Laurie Boris's Blog, page 3

A Few Thoughts on the End of Banned Books Week

I’ve been getting some questions about book bans in America.

First…let me reassure my friends outside the United States that in 99.9% of cases (I made up that figure, for argument’s sake, but IMO it’s a decent estimate) books are not being taken off shelves everywhere and not allowed to be sold or loaned. (I’ll talk about that other 0.1% later.)

In the United States, book bans and challenges were originally aimed at school curriculum and school libraries. The American Library Association began tracking those challenges in 2001. In the early days, if concerned parents didn’t want their children to read work that they deemed inappropriate, they raised an objection. And that’s totally valid—you get to decide for your own child (at least until they figure out how to sneak a copy from … somewhere … and read it with a flashlight under the blankets). I’m absolutely sure that if my fourth-grade teacher required us to read the Bible, my parents would have raced up to that school and gone all Brooklyn on her. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Unfortunately, I was caught in fourth grade with a copy of “The Secret of Santa Vittorio” in my desk—a little racy then but tame by today’s standards—and my mother had to call Mrs. Prusak and say she’d given me permission to read it.

Anyway. That was then, and this is now. In recent years, book challenges have become a political football—no, an entire football league. Organizations like Moms for Liberty compile lists in the tens and hundreds of books they consider offensive and raise objections to them wholesale, regardless of whether that book is even in a particular school library or curriculum, regardless of whether they have children in that school district or even in that state.

I highly doubt that a middle school library is going to have “Fifty Shades of Grey” on their shelves. But I didn’t say that common sense is being applied here. It’s all vibes and culture wars and what people see in their right-wing bubbles.

Or cases like “Gender Queer,” in which a senator I won’t name read aloud one short passage that could raise some eyebrows but is completely in context if someone took the time and effort to read the whole book. (It’s a really poignant and authentic book, too; a graphic novel about the writer’s adolescent experience with gender labels and identity.) For a while, it seemed like that line was all Fox News talked about—without considering that for some kids, this could be completely appropriate, inspirational, and might even be life-saving reading.

Now let’s get to that 0.1%. Invariably, when I talk about Banned Books Week, someone will rebut me along the lines of “You’re reading the books, so how can they be banned?” While the “puny spirits” (an absolutely wonderful description by LeVar Burton of those who would ban a book for everyone) are trying to push into public libraries, these books are available in most public libraries or from retail outlets. Whether kids in rural areas or whose families don’t have the means to buy or borrow a book is a whole other discussion.

The second rebuttal I get are those extremely few but very public cases where the rights-owner might say, “You know, that particular bit of the story might be considered offensive now, so I’m going to update it and republish, or just commit that title to the dustbin of history.” Yeah, they have the right to do that, as the rights-owner. This does not mean a book is being banned. It means that the estate of Dr. Seuss decided to unpublish or modify a work where they have the rights to do so. You don’t see those old jingoistic and racist Bugs Bunny cartoons anymore, do you?

However I likely would have an objection if a publisher, without consent of the author or the author’s estate, decided they didn’t like that particular word in “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” and took it out completely. Because this would not be the author’s intent. It would remove the historical context from the work. Add a foreword if you want to explain why that word is there, if you must. But let the work stand. Because I think we all need to understand our history, and if we try to pretend it doesn’t exist, it will cause our children more harm than good.

What do you think?

Some resources on the subject:

“Assembly Required,” a podcast with Stacey Abrams produced by Crooked Media, the episode with Le Var Burton talking about books, reading, and book bans.

Book ban data: https://www.ala.org/bbooks/book-ban-data

How to report censorship: https://www.ala.org/tools/challengesupport/report

The Council: Intermezzo Edition

Friday is flash fiction day among the stalwart members of 2-Minutes-Go, where author JD Mader lets us desecrate his blog with our blasts of inspiration—or desperation, as the case may be. I wrote this story for last week. Just having a little fun with my recurring characters. I hope you enjoy it.

Forty-four waited until the invited members settled in with their beverages of choice before he broke the news. Afterward, the assembled faces around the table wore a spectrum of expressions from smug to astounded.

Forty-three looked particularly incredulous. “You’re telling us what, now?”

