Last year, TJ and I made a trip up to Salem, Massachusetts, one filled with a wondrous blend of magick, solemnity, holiness, frivolity, historical reverence and spirits of multiple connotations–read into that as you will. TJ was able to promote her books, The Healthy Witch and Four Little Witches to many of the esoteric shops and we had the most amusing and corny ghost tour with a skeleton-clad host reminding me of Svengoolie.
We had the best food from our hosts at the Amelia Payson Bed and Breakfast, the most spectacular lobster at Sea Level. The Tavern at the Witch Mall became an immediate favorite, planted next to the fountain memorial on Essex Street, the primary shopping hub for Wiccans, Heathens, Neo-Pagans and magick folk alike. Omen and the historical Crow Haven Corner are mandatory if you follow the path. The drinks, grub and service were so top notch at The Tavern we took a return visit. The Witches’ Brew at Nathaniel’s is highly recommended.
You can read my post here about our adventure through the House of Seven Gables on Derby Street, where we also grabbed superb tea and coffee from Wolf Next Door and a sugar blast from the site of what is reported to be the first American chocolatier, The Chocolate Pantry.
Also on Derby Street, my friends, if you feel inclined to grab some takeout spirits, The Bunghole. The name says it all, and I laughed myself all the way back to the harbor upon spotting it. Cheers, witches and non…
We were having a family discussion about favorite and best Christmas gifts from over the years, a much-needed fun topic to kick up a warm chat. Having received a telescope from TJ this past Christmas (a lifelong wish fulfilled, thanks, babe), my son recollected other great gifts given to me he’s been witness to over the years. Perhaps the top primo gift I ever got in my former life with my ex was the high-end box set of the entire run of Batman ’66 on Blu Ray, inclusive of a replica toy Batmobile and a trading card set made solely for the package. Despite how my marriage may have ended, we had some amazing Christmases over the years.
The three of us began coming up with our favorite gifts from our respective childhoods. Growing up, my parents were always tight on money, but they always came through for the things I liked or wanted. They pushed all their money towards my Christmases. Most of the time they would get their holiday bonuses on Christmas Eve, then blitz to the mall, sneak everything past me and stay up half the night wrapping to be “Santa.” My Christmases were thus epic and once I put everything together down the road on how the magic actually worked, I adopted the same ethic toward my own son. The years we were lean back in the day, we put everything in the budget toward his Christmas and gifts for everyone else. We often did the same dash and carry and wrap at zero hour, all to give the kid a bonanza to remember. I’m proud to say we never failed that child, ever.
The conversation last night leaned more on my childhood growing up in the 1970s and 80s. I brought up some favorite toys I’d been given for Christmas as a child, like Stretch Armstrong, a U.S.S. Enterprise from Star Trek which had a motorized fan and swivel to send it lifted, round and round. The Guns of Navarone battle playset became a go-to, the Hot Wheels Criss-Cross-Crash car set produced hours of fun. Mattel handheld baseball and football electronic games bleeped and blooped all over the house. No doubt my folks enjoy a silent, delicious revenge upon me from my son’s video game addiction. The original double vinyl pressing from 1977 of the Star Wars: A New Hope score from John Williams was a holy grail present, which got played in-and-out between my Kiss albums. Then there was the Batman exploding bridge playset and the Joker battle van, complete with a squirting flower on the roof. I gasped to find a Batman and Robin walkie talkie set beneath the tree, only to see it sadly get broken two days later.
The be-all, end-all of my childhood Christmas gifts, however, were given the same year and split timed in usage. 1978. Kenner’s Star Wars Death Star Space Station and Mattel’s knee-high sized (by kid gauge) Godzilla, the latter coming as part of the Shogun Warriors “life-sized” action figures. Also that year came a super-sized Chewbacca and Stormtrooper, which I also loved and unfortunately became cannon fodder against Godzilla’s spring-shot claw. As if he wasn’t deadly enough with fire breath and gargantuan size, Mattel went next-level being able to shoot his fist at things. I was also given an actual Shogun Warrior to square off against Godzilla, one who also shot his gauntlet fist, but also two small missiles from his breastplate. Most fun was the fact Godzilla and the Shogun Warrior had roller feet, making their combat much zanier. The Shogun Warrior always fell when struck by Godzilla’s claw. Godzilla had staying power with that tail of his to keep him propped up. Speaking of zany, you pushed a plunger to send a plastic tongue of “fire” out of Godzilla’s head. Godzilla forever!!!
