“Today is postcard perfection, even now, with sunlight too harsh to look at, the trees with tongues hanging for water, and the dead plants in the garden. I think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyes, in Malibu and Santa Monica or Del Mar beach, the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I sink beneath the surface.I’m going home to the flowered gardens and avenues of palm trees of Del Mar to see where and if I belong. I spend the days interviewing movers, making last-minute appointments, separating wardrobes, rummaging through my storage unit, and staring into an unknown future for the first time in thirty-five years without my partner.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
MISADVENTURES OF TODAY… Job boards alerts for the JOB I am perfectly suited for, are in Tallahassee or Wichita and require AI experience, and about seven variables of programs written as unrecognizable anagrams. I am only in my fourth month of job searching digitally, days of in person interviews are akin to eight-hundred-page novels.
My resume is professionally edited, posted on all the legit job sites and about ten questionable ones. I write personal letters to the museums, galleries, foundations and event planning departments, no reply, or the feigned friendly formal answer, ‘Thank you for contacting us! We do appreciate your time. We’ve chosen another candidate.’ The algorithm cadets are pushing me in the slush pile. Can you blame me if at least one day a week I scream silently. The bot bounty hunters are shooting me. Set this aside and see my phone, the icons on the home page change weekly, by a phonebot, and google decided to sync five thousand laptop photos on my phone. Now when I have to scan for a return to Amazon because they sent me two fans instead of one, the scan is where?
On my knees praying this laptop continues to behave or I will scream outdoors and be reported within seconds by a resident because Solana Beach bodies seem to obey all the orders. I tend to test authority, like not renewing my driver’s license for two years, and lying to my Doctor about my state of mind, because he’ll advise therapy and I self-analyze myself about everything, so why hear it twice.
The new modest home serves me what I came him for, ocean breezes, quiet, and private, neighbors that seem to harmonize, we can just say hi, is ok. At the intersection where I live, athletic, toned, and tanned looking males and females run, jog, walk, bike the sidewalks and streets in identical outfits. Sort of like a stage play and it’s inspiring to see that health is the way to live, I just don’t remember that culture dominating when I lived here. What I don’t understand doesn’t bother me, it’s a curiously about moving back home and feeling misfitted.Those of you who know me, have heard me say this about every location I move.
The ocean breeze, fan blowing against the curtain panes, bougainvillea bushes that colorize my terrace, the phone calls from friends, and edits sent by my publisher tranquilize the BOTS AND BOOBOOS.
Misfitted and anxious for acknowledgement due to not having ten thousand followers or whatever is the number, an author’s marketing team (everything seems to be in teams) contacted me with an offer to represent my book, Cradle of Crime-A Daughters Tribute published in 2017. Here’s the first paragraph of the first email.
The idea at the heart of Cradle of Crime is one that I had never encountered framed quite this way before. A daughter’s journey into her father’s criminal past, beginning ten years after his death. Most memoirs about family secrets are written as reckonings, as confrontations with the truth, as attempts to understand how a parent’s hidden life shaped the child who was left behind. You wrote something different. You wrote a book that is not just about uncovering the past, it is about the impact of that uncovering on your own identity, about the humiliation, rage, shame, and acceptance that came with discovering that your father was Benjamin Bugsy Siegel’s best friend and business partner. And you built that entire idea around the truth that the secrets our parents keep are not just their own, they become ours, and that the work of understanding who we are often requires us to confront who they were, even when what we find is devastating. That reframe is everything.
Six emails later and digging through all the scam searches, I discovered BOT LITERARY HOAX. On my base she pitched me the marketing plan, without cost. Now I have a comprehensive skill set to use! Sample: Listopia, ARC team, enhanced keywords, categories, Amazon Ads, metadata overhaul, refresh, etc. I did not use any of these when I self-published. I thought about reporting them, No, they can hack me!
This week, another author marketing team contacted me with a similar, your story resonates with multiple markets you haven’t accessed. So, I decided to ask ChatGPT to run a check. One minute didn’t pass before this was returned. The opening sentence was, Luellen, I wouldn’t advise this company for Gaslighting Greta! BOT brilliance, he remembered from a previous question.
