Luellen Smiley is a creative nonfiction writer, author, columnist, and historian whose writing is deeply rooted in a controversial personal history. She is the daughter of Allen Smiley, a close friend, associate, and business partner of notorious Las Vegas gangster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Her father was sitting only feet from Siegel when Siegel was murdered in Beverly Hills on June 20, 1947.
That extraordinary childhood history became the foundation for Smiley’s first book, Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute, published in 2017. The memoir explores what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a man connected to organized crime while trying to reconcile her love for her father with the secrecy, fear, and criminal world surrounding him.
Smiley’s work has appeared in publications including the New York Post, MORE Magazine, Southern California newspapers, and Authorlink. She wrote the newspaper column Smiley’s Dice—Adventures in Livingness, which earned a Blue-Ribbon Award from the California Newspapers Association for her Growing Up With Gangsters columns.
Her interest in her father’s history also led her to become a researcher and commentator on organized crime history. She has participated in television, radio, and documentary interviews.
Smiley’s next book, Gaslighting Greta, will be published this year. A personal story that reads like fiction. Her own website describes the project as exploring a woman whose life is destabilized by gaslighting and psychological manipulation.
Her writing career reflects a recurring theme: using personal experience and research to uncover the truth behind complicated relationships and extraordinary lives. From the secretive world surrounding her father and Bugsy Siegel to the deeply personal territory of Gaslighting Greta, Smiley’s work transforms difficult experiences into stories of survival, discovery, and ultimately reclaiming one’s voice.
Luellen Smiley is an author whose life has given her an unusual perspective on secrecy, manipulation, family loyalty, betrayal, and survival—and she uses that perspective as the raw material for her nonfiction storytelling.
When I spoke with Greta in November and asked to see the next journal book, she replied instantly, ‘There’s nothing worth writing about. I breezed through it, and it’s all about what to sell of my treasures, finances, and whiny words.’ I asked if she’d send me the journal just in case there is a good transition to the next season. She said, All right. I imagine she ripped out the pages she didn’t want to reveal.
FROM THE JOURNAL
day in bed, emptied into a slab of molasses. In the next room, half-wrapped boxed books, photographs, summer clothes that need to be stored.
Fall light appears in the dining music room and falls on a stack of Swing vinyl. I need to listen to this music in the winter. I search for jobs on Indeed in the gallery museum category. What the heck! There are so many requirements I’ve never heard of. It’s all tech, and I’m not an alpha beast expert in SEO, platforms, social media, Excel, Adobe, and PowerPoint. I do have experience. I am passionately curious about artists’ lives and art history. Now I am the one being interviewed by a thirty-year-old when once I was on the other side, a juxtaposition of reality.That kind of thinking got me into trouble, too much imagination and not enough reality. What is the name of that kind of person? Escapist, misfit, eccentric, dreamer?
The Follies House-Broadway Suite Vacation Rental 2003. What a marvelous time I had decorating.
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 thirty -five-year bond broken by, sudden estrangement, psychological abuse, foreclosure, and gaslighting. Financial and legal burdens are presented in dark humor while tracking Greta’s will to survive through the power of friendship.
Gaslighting Greta is a suspenseful and deeply personal true story about the mysteries people create, the truths we sometimes resist, the enduring power of love, and the unexpected freedom found through self-reckoning and forgiveness.
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 chose a new theme, and it is more complicated than figuring out how to build a house if you’ve never done it before. None of the links’ work, the block that forces you to write inside its parameters and the template choices don’t operate without a manual. I’ve written to the “Happy Tech Engineer” 5 times. No help at all. I’ll be working on this.
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.
Pop-up thought. I hear it all the time, if you don’t know our countries history, our enemies and allies, you cannot understand the present. Why then are we, as individuals asked to move on, avoid and exorcise our past? Dylan probably sang the answer.
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 sitting in a squeaky clean room, sanitized by professionals, feeling self- consciously un-scrubbed. Rooms like this are serious; medical sitting rooms, where surgeons come in after you’ve met all the cheerful and optimistic staff members.
