MINIMAL MAYHEM LIFESTYLE-OCEAN, SKY, SUNLIGHT.

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 movies always 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.

Podcast Episode: INSOMNIA OF SEPARATION-SARATOGA, NY

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MY FIRST PODCAST

Pip: There’s a site called Adventurers in Livingness, and that title is doing exactly the work it promises — no hedging, no irony, just a full commitment to the examined life.

Mara: LouLou’s writing here pulls from journal entries and a work-in-progress book, and today we’re sitting with one piece — the insomnia of separation, what it costs, and what it reaches for.

Pip: Let’s start with the 3 a.m. accounting.

Insomnia, Separation, and the Geometry of Longing

Mara: The post opens with a claim about emotional posture — that a fractured life shapes how we carry ourselves the same way physical posture does, and that the antidote isn’t neutrality but active love.

Pip: And the specific image that anchors it is the racetrack. She writes: “My heart is at the starting gate to love again, but the racetrack is missing.”

Mara: That’s the whole tension of the piece in one line. The readiness is there. The context for it isn’t. And what follows is an inventory of exactly what that missing context looked like — the particular textures of a particular partnership.

Pip: The list that comes next is where the writing earns its keep. It’s not abstract longing — it’s forensic. The shoulder a head bows to. The laughter that erupts in spontaneous passion. The man who finds humor in her attempts to open bottles with a dull spoon.

Mara: That specificity is the point. She’s not mourning a category of companionship. She’s mourning the precise choreography of one relationship — “feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression.”

Pip: Inventory as elegy. It’s a genuinely old form and she uses it without apology.

Mara: She brings in Henry Miller to close the emotional argument — from Henry Miller on Writing, the line: “Whoever greatly suffers must be, I suppose, a sublime combination of a sadist and masochist.” Her response to it is dry and immediate: “I think he’s looking at me.”

Pip: Self-recognition without self-pity. That’s a harder balance than it looks.

Mara: The piece ends in a different register entirely — outdoors at twenty degrees, three years of a doctor urging flu shots, her steady refusal, and his chuckle when she explains she hasn’t had a cold since 2012. It’s a side-step into the ordinary, and it lands as relief.

Pip: The body keeps its own ledger, separate from the heart’s.

Mara: What stays with me is that the piece refuses comfort without refusing warmth.

Pip: Longing that precise is its own kind of presence. More from this corner of livingness next time.

BOT BULLITS & CHATGPT

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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.

Michael Literary Team — Red Flag Report

Website: Michael Literary Team

Overall assessment: HIGH CAUTION.

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 HOPE YOU FOUND THIS HUMAN TOUCH HELPFUL!

A PITCH FOR PUBLICATION

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I just came across this post and thought maybe a writer in waiting will read this and keep on truckin!

IN NOVEMBER OF 2005 I reserved a space at the San Francisco Writers Conference. I was nervous and edgy when I boarded the plane. My pitch proposal, pitch suit, and pitch necklace, were tucked inside my suitcase. The pitch convinces an agent or publisher, that you know your subject well enough to feel one hundred percent confident. It may sound irrational that a writer could work five years on a book and not know what it is about. As an emerging writer I view my work through a kaleidoscope lens. I see multiple themes, subplots, and messages, and they change with each reading. Then there are loose knots of personal misery, lost versions and rejections ringing in my ears. My pitch has to convince an agent, that at least 5,000 people will buy my book. The pitch suit is the outfit you wear for an interview; only for writers, the guidelines are very loose. Some writers wear their narrative. I brought my tailored, looking successful, pants suit. My pitch necklace is a gold Buddha medallion that my father had designed for my mother. I wear it for good luck and because I know the necklace has survived all the family tragedies. The conference is at the St. Francis Hotel at Union Square.

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It was pouring when I arrived. The staff at the front desk greeted me with musical familiarity. Every time I swished by they called out, “Hello, Ms. Smiley.” I imagined them as a chorus singing my name. I arrived one day early to pace the galleries, cafes, museums and Saks. After the first night, I had to switch rooms. I was directly above the street dumpsters, where for hours the chugging of trash kept me awake. I moved frantically, to scoop everything up and not miss a moment of San Francisco. After switching rooms, I dashed over to the Espresso Bar. It faces the corner of Powell and Sutter. Outside, the streetcars clanged by, passengers dangling from the bars like vines on a tree. In between the tracks, workers both blue and white-collar, and some without any collar at all, jammed the sidewalks on foot, bicycle, moped and skateboard. With phones and iPods attached, eyes alert, they buzzed on the vibe of Saturday, moving like musical notes in a symphony.

