R.J. Palmer's Blog, page 7

In The Midst

It's been almost a month since I've written anything on my blog. It's been one of the things gently pushed to the back burner in the middle of an arduous move to Illinois. I haven't forgotten about it though. Truthfully, I've been feeling like an extension of myself has been conspicuously absent. My words are part of who I am and I've been missing them sorely. For what it's worth, here's something I've wanted to throw out there...Here goes.

For those who survived the nasty twister outbreak in the South, praise Jesus. For those who didn't, Lord I thank you no matter how callous or cold that may seem because they no longer suffer and for that we can all be grateful. Prayer and praise may not always be easy especially when the suffering is so close to home, so to speak.



I only ask, Lord that for the ones who are picking up the pieces now, help them bear their burdens, please. They need You. Keep them warm and safe and feed the children and give them a reason to smile again. Thank You.

A Sad Happy Birthday-February 14th

Most people call me by my given name, it's Rachel. Some people only know me by my pen name, which is RJ Palmer. Sometimes, I feel as though these two aspects of my identity, the woman and the writer, are completely separated from one another however inextricably intertwined as they may be. One thing is certain; they are both me as thoroughly and completely as they are separated from one another as different aspects of me. I know this all may sound slightly contradictory but it all does have a point when taken in the context of both my writing and what it is I write about right now even if most don't understand my reasoning.



You see, I was a victim of child abuse. I say "was" because I now call myself an over comer as opposed to a victim. I am not a victim anymore because I grew up and forgave all the suffering which gives me leave to say that I rose above the past and made it something from which I can learn as opposed to something on which I dwell. It does not shape how I live but it does shape how I view the world and this is important because I beat the statistics. Most adults who went through what I did as a child by my age now are dead by accident or design and statistically, I should've been dead by age 25. I'll be 32 this year which brings me to my point, if you'll be so kind as to bear with me a moment.



In February on Valentine's Day, my natural father will celebrate his birthday which isn't necessarily to say there will be a celebration, one must first have friends and family around for a celebration and he will have neither. Do I empathize? No. Do I feel sympathy? Definitively not. Do I pity him? Yes, and here's why. He made his choices and threw away and drove away everyone he ever said he loved and now, he's not only stark raving mad in the most literal sense of the phrase, he's also horribly isolated and lonely. I can pity him for that which realistically would be a greater insult to him than my empathy or sympathy. My apologies, Richard Palmer, but you made yourself who and what you are and I can't help but think you want it that way. You hate yourself so much that you can't possibly fathom why anyone else would ever be able to love you so you naturally assume that everyone else is lying and summarily push them away before you can be hurt by their rejection. It's an unnecessary preemptive strike and an undeniably horrid way to live.



I tend not to think about him most of the time though sometimes this is impossible given that his birthday comes once a year just like everyone else's. No one will call him or send him a card, make him a cake or throw a party for him and his birthday will pass just like any other birthday or day for everyone else and this is not the end of the world but for the first time in more than a decade and a half, I'm going to choose a different path. I'm going to do something I've never done before and I know you won't ever read this because you likely don't even have a computer much less get online but that's not what I'm trying to get at right now.



Right now, I choose to give a shout out to my father, Richard Palmer. He's the most insane, cantankerous, racist, chauvinistic, cold hearted misogynist I've ever laid eyes on. He hates women, homosexuals, lesbians (more so because they are female and therefore an abomination to God) and minorities but he'll still like a minority male over a female of any nationality simply for the ideal of gender. He hated and mistrusted me because I had the audacity to be born female and looked like my mother, but that's a very long and involved story best told over many beers. He hurt and beat my brothers and I without real qualm or artifice, beat and stalked women at his whim and did and said unspeakable things to his children simply because his interpretation of scripture gave him the right and no one could ever tell him any different. And yet, I have to thank him in my own way. However much he set the worst example with which any child has ever been cursed, however begrudgingly and no matter how much he didn't want to and regardless of how much my brothers and I suffered at his hands and watched women suffer at his hands, he still kept a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs and clothes on our backs, and that's not nothing. He taught my brothers and I how to hate ourselves and everyone else, treated us as no better than the dirt beneath his feet, ground any idea of self-esteem from all of us, played with us as toys and objects and did so without regard, but he still kept us alive and that deserves a certain kind of twisted respect.



So here it is Richard, the one time I will ever do this. You won't see this and you wouldn't care even if you did but you are my natural father whether you want it to be so or not. You hate me and all that I feel for you is pity, but I choose to set that aside for now as both your daughter and an adult and tell you Happy Birthday.