Absolutely. I can recreate the Michael Literary Team assessment we just did.
I would not send them money, your complete manuscript, financial information, passwords, or other sensitive material until the company is independently verified. I would not call it definitively a scam based solely on the evidence, but there are enough warning signs that I would not treat it as a conventional, established literary agency without further verification.
Major red flags we identified
Multiple/near-duplicate domains
There appears to be both a correctly spelled Michael Literary Team site and a misspelled “Micheal” version.
This is unusual and raises questions about the history and ownership of the operation.
Changing personnel and biographies
Names and positions appearing on the sites have inconsistencies.
Some biographies have the feel of generalized/template-generated profiles rather than independently verifiable publishing-industry résumés.
Website/template errors
We found repeated spelling, wording, and structural errors.
There were also inconsistencies in company information.
Incomplete Chicago address
The claimed Chicago presence did not provide the kind of easily verifiable business information you would expect from an established literary agency.
Very broad range of services
The operation appears to offer an unusually wide combination of literary, publishing, marketing, cinematic, and related services.
That isn’t proof of wrongdoing, but it warrants scrutiny.
Testimonials are difficult to independently verify
Testimonials on a company’s own website aren’t strong evidence of legitimacy unless the authors and their publishing histories can be independently confirmed.
The Gavin Westbrook example
We found outside discussion concerning a $1,000 package and a relatively small independent social footprint.
This deserves additional verification before relying on the testimonial or client claims.
Weak independent footprint
An established literary agency would normally leave a substantial trail outside its own websites: reputable publishing databases, established agents, publisher relationships, industry references, verifiable authors, rights sales, etc.
Part 2 — Connection to Susan Literary Team
This was particularly interesting.
We found evidence suggesting a substantial connection between Michael Literary Team and Susan Literary Team, including:
Emmanuel Carter appearing in connection with both.
Susan Cinematic appearing on the older/misspelled Michael site.
Susan Cinematic being associated with the Susan organization.
Similar website structures, services, Chicago references, and wording.
The Susan domain appearing to have been registered on March 21, 2026.
Similar language concerning a “bulk buyer strategy.”
Repeated copy/wording errors across the sites.
That does not, by itself, prove fraud. But the similarities make the relationship between these organizations an important issue to investigate.
Bottom line
My assessment was essentially:
HIGH CAUTION — do not pay until independently verified.
The evidence is strong enough that I would not recommend treating Michael Literary Team as a verified, traditional literary agency at this point.
And importantly, the 75–85% figure we discussed was a “do not pay until independently verified” risk assessment, not a mathematical probability that the company is fraudulent.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I had it today, unlike other days that the truth is mettled or opaque or I am distracted. It reminds me of one of the wisdoms my father passed on to me: ” You can fool the whole world little sweetheart, but you can’t fool yourself.” I was a teen, when he passed on this mantra of living, now, today on a sunny Solana Beach go to the beach or racetrack day, I sit here and contemplate who I was fooling and why.
At some point in my thirties, I decided to outperform convention: marriage, children, my career, and lead without warnings, without proven methods, I thought experimentation was my path. I changed careers, moved to multiple locations, and threw the dice on finances. I can’t truly say no regrets, adventures in livingness brings growth, but the bank account needs growth too!My gang, assures me I’ll get back on the track, thank God for friends that believe in us, right! I don’t need five million followers, just my five fly over me forever friends.
On the track, earlier this week I had a conversation about the Del Mar Horseraces. The race track at Del Mar is on and my friend goes several days a week,
” It‘s really a lot of fun. Why don’t you come sometime and get away from editing?”
” I’ve told you, haven’t I? My dad gambled on everything: horses, sports, the academy awards, and at lunch, if the fly would go out the open window. If I win, I know, I’ll get addicted.”
” Oh, yes, I forgot you mentioned that.”
