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        My stories stem from the inner voice where all the gaps of expression are liberated.

As a child reared under the MAFIA CODE OF SILENCE, speaking was too terrifying. My diary became the root of my expression. So I write!

I’m self-taught so if you notice my syntax off you know why.  My pen moves from Creative Nonfiction to poetry. Column writing is how I began; I love the 2000 word lifestyle story that rises from adventuress in livingness.  

This year (after a seventeen-year crawl) I’ve finished a memoir:  “CRADLE OF CRIME.”


Luellen Smiley is a creative Nonfiction writer and award-winning newspaper columnist who writes a bi-monthly column “Odyssey of Love” and has been a regular contributor to MORE Magazine. Her “Growing Up With Gangsters” stories appeared in the New York Post and in Southern California.
Luellen has completed a memoir  based on her life as the daughter of Hollywood racketeer,  Allen Smiley, Benjamin Siegel’s partner and best friend. Her extensive research the past twenty-five years led to numerous TV and Radio interviews regarding her discovery and breaking the silence.



                           ADVENTURES IN LESS LIVINGNESS

            Maybe the obstacle is not Limbo landmines, but my own neurosis to solve this clandestine episode. If I wasn’t writing this, I’d collapse with grief.

             ” The essence lies not in the events of life in themselves, not in the things that ever happened to us, but in our inner relationship to those events.”  Ira Progoff.

    It is only seven o’ clock but I’m going to get in bed and watch movies after I go into the house to get some of my summer clothes. The Santa Fe tease of summer is baiting me. I hear the shower that Limbo uses. My head did a 360 and I went to the bedroom door, locked of course, and yelled like hell, “Get out.”  Then I left. It doesn’t feel as good now, but that roar had to come out.  Limbo hides his cars, leaving me open to a surprise visit.

       White Zen said, ‘You have to get him out of there, he’s too mentally unstable, and it’s not healthy for either one of you.”  My head is a dart board of questions, demystifying his plots, options, and prayers. Several weeks after my attorney didn’t receive an answer from Limbo’s attorney he wrote, “Are you going to respond and if so when?” Today it appears he’s gone again, he’s not working at La Posada otherwise he’d be dashing up the sidewalk. I’m in the kitchen of the main house looking for paper towels. The back door opened, and we both just froze.

       “Limbo, I’m really sorry this is happening. Can we talk?”

He took that door and slammed it with every bit of strength he had.  I took a Valium, exhaled and got into bed to watch the film Match.  A few hours later, Knock-knock-knock at my door. Then, “Luellen Smiley.”  I didn’t move. A flashlight speared the drape, and then, “Santa Fe Police.” I opened the door to five Policeman.

      “Come in. What’s the problem?”

      “ Mr. White filed a complaint?”

      “ For what?”

      “ H e said you confronted him.”

      “What? No,, that is not accurate. I’ve known Mr. White for thirty-three years, he has turned against me in a vicious manner and hired an attorney to force me out of this house, and I’m half owner. I tried to talk with him, in a very gentle manner. I can’t believe he called you.”

     “Well you seem to be a very down to earth woman, but we have to respond to the calls. I think it best if you don’t attempt any more reconciliation.”

     “I feel like going to the hospital. You’ve no idea what he’s doing to me.”

     “Would you like us to call an ambulance? We can do that.”

     I shook my head as the incident ricocheted through my heart. The next day the outrage simmered and I sent an email to my attorney alerting him to Limbo’s tempestuous actions. After he read that Limbo called the police, he wrote back a very polite letter of resignation. “This is not my area of expertise. Limbo appears more interested in irritating you than resolving your real estate issues.” To be continued.



There was this one bookstore in Del Mar that I browsed every week.  The owner was a sweet New England woman. Her collection and arrangement likened to  going into a candy shop as a little girl.  Over stuffed chairs, benches and a roundtable for readings and workshops were not unused. People spent hours in her salon of literature. Right next door was the Pannikin Coffee House that catered to loyalists of aromatic coffee, pastries and slouching.  I ordered coffee, sat outside on the walkway and read the book I had just bought.  Almost every time I bought a book the cashier commented, ‘ I love that book, or that looks interesting. ‘

At that time I was working on one of the first drafts of my book.  I  browsed  every new display title, imagining someday my book would be sitting upright on a table. I remember the day I drew up enough courage to tell the owner about my book.  She raised her brows and smiled, ” Well, you’ll have to do a book signing when it’s published.”

After a year or two, she quit asking how my book was coming along, and I quit going into the bookshop.

Today twenty-three later, I am signing my book at La Posada Hotel.  This is why I am remembering those days in Del Mar, when the dream of completion seemed light years away. ‘You have to dream baby’ Carlitos Way.