What Feeds the Heart

The Novel: What Feeds The Heart Combines Magical Realism And Coming-Of-Age

About the author

Raised in the 1960s, I knew a lot about drugs, turning in and dropping out in my preteens and teenage years. Unfortunately, I hated what happened to me while high, and didn’t fit in with my mother’s cool people. Felt foreign inside my home, school, or on the playground. So I developed a fantasy life and played in nature, the Tujunga Canyon Wash only three blocks from my street.

The Story Behind the Book…

Okay, so I wrote the original manuscript about twenty years ago. Don’t judge. In the last eighteen months, I’ve written daily, revised, and added excerpts from experiences of my mother’s passing on 8-8-18, plus the recovery gained from my 12 Step programs. Heart thumping, critical parent raging, I let go and allowed that ‘power-greater-than’ take the reins to guide me to results I couldn’t achieve myself.

Recent Reviews


Here are blogs about my writing process, marketing, publishing, and all the hiccups. concerns, worries, elations, and accomplishments written in hopes other writers and readers find the process confusing or exhilarating. We may write alone, but it takes a lot of friends and supporters to reach the final process. And it doesn’t end there, another experience awaits. Come join my process and I, in turn, will support you in yours.


If you have a reviews of What Feeds the Heart, I’d like to know. We can add it to my my website, social media, or Atmosphere Press’s site. You can leave an anonymous take on the writing and leave your first name. I want to know how you feel, if the writing sings to your heart or disturbs you. You matter to me. Stay tuned because I will review fellow writer’s books in the future. Thank you.


Here are a few of the foods that nourished me while home life dished out fear like gravy. Watercress grew in the streams and Desert Cherries ripened in Summer. Plum, peach, pear, tangerine, lemon, orange, guava, fig and pomegranate trees thrived during throughout the year. Autumn, Winter, Spring, there were always a ripe fruit for the picking if you were fast enough and hungry.


Changeable stanzas to express unsaid words, stuffed by denial, and sometimes slip out in watery splashes of thought.

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