So, the dice throwing is in remission, going forward: manage impulse, unconventional living, be sensible, pragmatic and use proven methods.
Solana Beach massesare at the beach or the track, and I’m editing. ( deleted 25 pages today because people don’t read 400 page books) You know why I can do it? Because I spent my glorified years going to the beach, the track, partying, parading, and popping.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
My possessions in Saratoga Springs now appear as decorations from a former celebration, like side dishes of over 20 years of mixing and matching prints, drapes, sofas, chairs, tables, vases, and artwork. Now they’ve been removed from my experimental minimalistic living. A former lifecycle that began twenty-five years ago, and are boxed up in a big POD storage. And I refuse to meet them in the present. Friends ask me, ‘when are you bringing your furniture here?’ I can’t answer in words, it must crystallize like it has this past week, when I missed my wardrobe and art hangings. Within the admired art, clothes, and sixty-two boxes, (I looked at my inventory) are a haunting of memories tied in see thru knots of Dodger, my x. As a confirmed refuser of goodbyes, in any relationship, this one has to be nurtured with precision, and that means, no reminders.
The stark white walls and Amazon assembled furnishing are stationed without emotion, memory or love. Functional, practical and unfamiliar. Ive created a new palette, like my first studio in Los Angeles in 1976. Then the others, studios over the years, small, compact, easy to maneuver and clean. Internally, the walls and shelves are cluttered with decisions. The edits on my book from the publisher, when will I find employment? How to engage in new friendships, clubs, gyms, meetups.
Singleness in a city, that was once my home for twenty years, evolved through generations, adding new policies, laws, regulations, real estate development, customs, and an impressionable celebration of the arts and culture. It has no resemblance to the San Diego I met in 1983, except for the ocean and the bordering cliffs and seawalls. That is where a continuous rolling of memory waves sear my view, and I see my youthful delight in San Diego. I’ve always been impressed with people who truly live in the present, can’t figure that one out, maybe I’m just a past time girl.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
STILL A MYSTERY WHO SHOT BENJAMIN “BUGSY” SIEGEL .
JUNE 20,1947
Several years ago, I received an email from a reporter in Las Vegas. George Knapp had read some of my memoir posted on my website and asked for an exclusive interview. He asked about my father’s relationship with Ben Siegel “Bugsy” and what I knew about their friendship, and why Ben Siegel was shot. I declined the interview, butGeorge persevered. Three weeks later I agreed to the interview, because my father was not there to stop me.
We met in Del Mar at the Inn Auberge. I showed up with a notepad to remind me what not to say, a photograph of my father when he was a producer for Cecil B. De Mille, and a borrowed calmness that comes when I am approaching an extremely anxious situation.
My first interview about Dad was not anything like I imagined. George approached the subject with respect, and I relaxed and began talking, and talking, and talking. The only time I hesitated was when he asked if I knew who killed Ben, and I had to answer swiftly, “I think Bush did it.” He was not too impressed with the answer; but it saved me from theorizing.
At the end of the interview, I walked out of the hotel without regret. I said what I felt should be told; that my father’s best friend was Ben Siegel. If he loved Ben and my mother loved Ben, than there is a lot more to “Bugsy” than what the public has been told. The interview aired on a Friday night, and my life was no different from before. George got a call from someone who claimed my father once told him, Virginia Hill’s brother was the shooter. It sounds like my father; he enjoyed sending people down the wrong path. He always said, “You don’t inherit friends,” and so I declined to remain friends with family members of his group, because I respected hisorders, even after he died.
I doubt any of his mob friends are still alive today. Many people have claimed they knew my father, but in essence, what they mean is they met at Ciro’s, or had a game of cards, or went to the racetrack. My father’s only friends were connected to organized crime. I learned this when he died; three people showed up for the service. He warned me to keep away from reporters, and not to trust anyone. Still, strange incidents followed his death that I was unprepared to handle.
