Season of Giving

For the past six years, I have had the honor of working with the students at the BETA center in Orlando. The young women I work with are amazing and it isn’t a cliche to say that that inspire me everyday.    Yes, sometimes they frustrate me.  But, they always make it worth it.   Their stories would break your heart, but those are their stories and not mine to tell.   There is a lot more to the BETA center than my school.  A lot more. They help 1,000’s of families every year in Central Florida each year.   They really do change lives.

Please consider giving or at least sharing this link with others.   BETA Center Go-Fund-Me .   These beautiful young women are trying to do what is best for their children like all of us they could use some help.


Turn Back

Turn Back Now

Don’t hesitate

A Trap Lies Ahead


is filled with all the things you want

and not enough time or money

to do them

Paying all your bills

becomes the greatest thrill new photos 012

Starting and Stopping

For the last year, I have been starting to get better: better at writing daily, at exercising, and at this game called life. And then I stopped. I would love to rationalize my behavior, but I am closing in on my fortieth year of life and frankly, I’m tired. Tired of being too scared to make the changes in my life that I need and want to make. Tired of not being happy at the end of the day. Tired of feeling like I am letting the people I love down.

Today, I am adding being in pain to the list of things I am done with. Yesterday, I received an answer to why my foot and ankle have been hurting for the last couple of months. I have a bit of bone under the arch of my foot, as well as a bone spur on the heel of the same foot. On Monday I see the podiatrist and, hopefully, work out a plan that will let me get back to exercising and feeling better physically and mentally. It is hard to work out when you hurt whenever you move.

It seems like every time I get going in one direction something happens to stop my forward momentum. After 39 years of this happening repeatedly, the reason became clear. Like most people, I am my own worst enemy.

I am the one who hasn’t spent enough time writing, exercising, or choosing joy. I made those choices and now I am burnt out, constantly exhausted, and out of options. I get up and go through my day looking for magical escape hatches that don’t exist.

Do I have a plan to change? Yes.

Will it work? I don’t know.

Part of my plan to write more is to enlist some help in editing and promoting my work. Thanks to a good friend and talented editor, Cat B. of Catalyst Editing and Consulting, for agreeing to work with me. She is going to help with this blog, and also with upcoming projects. The second part of the writing plan is for me to get off my bum and just write. No more excuses, just writing.

As for the rest of my life, I have a lot of shredding to do so I can start living my own joy. Life is too short to do otherwise.

If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her on Twitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her new novella, Blood Child is available on Amazon.




Four Years Ago…

Four years ago, I started this blog. And as one can imagine a lot as happened.  I moved, got my own home office and published a book after years of dreaming.  I also got up the courage to have myself filmed while I performed some of my poetry.  It was scary, but worth it. You can watch my YouTube debut by clicking here.

It was a brave moment for me in many ways.  First, I am still very new to performing and second, I have gained weight over the last couple of years that have made me hesitant to have photos or film taken.  I really do fear the backlash against my weight despite all the people that surround me with their love. They tell me that I am beautiful and I believe them, but I still fear the hateful comments.

There are some cool things about the video.  The writing that you see at the beginning and end of the film is me actually working on the poetry that I am about to share.

The fall equinox is approaching and I feel the return to a more balanced approach in life. One in which I live and write more. new photos 002  Over the last few months, I have taken an unscheduled break from this blog. Life kept going while I struggled to keep up; good things mostly, some bad of course, but that is life.

Although today is not the equinox, it is the beginning of my journey to re-balance my life and my writing. Too much time has been spend on planning to write and not actually writing. I have to thank my fellow sloths for helping me realize that I need to get back to creating.

Thank you, dear readers and any of my beloved Sloths who have joined us, for reading this and sticking with me.



Momma Does

Sometimes Momma can’t be there do

what others say needs to be done

sometime she became a mother to young

or Papa walked out

or gotta brought up on charges
Or found a job three  states away

Sometimes the way the dice roll

Momma isn’t there to meet the bus

Or the check isn’t enough for

groceries and rent

Qso we eat in the car

and slept in the back street

Sometimes Momma can’t

And that’s just the way it is

But she don’t love any less

Sometimes Momma is afraid

Of the noises out side the apartment

of riding the buses every where

so she makes it a game and there’s play in the bus depot

An adventure everyday

Sometimes Momma can’t but she always does


Tears and Anger


I can’t. I won’t go in there. Not with them. Not in there. Not ever again. There is suppose to be people in every child’s life that take care of them. A mother and a father. Two separate beings whose love of their child transcends everything. They will cross heaven and earth for their child. For their child they will do everything to provide for the happiness of their offspring.eyes

I was born with a sense of destiny. I know what I want and what I need. Give me that one thing then I will be the nice and respectable young woman you want. What I don’t want is to tell my business to another social worker,counselor or PH.D. jerk.

They couldn’t satisfy the volcano inside of me. My English teacher might be proud of me for that metaphor. Maybe I could write a poem about my internal rage volcano and get some extra credit. Then I would have to admit that I understand some poetry. Not that boring shit that she reads to us, but other stuff. My secret stuff and yes I know that I am suppose to read along with her, but I don’t feel like it.

