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Cover Reveal!!! THE STORY OF SEEDS will be releasing in paperback January 2020 with a great cover & updated back matter! Hurray!



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5/5 Stars.


This book is unlike anything I’ve ever read before! Lisa Taddeo spent eight years driving across the country listening to women’s deeply personal accounts of desire. The result is an intimate and at times excruciating retelling of three of these women’s stories.


Lina, a melancholy homemaker in suburban Indiana, is in a loveless, passionless marriage, and reconnects with a man from her past for secret meetups. Maggie is 17 years old when she becomes consumed by an inappropriate relationship with her married high school teacher—and ultimately presses charges against him years later. Sloane, beautiful and successful, is married to a man whom she loves who likes to watch her have sex with other people.


Taddeo manages to relay their accounts with a reporter’s precision—straightforward and factual—while magically making us feel like we’re reading a riveting fictional novel. I was captivated by these women and their stories (particularly Lina and Maggie). Though each one was so different, they conveyed such universal truths about womanhood and desire; I could see parts of myself in all three of them.


At one point Taddeo observes that “there is nothing safer than wanting nothing.” Desire itself is an act of immense courage, laying oneself bare to the possibility of disappointment—not to mention the judgments of others. I’m in awe of these three women for the bravery it took to reveal themselves in such agonizing detail, to share with the world their complexities, desires and traumas, so that we all might allow each other and ourselves a little bit more grace.

Good Morning, Bibliophiles!

What is everyone currently reading/listening to?


I’m currently reading A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

Currently listening to Made In America by Bill Bryson

Winners Takes All, by Anand Giridharadas

Where do I begin?

  • The market-approach doesn’t work for social and political problems.
  • Inequality is one of our biggest problems, but nobody seems to acknowledge it
  • We don’t scrutinize philanthropists enough–where are they getting their money? Does “after-the-fact benevolence [justify] anything-goes capitalism?”
  • Why do glorify entrepreneurship and thought leadership?
  • “Generosity is not a substitute for justice”
  • Don’t settle to do a modest bit of good. Let’s focus on the system–the institutions, laws, and norms–that hurt people

All sounds so obvious, but this is the strongest call-to-action I’ve seen.

Stopařův průvodce po galaxii jazyků

Stopařův průvodce po galaxii jazyků - Yens Wahlgren (v českém překladu Olgy Bažantové - 2019 v nakladatelství Paseka, ve švédském originále Liftarens parlör till galaxen: En berättelse om 101 språk som egentligen inte finns - 2015)

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V případě, že rádi čtete nebo se díváte na science fiction a fantasy, jste už určitě narazili na elfy, mimozemšťany nebo roboty mluvící cizím jazykem. A velmi pravděpodobně se jednalo o jazyk umělý. Přesně o nich je Stopařův průvodce po galaxii jazyků. Kniha se čte překvapivě dobře, přestože obsahuje docela dost slov jako glosolálie nebo grammelot. Autor postupně probere ty nejznámější jazyky od klingonštiny, přes jazyk Mechanického pomeranče a Orwellova newspeaku až po Tolkienovu elfštinu a u každého z nich se dozvíme jak vznikal, co ho ovlivnilo a jak funguje. Překvapujícím může být fakt, že jazyky si po svém představení ve filmech či seriálech často žijí vlastním životem díky početné skupině fanoušků, kteří se snaží jazyk naučit a dále jej rozšiřovat. Na knize je hezké také to (alespoň pro mne - nelingvistu), že se nezabývá pouze umělými jazyky, ale často také vysvětluje fungování jazyků přirozených, protože to se často promítá do řečí vytvořených uměle. Jediné mínus za mne je absence jazyka ze světa Cthulhu, o tom bych si moc rád přečetl. Pro nerdy povinnost a ani pro ostatní to nebude ztráta času.

Stockholm Syndrome: (A Girl That Hears Nothing but KAOS)

Any and all personal “Escaping KAOS” posts should be proceeded with caution. Remember that there are trigger warnings, and my story consists of non fictional details concerning domestic violence and abuse.

I still hear his voice, and I know I’m probably going to hear it for a long time.

I hear inside his head, even though he would so constantly tell me that I couldn’t.

I think you are still doing drugs.

