5.0 out of 5 stars
To my loyal readers. Here you can put eyes on the preface to my upcoming novel, Ame and The Tangy Energetic. I am open to any feedback you may have…
This is not a fantasy. This is a story about friendship. About how to move on when your trust has been decimated by the world around you. About a ragtag alliance of nomads and rebels, who show resilience in the face of marginalization and cultural dissociation. This is a story about recovery from addiction and trauma. About alchemy and the turning of fear into vitality. About being real no matter what, even when you look bad. About caring in a careless world and being loyal to the ones who care about you. This is a story about love, heartbreak and redemption. And faith. This story is an oddity, out of step from mainstream literature and made up with its own rules and rhythm, and it comes from the heart of a wounded healer. Someone of no great significance, who simply survived the streets and lives to tell. This is a story for you. – Katya Mills
Super was the moon and animate the trees; the winter winds arose and bled right through my clothes. I was dodging in and out a moment right before your eyes, yet you were tracking down to daydream. Be very kind and stay alert. This is how we survive.
alone as you may feel you are surrounded by echoes of yourself in words others speak when they address you and clothes they choose to wear for you to see and opinions they assert in a language you know cannot be taught only shared and is meaningful for you. together at long last.
i was invited to Folsom this week by a book club to showcase my work and meet some who read my first serial fiction. i had a blast and got to share my process, and listen to some fine critiques of my work. now i know i cannot fool anyone and why would i? good books can sell and weak books sell, too. i am determined to publish only books that brought out the best in me writing them. blood, sweat, tears, and coffee. it’s no use to be loved or hated if you cannot take pride and stand behind your little offspring-creations.
i had gone to the back of the room and left them telling their stories one by one with seldom an interruption. the voices gave warmth to a cool autumn morning while the delta breeze slid soundlessly across the train tracks and the torn upholstery of abandoned cars to the branches of the trees tapping on the glass all around us to get in.
i poured myself a mug of hot coffee and stirred in a bit of sugar, standing there with my back to them, listening half-heartedly and somewhere between consciousness and last night’s dream.
after a few hearty slugs of the black stuff my eyes woke up first and stared into a congregation of uneven framed black and white portraits from times before now. century old tired and long faces looked back at me and over my shoulder as if they were part of our gathering in this old meeting
hall, a former nondescript bar once with billiards for the truck drivers and laborers in the yards.
i felt a chill carry over the nape of my neck as i realized i had become some medium some conduit between my audience hung by nails alongside coffee mugs on the wall, and the living boisterous
true fellowship behind us. i stood perfectly still then
turned to see the speaker at the head of the table, an older gentleman with a way about him and expressions i would not forget to remember him by. as i turned slowly back my eyes getting larger to see, alighted on an old rusted peg, the visage of the living man! he was silent yearning to be free, framed right there before me… and in small white numerals in the corner of the photograph… i read in disbelief the year! it was 1923.