The main characters of my book, A Walk Away, were interviewed.

See the full interview at the following link:

http://www.affinityebooks.com/blog/2015/12/26/interview-with-kat-and-rand-from-a-walk-away/

Here is my favorite snippet from the interview:

Diana:  If readers could learn one thing from your experiences, what do you want that to be?

Kat:  The toughest thing for me was learning to let myself be vulnerable. I didn’t want to burden anyone.  For so much of my life I thought that giving love was the greatest gift I had to grant anyone else, but I discovered that it is actually accepting others’ love, appreciating their right to share my burdens and joys, that is the greatest gift I have to give.

Rand:  If I could help everyone realize any one thing I think it would be that even not taking a risk is taking a risk–taking the risk of missing out on something.  Sometimes that is perfectly justified, if you believe that what you’re might miss out on isn’t as important as what you’re doing with your present time.  In my experience, life requires sufficing and sacrificing one happiness for another, and adapting to the new balance of happiness’s.  I just learned that sacrificing or sufficing for a chance to love was my greatest happiness, and once I knew that, the outcomes weren’t as important as taking the risk.

Brightly Burnished; a tribute to Sandra Moran, Victor Hurst, and John Hayslip

In the last two months I have grieved the unexpected passing of three legends: Sandra Moran, Victor W. Hurst IV, and John Victor Hayslip.  I have nothing to give that will ease the sudden absence of their presence.  I can offer only words--the words that come back to me as I picture what each of these three stars meant to me--and I hope they bring a spark of comfort to others who, like me, must grieve and continue (because that is what Sandra, Victor and John would have told us to do--with a good grin and two thumbs up).

Brightly Burnished

I was born of fire,
grace and grit.
I lived on fire,
laughing and seeking
hope,
and so I shall return
to fire,
burning away
the shackles
of this body
to live luminous
as a star
hot and perpetually bright
in your memories.

I was born of fire,
grace and grit.
I lived on fire,
loving and giving
faith,
And so I shall return
to fire,
a threaded star
in the hem of God's robe
of galaxies
on the shoulders of God's body
of universes.

And so you shall ever
know me
as the legacy
I have lived
and always held,
burning bright
as faith and hope,
an acre of stars,
a legacy of fire,
grace and grit
that cannot be
smothered.

I will keep holding you
in my light,
so that you too,
may live on fire,
seeking and giving,
until you shall return
to fire
and then,
both of us
brightly burnished,
shall warm hearts
together again.

Miracles

The technical definition of a miracle is an event not explicable by natural or scientific laws,
but I've had a major beef with this definition
since I started speaking.
A miracle is magic.
A miracle is enchanting--
irrespective of my ability or inability to explain it.
I can explain to you how grass grows,
why the sky is blue,
the neural development of an embryo,
and many other miraculous wonders of the world.
That doesn't make them less of a miracle to me.
In fact,
knowing how something works makes it more of a miracle to me --
like learning how a black hole forms or a star is born --
there are so many complexities
 that must occur within precise boundaries
to create something
that can be seen from even one point
 in the universe.
And besides,
knowing how
doesn't reveal why
something happens.
I think a better definition
of a miracle
is an unexpected wondrous or beautiful event,
or simply
an event
we appreciate
regardless of whether
we know how
or why it happens.

Sunsets are a miracle.
Every day.

A melody,
ringing the strings
on a guitar
built by hands
played by hands,
each composed of 28 bones,
each moved by 34 muscles,
as guided by an auditory system
dependent on billions of hairs
with hundreds of cilia
transducing the vibrations
of sound to our nerve fibers
in order to stir
one heart
is
a miracle.

Nobody gets naked like numbers.

Let's Be Additive

Obsess a little

over me.

Maybe we’re the kind of algorithm most folks miss

until we’re smack against the windshield

teeth bared, dragon breathing,

strangely whole but startled mean,

Lonely as a prime number.

You could be different though.

We could know from the start.

Chalk me up

on your black-boarded heart.

We’ll be the kind of laden formulas most folks hiss

beneath their breath to the sweeper after class,

wild-haired, crazy-genius,

oddly sound theory.

A noble prize

in our arms.

We could be similar proofs.

We could equate.

Talk to me in your square roots.

For you, I’ll grow exponential,

sine and cosine.

This compulsion

doesn’t have to be all mine.

Love is factorial.

Let's be additive.

You plus me
to infinity.

A Real Rebellion

First the house flooded,
then the river ran dry.
The corn rotted
and the cotton burned.

So we're not selling this year.

Gun to head,
tired to the bone,
even half-dead,
somethings are still
worth keeping whole.
So we're not selling this year.

We'll harness the hurt,
because stubborn
outlives luck.
We'll just eat crow
and learn to grow,
because we're not selling this year.

Heart-broke,
rain-soaked,
grief choked,
somethings are still
full of love.
So we're not selling this year.

Frayed cliches
all clammed up
and put aside,
some times you just have to
swallow your fear.
The bottom line is
we're not selling this year.