No, don’t tell me how I think or feel. You always act like you can see inside my head like you know me, but you don’t.

I think you are lying to me.

Well, I’m not. Thanks for telling me how I feel. You think you know everything, but you don’t. You’re fucking crazy and you just want to control me.

Why were you out so late? I’ve been up with the baby all night, didn’t you get off work six hours ago?

Goddamn it, there was traffic. Why do you have to be such a bitch?

Every time I hear a loud noise, I jump and my heart stops beating for a second. Every time I have a feeling or think a thought, I question myself endlessly and still set his expectations for myself.

Okay, fine. I stopped and tried to get us food on the way home and it made me late. Don’t you feel bad, now? Yes, of course it took traffic and food that I ended up not being able to get for some senseless reason like I planned to cause me to take six hours getting home. I worked all day in the hot sun, slaving away and dealing with those idiots I work with all day and just wanted to pick up some food and come home to you. I am the only person at my job that can do anything right, and I don’t get paid enough. I’m so upset. Can’t you see I am upset and tired?

He was always such a victim, and he pounded that in to my brain religiously. It was amazing and difficult to believe; the way that he thought and the things he would say.

He taught me, trained me, and manipulated me. He did it so well, all while convincing me that it was love.

It’s been such a bad day, and you’re questioning me. You’re such a bitch to me, and you’re just making my day worse. You’re supposed to make my days better. I love you as much as I do, and you repay me by questioning me after a long and terrible day? I hurt you because I’m just trying to work for a living, and you don’t appreciate me enough at all.

He had an excuse for everything. He had an answer to everything. He could make anything and everything my fault, and I believed him. He could tell me the sky was green, and I would fall to his feet. He had me convinced that I was trash, and I owed him my life; all while simultaneously convincing me that he needed me in order to survive.

Okay, fine. Truth is, I lied to you and it was wrong. I’m sorry. Why are you crying? Quit fucking crying, I’m telling you the truth. Don’t you see how much I love you? Don’t you see that you are so beautiful, and I can’t live without you? Please stop crying. Look, I picked you flowers on the way home. That is how much I love you. I slaved away in the hot sun, working so hard so I can pay the bills and keep us fed. I still stopped after all that, and picked you flowers off the side of the road. I love you and you know I do. Please stop crying. I am this good to you, and all you ever do is cry..

He blurred my vision on what was right and what was wrong, and convinced me that loyalty and allowing him to do whatever he pleased without question went hand in hand. It was as if he rewired my entire brain, and I felt an ache in my stomach that he had been doing it from the start.

The truth is, I was out at a friend’s house and just hanging out and catching up. I promise I wasn’t doing drugs. I promise I only had two beers, not 14. I promise I only lost track of time, and just accidentally left my phone in the car. I wasn’t cheating on you.

I wasn’t actually trying to pick up food, I got arrested again. But I promise it wasn’t for buying a prostitute or selling drugs or chasing a woman down the highway with my dick out. I promise I am doing nothing wrong, it’s everyone else just being against me. I’m innocent. I’m just trying to work for a living.

He told on himself, and gave himself away countless times. I didn’t care. I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe it. He was all I knew. He was all I had. No one would ever love me the way he did.

I promise. See? I told you the truth. I wish I could make you understand. I tell you the truth because you are the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I am so sorry. I will do better. I won’t ever hurt you again. Please don’t tell, please don’t break up our family. Can’t you see all that I do for you? No one else is the father of your one and only child. No one else works so hard to take care of you and spoil you. So many women out there have it so much worse. I push past my limits and take risks to take care of us. Don’t you see? So you should appreciate me. There is no reason to cry, why do you have to cry all the fucking time? You’re so ungrateful. Stop fucking crying. After all I do for you, and all you want to do is bitch at me. Can’t you see I need you? Can’t you see how screwed up I am? Don’t you know your own husband at all? I’m not sick. I’m not crazy. You are sick. You are crazy. You are just spoiled and materialistic. I know everything about you and love you more than you love me, because you don’t even know how to make my sandwiches how I like them.

(Trigger warnings, still. And, to me, humorous when looking back at it: the following paragraphs you are about to read are an actual, nonfictional argument he would have with me. Yes, stemming from how I made his sandwiches. Please proceed with caution.)

