Sheryl Sorrentino

I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban by Malala Yousafzai
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I feel honored to have read Malala Yousafzai’s story, which is why it also feels somehow both inadequate and inappropriate to write this review as if I Am Malala were just another book worthy of literary critique.

I will start by saying, this book wasn’t at all what I expected; like several other reviewers, I anticipated more about Malala’s individual life experiences and less political background about Pakistan and the Middle East. I became bleary-eyed during the first third of the book by all the military groups and coups, the political parties, the government officials—some dirty; many ineffectual. I tried to follow (but couldn’t keep track of) all the acronyms of which group was which and who was on which “side,” something that Malala acknowledges wasn’t always clear to the Pakistani people themselves. But in the end, what came through loud and clear were two lucent voices—Malala’s and her father’s—from this maelstrom of fear, ignorance, and horrific violence that included suicide bombings and beheadings; U.S drone strikes that killed civilians and children; a devastating earthquake that took over 70,000 lives (not a typo); and floods that took out yet another 2,000.

This book is easily two-thirds about Malala’s father and one-third about her, which is not surprising when you consider just how influential a figure he was in her life. Ziauddin Yousafzai is an ordinary man with an extraordinary heart, mind, and commitment to what is just and true. On the back cover, Malala is seen gazing adoringly at him; the love, admiration and respect she feels for her dad are palpable and well-deserved. That he could speak out for education and girls’ and women’s rights in the face of so many obstacles and threats—some directed squarely at him and his school, and others simply the generalized condition of his village and homeland—makes him a truly amazing model of the best humanity has to offer. One small example of many: When his own life was threatened, Malala’s father turned down the protection of bodyguards, explaining that if he is meant to die because of his beliefs, then he preferred to die alone rather than cause anyone else to be wounded or killed alongside him.

Due to her personal tragedy, Malala has become a bridge between cultures, her story a needed salve in a world still dizzied and divided by the events of 9/11 and its aftermath. Although her perspectives are colored by both her culture and the influence of her family, her observations and story-telling are remarkably transcendent and even-handed, even while she voices a rarely acknowledged Pakistani viewpoint of recent world events. Her humility, faith, and good grace are beyond inspirational and should be an example for us all, especially those in the U.S. who still view all Muslims as savage, ignorant terrorists.

Malala paid a harrowing price for her courage and commitment, as did her family. She is living testament that a single brave soul can, indeed, make a difference simply by speaking out. One cannot help but believe, as Malala does, that she owes her remarkable recovery not only to the invisible hand of God, but to the power of those millions who rooted and prayed for her. May Malala Yousafzai live a long and outspoken life; may she never again be silenced; and may she continue to use her hard-won notoriety to promote healing, peace, and acceptance the world over.


View all my reviews

The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Wow. The Casual Vacancy has got to be one of the best books I have ever read. I am rather pleasantly surprised to feel this way, because I didn’t much care for J.K. Rowling when I read her early Harry Potter books to my then school-aged daughter. I’d found her writing as dry and unmoving as her stories were imaginative. (And if the lawsuits brought against her are to be believed, the originality of those stories is questionable.)

But I’ve got to give her well-earned props for The Casual Vacancy. (I read it on the heels of Wally Lamb’s We Are Water, which I enjoyed a lot, but somehow didn’t rouse in me the immediate impulse to write a review. I am puzzled why such a well-written story didn’t quite move me the way this one did, seeing as how Wally Lamb is one of my favorite authors. But I’ll leave those musings for another day.)

Rowling’s characters are fascinating, her writing impeccable. This acerbic, fast-paced story practically leaps from the page, with accents so crisp and realistic you can just about hear them. Her characters’ oozing emotions and petty pretexts are so raw they all but claw into you like Sukhvinder’s (one of the teenage characters) self-inflicted razor cuts. The scenes move so seamlessly from one to the next—from one part of town to another—it’s like watching a movie. I can’t wait for the BBC series, which I understand is under contract.

