that, the man who built departments, mentored executives, and sacrificed weekends for deadlines became… what, exactly?In “Nothing But Time,“ I wanted to explore what happens to a man when the thing he traded his life for suddenly decides it doesn’t need him anymore.

The Ghosts That Live in Silence

Jack sits in his sleek, expensive apartment—the one he bought because it was close to the office, not because it felt like home—and the memories arrive uninvited.His wife, Diane. The way she used to leave dinner in the oven, then eventually stopped. The way she’d ask him to come to bed, then eventually stopped asking. The night she said, “You’re already gone, Jack. I’m just making it official.”His son’s baseball games he missed for board meetings. His daughter’s wedding, where he gave a toast about “investments and returns” because he didn’t know her well enough to say anything personal. The grandchildren whose names he sometimes has to pause to remember.He built a monument to his career.He built it out of the people who loved him.

The Letter That Changes Everything

And then, one gray morning, an envelope arrives. Heavy paper. A law firm’s embossed seal. An roomate from college left him a farm, acres of rolling green somewhere far from spreadsheets and quarterly reports.What does a man who has spent his life optimizing efficiency do with soil, sky, and silence?That’s the question at the heart of “Nothing But Time.”

Why I Wrote This Book

I didn’t write this novel to entertain you, though I hope it does. I wrote it because I’ve watched too many good men and women trade the irreplaceable for the replaceable.Here’s the truth nobody puts in a corporate handbook:

The company will replace you before your desk is cold. But your daughter will remember the recital you missed for the rest of her life. Your son will remember whether you showed up. Your spouse will remember whether you were present or just physically in the room.We chase the watch. The title. The bonus. The corner office. We tell ourselves we’re doing it for the people we love, while the very act of chasing it takes us further from them.And then one day, the chase ends. The company merges. The title evaporates. The watch stops mattering.And what’s left?For Jack, what’s left is a farm and forty years of regret. What’s left is the possibility—maybe, just maybe—of learning a different way to measure a life.

From a large city to a small town Jack Harper gave everything to his career.

Now he’s retired, redundant, and utterly lost.

Then he inherits a farmhouse from the friend who tried to warn him, the friend who escaped to Vermont and died alone, the friend who left behind one final message: Tend the roses. Stop and smell them. Live.

But something strange is happening at the farmhouse. The old radio plays broadcasts from 1943. The rose garden blooms when Jack kneels in the dirt. And Ed, his dead friend, keeps appearing at the edge of the orchard, smiling, beckoning, waiting for Jack to understand what he spent a lifetime refusing to see. Some second chances come with instructions. Some come with ghosts.

An Invitation

If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re building the right kind of legacy… if you’ve ever looked up from your desk and realized the seasons changed without you… if you’ve ever felt the quiet fear that the people you love are becoming strangers… then Jack’s story is your story too.“Nothing But Time” is available now. It’s a novel about loss, yes, but more importantly, it’s a novel about what we can still choose while we still have breath.Because here’s the thing about time: we all think we have more of it than we do. Until one day, we’re sitting in a quiet apartment, holding a letter, realizing that time is the only thing we ever really had.And the only question that matters is:Who did we spend it with?

Don’t chase the watch. Chase the people. They’re the only thing that ticks back.Get your copy of “Nothing But Time” today—and maybe, tonight, call the person you’ve been meaning to call.

What the Flock?

Why We’re Obsessing Over License Plate Readers While the Real Surveillance Happens in Our Pockets

The Big Idea: Flock Safety cameras have become the villain of countless town hall meetings and Reddit threads. But while we argue about license plate readers on lampposts, we voluntarily carry the most sophisticated surveillance apparatus in human history, and feed it our lives, minute by minute. Flock is the magician’s waving hand. The real trick is happening elsewhere.

The Flock Panic

If you’ve driven through an American suburb recently, you’ve probably passed one: a small black camera on a slim pole, quietly logging your license plate, the make and color of your car, and the exact time you passed. These are Flock Safety cameras. Automated License Plate Readers (ALPRs) that have spread across thousands of U.S. communities, often installed by police departments or even neighborhood associations.And people are furious, understandably so. The concerns are real:

Persistent tracking of vehicle movements across networked jurisdictions
Data retention for weeks or months, searchable by law enforcement and private industy without warrant.
Minimal oversight and murky data-sharing agreements
Function creep, where a tool sold for “finding stolen cars” becomes a general dragnet

These are legitimate grievances. But here’s the uncomfortable question:

Why are we so fixated on the camera we can see, when the ones we can’t are infinitely more powerful?