You never put enough mayo on them. I always make your sandwiches exactly how you like them, and you still haven’t figured out that I want tons if mayonnaise on my sandwhiches.

Every time you make me a sandwich, I have to get up and go in to the kitchen to add more mayonnaise. If you truly loved me and appreciated how hard I work for you, you’d at least know how to do that by now. After a hard day at work, I don’t want to have to get up and fix my sandwich because you didn’t make it right the first time. You already don’t cook, and you don’t work. You don’t do anything but sit on your stupid ass and play on your phone all day.

Nothing I ever did was good enough, and nothing I ever did was done the right way. He would teach me, time and time again; and if I couldn’t do it his way, I was doing it all wrong.

Sure, you clean. Yeah, okay, you fed our son and kept him on a schedule. Yes, you’re right. You did all my laundry and made sure I had clean clothes. You didn’t fold them or put them away, yet, did you?

Oh, you did? I’m sorry, I’m just so tired from working hard. You should have folded them like this, or put them away in here instead. I get to throw my nasty, dirty clothes on the kitchen table you just finished cleaning twenty seconds ago, but if you don’t pick them up and wash them, and then fold them right and put them where I suggested, you are a shit wife and will never learn to do right. What would you do without me? How would you even survive without me when you can’t even do laundry right?

He reminded me every chance he could how ungrateful and unworthy I was. That I was the one that had changed. I was the one that had fooled him in to thinking I was someone I wasn’t. He reminded me that I didn’t live up to his expecations of me, even after he had worked so hard to become better for me. He reminded me and everyone else what a spoiled harpy I was, and how I had sucked the life from him like a Succubus.

That’s all it is. It’s how hard I work. I do it all for you, and you accuse me of doing drugs. You think I’m out here cheating on you, or doing some other crazy shit, when really I’m just busting my ass to take care of you and our son. The rent is going to be late again this month, and it isn’t because I’m on drugs like your paranoid ass tries to lie and say about me. You do that shit to hurt me on purpose. You are evil, just like my mother. You are against me like everyone else. The rent is late because of you.

Everything somehow became my fault. He said I was pulling him down. He said that I was holding him back from greatness and keeping him from his true potential. He said he was a good man that worked hard to provide for his family, and everything that failed or went wrong was because I wasn’t doing my part as well as he did his. Even when it made no sense, I took the blame. I believed him. My feelings were never valid, and everything I felt or thought was insanity or incorrect; while everything he said was of nothing but truth and importance.

Maybe if you had a goddamn job and did something for yourself instead of relying on me, I wouldn’t have to kill myself to get the bills paid on time. No, you can’t see my paycheck. No, you aren’t hearing about the finances. You let me take care of that. There is no reason for you to see my paychecks or my time card. I work too hard for you to be so goddamn disrespectful. I have a job, you don’t. Our bills would get paid on time if I could wake up and get to work on time. I don’t have enough money to buy trash bags, let alone pay our rent. I am broke because I clocked in an hour late four days in a row this week. I was late because you always want to bother me with talking about all your crazy bullshit and telling me how I feel and accuse me of shit. If you wouldn’t do that, I wouldn’t be too tired to wake up in the morning. I’m tired because I work so hard and you don’t appreciate me. Find something better to do with your time and you won’t be so paranoid and causing me so much trouble all the time. I tell you something, no one else is ever going to love you enough to put up with your shit and listen to your mouth all the time. If I ever did do drugs again, it would be to help me cope with putting up with your stupid ass all the time.

In the same breath, he could make me feel unconditional love. He was capable of convincing me that he was everything, and all I’d ever need. Suddenly, he became the one that could fix me. Yet, he still needed me to somehow fix him. He left me fighting back and forth with the idea that we were meant to fix each other. My confusion became overwhelming.

It’s not you, it’s me. I just love you so much. I am so sorry. I don’t think we would hurt each other or argue the way we do if we weren’t meant to be. No one in the world has ever been able to make me feel so awful, and so amazing at the same time. I am nothing without you and I think I would have died a long time ago if I didn’t have you. I’ve tried to kill myself so many times. I have so many problems. I have this mental illness I told you I have, and that childhood trauma I told you about. I don’t mean to hurt you. I need you to be patient with me. I can’t lose you. I need your love to survive. Please help me. You’re diffent from all the rest. Everyone else did me wrong and I have been mistreated by everyone my whole life. You are the most important of them all, and I can’t lose you. I don’t want you to get a job, because I want to take care of you. I didn’t mean what I said.