I'll never do this again because it's taken more strength than I thought it would. You carry your possessions and your world around with you for fear. You've closed yourself off from the world and consequently, all the love you could've gotten and that was your choice. You would rather believe the world is out to get you than take the chance and love. You've refused to forgive the past and you carry those chains as well and they weigh you down abysmally. I know you refuse to believe you've ever done anything wrong and would sooner blame someone else for the consequences of your actions and choices. You hate with casual and stubborn insistence because it's easier than caring about anything. Your only semi-human connection is a little doll you call your daughter and I wonder here and there, does she have a name? You've said you're proud of her, so you must have given her a name and identity. She can't give or receive love but I suppose for someone as deeply and hopelessly lonely as you are as well as petrified by the idea of getting hurt, it's preferable to have that companionship than it is to love a live human for who they are.



You are absolutely demented and you are my father and nothing will ever change either of those things. You are also going to grow old and die alone and that's pitiful. You're locked inside your own private hell and no one will ever be able to reach through the lies and delusions and make you see what you've become and make you face what you've done. That alone makes you a coward in my mind because to refuse to face your faults is to refuse to face yourself and since you've spent so much time refusing to face yourself, you've robbed yourself of the ability to interact with anyone or find something akin to the willingness to love yourself. You're in a black hole of your own making and your freedom will only, finally come with the surcease of death but I still wish you all the happiness you're capable of feeling or letting yourself feel on your birthday. I wish you just one genuine smile and a moment of truth that isn't clouded by your own delusions, fear and suspicions. I can't wish for you love because you don't want that, I can't wish for you a moment of joy because that scares you and I can't wish for you any happiness or friends because you wouldn't have any of it. But I can wish for you just one Happy Birthday and that's exactly what I'm doing now. That's all. Just one. Happy Birthday, Dad.

This Brilliant Darkness is Brilliant. Now Go Buy it!

Where do I begin? I found myself in a bit of a quandary because the first two thirds of the book itself had me completely confused and absolutely riveted at the same time. Greachin was quite the enigma and I'm not entirely sure all my questions about "it" (which I say because I'm not sure if Greachin is actually male, female, neither or both) were answered completely. Red Tash, you're going to have to write a second book now because there is so much there that has to be finished. You left the story so open for so much continuation that I'll be powerfully disappointed in you if you don't write another one. Please? Pretty, pretty please? (Hint, hint.)



I have to say without further adieu that I love Red's writing style and the aura and mystery that surrounds the work. She gave just enough detail to keep me guessing and just when I thought I had it all figured out, it was as if she reached up through the pages of the book, smacked me upside the head and said, "Haha, you haven't got it all figured out!" There were several places in the book that I felt could've used more detail but had they actually had that detail, it would've taken away from the compelling mystery of the storyline itself. See my dilemma here?



She touched on such ideas as time travel and heavily theoretical concepts, not the least of which is the star over Bloomington that doesn't show up any place else and I loved the look into her soul and all that she believes because I've had my questions about it. I simply don't ask anyone about their faith because I feel it's none of my business but that doesn't mean I'm not itching to know more or ask questions from time to time. There were deeply faith based ideas in This Brilliant Darkness that would've been considered horrifyingly heretical even twenty years ago and I have to admire and respect her courage in writing about them openly.



In having to give a star rating, because most who know me would know that I don't believe in them but I'll do it anyway because I'm forced, (under duress, I tell you) I'd have to give a four star rating because there is just so much in the story that's left entirely to the reader's interpretation. Now, if Red will be so kind as to write a continuation of the storyline itself, I might just be compelled to retract that four star and make it a five star. In short, I really liked This Brilliant Darkness and will be looking and hoping for a sequel and will not only buy it, but be there with bells on and first in line. I'm impressed, Red Tash but you have to write more, my friend. You can't leave me hanging like that! Have a little mercy, woman!



For those who are going to take my advice and get This Brilliant Darkness, you can find it on Amazon here. Now go, my Wingnuts, and enrich yourselves.

I Choose To Stand

Recently, I'm sure we've all heard quite a bit about SOPA and PIPA, the two bills in the House and Senate that have been aimed at stopping Internet piracy and I have to say honestly that the idea behind both these bills is solid and commendable. I admire the concept if not the implementation or the broad and general wording of the Two Bills which would amount to little more than a stifling of some of the most brilliant ideas to come from out of the exquisite chaos that is this thing we call human existence.



