Launch Day is finally here! My new book, The Sorcerer Queen, comes out today! In many ways, as many writers will attest, writing and publishing a book is somewhat akin to having a baby. It begins with a gleam in the eye, there is a long gestation

period in which the baby grows and takes shape, and then come the birth pangs until, finally, you are holding your newborn in your arms. And then, of course, you want everyone to meet this little bundle of joy. So it has been with each of my books, and this one is no different.
I do hope my readers will enjoy meeting the “players” who populate this story, which is framed as a play and told in a lyrical, fast-paced rhythm of rhyming quatrains. There is the aging King Sagan, trying to undo the curse of Caravaille, which brings bloodshed every time a king dies. There are his three young nephews, each a potential heir. There is a mysterious goldspun weaver, whose whereabouts no one can uncover. And there is an ancient adversary hidden deep in a cave, whom the king must eventually face if he is to save his people. This is a young adult fantasy, but like many fairytales, has layers that go deeper than the whimsy, magic and adventure of the story. For it is also an allegory for all ages that speaks to the journey of the soul and the hidden dark tunnels we must traverse if we are to accomplish the spiritual tasks of our lives.
It also speaks symbolically of the power of the feminine. For while a king rules the land, and he will name one of his nephews as heir, it is in fact a woman who controls everything. And though the king thinks he—or his heir—will solve the riddle of the curse, it is the power of the female that will bring everything full circle. I did not consciously put any of this into the story, but discovered it, as I hope my readers will, upon reading the whole once it was finished. In a sense the story asks the question: does the masculine, outer power base represent the ego mind through which most of us live our lives and see the world, while the inner feminine energy represents the soul and the true paths we must take if we are to grow and make ourselves whole, whether we are aware or not?
I think of The Sorcerer Queen as a medieval verse tapestry, and I do hope you will all enjoy the magic, mystery and perhaps touch of the mystical that is woven through it!

period in which the baby grows and takes shape, and then come the birth pangs until, finally, you are holding your newborn in your arms. And then, of course, you want everyone to meet this little bundle of joy. So it has been with each of my books, and this one is no different.
I do hope my readers will enjoy meeting the “players” who populate this story, which is framed as a play and told in a lyrical, fast-paced rhythm of rhyming quatrains. There is the aging King Sagan, trying to undo the curse of Caravaille, which brings bloodshed every time a king dies. There are his three young nephews, each a potential heir. There is a mysterious goldspun weaver, whose whereabouts no one can uncover. And there is an ancient adversary hidden deep in a cave, whom the king must eventually face if he is to save his people. This is a young adult fantasy, but like many fairytales, has layers that go deeper than the whimsy, magic and adventure of the story. For it is also an allegory for all ages that speaks to the journey of the soul and the hidden dark tunnels we must traverse if we are to accomplish the spiritual tasks of our lives.
It also speaks symbolically of the power of the feminine. For while a king rules the land, and he will name one of his nephews as heir, it is in fact a woman who controls everything. And though the king thinks he—or his heir—will solve the riddle of the curse, it is the power of the female that will bring everything full circle. I did not consciously put any of this into the story, but discovered it, as I hope my readers will, upon reading the whole once it was finished. In a sense the story asks the question: does the masculine, outer power base represent the ego mind through which most of us live our lives and see the world, while the inner feminine energy represents the soul and the true paths we must take if we are to grow and make ourselves whole, whether we are aware or not?
I think of The Sorcerer Queen as a medieval verse tapestry, and I do hope you will all enjoy the magic, mystery and perhaps touch of the mystical that is woven through it!

shop now

projects later, took it out recently to revise, polish and illustrate it.

People always ask writers about their process and where their book ideas come from. Mine often come to me as whispers from people in distant times and places, or else as wisps of poetry or bits of dialogue that float into my consciousness. I will listen, write it all down and wait for more to come. At some point I will realize a new story, a new book, is coming through. I do not really feel that I invent these stories, but I welcome them as gifts and try to do right by the characters and bring their tales to fruition.

The Sorcerer Queen is one of those stories that began with snippets of poetry. I was on my early morning walk one day when the first lines came to me:

“In the land of blue and silver moons
And jasmine scented air,
A just and aging sovereign ruled—
King Sagan, called ‘The Fair.’ “

The words had a haunting quality to them, and I realized that the king himself was haunted, deeply troubled by a curse that boded ill for his kingdom. Not long after that, again on my morning walk, the curse itself came to me in its entirety of eight rhyming quatrains. I rushed home to capture every word and sat back and looked at it. I had not invented this, but now it was my job to decipher it and write the full story. And I realized that the curse not only contained the key to its own reversal, but provided a template for the entire book.