I don’t feel safe or right about you working, and that is what I tell everyone. My boss and my friends at work are always trying to beat it in to my head that you are lazy and should get a job so we can pay bills, and I’m sorry for letting them in my head. It’s actually their fault, not yours or mine. I am sorry I called you names. I am sorry for hitting you. I am sorry for raping you. I am sorry for mistreating you. I love you and I will do better. If it weren’t for everyone else doing me wrong all the time, I would be able to do right.

Then, again, all in the same breath, he could make me feel terrified. My stomach quaked with nerves and my head would spin in fear. From his incredible size, to his booming voice, I easily fell weak to his power. He was stronger than me. He towered over me. His voice overpowered mine. His fists sent me flying. His hands made my soul leave my body. His screams would blast like thunder and deafen me to blackness.

I’m so scared that I will kill you some day. You’re right about me, and I don’t know if I can control the demons in my head. It isn’t me, it is another being inside of me making me do these things to you. But you’re just as insane as I am. You are just as crazy as I am for telling people this kind of stuff. No one will believe you. Know one will listen to you, because you’re crazy too. You’re just as fucked up as me. It’s your fault I’m like this, and I wouldn’t be this way if you’d just change. If you weren’t such a bitch and such a terrible wife, I wouldn’t do these things to you. Don’t you understand? You make me want to kill you, you fucking cunt. And I’m going to kill you. You’re a stupid, useless bitch and you deserve to die. I can’t wait to see our son get raised by his grandparents after I fucking kill you.

To no longer literally hear the booming of his voice every single day has been rejuvenating. I can feel myself each day healing more and more, but the journey is not perfect.

I still have panic attacks and verbally abuse myself in my own mind, through his voice, if I do not have the dishes done within what he would consider a reasonable time during the day.

I still feel my skeleton jump from my body at every sudden or loud sound.

I still feel myself grow impatient, and my temper still rushes over me when I deal with sensory overload or too many negatives happening in one day.

I still continue to look over my shoulder, lock my doors in broad daylight, and see his shadow in the darkness of my bedroom.

I have to sleep with a night light, cry at the slightest insecurities, continuously stay paranoid that everyone is on drugs, and no longer know what “normal” is.

Because of the unrealistic reality I have suffered throughout my marriage, I have lost sight of what a life that isn’t a nightmare even feels like. The wounds are still fresh, though; and all of this new found freedom and strength from my escape is still new. I have to keep reminding myself that I will find my way, even on the bad days when his voice still echoes in my head and sends my recovery ten steps backwards.

CP TEEN. | ep 1

Sometimes I wonder what my new friends tell their parents before I come over. How they break the news that one of the girls—the one with the glasses and the curls—isn’t like the others. A few weeks ago one of the girls invited me to come along to an amusement park, and after I agreed and sat there in the car, her mother directed herself to me and, on the way back, asked bluntly if the distance wasn’t too much to walk. I was confused as to why she would ask me in particular, but then felt guilty for forgetting my cerebral palsy legs, and that everyone but me could see it. “No,” I told her with my best smile. “It wasn’t that bad.” After all, she didn’t know, and she had no bad intentions.

The girls next to me excitedly shared the news of how I was the only one with the courage to go into the scariest rides of all, and I made brief eye contact with the blonde soccer mom through her mirror. “Huh, funny,” she whispered underneath her breath, and I’m not sure if it’s positive or not.

5

Last 5 books I’ve read. Scram! Which primarily focuses on the experiences of RN/RM Commando Junglie Wessex helicopter pilots, Special Forces Pilot about RN FAA/RM Commando Junglie Sea King helicopter pilots, and the last 3 books are written by Harrier pilots. The first by a RN FAA commander of 801 Sqd on the Invincible, the 2nd by an RAF pilot attached to the 800 Sqd on the Hermes, and the 3rd by an RAF pilot with No. 1(F) Sqd on the Hermes. 

