‘We won’t be renewing your contract.’

            I strained to smile, and nodded understanding as the HR manager delivered this news. It wasn’t unexpected. I wasn’t been happy in my job. My supervisor and I clashed every day. This was the push out the door I needed.

–*–

            ‘Mum’s in hospital.’

            I listened to dad tell me what was wrong with her (he didn’t know); what the doctors were doing (he didn’t know); and how long mum would be in hospital (he didn’t know). None of it was reassuring.

            ‘I’ll go visit her,’ I said.

–*–

            My mother and I had always had a complicated relationship. You see, I was adopted, and she valued what other people thought, above all else. When these two facts were put together it meant: a) I was forbidden from mentioning I was adopted, to anyone; and b) she constantly judged me for being different from the rest of the family.

            Of course I was different! I was from somewhere, someone, else!

            Yet I was closer to her than my father or siblings. I clung to her, even in my teenage years. She was my protector, she was my master. One word from her set the world ablaze with joy, or plunged it into dark depression. She was all powerful, all manipulative, all the time.

–*–

            I visited her in hospital every other day. Lucky I was unemployed, affording me the time to spend with her as she died. When her condition deteriorated she was moved to the palliative care unit. Any day now. Any … day … now …

            One day I told her I thought she was brave, the way she was facing death.

            ‘What else can I do?’ she responded.

            My ungrateful self flew to old patterns of thought. You could complain, my inner voice said, attacking her courage, or blame someone else – the doctors, the disease, me. You could tell us all to go away. Or tell us what you really think of us. You could make this all about you, like you make everything all about you.

            Foolish, broken me. This was her death. It was all about her.

–*–

            I told my therapist I was looking forward to being rid of her; then I would be free to be me. He asked me who that was. Idiot. After all these years he should know the answer to that question: I had no idea.

            He told me to say something meaningful to my mother before she died, to let her know how I felt about our relationship.

            ‘Like what?’ I asked.

‘Like, you frustrate me,’ he suggested.

That afternoon I sat by my mother’s death bed, alone with her for the first time.

You frustrate me,’ I said, out of the blue.

‘You frustrate me too,’ she replied.

It didn’t provide the closure my therapist had implied it would. I smile at her; she ignored me; I went home.

God damn it! She was so frustrating!

–*–

We were in the hospital lounge, my brothers and I, eating greasy fast food, when dad walked in and said ‘She’s gone’.

We all rushed into her room. Mum lay there, still, like a statue of alabaster and silk; looking as delicate as a cobweb and as peaceful as a swan gliding across a lake. I touched her hand.

‘Her skin is so soft,’ I commented to no-one.

A nurse stood in the doorway, a mask of sadness adorning her face, just as she was trained.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said, low and mournful. We thanked her and went back to ignoring her.

‘You’ll need to clear the room in thirty minutes,’ she said. That made us pay her attention.

‘What?’ my brother asked.

‘We’ll be moving her to the morgue and preparing the room for someone else,’ she explained. Her mask slipped, revealing the pragmatist beneath. ‘Take what you want. We will dispose of anything left behind.’

We gaped at her. I seemed death waited for no-one. She pushed her mask back into place, gave us a pitiful smile, and shuffled away.

We looked at each other, then flew into action. We stripped pictures from the walls and flowers from the window sill. We packed her clothes into plastic shopping bags. I emptied her bedside drawers into her toiletry bag.

Except for her Valium. That I slipped into my pocket when no-one was looking.

I might as well get something out of this, I thought, besides being rid of her.

–*–

‘How do you feel now?’ my therapist asked.

‘Lighter. Like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders,’ I said. ‘Knowing she is gone, that she isn’t out there somewhere judging me, feels great. I feel free.’

‘Do you miss her?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. No, I don’t.

‘What now?’ he asked.

I felt silly, sitting there, talking to him about things he didn’t understand.

‘I don’t think I want to see you anymore,’ I said. ‘You’ve been great, but I don’t need you.’

I am sitting or here at Newark Airport, beer in hand, reflecting on my four days in New York.

I saw amazing sights; the type of places that seem so familiar because you’ve seen them on TV and in the movies all your life. I’m talking Times Square, Central Park, Broadway, Washington Square Park, Brooklyn Bridge, & the New York City Library.