“My curse be on this murdering band
For threescore years and more,
That every time the crown must pass,
The nobles go to war.”

So begins the curse, and so my work began. Who cursed the kingdom, and why? What must the king do to end the curse? Who is thwarting him every time he tries to name one of his three nephews as his heir? Who is the one true heir? Where is the mysterious goldspun weaver, and who is The Sorcerer Queen?

The story began as lines of poetry and became a magical, whimsical young adult fantasy, a tale I had to tell. And that’s what I was doing, telling a story. But as it unfolded, layers of meaning revealed themselves to me, spiritual questions and lessons that I had not consciously inserted but that I realized were underneath it all: What must we do to make amends for old wrongs? How do we make things right and bring everything full circle? What dark nights of the soul must we go through before we come into the light? The answers to these questions came as the story did, line by line, over many months. And so I do believe that this story is not only for young adults, but is a spiritual allegory for all ages.

Look for the book coming August 28! I hope my young readers will have as much fun with the magic and mystery of The Sorcerer Queen as I had in the writing of it, and that it will bring delight, and perhaps a bit of inspiration, to readers of all ages.

projects later, took it out recently to revise, polish and illustrate it.

People always ask writers about their process and where their book ideas come from. Mine often come to me as whispers from people in distant times and places, or else as wisps of poetry or bits of dialogue that float into my consciousness. I will listen, write it all down and wait for more to come. At some point I will realize a new story, a new book, is coming through. I do not really feel that I invent these stories, but I welcome them as gifts and try to do right by the characters and bring their tales to fruition.

The Sorcerer Queen is one of those stories that began with snippets of poetry. I was on my early morning walk one day when the first lines came to me:

“In the land of blue and silver moons
And jasmine scented air,
A just and aging sovereign ruled—
King Sagan, called ‘The Fair.’ “

The words had a haunting quality to them, and I realized that the king himself was haunted, deeply troubled by a curse that boded ill for his kingdom. Not long after that, again on my morning walk, the curse itself came to me in its entirety of eight rhyming quatrains. I rushed home to capture every word and sat back and looked at it. I had not invented this, but now it was my job to decipher it and write the full story. And I realized that the curse not only contained the key to its own reversal, but provided a template for the entire book.

“My curse be on this murdering band
For threescore years and more,
That every time the crown must pass,
The nobles go to war.”

So begins the curse, and so my work began. Who cursed the kingdom, and why? What must the king do to end the curse? Who is thwarting him every time he tries to name one of his three nephews as his heir? Who is the one true heir? Where is the mysterious goldspun weaver, and who is The Sorcerer Queen?

The story began as lines of poetry and became a magical, whimsical young adult fantasy, a tale I had to tell. And that’s what I was doing, telling a story. But as it unfolded, layers of meaning revealed themselves to me, spiritual questions and lessons that I had not consciously inserted but that I realized were underneath it all: What must we do to make amends for old wrongs? How do we make things right and bring everything full circle? What dark nights of the soul must we go through before we come into the light? The answers to these questions came as the story did, line by line, over many months. And so I do believe that this story is not only for young adults, but is a spiritual allegory for all ages.

Look for the book coming August 28! I hope my young readers will have as much fun with the magic and mystery of The Sorcerer Queen as I had in the writing of it, and that it will bring delight, and perhaps a bit of inspiration, to readers of all ages.

I am utterly delighted to share that I received the advance copies of my new book, The Sorcerer Queen, scheduled for release on August 28th. It is such a thrill for me to hold that first copy of a new book in my hand.

Even though I have written the book, revised, revised and copy-edited till I know it almost by heart; even though I’ve done the artwork and worked countless hours with my art director on the layout; even though I’ve seen the galley proofs plus what’s called a cover dye-strike in advance—even though all of the above, to have that first copy hot off the press at last is always a sublimely joyful experience! And it’s an experience that actually gets more, not less, exciting every time I bring out a new book.
Perhaps that’s because each book begins as an ephemeral idea, like the proverbial gleam in the eye, or perhaps a whisper from a character from a time or place I never imagined, or a line or two that I find I’ve written without any conscious intention. And then as the days pass, the wispy, dream-like thoughts become more insistent, more coherent, and I realize there’s a story waiting to be told, and a book waiting to materialize. And when it finally does, it really is a dream come true.
So I held The Sorcerer Queen in my hands and looked over every page and laughed and cried at the same time. And then I did what I always do with the first copy of each new book: I set it on a tiny easel on an antique table framed by a gold-leaf mirror and two brass lamps with green hanging crystals and cherubs on the base. And suddenly I realized there were four books on the table and it was actually getting crowded!