A man I’d never heard of called and informed me, ‘Your Dad and Ben buried a safe deposit box in downtown Los Angeles. You should look for the key, there may be a lot of cash.’ My father was not about to leave this world without telling me he had stashed money in a safe deposit box. I will bet every dollar on that. Another man, posing as a friend, came to my aid offering help settling the estate. A few weeks later another man I had never heard of, placed a claim on the estate for an old gambling debt of $5,000. The two of them were conspiring. Had I known gambling debts are erased when the bettor dies, I would not have allowed my sister to sell his Patek Philippe diamond and ruby pocket watch, which I suspect belonged to Ben Siegel at one time. The end of my father’s life was as mysterious as when he was living. That is how he liked it, and that is how he lived it.
I had to wait until my father was in his seventies to go to the racetrack with him. He took me to Santa Anita, we sat in the clubhouse, and he watched the track from behind tinted dark sunglasses. He was quiet and observant. He watched me eat and then handed me a twenty-dollar bill to bet on the Exacta. He told me how to bet and which horses to bet. I walked away from the cashier thinking I would be a big winner. Instead, I walked away a big loser. This was a setup, he picked the losing horses, so I’d get the lesson ” Even your old Dad loses at the track, remember that.’ There wasn’t anything exciting about going to the track, he made sure of that. I suppose he was concerned, that I had inherited a taste for betting.Lucky for me; I discovered Dad’s gambling didn’t pay off. When he was with Siegel in the forties, controlling the wire service he’d bet up to $50,000 in one day. And lose it on the next gamble. I don’t bet on sports, or gamble in casinos. I do gamble on life, and aim for the outlandish, improbable questionable odds.
Photo: Leaving Beverly Hills Police Department day after the murder.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
A momentary connection occurred to me last night after watching, “There Will Be Blood” about drilling for oil. The oil derrick is the outline, or the notes scribbled in a journal. Then the pipes are set in place, like words in a sentence, then paragraphs. Our characters come into view some muscular and brazen like the drillers, welders, rig workers and mud loggers. Once those elements are configured in the oil field or in sensory perception the story begins. The paragraphs build into pages and the pages build a story.
The writer digs for substance for soulful spiritual contemplation and he builds on it. Sometimes it comes like a gush of oil. Other times it bubbles at the surface and goes nowhere. When the bubbles recede, we move on to another location internally and externally and we begin to dig for a new well story.
These ruminations came to me after watching the film, especially poignant to me as my father at the age of fifty left a life of gambling and mafia assorted activities and learned to be an oil producer. He was introduced to Howard Hughes through Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello and Howard introduced Dad to a wildcatter in Houston named Lenoir Josey. My mother and father moved to Houston from Los Angeles in 1949 and into the Shamrock Hotel, that being the hotel used in the film Giant, and Edna Ferber’s book, about Glenn McCarthy, played brilliantly by James Dean. He built the Shamrock, and it opened on St Patrick’s Day 1949 (the pool was so large you could water ski across) Glenn became close friends with my father. I met him once in Los Angeles at a lunch with Dad. He was broken, by his loss of fortune. and friends. I recall a face withered by disappointments.
Josey as my father referred to him took my father under his wing and tutored him in the business of oil engineering and oil production It was a gamble and my father a life long gambler on everything loved being in the oil business. I didn’t intend to wave my father’s story into this but intentions in writing as many things in life surprise us.
If J. Edgar Hoover hadn’t refused my father’s request to reside in Houston to continue the oil business I would have been born in Texas. My father was forced to move back to Los Angeles and as Hoover predicted he went back to gambling. During his time with Josey, he amassed twelve oil leases in states across the Southwest and Midwest and when he died that part of his life was handed down to his children in royalty leasehold interests. That was when oil was $17 a barrel. But Josey had passed and his son no longer honored the handshake agreement between his father and mine and forced us to sell our leasehold interests for a shameful amount.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
TANNED AND LEAN BARE-CHESTED surfers, taking off their wet-suits and I cross over one in my path.
” Sorry about the mess, ” he says.
” What are you surfers, sidewalk strippers?”
” He chuckled for a minute and looked at me with sea blue eyes and a smile.
