Tag: Books

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

Gone Girl

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In the late 1970s, I interviewed my father’s older sister, Aunt Thelma, for a college folklore project. Sitting across the table from me in her suburban north St. Louis kitchen, she waxed on about her philosophy of life.

“Honey, we’re all just ships passing in the night,” Thelma offered with a faraway look in her eyes. “We have to make the most of the time we have together.”

My beloved, charismatic, animal-loving aunt has been gone for twenty-six years. I miss her, but I don’t think about her often. However, she is on my mind this week.

Not because she died in October 1999. Instead, it is the wisdom of her words that apply to a recent development in my life.

Poly–the gray-and-white stray cat I’ve written about frequently–has disappeared. She’s been gone for about a month. None of our neighbors have seen her recently either.

It’s possible that she has become someone’s indoor cat, but I doubt she would stand for that. She is/was a free spirit.

Instead, I fear she may be a casualty of a series of monsoon storms that swept through the Phoenix area in late September and early October. Or, perhaps, a random coyote nabbed her.

I miss our morning moments together … seeing her curled on the blue cushion of one of our wicker chairs beneath our kitchen window.

I miss watching her twirling acrobatics on our sidewalk, hearing her frantic meows as Tom or I opened another can of Sheba sustainable tuna and spooned it into a chipped ramakin for her to devour on our kitchen floor.

If Poly is gone permanently, she certainly added a playful, natural dimension of love to our Polynesian Paradise community, since early May 2021 when I first spotted her peering down at me from a neighbor’s roof.

If you follow my blog, you know Poly inspired a litany of cat tales that appeared here. They are warm and silly Arizona chapters I never would have imagined writing a decade ago.

It is ironic that Poly vanished about the time I completed the manuscript for my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, which is now in the final stages of production. I will publish it sometime in November.

The good news is several stories of my feral friend appear prominently in the book. The time we spent together, like two ships passing in the night, will have a literary life, because she has added an unexpected dimension to my Arizona sunset years.

Now–on this bewitching Friday as my book follows Poly’s example and prepares to set sail–that unlikely bond between two men and a lovable, mysterious feline character will exist on the pages for anyone who cares to read about it.

Early Halloween Treat

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Treats come in all sizes and shapes. Chocolate is always welcome, but typically not as intimate or lasting as positive human interaction.

***

Yesterday I completed another memoir writing workshop at the Scottsdale Public Library. It was the fourth such workshop I’ve led over the past twelve months.

I love facilitating these sessions, because it’s a personal way for me to encourage other writers to nurture their creative ideas and momentum.

This one at Mustang Library included twelve writers–nine women and three men–who wrote and shared their extraordinary, humorous, heartful slice-of-life adventures across the table from one another.

During week one of the three-week workshop, I learned a little about each participant. We spent time building trust. As we began to get comfortable as a group, I assured them that the room we occupy is a safe space for sharing their personal experiences through their writing.

By weeks two and three, we developed an esprit de corps. They sent their stories to me in advance. I offered my encouragement and constructive feedback in person in the following session.

Inevitably, there were contemplative moments and a few tears were shed by one writer on Friday.

As she read her story aloud (a touching, nostalgic reminiscence of watching the joy on her mother’s face as she skated across the ice in the 1960s free of her typical parental responsibilities) the flood gates opened suddenly.

I and everyone in the room verbalized their support for this writer. I also offered her a tissue and a pat on the shoulder.

That was just one of a dozen or more seminal moments shared over a three-week period on Friday afternoons.

In a world otherwise ruled by chaos, we were a community of writers banding together, gliding freely above the fray across the ice of our literary pursuits.

***

This morning, I opened my email to discover this early Halloween treat from a creative husband-and-wife team, who participated in the workshop.

“We enjoyed your memoir class so much; due in large part to your enthusiasm, experience and energy! The content was high quality, and the tone you set of trust was palpable… there is no substitute for that among budding creatives. Thank you so much for your time and care; we’ll hope to cross paths in the new year!”

I don’t expect a ringing endorsement for volunteering my time. But I always appreciate feedback whenever it involves helping other writers find their voices inside the secure walls of a library.