The forty-fourth president explained again. “Melea texted me that three ‘cool old white dudes’ cosplaying in the park—with great accuracy, mind you—said they were actually Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and John Adams. Being such a fan of history, I had to check it out. And I found them quite compelling. As it turns out, Dr. Franklin built a time machine and went to the future with Jefferson and Adams to see how their American Experiment was progressing.”

“You owe me dinner,” Forty-three-and-a-half said to her husband. She turned to Forty-four. “We’ve had a running bet that if any of the Founding Fathers had built a time machine, it would have been be Franklin.”

“You can ask him how he did it,” Forty-four said. “You want to meet them?”

“Do bears shit in RFK Junior’s trunk?” Forty-two said. “Hell, yeah, we want to meet ’em!”

Forty-four called his Secret Service guys and ten minutes later, the famous gentlemen filled the doorway of the private dining room. Three tankards of ale arrived in the empty spaces remaining at the table. Introductions were made. The questions came slowly at first, then fast and furious. Forty-two and Jefferson got deep into conversation about slavery and the South. Forty-three-and-a-half huddled with Franklin about the time machine. Forty-four engaged Mr. Adams because he had the distinct sense that the man felt left out. Forty-three’s gaze darted back and forth as if trying to listen to all three discussions.

During a rare gap in the conversation, Jefferson said he was astounded—and reassured—to know that the Council was still meeting. Silence fell over the table. Faces turned from one to the other. Forty-four had told them nothing about their organization—he’d only asked if they’d like to come to his favorite haunt to meet a few of his friends. It was not mentioned during the introductions, or the discourse.

“You started it,” said Forty-three-and-a-half, not as a question.

“Indeed we did, Madame,” Jefferson said. “After our first trip into the future.”

“You know, then,” she said. “You began it for the same reason Barack—I mean, Forty-four—reinstated it? To limit the damage caused by a particular orange menace?”

Mr. Jefferson gave a solemn nod. “Yes. In case the guardrails we’d established were not strong enough to stop a possible return to the type of government we’d been compelled to overthrow, Mr. Adams and I felt a strong compunction to—keep watch, as it were.”

More drinks were ordered; conversation continued. Forty-four surveyed the scene as if floating above his body. Seeing the empty glasses, the men out of time, the offer by Franklin to take them anywhere they wished in his machine…

“Barry.”

He turned. Expecting a question from one of his colleagues. “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“I want to go back to sleep, but you keep talking.”

Holy time-traveling founding fathers. “What was I saying?”

“You said ‘Thomas Jefferson started it.’ You writing another book?”

“Something like that,” Forty-four said. “Sorry, honey. Next time, I’ll try to keep it to myself.”

Bans off Our Books

A small rant in honor of Banned Books Week.

I sit at our kitchen table sipping tea and reading Patricia McCormick’s “Sold,” a poignant young adult novel about poverty and human trafficking based on interviews the author had done with girls and young women from Nepal and India.

“Sold” is one of the books I decided to read to honor Banned Books Week, held the last week in September by the American Library Association. For the last fifteen years or so, I’ve chosen a book or two (or three) from the Most Banned or Challenged Books list from the previous year, to read and write about.

Early on in the history of the lists, banned or challenged books were often familiar favorites like “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” or “Brave New World” or pretty much anything by Toni Morrison and John Steinbeck. But with the advent of the Republican culture wars, reasons for challenges have changed from “adult language” or “depictions of Communism” to pretty much any book that discusses LGBTQIA+ issues or American history in any honesty. Hence the list now includes books like “Gender Queer,” “The Perks of Being a Wallflower,” and “All Boys aren’t Blue.” [I’ve read all three and they’re wonderfully written and it’s a crime against young adult literature and young adults, IMO, to try to prevent schools and libraries from making these stories available to kids who could find them life-changing, or at least life-affirming.]

