For our son’s 30^th birthday, Rob and I offered to take him and his fiancé, Emily, to a restaurant of his choosing. He opted for one known as “an exceptional Old World, fine dining experience offering the highest quality meat and seafood…”

The website held the promise of a Great Gatsby night, but it was more of a cozy, wood paneled, gentleman’s club with red leather banquets for intimate dining. The walls were decked with olden day portraits and memorabilia without the vintage overload of cluttercore. It was a comfortable haven on a rainy Saturday night, but there was nothing Gatsby about it if one was expecting glitter, feathers, or anything reminiscent of the roaring twenties.

Yet with a single dish, I was transported… not to the Gatsby era, but to the days of my early childhood. The days when my father took over domestic responsibilities to nurse my mother back to good health from her near-death experience with pernicious anemia. (You can read the details of that story here in this excerpt from my memoir.)

In the story, I mention that my dad prepared shank bones in the pressure cooker for the delicious, stewed meat on the bones and more importantly for the healthful marrow inside them. As a child, I would blow it out of the donut-like round hole onto a piece of crusty bread and spread it like butter, just adding a dash of salt. It was heaven.

I can still savor its gelatinous, melt-in-your-mouth texture and savory flavor. Fatty, yes, but healthy fats, the kind you can enjoy in small doses without guilt. At our fancy restaurant, they served six inch long “canoe-cut,” marrow-laden bones graced with herb salad on top. The bone marrow was accompanied by a small dish of onion marmalade, both to be spread on hot sourdough garlic bread. Yum!

If you are not familiar with this delicacy the sight of six roasted bones on a plate may seem off-putting, but to me, it brought back memories of being seven years old again and back in my father’s kitchen.

Known as a superfood, marrow is the soft, spongy nutrient-dense substance in the core of bones where blood cells, stem cells, and immune-boosting cells are produced. No doubt, this is just what the doctor ordered for my recovering mother after her life-threatening drop in red blood cells. And happily, it became a staple in our home.

In fancy restaurants, it is the star ingredient in classic dishes like Italian Osso Buco and Vietnamese Pho broth. But in our house we just called it “spic.” Why? I’m guessing my science teacher father used this scientific term incorrectly because biologically speaking, “spic” refers to the bony spicules which are “small, needle-like fragments of bone that pathologists look for in a bone marrow biopsy.” The presence of these spicules confirms that an adequate bone marrow sample has been successfully collected.

So, while “spic” is NOT a colloquial term used for bone marrow, it is a superfood!

Nutrition:

Bone marrow is packed with healthy fats, collagen, and essential vitamins like Vitamin B12 which is essential for red blood cell production, neurological function, and DNA synthesis.

A 100g serving of marrow can provide up to 52% of your Reference Daily Intake (RDI).

· Riboflavin (Vitamin B2): A crucial component for cellular energy production.

· Vitamin K2 (Menaquinone): Crucial for direct calcium management. It guides calcium directly to bones and teeth instead of letting it calcify in blood vessels.

· Vitamins A & E: Potent fat-soluble antioxidants that provide immune system and vision support.

· Iron: Supporting oxygen transportation throughout the body.

It also contains:

· Collagen and Gelatin: The most abundant structural proteins in the body, rich in amino acids like glycine and proline, which promote joint health and gut lining integrity.

· Conjugated Linoleic Acid (CLA): A type of fat compound that research suggests helps decrease total system inflammation and enhance white blood cell function.

· Alkylglycerols (AKGs): Immune-boosting lipids highly concentrated in bone marrow that help stimulate the production of white blood cells.

· Glucosamine & Chondroitin: Essential structural blocks utilized by the body to repair joint wear and tear and maintain cartilage.

When they call it a superfood, they are not kidding. But I call it plain delicious. It has an intense, savory, and rich flavor with a velvety texture and spreads like butter on toasted, crusty bread.

Here’s a recipe and video on the chance you’d like to experiment at home. Remember, it’s an appetizer. You eat in small quantities like butter on your bread.

I am curious to hear from any of you who have had marrow experiences of your own. Good or bad. Feel free to share in the comments.

Bon Appetit!

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

My mother always said, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” And that made sense to me, even though it was impossible to do. I mean how could anyone bite their tongue? Especially when you were a kid!

For example, my best friend in elementary school didn’t think twice the day she looked at my outfit and said: “What are you wearing? Didn’t anyone ever tell you prints and plaids never go together?” I was mortified. I didn’t know. My mother, the artist, neglected to tell me the cardinal rule of fashion.

But back to my mother’s advice. Could my friend have said nothing? Was that the polite way to respond? Yes, but I would have remained a social pariah for all time!

Could she have said it nicer? Perhaps. But as kids we just said what was on our minds, right? Filters were lacking in grade school. But our sensitivity to embarrassment was not. Children do not like criticism any more or less than adults do.

Constructive Criticism

As I got older, I learned about “constructive criticism” – the kind of supportive feedback that my middle and high school teachers encouraged us students to give and receive as we evaluated each other’s papers. The goal was to help “improve” each other’s writing.

It wasn’t supposed to be about fault-finding or even pointing out mistakes. Instead, we were told to identify strengths and weaknesses of each argument with the intent of fostering positive change. Of course, the teachers never told us “how to deliver” this kind of feedback. So, we never received guidance for generating “kind and truly productive” feedback. Instead, the criticism I received went like this with comments scattered all over the pages: “No! What? Makes no sense. ???, I disagree. Show proof. Flowery words.”

Not exactly helpful to me.

Constructive Delivery

Later, I after I entered the business world, I learned the practice of front-loading praise before delivering the hatchet. This was famously used at performance evaluations. This “I have some good news and some bad news” form of critiquing often ended with a sledgehammer aimed at the recipient’s motivational muscle. “Fix this or you won’t be considered for promotion next year either.”

Yikes!

Reviews could be brutal.

And when I took my turn at being the “reviewer,” my comments could be equally crushing.I remember being a judge for many ITVA (International Television Association) competitions where a panel of us would watch video after video till our eyes bulged out, after which, we rate each program and offer comments.

There were no humans to humiliate, so we just set our pens to paper and without fear of reprisal, we buried hatchet after hatchet. I often wrote, short, scathing comments, especially where program quality was concerned. “Nice opening, but show devolved after that. boring; slow pacing; bad audio. You should have used professionals.”

Looking back now, I’m sure the recipient of these feedback reviews were devastated. And my comments were far from constructive. But now I know better.

Liz Lerman’s Critical Response Process^SM

I came to understand there was a better way after learning about Liz Lerman’s Critical Response Process^SM in a workshop with children’s book author, Karen Krossing -- a 9-week picture book writing class I signed up for that was offered by Whale Rock Writers Group.

To prepare us for the workshop, Karen gave us links to CRP videos and reading materials. It was to be the foundation of how we critiqued each other’s work throughout the class. She encouraged us to practice this “better, more supportive” method and guided us in its use. And while I was not a natural at it, I have to say it is a more productive way to give and receive critiques.

With CRP, ugly criticism is transformed into respectfully shared observations by responders for the artist to contemplate under the guidance of the facilitator.

This simple, thoughtful approach allows the artist to arrive at their own conclusions based on the questions and opinions provided by the respondents.