We humans are an eclectic bunch and it is out of that same hodge podge of imperfection that one of the greatest triumphs of ingenuity and eccentric design has stemmed: The Internet. The Internet is a miracle of different ideas, speculations, creativity, understanding, wisdom, bigotry, stupidity, ignorance, compassion, advice, gossip and a million other descriptive words I will not name here simply for the enormity of the task involved. I'm not that crazy. The point is that the Internet is one of our greatest creations as the human race and what a creation it is! There is no other way that someone in America can make fast and sure connections with people all over the world and build life long relationships with anyone on the globe without ever setting eyes on them.



It occurs to me that the ideals I've been taught from a tender young age, no older than a child, are ideals that I can practice on social networking sites and the number one ideal of which I speak is simple: Don't judge a person by what they look like, but by the content of their character. The line from the Aerosmith song, "Livin' On The Edge," comes to mind when Steven Tyler sang, "If you can judge a wise man by the color of his skin, then mister you're a better man than I." That line and that song have stayed with me for more than half my life and such simple wisdom was made popular on the Internet. Right now, anyone in America can go on to YouTube and find Aerosmith and their songs along with thousands of their favorite artists and bands and if they see a cute video of a kid that a proud parent uploaded well, they can laugh and go, "Awww," right along with the rest of us and share it on Facebook. I have to ask, is this sharing not what we were taught from the time we were old enough to lay claim to what we decided belonged to us? Are all our lives not enriched by grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles and everyone else being able to share in the growth of a family from across the nation? Are we not able to adapt our own point of view to include another's simply because they made a valid point on their own blog and we felt it deserved greater attention and thought?



I love being able to see pictures of friends from across the world on whom I've never laid eyes but still love as if they were family. Are we all not one big family sharing a world and does the Internet not bring us closer as a family? Crazies, free thinkers, cerebrals, intellectuals, dreamers, realists, pessimists, optimists, lovers, fighters, idiots and weirdos, we're all different and we are all human and we all contribute to our global society and that's exactly as it should be.



Now in America, the Two Bills seek to make it difficult for us to do what we do best and that is to be ourselves and make our voices heard and that is unacceptable and unfair. I feel that I speak with, not for but with, both Americans and humans as a people and a race, the race of mankind when I say that the Internet belongs to us all. It belongs to the Human Race and we share it without qualm or bickering. We share it like the family we all are. We watch each others kids grow up and we share advice and wisdom from across the globe. We share our triumphs and our victories as much as we share our mistakes and our foibles. We laugh at our own stupidity as quickly as we laugh at the stupidity of others and that's exactly as it should be. Therefore, I have to say WE THE PEOPLE though not in an exclusively American context, but in the context of WE THE PEOPLE on a Global level, don't want our brain child and our creation damaged or wounded and censorship of the Internet is an insult and a wound. Leave OUR Internet alone. It doesn't belong to the select few, it belongs to all of us which means all of us need to consent to alter it in any way and we don't agree.



Listen to your people because this is, after all, about what WE THE PEOPLE want and what we don't want is Corporate policing of the beautiful disaster (well said, Dragon) that is our Internet. It's ours and belongs to no one individual or entity to control. Everyone shares and loves the net and no one will abide by monied control, no matter how much is involved. We The People have spoken and it's time that the Governing body, set in place FOR us and WITH our consent, listens very carefully. The net is OURS, not yours. Keep your hands off our Internet. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Do you really trust Corporate policing to be fair when placed hand in hand with Corporate greed? I know I don't.





UPDATE: SOPA and PIPA were DROPPED by Congress!!! For more information, please go to Free Book Reviews and read on from there...

Meet Robyn Porter Unleashing the Cry of the Raven!

Fellow wingnuts, I give you Robyn Porter who told me she's no good at coming up with blog posts and then gave me this little gem. Robyn, I thought I was going to have to rack my brain to make this exciting and then you handed me this sooooo, you fibbed to me. :) Don't worry, you can yell at me later for that.



Cry of the Raven:



His desire for revenge would lead him to a truth he isn't prepared for…



His brother dead, Galen now hunts for the beast who murdered Julian. Determined to follow his path of revenge he never expects to find a band of warriors under attack by the darkness nor the leader that hides behind their swords.



Her past unknown, Kaylena had been raised by a family not her own. The visions that continue to plague her dreams she ventures out with a group of warriors in search of the truth of her past. Surrounded by the minions of the darkness she finds help in the one man she fears more… the man from her dreams.



To unlock her past they must fight the one beast responsible for it…



But first they have to accept the past to fight for the future.