It encourages me to keep giving and confirms my suspicion that I have found a meaningful way to make a true difference in the lives of others.

Adrift

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I wrote most of my first book ten years ago. I was consumed by the project … in a purely positive way. Connecting the dots of grief and my family’s writing DNA spurred my energy and creativity.

As late summer 2015 approached, my daily creative output accelerated. Chapter after chapter emerged From Fertile Ground.

We didn’t have a printer at home but lived near a FedEx store. Whenever I completed a new, sizeable chunk of my manuscript, Tom and I walked there to print the updated version. Holding my evolving story in hand gave me a sense of pride and tangible proof of progress.

Now, in late summer 2025, I find myself at a vastly different place in the arc of my literary life. As I look back over the past decade, I feel a tremendous sense of creative accomplishment. … knowing I have produced four memoirs, a book of poetry, three librettos, a litany of essays, and a memoir writing workshop.

Yet I feel adrift.

Part of it is an energy thing … or, more accurately, a focus thing … or, even more pointedly, “maybe-this-is-what-it-means-to-be-68-and-a-compassionate-human-being-and-living-in-the-United-States” thing.

Okay, I’m not being totally transparent. I’m trying to avoid the trauma in our country. I’ve turned off the news. My husband and I are helping each other stay sane. In addition, I have been developing occasional pieces of flash fiction and nonfiction essays for literary contests.

I also have written several chapters for a “how to write a compelling memoir” manuscript. And there is another writing opportunity that is percolating … but it’s premature for me to spill those beans.

Anyway, I don’t feel all that jazzed about any of it … at least not on the scale of my first-born book in 2015. The one I felt like I was meant to write.

Is it weird that I’m getting more energy from writing this blogpost than the projects I mentioned a few paragraphs above? Probably not, because I’ve always enjoyed the raw, immediate-but-winding personal connection that comes with this territory … with this writing forum.

So that’s where I am right now … treading late summer metaphorical waters in the desert … bobbing along in a sea of episodic literary possibilities … exercising four or five times a week to keep my heart strong … taking more naps than I used to … longing for the next big wave of creative energy … gazing back to the distant shoreline of past successes and bittersweet memories … squinting ahead (like many of you) into nasty flames of deception, betrayal, and planned confusion that threaten my country’s future.

No wonder I feel adrift.

Home

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On June 2, 2025–as Tom and I returned to Arizona on an American Airlines flight after a blissful five days with family in the Chicago area–I closed my eyes in the semi-comfort of my aisle seat.

I leaned into my husband and said, “It feels good to be heading home.” I was referring to Scottsdale, Arizona. That is where we live … in a kitschy, mid-century condo community. It has been our home now for nearly eight years.

I’m not sure this is the life I dreamed of as a youngster in St. Louis. Or a middle-aged-man in the Chicago suburbs, who earned a good wage, raised two sons, and was fortunate enough to meet a man I would love and one day marry.

Let’s just say it is a warmer, lighter, literary life, which I had hoped for but didn’t imagine I would realize.

***

On June 30, 2017, we had just sold our three-bedroom home in Mount Prospect, Illinois. Handed over the keys to a pleasant couple and their young son.

As Tom and I approached our sixtieth birthday, we were excited about the prospects of creating a new life in the Grand Canyon State. But Illinois still felt like home.

Looking back, I suppose I underestimated the significance of this change … the loss of familiarity even when it wasn’t necessarily positive and growth producing.

If you follow me, you know how difficult our shared sixtieth birthday would be. If not, you should read about our harrowing journey and personal detour in St. Louis. It was great fodder for my third book, An Unobstructed View.

Once we finally arrived in Scottsdale, Arizona, on July 12, 2017, we both needed time to recuperate.

Our two-bedroom condo (which had once been Tom’s grandparents’ home starting in the early 1970s) was comfortable enough … especially after our new air conditioning unit, windows, and exterior doors were installed.

But we decided not to make too many dramatic interior changes right away. That really wasn’t a conscious decision as much as a reasonable one.

Soon we made new friends in our community: through our yoga class in Scottsdale and my chorus connections in Phoenix. With time there were other creative ripples before, during and after Covid.