It doesn’t matter if it’s prose or poetry, dance or multi-media, music composition or performance, Lerman’s CRP is intended to launch positive dialogues about any kind of artistic works-in-progress to get the artist to think about their work differently. These fresh thoughts serve to get the artist to question their decision-making process and inform them about alternative approaches and ideas that may or may not improve the piece. Instead of leveling cold-blooded criticism, the artist is primed for their own “ah-ha” moments—inspired by the dialogue.

Without going into details, each multi-step question and answer session creates dialogue that is respectful. It offers the artist opportunities to examine how others are perceiving their work and allows the artist to consider the respondents’ thoughts as options for change, if they wish.

And as a result, the artist will never feel defensive, attacked, or criticized. No hurt feelings.

Use CRP at home with your children and partner, with friends and strangers, or at any point in your professional life. If my childhood friend had asked me if I wanted her opinion about my mixed-pattern clothing options, I could have said yes or no. And if yes, I could have learned the same lesson without being mortified. It would have been a beautiful thing.

My opinion, if I may give it? It’s not too late to be civilized in this uncivil world, and I think this type of dialogue takes us one step closer to that. Thank you, author and teacher, Karen Krossing, for opening my eyes to Liz Lerman’s method of critiquing with kindness.

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

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Book Review: Monster vs. Boy (published 2023)

While reading Karen Krossing’s Monster vs. Boy, (targeted at middle-grade audiences ages 10-12), I was reminded of my own childhood fears that followed me until high school. In my case it was a recurring dream where a wall of individual drawers appeared, and unpredictably, one by one, these random drawers would fly open and terrifying fluorescent faces would pop out. I have an aversion to masks to this day.

While I believe I have put my childhood fears to rest, the memories that Krossing’s book evoke gave me food for thought –- enough to want to write this review.

This is a monster hunt story with a barely whispered theme about mental illness which is delicately handled by the author. It centers on an 11-year-old boy named Dawz who lives with his sister and their uncle “Pop” in Morsh, a town famous for its reputed monster sightings. For the most part, there are no monsters left, but the promise of seeing one still brings tourists to the area. I say, “for the most part,” because among the boxes and stacks of old books stored in Dawz’s bedroom closet lives a terrifying monster named Mim who has the endearing quality that she can’t read, but would love to understand books. He senses her presence there and his fears intensify.

What Dawz doesn’t know is that for years, Mim has listened to the stories read to him and his sister by Pop, who stepped in as their adoptive parent after their mother disappeared from the family due to mental illness. The monster thrived on those stories and wishes she could make sense of the books stacked in her closet. But one day Dawz winds up in the closet while playing hide-and-seek and sees Mim in the flesh (or should I say scales?), and his fears are finally confirmed. He’s either lost his mind or there really is a monster in his closet!

He reacts and throws a book at her. The confrontation causes Mim to run away, and Dawz comes to understand that he alone can see her. With a monster on the loose in the monster-hungry tourist town of Morsh, the police and pest control are on the case with Dawz trying his best to avoid her. But as Mim discovers the big world around her, she also comes to recognize her inextricable connection to Dawz, just as Dawz is equally drawn to her as old memories about his mother are awakened.

Kids will love this book for the wild chase and the characters. Parents, grandparents, and caregivers will want to see their children enjoy it for its messages about friendship, kindness, and facing one’s fears. Tone: light. Not too scary. Action: adventurous. Highly recommended.

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

“The Very Mad Science of Dr. Morcant Hollow” Volume 1

The Paradoxical Incongruities of Slingshot Time Travel

Review by Marilyn Petrokubi

While dark, comic horror is not my “go-to” genre, I really enjoyed the humor of Hamilton Kohl’s novelette, “The Very Mad Science of Dr. Morcant Hollow. (It’s short. At 61 pages the title with subtitle is almost as long as the book.)

The story centers around Dr. Morcant Hollow, who returns to the family estate (à la maison du Docteur Frankenstein) expecting to pay his dying father a visit. Instead, he finds the old man dead, gun in hand, and bullet through his brain. His brother is missing and the cat is acting strange.

With little sorrow or regret, Morcant takes this as an opportunity to poke around dad’s lab. You may wonder what’s funny about any of this, but it is, and it gets funnier as he discovers his father’s empty journal and abandoned experiments, about which neither the odd butler nor the cat have anything to say.

Leave it to Morcant to discover his father’s Slingshot Time Machine. Of course, he tries to make it work with the help of a well-aimed bolt of lightning and winds up sending himself back to the recent past. It’s the day of his father’s alleged suicide, and with little soul searching, Morcant “finds himself” in the process. He must navigate the “paradoxical incongruities” of this situation while dealing with the ever-present, meddling cat. I promise you’ll be amused.

If you like darkly comic mad science, eccentric family dynamics, and snarky animals, this is the short book for you. Give it a try, you’ll be anxious for Kohl to publish Vol. 2 by the you’re done.

Tone: Humorous, madcap, and steampunk-adjacent.

Available here on Amazon

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

Dear Friends, Family, and Followers:

I am delighted to tell you that my short essay Art Therapy was chosen to be featured by LIT Magazine and was published March 20, 2026. It’s a very personal story about mother, Mary Petrokubi, the artist, and me.

LIT Magazine is a renowned triannual literary journal published by The New School's Creative Writing MFA program, focusing on publishing innovative poetry, fiction, non-fiction, translation, and art that highlights diverse voices and cultural critique, serving as a platform for emerging and established writers.

I would love it if you can take the time to read my story and comment below. (It’s short, I promise.) It would be extra special to hear what you have to say about this, especially if you knew my mom personally.

Love you guys!

Marilyn

“Like,” “Comment” “Restack” and/or “Recommend” - to help this story have “legs.”

“Mary still rested in her bed near death. Her snow-white hair lay limp on the pillow. The year was 1950, and she was thirty-eight years old. Mary was dying from pernicious anemia, and to make matters worse, she was pregnant…” More

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

Ms. Tahir became the first Pakistani American and first Muslim American to win the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature when her novel All My Rage was recognized in November 2022. She also won the Printz Medal, becoming the first Pakistani American and Muslim American to earn that award as well. And this winning streak has not ended. Just this year, she won the 2025 Ignyte Award for best Young Adult Novel for her 2024 book Heir.

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As a young girl, Ms. Tahir devoured fantasy books. I picture her reading for long stretches while working the front desk at her parents’ motel with only the Shannara books by Terry Brooks to keep her company.

Her parents gave her a traditional Muslim upbringing, and over time that upbringing began to clash with the feminist, liberal ideals evolving within her as she matured. To her credit, she graduated from UCLA in 2004, and thereafter became an editor at the Washington Post. In this position, she was exposed to a range of in-depth stories documenting real-life examples of oppression and resilience: the horrors of “disappeared” family members, government coups, savagery. rebellions and uprisings, suffering and survival.

“I was reading about child soldiers,” Tahir said, “and I remember this story with a kid on the front page of The Washington Post. He had a pink teddy bear backpack, and he’s holding an AK.” That image of corrupted innocence became her character Elias’s core.

As for me, I’m a little late to the game reading and reviewing An Ember in the Ashes. It first came out in 2015, but it was only last week when the teen librarian at Millburn Library (in NJ) recommended it to me. I must admit I was skeptical at first, since I thought our tastes in reading were as radically different as the dress codes for the Empire and the Rebellion. However, I eagerly plowed through the first book and am ready to enlist for the next.