Just a few days before, on a pillow size slice of beach, Rudy and I crouched up on two boulders. “It’s better up here; I don’t want to sit a foot away from a couple kissing.” He was right; we had mezzanine seats, and were at least twenty feet from the sleep over party down below. It reminded me of a fold out beach photo; guys and dolls on their stomachs, leaving their bronzed backs to glow in the sunshine. The girls legs dangled in the air, rising up and down with each giggle.
“You don’t look happy.” I said after watching the corners of Rudy’s mouth tighten and drop. He stared out to the ocean for a long two minutes.
“ I get nothing from a beach swarming with people. I go for the closeness to nature, the silence beyond the roar of the ocean. When we were at Kelly’s there wasn’t anyone else but us. ” (Kelly’s Cove, San Francisco)
I thought about it, and how the crowd was entertaining me, and how I’d dismissed the bold and demanding essence of the oceans power.
“You’re right, it’s different. I don’t ever remember Del Mar so crowded on the 4th of July. I was here in 1986, with Hannah Head, and a crowd. It was overcast, and we ended up at one of the crowd’s house in Encinitas, in a hot tub. I still have the photo.”
“ Where was I?”
“ Remember? You didn’t like her. Or we’d broken up, I can’t remember.”
“ Why don’t you go in the ocean?” He asked.
“ I don’t want to go in if you can’t”
“ No way! I want you to enjoy yourself. I’ve not been in the water in three years, but I’d go today, except I have to wait another week. The stitches look all healed. See the scars. ” He raised his shirt, and pointed, “I look like Carlito; ‘ no big deal, in and out, boom boom.’ The scars were still purplish red from a hernia operation then an appendectomy, and then cancer in one month. That’s why he was on the boulder; wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots.
“I must look like a Hillbilly from West Virginia.”
“You look like Clint Eastwood! All right, I’m going in.”
My skin was warm and damp and I walked through the aisles of legs, blankets, chairs, toys, and cabanas to the water’s edge. Prissily sensitive to anything cold,
I layered my body down slowly under water, and got lost riding waves. Everyone had a boogey board or surfboard; and one kid swiped me as he passed. Rudy was right, not the same, but under water the thrill was not gone. Beneath the surface, I surrounded to the sea as if he was a lover.
Maybe it was that night we ate outdoors on the terrace and watched the sunset slip like an eye lid. We didn’t talk too much about the medical meeting, or what was said, in such long-winded sentences with words out of medical journals. They were preparing us for the next surgery. Rudy wanted to talk about old times; in Del Mar, and old times in Taos, and New York, and all the other places we’ve experienced together. One day we went up to San Juan Cap to browse the antiques stores. Rudy spends hours picking through shop collections. He walks slow as molasses while I am aisles ahead, and miss all the good stuff. That’s one of collisions we have adapted to. I go fast, and he goes slow, I turn right and he turns left. I say, ‘did you get the for rent sign?’ And he says we have one, and we discover we’re talking about different properties.
We didn’t see anyone we knew when we were in Del Mar, except those same Starbuck sippers, now with less formality and an air of comfort in retirement.
“Wonder what happened to Blondie?”
“Which one?” I answered.
Afterwards, while we were waiting for the talking pedestrian traffic light to shout out; WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, Rudy started imitating it really loud. The family behind us joined in and the kids got wild in the middle of the street.
“Remember when Whitey threw the keys to his new Jag to you and said take a ride?”
“Yea, that was the first day we met him.” Rudy said.
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was, or maybe the second day, but it was right in the beginning.”
“David empowered our breakfast café salon. He looked like God’s disciple; a crown of pearl white hair and teeth to match, bronzed skin and he wore white gaberdine pants. We were all intrigued because he was so at peace.
“ Let’s ask David out to dinner.” Rudy said.
” Yes, lets. But I wonder if he is tied to the Mafia like an informant. I’m writing all these posts about my Dad and he’s so mysterious, like James Bond.”
” You’re crazy, you know that.”
I wasn’t before.”
“Before what?”
“I became writer.”
Rudy leaped into his encouragement serum, knowing I’m at the end of the tight rope, and also knowing I won’t look for a safety net. One time I threw out a few boxes of manuscripts and he rescued them from the dumpster. In another home, he picked up pages I’d let drift out the window and taped them back together. We’ve lived in at least a dozen homes, casitas, or apartments since we met.