Excerpt from Cry of the Raven:



Rain poured outside the window, moisture thick in the air. Galen's head turned toward the others who hunkered around the fires that littered the area. It had been a full moon's cycle since they had left their home and still they'd not gotten any closer to finding the monster that had killed so many. Galen's thoughts drifted back to the night he had heard the echoing cry of his family. The knowledge that someone close to him was dead felt strong. Never had such rage flowed through his veins as it did that night. It was a burning call to find the source of his brother's destruction and pay it back ten times over.



"Galen, come to the fire before you catch a chill." His cousin's voice broke through his memories. "We can't go anywhere right now and dwelling on the past won't bring back the dead."



Truth struck hard when aimed right. Galen's head turned to his cousin Ragar, his dark black hair pulled back neatly at the nape of his neck. They had always hunted together, and this time was no different, save the prey. He'd gathered what he could the moment they'd heard the death cries of their brethren, the council members hushed by the howls of the women singing for the souls of the lost. His heart had hardened that day, a cold flow of ice circling around him. Still, he'd been surprised by the vision he'd been given and the task of alerting a stranger to the plight she faced. Someone not of his race or clan, he'd contacted the woman and given the warning he'd been told to convey. The moment he'd seen her in the dream he knew she was something special. Born of gifts he could not imagine, she'd been on the same path that he found himself on, only hers was not as personal. He wasn't fooling himself. His was for revenge.



Distant thunder drew his attention to the east, a large crash resounding through the area. He turned his head back to his kin, a questioning look linked through all their gazes. "What was that?" Ragar piped up first, his cousin's thoughts mimicking his own.



"I don't know but I don't like the sound of it. The feel isn't natural." He answered. Turning toward the window, his acute sight searching out the disturbance, he tried to find what was causing his alarm system to go off. His skin prickled as the wind blew across his body, a foreboding rushing through his blood. "There is something coming."



"What do you think it is?"



His head pounded as he tried to find the source, a black void his only answer. "I don't know but it can't be good. Soon as the rain lets up, we need to push on. I have a feeling it is linked to our enemy." A round of grunts moved through the room, the men eager to find the beast who had killed so many.



"Can we go now?"



Galen head shook in denial. "Not yet. It wouldn't be prudent to go now. With the weather as it is, it would cause more problems than we want to deal with." He began, his mind elsewhere. "No, we wait until the storm subsides and then head out. I just pray no one else is out there."



A quick soft sound pushed into his mind, a female voice he had never heard before. Please help. Where are you? He could barely make out the words, the sounds softer than a feather as it dropped to the ground. Galen's attention shot back to the woods, his mind searching out the origin of the voice. She was out there and she was in trouble. His heart told him he had to find her and soon. Time was running out for her, he felt it.



"Galen?" Ragar's hand grasped his shoulder, the feel foreign to him. "You left us for a moment. Where did you go?"



His breath felt ragged in his throat, his mouth dry for reasons he couldn't understand. "I don't know. I heard a voice, a female's. She's in trouble but I cannot locate her whereabouts." His body felt cold. The woman's fear beat at him. "I have to find her soon. There is no other choice."



"But what about the gargoyle?" Ragar asked. He knew he owed him something.



"I have a feeling they are both in the same direction." The truth of those words echoed in his soul.



"Do you know who the woman is?"



His head pounded as the rain crashed against the roof. "No, I don't. I can't see her face just a voice that won't stop."



Outside the trees began to sway with the wind, the storm unleashing its fury on the area. A voice moved through the rustle of the leaves, a cry of betrayal and hurt laced in the vibrations. Limbs bounced and flexed, their movements drawing his gaze. Galen had a feeling there was more at work than just a late evening storm. He could feel the pull to the north, a compulsion he could not dismiss. Too many times he'd heard from his mother that to ignore the obvious most times would be a person's undoing. He'd taken that advice to heart and followed it without question. Now he found himself headed for their enemy and something more.



"Get some sleep; we leave as soon as the storm passes." The men stirred from behind, grunts of uncertainty moving through the group. His body turned to face his friends, many who had fought beside him in the past. "I know you would rather wait until tomorrow, but we will accomplish nothing by wasting time. Our enemy could be gaining distance as we speak."



Ragar stood firm next to him, his hand still held to his shoulder. "When Galen says it is time to move then we can do no other than follow. He's never led us into danger without first considering every option. We all know this and owe him our loyalty in whatever direction that may lead." Galen watched as each man bowed his head in acknowledgement, the tension in the room lessened for a moment.



Galen turned to his friend, his own concerns pushed aside. "Thank you for that." He'd known his men were tired and restless. They'd tracked the beast for longer than he would have liked. Still, he knew they were on the right track. There had been too many bodies along the way to be otherwise. "Get some rest Ragar, we leave shortly." A command without thought, Galen couldn't help but catch the smirk that crossed his friend's face.