Anyone lucky enough to have had the four level Death Star playset will attest you could have hours of fun sending Luke Skywalker, Ben Kenobi, Princess Leia and the droids through the bottom tier trapdoor and into the trash compactor. A knob on the side sent foam pieced garbage and a green rubber monster against our heroes their foam-tacular deaths. The sliding elevator was a gas, and I always had Han Solo inside, ready to ambush Darth Vader, Stormtroopers and the transplanted cantina aliens (i.e. Greedo, Hammerhead, Snaggletooth, etc.) into a laser gun frenzy. When I got a Millenium Falcon later, you know I made Han and Chewie “blow up” the Death Star with massive kid-orchestrated destruction.
Even better when I sent Godzilla into action to stomp down the Death Star. Good times. Damn good times.
Kicking off ’23 by finishing the fourth story for my sequel compilation to Coming of Rage. Elements of style not just applicable to writing fundamentals, but guided by the comforting lubrication of Basil Hayden with Minerva, Sekhmet and Anubis in elbow’s reach, Thoth and the rest of my Egyptian spiritual family watching my back. A revisit with old dear friends of classic heavy metal, i.e. Saxon, Iron Maiden, King Diamond, Death Angel and Voivod…and of course, the company of my furball buddies. It’s how you do… May 2023 be prolific for us all, brothers and sisters of the word…
So draws to an end another year. I can look back at 2022 as one filled with peaks and valleys. One filled with a lot of promise that delivered and also stocked with a lot of grief, angst and exhaustion.
I’ll choose to give reverence but not dwell upon the negatives such as the passing of loved ones, the loss of employment and comrades I truly loved (albeit my layoff was a mere blink), my fiancée’s cancer scare and the heartache of betrayal. Fatherhood demands (and it did, boy did it) the utmost priority even when nurturing a relatively new romance and you bring it all together under pressure. The teenage years can suck it, point blank, and I’m no different from any parent fielding the fails and fallacies that come within. The victories are few, the frustration twofold. As Kurt Vonnegut wisely waxes, so it goes. We’re forced to adapt and find the resiliency to respond as parents must.
On the flipside, I’m very blessed to have had exuberance, triumphs, forward motion, physical and spiritual growth and above all, expanding my networks to twice they were prior to 2022. I’ve said it before in my videos where I sought to pump up other job-seekers, your network says everything about you. It’s paid off for me this year in the scores of people who rallied to my cause during my brief layoff. You all have my return love and loyalty.
Despite the ongoing trials in our lives since September, this will be a year I’ll look back upon with pride with the release of my short story collection, Coming of Rage, the title story drawing a nomination for this year’s Pushcart Prize. I wrote the stories in my old apartment after my separation and divorce, a couple months before TJ, an old friend from many pasts, came back into my life like a tempest of love. I wrote most of the stories on a butt-breaking bar stool at a breakfast nook in that apartment, feeling the momentary isolation and uncertainty of my life’s direction. Some were written on the weeks I had my son, getting up at 4:30 a.m. many days before he woke to write and polish these stories. The satisfaction I feel from Coming of Rage’s launch is something I’ve held onto like a good luck locket. I’m even prouder my publisher, Raw Earth Ink, has asked for a sequel story collection, which I am nearly finished writing for 2023 publication.
2022 brought me the opportunity to meet many writers throughout the year, at the Star Trek and sci-fi-themed convention, Shore Leave, for one. It came here at WordPress, meeting so many of you and getting to know you off the grid. I was able to build an audience here and though my past few months have been less than prolific due to a tumble effect of life events, I feel optimistic in the growth this page has made. Granted, my posts lately have been more off-topic to the theme of roads lesser traveled, but travel has been limited due to the aforementioned changes and hurdles. I appreciate all of you for sticking with me, as I do the people who gave me glowing reviews of Coming of Rage. A special shout-out to Willow Croft, who conducted not one, but two interviews with me in ’22. It’s been a pleasure kindling a friendship with you, lady.
My fiancée, TJ and I had a wonderful trip to Disney for just ourselves this year and a long weekend beach trip with the kiddo, but moving in together and preparing for our future wedding in the fall of ’23 took precedence. Our time out was spent more in the company of friends and family all of 2022 and building our respective networks in the creative and esoteric communities. TJ not only kicked cancer’s behind this year, but she had a number of book signings for The Healthy Witch and Four Little Witches. I’m happy to report I will likewise be on the promotional trail in the new year for Coming of Rage and its eventual sequel, Turning the Page.
I look to get myself back in the groove in 2023, here at Roads Lesser Traveled, along with my other writing endeavors while refining my duties in my new position in mortgage title. The juggle and the struggle is real, but we have a wedding to look forward to and new projects to complete and hawk out there. TJ will have an oracle card set based on The Healthy Witch come out this spring. The time has come for both of us to kick our lives as a couple and as individual writers up to the next level.