In the café an elderly woman wearing a SFWC name tag was seated next to me. I noticed she positioned her book on the corner of her table. She looked overwhelmed and frightened. As I introduced myself she smiled courteously, and said she was a neurotic housewife all her life and didn’t have much to write about, so she wrote about her husband’s war stories. I told her she should write about the neurotic housewife. Just as I was leaving, she stopped me and thanked me for speaking to her. “There’s always a guardian angel around.” Her voice lingered in my thoughts all weekend.
At six o’clock that evening, I was gliding around my room dressing for the gala. I reached for my jewelry bag. It was gone. The weekend was ruined! I would never get published, I’m too wired, too reckless, too distracted. I called the front desk. Heather said she would call me back. Bang, bang, bang, went my shoe against the bed frame. Then the phone rang.
“Hello, Ms. Smiley. I’m sending the bellman up with your jewelry.”
I answered the door recoiling with pained joy. The bellman listened attentively. I rushed upstairs to Harry Denton’s Starlight Room. There I began wine tasting with Maggie, Peg and George; three new comrades in a room of hundreds.
I spent the next day among more comrades, writers with unpublished stories, books, and works-in-progress. I listened to panels of writers; agents and editors discussed the fateful downward spin of publishing and upward battle towards reward. We sat in our chairs looking overly anxious, taking copious notes, and waiting for answers to our questions. At the end of the panel discussion we all lined up to meet the agents and editors. While we stood in line we met each other.
“What’s your story about?” the woman behind me asked.
“Growing up with gangsters,” I replied.
“ Oh well! That will get you an agent.”
“ I hope so.”

During the conference, I experienced a lucky throw of the dice. I met one of my mentors; Joyce Maynard. Her book, “At Home in the World,” is on my beside table. Joyce was published in the New York Times when she was sixteen years old. JD Salinger read the piece and invited her to live with him. Joyce’s story will send you back to reading Nine Stories.
As I progressed through the circle holding my pitch stick, the fear and apprehension subsided just a tiny bit. Three agents responded; ‘send me your manuscript.’ Naturally when I returned home, my hands were tied to editing. I rushed through, did not employ someone to copy-edit, and then ran about announcing my almost to be signed contract. Three months later I recovered from the rejections and began another rewrite and another until today, when I am on my fifth manuscript. This one feels right because I am not rushing through it expectant of publication; this time I know it will be published.

Ten years later, I self-published.

CRADLE OF CRIME-A DAUGHTER’S TRIBUTE.

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WRITER’S REALITY

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JOURNAL SEPTEMBER 2022

I was walking the streets, and the descriptive details had since evaporated. I mentally pluck myself out of this moment and open the shades to thought and memory, where all writers meet on some psychic level, the place of imagination and creation, an abnormality of reality.

A passage from Anais Nin’s diary says, “Be careful not to enter the world with any need to seduce, charm, conquer what you do not want, only for the sake of approval. This is what causes the frozen moment before people and cuts all naturalness and trust. The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truth is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.”

FRIENDSHIP DANCES OVER POLITICS

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FROM ZORBA THE GREEK – A TALE OF FRIENDSHIP

Friends are bookends that bind our stories; some are novellas, some are poems, some are cinematic, and each friend serves as a bookend to our personal history. When I’ve lost my way and need direction my friends motorize me, and when I fly without wings, they ring the bell to come down to earth. At times, arguments arise and my friendships stray, but true-life friends never leave you behind. Sometimes, years may pass, and then one day you receive a call or an email, or send one yourself, and the memory of that particular squabble in history fades away. You can start anew; at the same time, it is not.

The essence of friendship never burns out; it is our galaxy, a kind of celestial agility. Are you experiencing a startling outpouring from friends who’ve left your life only to suddenly show up on your social media or a personal email? Are your friends calling and writing more often? I’m always examining some unfamiliar events in life, a new trend, a cultural change. Seems like every topic can be mixed with politics, sometimes the mixture is explosive. I’ve halted the political discussions, and so have my friends, as they are more important to my livingness than politics. With one exception, antisemitism, those are excluded!

A WRITER’S PATH

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To write, to study, read, edit, I sacrificed: family, marriage, children, security, finances, and peace of mind. I am a columnist, and author, that lives with a constant source of material by those sacrifices. They have become my vortex of adventures in livingness to gain material. At times, like now, I question that path–and the answer is, I didn’t choose the path, it chose me.

WRITING FOR TRUTH LIKE DRILLING FOR OIL

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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.

