Tag: Books

Vivid Skies, Vivid Lives

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In mid-February, fourteen gathered around a long, rectangular table with me.

Now, as sunset approaches on this “Writer in Residence” version of my memoir-writing workshop, the group has winnowed to a tenacious, courageous ten. Eight women and two men intent upon writing and sharing stories from their vivid lives.

In less than three weeks, this talented group has bonded over personal stories of deep reflection, relationships, transformation, and wonder. These are a collection of some of the images and settings I will remember from the pages of our storied moments together:

Recalling the lingering, indelible scent of a father’s shaving creme permeating a modest 1960’s back bathroom;

Uprooting a life to care for an aging parent only to discover new love and an unanticipated chapter in an unlikely land;

Finding the energy and conviction to finish that marathon that no one in her family thought she would complete decades ago;

Channeling every ounce of strength to leave an abusive relationship and find much-needed support;

Recounting an early-in-life adventure to Los Angeles to fulfill a California dream;

Forgiving a gang of grackles for their messy transgressions;

Revisiting and releasing decades of shame and blame for the loss of a cow and calf in the barn of one’s rural past;

Celebrating the sacred space of freedom and unbridled joy forged inside a first car; and

Trudging along a circuitous trail to discover a meadow of brilliant fireflies dancing on the crest of a hill.

My role has been to provide tools, encouragement, and a safe place for these and other creative odysseys to emerge, land on the page, gain traction, and marry with the proud and animated vocal cords of these ten inspiring individuals.

On March 6, the sun sets on our journey together. Before we depart, I will encourage my newest friends to keep writing.

Together, we also will give thanks for the creative talent that lies within each of us … and the collective magic we manufactured on three consecutive Fridays in an otherwise ordinary Civic Center conference room on the first floor of a remarkable community space: the Scottsdale Public Library.

Fourteen and Me

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This is not a story about some knock-off DNA test that will help you discover your ancestral roots.

Instead, it is a story with no definite answers. A story that will unfold with memories, ideas, thoughts, feelings, words, and sentences. All to be generated by fourteen writers–eleven women and three men–who have joined me (Writer in Residence in February and March) on a three-week memoir-writing odyssey at the Scottsdale Public Library.

Our journey together began February 20 in the SHC program room, in a wing of the Civic Center Libary devoted to Scottsdale history. Who knows, maybe some literary history is about to be made there.

We spent our first thirty minutes learning about each other. The youngest of our cohort is in her early twenties. The oldest beyond ninety. They and the other twelve (mostly in their fifties and sixties) told me in a few sentences why they were drawn to the workshop.

Some have been writing for years. They are fine-tuning their craft. Others are new and perhaps a little intimidated about the idea of sharing their writing with a group of strangers. But with time they will learn the benefit of bringing voice to the words they will assemble on a page.

From my previous workshops, I have learned that leading a memoir-writing session is deeply personal. So, in our first meeting, I worked to create a trusting, respectful space and asked that they also commit to that. It is essential, because when people tell their stories it is often raw and revealing.

After we settled in, we began writing. I gave the group this prompt: “My most vivid or meaningful February memory is …….”

After fifteen quiet minutes of pens scribbling across paper, eight of the fourteen offered to share what they wrote. I will honor our verbal confidentiality agreement and not share the content here but suffice it to say that an array of diverse stories came from that one prompt.

At the end of that exercise, I told them we had just illustrated that–like each of them–their memories, stories, voices are unique. What they have experienced in their lives is worthy of writing and sharing.

In fact, we–as writers–have a responsibility to do so. Especially now in a country brimming with external pressures designed to constrain a myriad of human thoughts, feelings, and ideas.

The group has an assignment this week: to write one-to-two manuscript pages that paint a picture of a setting–a place replete with vivid memories for them personally.

To help prime the creative pump, I read this passage to them from my third book, An Unobstructed View.

***

In June 1980, I left my parents’ home in the rolling suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri, to launch my career and create my own life in the relative flatness of northern Illinois. Jimmy Carter’s stay in the White House was winding down, but my hopes were high and trending up, and so would the volume of my days and nights in the Chicago area.

Unlike the state’s long and slender physical shape, I didn’t know my Illinois roots would ever extend far and wide. I couldn’t imagine I would live and work in the Chicago area for the next thirty-seven years–that I would occupy Illinois, and it would inhabit me for the most significant portion of my life.

Yet I would marry; divorce; raise two sons; change jobs multiple times; build a lucrative career; bury both of my parents; find my way out of the closet; live openly as a gay man; discover love again; marry a second time; retire from corporate life; begin a second career as an author; and say goodbye to my Cook County neighbors, family, and friends just a few days shy of my sixtieth birthday for a new adventure and warmer climes in the desert southwest.