In fact, according to Unite Against Book Bans, over 4000 books were targeted for censorship in 2023. Nearly half of the books represented the voices and lived experiences of LGBTQIA+ and BIPOC individuals. This figure totally chaps my hide. You don’t have to go far to hear stories about young adults struggling with their identities, and far too often taking their own lives. I’ve known several beautiful souls the world has lost because they were bullied or beaten or didn’t fit in or were even thrown out of their own homes or disowned by their parents. Imagine if they could have read a book that would let them discover that they weren’t alone. Imagine the impact that would have. I don’t have to imagine it – I’ve lived it. I was bullied unmercifully as a child for being fat and smart and not very girly. Fortunately my parents were avid readers who encouraged all of us to love books. I fell headfirst into the adventures of Harriet the Spy, the world of Beverly Cleary, and any book where girls got to be their smart, ambitious, messy, beautiful selves. On some days, these stories were the only place I felt completely safe. Until I started writing my own.

So, as a writer and a reader and someone who has been a young adult, I feel professionally and personally offended that supposedly responsible adults would take it upon themselves to decide what books all children in a school district will not be able to get in front of their eyeballs. And it only takes one. One complaint is all it takes to begin the process of keeping a book (or many, many books) out of school libraries and classrooms—and it doesn’t even have to be from someone who has children in that particular school district. Groups like Moms for Liberty, started by two conservative women in Florida, have wielded their influence and bullied school boards all over the US to push their agendas, and in some cases, it has led to harassment claims and intimidation of school boards and teachers.

Back to my kitchen table, and “Sold.” My tea is growing cold. I get to the place where the “challenged” content (descriptions of rape) crests the narrative hill. But it’s written with empathy and honesty and feels totally in context. As have been the “challenged” bits of many of the other books that have been targeted. These are the lived experiences of girls and young women who have been brave enough to tell their stories so that the world will know what happened to them and hope that others will not be forced into the same path.

I wouldn’t even dream of preventing an interested student with a growing mind from reading this book.

But if you don’t want your school-aged child to read a particular book that might be assigned in class, that’s your business and your prerogative. Write a letter to the teacher asking to allow your child to opt out. Parents do that. It’s not hard. And it also doesn’t infringe on the rights of everybody else’s children. Because that’s what real censorship is.

If you’re interested in learning more about Banned Books Week and participating in their activities, check them out here.

Thank you, as always, especially now, for reading.

The Council, Sidebar Edition

Because I just couldn’t help myself, and because satire is one of my favorite creative outlets, especially in anxious times. It’s cheaper than therapy.

Forty-three’s impish face lit up at the sight of her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that could be called pleasant by some. Other things by others.

“Isn’t this a nice surprise?” he said after a brief hug. Then his smile faltered. “You’re here alone?”

As if Michelle’s prearranged arrival at his Texas ranch surrounded by black SUVs could ever be called “alone” or a “surprise.” There would be time later to think on those days before her every public movement had not been shadowed. But this was not the time.

“I just wanted to chat, you and me. It’s been a while.”

“Indeedy, it has.” He suggested tea and pastries on the patio, which had a beautiful view of the low, rolling hills and the lake. They traded family chitchat while it was arranged—his wife was at the local library teaching kids to read; her husband was flying off every which way—and when they finally sat and were allowed a modicum of privacy, she began, pressing a palm over the back of his hand.

“I really do like catching up with you, George. But I admit I had an ulterior motive for this unofficial meeting.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “If it’s about the painting, I understand if it’s not your cup of tea. Pass it on to someone who might appreciate it. You won’t be hurting my feelings.”

She hadn’t the heart to tell him she’d already done that, or at least tried to, but she kept moving. Pushing out a smile. “You been in touch with Dick Cheney lately?”

For a second he cringed. “Not since I gave him the portrait. I’m… I’m sensing a pattern here. Maybe I need a few more lessons.”

“No! No. Well, if you want to, then by all means…” She reeled herself in, remembering her mission. “We need you, George.”

He let out a long breath, settling his tea cup on the saucer. Turning it a few degrees. Then looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Michelle. My mind’s made up. I’m staying out of it. No endorsements. Staying neutral. Staying the course. It’s the honorable thing. That’s what Pop would say.”

She could just see the old man saying those very words. In some ways, she believed this fortunate son would never be free of his father’s reach. And she had no right to judge what he’d done in office. She’d put in her time like he had. History would be the real judge of them all. Then again, as she’d sorely learned, history was told by the winners.