Very different viewpoints and perspectives on the air war over the Falklands, especially the little details such as where to sleep, the food, and how important the ships bar and beer were to the pilots. 

Mary Norris, Greek to Me (2019)

A few years ago, in the Frankfurt airport on the way home from Greece, I bought a copy of Virginia Woolf’s “The Common Reader,” which includes her essay “On Not Knowing Greek.” I already had the book at home, but I was impressed that anything by Woolf was considered airport reading. When I was about ten years old, my father, a pragmatic man, had refused to let me study Latin, and for some reason I assumed that “On Not Knowing Greek” was about how Woolf’s father, too, had prevented his daughter from studying a dead language. I pictured young Virginia Stephen sulking in a room of her own, an indecipherable alphabet streaming through her consciousness, while her father and her brother, downstairs in the library, feasted on Plato and Aristotle.

Well, apparently I had read only the title of the essay. Of course Virginia Woolf knew Greek. She started studying ancient Greek for fun, at home, when she was about fifteen, later taking classes at King’s College London while her brother Thoby was studying at Cambridge. Though she did not enter the academy, she had private tutorials for several years with Miss Janet Case, who, as a student at Cambridge, had played Athena in an 1885 production of “The Eumenides” of Aeschylus. For Woolf, “not knowing Greek” meant that it was impossible truly to know what the playwright meant, partly because we don’t know what the ancient language sounded like. “We can never hope to get the whole fling of a sentence in Greek as we do in English,” she writes. In Aeschylus’ “Agamemnon,” for instance, the first utterance of Cassandra—the seer brought to Mycenae from Troy as war booty, fated never to be believed—is not just untranslatable but unintelligible: ὀτοτοτοτοι̑ is not even a word, just inarticulate syllables that represent the barbarian princess’s howl of despair. “The naked cry,” Woolf calls it. Both the chorus and Clytemnestra compare Cassandra’s lament to birdsong. The best an English translation can do is to transliterate the Greek letters—“Ototototoi”—or go with something like “Woe is me!” or “Alas!” For these reasons, Woolf writes, reading Greek in translation is “useless.” Woolf did not know Greek the way bees do not know pollen.

She was in a theatre watching a movie when a tidal wave of blackness broke over her head. The entire world was obliterated - for a few minutes. She knew she had gone crazy. She looked around the theatre to see if it had happened to everyone, but all the other people were engrossed in the movie. She rushed out, because the darkness in the theatre was too much when combined with the darkness in her head.

- Susanna Kaysen, Girl, Interrupted

Book Review

Peter Fiennes:
Footnotes: A Journey Round Britain in the Company of Great Writers.⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Travel, Biography, UK Literature. Expected publication: September 5th 2019 by Oneworld Publications

Blurb: In each walk, a scene. In each journey, a story. To tread any well-travelled path is to step upon layers of history and to add to them. What was seen by yesterday’s rambler? Who were they? What was their Britain?
Peter Fiennes follows in the footsteps of writers, spiritualists, economists, farmers, churchmen and artists, from the eleventh century to the twentieth. Traversing past and present, he searches for signs of what his absent guides once saw and, through their words, opens up a new way of seeing what is there today. Footnotes is full of wonders and wanders, old stories and fresh connections, worn roads and wild places. It is a mesmerizing quest to picture these isles anew.

My review: A fun read that I quite enjoyed, as the author follows in the paths traveled earlier by a handful of well-known literary stars, witty and informative, but by no means exhaustive. It was entertaining to travel along with him, and read of the exploits and foibles of these UK authors.

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“based on a true story”


One of my WIP is a collection of short horror stories that blur the line between fiction and nonfiction. All stories included will be based on real life events of a sinister nature.

That is why I am asking you, Facebook/Tumblr/Instagram, to share with me any experiences you’ve had and are willing to see turned into a work of fiction.

I’m looking for personal accounts of events you found terrifying, whether in the moment or upon reflection, and the ability to go through the process of several interviews and a final review of the story.

Please message me directly if you’d like to be involved in this project or have any questions. If you’re unsure if your story fits what I’m looking for come talk to me about it! If you don’t have a story to share you can share this with friends to help me out!

*All stories will remain anonymous.

**No supernatural occurrences.