This morning back in Santa Fe, NM I walked through the Plaza, still waking up from last night’s festivities, and summer preparation is everywhere. Big storewide sales, street vendors, hobos, dogs on leashes, old men searching for a memory, and crews setting up the sound stage in the Plaza. All of us are thrown out of our homes to either collect or spend money. Beyond the money, there’s the circumstance of meeting someone you haven’t seen lately, or a movie in production, or a blazingly poetic sunset.
The air is perfumed with grilled chilies and sizzling greasy meat from push carts, bringing flies and children, like they do in Spain or Mexico. I walked into a Jewerlry shop and asked about a Navajo cross on a string of pearls. The saleswoman was a girl, with a laughing smile, and birch-brown eyes. She told me the cross can work for anyone, and that they pray four times a day, once in each direction. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to start the same practice, because who can remember to pray but the tribes.
Then she told me a secret. “All the pueblos are preparing for the big dances, and they are secretly praying for rain.”
“ Really? You mean all this rain we have had…
She tilted her head to one side and smiled. “ You can come in anytime and I’ll tell you stories.”
https://odysseyofadventures.com/2026/09/22/adventures-unknown/I walked out, with that singular enraptured sense of climbing off my boulder, and into the waiting discovery. Late at night I sat outdoors listening to the song of the crickets and thought how a hundred years ago this house was here. This was Ed Barker’s home and his relatives come by often to tell me stories. He was a very prominent wildlife and game protector, and the first Commissioner of the New Mexico Department of Game and Fish. It was Ed who suggested the little black bear cub who was caught in the 1950 Capitan Gap Fire, a wildfire that burned 17, 0000 acres in the Capitan Mountains of New Mexico, become the mascot for fire safety. One moment you’re safe, the next you’re not; but you can’t live on a boulder, anymore than a cub should live in a Zoo. To be continued.
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.
Writing feels rusty today. I plow deliberately through the blank mental soil to find a blade of substance in a week of tragedy and cultural chaos. In conversations with men and women about our fractured culture.
” It was never like this when I was growing up,” that is from a fifty-year-old,
” I won’t get on a plane, no way?” from a forty-year-old.
” I don’t talk about my views with anyone at work or out of work, except my family and friends.”
I replied, “Yes, we have to talk niceties, bland boring conversation. “
When I was growing up, there was more joking, laughter, and confessional conversation. I was thinking about my high school years; we talked a lot about emotions, our parents, our dreams, and our fears. I don’t recall restraining what was on my mind. Perhaps that is why the majority of the younger generation prefers social media friends, as they can be easily deleted or blocked. On my FB page and feed, not one follower or friend reveals their political views, including myself. Isn’t that so contrary to humanity? And political violence, I keep hearing we won’t tolerate that on the news, but we are tolerating it. Do we all need drones over our homes for security? An optimist would say, We can do better, and we will; a pessimist might say, I think it’s going to get worse, and a nihilist would say, Life isn’t worth fixing; it’s just worthless.
I’m still dusting off the pleasantness of the past with the polemic present.
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.
Truth is out of style, it rather went the way of a six-hundred page novel, bicycles built for two, print magazines, handwritten mailed letters and holiday cards, classic modesty, privacy, discretion, trust to a stranger (after you have googled and backgrounded the person) and many other authenticates we don’t have the time or patience to endure. I’m leaving out acronyms because those change daily.
We take short cuts, and improvise our way through the encrypted labyrinth of electronic devices and political divided modernism. We are in a revolution, it’s been coined Cancel Culture, that’s just a tagline. Our Democrats and Republicans, are trafficking disinformation. Not a day goes by that a political analyst or news anchor doesn’t say it. The parties have developed fox and hound instincts.
9/13 First basting of Autumn doesn’t drape the beaches; I’d have to go to Julian. I love Julian, once I got this wild idea to buy dozens of pies and set up a display in local grocery stores. I got a wholesale price and loaded up my tiny kitchen with pies. Then I took them to the grocery stores, and open spaces in shsopping centers. I sold them! What I didn’t do was get a contract so the Julian Pie Company joined in and signed a contract with the stores to sell them directly from their shelves. I ate a lot of apple pies that autumn.