Then there were the people; a hodge-podge of locals, immigrants to the city, tourists, and those who work in Manhattan but live elsewhere. I have found New Yorkers, and Americans in general, to be very polite and helpful. I have loved my interactions with each and every one of them.

And finally, the writing; what it’s all about in the end. New York turned into a super- charged motivator. I completed two chapters in my WIP, the main writing focus while on my travels. I also completed editing on my previous WIP, ready for resubmitting .

Thus it transpires, that my grand plan, to write my next novel while traveling the world, is coming to fruition. I feel confident with what I am writing, whilst also having a blast with my travels.

Now to turn this writing/vacation into my permanent way of life!

My first day in New York. What a great day!

After having my haircut in Washington Heights, I walked from Soho (stopping at a cafe to write, and replenish my caffeine levels – they were dropping dangerously low at that time), through Little Italy, to Chinatown. I crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, then caught a train to Washington Square Park.

At the end of this day – this nine hours of walking, taking pictures, and being with myself while traversing this city of millions – I returned to my accommodation and the second chapter of my current manuscript poured out of me.

As if that wasn’t enough reason to celebrate, I also think what I’ve written so far, in the first draft, is good. I know? Sacrilege for a writer to admit they admire their own work. But there you have it.

I’m curious to experience the adventures tomorrow will bring!

I’ve begun my 6-month writing project (as outlined in my last post And now for my next trick …) and I’m slowly putting together the elements I gleaned from the four novels I’m using to create a narrative structure.

Orlando gave me the gift of time – how it can be manipulated, stretched, reflected, represented, or ignored. I’ve decided my main character (MC) will have various interactions with himself from different times in his past. I’m borrowing from the Marvel multiverse in that not all the ‘selves’ are from his own timeline. Maybe a Sliding Doors homage?

Doctor Sleep gave me the gift of mind – what happens in our minds (how we think, how we interpret, how we absorb) is as real as what happens in our hands. My MC will be interacting with his other selves in a space outside his/their reality. I haven’t quite figured out where that will be, or how he gets there, but I am sure it will come to me as the story unfolds.

The Slap gave me the gift of perspective – two people can have different experiences of the same event. This allows the narrative to be abducted by my MC’s other selves, and for conflict to arise between selves as they disagree about specific experiences. My MC will be viewing most of these experiences through a memory lens, while his other selves may be experiencing it in their present. As we all know, the lens of time can distort memories.

The Road gave me the gift of form – how we read something, the structure of the words on the page, can be as great an influence on the reader as the plot. This is probably the most challenging part of the project, as I’m not sure where to start in creating the physical structure of the page. I think this needs to wait until the basic story is outlined, so I can see what is happening as a whole and rewrite within a physical structure to match the plot. I also think I could use different physical structures for different selves. I wouldn’t want to make things too easy for myself!

I feel like I am making progress on this project, although the sparsity of words on the page cries ‘liar’ at me every time I think about it. It’s always surprising how unforgiving we writers can be on ourselves. I’ve been doing a lot of research to get to this point, and I need to remind myself not to devalue this work merely because it isn’t the creative writing part of the project.

I can’t finish without acknowledging the extraordinary privilege I am currently experiencing as I write while I travel around the world. So far I’ve been to Honolulu, Maui, Napa Valley, San Francisco, and Las Vegas. Today I am off to Texas. Really, I couldn’t ask for anything better right now!

In 2021 I achieved something I had been wanting to achieve for years. I wrote a novel.

Then I rewrote it.

Then I had it beta read. I had it edited. I had it evaluated.

Then I rewrote it. And again.

… you know how it is.

That novel is now doing the rounds of submissions. Since then I have been working on a short story for a specific competition, and a film script.

And now for my next trick … my second novel.

But why, I thought, should I take it easy on myself? Why not go with a complex idea, requiring create complex thinking, research, innovation, and a fixed timeline?

And that’s exactly what I did.

My new novel, provisionally entitled My heart is broken but the condom’s ok, is set to include an innovative narrative structure derived from the research into the function and form of four specific novels.

The four novels, and the reasons I chose them, are:

1. Orlando by Virginia Woolf

This novel breaks so many rules about structure and form. The narrative spans centuries, and genders, with nary a blink of distraction. The main themes of the story are time and self-awareness. It is the focus on time, in a variety of forms, that intrigues me.