And then it hit me—this is my fourth book in four years! I honestly did not realize that I’d been working that fast. But I love what I do and my work completely energizes me, so I keep going. And yes, I’m halfway through Book#5, but more about that later.
The Sorcerer Queen is one of several books that I have planned that I call medieval tapestries of verse. It’s a whimsical young adult fantasy about a kingdom cursed for nearly a century, the king who tries to undo the curse, and his mysterious, hidden adversary. I think the layout and artwork reflect the playful nature of the story, but it also has its serious side, since it can be read as a spiritual allegory about our necessary journeys through darkness into light. Stay tuned for more as the launch gets closer!

Even though I have written the book, revised, revised and copy-edited till I know it almost by heart; even though I’ve done the artwork and worked countless hours with my art director on the layout; even though I’ve seen the galley proofs plus what’s called a cover dye-strike in advance—even though all of the above, to have that first copy hot off the press at last is always a sublimely joyful experience! And it’s an experience that actually gets more, not less, exciting every time I bring out a new book.
Perhaps that’s because each book begins as an ephemeral idea, like the proverbial gleam in the eye, or perhaps a whisper from a character from a time or place I never imagined, or a line or two that I find I’ve written without any conscious intention. And then as the days pass, the wispy, dream-like thoughts become more insistent, more coherent, and I realize there’s a story waiting to be told, and a book waiting to materialize. And when it finally does, it really is a dream come true.
So I held The Sorcerer Queen in my hands and looked over every page and laughed and cried at the same time. And then I did what I always do with the first copy of each new book: I set it on a tiny easel on an antique table framed by a gold-leaf mirror and two brass lamps with green hanging crystals and cherubs on the base. And suddenly I realized there were four books on the table and it was actually getting crowded!

And then it hit me—this is my fourth book in four years! I honestly did not realize that I’d been working that fast. But I love what I do and my work completely energizes me, so I keep going. And yes, I’m halfway through Book#5, but more about that later.
The Sorcerer Queen is one of several books that I have planned that I call medieval tapestries of verse. It’s a whimsical young adult fantasy about a kingdom cursed for nearly a century, the king who tries to undo the curse, and his mysterious, hidden adversary. I think the layout and artwork reflect the playful nature of the story, but it also has its serious side, since it can be read as a spiritual allegory about our necessary journeys through darkness into light. Stay tuned for more as the launch gets closer!

A refreshing blend of classic narrative poetry and modern style and creativity, Xianna Michaels's The Sorcerer Queen is a versatile gem.

The lilting tale of a kingdom haunted by an ancient curse, Xianna Michaels's The Sorcerer Queen is a captivating volume of narrative poetry, recounted in the spirit of traveling minstrels and wandering troubadours singing legends of old.
The aging King of Caravaille is determined to name an heir from among his three nephews in hopes of sparing his subjects from the curse of Oriana, long the cause of chaos and bloodshed surrounding each succession. With the aid of his trusted adviser, Lord Shin, he realizes that he will need to seek out the mysterious Sorcerer Queen and elusive Goldspun Weaver to unravel the secrets of the tragic prophecy and ensure peace for Caravaille.
The stage is set with five acts and multiple scenes, creating ambience with descriptions ranging from moonlit gardens to the king's privy chambers and royal throne room. A cast of players is listed prior to the entrance of "The Bard," very much akin to a theatrical production.
The entire epyllion is done in creatively positioned and oriented quatrains, with each double-page spread functioning to form visually fluid shapes, patterns, and designs. Pen-and-ink drawings by Michaels are scattered throughout, adding a touch of whimsical detail with depictions of crowns, knights, and courtyards.
The curse itself doubles as a riddle with clues for its reversal. King Sagan ruminates extensively with his royal advisor, Lord Shin; they humorously attempt to decipher the imagery and proclamations. Complete in eight stanzas, the curse is periodically quoted in a chorus-like manner--though Sagan, much to Shin's consternation, often passes out before the recitation has been completed:
Shin slowly closed the ancient book,
So moved that he could weep,
But when he turned to look at Sagan
The king was fast asleep!
Individual stanzas utilize alternating rhymes and maintain an upbeat, rolling cadence that builds suspense and urgency while retaining a sense of fun and excitement. There is a smooth, lyrical rhythm to the quatrains; each functions either as a complete thought or is linked to others with natural pauses. This rhythm is occasionally interrupted by midline breaks.
Sagan is a well-meaning ruler, but he is quick to make up his mind and slow to change it; he is unintentionally comical, if sincere, in his efforts. His nephews are likewise pleasantly agreeable; it is not immediately clear which will break the curse or why the Sorcerer Queen is determined that it must be one over another. As the story is consistently fast paced throughout, answers and resolutions are quickly realized.
A refreshing blend of classic narrative poetry and modern style and creativity, Xianna Michaels's The Sorcerer Queen is a versatile gem--perfect for reciting, reading in tandem, performing with a group, or simply enjoying as a fantasy adventure.
Read the full review here at Foreword Reviews.

