Category: Fiction

Early Reviews

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As a one-man-book-writing-and-selling band, I find myself switching hats from creative storyteller to active listener to self-promoter on a daily basis.

Today, in the waning moments of November, self-promotion is taking precedence. After all, if I don’t believe in the viability of my storytelling capability, who will?

Happily, I’ve begun to receive early reviews of my latest book, Sixty-Something Days … posted online, sent via text, and offered enthusiastically in person.

Feedback in any form is better than silence. But it is especially meaningful when it is specific … when it is unsolicited … when it is affirming.

As this Thanksgiving weekend winds down, I give thanks for these three readers who–in recent days–took time out of their busy lives to tell me what they think of Sixty-Something Days.

***

J wrote the following review on Amazon … “I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The author, Mark Johnson, shares with us his intimate life story of personal growth, overcoming challenges, and being true to those around him, and most importantly, to himself, even under difficult circumstances. Told in the style of a memoir, with essays, poems, and fiction, Sixty-Something Days, shows us all what it takes to be better friends and spouses, members of our communities, and citizens. This world would be a better place if we were all more like Mark Johnson. Highly recommended.”

N sent me this message via text … Good morning! I am just sitting down to read your Sixty-Something Days, and the first pages have me feeling happy! Sixty-five Thoughts (the name of one of the early essays) are right on and I will share some of them as I move thru life. Thanks for writing this book and I look forward to reading the rest!

D greeted me in person with a smile at a recent event … “I have to tell you I’m just loving your book. The stories are brief but meaningful. Strung together, they produce something much greater. I’m about to begin 2025 (the book is organized by years) and I don’t want your book to end!”

***

Perhaps I have sufficiently enticed you to read my latest book. If so, click the link below.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZM2724S?ref_=ast_author_dp&th=1&psc=1

It Just Went Live

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This is a momentous day for me. My sixth book just went live on Amazon.

Sixty-Something Days is the story of my post-65 quest to stay relevant creatively. It is a collection of my best essays, poems, and short fiction from 2022 to 2025.

The book is an artistic tapestry of my writing, singing, teaching, learning, growing, and surviving journey … with family and chosen family … connecting one leg of my life (my midwestern past) with another (my western present) during this period of tremendous upheaval in our country.

In my heart, I know this book will resonate with many of you–my loyal followers–who like me continue to strive to nurture and protect the artists, educators, animals and nature, and diverse disenfranchised people in our communities.

I hope you’ll take a few minutes to click the link below and be among the first to buy a copy. Thank you for your support of my creative pursuits!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZM2724S?ref_=ast_author_dp&th=1&psc=1

Prosperity

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Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com

Jeremy’s Scottsdale boutique—southwestern decor and inspirational gifts staged under a vaulted ceiling—survived the pandemic. Barely.

Ten thousand stimulus dollars and the generosity of two tanned-and-moneyed benefactors kept his business afloat.

By August 2025, the store’s cycles—busy mild winters; slow sizzling summers—felt normal again. Jeremy did not.

Like the discarded sneaker he passed on the shoulder of Hayden Road heading to work that morning, Jeremy had no mate. At thirty-seven, he felt alone in his fortunate life.

At four p.m., Jeremy wrapped a batik hummingbird plaque for a browsing customer flowing in lavender linen.

As she left, he decided to close early, gathered artsy pillows—Serenity, Tranquility, and Prosperity inscribed in cursive—closed horizontal blinds, and shut off the lights and ceiling fans.

After he adjusted his visor, locked the door, walked to his parking space, and tossed his cushions next to his golf clubs in the backseat of his SUV, Jeremy drove north toward the freshly painted apricot walls of his north Scottsdale condo.

Fifty yards ahead on the shoulder of the road, Nate—a forlorn figure limping in worn flipflops and sporting a ragged, sleeveless Phoenix Suns jersey—caught Jeremy’s attention.

In the dusty desert breeze, Nate balanced a crumpled plea, “Just a Meal,” scribbled on cardboard in black marker.

A stream of drivers rode by. Jeremy did not.

He pressed a button to lower the passenger-side window and applied his brakes.

“Get outta the heat. I’ll spring for a meal,” Jeremy offered.

“Uh … okay,” Nate reached for his tattered suitcase, climbed into the air-conditioned silver interior, and wedged his bag between his knees.

Nate’s weary smile and scrawny build fooled Jeremy momentarily. He imagined his brother David had resurfaced as a ghostly hologram.

“You remind me of …” Jeremy steered through a construction zone “… someone I knew who vanished during Covid.”

Defeated at twenty-nine, Nate conceded “I’ve got my own pitiful story.”