How do I include variations of time, or an adulteration of time, in my narrative?

2. The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas

This novel uses a singular event, an adult slapping a child (not their own) at a bbq, to explore different interpretations of a the event (eg, through the eye of the mother, through the eye of the slapper, through the eye of a witness). This singular event is also the catalyst for many other elements of the characters’ lives to be exposed, judged, and derided.

How do I include multiple perspectives in my novel, which has one main character narrative?

3. Doctor Sleep by Stephen King

King juxtaposes the external world, what we all experience, with the internal world of ‘the shining’. Both worlds are real, encompassing a variety of senses and sensations, with real world consequences. The characters move in and out of these worlds at will, and fight for survival in both.

How do I use the internal and external worlds of the main character to enhance the narrative?

4. The Road by Cormac McCarthy

This novel inspires me with its physical structure: the text on the page reflects the world of the story. This is a post-apocalypse world (or something similar, it is never disclosed) and McCarthy has used a sparseness in his punctuation and page to reflect this world.

How do I structure the words on the page, the paragraphs and punctuations, to reflect the themes and intent of the narrative?

As or my timeline, I didn’t let myself off the hook there either!

I have allotted 6 months to complete this project. That’s 6 months to get to the first edited stage, not final draft. To commit myself to this task completely, I have taken those 6 months off work (mostly without pay – yikes!).

But wait – there’s more!

5 of the 6 months will be spent travelling around the world! I know!

I’m fortunate to be able to afford this, to have the savings to draw on, and the freedom to travel. My main thinking for this approach, besides escaping Melbourne’s dreary winter, is to remove myself completely from my usual environments; to create a specific focus on my writing.

While I am travelling, I am a writer working on his next novel. I have no other identity to which to answer, no other claims on my time and resources.

Over the next 6 months I will provide updated posts as to my progress, thoughts and discoveries, along with some envy inspiring pics of my travels. I hope my journey can inspire you. Most of all, I hope my public reflections will hold me accountable to my project.

Ok, now to work!

In 2021, my friend Jerry Aguilar Jr and I were among a number of writers and artists contracted by Eagle Leather Melbourne to write articles for their blog.

Jerry and I were paid to write four articles:

1. Out with the old (family), in with the new: The Importance of the Leather Bar
2. To Beat or Beat Off
3. Stranger danger? Yes please!
4. Don’t fence me in or shut me out

All the articles focused on elements of the queer community and were sex positive.

Our first article, Out with the old (family), in with the new: The Importance of the Leather Bar, was published this week. Check it out, and while you’re there reading our fantastic work, check out the blog posts by other writers already published this year.

And subscribe to Eagle Leather to get notification of our future blog articles!

https://www.eagleleather.com.au/news/the-importance-of-the-leather-bar-out-with-the-old-family-in-with-the-new/

‘We won’t be renewing your contract.’

I strained to smile, and nodded understanding as my supervisor and the HR manager gave me this news. It wasn’t unexpected. I hadn’t been happy in my job for a long time. My supervisor and I collided on a daily basis. It was definitely time to go, and this was the push out the door I needed.

*

‘Mum’s in hospital.’

I listened as dad told me what was wrong (he didn’t know), what the doctors were doing (he didn’t know), and how long mum would be in hospital (he didn’t know). None of it was reassuring.

‘I’ll go visit her,’ I said.

*

My mother and I had always had a complicated relationship. You see, I was adopted, and she valued what other people might think, above all else. When these two facts were put together it meant: a) I was forbidden from mentioning I was adopted, to anyone; and b) she constantly judged me for being different from the rest of the family. I mean, what would people think?

Of course I was different! I was from somewhere, someone, else!

Yet I was closer to her than my father or siblings. I clung to her, even in my teenage years. She was my protector, she was my master. One word from her could set the world ablaze with joy, or plunge it into the darkest depression. She was all powerful, all manipulative, all the time.

*

I visited her in the hospital every second day. It was lucky I was unemployed, affording me the time to spend with her as she died.

When her condition deteriorated she was moved from the general ward to the palliative care unit. Any day now. Any … day … now …

One day I told her I thought she was brave, the way she was facing death.

‘What else can I do?’ she responded.