IMAGINE the USA was your city. Go a step further and imagine it was your community. One more step, your neighborhood. What do you think? Are you safe? Are you prospering: emotionally, professionally, financially? Are your circle of friends, family, associates dancing jubilee? If I wake up hopeful, without muscle cramps, anxiety, a friend in crisis, and a new alert, I write. . The melody of writing is like playing a violin or a guitar, it marinates the suffering, conflict, threats, political disagreement, Antisemitism, and violence beyond my front door. I am thankful that I found this little quiet friendly complex of studios.
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 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 am leaning into naturalness more than the keyboard, screen and far from the madding crowd.
You hear a chime the moment it responds to a breeze. The sound is beautiful, like rain on a metal rooftop and wind in the trees. The chime improvises its sounds and movements. This abstraction reminds me of sensitivity. It can be soft and gentle, nurturing the souls of those who are less peaceful.Or it can be like pounding surf on a frail body.
Back at the desk, sensitivity reigns me in when I am stunned by these acronyms. What does DMing mean so I asked and it is this, Dungeon Mastering, or are they referring to Direct Messaging?Then came IRL, what could that be? IN REAL LIFE!
I’m going outdoors right now, this is crawling up my back like a slimy snake. We have to identify real life?
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 breaking and entering the past. I wrote this 4/26/2016 and didn’t publish it. I’m sweeping out documents to ease reviewing my folders and documents.
It is five in the morning on a Sunday in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This is the time when silence is my symphony. The Aspen tree leaves on the other side of the street are turning the shade of pumpkin. It may be a very early fall. I prefer to write in the morning, very early before even the farolitos’ lights go out across the street. When I write at night self-reckoning secrets seem to seep out like drops of water from a faulty faucet. At three in the morning, there is an old heartbreaking movie on the television, and a draft of solitude in my room and in my soul. These moviesalways make me feel better. They allow me to cry; as I shift my melancholy to the heroine of the movie: Betty Davis, Norma Shearer, or Susan Hayward.
I look over the rooftops through the living room window. Are there writers and artists stalking the rooms in the middle of winter night? Stationed beside the heater or kiva, in thick wool socks and heavy robes? Are they drinking tea to settle their thoughts or coffee to stir them up? I imagine there is another woman far away from the plains of the Southwest, in Russia, Europe or Asia who is also at a desk and writing down all that she cannot say during the day. It would be magical to know another writer awake at the same exact moment, is thinking something similar, something you save for yourself.
One woman is thinking of a different man than the one she faces each morning. Another woman is thinking how she could never survive without the one she has. I am thinking of the continuing discovery of self. Our needs change; with season, age, and exposure to contrasting, confrontational and complex situations.
I met several women this past week, well-heeled international travelers, on the road with enterprising spirit. They’ve lived abroad, met an assortment of celebrities, and made enough money to finance their leisure sprees. For a moment I imagined myself, with a large Prada tote bag, sitting in first class of Jet Blue keying in appointments with my Blackberry. Then the image evaporated. It’s like the daydream of another person, not who I am, My voyage would be an expeditionary life of someone like travel guru Bruce Chatwin.
There are moments of regret. The most pressing is that I refuse to settle down. This home is temporary. I know the feeling; it has been part of my baggage most of my life. I cannot trade it in for a new brand, its mine, and it gives me enormous drama, change, and adventure. It infuriates my friends; who continually must erase and insert new numbers and new zip codes next to my name.
The secret of what’s ahead in the journey. Wouldn’t you like to peek into ten years from now and see where you landed? There is still a dot of danger to my passions. Not the danger that comes with racing cars or extreme sports. My danger is in the incurable obsession to combine all the things I love in one package, place them all in close proximity, and live happy bold and free.
I’d have a mid-century black bottomed swimming pool and not far from the patio a grove of avocado trees. The tree house studio would be my private writing room. On the branches of the tree, wild colorful birds would flutter, and I’d watch them with joy. In the main house I’d have a library with a thousand, and one books, an outdoor dining table with plenty of dinner parties for twelve, a basement filled with rare wine, and an assortment of animals. There would be a little village in walking distance with a fresh produce market, a bakery, a jazz club, and a French bistro. After reading this a day later the house I described is similar to my family home, the one that burned down in the Bel Air fire. Realization! I’m still looking for home.
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.
“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.
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.
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