I say “enlist,” because the Ms. Tahir has done a masterful job of creating a fictitious, strife-ridden world ruled by a military regime that feels familiar and relevant. Her protagonists chafe when forced to conform. Loyalty, love, and responsibility feud in the hearts and minds of Laia of Serra, a Scholar girl who volunteers to become a slave so she can spy on the Martial Empire for the rebels, in order to free her captured brother, and Elias Veturius, a reluctant elite soldier at the Blackcliff Military Academy where Laia serves his mother, (her new master, The Commandant).

If this sounds something like the Star Wars Trilogy to you, I would have to agree. It’s also reminiscent of The Goblet of Fire with its Hogwarts-like trials for the top young soldiers trained at Blackcliff Military Academy to prove their worthiness. But it’s more than that. An Ember in the Ashes feels totally fresh in its telling. So, like its author, do not assume you’ll find any stereotypes. And keep in mind, there’s not a single spaceship anywhere.

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

It was all about the ice cream. Dairy Queen to be specific, long before it became the modernized brand: DQ. I was seven years old and was begging, no nagging, my parents to take me there.

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In those days ice cream was a special treat, not a nightly dessert. Maybe once a month or two, my parents would take a Sunday drive down Northfield Avenue towards Livingston Circle, then west on Route 10 to East Hanover, NJ. Sometimes, we’d stop on the way home after a visit to Two Guys (from Harrison), a discount department store where the live parakeets always grabbed my attention. But that Sunday, it was just a straight shot to Dairy Queen to shut me up.

Going west from the circle, we drove a mile or two, and it was on the left. As we approached, I saw the sign and my mouth started watering. She was an Inuk girl (Eskimo in the incorrect parlance of the day) with her almond eyes and coal black hair, wrapped in her snow-white parka with the fur-lined hood. Larger than life, she perched on the roof, welcoming all to taste the goodness she offered. But she was not a queen. Not then, not ever.

In my Disney-influenced mind, she had no trappings of royalty about her. Nor was she particularly beautiful. Not like Cinderella, Snow White, or my favorite, Sleeping Beauty. She was just a kid like me, and for that reason above all, I loved her.

In her mittened hand she held the object of my fixation, the famous swirl cone. Was hers dipped in butterscotch? I liked mine that way too sometimes, but most often I chose vanilla ice cream dipped in chocolate. I can still hear the sound of that hard chocolate shell cracking with the first bite. And no matter the flavor, there was something about the little swirl at the top that fascinated me.

To a kid like me, the Dairy Queen cone was pure genius. With the mastery of the swirl, the consistency with every cone and its quirkiness, I became a lifelong devotee. No Dilly Bars or Blizzards for me. No Brazier Beef or French Fries. Just give me the swirl with the curl.

You may be interested to know that the Dairy Queen story began way back in 1938, two years before the first store opened, with the invention of soft-serve ice cream. The inventors, J.F. McCullough and his son Alex convinced ice cream man, Sherb Noble, to sell it at his shop in Kankakee, Illinois. It was an immediate hit. They served 1,600 customers in two hours at an all-you-can-eat ice cream sale.

Then Noble and the McCulloughs opened the first Dairy Queen store on June 22, 1940, along historic Route 66 in Joliet, Illinois. And I have to say, even with paying customers later, they were still giving this stuff away

While no longer open for business, the site in Joliet still stands as a local landmark. And I’m sad to say, the old Route 10, Dairy Queen that my family used to frequent is long gone too. Now The Vitamin Shoppe and a Dunkin’ Donuts stand at that approximate location.

But the good news is that in 2024 a brand new DQ opened nearby for those of you who need a soft-serve ice cream fix after all this reminiscing. However, be prepared. A medium cone dipped in chocolate will now cost you $5.63 (as of 3/7/26).

But enjoy anyway. Hopefully these words and images have thawed some long-frozen memories – of family and friends, swirls and curls, and other delightful moments of your life.

To see the changes in the Dairy Queen Logos over the years, click here.

https://logos.fandom.com/wiki/Dairy_Queen

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

An odd thing happened many years ago. I found myself dancing with my doppelganger. If not in looks exactly, in motion and body fluidity.

Let me explain.

It happened at a New Years Eve party in the early 1980s. My first cousin, Anne Marie Petrokubi was visiting my mother that afternoon, and I stopped by to say hello. We rarely saw each other, and I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to catch up.

I was especially excited when she agreed to go to a party with me that night. Now the details are a little vague, but the thing I remember most was dancing with Anne Marie. We were having fun, rocking to Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean,” when the most remarkable thing dawned on me – she and I were dancing in perfect synchronicity.

I felt like I had found my clone. It was like we shared the same bone and muscular systems. Every move I made, she made. Every change she made, I made. The result was like I was dancing while looking at myself in the mirror. We were in sync somehow – in mind, body, and spirit! And to this day I can’t explain it. Nor can I forget it.

At the time, we talked about it and laughed. But I’ve been wondering about the impossibility of it all ever since then. Then a 2026 News Flash! I finally found someone to ask about such a strange phenomenon. GEMINI.

Yes, I asked my AI pal the question that had been bothering me for decades: Would first cousins share similar body structures making it so they would move and dance alike?

And here’s what Gemini said:

It’s a fascinating question! (Don’t you love how agreeable Gemini and its relatives are?) The short answer is yes, but with some significant “howevers.” Cousins can certainly share physical traits that influence how they move, but since they only share a portion of their DNA, environmental factors often play a bigger role.

Who knew? It turns out that first cousins share approximately 12.5% of their DNA. And while that isn’t a massive amount, it is enough to inherit similar skeletal structures and muscle compositions. Cousins might share similar limb proportions, joint flexibility, and muscular twitch fibers (fast twitch for breakdancing or jumping or slow twitch for sustained, rhythmic movement).

Beyond bones and muscles, Gemini also told me that Anne Marie and I might have inherited similar nervous systems, such that we could share a similar neurological map that might give us similar postures or hand gestures.

Studies on “familial gait” show that even people who have never met their biological relatives often walk with the same rhythm and lilt as their parents or cousins, suggesting that the “base code” for movement is deeper than just mimicry.

Celebrity Examples:

There are several famous cousin pairs who share striking physical similarities and movement patterns that reflect their shared DNA.

Snoop Dogg and Brandy. These two are first cousins, and their shared “familial gait” is evident in their laid-back, fluid movement. Both have a naturally tall, slender build. Snoop is famous for his relaxed, effortless stage presence, while Brandy is known for her smooth, rhythmic R&B choreography. Both share a distinct “cool” and low-tension way of moving that is characteristic of their family line.

Then there’s Nick Offerman and his cousin “Flip-Flop.” Actor Nick Offerman has spoken on talk shows about how he and his cousin were so physically synchronized that they formed a breakdancing duo called Tik-Tok and Flip-Flop. They would choreograph routines based on their shared ability to do “popping and locking,” utilizing their similar joint structures to create mechanical-looking movements in unison.

And while first cousins Melissa McCarthy and Jenny McCarthy aren’t dancers, they share a very distinct, energetic approach to physical comedy. Both use their whole bodies for humor, sharing a specific “all-in” intensity and similar facial-muscle mimicry that makes their comedic timing and physical gags feel related.