My ungrateful thoughts flew to old patterns of response. You could complain, my inner voice said, attacking her courage, or blame someone else — the doctors, the disease, me. You could tell us all to go away. Or tell us what you really think of us. You could make this all about you, like you make everything all about you.

Foolish, broken me. This was her death. It was all about her.

*

I told my therapist I was looking forward to the day she died; to be rid of her from my life; then I would be free to be me. He asked me who that was. Idiot. After all these years he knew the answer to that question — I had no bloody idea.

He told me to say something meaningful to my mother before she died, to let her know how I felt about our relationship.

‘Like what?’ I asked, clueless.

‘Like, you frustrate me,’ he suggested.

*

That afternoon I sat by my mother’s death bed, alone with her for the first time.

‘You frustrate me,’ I said, out of the blue.

‘You frustrate me too,’ she replied.

Then my father walked in and her attention shifted to him.

It didn’t provide the closure my therapist had implied it would. I smile at her; she ignored me; I went home.

God damn it! She was so frustrating!

*

We were in the lounge, my brothers and I, eating greasy take-away food, when dad walked in and said ‘She’s gone’.

We dropped our food and rushed into her room. Mum lay there like a statue of alabaster and silk; looking as delicate as a cobweb and as peaceful as a swan gliding across a lake. I touched her hand.

‘Her skin is so soft,’ I commented to no-one.

A nurse stood in the doorway, her mask of sadness attached to her face, just like she was trained.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she said, low and mournful. We thanked her and went back to ignoring her.

‘You’ll need to clear the room in thirty minutes,’ she said. That made us pay her attention.

‘What?’ my brother asked.

‘We’ll be moving her to the morgue and preparing the room for someone else,’ she explained, the mask slipped and revealed the pragmatist underneath. ‘Take what you wish to keep. We will dispose of anything left behind.’

We gaped at her.

She pushed the mask back into place and gave us a pitiful smile, and marched away.

We looked at each other, then flew into action. We stripped pictures from the walls and flowers from the window sill. We packed her clothes into plastic shopping bags. I emptied her bedside drawers into her toiletry bag.

Except for her Valium. That I slipped into my pocket when no-one was looking.

I might as well get something out of this, I thought, besides being rid of her.

*

‘How do you feel now?’ my therapist asked.

‘Lighter. Like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders,’ I said. ‘Knowing she is gone, that she isn’t out there somewhere judging me, feels great. I feel free.’

‘Do you miss her?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. No, I don’t.

‘What now?’ he asked.

I felt silly, sitting there, talking to him about things he didn’t understand.

‘I don’t think I want to see you anymore,’ I said. ‘You’ve been great, but I’ve moved on. I don’t need you anymore.’

First published on Medium.com, 10/08/2021. (c) David McKenzie

Being an adoptee meant contorting myself into family spaces. First, there was my adopted family. Then, there were my biological families — once I tracked them down. And finally, there was my found family. In each case I was an outsider, invited to join other, functioning human beings as part of a family. In each case it was assumed that I was a functioning human being; that I was similar to them; that I could assimilate.

*

My adopted parents brought me into their lives to fulfill their need for a ‘complete’ family. After two children and a number of complications, my mother was told she could not have any more children. A crushing blow. They proceeded to the nearest Catholic hospital, where innocents were ripped from the wombs of unwed, teenage sinners and thrust into the loving arms of god-fearing parents-to-be.

They picked me from a line-up of similar babies, future sinners all of us, and took me home like a frozen turkey to be thawed and consumed later. They already had two children; how difficult could it be to bring another into the fold? I would never know the difference, surely. They made a space for me, and placed me in that space. They never considered if I fit that space. I didn’t. It dug into my back and pinched my legs.

Then the unthinkable happened — my mother became pregnant. I now had a little brother, and my space shrank to accommodate him. He was ‘the miracle baby’; the child who was never meant to be. I was the interloper, occupying corners and shadows. Suddenly, I was taking up precious space that was not my birth-right.

I grew throughout my adolescence, as most of us do. My clothes were replaced as I grew taller, and new shoes were bought at the start of each school year. Yet I wasn’t permitted to take up any more room as a teenager than I was had as a small child.