To be continued

SANTA FE, NM IS…

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IT’S UNLIKE ANY OTHER CITY I’VE EXPERIENCED. Named the city different, it is also the city difficult. She ( I see Santa Fe in the feminine gender) has to be treated gently. Her weather patterns resemble a menopausal woman,her stature demands respect, and she can be congenial and patient.

You can walk this city as if it were a neighborhood. If you do that consistently you’ll meet people, and get to know them. Unless you’re like me, a standoffish fast walker dazed by the outdoors.

If you’re dazed and illusional you can master this city very well, as the drowsy pace and cordiality allow freakish freedom. I ‘ve seen the liberating soul of Santa Fe, teenagers racing down the middle of a commercial street one foot on the skateboard, bad-ass bikers talking with bad-ass cops, women with parrots on their shoulder, dogs in baby carriages, cats in a bag, and women on horseback galloping up Palace Avenue.

At night you’ll see raging midnight ramblers dancing on the sidewalk, and all of this is appealing to an LA transplant. I have driven in my robe, danced in the street and broken the heels on most of my shoes because of the pot-holes. They are always working on a street, but never the sidewalks. I ‘ve been bounced out of the locals night-howl El Farol for accidently pushing a dancer, who knew the manager, who came running after me and took down my license plate.

So many of us are loners, the serious kind, that have to be rigged out of our nests. Luckily I live on a commercial street and have no choice but to be commercially friendly. After nine years, my seasonal behavior is obvious: sprite in summer, blissful in fall, giddy in spring, and withdrawan in winter. I’ve learned patience, understanding, and adopted a mixture of cultural traditions. I’m close to fifty percent certain I’ll miss Santa Fe terribly when I do leave.

Has living in Santa Fe given me more than I’ve given back? Yes, it has and that’s why when I’m asked what’s it like living in Santa Fe, I try to reveal the blessings here and not the beef. 025

MINIMAL MAYHEM LIFESTYLE PART TWO-

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The first gallery opening I attended. Smashing art by Hunt Slonem, photography by Tim Hardy. Conversation, champagne, and what we all need, social engagement. Unlike a concert, or theater performance where you are seated next to someone you know, art galleries are a sensory of interaction with the artwork, the guests, and the elan of the space. Madison gallery was a warehouse, exposed twenty-foot ceilings, enormity of space, and minimalism in furnishings. It feels like an indoor park.

Once a gallery lover, then a gallery owner, and now seeking a job in a gallery. I joined the mailing list of a dozen galleries, realizing resumes are sifted through by AI and not the owner.

My love of photography began at a museum observing the work of Edward Weston. I used this line when selling my photography in Santa Fe” Photography are stories on the wall., not just the photo, the photographer. Of course you can say the same about a painter, but for me, catching a moment in time, that will never be repeated is poetic.

One guest that visited my gallery said this to me, ” Photography isn’t art.” He was famous, not as an artist but the son of John Huston. I cannot recall his explanation, but I have heard this statement several times and that is why there are so few photography galleries. I’d open one again when the if’s are removed.

One of my favorites by Jim Marshall. Jim caught Bob in a private moment, and let him publish it. An early concert, 1963, with already famous Joan Baez. Fuzziness is my fault.

Daughter of mob boss reveals insight into infamous unsolved murder

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https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.dailymail.com/crime-desk/article-15678303/amp/allen-smiley-bugsy-siegel-mob-murder-unsolved-daughter.html

THE NEW YORK DAILY NEWS INTERVIEW PUBLISHED TODAY. ELIOT FORCE HAS THE FORCE AND FINESSE TO WRITE A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INTERVIEW. THANK YOU ELIOT!!

NEW BOOK REVIEW

December 26, 2025December 26, 2025 ~ LouLou ~ Leave a comment

CRADLE OF CRIME : A Daughter’s Tribute

Weaving together events witnessed personally and those gleaned from friends, associates, historians, FOIPA, INS and archives of the Department of Justice, author Luellen Smiley’s memoir is a brief, heartfelt genuine reconstruction of family’s relationships of the past that neither dwells on nor dramatizes the true image of her father Allen Smiley, his allegiance to Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegel and the criminal world.

Author Luellen Smiley details her childhood and growing up days as a gangsters daughter- elusive as it may be by immersing her readers through intriguing happenings of everyday and events of the bygone years that justify her fathers masked behavior and restrictions for his adored daughter.

Definitely ‘Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute’ is a straight forward homage to a father and a triumphant tale of a daughter who broke barriers of secrets to reach the hardcore reality through her hardship and research. A not-to-be missed 5 star read ‘Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute’ is a book for those who care for family morals and values and are willing to accept poignant twists in one setting. Highly recommended.