“ I’ve been watching you since I was five years old.”
” Where was that?”
” Santa Monica, Malibu.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the support.”
” Thanks for the entertainment.”
Back on concrete and the traffic crossing, at a four-way intersection, it is like the running of the bulls. As soon as I step off to the green light for pedestrians, a car on the left almost cuts me off, and the gleam of the cars, as if they were just driven off the lot, I think of my car, when it arrives, will be the dirtiest car in Del Mar.
Several days later, I Ubered into the village to look at a few apartments. The first one, designed in brick and stone, absolutely matched my taste, and was open. A man was sitting at a tiled table in the courtyard.
” I’ve been trying to reach the Manager. I’m interested in a studio.”
“ He turned around. ” That’s mine, take a look.”
” Thank you.”
I walked into a room the size of a woman’s mid-sized closet, and the closet was large enough to hold six hangers.”
” I lived here a year and a half; it’s a cool place.”
” Yes, very cool, but too compact for me. Thank you for showing me. You look like a surfer, am I right?”
” I am, that’s why I stayed here, the beach is next door.”
” Second surfer I met today, I really admire your sport.”
” Nice to hear that, it really is.”
I departed and walked a few blocks to the second apartment. The agent, in creased slacks and a plaid shirt, walked me into an apartment about the size of the previous one.
” It’s listed as four hundred square feet. Does that include the bathroom and kitchen?”
” Yes, we have off-street parking and of course, the location, you can’t beat it right?”
” Right, thank you for showing me. I have a few more to look at.”
” I’ll give you an application, he started to the door and recited the amenities, the view the landscape, and the terrific tenants.
” My furnishings and clothes won’t fit, and I am already fully downsized .”
” We have a one-bedroom available.”
” How much is that?”
“Thirty-nine fifty.”
” That’s above my pay grade, but thank you.”
” Good luck,” which sounded more like, no luck at all.
Back to my hotel, and as I passed the valet, he said,
” How’s it going?”
” It’s going, but it’s not taking me along.”
He bent over laughing, not because it was that funny, but he related!
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’m one of you. Adrift, without a direction, waiting on the shore for a wave to break and include us. It is not ho ho ho for us, it is whoa whoa whoa. I’ve learned my lesson; I will not repeat the dissonance, selfishness, and fear that prevent me from engagement with life. My cradle of friends is my family. They want everything to work out. For their patience and comfort, I will not let them down!
How much stronger must I be? Isn’t five years of punishment enough? My smile is feigned, my heart is sliced in two, and my spirit is spoiled. Today, the darkness outside and within shatters what could be a day different. I could be outdoors, and brave the cold, work out in the gym, window shop on a whim, and fill someone’s frown with smiles.
I have the hours to transform; it is eleven am, but I haven’t slept a night through in a week or more. I live a melodramatic life in my dreams; they are symbolic messages of my vulnerability, fragility, mistakes, and unrealistic expectations. My former self lived with all I wanted and needed. I woke with enthusiasm, direction, confidence, and exhilaration. I loved and was loved in return. You ask what happened? Betrayal, and then gaslighting, using callous actions, of destruction, emotionally, psychologically, and financially. What I cherished in him vanished, and a ghostly evil power, within another woman, chained him and locked me out.
Now I wait for the final curtain to close so that he will be a memory instead of a menace. Almost there, but will that liberation convert my stagnation into stimulation?
Hope, prayer, discipline, and forgiveness are the weights that build my strength. And of course writing. If I didn’t have this way of expression, I couldn’t have made it this far. My writing is my wand of magic, for me and I hope for you out there. I’m one of you, an outsider, an introverted extrovert, a dreamer, a risk taker, and at the starting gate of my triple crown.To be continued.
Photo by u041au0430u0440u0438u043du0430 u041au0430u0440u0436u0430u0432u0438u043du0430 on Pexels.com
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
Aside from her legal phantazmorphia, the house has critical repairs, so she is meeting with contractors, plumbers, electricians, and masonry companies to tend to one thing after another. As she reflects on all these repairs and sees her savings account drop by fifty percent, her demeanor is not as she expected; she feels a sense of reward for taking responsibility for the house and hertenants.