The Sleight of Hand

Flock cameras are visible. They’re physical. You can point at one, photograph it, demand a city council remove it. That tangibility makes them a perfect target for outrage, and a perfect distraction.Consider what a Flock camera actually knows about you:

Your car passed a fixed point at a specific time.

Now consider what the smartphone in your pocket knows:

Data Source	What It Reveals
GPS / location services	Every place you go, how long you stay, patterns over years
Accelerometer	How you walk, drive, sleep—even your gait signature
Microphone permissions	Ambient audio, keywords, environment
App telemetry	Who you talk to, what you buy, what you desire at 2 AM
Purchase history	Health conditions, financial stress, life events
Social graph	Your relationships, affiliations, and influences
A Flock camera sees a car. Your phone sees a soul. And unlike the camera on the pole, you paid $1,000 for the privilege of carrying it.

A Brief History of Watching

Surveillance isn’t new. What’s new is its invisibility and predictive power.

The Panopticon (1791): Jeremy Bentham designed a prison where a single guard could watch any inmate at any time, but inmates could never tell when. The genius wasn’t constant observation; it was the possibility of it.
The Stasi (East Germany): At its peak, one informant for roughly every 6.5 citizens. Labor-intensive, human-driven, and yet still incomplete.
CCTV Britain (1990s–2000s): Cameras everywhere, but requiring humans to review footage…analog eyes on analog tape.
Today: No guards needed. No informants. No tape to review. Algorithms watch everything, and more importantly, they predict.

The evolution isn’t just more surveillance. It’s a shift from observation to anticipation.

Foucault Saw This Coming

The French philosopher Michel Foucault, in Discipline and Punish (1975), used Bentham’s Panopticon as a metaphor for modern power. His key insight:

When you believe you might be watched at any moment, you begin to watch yourself. You self-censor. You conform. Surveillance becomes internalized until the watcher is no longer needed.

This is the profound difference between Flock and your phone. A Flock camera exerts external control…it catches you after the fact. But algorithmic surveillance achieves the Panopticon’s true goal: it shapes behavior before it happens.You hesitate before searching a controversial term. You think twice before texting a joke. You curate your digital self, knowing it’s all logged.

The prison has moved inside your head—and you built the cell yourself.

The Double-Edged Sword

Here’s the maddening part: the same technology that surveils us is genuinely useful.

Your maps app predicts traffic because it’s tracking millions of people, including you.
Your health app catches an irregular heartbeat because it monitors your body 24/7.
Your assistant answers instantly because it’s learned your habits.

Convenience is the currency we use to purchase our own surveillance.This is what Shoshana Zuboff calls surveillance capitalism: a system where human experience is the raw material, and the product is prediction. Not just predicting what you’ll buy…but nudging what you’ll do, think, and feel. Elections, moods, movements, and markets can be shaped by whoever holds the data.Social engineering at scale no longer requires a Stasi officer. It requires an A/B test.

Winston and Julia, 2026

Recall 1984. Winston Smith and Julia flee to a quiet field in the countryside to escape the telescreens, to find one unwatched moment of intimacy and freedom.Now transplant them to today.They leave their phones behind (good…that defeats the location tracking, the microphones, the app telemetry). They drive to the countryside. But:

Their license plates are logged by Flock cameras on the way out of town.
Satellites image the open field from orbit.
Their absence from the network is itself a data point, an anomaly worth flagging.
The purchase of gas, the toll on the highway, the cell tower ping from a phone one of them forgot to fully power down.

The countryside offered Winston a blind spot because Oceania’s surveillance was physical and fixed…telescreens on walls. Today’s surveillance is ambient and predictive. There is no field far enough.But here’s the twist Orwell didn’t fully anticipate: Winston wouldn’t need to be forced. He’d carry the telescreen willingly, in his pocket, and check it 96 times a day. Julia would tag their location in a photo. The Party wouldn’t have to install anything. We volunteer.

So, What the Flock?

Flock cameras deserve scrutiny. Fight them, regulate them, demand transparency. But recognize the disproportion:

Fighting Flock cameras while ignoring your data footprint is like installing a deadbolt on a house with no walls.