J.K Rowling is either an incredible talent, or has faultless editors at her disposal. Either way, this is one ride not to be missed.


View all my reviews

Okay, I realize the expression is “my two cents.” But since I blessedly earn about twelve times the U.S. average hourly wage for doing a day job I wouldn't say I "love," I have opted for mathematical accuracy in titling this blog.

And speaking of mathematics, three years and three novels since selling my first copy of Later with Myself in July 2011, I have earned less in total sales and royalties than I earn in a single day of practicing law. And that’s gross (meaning “before expenses,” as opposed to repugnant, which it is as well). Factor in what I’ve spent on book marketing and promotion, and I am over 16 billable hours “in the hole.” Granted, I have been practicing law for over twenty-five years, while struggling only the last five of them to also “make it” as a writer. But clearly, as any fool can see, my legal words of wisdom are worth far more on the open market than my literary ones.

Since I love to write, I will keep doing it—compensated or not. But what about making a living doing what I love? Must those of us who need to work for a living relegate the things we love to "hobby" status? Is the sheer joy of doing something we love to be its sole reward?

We've all heard the banal New Age-y advice:

“Do what you love and the money will follow.” Marsha Sinetar

“If you do what you love, you'll never work a day in your life.” Marc Anthony*  

(*Was he the first person to say that?)

“Doing what you love is the cornerstone of having abundance in your life.” Wayne Dyer

Lately, I’ve been reevaluating this notion of attempting to do what I love for a living. Despite the sappy slogans, something far more “enlightening” occurred to me the other night while fixing dinner: Why should I get paid for doing what I love? Indeed, why should anyone else care whether I love what I’m doing, much less pay me for it?

Just because we love doing something doesn’t mean we necessarily can or should make money from it. Plenty of folks love to write—and eat, watch TV, and have sex, for that matter. Blame it on Capitalism if you want, but people only pay for things they want or perceive they need. And since forces of supply, demand, and price virtually guarantee that we will only be compensated for the things we do better (or cheaper) than the next guy (or gal), what about learning to “love” what we’re already doing? Are there any kitschy quotes about that?

These are the closest ones I could find:

“The secret of joy in work is contained in one word – excellence. To know how to do something well is to enjoy it.” Pearl S. Buck

“If it falls your lot to be a street sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures, sweep streets like Beethoven composed music, sweep streets like Leontyne Price sings before the Metropolitan Opera. Sweep streets like Shakespeare wrote poetry. Sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will have to pause and say: Here lived a great street sweeper who swept his job well.” Martin Luther King, Jr.

As these more pragmatic but no less inspiring quotations suggest, our feelings needn’t factor into the equation at all. Rather, we can choose to love our work by constantly striving for excellence at it. And isn’t it blessing enough to earn an enviable living doing something I’m good at, even if I don't happen to "love" it all the time?

I like to believe I’m a talented writer, and (as with practicing law), am continually working at improving my craft and "upping my game." But to be successful at anything, it isn't enough to simply be good at what we do; we have to provide a needed/wanted product or service. I therefore consider it a small miracle that I have developed a modest "following" of faithful readers these past five years. But when it comes to matters of creativity, success essentially boils down to getting large numbers of people to like your output enough to be willing to pay for it, a goal that has proven elusive thus far. And when it comes to earning an actual living, it seems being a first-rate lawyer to a handful of loyal clients trumps spinning my wheels trying to become a widely sought-after novelist any day of the week.

I have recently begun writing my fifth novel. But alas, it will have to rest on the back burner this weekend while I churn out my monthly invoices and pore over that latest contract. Those efforts—while tedious—can at least be counted on to pay this month's bills and put food on the table.

My brother George left this world one year ago today at age 57. At the time, I considered it one of life’s great ironies that a man who never drank—and who was unfailingly obsessive about his diet and weight—died so young of liver cirrhosis.