This includes the addition of two new kittens to our family, Ezio and MJ. They were brought to us from a litter by TJ’s son and they have sparked a spirit of joy in our household. These adorable fuzzbutts have been with us since they were two months old and have already bonded with all of us. Bast be praised.
2022, thank you for all that was good. Thank you also for the hard parts; it forces me to keep evolving. I ran a Spartan Trail race and competed in my first DEKA event, the latter proving you can train your tail off and still have your butt handed to you. It’s sobering and oddly uplifting, as it sparks that fire inside me to have another go at DEKA and whatever else my body will give me, fitness-wise in ’23. My motto, especially for my videos at TikTok, has been “Keep grindin’.”
Much love to all the people I spent time and grew with this year, many for the first time, others reunited after decades past between us. It’s refreshing knowing people can just pick right back up after long runs of time. May the new year bring even more of my friends whom I’ve inadvertently neglected to the table along with brand new faces. As I mentioned, my network doubled this past year and I look forward to adding more this one upcoming.
Whatever it is that drives you, my friends, go forward in 2023 and beyond and capture it for yourself. I’ve captured the love of my life. I’ve captured a new audience after losing all but handfuls of my prior readership in music and horror journalism. I’ve reinvented myself and every step is slow, if adventurous. Fear is the enemy to your own progress. Go forward and conquer. Thank you for reading, as always…
Willow Croft, who has quickly become a friend of our craft to me, invited me back for another sit-down chat, this time for her “Spooky Six” series at Horror Tree. As before with Willow, a total blast.
I shot my first spoken word video for a piece I wrote titled “Hubris.” I felt a piece of myself yearning to come out and I treated the entire session like I would’ve at open mike events I performed at years ago. Here is the transcript of the poetry piece, “Hubris.”
Hubris
By Ray Van Horn, Jr.
In my vanity, with or without imbibing,
I often think kicking open black doors
held sentry by interwoven golden scimitars, unguarded
leads to a bounty of greener pastures
a treasure laid and left by the divine
if one simply has the wherewithal to risk the unavoidable gashes
and the potential for beguiling catastrophe
sometimes the pursuit of happiness
is nothing more than a fool’s errand
no matter an accompanying pocketful of citrine
for luck and love
or a fistful of amethyst for reciprocal defense
a national lottery ticket often has better odds at a payoff
in the quest for mortal satisfaction
I can’t help but wonder sometimes
if ancestors laugh or shake their heads dismissively
when they catch you pleasuring yourself from the other side
or if they cheer you on when it comes with a partner
and it makes me laugh only to myself
thinking they invisibly face palm their invisible former selves
watching their descendants stumble, fall and choke as must do
evolution oblivion catcalled by celestial perverts
a dangling tiger’s eye between the breast
trumps a washout kind of day
whether you dwell in a shanty or amongst porcelain walls
even when you’re soft-spoken and complacent beneath the sun
yet you morph into a voluminous warrior of words
in literary combat against the espresso machine at an open mike
fueled, not by caffeine
but by ego and desperation
and you give louder voice, even still,
against defiance, counterpoint, and ennui
projected at you by people you love
or once loved
or think you once loved
rebellion equates rejection
equates burden equates self-defeat
you can’t help the obdurate
you can’t hold onto obsidian for longer than bare minimum
not everyone values the lapis lazuli
much less sees the excavating path to the latter’s
reviving ultramarine
the final folly of those who care too much
is believing they make a tangible difference
realness is both soft and hard to the touch
yet true comfort lies inside
a steeping cup of introspection and a burning incense of empathy
the lover of life held in check
by too much crippling static inside air
which rages against the suffocation
as it would at pollution and apathy
the madness comes from banging missed advice against the surrounding plaster
from those who would devalue effort and persistence
and those who would cheat themselves short
and you even shorter
sometimes there’s just no helping others
who don’t want the help
nor the sycophantic inspiration shared between old and young
a passing of life data often mistaken for narcissism
I literally had the wind sucked out of me to get the notification the title story from my short story collection, “Coming of Rage” has been nominated for the illustrious Pushcart Prize. Humbled is one the first words coming to mind, knowing all the esteemed writers who have been nominated for a Pushcart, much less won.
As the deepest personal story in my book, I am so moved “Coming of Rage” has resonated with my audience enough to be in consideration of something of this magnitude. Grateful beyond words. Squeeeeee!!!
Coming of Rage is available through Lulu, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Nook, Kobo and Kindle.
Roads Lesser Traveled 