Time passed, and my siblings needed more — attention, chattels, space. But resources were finite in our house. These things had to come from somewhere. The most logical response was to take them from the stranger and give them to the blood-kin. I would never know the difference, surely. I mean, they saved me from a life of sin. Right?

I knew, I just knew, that somewhere out there was family with a space for me; a me-shaped hole that only I would fit. My Cinderella space. All I needed to do was find them.

*

My biological mother was a blast. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, and the life of the party. I couldn’t believe my luck, finding her and finding out about her. I nodded and smiled and laughed and was awed. She had been looking for me. Me! All her life she felt me, missing but present. I couldn’t wait to step into the space she had saved for me; my space.

Yet when I did, I found it very crowded. My mother had filled it with people and places and memories, anything to remove the guilty sight of my absence. My face pressed against my brother’s back; my sister’s elbow dug into my ribs. In the dark corners I could hear her lovers whisper and snigger. And hovering over us all were the unholy images of her own parents.

It seems a space cause pain. She had been in pain for so long, after I was stolen from her, she had to treat that pain with any remedy at hand. The first salve was marriage, followed by a replacement son, then a daughter. The marriage was doomed from the beginning of time, and the children’s trust was lost. Then came the lovers, leaving footprints on her heart.

She tried so hard to fill my vacancy that by the time I returned to her the position had changed so much it was no longer mine. No matter how I contorted, no matter how I twisted my mind, I could never fit in that space again. I wasn’t that baby anymore.

I lingered on the periphery of their spaces; a brother and a son who once didn’t exist. A ghost relative. I no longer required room of my own, for no specter can reside in the material world.

*

My biological father was a space thief from birth. Born at the end of WWII, to a French mother and German soldier father, he was an outcast in his remote mountain village. He was shipped off to be raised by an old couple in a nearby town, relieving his mother of the need to defend his space-wasting presence. She replaced him with a newer, shinier model — a brother with an American soldier father. He didn’t take up space; he made space appear out of nowhere!

I met my biological father for the first time at a restaurant. I was jammed into a corner between the wall and his wife; between a rock and a hard place. He barely spoke to me all night. Over time I began to trust him, and he opened up more. We shared stories and thoughts and opinions. He was old school, though, which was the downfall of our relationship.

At a family function he didn’t like something I had said (to this day I do not know what this was, he has never told me). A week later I received a text message from his wife, absolutely decimating me. She accused me of all sorts of behavior and judgement toward my father. I knew this attack was coming from him, as his other children had told me this was his modus operandi — hiding in the background while his wife did his dirty work.

That was that. A relationship given, a relationship taken away. He closed all the spaces where I might get in; nailed boards across the windows of his emotions to keep me out.

*

But my found family. Ah! There’s a tour de force!

They are a collection of disparate people, amassed over the years like a snowball growing as it rolls down a hill. Some of them made space for me. Some I asked to make space for me. And others jumped up and down in excitement when they saw I fit perfectly into the empty space beside them. In every cases, I was given space to be me.

Like my other families, my found family assumed I was a functional human being and could assimilate. Unlike my other families, they did not withdraw when they witnessed the truth. When I failed to function, they entered the space around me to ensure I was supported. When I fought against assimilation, they widened the space to give me room to find myself again.

This is the true essence of family. This is what I found in my chosen family. These are people who decided I did not take up space; that I deserved to have my own space; and whose space I defend in return. They are the people who give freely, and expect nothing in return but love and laughter.

We are all adoptees in this family.

First published on Medium.com, 12/08/2021. (c) David McKenzie

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

T.J. Klune has done it again! I fell in love with the characters, as they were falling in love with each other. Klune has the amazing gift of taking you inside the main character’s psyche, enveloping you in their thoughts and emotions, and dragging you through their faults and fears. Like with Nick in The Extraordinaries, Klune forces us to inhabit the main character Linus as he spends time at the house in the Cerulean Sea, and discovers a world of possibility and worth that had never before existed in his mind. This is a lovely story about love, both of self and others, and remarkable people becoming a family.

View all my reviews

Infestation by William Meikle

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Infestation by William Melkle follows the tradition of character driven action novels along the lines of Alistair MacLean and Matthew Reilly, but with a twist. The story jumps right into the action, and death and mayhem ensue. The main character, Captain John Banks, is competent enough to get through the danger, albeit with several lives lost, but also appears out of his depth with the situation in which he and his team are trapped. And who wouldn’t be out of there depth, with hoards of ocean bed-dwelling creatures out to kill you. Yes, an Infestation! I’ve long been a fan of this type of action story, and look forward to reading more in this series.