Just like I don’t have time to sit here and listen to everyone judging me, including my English teacher who now knows more of my business than she should. Everyone who thinks they know more about me then I do. They can’t. I am not angry because I have daddy issues or think I am always right.  I am angry at how unfair life is. Angry at the lies that have been sold to me.

It doesn’t come from my mother who isn’t so much angry as she is insane. That isn’t a hyperbole. She really is crazy. It runs in the family. Five generations of schizophrenic fun waiting for some brain doctor to study us and find nothing, because they don’t have any answers. Never have and never will.

Mom is gone. There is only one person who can help me. The man who has been both father and mother to me. The man who isn’t listening to me now as I shout. It isn’t a issue. It isn’t an issue. But if I am crying there is an issue. And I shouldn’t be dismissed. Every time, I am angry I am dismissed told to be grateful for what I have.  All I need to do is finish school, but I am not going to be happy until I have a car, a job and a place of my own. Or I am heard. I am tired of waiting. I don’t want to go to school after this twelve year sentence is over.

Things are switching around in my mind. Every time I am mad. Every time I feel like I am going to explode. They, he, brings up my mother and her family.  Another lie. Another shoveling of the truth off to someone else. The truth is I need to be heard and no one but my daddy should be telling me what to do.

No one, not even his wife . It doesn’t matter that she has taken care of me since I was kid. She isn’t my mother. She isn’t my mother. I have nothing to lose. Nothing.


If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her o nTwitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her new novella, Blood Child is available onAmazon.

An Open Apology

There you were

nervous shaking

keeping it cool

while your fingers

ran over and over

the cash in your palm

the hard earned benjamins in your pocket

You knew it was close

you tried to do the math

all in your head

figure it out

tax included.


In the end,

you were one jar

of double chocolate

peanutbutter short


You didn’t even sigh

or make excuses

just looked at the totals

and had the clerk take it


You apologized with your eyes

saying sorry for your lack of cash

sorry for the condition of your financials

sorry for something you didn’t have control of

in that moment of time


I wanted to yell


Have you cease your apologize

and pay for that jar

of double chocolate

peanut butter

tax included


But you were out the door

before I could find the words

out of the parking lot before

anyone had a moment to

consider who that jar was really for

or why you were apologizing for

something beyond your control


I am sorry because I have been there

and might be there again

sooner than I like to think

and know how hard it is to keep all the numbers

in your head

making sure the tax is included.

How the dialogue goes in

your head as the numbers keep adding up

and up

and up

and one decimal up

one can of tuna fish

or bagels too much

and you suddenly feel the need to explain

why you only have

$31.00 in your pocket

and bank account to back you up


Character Revelations

This weekend, I learned that my protagonist doesn’t like air conditioning and habitually collects pennies. Strangely this is the hump that I know I have been waiting to cross. After months of wrestling with Rae, I now know enough to go forward with the story and stop tinkering with it. She is finally her own creature and not a reflection of all my favorite female characters. I feared that her story wasn’t going to be genuine and unique.

I read the books that I want to write, but the biggest fear that I have is that my books are going to get lost in the crowd because they are too much like my favorites. I want to create my own stories and worlds. This summer, I have also been working on some research to help give the worlds I create more flavor.

I have to thank my friend, Kathy, for messing me in the middle of night about her own tinkering dilemma and the ensuing conversation. I needed it.

Now, I am back at it. Thirty thousand words in and a killer to catch.


Killing Elsa

Elsa was caught in a nightmare. Everywhere she went they knew her. Called her by name, knew her favorite color and foods, and always they tried to hug her. She hated hugs. Hated all of the attention.  College in England was just what she needed. She needed to go some place where her fame would not be impressive. She thought of going to France, but her accent had always been horrible. There was no desire in her soul to be tormented over an accent when there was so much better material in her film catalog.  She would have been ready to go in just three short weeks. Everything was being handled by her manager. Everett Millstone was making a hefty fee as Elsa Bravo’s manager. His fee was doubled by her parent’s generous bribes.

She cursed her father for years for putting her on that damn show. She was America’s sweetheart for ten years. Ten miserable years for her. Ten years of smiling and sing with her bratty sister. Ten years of her parents lining their pockets and skimming money from their trust fund. It wasn’t enough for them. No matter how many deals they made, it wasn’t enough. Ten years of flying their kids around the world and back had made them rich on paper. The greedy, however, are always hungry.

Elsa was currently cursing her father for putting her in the trunk of his Jag.  She couldn’t fault his reasoning, although it was definitely a cliche, kidnapping and killing your own child to get the insurance money and the money in the trust fund would automatically go to the grieving parents. They had already decided on wearing black for a year after the body had been found. It was difficult for Elsa’s mother not to begin shopping for her mourning wardrobe immediately upon hatching their plan.

They looked incredibly lovely in their newly purchased ensembles in court and were properly horrify at the discovery of her body. Even dead,everyone knew her. And they won’t let it go…

If you’d like more information on Lucinda’s work subscribe to this blog, follow her on Twitter or like her page on Facebook.  Her new novella, Blood Child is available onAmazon.