Click to listen to an audio recording of the poem. 

I'm getting closer to the rerelease of Tender Bonds as an e-book. I'm excited, because I do love this book. written with love and care some time ago. And I'm nervous, too. Self pubbing seems a hard road to me and I haven't yet taken the plunge with anything more than some short pieces.  But I'm going to venture forth anyway. 
​Here's an excerpt from the book. Patty, the main character, has recently discovered that she has a step brother. They share a derelict father named Jack . I'll warn you ahead of time that her brother, Charlie, likes to use adult language. (Perhaps I should put an R rating on the excerpt?) 
​I took the photo at a pond near my house. There's a lake, a made-up place called Babylon Lake, that figures heavily in this book. I imagine it looks something like this in the fall. 

(Charlie) swigged the last of his wine. “I’m going to open another bottle. You game?”
I was feeling the buzz of the first two glasses I’d consumed. It was not an entirely bad feeling. Maybe that’s what Jack went for, that little buzz that made all problems seem a little less problematic. Only in Jack’s case, it had backfired. “Sure. Why not.”
“Unfortunately, all I’ve got left is wine in a box.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It’s not.” He went to the kitchen and came back with a carton. “But it is cheap.” He poured us each a glass. “So tell me about Jersey.”
“Tell me about Valerie.”
“I asked first. What are you running from?”
“Nothing.” I knew I sounded defensive. “I’m just trying to…” How could I put it? I didn’t know myself, really, what I was trying to do. Not in my frontal lobe anyway. Somewhere deep inside myself I understood. But how do you word that? “I’m trying to figure some things out,” was the best I could come up with. I lay my head back on the couch. My shoes were off. I had the thought that I felt about as much at home as I ever had anywhere. It must have been the wine.
“And hanging around here is going to help you figure things out?” Charlie wasn’t joking anymore.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe if I can get to see Jack, I can fill in the missing pieces. I keep making wrong choices. Not wrong, maybe. More…it’s like I don’t make choices at all. Things just happen and I let them. Maybe it’s in the gene pool. Maybe if I meet Jack, I can fix it.”
“I’ve known Jack a long time, and I’m still fucking things up.” Charlie sat up in the recliner. I was staring at the ceiling. “Jack doesn’t have any answers. You can trust me on that.”
It was a tin ceiling. I remembered it as soon as I looked. It hadn’t changed in thirty-six years. “You think he’ll remember me?” My eyes filled, washing the tin plates. I took another swallow of wine.
“I have to tell you something. That first day, you showed up here with that stupid plant? I wanted to kick you out. I’ve hated you for most of my life.”
I sat up. “Why?”
“Because. Jack, he’d get drunk and talk about you. It was “my Patty” this and “my Patty” that. It hurt my mother. She never had kids with him, you know. Couldn’t, I guess. And he used you like a weapon. Did it to me too. “My Patty” was always better than me. He used to say “your sister Patty would never act like that,” whenever I messed up. And I’d think fuck you and fuck Patty too. She’s not my sister. Said it aloud once or twice. He beat the crap out of me when I did.”
His words stung more than I thought possible. “I’m going to go.” I stood up and swayed before regaining my balance. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“That your solution for everything? Say I’m sorry and run off?”
“You hate me. There’s no sense in my staying.”
“Thing is, Patty, I don’t hate you. I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
He picked up the box of wine. “Have another drink. We’ll talk, get to know each other, then I can hate you.”
I handed him my empty glass. I wasn’t sure how I’d get back to the motel anyway, feeling as buzzed as I was. I could imagine getting stopped for DWI.
Like father, like daughter.
​

In a recent interview, I was asked what I would say to my beginning writer self if I could go back and give her advice. It's an interesting question, isn't it? I mulled it over for a bit. 
The usual advice I mete out --only when asked, of course *grins* -- is to write a lot and read a lot and then write some more. It is sound advice, and I'm certainly not the only one who has offered it. But as I look back, I think my beginner already knew to do those things. We all know practice makes you better at what you do. And most writers I've met are avid readers first.
The other thing, though, the thing we don't talk about as often, is the courage it takes to write. Facing down a blank page can be like standing on the high dive. Maybe it's your first time, or maybe you've taken the dive a thousand times before, but each time there's a thrum in your ear, a roiling in your gut. You know you can do it, or you think you can, and the water is mirror smooth and blue and inviting. But it is a long way down.  And if you've done it before, you know it can go wrong,  and the smooth blue water will feel like concrete as you crash into it. 
My advice is  do it anyway. Close your eyes and jump. Pull out the stops and write with your whole heart, your whole being. All good writing comes from this, the thrilling jump forward, the deep dive, the resurfacing.