The cameras on the poles are the surveillance we’re allowed to see, the acceptable target, the visible outrage, the distraction that lets the real machinery hum along quietly. The genuine architecture of prediction and control isn’t bolted to a lamppost. It’s in the cloud, in the algorithm, in the terms of service you scrolled past.The most effective surveillance state isn’t one that watches you against your will.It’s one you happily fund, feed, and carry everywhere, while pointing angrily at the camera on the corner.

If there is enough interest, I will divulge other ways and places you are “observed.” Or you can just ask Alexa.

On a completely different note, I have released a new book that asks the question, “Are You a Witch?” The link will take you to my author page, where you can browse a multitude of books on a variety of subjects. There is something for almost everyone.Thanks for stopping by, and feel free to comment below.

So the next time you see a Flock camera and feel that flash of indignation, ask yourself: what’s in my pocket, and what does it already know?That’s what the flock we should really be talking about.

BTW does FLOCK mean (For the Love Of Cats?) Probabaly not… More like flock of birds, or cars…or people..

Best

Are You A Witch?

What the Bones Whisper: Meet the Bog Witch Who’s About to Change Everything 🖤🌿

Are you a witch? You might want to sit down before you answer that…There’s a girl in the bayou who talks to crows.Her name is Sarah Beaumont, and for fifteen years, the small town of Jefferson Davis has kept its distance from her. They whisper Swamp Witch behind cupped hands. They edge away in the locker room. They call her obsession with the black water “a coping mechanism.” But here’s what they don’t know: the bayou has been listening to her this whole time.And one afternoon, it finally answers back.

When “Weird” Isn’t a Diagnosis … It’s a Bloodline

Picture this: cypress knees rising from the shallows like ancient sentinels. Metal that stops corroding under your fingertips. A dying spider plant that springs back to life just because you felt sorry for it. For Sarah, the swamp has always been the one place where she belongs , where animals don’t flee from her, where the mud remembers the shape of her footprints, where a girl who eats lunch alone in the library can finally breathe. Then a voice rises from the black water like something that’s been holding its breath for fifteen years:

“Finally. Your mother used to stand in that exact spot.”

Her mother — who didn’t leave. Who the town says the bayou took. 😳

Grandmère Knows Something. And It’s Terrifying.

When Sarah runs home trembling, her grandmother doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t say “it’s just stories.”She goes pale as bone and whispers one word that changes everything:Magick. Turns out, the Beaumont women have been hearing the bayou at sixteen for seven generations — going all the way back to a woman named Mathilde who “walked out of the Louisiana bayou with nothing but the clothes on her back and a head full of knowing.” They’re traiteurs. Conjure women. Root workers.Bog witches. 🕯️But Sarah’s mother? She ran from the calling. And now something is coming for Sarah … early. 🐦‍⬛

Three Knocks. Black Salt. And a Word Planted in Her Chest.

That very night, the lights die. Footsteps cross the porch. Something hums her mother’s lullaby in the dark … and leaves behind footprints of oily black mud that refuse to dry. Then a crow the size of a nightmare opens its beak and says a single word straight into her bones:

“Soon.”

By morning, the protective salt at the threshold has turned black. A single feather waits on her windowsill. And a mysterious boy named Eli Corbeau , who stands on the water, not in it, appears at the edge of the swamp. Corbeau. Sarah’s rusty French unfolds the word like dark wings.Crow. 🖤

So… Are You a Witch?

If you love stories where:

🌙 A girl discovers she can untangle death itself with her bare hands
🌿 Southern gothic bayous hum with generations of secret power
🐦‍⬛ Mysterious boys who might not be entirely human show up on the water
🔮 The line between “gifted” and “hunted” is razor-thin

…then the swamp has been waiting for you too.Something is beginning. And once you hear it, there’s no going back to not hearing it. 💀

Are You a Witch? … A Bog Witch Novel. Coming from Purple Pen Publishing.

Yes, I just released my latest project. If you know someone who appreciates these types of stories, do them and me a favor and tell them about it.

Some questions, once the swamp asks them, can never be unheard. So before you turn the page, ask yourself one more time. Blessed be or dear reader?

I just published it today, so the link takes you to all of my books. It will show up as soon as Amazon does their thing.

Tell us in the comments: If the bayou whispered your name, would you answer… or would you run? 👇

Main Street Didn’t Die of Natural Causes

When I wanted to use a mom-and-pop shop, I was chastised because they were more expensive than a big box store. The truth is that big box stores, and now companies like Amazon, are putting these folks out of business. When small towns turn into empty buildings and “antique shops,” you have yourself to blame.