"As you wish cousin." Galen watched as Ragar moved back to the shadows, his body shrouded by the darkness rising in the room. A hush fell across the men as each one settled in for what rest they could obtain. "Get some sleep yourself Galen, you need it too."



His mind already out of the room, Galen continued to search for the voice that haunted him. Such a tender sound and one that brought forth emotions he'd thought lost long ago. This woman was out there and somehow he had a feeling she was tied to his future. Whether she realized it or not was still yet to be seen.





Okay, everyone tell me that wasn't really cool and I'll tell you you're silly. Then, we'll just go back and forth so you might as well take my word for it and show Robyn Porter the Wingnut Love. I insist. If you want to find Cry of the Raven, look here on Amazon US, here on Amazon UK, here on a site I've never heard of before now called AllRomanceEBooks (I love learning new things), here on Barnes & Noble and last but not least, here on Smashwords.

Review of Tales of Aradia the Last Witch Volume 1

Over the course of the last months, I've made friends with LA Jones via our various self-promotions and such with each of us being an Indie Author and I had originally agreed to read and review Tales of Aradia after she had gotten it edited and then republished. Considering that LA Jones has the same kind of social impairment as my son and I've seen examples of his writing, I had figured that Tales of Aradia was going to be a thoroughly confusing read with very literal language and no imagery whatsoever. I was wrong and Ms. Jones, I now offer my virtual hand for you to slap (please be gentle) and I figure I deserve a little chastisement. Just don't be too hard on me, okay?



While I would place Tales of Aradia firmly among the Young Adult genre, at certain points I felt a little old reading it because I would say to myself, "Is that what kids say and do nowadays?" Then I would smile that little smile as adults are wont to do and remind myself that I'm not a teenager anymore because I could almost picture a group of kids looking at me like I'm some sort of fossil and saying, "Geez lady, what's with you?" Enough said.



I can tell that Aradia is a teenager (well DUH!) and that she is thoroughly absorbed with everything that a teenaged girl's world centers and revolves around; cute boys, fitting in, social life and learning self-acceptance all while doing her best not to be set apart from the crowd or rock the boat. There's also the far afield aspect that she knows she's different and can't do anything to change it so she's on her own kind of journey of self-discovery which is never easy for a teenager. She has exceptional healing abilities and can't manage to hide certain aspects of herself no matter how hard she tries; a tendency toward clairvoyance and strength above and beyond what it is she should be capable of are just scratching the surface and these things bother her.



I can tell that the author, Ms. Jones was heavily influenced by the Twilight Saga but I'm honestly still trying to pin down whether she was on team Jacob or team Edward as she has carved like stone through the storyline the timeless question of divided love and interest. Ms. Jones does however, liberally interlace throughout the story several other mystical and mythical races that to my knowledge are not included in the classic vampire versus werewolf story and I can respect that.



In having to give a star rating because I know I will whether I want to or not (par for the course, ladies and gents), I have to give four stars because I felt that Ms. Jones could've developed Aradia better as a character. There are places in the novel that it's a little difficult to relate to her though the plot does read to the point without any rambling. I also felt that Ms. Jones could've included a little more adversity because it's in the most trying circumstances that Aradia finds her most compassionate and noble character aspects so in her journey of self-discovery she needs to have a little more trouble and be a little less cocky. Now Aradia will have to meet someone that's more than her match because everyone eventually gets knocked down a rung or two when they're climbing that cocksure ladder, as it were.



I'm going to have to get the rest of the series because I have to find out what happens and I have to say honestly to LA Jones, well done, well said and well written!

Happy New Year!!!

As we close in on the last hours of 2011 and focus on New Year's Resolutions that we won't keep while remembering all the silly little superstitions and rituals that make a new year special, I want to take a little bit of time to wish everyone a Happy New Year! Break out the alcohol and party down!

A Warm Thought for the World

I'm going to do my best to put aside the material aspect of the upcoming holiday for a moment and let my heart do the talking here. Christmas is a time of celebration, giving, receiving, goodwill, peace and love and I don't think there's a person in the world that shouldn't set aside their anger and pain or even their misgivings and take a simple joy in life on one day of the year. One day to wish peace, joy and plenty for all mankind isn't too much to ask is it? Here are my warm wishes...



I know that not every child will have a present under a Christmas tree this year, so I wish instead for every child to have a meal and a reason to smile.



I know not everyone celebrates Christmas, so I wish instead for everyone to find something to laugh about. It is a day of joy after all.



I wish for wisdom, understanding and love for everyone no matter your religion, faith or walk of life.