So, there it was. I finally had my answer. It’s a shame that my cousin now lives far away in New Mexico and that we rarely, if ever, dance anymore. But we’ll always have the memory of that night and the knowledge we are kindred spirits in body and soul because as cousins, it’s all about our jeans genes.

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

“Time is our most valuable currency, spend it wisely,” said neurologist and philosopher Dr. Debasish Mridha I say: Take it and spend it on yourself. Discover a place where stillness finds you. And once it arrives, protect it at all costs.

Now I’m no expert on meditation. When I do yoga, I usually have a cup of coffee by my side. Nor have I found my chakras yet, whatever they are.

But during these turbulent times when I can’t look away from reports about the ICE raids in our cities, the actions of the dangerous autocrat in the White House, and the repeated assaults on our democracy, I feel like I need an antidote to my doom-scrolling.

That’s why I counter these outrageous affronts with something I call my Triple-Play of Personal Peace.

· Peace of mind

· Renewal of purpose

· And gratitude

Nothing fancy. Just ten minutes. I’ve made a habit of sitting with myself to clear my mind, set my intentions for the day, and express gratitude for all that’s going right. (I am especially grateful today that my house has heat plus a thousand more things.)

No pretzel seating on the floor for me, although you may be comfortable in that position. I sit in a chair; lie down; make myself comfortable. I close my eyes and sit in the silence of my home, filtering out the hissing of the radiator, the hum of the refrigerator, and the creaks in the floor. Or if I want a shortcut, I used the Calm app or turn to YouTube or Spotify to find tranquil sounds, music, singing bowls, and affirmations to effortlessly usher me to a calm place in my mind. I’m particularly fond of Christopher Lloyd Clarke’s wind chimes (found on YouTube) which I play at a low volume to settle me down.

There’s something magical about experiencing ten minutes when very little comes to mind except how inert my hands feel on my lap. Sometimes I feel a vibration, or I see things behind my closed eyes, but mostly I feel myself – feeling myself. Quiet, relaxed, peaceful. It’s lovely.

And when I’m done, I’m refreshed. Simple as that.

So, here’s my free advice:

· Protect your peace at all costs

· Put away distractions

· Learn to enjoy your own company

· Realize most people do not require immediate access to you

· And enjoy yourself enjoying yourself

You deserve it!

Please share your relaxation tips and secrets in the comments below. I’d love to hear from you.

I was driving to the library the other afternoon and listening to the radio station, WFMU, when one of my favorite songs from The Shins started playing. The song was “Phantom Limb” from the 2007 album Wincing the Night Away.

It is a song about teenage alienation. And while I never could fully understand all the lyrics, I had a sense that it was about disconnected youth which got me thinking about my own high school days.

After hearing the song, I decided to dig up the complete lyrics* (posted below) to read the words without the catchy music and find out what I was missing. And as it turned out, I was missing a lot.

In a 2006 Billboard Magazine interview, songwriter James Mercer said: “The song is a hypothetical, fictional account of a young, lesbian couple in high school dealing with the sh*tty small town they live in.”

The song was about the alienation many kids feel in high school. I could relate. Mercer claimed that he was referencing a particular school named Eldorado High School (EHS) in the lyrics, but it could just as easily have been LHS my old school or your old school, if you just change the initials.

This got me thinking about my own shitty high school days and my best friend who was a closeted lesbian, (even I didn’t know it until much later when she went away to college). “Salt and Pepper” they called us, inseparable, insular, and too smart for our own good. Unlike the kids in the song, we weren’t trying to conform. Instead, we were trying to reinvent a new “cool” even if it was the two of us venturing out alone.

Somehow we knew that if we did try to fit in, we’d fail miserably. But it was okay because we had each other.

I can see the popular girls now, “foals in their winter coats. White girls of the north” They seemed to float on an ethereal plane of entitlement. Snow blondes and polished chestnuts – their glossy manes swinging free. Their laughter was easy. They seemed to wield some invisible power effortlessly, enchanting everyone in their path. And we made way for them. Like the sudden appearance of royals, we’d defer to them, even if it meant slamming our hips into the lockers.

But we would not emulate them. Instead, we made our own fun: listening to the song In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida for the thousandth time; driving around in my mother’s catmobile wondering about the lost continent of Atlantis; taking the 77 to Greenwich Village in the snow…

In our private haze, we left those designer-label girls to create their own weather as they sneaked sips from bottles stolen from their father’s liquor cabinets in the back of the Y dances on Saturday nights. They had snow-goggle tans in January and swim club tans in July. We were pale and ate Pop Tarts, but we were happy.

We had each other – until finally, we graduated, and university life called my friend to a state far away to reshape her into the human she was meant to be, while I stayed local, commuted from home and for a while, turned into someone else’s devoted girlfriend.

When she left I felt severed. Gutted. Left with a phantom limb that became a pulsing reminder of everything we’d had together.

We lost touch. Changed course. And went our separate ways, until decades later, at our 40th high school reunion we were reunited. Skittish and unsure, we were no longer like puzzle pieces that fit together anymore. But in hugging her, the years melted away. It felt like wrapping myself in an old, overcoat coat that still fit. The warmth returned, and after 30 years, we were now free to add a new chapter to our enduring friendship.

In hindsight, we look at ourselves now and laugh, amazed we turned out as well as we have. She, the doctor of troubled children. Me, the storyteller and librarian. We’ve shed our teenage skins and have become something else entirely. What magic! that the two of us can admire and respect each other as grown women, and still pick up from where we left off. At the table, we celebrate with our loved ones. We share good food, wine, and old stories as the music plays on. And for all of this, I’m forever grateful.

The phantom limb is healed. No surgery required.

Phantom Limb by James Mercer; performed by The Shins
(click the link for the song which follows a commercial)

[Verse 1]

Foals in winter coats

White girls of the north

File past; one, five, and one

They are the fabled lambs

Of Sunday ham

The EHS norm

[Verse 2]

And they could float above the grass

In circles if they tried

A latent power I know they hide

To keep some hope alive

That a girl like I

Could ever try

Could ever try

[Chorus 1]

So we just skirt the hallway sides

A phantom and a fly

Follow the lines

And wonder why

There’s no connection

[Verse 3]

A week of rolling eyes

And cheap shots from the tribe

And we’re off to Nemarca’s porch again

Another afternoon

Of the goat-head tunes

And pilfered booze

[Verse 4]

We wander through her mama’s house

The milk from a window lights

Family portrait, circa ‘95

This is that foreign land

With the sprayed-on tans

And it all feels fine

Be it silk or slime

[Chorus 2]

So, when they tap our Monday heads

Two zombies walk in our stead

This town seems hardly worth the time

And we’ll no longer memorize or rhyme

Too far along in our climb

Stepping over what now towers to the sky

With no connection

[Bridge]

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

[Chorus 3]

So, when they tap our Sunday heads

Two zombies walk in our stead

This town seems hardly worth the time

And we’ll no longer memorize or rhyme

Too far along in our crime

Stepping over what now towers to the sky

With no connection

[Outro]

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh, ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh, ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh

Oh, oh-oh, oh-ohh, ohh

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

History isn’t written by the victors, but by the ones holding the pen.”