“I understand wanting to stay out of it,” she said. “But as you’ve expressed to me on several occasions, these are not ordinary times.”

He held up a hand. “And I appreciate your argument. I’ve heard the whole speech from Laura. She got herself a Swiftie Cat Lady for Kamala shirt. Looks adorable on her. But I can’t…see, when I left the White House, I made a bargain.”

Not him too, she thought. Manipulated by the same right-wing billionaires that—

“With God,” he said. “About the whole”—he whispered the word—“Iraq thing. That if I set to be humble and penitent in returning to my private life, continuing my pledge not to critique another president, then I might earn some absolution.”

She took that in a moment. “George. What you have between you and the Lord is your own business. I’m just offering an alternative that could also earn you some absolution. And a whole heap of good will.”

“With all due respect, my friend. Good will doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

She gave a quick, empathetic smile. “Can you do me the favor of at least giving it another thought?”

He agreed to that, and after the wagon train of black SUVs dusted back to the main road, he walked back to his studio, anticipating the joy of an afternoon of creative immersion. Entering the room he flinched, hand to his heart, at the small bearded man seated there.

“How the hell do you keep doing that?”

The man laughed, emitting the smell of brimstone that wrapped its arms around the room’s usual linseed oil aroma in a particularly unpleasant way. “Mr. President. It’s nice to see you, too.”

“What do you want? I’ve been keeping up my end of the bargain.”

“You have, you have. No endorsements, not a public word against my star pupil Donald in return for the cleansing of your conscience, while you’re still on this side of the earth at least.” He crossed one cloven-hoofed leg over the other. “But your beautiful, charming guest is quite persuasive. So I’d like to tack a little incentive onto our contract to help you stay on the straight and narrow, so to speak.”

Forty-three tried, and failed, to starch his spine. “What.”

“We happen to be having a special today on artistic talent. Call it a bonus.”

Forty-three’s mouth rounded in surprise. “I’ve been improving. Everyone’s saying so. And that’s gonna be way obvious, if I’m suddenly Rembrandt or something.”

The unwelcome guest waved a hand. “We can make it a progressive achievement. Nudge that improvement a little bit faster. Anyone asks, say you’ve had lessons. As your friend suggested. She is quite brilliant in addition to her charm.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Forty-three said, narrowing his eyes. “She doesn’t want to be anywhere near politics anymore, and I sincerely doubt you could offer anything to make her change her mind.”

“Hmm.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “You forget how I love a challenge.”

“I’ll do it,” Forty-three said. “Give me the art thing. Just leave her alone.”

“Done. As always, a pleasure doing business with you.” And with a courtly bow and a puff of smoke, he was gone.

The forty-third president of the United States was left alone, standing in the middle of his studio. He shook his head. Let the sounds of the ranch ground his body – the birdsong, the wind through the oaks. Then an image came to mind. An image his hands itched to paint. He picked up a brush, and shut out the rest of the world.

No Updates Available

When I finish the first draft of a novel, I set it aside for a few months before I start editing. This is what works best for me. Unfortunately, unless I keep the writing part of my brain amused during that time, little gremlins creep in and rearrange the furniture. I have to be extra careful about not locking my keys in my car or where I left my phone or coming home from the grocery store with everything except what I went in there to buy. Writing flash fiction helps. Here’s a piece I wrote this week. It’s a little dark, but I go that way sometimes.

No updates available. The words ring through your head. You’d counted on two, maybe three more at the most for the deal you’d purchased with the last of your savings…but none? Zero? Nada? Your shoulders sag. The permutations of surviving the rest of your natural life on what you currently have installed in your brain spin around, form and unform patterns, familiar and unfamiliar. This is all you’re gonna get. Can it last? You can run schematics until you turn blue, but it’ll tell you the same damn thing. You’re done. Essentially you’ve reached the end of your operating capacity. No shiny new interface. Nothing. An old quote scratches its way out of your memory: “If I’d known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.”

But you got duped. Had. Suckered. Hornswaggled by a grifter with white teeth and an oily smile. You’re stuck, pally. You’ve heard stories about the past, of folks degrading into undignified natural deaths. Stuck in a hospital bed, wearing a diaper, eating baby food, nurses who tend to you like a disappointing houseplant while they yammer on their cell phones to friends about how awful their jobs are.