My brother was a dedicated servant to his chiropractic patients and most in his element when giving advice about nutrition and health. He lived and breathed health-related issues far beyond chiropractic, and was always ready to impart his knowledge to anyone who needed it—without asking anything in return and despite his own illness.

My brother’s liver disease was already “advanced stage” when he was diagnosed in 2001. So it is no small miracle that George managed to survive eleven more years. I have little doubt that his self-imposed regimen of strict diet, daily supplements, and constant self-deprivation afforded him those extra years of life; this is a testament to my brother’s courage and determination in the face of great adversity. But I am not one to rewrite history; anyone who knew George could immediately see he was a brilliant mind with a tortured soul.

The riddle of my brother’s death has troubled me for the past year. How does someone like that contract liver cirrhosis? I never believed George’s explanation that he “took too much beta carotine" (a form of Vitamin A). Though my brother went to the grave insisting he was straight, I always suspected otherwise. This was a man far more enthralled watching rippling male muscles on a power-lifting podcast than spending time with his closest female friend—a cute chick a quarter century his junior whom I always suspected of being his “beard.” When my brother’s symptoms first presented in the mid-1990’s, my first thought was that he had AIDS.

So I sat down at the computer the other day and began researching liver cirrhosis to “connect the dots” between male sexual acts and the disease that took the life of a man plainly uninterested in women. Sure enough, with a few quick clicks of the mouse, I learned that unprotected anal sex can lead to Hepatitis C, which, left untreated, can cause liver cirrhosis and eventual liver failure. I recalled those weekends my brother spent alone in the Poconos with his closest buddy during the late 1980’s, and it was not hard to put two and two together.

While I admire my brother’s drive to become a chiropractor and his commitment to remaining functional and self-sufficient while facing down his illness (amazingly, despite a fully gangrenous leg from an unhealed weight-lifting injury, he kept up his bodybuilding and nutrition regimen until the day he died), I consider his inability to find happiness to be his biggest failure in life. And how could it be otherwise? No one can be happy denying his essential nature in favor of putting on a misguided “front.”

I still miss my brother, and probably always will. It feels like a cruel joke to have lost my oldest brother without ever truly knowing him. I hope that his tormented soul is in a better place and at peace; I hope he was able to move on to wherever he was meant to go, and can now be fully himself.

Here on earth, he is missed and will never be forgotten.

 

Many people don’t realize that authors solicit reviews from readers, or that finding willing reviewers to generate “buzz” is no small feat; it takes time, research, and courage. Of course, there’s always friends and family, but they quickly tire of our requests, and it can be extremely awkward for both parties when they don’t happen to like our work. But make no mistake—when you see only five-star reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, you should rightly suspect that they came primarily (if not exclusively) from people who know the author personally.

Those of us who welcome honest, less-than-stellar commentary (or simply don’t have 100+ close friends and family members to hit up for reviews) take to the Internet and “cold call” bloggers and Goodreads members. This can feel horrifically like querying indifferent literary agents even after a book has been published. But worse than that, requesting reviews from total strangers is a dicey proposition.  For one thing, some readers readily accept the free book, but then don’t post any comments (for shame—you know who you are!). And even when a reader actually follows through and writes a review, that is no guaranty it will be favorable.

Case in point, my latest request for Stage Daughter reviews produced these comments:

“Stage Daughter is [a] . . . disputatious novel. This is a story of a very dysfunctional group of people – one family in particular.  It is a story of a mother trying to live her failed fantasy through her young daughter . . . What transpires is a totally heinous turn of events.

“The writing was good but very crude with a lot of profanity. The story line was very dragged out and was more like a case study of totally dysfunctional lives rather than a relaxing novel. The ending was quite weak.”