“ I decided to eliminate debt by consolidating outstanding balances into one low-interest payment; I didn’t use the air-conditioner, buy favorite foods, go to my favorite tavern, or purchase anything that didn’t get categorized as home repair. I even quibbled with my Physician about an in-person visit and asked for a Telemed visit.”‘
‘No, there would be no frivolous spending. This new style of surviving she called Anorexic Finance. When she relayed this to me, I high-fived her because I’ve never been in that position and thought it was commendable.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
The course we choose to study doesn’t begin in school; it begins the moment we recognize that life is our teacher. I chose the course of love between a man and a woman. Yet all I’ve learned from Anais Nin, Joan Didion, and Lawrence Durrell about love isn’t guiding me. I have to start over and develop wisdom from my own experiences.
I checked into the third hotel, the previous one was tedious and murky. This morning in a larger room, on a crisp as iceberg lettuce, a day of clarity and stillness surrounds me. Outside my hotel room, the light is intermittent, a peak a boo stage window, the light illuminates portions of the crispy autumn leaves just before they drop. On my side of the glass, there are shadows and dissonance. What events take place this week will be instrumental in my future and as piercing as the southwest sun when it shone in my eyes.
This hotel’s staff is exceptionally friendly, conversant, and engaged in their jobs. Every time I pass by the guest check-in, Rose stops what she’s doing.
“ How’s it going?”
“Too early to tell.” I’ve been here a week, and I unzipped my lawsuit story, so she is in the know. She is knowledgeable about the law, and living through times that are more threatening than usual.
“ Okay. What are you doing today?’
“ Researching moving companies. Critical thinking and planning. When I moved from Santa Fe to Los Angeles, I hired a broker, thinking it was the actual company. When the van arrived, half of my things were broken, boxes were opened, and some were stolen. So this time, no mistakes.
“ Mistakes are all about learning.”
“ Yes, and I learned!”
“ What did you do last night?” She said with a curious smile.
“ I was at the bar, Lizzie was there rousing all of us up with puzzles, abrouhahalike the old days, you know, not one of us looked at our phones.”
“ Please, don’t even start. So annoying when you’re talking to someone and they are staring down at their phones.”
“ When I was living in LA, at huge four-way intersections in the middle of traffic, pedestrians crossed without even looking up. It was the same everywhere, restaurants, shops, it struck me as a way of looking very significant.”
“ You’re so right!”
“ That reminds me, I need to go write a column.”
“ Write about your lawsuit.”
“ No! I’m in witness protection writing.”
“ They may read it right?”
“ You New Yorkers are always on the right key.”
“ Gotta be, it’s New York.”
” I’m California”.
” That’s okay, I still love you, and your day is coming, and so is a new man.”
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
“ You have to be out today by 11 am. ” I gasped and looked at the time, 10 am.
“ Scooter told me he extended it until Sunday the 26th.”
“ He didn’t call us. He has to call us. We need the room for the monster ball. Get a hold of him.
I was shaken. I had one hour to reach Scooter. I called in a panic from the lobby and left a message. Then upstairs, I desperately looked for a hotel to take me in, in case Scooter didn’t call. They were booked tonight, but could take me tomorrow. The hotel was a two-star, no Mortons, no restaurant, no gardens, but it looked clean and was only a mile away.
At 11:00, Scooter texted, “I called, you have until Saturday. Is that okay?”
“ Yes, fantastic, thank you!” Scooter has an arrangement with the hotel that earns him points, and he has gifted me many of them!
I returned to the other conundrum of the day —my lawsuit —with very unexpected news. Tammy, the Top Drawer Housekeeping Manager, stopped me in the hallway.
“ What’s wrong, Loulou. She leaned against the cart and listened attentively.
I updated her on the event, and she tilted her head to one side.