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Sons of Brutality #1 by Daniel Jeudy

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Daniel Jeudy has created a cruel world in this crime novel. Everything is harsh – the thoughts of the main characters, the crime scenes, the criminal actions, even the climate and environment seems harsh. This is all in keeping with the type of story this is – brutal. The main character, Detective Addison Mowbray, is beaten, worn and bordering on corrupt, without really crossing over. The parallel crime plots are poles apart. One, the deranged desire of a cult member to raise his girlfriend from the dead. The other, a renegade killer taking out the criminal trash. While there are lots of offensive people and scenes in this book, none were directed at the reader, being contained in the action of the story. This made some of the cruelty easier to handle as a reader. This appears to be book #1 in a series, and there is definitely scope for a series to develop from this premier book. A good read for those who like gritty, gruesome crime reads.

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Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

What an original and entertaining story! Kevin Wilson gives a straight-faced telling of a bizarre family circumstance. The fire-children (twins Bessie and Roland) are intriguing, although most of the attention is given to Bessie and her developing relationship with their reluctant care-taker, Lilian. The character development lacks a bit of detail, but is compensated with a plot that is succinct and keeps the story moving at a good pace. A really fun story, with a heartwarming take on the ‘found’ family theme.

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Another great read on Medium!

https://davidmckwrites.medium.com/5-challenges-i-faced-to-become-a-writer-59c6f3c852a6

I just published this story on Medium – check it out!

https://davidmckwrites.medium.com/should-a-gay-writer-be-a-gay-writer-afba6cbb14eb

Now available to read via Medium –

https://davidmckwrites.medium.com/im-learning-to-write-part-one-b41131f356f0

S.P.I.D.A.R. by Bryan Alaspa

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


The idea behind this story had me sucked in. As a life-long arachnophobia I have a morbid curiosity for spider stories, especially horror. It’s like I can’t look away. I covered my eyes and read the book through my fingers as I squirmed – and checked the corners of the ceiling for spiders!
I enjoyed the isolated setting, the unique township, and the high population of bisexual or pan-sexual townsfolk. The ‘she likes her’ and ‘he likes her too’ side comments added a lightheartedness to the story.
Unfortunately, the amount of character backstory was too much for my liking. I felt like I spent pages and pages being told why some characters had settled in this secluded location, only for them to die a page later. Yet the main characters weren’t given much opportunity to show their growth through the adversity they experienced.
Overall, though, a very interesting concept and enjoyable read.





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Arcadia Falls by Ken Stark

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


This is a thoroughly enjoyable YA sci-fi/fantasy/thriller mash-up. The high-schoolers at the center of the story are relatable, facing the everyday struggles of all high-schoolers across the world. Except, of course, for the monsters trying to kill them!
Stephen King-esque that no-one else can see what’s happening, or even remembers those who have been taken (killed) in the past. Only this handful of teenagers, and one determined grandfather, stand between the devastation of the town and freedom form the underground creatures.
This was a fun read – full of excitement and action reminiscent of The Goonies. It also deals with the issues of loss, death and grief from a unique perspective, subtly weaving these motives into a story that spans generations.



View all my reviews

I admire people that can make a commitment at the start of the year and stick to it. Personally, I think we could do this better, in a more self-accepting and self-forgiving way, by making non-specific statements about what we would like to see happen during the year ahead. There should be flexibility to what we want to achieve. If we’ve learnt anything from 2020, it’s that none of us knows what lies ahead.

Broad statements of intent are more positive, and flexible, that resolutions. Instead of saying ‘This year I will lose 10 kilos’, I could say ‘This year I will live a healthier life’. This statement allows for adjustment to unforeseen circumstances, and gives me control over the actions I take to achieve this end. If I merely focus on losing weight, and then don’t, I’ve failed. But if I focus on living a healthier life, I could achieve this through a myriad of ways, like walking, eating healthier, thinking more positively, or even having therapy. Through these actions I’ve achieved my goal, even if I don’t lose weight.