This program was supposed to put an end to nursing home warehouses, to a slow, agonizing failure of bodily systems, to disputes about final wishes that often tear grieving family members limb from limb. It promised a dignified death at a time of your choosing, when you can properly bid farewell to your loved ones while you still have your full faculties, can make your wishes known and say what you’ve always wanted to say.

Now you’re working without a net, at the whim of your aging body. You can handle pain. Your biggest fear is losing your mind. Riding that hazy line when you’re just cognizant of what you’re losing. Coming back into your present no longer recognizing your house or your partner or your children.

You sit for a while, trying to make sense of your plight. Okay. Current operating system still functional, cool. For the time being, everything’s peachy. You have no idea when the software will crap out, but before the launch of this program, somehow humans had made it through thousands of years making peace with the not-knowing part. Somehow they negotiated the uncertainty of death before scientists who hadn’t learned the lessons of science fiction started tinkering around with humanity.

But until you can somehow become chill with not knowing the time and manner and circumstances of your death, how can you keep the not-knowing from driving you insane?

You need an out clause. Quickly you pull up the contract, scan it for any language about a mutual agreement to opt out of the arrangement, but you find none.

You also find nothing in the software’s historical archives about those who’d chosen to end their own lives. Unfortunately, the search prompts a series of messages to stream your way: Upgrade at a discount! Adopt a rescue animal! Start investing in crypto! You close windows as fast as they pop up.

And then the mental screen freezes. After a moment, a small button appears in the empty space of your mind: Restart?

You want to agree. You should want to agree. Right? But the silence, the darkness. Something is so calming about it. Soothing. Like babies must feel when they finally get the thing they were crying for but couldn’t make words to ask. You float on that calm sea of not needing to decide. The button fades out. You barely hear the front door opening. You barely feel the needle going in. Then you feel nothing at all.

Audiobook Giveaway!

Hi, all.

I know we’re all busy, what with going back to school or trying to get stuff done or save the world and such, so I’ll keep this short.

Audible is letting me give away free copies of Boychik and Drawing Breath (currently my only two novels available in audio form). And I have a fistful of promotion codes that I’d like to put in your hot little hands (or ears, more accurately, but that sounds kind of creepy.)

Boychik is historical fiction set in the world of Depression-era Brooklyn, where a deli-man’s son meets a mobster’s daughter and complications ensue. Drawing Breath is a coming-of-age story about an art student who develops complicated feelings about her teacher, but not in a Lolita-type of way. Because fiction is all about—you guessed it—complications.

The giveaway begins on September 1 ends on September 8. You can enter each once per day. You just have to answer one simple question: “What are you reading?” (That’s first, because I’m nosy, and second, because I love a good book recommendation.)

You can enter for Boychik at Rafflecopter using this link.

You can enter for Drawing Breath at Rafflecopter using this link.

Thanks for reading (listening?)

Namaste.

The Council: We’re Not Going Back Edition

In 2017, I began a series later called “The Council” in which a fictionalized version of Barack Obama convenes all the ex-presidents to answer that musical question “How do you solve a problem like The Donald?”

After January 6, 2021, I stopped writing it. I just didn’t feel right about continuing this bit of satire.

Apparently now I’m ready to continue.

I hope you enjoy the latest installment.

The Council: We’re Not Going Back Edition

They were already waiting, seated at the table in the private back room of the home-town favorite unknown to most tourists. Forty-four had chosen it, as he did most things Chicago, and with the promise of courtside Bulls tickets, they were given the run of the place until closing time.

Finally, two of Forty-four’s security people, known for not attracting attention, escorted her in. “Well, well, well,” she said, with that delightful laugh. “So this is where the party is.”

“Best ribs in Chicago,” Forty-six said with a grin from over the top of his beer. “Have a seat, kid.”