Ouch!! Luckily, the author of this review was a sensitive grandma who emailed it to me first with an offer not to post it (which I readily accepted!). So why, you might ask, am I sharing it now? Because those less-than-glowing remarks got me thinking: Do I want to be a delicate flower who cannot take the good with the bad? Or am I willing to accept honest criticism about my work and learn from it when it’s constructive? While I didn’t want this unfavorable review to dissuade potential buyers on Amazon, there are valuable lessons I can take away from it.

Lesson #1: When requesting reviews from strangers, I should give fair warning that my books contain profanity. Most people don’t mind, but others hate it.

Lesson #2: Different reviewers will sometimes say the exact opposite thing about some facet of my work. For instance, while a couple of reviewers have commented on Stage Daughter’s “perfect pacing,” one or two others felt the story moves too slowly. This is but one example of how tastes and preferences can vary widely. Writers must learn to accept subjective opinions with a grain of salt, or at a minimum not take them too personally.

Lesson #3 (a/k/a the “aha” moment): Understand what you are and what you aren't. This reviewer's observation that Stage Daughter is not a “relaxing novel” made me realize that I am not a writer of "soothing stories"—darkly humorous, perhaps, but never purely entertaining. My fiction is deliberately loud, emotionally (and often sexually) “in your face,” and meant to make you squirm a little. I am far more interested in waking people up (or at least giving them something to think about) than lulling them to sleep.

There is nothing more empowering than understanding your unique purpose and intention, and presenting it forthrightly to those who want and appreciate what you have to offer. To read my books is to accept an open-door invitation into my characters’ wounded psyches. These fictional folk are never on their “best behavior;” no, they act like family when you're around. Once you step over the threshold into their dysfunctional lives, you become an “insider” to their sometimes unpleasant drama. The hair comes down; the makeup is off; the dentures are soaking in the bedside glass. For those of you old enough to remember when women wore slips, that pesky lace fringe will always be showing. And, as is true in real life, my stories end with an ambiguous (if hopeful), "We shall see; it all depends on what these fools do from here."

If you happen to enjoy this type of realism in your fiction (what this particular reviewer labeled “crude”), you will love my books. If, on the other hand, you prefer people who chew with their mouths closed and keep their elbows off the table (and their true thoughts and feelings to themselves), you will not like my stories or my often unsympathetic characters because you will view them from the critical vantage point of an “outsider.” Either way, I can't get too upset when readers tell me that my beloved eccentrics have spinach between their teeth.

I am thrilled to have learned so much from this review; it tells me my skin has grown appropriately thick. Just as a guitarist develops callouses to ease the pain of play, so, too, must writers lose their hypersensitivity in order to thrive in a public forum where criticism and negative feedback go hand-in-hand with baring our souls to the masses (or a measly few).

As an added bonus, I picked up a pretentious new word (“disputatious”)! Who knew a negative review could leave me feeling so positive?

I was recently contacted, out of the blue, by a traditionally-published author for an honest review of her latest novel (tell me, how cool is that?). Although I already had the book on my Goodreads "To Read" shelf, I was afraid I might hate it. And then what? Unlike some, I would never trash a novel after being asked to review it. But at the same time, I couldn't very well accept a free copy and then not post a review--at least not without telling the author why I didn't enjoy her book enough to want to write about it. (Having been on the opposite end of this ruthless "numbers game," and having had my own book offerings met with silence more times than I can count, I understand firsthand how elusive and demoralizing the process of pursuing positive reviews can be.)

Well, I needn't have worried! I enjoyed Stephanie Lehmann's Astor Place Vintage far more than I expected. It is a seamlessly-woven tale about two women living a century apart but connected by a weird combination of mystical and historical phenomena. Amanda Rosenbloom, a Manhattan vintage clothing dealer battling insomnia and exhaustion, stumbles upon Olive Wescott’s diary (written in 1907-08) while purchasing garments from an eccentric old lady. Amanda becomes enthralled by Olive’s fascinating journal entries, which seem to bring the turn-of-the century protagonist eerily to life. But this isn’t a novel about time travel so much as an imaginative, well-executed story about the interconnectedness of two human souls through time and space.