All of it happened while I was living in the Land of Lincoln.

***

The room was quiet as I read. Compassion danced across their faces.

I can’t wait to listen to these fourteen writers tell their stories and help shape their literary journeys.

That will happen over the next two Fridays.

The Alcove

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This week, I began my two-month writer-in-residence stint at the Scottsdale Public Library.

This magnificent moment never appeared on my personal viewfinder when I stepped away from my communication consulting career twelve years ago. (I was mired in grief after my mother’s death.) But maybe it should have.

I had spent thirty-four years writing for small, medium, and large-sized companies. Helping them tell their stories. So, I had spent a good deal of time honing my writing craft. But it was never personal.

Finally, in February 2014, I began to tell my stories. That led to my first book, From Fertile Ground.

It is a memoir, which I published in 2016. Now, five books and a decade later, I’m coaching aspiring writers, sharing what I have learned along the way.

On Monday afternoons in February and March, I’ll be meeting one-on-one here in The Alcove, a triangular-shaped office at the Scottsdale Public Library, with other storytellers.

(I also will lead a three-part, memoir-writing workshop for a group of sixteen writers in February and March in a space around the corner from The Alcove.)

It will be my pleasure–my honor really–to help guide young and old participants on their creative journeys. No doubt, I will learn a few important things from them, too.

More than anything, if I can help others by unlocking or fine-tuning their writing prowess and passion, then I will have done my job.

We must continue to record and share our personal truths, our fears, our dreams, our memories with others without fear of repercussions.

I believe that is especially significant at this moment in American history.

Inside The Alcove or outside in the everyday world, let’s all vow to keep writing in 2026.

Because art–and that certainly includes good writing– informs, engages, entertains, inspires, and spurs the heart, mind, and spirit. It helps us develop greater compassion for one another and reach new heights.

I believe we can do all that and more by telling our stories.

Eight Years and Four Books Ago

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Eight years and four books ago, it was January 20, 2018.

I hawked my first two books–From Fertile Ground and Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator–in the vestibule of the Civic Center location of the Scottsdale Public Library with dozens of other Arizona writers at a popular local author book fair.

It was a fun, exhilarating Saturday. I greeted book lovers, exchanged ideas with other creative writers, and even sold a half dozen books.

When Covid came along two years later, right after the February 2020 local author event, library management decided to nix the annual gathering permanently.

It was one of many personal losses in a world where we were all forced to retreat to save ourselves. We had to discover new ways (thank you, technology) of being together without really being together.

I can tell you this. I wasn’t sure Tom and I would survive the Covid ordeal. But, like you, we did … with the help of in-home creative strategies and life-saving vaccines.

I certainly didn’t imagine I would write and publish four more books between 2018 and 2026. But that happened, too.

Isn’t it remarkable, how life has a way of sending us a mix of ominous clouds and sunny skies? Often, we don’t know which will appear next on the horizon. Or in what form.

Case in point. Even now as the walls of democracy feel as if they are caving in upon us in the United States, the Scottsdale Public Library has asked me to be a Writer in Residence in February and March at the same location depicted in this photo.

Eight years ago, I didn’t have this moment on my Bingo card or expect it would become a new chapter in my life journey. But it will. My role will include two components:

I have developed and will lead a 2.0 version of my Memoir-Writing Workshop (which I facilitated four times in 2024 and 2025) on three consecutive Friday afternoons: February 20, February 27, and March 6. Up to sixteen writers will participate.

If you live in the area, you can register here https://calendar.scottsdalelibrary.org/scottsdaleaz_library/260120702?utm_source=bewith&utm_medium=calendar.

Separate from the workshop, I also will offer thirty-minute, one-on-one writing coaching sessions between 1 and 2 p.m. on Mondays in February and March (in an office near the workshop location).

This will give folks who aren’t able to make the workshop a chance to receive feedback on their writing. (The library is creating a process to register for the individual sessions in advance. I will ask writers to bring just a page or two of their writing to make the experience productive and manageable.)

At any rate, I am thrilled and honored to be a Writer in Residence at the Scottsdale Public Library. It is a creative haven I have come to love in the eight and a half years Tom and I have lived in Arizona … where my movie-loving husband has created quite a following with every one of his film series.

The next one (Movies That Matter: Hollywood Families 1970-1996) begins next Monday at 3 p.m. Tom will lead film discussions and screenings, beginning with a cultural primer on the American family on January 26. Then, for the following eight Monday afternoons, he will show these fabulous eight films: Moonstruck, I Never Sang for My Father, Breaking Away, Kramer vs. Kramer, Ordinary People, Terms of Endearment, The World According to Garp, and The Birdcage.

Hopefully, this story is giving you the impetus to rediscover the programs offered at your local library … no matter where you live.

Happy reading, writing, and viewing!

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.