She eyed the only vacancy, at the head of the table. With a sly look, Forty-four pushed the chair out with his foot. She gave him the raised brow, and he got up, and pulled the chair out properly. She sat, looking like she was born to occupy that space. “Thank you, Barack—”

He raised a hand as he reclaimed his seat. “Forty-four, if you don’t mind. We go by numbers here. It began—for security reasons. Now it’s become a kind of tradition in our odd sort of council.”

“Interesting.” She turned to the thin, sheepish-looking older man to her right, gave him a broad smile, then addressed Forty-four. “My boss Forty-six here told me we were just gonna meet up for drinks and compare war wounds.”

“That’s it,” Forty-six said. “In essence.”

A waiter set a glass of her favorite wine before her, along with a tiny ice bucket, and disappeared. “Goodness,” she said. “That’s some creepy James Bond kind of stuff there.”

“It has its perks,” the white-haired man from Arkansas said, lifting his glass of Diet Coke.

She pointed to him. “So that would make you Forty-two, and…Hillary?”

“I’m just along for the ride.” She laughed, then said, “After my experience, I was made an honorary member. They call me Forty-three-and-a-half.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “And I see this is a bipartisan effort. Hi, Forty-three. Nice to see you again.”

“Madame Vice President,” he said with a courtly nod. “And by design, for the duration, I am the Council’s only member from the other side of the aisle.”

“Thank the good lord above. Well, the gang’s all here, so let’s go. Time is precious, I’m sure you all understand that.”

“Yes. Painfully so,” Forty-four said. “The question on the table is how we can best use our combined resources to help get you behind that Resolute desk.”

She slid him a glance. “The desk doesn’t have a number too, does it?”

Forty-three-and-a-half laughed. “Madame Vice President, you’re making it impossible for me to resent you.”

Forty-four took back the conversation before a reply could be made. “See, our original mission, when I first convened this council, was to put a check on the power of a certain spray-tanned buffoon.”

She plunked an ice cube into her wine glass. “No number required there.”

“And now,” Forty-four continued, “no shade on you, Madame Vice President, or if you prefer, MVP—our mission continues.”

“I hear you loud and clear, Forty-four.” She leaned closer. “So all this time, you’ve been meeting in secret like some kind of Star Chamber?”

“Don’t I wish,” Forty-three-and-a-half said, “given the state of the Supreme Court. But no, we just meet for drinks and to bat ideas around, mainly about how to save democracy.”

“Well. I’m humbled and grateful to be your ride or die on that. What’s the plan?”

“You’re the plan, MVP,” Forty-six said. “We’re just your backup dancers. Anything you want, any firepower we can throw your way, memes we can make, consider us all at your disposal.”

“Well, thank you. All of you. I have some of the best people you could have in a foreshortened campaign, but as the elder statesmen and women of this country, you each have your unique skills to bring to the table.”

“And I always have cough drops,” Forty-three said.

MVP looked at Forty-four, and he said, “Little joke he has with Michelle. And we appreciate that, Forty-three.”

Forty-three set his glass down hard. “Okay! I’m sorry about Iraq. Why do you think I paint? Can we stop not talking about that now?”

“We weren’t—”

Forty-four put his hand on Forty-six’s arm as if to cut him off, but MVP took the lead. “I think we’d all do better to put the past behind us.”

“We’re not going back!” Forty-two exclaimed. Forty-six echoed.

“Hells, yeah, we’re not going back,” Forty-three-and-a-half said, hoisting her glass. “If I have to testify for one more minute about my emails, I may have to start shooting laser beams out of my eyes.”

Forty-two gave her a curious, and somewhat tenuous look, as if she might actually possess that superpower. “I am so glad you’re on our side,” he said to his wife.

MVP stood. Lifted her wineglass. “Here’s to all of us being on the same side.” She paused. “Wait. There nothing I should know about any extrajudicial hanky-panky going on in this little club, is there?”

Quiet fell around the table. Eyes met eyes, silent conversations had.

“As long as you don’t read my fan fiction,” Forty-three-and-a-half said with a rueful smile. “Where I—I mean, my protagonist—kills a certain person in about seventeen different ways.” Her husband again turned to her with those eyes. “What? I published it under a pseudonym. You’ve all given me ideas at one time or another. Don’t act all high and mighty now.”