We each wrote and published books. I wrote three librettos for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus. Tom’s film classes materialized and compounded magically. Spurred by his passion for classic cinema and a library contact from our friend Glenn, that seed has grown into a legitimate, bountiful following.

Somewhere in that mix, we crossed over the tipping point of flux … knowing that we had truly found our new home. Feeling that we had become full-fledged, full-time Arizona residents and advocates.

And now–in June 2025, eight years after we said goodbye to our first home together and spent the past three months painting and remodeling–the interior of our Arizona home is finally a reflection of the color, comfort, and humanity we imagined.

It is–like we are–fully transformed. It is our desert lodge with a decent splash of soft apricot, western warmth, and comfy chairs.

It is our refuge with and without family and friends. It is our nesting place away from triple-digit heat and authoritarian regimes.

It is our home.

Protests and Poetry

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“Are you guys going to the protests this Saturday?” Nick wondered last Wednesday via a text.

“No. We aren’t planning to. It’s just too hot,” I responded to my son.

But as the week wore on, I began to regain my energy following three phenomenal concerts with my Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus pals.

On Friday, I reconsidered Nick’s question. I told him Tom and I would do it. A few of our chorus friends wanted to join us too at a No Kings protest in Scottsdale.

I should tell you that I don’t consider myself an activist, though I have marched for various causes on several occasions in my life. I prefer to share my voice and perspective through my writing.

But I also recognize the dire state of our democracy. I decided if my World War II veteran father (he defended democracy in Europe with the allied forces during the Battle of the Bulge in late 1944) could endure frozen feet in foxholes with his buddies and risk his life as an army sergeant, I could certainly endure the 90-plus desert temperatures in Arizona for two hours, wave my American flag and “We the People” sign, and join forces with family and friends to raise my voice. To make sure it was heard.

So, Saturday came, and we did it … Mark, Tom, Nick, Kim, Dougal, George and one to two thousand others represented democracy in Old Town Scottsdale. We were a dot in a map of some five million in the U.S. and abroad who took to the streets in big cities and small towns. All of us deeply concerned.

Locally, it was an inspiring and peaceful No Kings protest consisting of angry but well-behaved women and men. Young and old. A few children with parents and grandparents. Couples. Singles. Straight. Gay. Multi-cultural. Dogs, too. Dare I say diverse?

At one point, Tom and I chatted with a fifty-something mother from San Diego. She was visiting her daughter who lives in Scottsdale. They took turns chanting “No Kings” while cradling their adorable, slightly overwhelmed dachshund.

The dog’s benevolent eyes seemed to say, “what are we all doing here?” All I could do was shrug and smile. There is no explaining all we have endured in this country over the past six months. Not to mention the previous eight or nine years.

A short while later, I turned to discover a man holding a profoundly-funny-and-literary sign. A parody of American poet Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken. I imagine Frost would have loved it, if he had been alive and standing beside me.

I asked the man if I could take his picture. I told him it spoke to my wordsmithing sensibilities. He surprised me by saying he was a math guy.

I’ll likely never cross paths with him again. He’ll never know that my book of poetry, A Path I Might Have Missed, was inspired by my love for Robert Frost’s verses. But on June 14, 2025, we stood on the same page … on the same street corner … on the same shared path.

Together–close friends, like-minded acquaintances, and distant strangers–we proclaimed our desire and hope to rescue American democracy from the clutches of fascism.

Unpacking

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In my late sixties, I am more aware of what remains in my gas tank.

Not the fuel gauge on our 2012 Hyundai Sonata. I’m talking about the physical and mental energy needed to maneuver life … while keeping a little extra for the seminal moments.

In the span of one week, I am celebrating Kirk’s and Jen’s (my younger son and future-daughter-in-law) engagement with family in Illinois (it already happened June 1) and taking the stage with my chosen Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus family (June 6 and 7 is our raucous Rhinestone Rodeo show) at Tempe Center for the Arts in Arizona.

Both are deeply personal and rewarding.

Seeing my thirty-six-year-old son and his future bride beaming and greeting loved ones on the second floor of a popular neighborhood eatery on Chicago’s northwest side touched me. But there was more to it than that.

Because, there was a culmination of lives … past, present, and future.