The Real Cost of “Saving” Money at Big Box Stores

We’ve all been tempted by the lower price tags at big box retailers. But here’s something worth considering: what are you actually getting for your money?When you walk into a locally owned hardware store, nursery, bike shop, or specialty retailer, you’re not just buying a product. You’re buying decades of accumulated knowledge. That owner has likely used, tested, repaired, and lived with the products on their shelves. They chose each item deliberately because they believe in it.

Expertise You Can’t Put a Price Tag On

Local merchants stake their reputation on every recommendation. They live in your community. They’ll see you at the grocery store. They have every incentive to steer you right.They can troubleshoot problems because they understand how their products actually work in real-world conditions.They’ll talk you out of buying something if it’s not the right fit, something a commission-driven or undertrained big box employee will never do.

The Big Box Reality

Large retailers cycle through employees at staggering turnover rates. Many staff members received a few hours of computer-based training before being placed in departments they know nothing about. They’re reading the same box you’re reading. You’re essentially paying less to help yourself.

The Hidden Costs of Going Cheap

That “savings” evaporates quickly when you

buy the wrong product because no one guided you properly,
have to make return trips because of bad advice,
purchase unnecessary extras you didn’t actually need, or
end up replacing a cheap item sooner than expected.

It’s an Investment in Your Community

Every dollar spent locally circulates back through your neighborhood, funding schools, roads, and local services. When a mom-and-pop shop closes, that expertise leaves with it and doesn’t come back.

The few extra dollars you spend at a local shop aren’t a markup. They’re tuition. You’re paying for someone’s lifetime of knowledge, honest guidance, and genuine accountability. That’s a bargain at any price.

put your thoughts and comments below. “Am I right?”

If you could go back in time and leave yourself a message, what would it be?

We have all had that dream or thought, especially when we think of all the stupid things we did as kids. Some of us wonder how we survived it.

While my book Echoes of Tomorrow deals with this prospect in a science-fictional way, we all know that time, at least at present, does not allow do-overs.

The difference between knowledge and wisdom boils down to one question:

Just because we can, should we?

We just lived through a pandemic that still has lasting effects on many. COVID was most probably an early attempt at biological warfare situated in China (and other countries) to give the United States plausible deniability.

That is most probably why there were so many Biden-era Democratic pardons, including Anthony Fauci’s. To make a virus even more dangerous through gain-of-function research is about as irresponsible as creating other weapons of mass destruction, i.e., nuclear weapons.

We will never know if the dropping of the first atomic bombs was the only way to put an end to World War II.

Through treasonous acts, several spies shared (or sold) nuclear information to the Russians, making technological adolescence a real and immediate thing.

Today we are creating AI and robots that if given weapons would make The Terminator look like Winnie the Effing Pooo!

While Echoes of Tomorrow addresses this as a theme, there is another novel I am currently editing in which mankind goes to Mars after making Earth uninhabitable. Unlike Echoes in Time, where aliens facilitate time travel, Quiet Dust is set in a future where humans have already been on Mars for over forty years. Subscribe to this blog for more info on when it drops.

There are theories suggesting that evidence of humanity will be erased over time. The reasons humanity may never make it off the planet in any meaningful way are as follows.

The Great Filter from the Fermi Paradox is the correct framing of the problem. Sagan’s technological adolescence is likely a real and significant component of that filter, perhaps the dominant one for civilizations that reach our stage. But it probably is not the only filter. The total improbability of a civilization reaching interstellar maturity is likely the product of multiple bottlenecks, with self-destruction during technological adolescence being the final and perhaps most severe.

The darkest implication is this: even if a civilization survives its adolescence, it may face recurring filters. Each new transformative technology (nuclear, AI, nanotech, or whatever comes next) reopens the vulnerability window. Adolescence may not be a single phase but a repeating pattern, each iteration more dangerous than the last. If that is true, then the two frameworks converge completely. The Great Filter is technological adolescence, experienced not once but perpetually, with the cumulative probability of survival approaching zero over sufficient time.

So, before I leave you for today, I have an idea that needs wings. It needs to get to Elon Musk, who has the means to make it happen.

This device would visit the earth once in a lifetime to remind those here not to be an idiot!