“Maybe it’s better for all of us if I’m not part of this little sewing circle,” MVP said. “Wouldn’t want to have to sic the Justice Department on you or anything.”

Nervous laughter went around the table. The food arrived, and for a while, they were too busy eating to talk. Forty-three-and-a-half turned to MVP and said, “You know it’s just a joke, right? I mean, you can’t think we consider ways to commit murder, here.”

MVP’s eyes lit, and her smile broadened, and she laughed. That wonderful joyous laugh. “You know I’m just messing with y’all, right?” She put down her fork and said to Forty-three-and-a-half, “I hear the Russians are working on some fierce untraceable stuff you would not believe.”

The conversation was much more relaxed now. After they were finished, and the coffee delivered, MVP lifted her mug, toasted them all, then said, “Forty-seven. I like the sound of that.”

Boychik News: Audio!

Huzzah! Boychik is now an audiobook, thanks to the steeped-in-Brooklyn narration talents of Randi Bachman. I think she did a great job, and you can hear a sample of that on my website (see link below).

Also, the ebook is now available on Amazon, Apple, Kobo, Nook (I hear they still make those) and bunches of other online stores.

Get your linkage here.

In other Boychik news, I just finished the first draft of the sequel. It’s screaming to be titled Mensch, but that’s not exactly tripping off the tongue. Suggestions always welcome.

Namaste, and thank you for reading!

Leland Dirks and The Picture of Cool

Hi. I want to tell you a story. In 2013, I published Don’t Tell Anyone, a novel about a family in distress. One of the supporting characters is the matriarch’s younger son, Charlie, a TV producer who falls for a married man with two children.

My friend, fellow writer, and all-around amazing person Leland Dirks read the book and fell for Charlie. Then he offered me a challenge: Write the story of Charlie and his secret love. Partly because he wanted to read it, and partly because Leland was awfully good at getting people out of their comfort zones.

So… because I like challenges, and adored Leland, I began writing. And because I haven’t always approached my publishing career conventionally, the challenge resulted in a prequel novella, The Picture of Cool, about how the two men met, and a full-length novel that takes place after the events of Don’t Tell Anyone and picks up on the continuing story of Charlie’s romance. And of course, Leland was the first to say yes when I asked for beta readers. He offered some great feedback, and did it again for my next book, and my next, and my next…

Anyway.

The world lost Leland earlier this year. While his worldwide network of friends recounted what he had meant to their lives, I wasn’t surprised to discover how many among us—writers, dog-lovers, readers, and pretty much everyone—had been grateful recipients of his support, kindness and generosity.

So, when an opportunity popped up for me to publish some of my work in audio form, I thought immediately of Leland, and put The Picture of Cool at the top of the list. It’s now live, on Amazon (Audible) and iTunes. I hope you might check it out.

For those of you who have been asking, Boychik will be next. Leland loved that novel, too.

Thanks for your time, and thank you for reading. I should be back to posting flash fiction soon.

Namaste.

El Naranja

“Good lord, Thomas,” John Adams said in his best New England scold. “Are you letting Franklin set the controls again? You remember what a kerfuffle we landed in last time.”

“Oh, hush, John,” Ben Franklin said. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“It died during that previous trip, when I saw what our descendants had done to the republic,” Adams said. “This was exactly what we’d anticipated, that some populist cretin would get it into the public discourse that we should be governed by a king.”

“As if that’s any way of governing,” Jefferson said with a sneer.

“Hopefully, our little tweak took care of that orange fool,” Franklin said, squinting at the controls as he fiddled. Then he leaned back and smiled. “All right, gentlemen. Our conveyance which had been in abeyance is now ready for our…never mind. Let’s just be off then.”

Franklin bowed low, with a sweep of his hand, for Thomas Jefferson to enter first, then went inside the capsule himself, with Adams stepping rather indignantly behind him.

“You’ll do the honors, Mr. Adams,” Franklin said, motioning to the switch.

“Well. I’m not sure if it’s an honor, depending on the results. But may I just say, may God protect us all.”

“Amen,” said the others. And with that, their journey began. After a bit of noise and a flashing light and a soupcon of jostling, all went silent.

Adams prayed.