The lilting tale of a kingdom haunted by an ancient curse, Xianna Michaels's The Sorcerer Queen is a captivating volume of narrative poetry, recounted in the spirit of traveling minstrels and wandering troubadours singing legends of old.
The aging King of Caravaille is determined to name an heir from among his three nephews in hopes of sparing his subjects from the curse of Oriana, long the cause of chaos and bloodshed surrounding each succession. With the aid of his trusted adviser, Lord Shin, he realizes that he will need to seek out the mysterious Sorcerer Queen and elusive Goldspun Weaver to unravel the secrets of the tragic prophecy and ensure peace for Caravaille.
The stage is set with five acts and multiple scenes, creating ambience with descriptions ranging from moonlit gardens to the king's privy chambers and royal throne room. A cast of players is listed prior to the entrance of "The Bard," very much akin to a theatrical production.
The entire epyllion is done in creatively positioned and oriented quatrains, with each double-page spread functioning to form visually fluid shapes, patterns, and designs. Pen-and-ink drawings by Michaels are scattered throughout, adding a touch of whimsical detail with depictions of crowns, knights, and courtyards.
The curse itself doubles as a riddle with clues for its reversal. King Sagan ruminates extensively with his royal advisor, Lord Shin; they humorously attempt to decipher the imagery and proclamations. Complete in eight stanzas, the curse is periodically quoted in a chorus-like manner--though Sagan, much to Shin's consternation, often passes out before the recitation has been completed:
Shin slowly closed the ancient book,
So moved that he could weep,
But when he turned to look at Sagan
The king was fast asleep!
Individual stanzas utilize alternating rhymes and maintain an upbeat, rolling cadence that builds suspense and urgency while retaining a sense of fun and excitement. There is a smooth, lyrical rhythm to the quatrains; each functions either as a complete thought or is linked to others with natural pauses. This rhythm is occasionally interrupted by midline breaks.
Sagan is a well-meaning ruler, but he is quick to make up his mind and slow to change it; he is unintentionally comical, if sincere, in his efforts. His nephews are likewise pleasantly agreeable; it is not immediately clear which will break the curse or why the Sorcerer Queen is determined that it must be one over another. As the story is consistently fast paced throughout, answers and resolutions are quickly realized.
A refreshing blend of classic narrative poetry and modern style and creativity, Xianna Michaels's The Sorcerer Queen is a versatile gem--perfect for reciting, reading in tandem, performing with a group, or simply enjoying as a fantasy adventure.
Read the full review here at Foreword Reviews.

Back in September I began a series of stories expressing my gratitude to people I knew only briefly but who in retrospect had a tremendous influence on my life. Today I write about a third, whom I met only once and whose name I never knew.