Hi friends and family. It’s Marilyn wishing you all a happy new year with special thanks to my paid subscribers. (You know who you are!)

But really it’s not about the $5.00 a month. I feel fortunate to have any and all of you read these musings, and I’m enjoying your comments. Thank you.

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For those of you who know me, I love libraries, and I’m a sucker when it comes to books about them. I loved “The Midnight Library” by Matt Haig, a book often compared this new title: “The Book of Lost Hours” by Hayley Gelfuso which I am reviewing for you today.

With a healthy dose of fantasy, a touch of historical fiction, and a nod to alternate realities, “The Book of Lost Hours” intertwines the lives of two women who discover just how far some people in power will go to erase and rewrite history (sound familiar?) and how far love can extend to protect other peoples’ convictions to preserve it.

In 1938, eleven-year-old Lisavet Levy is hidden by her watchmaker/timekeeper father in the mysterious “time space” to protect her from the Nazis on Kristallnacht. The time space is a vast library containing human memories of all civilizations past that only timekeepers can visit. (Think of it as a parallel universe of all realities condensed into volumes of books). However, when her father is killed, Lisavet finds she is trapped there with only the memories and the occasional ghost to keep her company.

But not for long. She soon learns that there are those who want to destroy memories to preserve their version of history, and unexpectedly, she becomes the protector of the time space, rescuing the lost memories and hiding them in her own secret book.

Years go by, until in 1949, an American timekeeper named Ernest discovers what she is doing, and suddenly, Lisavet’s mission is sidetracked as Ernest offers her a glimpse of the world she left behind and a chance at love, which sets her on a course to change history and possibly the time space itself. (A little nod to an old Star Trek episode for you Trekkies).

However, this story alternates with another. In 1965, sixteen-year-old Amelia Duquesne is mourning the death of her uncle Ernest when a mysterious, chain smoking, U.S. government agent from the Temporal Reconnaissance Program, Moira Donnely, and her awful boss, Jack Dillinger, recruit Amelia reluctantly to track down a stolen book of memories. This much coveted book is one that Amelia’s uncle had once sought as part of his work with that same organization.

She has to keep it from the Russians, or so she is told. But when Amelia visits the time space for the first time, she realizes that the past—and the truth—might not be as clear-cut as her “employers” would have her believe.

Ambitious and complex, “The Book of Lost Hours” is a magical and moving story about time, memory, and the enduring power of love. At the same time, it serves as a timely warning against censorship and the manipulation of truth.

I enjoyed the premise of the book immensely, but in reading it, I felt there were some flaws. I found the mechanics of the time space library to be a little confusing, and I had questions that were never answered about the extent of Amelia’s full powers. Plus, there were moments where the pacing could have been stepped up. But as a whole, I was all-in for the time-travel component and the sweeping love story about these star-crossed time space travelers. The key is to not think too much and just go along for the ride.

“A memory, once it’s over, is never exactly what it was when it was happening”

Pick up a copy at your local library, or if you’d like to own the hardcopy or paperback version of the book for your collection, consider purchasing it through Bookshop.org which supports local bookshops.

Buy the Book

Marilyn is a librarian and fiction author, currently in the querying trenches with two novels and writing her third, a middle-grade fantasy. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty.) Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

But hear me out. Just a few weeks ago, our neighbor’s dog (who I absolutely love regardless of his foul smelling breath) came over to visit. As usual, I greeted him with robust scratching behind the ears and a pat on the back. I really like the black fluff ball, but then he proceeded to pee on our newly carved Jack-o-Lantern on the front porch. I was horrified!

“No! No! No!” I cried. “Bad dog!”

A kettle of water rinsed the pee away, but it got me thinking of how we suffer the rudeness of our pets. If you’re a dog owner, you may be in denial, but in your heart of hearts, you know it’s true. We are all at the mercy of our pets.

I’ve had a boyfriend’s Irish Setter slobber stringy gobs of saliva all over my clothes whenever I’d come to visit. (I should have sent him the dry cleaning bills).

I caught another friend’s canine eating maggots in poop behind the rec building in the park. (You let him lick your face?) I’ve been jumped on by excited pups who are glad to see me only to be rewarded with red welts from their claws running down my legs. Too many pairs of tights have been ruined the same way. And then there was the time in third grade when I ventured too close to a neighbor’s dog and was bitten while walking home from school.

A shrink might say my obvious preference for cats all stemmed from the trauma of that dog bite incident. And that therapist may be right. I tried to be a dog person. I really did. For years, I begged my parents for a puppy. Houndedthem, you might say. My best friend across the street had the cutest cocker spaniel named Bootsie. I loved my friend, and I loved that dog. I wanted one of my own -- desperately!

So finally in 6^th grade, my mother surrendered to my badgering, and I got Candy, a pathetically cute, wire-haired terrier mix who arrived jazzed up like she was on amphetamines—masterful at jumping on people, straining on the leash, chewing furniture, and loud yapping.

My attempts to train her were ineffective, and she didn’t last three months with us before she was returned to the shelter. Experiment aborted. Please don’t hate me. It was my mother’s mistake.

That said, I know there are distinct benefits to having a dog:

· unconditional love

· protection from strangers

· daily exercise

· improved social life

· lowered blood pressure and reduced stress during snuggling

· Even longer life due to the companionship they offer.

I see my dear friend, Laura, clocking over 10,000 steps every day to give Delilah a good workout. Her legs look great – (and so do Laura’s) – and despite the cold, dark days of winter upon us, they still frequent the dog park every morning with their new-found friends (doggy and human).

Laura with Delilah on the left, along with two other Husky pals.

I often think of them when I’m tucked in my cozy bed on these frigid mornings. The other day, I imagined them frolicking in the new-fallen snow up in South Mountain Reservation. Truth was, part of me wished I was there with them. But then I rolled over.

Rain, hail, sleet, and snow an 80-pound Husky’s got to go.

Which leads me to those bright green poop bags. No thank you. Changing diapers was bad enough. Happily, my son became self-sufficient and stopped requiring diaper changes and burping. According to reports from his girlfriend, Emily, he’s quite well-trained now.

But dog owners, on the other hand, sign up to be servants to their pets for ten to twenty-year stints with no chance of those pets ever taking care of them in old age. So, who is the master here?

Pets, especially dogs, rule our lives. You know what I mean. Take for instance the dog owner who must leave the party early because little Fido needs to go out. Or the pet owner who skips vacations because they can’t imagine leaving Taffy in a kennel, never mind the price! They tolerate expensive vet bills, routinely missed pee pads and tumbleweeds of fur that cling to every imaginable surface.

And they do this voluntarily!

Now I understand how this can happen. As a cat person myself, I have signed up for over six decades of servitude to many felines who’ve had no ambition at all except to become sleep-aholics. No aptitude for anything.

Stimulate them too much and cats can become snarky—vindictive one moment, only to start purring as they wrap themselves around your legs the next.

Our cat, Miskit (or Misfit depending on the day) clearly favors my husband, Rob, over me. But never has she jumped on my computer keyboard and erased all my emails, (thousands of them) like she has done to Rob—TWICE! Mind you, this takes multiple keystrokes to accomplish this feat. Like I said, vindictive.

I mean, how is this possible? And why do we put up with it?