The same approach can be used for almost any scenario. ‘This year I will fall in love’ can be rephrased as ‘This year I will appreciate the relationships I have the new ones that come into my life’. This may translate into love. Or a love different from what you expected.

So, when making plans for the year ahead, think about how you approach the goals you want to achieve. Use phrases that allow room for movement and don’t trap you into an all-or-nothing scenario.

Allow yourself to have a happy new year!

What a glorious time of year! Trees swathed with tinsel. Carols playing on and on and on. people rushing about buying things, giving things, getting things. Families coming together to pretend everything they really like each other.

Excuse my sarcasm.

Christmas has been a challenging time of year for me. I don’t begrudge others their Christmas cheer. I even join in sometimes to be sociable. At the end of the day, though, Christmas reminds me of the awkwardness, discomfort, abuse and downright trauma I experienced throughout my youth.

My adopted parents always did the big Christmas thing. Santa, tree, presents, enough food to feed a third-world country, and alcohol by the bucket load. They tried to make it a fun occasion for me and my siblings. And it was. Then, during the years of my developing awareness, it all turned to shit.

Those teenage years, when you become aware of your parents as people, and not just ‘mum and dad’, can be a rude awakening. I was smacked in the face with my parents’ flaws. She was a controlling manipulator. He was an abusive drunk.

The development of my own identity collided with my new understanding of my parents. I was not like them. This was a ‘duh’ moment; being adopted this was always the case. But now it was as plain as the nose on my face. I was not only not like them physically, I also did not think like them, share their values, view the world like them, or believe in their fantasies.

Christmas became a time of torture, an excruciating event to be endured. When I hit my twenties I made excuses to escape. I even moved to another city to avoid the day. The guilt I experienced (another legacy of the master manipulator) was unbearable. It wasn’t until my thirties that I began to not care, to stand up for myself, and insist I did not want to take part in Christmas.

Now, in my fifties, with one parent gone, it has all changed. Maybe for good. I have just experienced my first Christmas with no contact from my adopted family. Maybe they finally understand I am not like them. Whatever the case may be, it seems our years of pretending to give a damn about each other are over.

It’s sad, I know. Even I feel sad, when all around me are doing things with their families and having fun. But I have new families. My friends are always there for me, and they support me without forcing their own beliefs onto me.

Maybe that’s the true message of Christmas. Families are found, not born.

Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas is a unique YA fantasy novel, delving into the world of Latinx trans and queer kids, alongside mystical arts.
I was enthralled with the main characters from the start: trans-teenager Yadriel, his cousin Maritza, and the spirit Julien. They were well-rounded and had clear voices throughout the story.
Although I figured out the mystery about halfway through the book, this did not take away from my enjoyment of the story. In fact, it made me more eager to see what would happen, how the characters would deal with the inevitable conflict to come, and what the final outcome would be for each of them. Kudos to Thomas, I was a little surprised by the ending.
I really enjoyed the Latinx cultural references through the story as well. It made the setting and fantasy elements real, as though this is exactly how life is played out in East L.A.
This is a story of owning one’s identity, family connectedness (whether through born-family or found-family), cultural barriers to queer acceptance, and ultimately, love.
This is a must-read in queer literature.



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A Threat From The Past by Paul Cude

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


A Threat From The Past is book one in The White Dragon Saga.
Paul Cude sets the scene here, building a world in which dragons co-exist secretly with humans. Dragons influence human development and policy, guiding humankind to make better choices for themselves and the planet.
Cude uses an interesting ploy to cross between dragon and human worlds: dragons use magic to transform themselves into a humans. This allows for everyday interactions between humans and dragon-humans, such as at work and sporting clubs.
The main characters are interesting enough. Peter flounders about trying to solve a mystery but really ends up creating a mess. His best friends, Tank and Richie, are barely developed in this book. Hopefully there a deeper relationship develops between them. For now they are merely ‘friends who grew up together’.
A lot of time is spent describing the dragon sport of Laminium Ball. It all sounds rather quidditch-esque, but with dragons instead of broomsticks. Hopefully the large amount of time spent describing this game feeds into the plot at some point.
The way the dragon world is tied into history is an interesting plot twist as well. I’m looking forward to reading more in this saga, and seeing just how much Peter and his friends develop into well-rounded dragons and humans.



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