I wish for the joyful cry on Earth to be heard and answered with equal joy by all things in a vast universe that we don't see and don't understand.



I wish for dancing, singing hearts and warm hands and feet even when the weather is nippy and cheeks and noses are rosy.



I wish a blanket for those that don't have it and a meal so no one has to go hungry.



I wish for full glasses and full tables and all the love all of us can stomach and all the family any of us can put up with.



With this being said, with a smile on my face that matches the nostalgic excitement in my heart, I think of the festive and brightly wrapped gifts beneath the tree from my childhood. They were from parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and even that nice old lady from down the street who always smelled like camphor and moth balls. Santa always got the credit but that was okay with everyone.





I remember the lights on the tree and the ornaments that took HOURS to place on it with loving care. I remember the Christmas program at the local church and the baggie of treats the visiting Santa used to hand out there. I remember the biting cold that didn't matter so much then because I simply didn't feel it as much as I can now. I remember the Christmas dinner that seemed to take forever to make and only a little bit of time to eat.



Now that I'm all grown up, or so they say, the memories are a fond echo of years gone by and live only in my heart. Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, the older woman next door and I are Santa now and we're okay with that. There are traditions that live forever, generation to generation, but we're also working on starting some of our own. Santa gets rice krispies treats and milk here instead of cookies because we figured he gets cookies everywhere else and we might as well change it up a bit for him. We'll probably still watch the Santa tracker and I'll stay up way too late trying to get part of Christmas dinner squared away and this is all exactly as it should be.



The kids will tear into the gifts as early as they can get everyone up on Christmas morning because they will have been staring longingly at those presents for days now and they just can't wait anymore. They've been so very patient, after all. Mom and Dad will sit back, smile and watch the living room turn into a wrapping paper and ribbon war zone and someone has to be the goofy character who wears one of the bows as a hat. Stick the sticky part right in the top of your hair and don't worry, it won't stay on but it makes the kids giggle and try it too. It's tradition, you know and you can't mess with tradition.







So raise your glasses in celebration with me, ladies and gentlemen, my family and all my fellow wingnuts because everyone is family on Christmas day and being a wingnut one day of the year is okay, too. A person doesn't have to be religious or a member of a Christ centered faith to celebrate a birthday party and Christmas is the biggest birthday party on the planet. It's the one day of the year that love need have no bounds or inhibitions and a smile is directed at the world in general. Merry Christmas, everyone...Merry Christmas.

Free For One More Day

Last day to get my ebook Birthright free on Amazon...Click here to find it!

A Dance of Twisted Siblings With Kennesaw Taylor

His experiences were a little different than mine, though he is no less a survivor than I am. His approach is more blunt while mine is more subtle. Most people will never realize or know that the whipping boy in my latest novel resembles my experiences as a child to a stunning degree without the whip and that I used to wish I could leave reality the way he did. Most people want to stuff the truth in a small corner in the back of their minds and say, "It's none of my business," or, "It doesn't exist." Because if it did exist or it was made to be their business, they'd be compelled to do something about it and that screws up their carefully cultivated equilibrium. I know because I've been there and Kennesaw Taylor has, too. So watch this Dance of Twisted Siblings, ladies and gentlemen, if you dare and don't miss a step because perfection is key and anything less could cost you dearly.



Fellow Wingnuts, I give you Kennesaw Taylor...



RJ Palmer:

I'm going to assume that the survivor to which you refer is the idea that you're a survivor of abuse because no one is that impassioned about breaking the cycle unless they've been there and I know from personal experience. Here's your chance to tell me a little about your experiences without going into too much detail because I can infer quite well and sometimes it can be cathartic to simply admit that you went through something horrible. One survivor to another if you will.



Kennesaw Taylor:

Thanks RJ and let me say we are twisted siblings in some sick game of life. I was raised in a Dixie Mafia household and was abused as a child. It ended for me when the Mafia executed my step father in our kitchen, in front of me when I was 14. They essentially saved me from having to do it.



(On a side note here from yours truly, let me take this opportunity to thank Sue Bullers. She was the one who had my father committed to the mental institution and got three kids out of hell, though I never did thank her for doing something about it. She has the right to a "Thank You" from me.)



RJ Palmer:

From what I'm given to understand, your dogs are very important to you. Probably more so since they do your writing ;) but tell me, from whence do you think they draw inspiration? How long did it take you to train your dogs to write or are they just naturally super talented?