“No judgements here.” Jeremy dodged Nate’s revelation. “Burger and fries?” They approached a drive-up window.

“Bottle of water too.” Nate craved cool liquid to soothe his blistered lips and parched throat.

Jeremy placed their order, paid a rumpled attendant, and edged forward. Another uniformed teen leaned out to hand the food and water to Jeremy. He passed them to Nate.

“Social services could help you,” Jeremy nudged.

“They’re invisible. Just like me,” Nate snapped. He tightened his grip on the sack that held his meal. “Let me out here.”

“Wait. Take one of these,” Jeremy pulled over abruptly. He reached into the backseat and tossed Prosperity in Nate’s direction. “They aren’t selling anyway. Stop by my shop … Daydreamers on Fifth Avenue. I’ll help you find a job.”

Nate paused to consider Jeremy’s offer, shielded his eyes, juggled his dinner, jammed Prosperity into his zipper-less bag next to his single sneaker, and stepped to the curb.

In the cocoon of his aloneness, Jeremy sighed. He closed the passenger door, eased into the right lane, and headed home.

Locker 8

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Ollie hated swimming lessons. But it was summer, and he promised his mother Jill that he would commit to one structured activity while school was out.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning in June and July, Ollie packed his swim trunks, towel, and goggles begrudgingly. At 8:55, his older sister Lydia, fresh from earning her driver’s license, dropped him at the curb outside Chaparral Pool.

Ollie wasn’t afraid of the water or physical activity. What bothered him was getting naked in front of the other middle school boys and showering near them when their lesson was over.

To soothe his anxiety, Ollie hatched a plan. He decided to stash one of his tiny butterfly drawings—pink wings, beady red eyes, black antenna, and blue thorax on a white sticky note—in his bag. Then, when he arrived at the pool, he would post it discreetly inside locker 8.

An hour later, when he returned to the locker room after class, he twirled the dial on his lock—16 then 8 then 32—popped open the latch and rediscovered his prized artwork hanging there. This ritual distracted him as he peeled off his wet royal blue trunks, then scampered to the nearest open shower stall.

***

Ollie’s meticulous butterfly drawings covered his desk at home. Each one was unique in size, color, and configuration, but all were Ollie’s creations.

Before dinner one night in late May, Jill passed Ollie’s bedroom door. She knocked, then peeked in to check on her son and his homework progress. Before she left, she declared, “I love your drawings, Ollie! What do you love most about butterflies?”

Caught off guard, Ollie shrugged. He couldn’t find the precise words.

Was it their fragility? Their freedom? Their gentility? Their rare ability to transform from a cocoon and flit about—unfettered—floating above a weighty world that discouraged everyone around him?

Or simply that Ollie’s preoccupation with his art quieted his nerves even as he felt excitement stir in his growing penis?

***

On July’s last Thursday after Ollie’s final swimming class, he showered quickly to avoid contact with Jake. Weeks before, he made fun of Ollie’s oversized beach towel. It featured a canary yellow smiling sun wearing funky sunglasses.

“Did your mommy buy that big, beautiful towel for you, Ollie?” Jake chided.

What would Jake say if he found my butterfly tucked inside my locker door? Ollie wondered.

Undeterred, Ollie wiggled into his gym shorts, threw on his Arizona Diamondbacks jersey, slipped into his flipflops, and folded his belongings in his bag.

Rather than plucking his prized butterfly drawing from locker 8 and bringing it home to cluster with his other creations, Ollie left it hanging there. He left it clinging inside the metal wall for unknown days, weeks, or years.

Ollie left his art—his reassuring beauty—for another boy who might one day appear and appreciate it. For another boy who might feel threatened by a world of ominous clouds that surrounded him and what he didn’t yet understand about himself.

***

Lately, I have been writing short fiction, exploring and developing stories with a social statement that fit within the realm of my reality. It helps me feel I am making a small difference in this country I live in and still love … even as the madness within and outside our borders continues to spin out of control.

Visual prompts (like this photo I captured in July at my community pool in Scottsdale, Arizona) open an alternative world of creative possibilities for me. This is a technique I recommend to participants in my memoir writing workshops. So, in this instance, you might say I am wearing several hats … student, teacher, writer, gay man, concerned citizen.

I’d love to know what you think of this story. How does it make you feel? As always, I appreciate your insights and feedback.

In my memoirs, I’ve written about discovering and embracing my gayness later in life … remembering that horrific feeling of squashing my true self to fit into a prescribed notion of “all-American” masculinity.

I worry about the Ollies in the United States … the poets, artists, visionaries … the young, emerging, gay, lesbian and trans members of our society … all who face growing up in our country that is turning a blind eye toward anyone who isn’t a straight, white, MAGA male.