Like Tom and me, my older son Nick and his girlfriend Anastasia flew in from Arizona for the festivities … and my sister Diane and brother-in-law Steve were there, too.

Though they live in the Chicago area, they each have difficulty managing stairs. Even so, diligently, they found a way to make the climb to a private dining room inside Zia’s Social. One small step at a time for the sake of a milestone moment with family.

There was another significant emotional layer to the event for me.

Jean, my ex, planned the party. Over the past few decades, we have been in the same room just a few times. At my mother’s funeral. At Kirk’s graduation. Our communication has been sparse at best.

But, at this stage of life, it feels life much of the animosity that existed between us after our divorce in 1992 has dissipated. We have both moved on. We have found vastly different lives with our respective husbands. Ironically, both of them are named Tom.

Bottom line, this engagement party was a joyous and healing experience for me … and I suspect others. There will be another one on August 29, 2026, at Kirk’s and Jen’s wedding. Also, in Chicago.

Now that my Tom and I are back in Scottsdale, I have been rehearsing each night this week. Conserving my energy while putting the smoothing touches on our music.

More than thirty of our Arizona friends–many of them straight allies–will be in the audience this weekend. They will fill the seats you see here alongside hundreds of others.

Smiling. Cheering. Laughing. Crying. Phenomenal music has a way of spurring it all. Touching our hearts and souls in ways we … gay or straight … never imagined.

Make no mistake. The nearly 1,500 who attend our shows this weekend will be entertained by our mix of past and present country western hits … coalescing with our brand of giant gay swirls thrown in for good measure.

Naturally, the pink fringe vest and new black boots I’ve bought for the shows … and will be wearing … will be made for more than walking and singing.

They’ll be carrying me through the two-steppin’ choralography … anchoring me on the top riser (through Pink Pony Club, Ya’ll Means All, Texas Hold ‘Em and much more) with love, gratitude, and pride for a week in June 2025 that will always be dear to me.

Loss in St. Louis

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Photo by Matthias Cooper on Pexels.com

If you follow the weather news in the United States, you know that on Friday, May 16, parts of St. Louis, Missouri–where I was born in 1957 and reborn in 2017–suffered an estimated $1 billion in damages from an EF3 tornado.

The powerful storm tore through central and north St. Louis, killing five people while damaging or destroying 5,000 buildings and countless trees … including many majestic ones in and around one of the city’s gems: Forest Park.

I have no doubt that over the coming days, weeks, months, and years, the citizens of St. Louis will heal and recover. But it will be a tall mountain to climb for many financially and emotionally.

I have made a donation to the American Red Cross disaster relief efforts. But I want to do more for the city I love, which appears in all five of my books. It is hardwired into my prose and poems in large and small ways …

In memories of my hard-working family, our suburban midwestern existence, humid summer days, learning to operator a rollercoaster at Six Flags, working at the top of the Gateway Arch (pictured here) in the late 1970s, rooting for the St. Louis Cardinals, boating on the Mississippi River, visiting the St. Louis Zoo, frequenting the aforementioned Forest Park, and much more.

In addition to making a donation of your own to your favorite relief charity, here’s another way you can help. Buy any of my five books during May and June.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B01DCYIAD4

I will donate $10 for each book I sell (paperback, Kindle, or audiobook) during that period to Forest Park Forever. It is a private nonprofit conservancy.

As described on their website, the organization “partners with the City of St. Louis to restore, maintain and sustain Forest Park as one of America’s great urban public parks for a diverse community of visitors to enjoy, now and forever.”

Thank you in advance for your support of my literary efforts and the city of St. Louis … as well as its beautiful urban greenspace in the middle of town, which I still love and remember.

***

Incidentally, Tom and I will travel to St. Louis in September to attend a Class of 1975 reunion with my Affton High School classmates. Yikes, fifty years! More to come on that.

Wrist-banding Together

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When you’re living through a full-blown constitutional crisis–and feeling vulnerable–you need to find ways of coping and caring for the ones you love.

So, I bought two of these beaded rainbow wristbands from the Human Rights Campaign for Tom and me to wear.

We are wrist-banding together.

This is a symbolic gesture. I want the world to know that this gay couple isn’t going anywhere, though it is a period in the United States where some would prefer that those of us who are different would go away.