My encounter with him was wholly unexpected and even to this day seems uncanny. After he left I hardly knew what had hit me, but as his words reverberated through me, my lifelong habit of note-taking kicked in, and I wrote down what he said. So though it has now been many years, I do not write solely from memory. I have his words right in the margins of the pages I was working on at the time.
It was rather long ago, when the traffic on the 405 Freeway in LA was still bearable. Sometimes when the kids were in school I would drive down to Santa Monica to sit at the beach and write. Something about the air, the sound of the ocean, the view, made it very conducive to creative work for me. It sounds incongruous—I love the beach but I've never been a great fan of sand or sun. So instead I would take my notebook and fountain pen to one of the lovely gazebos that dotted the grassy area a little set back from the actual beach. There I found benches to sit on, shade, and though people came and went, enough solitude that I was able to go into my own world and write.
I was working on a medieval verse fairytale. It was a story for young adult readers, but though I hadn't planned it that way, I knew it was also becoming a spiritual allegory for adults as well. It wasn't the first I had done, and I already had notes for future stories. I was never sure exactly where these stories came from, only that the characters spoke to me, almost through me, and I had to tell their tales. I did not doubt the words that were coming, but I was concerned about what I would eventually do with the book. My late agent had not been a fan of the verse form of storytelling—she proclaimed it too out of sync with the modern world. I knew that I was telling ancient tales in the ancient way, and that I had to continue, but I had no idea how I would bring this work out into the world, or when. And that caused me no small amount of concern.
Such was my inner state that day I sat in the gazebo in Santa Monica, and so began probably the most inexplicable encounter I have ever had.
First there was the man in the wheelchair. He had long hair in dreadlocks. Another man wheeled him up into the gazebo. They were obviously good friends and were carrying on a lively conversation. They were speaking in what pop culture called "jive" at the time. When I was studying linguistics they would have called this a colloquial dialect of English. I didn't understand a good part of what they said, which was fine with me—I was trying to write, not eavesdrop. They glanced at me a few times but otherwise ignored me. Then came the man with the boom box. For those of you too young to remember, a boom box was a device about the size of two shoeboxes that could fit comfortably wedged on a man's shoulder. It got its name from the fact that it had big speakers out of which music from the radio or compact disks boomed. Later on, as history will record, this device was replaced by a thin slice of glass and metal that fit into the palm of the hand and could play virtually any music ever recorded. But I digress. This was the 90's and the boom box ruled.
The man with the boom box on his shoulder was playing very loud music indeed, and dancing as he walked. He also had dreadlocks and came bounding into the gazebo, greeting the other too men with exuberant high-fives. They all seemed to know each other well and carried on their conversation in jive accompanied by the loud music. They continued to ignore me and I had no trouble concentrating on my work. I should explain that for many people, noise or tumult in the background is not necessarily a deterrent to focused work, if the tumult is "out there" and doesn't involve the writer. In fact, it may actually be an aid for concentration for some people. This explains, by the way, why so many people seem to be able to work for hours in Starbucks, oblivious of all the shouting about Venti half-calf no whip Macchiatos.
So there I was with my fountain pen and notebook, writing verse after verse of my medieval story, with the very modern music and fairly incomprehensible conversation not twelve feet away. It was a beautiful sunny day. I was happy to be writing. And then the man in the wheel chair and his companion left. Only the boom box guy remained, sitting all the way on the other side of the gazebo. He turned off the music. My head was down, bent over my notebook.