The chapters narrated by Olive offer a marvelous glimpse at feminism’s “first wave” in the form of Olive’s personal challenges as a single woman living and working in the same lower-East Side neighborhood now inhabited by Amanda, but during a far more conventional and inequitable era. Through equally engaging past and present-day narratives, Astor Place Vintage provides an eye-opening education into the plight of women at the beginning of the twentieth century, and the ripple effect their disenchantment had on future generations. Second- and third-wave feminists often forget that an oppressed crop of feisty females laid the groundwork for the feminist surge that took place during the Sixties and Seventies. Women like Olive were not only unable to vote, but also faced societal norms that would keep them both ignorant of their biology and tacitly dependent on men’s physical needs for their financial survival (whether through the “legitimizing” marriage marketplace or the unsanctioned trade of sexual favors in exchange for financial ones). Outside of marriage, women of that era had few viable means of garnering a living wage, much less partaking equally in social and civic life alongside their male counterparts.

Olive experiences this injustice firsthand when a devastating setback forces her to find work and fend for herself. I was reminded of Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth in the way Olive had to cope with socioeconomic restraints and sexual mores stacked squarely against women in general, but especially unmarried ones. Readers will easily understand why Olive’s warmhearted co-worker friend, Angelina, supplemented her meager wages by “keeping company” with a wealthy married man. However, ostensibly independent Amanda—a modern-day businesswoman who clearly should know better—strikes a far less defensible bargain by accepting financial help from her married boyfriend, Jeff.  Although the fact that he was her high school sweetheart makes their affair somewhat less detestable, I found Amanda rather vexing at times (as I am sure the author intended). Lehmann’s irresolute protagonist yearns for motherhood, yet remains hopelessly embroiled in a dead-end relationship, knowingly trading her prime childbearing years for financial support and erratic male companionship. Though frustrating, I found Amanda’s dilemma both plausible and authentic—and not all that different from Olive’s in the sense that, unlike men, women have a biologically finite time frame within which to link up with a man if we want to create families of our own, and still find it emotionally challenging and less than desirable to remain child-free by choice.

Replete with fertile scenes and mounting emotional tension, Astor Place Vintage climaxes with a masterful birthing event that sets this novel apart for its realism and suspense. Until then, it’s an easygoing thrill ride with just a hint of understated edginess. But that passage—including the forthright discussion that follows between Olive and the Johnny-come-lately doctor—imbue this otherwise pleasurable novel with an important substantive component that makes it worthy of “must read” stature as contemporary women’s fiction and historical fiction. (And lest anyone doubt that women could be as ignorant as Olive when it came to sex and reproduction, I can personally attest that my mother, born in 1917, misinformed me that a woman is most likely to conceive immediately before her period. I definitely got a chuckle over Olive’s ongoing confusion over that erroneous detail!) 

A simply delightful read from first page to last, I didn’t want Astor Place Vintage to end. Nevertheless, Stephanie Lehmann wraps it up neatly and convincingly, leaving the reader perfectly sated yet still longing for more. As for those readers who accept a free book and promise a review but don't follow through, I guess silence beats a public one-star "trashing."

Sure, I had my share of steamy romances back in those prehistoric, pre-tech times. And while we ancient cave-dwellers didn’t know from today’s technology, we did have cameras. Never in a million years would I have allowed a man to photograph me naked, never mind take such a picture myself. For one thing, even on my youngest, thinnest day, I was never that proud of my bare bod to want it captured on film for posterity. But more to the point, even as a reckless twenty-something, some logical crevice of my brain realized that sexual romances—no matter how passionate—tend not to last forever. (In fact, the hotter the sex, the more fleeting the affair was apt to be.) I might have dug a guy enough to bring him home with me, but the notion of letting him lord pictorial control over my butt and boobs was just too great a risk. Why trifle with that all-too-prevalent male impulse to show off such a trophy, or worse yet, willingly tender something that could later be used to blackmail me? Those low-tech pitfalls have not changed from when I was single, so why do today’s sexual partners so readily submit their nakedness to the lightning speed and worldwide scope of Cyberspace?