We sent two satellites, Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, off into interstellar space on one-way trips to nowhere. What if, like Halley’s Comet, we created a device with a similar elongated orbit that passes by Earth every hundred years, making itself known? In that way, after we either blow the planet to bits through our hubris or our flat-out stupidity, we could send future inhabitants a message, much like we might send to our younger selves:

“Don’t do this, idiot!”

Why the future? Have you watched the news? Do you see how irresponsible the media has become and how violence seems to perpetuate into more violence?

Money for clicks and viewership for advertisements are more important than the boring truth.

Dehumanizing your political opponent will trigger the emotionally unbalanced to act, and politicians know this. Politicians are desperate and will do anything to keep power, including importing twenty million new voters. Power is money and those two are addictive, much like Felony Glitter…

I hold little hope for humanity, and I have to wonder if Elon’s vision of Mars has him thinking the same thing.

Please like, comment, and follow, as well as read Echoes of Tomorrow.

Authors like me need all the assistance we can get in order to provide more thought-provoking, entertaining novels for you, when you are not watching hypnotoad programming, designed to make you disbelieve your lying eyes.

my version of hypnotoad feeding the masses lies.

That Flattering Email in Your Inbox? It’s Probably a Scam.

Let’s be honest: authors have egos. I’m no exception. We pour our souls into our work, and when someone notices—really notices, it feels like validation wrapped in a warm hug. Scammers know this. They count on it. And they’re getting disturbingly good at exploiting it.I’ve seen my fair share of suspicious emails over the years, but I have to admit—this one nearly got me.

The Email That Almost Fooled Me

Picture this: a polished, professional message lands in your inbox from someone claiming to be a “Consulting Publisher at Bloomsbury Publishing (UK).” The tone is warm. The praise is specific. They mention your book by name and describe it with the kind of glowing language that makes your heart skip a beat.Here’s what “Faiza S. Khan” had to say about my novel, The Ocean Within:

“I was genuinely impressed by its compelling blend of scientific speculation, environmental intrigue, and high-stakes suspense… The novel’s focus on the fragile balance between human progress and the immense, often unpredictable forces beneath the Earth’s surface creates a story that is both intellectually engaging and emotionally compelling.”

Flattering, right? They even praised its “strong commercial appeal” and suggested it “extends beyond genre conventions.” This email knew exactly which buttons to push.

The Red Flags Hiding in Plain Sight

Here’s the thing about well-crafted scams: they sound almost legitimate. But when you slow down and look closer, the warning signs emerge:

Unsolicited contact from a major publisher. Traditional publishers like Bloomsbury don’t typically cold-email unknown authors gushing about their self-published or small-press work.
Vague next steps. The email asks about your “current publishing arrangements” and whether you have an agent—information that helps scammers tailor their pitch (or their ask for money).
Too much flattery, too little substance. The praise is elaborate but generic enough to apply to almost any thriller with environmental themes.
No verifiable contact details. A quick search often reveals these “consulting publishers” don’t exist on the company’s official website.

Why This Matters

Scams like this prey on our deepest hopes as writers. They exploit the dream of being “discovered” by a prestigious publisher. And once they have your attention? The requests begin…fees for “editorial reviews,” payments for “international distribution,” or contracts that sign away your rights.So what should you do if an email like this lands in your inbox?

Pause before you respond. Excitement clouds judgment.
Verify the sender. Search the person’s name on the publisher’s official website or LinkedIn.
Contact the publisher directly. Use contact information from their official site—not the email.
Trust your gut. If it feels too good to be true, it probably is.

The Bottom Line

I won’t pretend I wasn’t tempted, even for a moment to believe that Bloomsbury had stumbled upon my work and fallen in love with it. That’s the power of a well-crafted scam. But the best defense we have as authors is awareness, skepticism, and community.If you’ve received something similar, you’re not alone. Share your experience, warn your fellow writers, and remember: your talent is real, even when the emails praising it aren’t.

Have you encountered a publishing scam? Drop your story in the comments—let’s help each other stay vigilant.

About the cover:

The Ocean Within is a gripping, science-driven thriller that explores the fragile balance between humanity and the forces of nature. Perfect for fans of Michael Crichton, Andy Weir, and Kim Stanley Robinson, this novel will leave you breathless—and questioning how much we really understand about the world beneath our feet.

Get your copy here.

Combatting Scam Calls: Protect Your Phone and Privacy

Scam Calls Are Taking Over: Are Our Phones Becoming Worthless?