Kennesaw Taylor:

Oops lost the dogs in the divorce, but still cry when I think about them. When the dogs were personally involved in my writing they had much inspiration. They had little education, but weren't that hard to train. They read and traveled extensively and had some God given talent they took 300% advantage of. They, as many of us, realized that most of what we write is given to us, we must only sit down and take up the pen. It's all there, waiting to be regurgitated onto the page. True writing only comes from the heart, never the mind. Writing cannot be taught, you are a writer or a teacher and there is no reason to be bitter about which category you fit into or to take it out on someone else for which one they fit into.



RJ Palmer:

Tell me a little about your humor column if you would be so kind. What is it you write? Is it just everyday stuff that catches and tickles your imagination or is it something more?



Kennesaw Taylor:

I do write about the stupidest stuff. I joke that I do stupid for a living and that one should never underestimate how hard it is to be consistently stupid. My columns are a combination of complaining and nostalgic romanticism.



RJ Palmer:

I know that once I get a thought in my head, until I've written about it, it consumes me. Can you relate? What is it that consumes your thoughts?



Kennesaw Taylor:

I am an advocate against child abuse, so, many times an idea does consume me and I must write about it wherever and whenever it is given to me. I like you line of questioning and have enjoyed this. Thank you so much.



RJ Palmer:

Tell me a little about your background as a writer. When did you start writing?



Kennesaw Taylor:

That's kind of funny; I really don't have the background to be a writer. Sometimes ignorance is a good thing. I simply didn't know I couldn't do it. With that said, I started when I was fourteen or somewhere around there, been practicing dying as a penniless writer ever since.



RJ Palmer:

What genres do you write in?



Kennesaw Taylor:

I really don't have one. I write what is given to me; so many artists think they are smarter than the average stop sign. We are just instruments which impart little bits of truth, we have no idea where they come from, but if we listen and if we keep plying our trade we might change the world. Imagine by John Lennon changed the world. I hope I write one sentence that does half as much.



RJ Palmer:

What about your process? Are you a pen and paper writer? Do you need a special location in which to write?



Kennesaw Taylor:

My hand writing is terrible. If it weren't for the computer I'd not be a writer. I can't imagine all the rewriting and editing being done by hand. People who do that must feel like they are paying some kind of dues for their talent. Maybe they know it's a gift and feel like it should be harder than it is. I'm not walking along hitting myself with a cat o' nine tails and I'm not writing with a quill and a bottle of ink.



RJ Palmer:

You seem to enjoy writing in a more conversational, shoot-from-the-hip style. Why is that?



Kennesaw Taylor:

Well I've had a humor column in several papers for years. Beyond that I tend to write about what I know. I love to write in first person, even in my fiction. My first book Informally Educated is the true story of my childhood. Once written it kind of pushed my style in a direction that I've found I like.



RJ Palmer:

How do you want your readers to feel when they read your work?



Kennesaw Taylor:

It's according to what I'm writing, but in all things I want them to think. I want them to develop some sort of answer about the truth of all this, the world I mean. I don't want them to believe what I believe; I just want them to believe something and to move in some positive direction. I wrote Informally Educated in a way that would cause the reader to feel the pain in the pit of their stomach, maybe cry a little. If that happens, I did my job. If writing doesn't stir up some emotion, then why write.



RJ Palmer:

As an independent author, what would you say is your favorite benefit of publishing your work digitally?



Kennesaw Taylor:

Wow easy question. I've long ago stopped thinking I'm meant to be rich. I just want to slow child abuse down a little and I think I have. It's so hard to get published otherwise; digital gives me the chance to make that difference. As to the money thing, when you publish traditionally you make a ton of money for others as you make a little for you. Digitally you still make your little, but some ass who wouldn't know a book if you hit him in the head with it, doesn't make his ton.



RJ Palmer:

Can you talk about your writing? What books have you published (or are working on)?



Note to readers: All the books highlighted in blue can be found on Amazon by clicking on the title. We'll have to wait for the last one until it's released.



Kennesaw Taylor:

Informally Educated

The Redneck Cooker

I'm Ugly and Broke, (it ain't bad when you get used to it.)

I Got the South in My mouth, (and I can't get it out.)

Kennesaw's Southern Odyssey. A coffee table book coming in January



RJ Palmer:

Where can we find your work online? Are there paper copies available anywhere? How about audiobooks?



Kennesaw Taylor:

My books can be found at all the normal haunts for books online, but paper copies are limited to my hometown and where my columns run at the moment. No audio books so far, I just can't bring myself to pay someone thousands of dollars to read my book. Tons of info about locations on my web site. Kennesawtaylor.com



RJ Palmer:

What's next? When is it coming out?