"What are you writing?" came a voice which could have come from your average college professor. I looked up, around. Had he said that? Was he talking to me? As if he'd read my mind he said, "Yes, I'm talking to you. I'm asking what it is you're writing." His voice was gentle, polite, inquiring.
"Oh," I said, "I'm writing a medieval verse fairytale."
"What's it about?" he asked.
"Uh... well, it's about a kingdom that's cursed and the aging king who is determined to undo the curse before he dies." I figured he'd lose interest and I would go back to work. But that's not what happened.
"Read me some of it," he said.
Now I was really bewildered. "You want me to read some of my work?" I rather foolishly repeated. "But... it's poetry!" Why would he want to hear this?
"Yes, I know it's poetry. Pick a section and just read. Go ahead," he motioned with his hand.
I had actually been working on the climactic scene. I was getting near the end. The story had taken on a life of its own and had a mystical quality I had not consciously planned. So I went back a fistful of pages and started reading. I looked up after the first page and he said to keep going. Every time I stopped he would tell me to keep reading. He had his eyes closed and a soft smile on his face. I read right up to where I had finished writing so far, at least fifteen pages in all.
And then he opened his eyes and spoke, and the whole episode became positively otherworldly.
"You know exactly what you're doing," he said, "and you're doing exactly what you're supposed to do. You just keep going." I must have looked stunned. How on earth could he know I'd been having doubts?
But he wasn't finished. "You've hit the bulls-eye," he went on. "The way your words flow. Your voice. You are not a neophyte. This is sophisticated. You hit the nail on the head. You are self-confident. You know yourself. I could fall asleep listening to this."
His words brought tears to my eyes. Who was he? Could I dare believe him? No one had ever said such things to me before. I could barely speak. "Thank you," I managed. "Thank you for your beautiful words."
"You just keep going," he repeated. Then he stood, picked up his boom box, gave a little wave, and was gone.
I never saw him again.
I do not know who he was. We had not exchanged names. There was no email to exchange. But as the weeks became months, and then years, I was very glad I had written his words down. They sustained me as I finished the manuscript, not knowing how I would bring it out into the world. They are part of what sustained me as family circumstances had me putting aside my fairytales and beginning to write healing sonnets and eventually to develop my own intuitive process of drawing and writing poetry for self-transformation. The book about that process, entitled The Alchemy of Illuminated Poetry®—Seven Steps to Your Personal Gold, will be published in June 2017. It will be my third book published by Alcabal Press®, the publishing company I founded. Those words spoken in a gazebo at the beach helped to give me the confidence and strength to do so, and to keep going, to keep writing what I knew I needed to write.
And what, you might ask, ever became of the medieval verse fairytale about the kingdom cursed? It is actually alive and well and sitting on my desk right now. I am polishing it up a bit, illustrating it and preparing it for publication. It will be my fourth book for Alcabal Press®, coming in the near future.
I long ago stopped thinking of that man in the gazebo as "the guy with the boom box." Instead I have always thought of him as "the angel from Santa Monica." He came and he went, never to appear again, at least to me. Yet his words never left me. I did thank him at the time, but I could hardly process his words then, let alone comprehend how much they would mean to me. I don't know that I've always "hit the bull's eye" and I certainly don't think I always know exactly what I'm doing. But I want to thank him now, again, almost two decades later, for the extraordinary things he said.
I want to thank him for making a profound difference in my life. And I would like him to know, whoever he was, wherever he is, that I did keep going. And I will never stop.