I worry for them. I worry for us. Every day.

Destination Unknown

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I was about to embark on a journey. But not remotely ready. Nonetheless, I was expected to begin Day One of a new job, in uniform as a United Airlines flight attendant.

A crowd of other newbies gathered around me. We lined up to have our security photos taken by a young, rather handsome cameraman with a large head. He teetered on a tiny chair with his knees protruding beyond his elbows.

When it came to be my turn, the blond figure told me to stand on an X marked on the floor. Then, he stood to reveal his true height.

His elongated body stretched for nearly eight feet before he snapped my photograph and disappeared behind a funhouse mirror.

A primitive machine spit out my image, but I don’t remember receiving my security credentials.

About this time, my husband appeared on the other side of a window that contained a metal tray below. He told me he wanted to slide cash to me under the glass. He thought I might need it on my journey. He said he would meet me on the other side. I felt disoriented and dismayed.

Moments later, I found myself standing in front of a harried female administrative assistant. She sat behind an old desk with stacks of papers and files surrounding her. She worked for United. She told me I needed to board my first flight in about thirty minutes, but that my hair was unkempt.

As she handed me a boarding pass, she spieled off a list of complicated directions that would lead me to a trusted stylist in the terminal. She insisted there was time to accomplish this necessary task, though I would need to run to catch my flight.

I felt anxious. Unprepared for my journey. Unsure of the safety protocols. Disturbed that the length of my hair was causing me trouble. Lost in a once-familiar Chicago terminal that was now foreign to me.

That’s when I woke up.

Photo by Keith Lobo on Pexels.com

American Fiction

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I don’t usually write film reviews. I prefer to leave the nuances of critiquing movies to my cinephile husband. However, in this case, I will break the rules. You’ll understand why in just a moment.

In American Fiction, Jeffrey Wright plays Monk, a frustrated novelist who feels his books have been lost in the bluster of less literary works that fly off the shelves on the wings of tired stereotypes about the Black community.

Against the advice of his agent, he decides to prove his point by writing a one-dimensional, inflammatory book under a pen name.

He considers it garbage, but ironically the story wins immediate acclaim. He finds himself faced with the conundrum of accepting his financial windfall and hypocrisy or coming clean.

No spoilers here. You’ll have to see the movie to understand the permutations of his dilemma.

However, the story–written and directed by Cord Jefferson–is a dazzling bit of witty screen writing, laced with well-drawn, believable characters navigating painful personal traumas.

It’s been a long time since I was so entertained watching a movie. Tom and I laughed. Out loud. And so did the fifty or so others who sat around us in the theater at Camelview Theater at Fashion Square Mall in Scottsdale on Friday night.

I even shed a few tears, because there is a story thread about Monk’s mother–played by Leslie Uggams–that hit rather close to home.

But what resonated most for me was the brilliant way the film explored the world of a writer. We tell our stories, hoping our truths will land with readers.

We spill our guts (or those of our fictional characters) on the page but have no control over the tastes and proclivities of readers.

We do it because we love to write. It’s what we were meant to do. But secretly–or maybe not so much–we pine for our books to blaze a trail and rake in the royalties.

For those of us with dreams and scruples, we want our books to sell … but never want to sell out.

A Flair for Fiction?

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A good writer can summon the right mix of words and creativity to bring any story or situation to life.

I think I’ve always believed that statement. But, in the past, I’ve been more comfortable telling true stories, derived from the vault of my memories. Less comfortable creating a set of characters and possibilities from scratch.

Recently, a voice inside has been telling me to try my hand at fiction. I decided to humor that voice. I registered for an in-person, six-week creative writing course in Scottsdale. It began in mid-September.

Twelve of us writers from all walks of life sit around an oblong table every Wednesday afternoon. Our instructor shares her experience and tools. She’s a writer, screenwriter, and editor.

She guides us through various writing prompts in the moment. We take turns reading our work to each other. Then, we disburse to craft something original for the following Wednesday.

One of our assignments was to create a detailed character inventory. To essentially build a character from the ground up–complete with personal history, physical traits, likes, dislikes, baggage, strengths, and weaknesses. The whole enchilada.

The idea might sound intimidating. It certainly wasn’t easy, but it was a lot of fun. Now, I’m beginning to write a story that features this character. Remarkably, I can envision this person in the world, though they exist purely in my imagination.

I don’t know where this exercise will lead ultimately, but I’m open to the raw uncertainty. For the first time in about a year, I feel a surge in creative energy to explore and try new things.

Time, trial and error will tell me whether I truly have a flair for fiction. When I’m ready to disclose more, I’ll share it here.