Kennesaw Taylor:

Kennesaw's Southern Odyssey is a coffee table book coming around the first of the year. It chronicles my travels around the southeast last year in photos as well as my columns from that time period.



I have about ten projects going all the time. I'm working on two books which have been available on lulu for about a year, but need severe editing. I'll combine the two and publish them this year; they are Naval action, adventures.



My 2011 columns will come out in 2012, I'm thinking of naming this one,

I've Fallen, (and My Names Not Chuck.)



The following is an excerpt from Kennesaw's writing, ladies and gents but I want to let you know right now that it is somewhat graphic in nature so keep this in mind when you read it. And if it hurts to read, remember that a child felt it first hand.



I Died on Christmas Day



This story was inspired by an article by Rebecca about Jorelys Rivera, a seven year old girl who will not open gifts this Christmas. If you cannot stomach graphic truth, do not read it, you have been warned.



http://athens.patch.com/articles/innocence-and-danger



It was December 25, 1968. A god lived in our old house, a god who didn't allow his subjects to come from their room until he emerged from his. Christmas day was no exception and he didn't emerge until after lunch. Four innocent souls stood in doorways trying to get a peek at the tree or the little bundles of heaven wrapped in colored paper and bows.



The day moved on, the egg shells placed carefully to catch unsuspecting little feet were scattered with loving care. Their crunching sounds were barely audible, but screamed in our universe. Step on a crack, break your mothers back, step on a shell go directly to $%^&.



A mistake was made, by whom, unimportant. The face of our god flushed red, gone was the Christmas god. The remnant of presents were scattered throughout the room, the remnants of breakfast was still on the table, the remnants of a fire smoldered in its place and the remnants of sanity swirled, rose and vanished into the air.



It happened quickly, it always did. I turned to see the fist of god, it has risen and was destined to fall. The first punch took my breath even as I tried to avoid it, a sin in itself. The second busted my lip, the taste of blood its little gift. I knew the taste of blood well. The third to the stomach bent me forward allowing the tooth, already roaming around loose in my mouth to be projected onto the floor at my feet. I concentrated on that unruly tooth as a series of punches came too quick to comprehend and seemingly from all directions at once. The tooth held some importance I could not discern.



My mind raced and screamed into the universe, why, what did I do?



My next gift a broken rib and the sound of a broken nose exploded in my mind. My heart and lungs fought for every moment, but my legs gave up early and I spread across the floor like snow melting in a cozy room. I grasped at consciousness it being all you have.



Now the time of our gods foot had arrived, it kicked, something broke, it kicked, something tore, it kicked and reality shattered then scattered across the floor before my eyes. I could feel death breathing on me as my hair was grasped firmly. My heart pounded in my head or maybe it was my head being pounded on the brick hearth in front of the fireplace. Sickeningly my mind counted the times it rose and fell on the bricks, one, two, ten and twelve, it counted down the seconds of my life. I saw the fire with such clarity, a message from the real God I couldn't comprehend, perhaps? Somewhere in all this, the words, I'll you kill you little son of a so and so, the last words I'd ever hear, wormed their way in. The fear, the pain and the sick, slimy, sticky, warm taste of blood were the memories that came with them. In the end death has a warm, welcoming embrace.



I awakened to find I was mistaken. What do you do the day after you die? What do you do the rest of your life? No police were called, no hospital was visited and no one explained how a dead child is supposed to act. Some things must be figured out by an eight year old, by himself. It only took a couple week of being buried in my room, out of sight of the world, for me to walk this earth again.



Sometimes I am told before, during and after I speak, to GET OVER IT. I have.



I speak because dead children cannot. I speak for children like Jorelys who die at the hands of a monster in a nightmare/horror reality. I speak for the five children in America, each day, average age three, who are cowering in corners as someone they know love and trust beats them into the silence of death.



I speak because I died several times and God allowed me to come back, he DEMANDS I speak. I speak for the five children who will die each of the twelve days of Christmas. We will always know who Jorelys was, but everyday five who live will slip into their own Silent Night and no one will know their names.



From RJ Palmer:

And now, as this Dance of Twisted Siblings draws to a close and the last strains of the music die softly away, I choose to bow and tip my hat to my dance partner, Kennesaw Taylor, who has the courage to speak about his experiences and make them real for others. It's not easy when so few people care to get involved.



You know, in the echoes of my memory, I can still hear my father apologizing again. It's happened literally hundreds of times when he says, "I'm sorry Rachel, I shouldn't have acted like that."



The corresponding echo of my thirteen year old self, whose voice is as carefully neutral as her expression because her safety depends on it answers, "That's okay, Dad."



She'll live to dance again.