In this age of instantaneous electronic dissemination, this tiniest bit of restraint would seem more obvious and essential than ever. But, then again, maybe I’m just too old and flabby to understand the temptation. Perhaps Anthony Weiner would care to explain it to me.

I saw a rather intriguing movie last week—Margaret, in which Anna Paquin (playing 17-year-old Lisa Cohen) performs a powerful scene with Allison Janney as Monica, the woman hit and dismembered by a New York City bus after Lisa thoughtlessly distracted the driver over a stupid cowboy hat. Lying in the street in Lisa’s arms, her severed leg lodged beneath the bus’s rear wheel about ten feet away, Monica asks Lisa, “Am I dead?”

It is a gruesome, bloody, and emotional scene—one which certainly puts my petty problems in perspective. And yet, I, too, cannot help asking, “Am I dead?” (In the water, that is.) Launching a self-published book feels a lot like a bus wreck. You climb on, you pay your fare innocently and in good faith. Then you crawl along in this slow, overcrowded, humbling craft, trying not to grow annoyed by the many fits and starts over which you have no control. And then—BAM—out of the blue, you crash. (As in, less than two months after releasing Stage Daughter, sales—pitiful though they were to begin with—have dried up. At the time of this posting, I have sold exactly two e-books this month. You read that correctly: two.)

I would graciously concede defeat and go back to the drawing board, but Stage Daughter earned a Compulsion Reads endorsement (meeting 19 objective criteria), and bloggers and reviewers seem to like it! Granted, not everyone has bestowed the coveted five stars on my latest novel, but I am so past that it isn’t funny. I now urge everyone—especially friends—to be honest, to not feel obligated to give me extra stars out of friendship or charity, and certainly not to spare my feelings. That’s for grade schoolers (“There are no winners or losers here, honey. You showed up with a pulse and a smile, so everyone wins a prize!”). No, I want to graduate to the big leagues, and in professional anything, there are winners and losers (along with rankings and stats; kudos and criticisms; and successes and failures). Making it into the self-publishing “major leagues” requires talent, perseverance, and determination. It is just as difficult (and rare) to self-publish a bestseller as it is for an unknown “nobody” to land the starring role in a major motion picture. I realize this, but still—two lousy sales??

But speaking of movies, let’s get back to Margaret. In that same scene, Monica asks Lisa in a panic, “Are my eyes open or closed?” She’s bleeding to death in the street, massive amounts of blood having literally drained from her amputated leg, and her world has gone dark. She cannot see! How freaking terrifying is that—spending your final minutes amid a sea of strangers’ faces, unable to witness what is happening under your own nose? As the crowd waits in desperation for an ambulance to show up, a few hapless (if well-meaning) bystanders try to fashion a tourniquet from a belt. But it is too little, too late. Lisa tearfully pleads for Monica to hang on just a little longer, until the ambulance arrives. But a few moments later (thinking she has already passed on after confusing Lisa with her own dead daughter of the same name), Monica is gone. It is a horrific, despairing scene—the most powerful and pivotal point in the movie.

And so, as Stage Daughter gasps what feels like her final breath, I—like Monica—want to know, “Are my eyes open or closed?”  Like dear departed Monica, I want answers. I want to know what is happening, whether my book is dead or alive, whether I should try to hang on until help arrives, or let go and move on. Sometimes it feels as though I've got one leg figuratively stuck under a bus somewhere while I struggle blindly for an impossible outcome—that being literary success.