Let’s face it: our phones, once cutting-edge tools of connection and convenience, are slowly turning into sources of frustration. If you’re like me, you’ve probably noticed how scam calls are taking over our lives, making us second-guess every incoming call. How many of us actually answer our phones anymore when we don’t recognize the number? For me, it’s almost never. And honestly, can you blame me?I get hundreds of scam calls every week, and it’s exhausting. From fake IRS agents to warranty renewal scams, my phone rings constantly with fraudulent attempts to steal my money or personal information. As a result, I’ve developed a strict “don’t answer” rule: if I don’t know the number, I let it go to voicemail. If it’s important, the caller can leave a message. But is that really the answer? Shouldn’t there be a better solution than just dodging calls?

Why Are Scam Calls Legal?

Here’s the part that really baffles me: why is it legal for scammers to hijack our phones like this? Let’s break it down.

We pay for our phones: We’re the ones footing the bill for our phones, lines, and data plans (not to mention the time we lose dealing with these calls). Yet scammers and telemarketers are allowed to freely intrude on our lives without accountability.
No consent required: Many of these calls come without prior consent. They’re random, unsolicited, and often predatory. It feels invasive, and honestly, it should be illegal.
Robocalls are everywhere: It’s not just scammers. Even legitimate businesses and political campaigns use robocalls to bombard us with messages. And while their intentions may not be criminal, the frustration they cause is very real.

Why Isn’t There Stronger Legislation?

It’s 2026, and the problem seems worse than ever. Why can’t we have effective legislation that cracks down on scam calls and robocalls? Think about it: these callers don’t pay for your phone, your line, or your time, so why do they have the right to disrupt your day?Sure, there’s been some progress. In the U.S., for instance, there’s the Telephone Consumer Protection Act (TCPA) and recent efforts like the TRACED Act, which aim to curb illegal robocalls. Technologies like STIR/SHAKEN, which verify the authenticity of caller IDs, are also being implemented by carriers. But let’s be honest; these measures haven’t solved the problem. Scammers are constantly finding loopholes, and enforcement isn’t strong enough to deter them.

The Impact on Everyday Life

Let’s talk about what this means for us, the average phone users. Scam calls don’t just waste our time; they erode trust. We’re now conditioned to ignore calls from unknown numbers, which has real consequences. What if it’s a potential employer? A doctor’s office? A friend or family member calling from a new number? The constant barrage of scam calls makes it harder for us to stay connected in meaningful ways.

What Can Be Done?

So, what’s the solution? Here are some ideas:

Stronger penalties for scammers and telemarketers: Governments need to enforce stricter laws and impose harsher consequences for illegal calls. This includes holding companies accountable for the robocalls they send.
Improved technology: Phone carriers should continue to innovate ways to block scam calls before they even reach us. Apps like Hiya, Truecaller, and Nomorobo are a step in the right direction, but we need these features to be built into every phone system by default.
Public awareness campaigns: Educating people about common scams and how to protect themselves can help limit the success of these fraudulent calls.
Opt-in systems for legitimate calls: What if businesses and political campaigns could only call us if we explicitly opted in? That way, we’d have more control over who can contact us.

What Do You Think?

I’m tired of feeling like my phone is more of a liability than a tool. Scam calls are making our phones almost worthless, and something needs to change. But what about you? Are you facing the same problem? Do you ignore unknown numbers, too? And what solutions would you like to see to stop this epidemic of scam calls?Let me know your thoughts in the comments below. Let’s start the conversation, because if we don’t demand change, who will?

***

About the Cover Picture: What would you do if your body remembered a story the world tried to erase?

Marisol Reyes believed her life was ordinary, until the night words began to surface on her skin. They burn like embers and speak of a past she has never known: a forgotten village, a family secret, and a legacy passed through blood and bone across generations. Her grandmother carried these memories in silence. Now the words have found their way to her.

As Marisol uncovers the truth about San Miguel de la Luz, a village destroyed in 1963 and erased from history, she learns that her family’s story is woven into the ambitions of a powerful corporation desperate to keep its secrets buried. With the help of Daniel Medina (a boy whose own family is bound to the betrayal that led to San Miguel’s destruction), Marisol must choose whether to remain silent or risk everything to bring the truth into the light.

Written in Skin is a gripping novel of magical realism, historical trauma, and the fight to reclaim lost histories. Perfect for fans of Isabel Allende, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, and stories that braid the mystical with the deeply human, this is a tale about memory, resilience, and the power of words that refuse to stay buried.

Get your copy here.