And all we say is “Bad Kitty. Bad, bad, kitty.” Because really, she can’t learn anything. She has a brain the size of a meatball. There’s no hope for rehabilitation.

And still, we love her.

Miskit

Ah! To be a domesticated creature. Petted. Brushed. Fed. Snuggled. And forgiven.

We’re fools in love. All of us.

Now excuse me while I check for catnip toys on Amazon.

Marilyn is querying two novels and writing her third. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty). Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

LOVE:

Have you read the latest Dan Brown book called The Secret of Secrets? It’s been on the NY Times Best Seller list for weeks now. I recently checked the Goodreads statistics for ratings, and so far, over 70,000 people took the time to rate it – with 70% of them giving the book either 4 or 5 stars. Pretty impressive.

Now if you have spoken to me recently, you’ll know I can’t stop talking about this book because I loved it too. But you don’t need another raving review from me. Just go to Goodreads and you can find thousands of them.

Instead, I thought I’d take a look at some of the 1-star criticisms to try to see what kind of stick those negative reviewers had up their butts to be so vehemently anti-
Secret.

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HATE:

One reviewer said: “I’m going to steal a line I read
recently that seems to fit. This book is not good enough to hate.”

Pretty harsh. And in summary, he seems to take issue with
the things that appealed to me most.

1. He hates the very idea of noetic science (parapsychology) and calls it nonsense. This - even after Brown certifies that every paranormal experiment cited in the book has
been carefully researched and professionally documented and/or published in peer-reviewed journals. And when he’s writing science fiction it’s obvious to me what is speculative.

2. Example: the reviewer can’t stomach the idea that the book’s MacGuffin (what the bad guys want to steal and what the good guys want to keep) is a missing manuscript that grapples with the question of what happens to our consciousness after we die
and postulates (as science fiction) the creation of a merged human/machine technology that in the wrong hands could be used for nefarious military purposes at the expense of unsuspecting human subjects.

3. He’s critical of Brown’s rudimentary, Wiki-pedia-like descriptions of the city of Prague.

4. And he calls the plotline simplistic with writing that’s akin to a movie script.

For me his complaints highlighted all the reasons I loved this book. It provided me with a well-documented introduction to noetic science (the study of consciousness and other paranormal phenomena). It offered appealing descriptions of Prague in the winter such that I am ready to dust off my passport and go see all the sights mentioned in the book. And I was so thoroughly engrossed in the action-packed plot that I breezed through the nearly 700-page book in less than two weeks. There’s no question that The Secret of Secrets will make a great Netflix series someday.

THE INTERVIEW:

It all started for me when I heard an NPR interview with Dan Brown who
explained that during his research for the book, his ideas about life after death changed 180 degrees. He went from being a 100 percent materialist: When we die, the brain and body die, and consciousness dies with them - to the opposite position: 100% idealist. The idealist says: We die, the brain dies with the body, and consciousness returns as energy to the quantum universe from which it came.

He did exhaustive research and met with people who’ve experienced things like out-of-body and near-death experiences, remote viewing, telekinesis, clairvoyance, and intuitive precognition which support the idea that our consciousness is external from our brains. He learned that our brain simply acts as a receiver to a frequency from the universal consciousness which begins at birth and is filtered by our brain to an acceptable level of normal reality as we age. If the level of the GABA filter is changed, the frequencies are disrupted, causing hallucinations, epilepsy, schizophrenia and other expressions of reality that don’t conform to our shared “normal” version.

When I bring up ideas like this to many of my friends and acquaintances in conversations about this book, it surprises me how many of them
have some paranormal story to tell. They share memories about their own
out-of-body experiences, their communications with loved ones who have passed
on, or other planes of consciousness they’ve reached through meditation or LSD.
They will tell me that their experiences are all distinctly separate from the
everyday reality we all seem to share.

On a related but tangential subject, a recent Pew Research Center survey shows that
about seven-in-ten Americans believe in an afterlife. And about half of
Americans say that parts of nature – such as mountains, rivers or trees – can
have spirits or spiritual energies.

All this may account for the wide popularity of Brown’s book. But remember, as a storyteller, Brown has a talent for weaving together science, noetics, speculative fiction, legend and myth - blurring the line between what’s real and what’s not. So be prepared when a Golem starts haunting the streets of Prague early in the book.

In the preface, Brown states that everything referenced in his tome is true, and he has added a significant list of footnotes to the back of the book. But is the Golem real? It’s a real legend to be sure, but that’s a whole lot different from having actual U.S. government reports documenting government-sanctioned remote viewing to find missing military aircraft. If you are interested in reading a compilation of such noetic experiments, I recommend reading The End of Upside Down Thinking by Mark Gober.

As for me, The Secret of Secrets opens a door to thinking about things I rarely, if ever, think about: consciousness and my perception of things at their most personal level of
“I-ness.” Is the book plausible? Yes. I think so. Is it real? I am one page away from booking a trip to Prague to see for myself. And Charles Bridge will be my first stop.

Marilyn is querying two novels and writing her third. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty). Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

I’ve got some wonderful friends. I’m sure you do too. and like me, you probably don’t thank them enough.

I caught up with one of them on the phone the Sunday after Thanksgiving. He’s from Nigeria and came to Kent State University as a young student. He’s been in the U.S. for over four decades now, and I know he’s grateful to be a U.S. citizen and a contributing member of American society.

But I’m sure he misses his family and friends. He hasn’t been back in Lagos in nearly five years. With all the political unrest and upheaval there, it’s just not safe, and he knows it. We discussed the risks of such a trip: the high risk of kidnapping, terrorist attacks from groups like Boko Haram and ISWAP, widespread violent crime, civil unrest, and unreliable healthcare services in Nigeria. You read about it in the news every day, and you’re glad the United States hasn’t degenerated to such awful extremes.

Given all these warnings, I told him that I’m grateful he decided not to travel to Nigeria any time soon. But that got us on the subject of gratitude and Thanksgiving—the official day to appreciate all that we have.

Recently while driving down the Parkway, I listened to a podcast that brought this into focus. The speaker suggested trying to be grateful for one hundred things every day. That sounded like a lot, but since I was stuck in my car for thirty minutes, I gave it a try. I started listing things I was grateful for: my car working well, a full tank of gas, feeling healthy and happy, meeting a new friend for coffee... I listed about twenty things before getting bored. I was nowhere near one hundred when I wondered, what’s the point?

A few days later, while complaining about this gratitude business to Alexandra, another friend, she reminded me that gratitude isn’t just a laundry list—it’s a feeling. “It’s simpler than you think,” she added. “You don’t have to say: “I’m grateful for this, I’m grateful for that… Just exclaiming that it’s a beautiful day or that your sandwich is delicious is acknowledgement enough. You probably do it all day long.”

Looking at gratitude that way, I never realized that acknowledging the weather or the taste of a panini could be a way of showing appreciation. But sure, why not?

Then I thought about how exercise is a form of showing gratitude to your body. In the simple act of breathing and stretching we appreciate the machine that it is. Smiling at yourself in the mirror each morning instead of scowling at your wrinkles brings a beautiful smile back to your face. That simple act of acceptance is a small miracle.

Something as simple as a compliment, a hug, or a word of encouragement can also be expressions of appreciation. They cost nothing to give, but the reward benefits both parties. The recipient feels good and so do you. Somehow each kindness fills your “tank” with grace. And it makes you feel wonderful.