Thankfully, unlike Monica, I am still very much alive and have not been befallen by unexpected tragedy. But Monica and I do share this much: We both want the simple truth, without sugar-coating. So, if anyone has the slightest inkling why, after I wrote a halfway decent novel (my fourth) and faithfully performed the many “to-do” items on my marketing checklist, my book only sold two copies its second month out the gate, please leave a comment and enlighten me!

And while you’re at it, if you don’t feel like spending good money on Stage Daughter, pick up a copy of Margaret instead. It’s a bizarrely edited, well-acted film that is weirdly haunting and definitely worth watching.

 

Note to Readers: Full post appears as a guest blog on Compulsion Reads!

I have been asked on several occasions why I, a white writer, feature non-white protagonists in my two most recent novels (Puerto Rican Norma Reyes in The Floater and biracial Sonya Schoenberg in Stage Daughter). The question itself is rather telling. After all, real life is multi-dimensional where race is concerned, so why would a novelist “raise eyebrows” simply by creating fictional characters whose cultural perspectives differ from her own? More at:http://www.compulsionreads.com/blog/crossing-literature-life/

I received a newsletter the other day containing advice on how to write blogs everyone will click on. Among the “tips” were such suggestions as offering bullet-point information in list format; making readers anxious with scare tactics; and drawing them in with negative, gloom-and-doom predictions.

So here goes. What follows are my five compelling reasons why you must pick up a copy of Stage Daughter today:

 1.   So you don’t become a victim of “Adolescent Meltdown”! Are you familiar with the “Choking Game”? How about Emos and cutting? Slayer? Deicide? Meet twelve-year-old Razia Schoenberg—depressed, defiant, and determined. Stage Daughter demystifies the language of that mysterious creature known as the “pre-teen.” If you are cohabiting with one—or know someone who is, Stage Daughter will expose a few of their more baffling habits and translate some of their confounding utterings.

 2.   Because your next-door-neighbor might be a Terrorist! Tell the truth: Have you “bought into” the hysteria and media hype against Muslims as a result of 9-11? Do you actually know any Muslims personally? Then allow me to introduce Aziz Qureshi: Yoga guru; doting dad; cheating husband—and devout Muslim. Whether you love or hate him, Aziz and his family will disavow you of a few preconceived notions about this much-maligned group.

 3.   Because Homosexuals are Taking Over! Seriously, they’re everywhere! In the supermarket, the PTA, and our very own families! Maybe there’s even one lurking in your subconscious! What if you went through your entire life believing you were “straight,” and then discovered in midlife that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t? Meet Sonya Schoenberg: Frustrated actress; hopeless helicopter mom; and beautiful, bisexual seductress. (You might just relate to the stirrings she feels when she meets chic and perky fellow middle-school parent, Nannette.)

4.   Because the people you think are your friends might not be. Like many of us, Sonya tried and failed to get her parents and brother to love her in the way she craved most. An adopted child herself, her family's rejection especially stung when she became the single mom of an illegitimate daughter. Families often aren’t the wellspring of support we need them to be in difficult times. Your family and friends might let you down and even hold you back, whereas your so-called enemy might wind up helping you in your time of need. Stage Daughter shows why it’s a bad idea to judge others based on our own neuroses. Stay on the lookout for true friendships in unlikely places; the world needs more people who live life with an open mind toward others who are “different.”

5.   And speaking of the World—It’s Coming to an End! No kidding, it really is. On the domestic front, our government has been overtaken by liars and thieves; our economy is in the tank with few genuine signs of resurrection; and guns and gratuitous violence are out of control.  On the global front, Mother Earth is running a high fever while battling human cancer, and we are doing little—if anything—to help her heal. On the spiritual front, greed and dishonesty are rampant, sanctioned, and even admired. Eventually, it’s all got to end somehow, and whether that happens in 100 or 100 billion years’ time, there isn’t a whole lot we can do about it.

 So in the meantime, enjoy your life, send positive energy out into the Universe, and pick up a great book! Stage Daughter is available at http://stagedaughter.com.