My encounter with him was wholly unexpected and even to this day seems uncanny. After he left I hardly knew what had hit me, but as his words reverberated through me, my lifelong habit of note-taking kicked in, and I wrote down what he said. So though it has now been many years, I do not write solely from memory. I have his words right in the margins of the pages I was working on at the time.
It was rather long ago, when the traffic on the 405 Freeway in LA was still bearable. Sometimes when the kids were in school I would drive down to Santa Monica to sit at the beach and write. Something about the air, the sound of the ocean, the view, made it very conducive to creative work for me. It sounds incongruous—I love the beach but I've never been a great fan of sand or sun. So instead I would take my notebook and fountain pen to one of the lovely gazebos that dotted the grassy area a little set back from the actual beach. There I found benches to sit on, shade, and though people came and went, enough solitude that I was able to go into my own world and write.
I was working on a medieval verse fairytale. It was a story for young adult readers, but though I hadn't planned it that way, I knew it was also becoming a spiritual allegory for adults as well. It wasn't the first I had done, and I already had notes for future stories. I was never sure exactly where these stories came from, only that the characters spoke to me, almost through me, and I had to tell their tales. I did not doubt the words that were coming, but I was concerned about what I would eventually do with the book. My late agent had not been a fan of the verse form of storytelling—she proclaimed it too out of sync with the modern world. I knew that I was telling ancient tales in the ancient way, and that I had to continue, but I had no idea how I would bring this work out into the world, or when. And that caused me no small amount of concern.
Such was my inner state that day I sat in the gazebo in Santa Monica, and so began probably the most inexplicable encounter I have ever had.
First there was the man in the wheelchair. He had long hair in dreadlocks. Another man wheeled him up into the gazebo. They were obviously good friends and were carrying on a lively conversation. They were speaking in what pop culture called "jive" at the time. When I was studying linguistics they would have called this a colloquial dialect of English. I didn't understand a good part of what they said, which was fine with me—I was trying to write, not eavesdrop. They glanced at me a few times but otherwise ignored me. Then came the man with the boom box. For those of you too young to remember, a boom box was a device about the size of two shoeboxes that could fit comfortably wedged on a man's shoulder. It got its name from the fact that it had big speakers out of which music from the radio or compact disks boomed. Later on, as history will record, this device was replaced by a thin slice of glass and metal that fit into the palm of the hand and could play virtually any music ever recorded. But I digress. This was the 90's and the boom box ruled.
The man with the boom box on his shoulder was playing very loud music indeed, and dancing as he walked. He also had dreadlocks and came bounding into the gazebo, greeting the other too men with exuberant high-fives. They all seemed to know each other well and carried on their conversation in jive accompanied by the loud music. They continued to ignore me and I had no trouble concentrating on my work. I should explain that for many people, noise or tumult in the background is not necessarily a deterrent to focused work, if the tumult is "out there" and doesn't involve the writer. In fact, it may actually be an aid for concentration for some people. This explains, by the way, why so many people seem to be able to work for hours in Starbucks, oblivious of all the shouting about Venti half-calf no whip Macchiatos.
So there I was with my fountain pen and notebook, writing verse after verse of my medieval story, with the very modern music and fairly incomprehensible conversation not twelve feet away. It was a beautiful sunny day. I was happy to be writing. And then the man in the wheel chair and his companion left. Only the boom box guy remained, sitting all the way on the other side of the gazebo. He turned off the music. My head was down, bent over my notebook.
"What are you writing?" came a voice which could have come from your average college professor. I looked up, around. Had he said that? Was he talking to me? As if he'd read my mind he said, "Yes, I'm talking to you. I'm asking what it is you're writing." His voice was gentle, polite, inquiring.
"Oh," I said, "I'm writing a medieval verse fairytale."
"What's it about?" he asked.
"Uh... well, it's about a kingdom that's cursed and the aging king who is determined to undo the curse before he dies." I figured he'd lose interest and I would go back to work. But that's not what happened.
"Read me some of it," he said.
Now I was really bewildered. "You want me to read some of my work?" I rather foolishly repeated. "But... it's poetry!" Why would he want to hear this?
"Yes, I know it's poetry. Pick a section and just read. Go ahead," he motioned with his hand.
I had actually been working on the climactic scene. I was getting near the end. The story had taken on a life of its own and had a mystical quality I had not consciously planned. So I went back a fistful of pages and started reading. I looked up after the first page and he said to keep going. Every time I stopped he would tell me to keep reading. He had his eyes closed and a soft smile on his face. I read right up to where I had finished writing so far, at least fifteen pages in all.
And then he opened his eyes and spoke, and the whole episode became positively otherworldly.
"You know exactly what you're doing," he said, "and you're doing exactly what you're supposed to do. You just keep going." I must have looked stunned. How on earth could he know I'd been having doubts?
But he wasn't finished. "You've hit the bulls-eye," he went on. "The way your words flow. Your voice. You are not a neophyte. This is sophisticated. You hit the nail on the head. You are self-confident. You know yourself. I could fall asleep listening to this."
His words brought tears to my eyes. Who was he? Could I dare believe him? No one had ever said such things to me before. I could barely speak. "Thank you," I managed. "Thank you for your beautiful words."
"You just keep going," he repeated. Then he stood, picked up his boom box, gave a little wave, and was gone.
I never saw him again.
I do not know who he was. We had not exchanged names. There was no email to exchange. But as the weeks became months, and then years, I was very glad I had written his words down. They sustained me as I finished the manuscript, not knowing how I would bring it out into the world. They are part of what sustained me as family circumstances had me putting aside my fairytales and beginning to write healing sonnets and eventually to develop my own intuitive process of drawing and writing poetry for self-transformation. The book about that process, entitled The Alchemy of Illuminated Poetry®—Seven Steps to Your Personal Gold, will be published in June 2017. It will be my third book published by Alcabal Press®, the publishing company I founded. Those words spoken in a gazebo at the beach helped to give me the confidence and strength to do so, and to keep going, to keep writing what I knew I needed to write.
And what, you might ask, ever became of the medieval verse fairytale about the kingdom cursed? It is actually alive and well and sitting on my desk right now. I am polishing it up a bit, illustrating it and preparing it for publication. It will be my fourth book for Alcabal Press®, coming in the near future.
I long ago stopped thinking of that man in the gazebo as "the guy with the boom box." Instead I have always thought of him as "the angel from Santa Monica." He came and he went, never to appear again, at least to me. Yet his words never left me. I did thank him at the time, but I could hardly process his words then, let alone comprehend how much they would mean to me. I don't know that I've always "hit the bull's eye" and I certainly don't think I always know exactly what I'm doing. But I want to thank him now, again, almost two decades later, for the extraordinary things he said.
I want to thank him for making a profound difference in my life. And I would like him to know, whoever he was, wherever he is, that I did keep going. And I will never stop.