Looking in the thesaurus, I learned that “grace” and “grateful” share the same Latin root, gratus, meaning “thankful” or “pleasing.” By expressing gratitude, you receive grace, which is understood as a free and unmerited gift, with the result that the recipient feels grateful for your kindness too. A win/win for both.

So, at the risk of sounding trite, I say: try it! Think of things you feel grateful for. Small things and large. Sometimes, we’re just grateful we can go to the bathroom, right? But seriously, appreciation for all the simple things we enjoy is powerful stuff.

Think about giving thanks as a year-round activity and reap the rewards. Remember, Thanksgiving is only day #1 of 365!

And special thanks to all of you, my Substack subscribers You sustain my creativity with your comments and your “likes”. Wishing you much happiness all year long

Marilyn is querying two novels and writing her third. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty). Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

Short Story Review:

“The Broken Queen of Hearts” by Hamilton Kohl

It’s anyone’s guess what Hamilton Kohl was smoking when he came up the idea of making key characters of Alice in Wonderland into a Raymond Chandler-type noir short story. Maybe it was a filter-less Camel or something stronger. Who knows? But three things are certain: Kohl knows his Alice. He is comfortable with his detective tropes, and he can’t resist a good pun.

His 49 page parody “The Broken Queen of Hearts” is a “whodunit?” detective mystery packed with enough puns and punches to make you yell, “Off with his head!” Word plays and Wonderland references will delight Lewis Carroll fans, while action-loving noir fans will get their fill of flawed, cynical investigators pulling rough and tumble punches. Just imagine a two-dimension playing card as a hard-boiled detective investigating Alice, the Queen of Hearts, and a host of other familiars, and you’ll get the picture.

As I mentioned, it’s short. Don’t expect full characterizations and many plot twists, but like any good amusement park ride, “The Broken Queen of Hearts” offers plenty of fantastic fun before it’s over—all too soon.

I guarantee you’ve never been on a ride that’s quite like this.

“The Broken Queen of Hearts” is available on Amazon here.

Alice in Wonderland Weekly is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

No harm, no foul.

This is for you. Just for fun. Enjoy! If you like it or if you hate it, leave your comments.

Okay, so I have to tell you about this book I just finished—Dan Brown’s The Secret of Secrets. It’s blowing up right now (number two on the NY Times best seller list and climbing!), and honestly, I can see why. The main plot is classic Dan Brown: think Prague, secret manuscripts, explosions, wild plot twists, and all the moody, macabre vibes you’d expect. It’s basically begging to be made into a movie.

But here’s the thing—I got completely sidetracked by the sub-plot. You know how sometimes you’re reading, and you just want to skip past the car chases and get to the juicy, brainy bits? That was me. There’s this whole thread about the science of noetics (from the Greek noēsis meaning: inner wisdom /direct knowing/intuition or another translation: noētikos meaning intellectual or mind.)

In THE SECRET OF SECRETS, the character Katherine wrote this mysterious manuscript (the MacGuffin) about the source of our consciousness. Her manuscript dives deep into brain science and our interconnectedness to the universe, (all thoroughly researched by Dan Brown.) I was so hooked, I barely cared about the action!

Honestly, I’m itching to write more about the whole noetics thing soon. It’s fascinating and kind of mind-blowing. But for now, let’s talk about something a little less deep: pockets and their secrets.

I know, it sounds random but hear me out! Isn’t it wild how something as simple as a pocket can be so important? I mean, we’ve all had that moment—standing in a store, trying on a dress or jacket, and the first thing you do is check for pockets. And if it has them? Instant joy! It’s like finding a secret little treasure chest sewn right into your clothes.

Spend a day without pockets, (courtesy of some ill-advised fashion designer) and you find yourself lugging around a bag full of “stuff.” My phone, lip balm, a comb or brush, makeup bag, and wallet is the minimum loaded into my tote.

But I digress again. In books like Dan Brown’s, pockets aren’t just about stashing your lip balm or your phone. They’re a metaphor for hidden knowledge, secret places, and the mysteries we carry around with us. It got me thinking about all the “secret pockets” in our own lives—the little things we keep tucked away, whether it’s a memory, a dream, or just a good snack for later.

Shopping in New Hope, PA this summer with my dear friend, Diane, I found a flowy, bohemian-style skirt in the window that could be equally appropriate for al fresco dinners, baby showers, or nights staring into the lights of Prague from Charles Bridge. Seconds later, I tried it on and casually slid my hands down the sides and bam! I found pockets. Not those tiny, useless ones, but actual, “I can fit my phone, a Kind bar, and probably a backscratcher” pockets. I did a little happy dance right there in the dressing room, and now every time someone compliments my outfit, I grin and say, “Thanks—it has pockets!”

Then there is my favorite ski jacket. Lavender (don’t judge!) It has so many pockets for secret stashes that I’d often forget about what I put in them. Preparing for a day of skiing, I’d stash emergency cash, a credit card, phone, and my license in hidden pockets inside the lining. It had deep side pockets for my ski lock and gloves, plus zippered ones in the sleeves that were perfect for my lift ticket and tissues.

On the way to the mountain one snowy day, I was pulled over by the local police because my headlight was out. I hadn’t brought my “pocketbook,” and I panicked. But then I remembered that my license was safe and sound inside one of those secret pockets. I felt like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. That coat made me feel prepared for anything, and honestly, a little bit like the “guy with a raincoat.”

Perhaps the best thing about pockets is the stuff you find a year later like that twenty-dollar bill I stuffed in my leather jacket last fall and forgot about. Or that sweet carnelian heart my friend, Brooke, gave me at that French Mexican restaurant in upstate New York. Little did I expect to find it hidden months later in the shorts I washed. Finding that heart reminded me of a good friend and brightened my day all over again.

Anyway, I could go on forever about pockets and secrets. I’ll save the Dan Brown noetics discussion, for another day. For now, I just wanted to share how a thriller about manuscripts and explosions somehow made me appreciate the humble pocket—and all the secrets it can hold.

Let me know if you want to chat more about noetics, consciousness, or just swap stories about the best pockets you’ve ever found. I’m all ears!

Marilyn is querying two novels and writing her third. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty). Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

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Recently I had an enlightening meeting with an editor at a top five publishing company who shared a valuable piece of advice: food references are taboo when describing characters in fiction.

Taboo? Who knew?

Maybe you did, but I didn’t. This conversation opened my eyes to the potential pitfalls of using food metaphors and similes to depict characters, and I came to realize the importance of steering clear of such descriptions.

The editor took issue with my main character’s (MC’s) reference to a clique of three middle-school girls in his class as the “parfait girls.” Because each girl had a different hair color: brown, red and blonde, he associated them with chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla ice cream. Hence the name “parfait girls.”

As the writer of this middle-grade fantasy, I thought calling them the “parfait girls” was a creative and endearing way to describe their diverse appearances. However, the editor pointed out several reasons why this approach might not be the best choice.

1. It tells the reader nothing about the person

2. It can reinforce stereotypes

3. It can pull the reader out of the story

4. It’s lazy

At first I didn’t agree with her. After all, it was my 12-yer-old main character (MC) who was labeling these girls as the “parfait girls,” not me. And he didn’t know them. It was his first day in a new school, and he called them that sarcastically. At that time, he was dismissing them wholesale as a clique and being snarky. I thought that should be fine. Plus, chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry were flavors, right? I wasn’t saying they were food.