“ Bastard! Take a break today, let the process begin, and tomorrow you’ll regain your strength.”
“ It’ll take a few tomorrows, I’m emotionally fragile.”
“ I know you are, I’m the same!”
She patted me on the shoulder, and just that little gesture, of care, was a band-aid to the wound.
Walking into the next hotel was a pinch of pathos I was not prepared for until the front-desk gent helped me with my five suitcases.
“ You’re from Santa Fe? He said, eyeing my license plate.
“ Was, for eleven years.”
“ I moved recently from Ranchos de Taos.”
“You’re kidding! That’s where I lived for several years. I had a gallery there!”
“ That’s crazy. I’ve never met anyone here who knows Ranchos or even New Mexico.” I laughed, cause a lot of people think it’s in Mexico.
He opened my door, and I feigned disappointment and thanked him.
Okay, here it is, a bland room without the flair or fancy, but the price is right. I opened the suitcases and did not unpack. The sun was out like a neon sign, beckoning me to go outdoors.
No elevator, on the first floor, I passed the laundry room—a lot of conversation and a sort of cheerful vibe. I walked outside, sat in a chair facing the sun, let my arms droop, and closed my eyes. I heard someone walking and then sitting next to me.
“ Hello, did you just check in?”
“ Yes, the sun is marvelous, isn’t it?”
“You bet it is. I’m Loulou.”
“ What! My name is Loulou, a nickname.”
She moved around, crossed her legs, lit a cigarette, and her long white hair was halfway clipped, and the rest fell on her shoulders. I could see she was once beautiful.
“ Isn’t that something else. How long are you here for?”
“ Not sure yet.”
“ I’ve been there. Not knowing.
“ People don’t understand, they feel I’m unstable or something. I can feel it, and see it in their eyes.”
“ Screw that, just ignore those people. I do.”
“ You’re right, too much to handle without that.”
“ Everything is upside down, and no accountability. “
“ So true”, and then she dropped her head, and I could see her emotions rise as if she had been led somewhere else.
“ My grandson was killed in a motorcycle accident, hit, and then died right there. I didn’t get to say goodbye. It was by an illegal immigrant.” Then she cried uncontrollably, and I just about got up and hugged her.
“ Oh, sweetie, I am so very sorry for you.” This was all genuine, and she was sober and all of that, so I listened.
“ I wrote to all of them, Bondi, Patel, Trump, Noem, nothing.” Something like this doesn’t happen in a five-star hotel, only in a two-star. We sat there awhile, and I tried to console her or offer some options, like a news alert to the stations and local media.
She was on the cliff of catastrophe, and my minutiae of disappointment disappeared.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’ve been staying in a hotel during a short interim while I decide where to move.
While I am in the hotel observing guests, their mannerisms, conversations, and facial expressions, I have come to the conclusion that we are not only on a fiscal cliff, we are on a sinking shore of wet sand. I see guests who’ve come for gambling, visiting relatives, exploring Upstate NY, and lapping up a vacation as if it were their first. They are thirsty for living the essence of comfort, congeniality, and the aspirations of autumn. Shed the withered and welcome the wild. I see giddy faces and sluggish bodies weighted down by heavy tote bags. Some seem to shuffle like the very old or weak, from the pathway to the lobby. I was not excluded; by the time I checked into the hotel, my body was withered from having to move out of my home of twenty-five years. All I wanted to do was sink into a bed and hang the Do Not Disturb notice on the door. Several guests are annoyed by too much information, too many alerts, too many scandals, and too much uncertainty.The adventure of livingness has a trajectory marked by misadventures.
In reading the WordPress posts, I’ve discovered the Travel blogs are the ones that revive my interest in the world I haven’t seen. These are the ones I read because they spark my passion for travel, rather than comfort and complacency. The Mediterranean has been stirring in my imagination ever since I researched the coastal splendor of all those portside villages. Thanks to you, travel bloggers, I made the decision. This is the year for Italy. Now that it’s written, I must follow my word.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
LUELLEN SMILEY ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 