Finally the doors slid open. Before them sat a compound of sorts, behind a fencing of wire. On the other side of the fence was a scattering of brown-skinned people and array of square buildings, cheaply made and all bearing the same mark: ICE.

“Ice harvesters?” Jefferson said. “All the way out here, where I daresay there isn’t a body of water for miles and it’s warm enough to melt their entire supply?”

“I believe that’s an acronym,” Franklin offered. “Although for what I haven’t a clue.”

“They don’t still keep slaves, do they?” Adams said with some disgust.

Franklin held up his eyeglass. “Clearly not African. Unless the traders commandeered a new pipeline.”

“I don’t like this,” Adams said. “I don’t like this one iota. I vote for further investigation, and then a plan to go back in time and prevent this from happening. Eliminate slavery once and for all, if the method is available to us.”

“It’s a slippery slope, John,” Jefferson said. “We bumbled our way backward last time and managed not to cause too many unintended consequences. If we’re to do a thing at this juncture, it must be with the utmost of precision or not at all.”

“Thomas is, as always, correct,” Franklin said. “For now, let’s get a closer look.”

They maneuvered their way through some brush and took up a position behind the fence, close to a building where numerous people were entering and exiting. Far enough not to be seen. Close enough to hear them speak.

“I don’t recognize the language,” Franklin said. “And I’m familiar with quite a few.”

“We’re all aware of your knowledge of the French tongue,” John Adams said, at which Franklin smiled and doffed an imaginary hat.

“But I’m hearing phrases I’ve heard before,” said Jefferson. “I believe that’s Spanish.”

“Spanish slaves?” Adams said, cocking his head. “That our original thirteen colonies have devolved to a point where we’re now enslaving two peoples…that is something I would indeed agree to remedy. Consequences be damned.”

“ATTENTION,” a loud voice boomed from above and all three men jumped.

“We’ve been spotted,” Adams hissed. “Back to the craft. Now.”

“I don’t think it’s talking to us,” Franklin said, as the scatter of people—men, women, and children—coalesced to form even lines.

“GOOD MORNING TO ALL OF YOU WHO ARE NOT RAPISTS AND MURDERERS AND MENTAL PATIENTS,” the voice continued. Then lower, it said, “We got anyone knows Mexican? Maybe one of them could translate for the other. Oh, forget it.”

“What in the name of…?” Adams said.

“LIKE I WAS SAYING,” the voice continued, “ALL OF YOU WHO ARE NOT RAPISTS AND MURDERERS AND MENTAL PATIENTS, WE’LL BE SENDING SOME OF YOU HOME…BUT A LUCKY FEW, A VERY LUCKY FEW, IF YOU PLAY YOUR CARDS RIGHT YOU COULD BE WORKING AT ONE OF MY BEAUTIFUL, PERFECTLY VALUED GOLF RESORTS.”

A murmur of excitement mixed with fear wove through the crowd. “Si, El naranja!” a loud-voiced man said, which drew laughter, then a few others, mostly young men, called in unison, “EL NARANJA! EL NARANJA! EL NARANJA!”

Franklin stepped closer to a young man standing by himself near the fence. “Perdon, señor,” Franklin said. “¿Hablas inglés?”

“Si,” the man offered. Not at all seeming concerned that a man from the eighteenth century had asked the question.

“¿Como se dice ‘el naranja’ en inglés?”

The man darted a gaze right, then left, then said, “It means ‘the orange one’ because his face, it is orange.” An older man from the crowd took a few steps in their direction. “Lo siento,” the man said to Franklin. “I must go now and start my job. Or I will be sent back.”

“Sent back”? Jefferson said, after the crowd dispersed. “Wouldn’t that be a positive outcome?”

“Are you two missing the lede? Franklin said. “The Orange One. He ascended to the throne. Whatever we did last time didn’t work. It will take more drastic changes to the Constitution, I’m afraid. Are you with me?”

Both men nodded their assent.

“Then, gentlemen,” Franklin said, “let’s motor.”

Dear lovely readers: I’m trying something new. You can now also find me on Substack. When I have new installments of this series—and maybe other things; I’m not sure yet—I’ll post them there. Namaste, and thank you, as always, for reading.