(You can tell I really loved this analogy and didn’t want to change it.)

But when I argued my point, the editor still said no.

Now I respected this editor and sought her out based on all the years she’s spent in the industry, her many publishing successes, and her vast expertise as an editor of books for young readers. So, despite my resistance, I complied, but not before I turned to Google to research this taboo on food descriptions further, and here’s what I learned:

First off, comparing people to food can come across as reducing them to just their looks. For example, if we associate a character with “chocolate” and another “strawberry,” it might sound fun, but it doesn’t really tell us anything about who they are as individuals. Characters are more than just their appearance, and when labeling people, it’s better to say something that conveys their personalities, emotions, and/or depth of experience, if possible.

Secondly, food references can unintentionally reinforce stereotypes. Different foods are often linked to specific cultures, and using these to describe characters can be insensitive. For example, calling someone with dark skin “mocha,” “chocolate” or “caramel” can reduce them to an African American stereotype.

Thirdly, food references can be distracting. If readers come across a character described as a “parfait girl,” or “a meatball” they might focus more on the metaphor than on the character’s actions. They might mistake her for a “party girl” or a dull-witted person, making assumptions that are wrong. This can pull readers out of the story or cause confusion, and we definitely don’t want that. We want our readers to stay immersed in the narrative and connect with our characters on a deeper level.

Lastly, using food metaphors can be considered lazy and unoriginal. “Her lips were cherry red” is a cliche that we’ve heard too many times. “Her cheeks were soft as marshmallows.” As writers, we should strive to describe our characters in unique and memorable ways. Instead of relying on common comparisons, we should dig deeper into our characters’ personalities, backgrounds, and motivations. This will result in more authentic and relatable portrayals.

You may wonder what I changed the “parfait girls” to. I have to admit, it stumped me at first. But right now, I’m testing a brand-new (non-food) name for the group of girls. I’m not sure it will work, but I have high hopes. It has something to do with this pencil. Stay tuned.

Marilyn is querying two novels and writing her third. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty). Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

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How else would you describe a person who ran for the same office five years in a row and lost every single time?

But more of that later.

My character trait of determination has made me very proficient at overcoming disappointment and bouncing back whether we’re talking elections, sports, competition in business, or the challenge of the moment: writing query letters to literary agents.

Some people get agent representation quickly, and others, like me, continue to send out dozens of query packages with little or no response.

I am currently in the query trenches with my second novel, ORANGEWORLD, a Middle-Grade Fantasy. I send them out in batches of ten, and as I get feedback, I adjust.

If the responses from agents come back as standard form-letter rejections, I seek out query critiques from paid professionals to get the feedback I need to move forward. Maybe a different tagline is needed. Maybe it’s too long. Maybe parts of the bio are irrelevant. I make the needed changes and send out another batch.

Note to self: I’m psychologically prepared to send out as many as 150 query letters before I rethink the self-publishing option for ORANGEWORLD.

How I Got This Way

I was not born with resilience, optimism, or stubborn determination. But I was born lucky. Lucky that I had two parents who loved me. However, with that love came a fierce desire to protect me from the harsh realities of life. Since I had no siblings, I was numero uno in their eyes, and my parents tended to coddle me. They let me win.

They let me win Candyland. They gave me extra turns in croquet. In playing chess, I was given second, third and fourth chances to change my moves. And when I didn’t win, I had meltdowns. On more than one occasion, I remember upending the board game, not caring where the pieces scattered. It was a terrible feeling, but I couldn't help myself.

I was severely lacking in good sportsmanship, probably because I never learned to lose. I never learned to negotiate, win gracefully, or compromise. And that was a problem as I entered kindergarten. I remember simmering on the first day of school when I was assigned a cubby in the very bottom row and not the top where I wanted it. I felt cheated and dismissed.

My short fuse was lit whenever I was declared “out” in the game “red light, green light.” I was also disturbed that I could never be the first when we lined up because alphabetical order didn’t favor a last name starting with the letter “P.” And when it came to class pictures, the tallest ones like me were always in the back row, which seemed like a great injustice. Didn’t they see how adorable I was?

But peer pressure slapped me in the face and said, “snap out of it, Marilyn.” In the neighborhood as in grade school, I began to learn the world did not revolve around me. Away from my parents, I had to fight my own battles, solve my own problems, face disappointments, and learn how to lose. I learned resilience and fair play. The lessons came hard, but they came.

I couldn’t put my face in the water. At the town pool, I had to take basic beginner swim lessons three times. By the time I advanced, I had grown so tall that the water was only up to my waist. I was a giant among little people who seemed to take to the water like fish. But the truth was, I envied them, and that inspired me. While my parents were fine with me quitting, I cultivated a mantra of “try, try, and try again” and finally overcame my fears.

Another example of this was when I ran for class officer every single year, from 7^th to 12th grade, losing every election except the last. Very few candidates even tried a second time. But when in 12th grade I finally won after five consecutive years of trying, victory never tasted so sweet.

My resilience and ability to lose gracefully helped me when I started my own business years later. I wrote proposals for video projects–painstaking work to land a new client. When bids were sometimes lost to competitors, it hurt. Disappointment cut deep. But you can’t be thin-skinned in the business world. You win some; you lose some. Just ask any actor or model. If they want to stay in the game, they can’t take it personally if they don’t get a callback.

A “No” is Not a Rejection of You or Your Work

Rejection is tough. So much rides on the agent’s current interests and what is selling in the marketplace that the quality of your writing may not even play into it. All you can do is put together the best darn manuscript and query package that you can.

I think I reviewed and revised my query letter for ORANGEWORLD at least eight times over the last year. I’m happy to report that my letters of rejection from the agents have gotten more personalized and more complimentary with recent modifications.

That tells me I’m on the right track, but agents need to love my book and believe there’s a market for it before they will take it on. Remember that for most agents, their income is based on commission when your book sells. They don’t get base wages. Knowing this makes me more sympathetic to their situation and more patient.

Patience, persistence, and the willingness to adapt your query when necessary will serve you well. That is the secret sauce to all of this.

Be optimistic. And do your best.

In the meantime, don’t let rejections paralyze you. Keep working at it. Get better. And don’t give up.

For me, a third book is in the works even though I haven’t sold the first two. Writers write! Right? So, keep plugging away at your own endeavors. I know we will succeed.

Addendum:

A few paid and unpaid sources for query critiques:

• Most writer’s conferences

• Manuscript Academy consultations

• Podcasts (listen to agents critique other writer’s queries and learn.

  • The Shit No One Tells You About Writing

  • Savannah Gilbo’s Fiction Made Easy

  • And many others

• Writing Groups

  • Found through professional writing organizations

• Writing Schools

  • Example: The Writers Circle

• Writing Retreats.

Marilyn is querying two novels and writing her third. She lives West Orange, NJ with her sweet, supportive husband, Rob Lieberman, and their support-cat, Miskit (short for Miss Kitty). Their grown son, Matt, is making his own stories, sharing his heart, and rocking the world one day at a time.

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Enjoy! This week Alice meets the hooka smoking caterpiller!