But I–we–remain visible.

As I write this blogpost, I realize it is number 500 … a true milestone for any writer.

When I began blogging in May 2018, I had no illusions of where it might lead.

I simply wanted to give my books and literary voice more room to grow, more visibility.

For that reason, I suppose it is fitting that today I choose to write about my gay identity and continue to exercise personal aspects of my voice … visibly.

In many respects, the life my husband and I lead is not all that different from any couple.

We shop for groceries together. Go to the gym together. Enjoy quiet moments and meals together. Love and nurture each other.

We do our best to support each other and our family members during highs and lows.

We spend time with our friends. They are young and old, straight and gay, black and white.

We love and respect them, and they love and respect us.

I think it’s accurate to say this about our friends: we enrich each other’s lives, no matter our skin color, religious beliefs, cultural perspectives, gender identities, or sexual orientations.

It is a personal jolt to realize–and read on trusted news sources each day–that our differences are under attack and being eroded in my home country … the country I still love.

I don’t think I’m depressed. But I am definitely sad and angry. Definitely grieving. Me and a boatload of others of all backgrounds and persuasions.

There are times when I want to scream from the top of a mountain. “This is my country, too. How dare you try to take that away from me!” But then I wonder, “Is anybody listening?”

So, I bring this here, instead and I type these words in blogpost number 500.

At any rate, thank you for joining me–possibly even enduring me at times–on this blogging journey since May 2018.

As long as I continue to feel I have something important and relevant to say (to shed light on the topics of the day … to celebrate a literary success or the latest Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus performance … to pay tribute to those I love … to tell a funny story about our stray cat Poly … to observe and honor the beauty of nature … to share a vivid, meaningful memory about my childhood … or to pen a poem that is in need of artistic space and oxygen) you will find me here.

I hope you have been informed or entertained and will continue to tag along with me on this organic literary odyssey, wherever it may lead.

As I walked the treadmill at the gym this morning–on Abraham Lincoln’s two-hundred-sixteenth birthday–a weird, dark, and discomforting question swirled through my brain.

What if we–all the diverse people in this country, all the people of color, all the LGBTQ folks–were gone?

That fearful quandary led me to write this poem.

****

If We Were Gone

If we were gone,

you would miss

our minds, our hearts,

our beauty, our tenacity,

our sensitivity,

our sensibility,

our kindness, our love,

our compassion, our humor,

our leadership, our style,

our guidance, our wisdom,

our friendship, our support,

our joy, our pain, our truth,

our sun, our moon, our stars,

our books, our movies,

our artistry,

our contributions,

our serendipitous stories.

But, most of all, you

would miss us.

You would miss

the clarity and

strength of our

distinctive lives

and beautiful voices.

That would be

the greatest loss of all.

In the Old Days

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In the old days (the pre-Covid days)–just five years ago this week–I hawked my books with my husband by my side at a local author book fair at the Scottsdale Public Library.

We didn’t know about the dark days ahead. Holed up in our cozy condo. Wondering if we and our closest family and friends would survive. Wondering if the race to create a viable vaccine might save us.

Fortunately, science did produce a vaccine that saved lives (for those of us who had the gumption to protect ourselves and others).

We did survive and Tom and I have gone on to create new chapters at the library … him leading several successful film series; me guiding those intent upon writing their own memoirs.

Strangely, those Covid years feel quaint now as our nation disintegrates daily. Tom and I cling to one other, as our nation turns a blind eye toward anyone who is different.

Yes, we have many friends and family who love us. But, to put it bluntly, I don’t feel safe. This experience of living in 2025 in the United States (we aren’t really united) has cued old tapes in my psyche that remind me that–once again–I am living in a straight, white world of shallow masculinity.

I will keep trudging along. Loving my husband. Guiding my adult sons. Speaking my mind. Telling my stories. Holding my closest friends close. Giving to organizations that might make a difference. Advocating for those less fortunate. Donating my time, talents, and voice to the Scottsdale Public Library and the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus.

Most of all–like many of you–I just need to keep breathing today. And, for tomorrow and the next day, I need to save any reserves of energy and sanity I have to fight the good fight.