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Deep Emotions
Across 104 poems, The Spine of My Soul traces a life through love, grief, illness, abuse, survival, and renewal. What led you to organize the collection into “The Good,” “The Bad,” and “The Ugly?”
I organized The Spine of My Soul into “The Good,” “The Bad,” and “The Ugly” because those sections reflect the different seasons and experiences that have shaped my life. My journey has included love, joy, and moments of beauty, but also grief, illness, abuse, fear, and the difficult realities I had to survive. Dividing the collection this way allowed me to honor each part of the journey honestly, without minimizing the painful experiences or overlooking the moments of strength, hope, and renewal.
The poem I wrote about my life stood out to me as a fitting prologue for the book. It introduces the experiences, emotions, and themes that unfold throughout the collection, giving readers a sense of where I have been and how those experiences have shaped who I am. Beginning with that poem felt natural because it offers an honest glimpse into my story before leading into “The Good,” “The Bad,” and “The Ugly.” Together, the sections represent the complexity of life—the beauty, the pain, and everything in between.
How did you approach writing about deeply personal experiences such as abuse, illness, grief, and caregiving while protecting both your emotional well-being and the integrity of the work?
Writing about my husband’s current cancer journey has been the most difficult for me. It brings up some of the hardest and most painful feelings—fear, uncertainty, sadness, and helplessness. Putting those emotions into words can be overwhelming, but writing also gives me a way to process what we’re going through and to honor his strength and our journey together.
I’ve already worked through and reprocessed most of my past traumas, so I can remember those experiences without feeling strongly emotionally attached to them anymore. They remain part of my story, but they no longer carry the same intensity. In contrast, my husband’s cancer journey is happening in the present, which makes the emotions immediate, raw, and much more difficult to write about.
I write to help myself process the deep emotions that can sometimes feel too overwhelming to express in any other way. Writing allows me to make sense of what I’m experiencing, release some of the pain, and find meaning in the difficult moments. I choose to publish my words in the hope that they might support others who are facing their own struggles and remind them that they are not alone. If sharing my journey through life can offer comfort, encouragement, or even a sense of connection to someone else, then opening my heart feels worthwhile.
The title poem describes the collection as an open door for people who believe they are fighting alone; when did you realize that reaching those readers was central to the book’s purpose?
I realized that reaching readers who feel alone was central to the book’s purpose when I reflected on the contrast between the different seasons of my life. During the “good times,” I had people all around me—celebrating with me, sharing my joy, and reminding me that I wasn’t alone. But during the “bad” and “ugly” times, I often felt isolated, as though no one else understood what I was experiencing or could see the depth of what I was carrying.
That contrast stayed with me. It made me understand how important it is for people to know that their pain does not make them isolated, even when it feels that way. The Spine of My Soul became more than a collection of my personal experiences; it became an open door—a way of saying, “You are welcome here. You are seen. You are not alone.” I never want anyone to feel alone in their journey again. By sharing the difficult truths alongside the moments of love, survival, and renewal, I hope the book helps readers recognize something of themselves in my words and find comfort, connection, and perhaps the strength to keep going.
Why did you choose “Unlearning the Script” as the final poem, and what does reclamation mean to you now that the collection is complete?
I chose “Unlearning the Script” as the final poem because it represents the ongoing process of releasing the beliefs, expectations, and survival patterns that were shaped by difficult experiences. Throughout the collection, I move through love, grief, illness, abuse, survival, and renewal. Ending with this poem felt right because it reflects the moment when I begin to understand that I am not limited to what happened to me or to the version of myself that adversity forced me to become.
Reclamation, to me, means finding myself again. It means reclaiming who I was meant to be before difficult circumstances reshaped me—before pain, fear, and survival taught me to hide parts of who I was. It is not about pretending those experiences never happened; it is about recognizing that they do not have the final say in my identity or my future. “Unlearning the Script” closes the collection with a sense of freedom and possibility. It acknowledges that healing is an ongoing process of questioning the stories I inherited, the labels placed upon me, and the narratives I created in order to survive. Now that the collection is complete, reclamation means choosing to write my own story—with honesty, compassion, and the courage to become the person I might have been had adversity not shaped me so profoundly.
Fig Trees – A Childhood Lived in the Shadow of Murder
Marnie Ross’s Fig Trees is a memoir about childhood, memory, and the long reach of losing a parent violently. Ross was nearly eleven when her mother was murdered in the family’s Phoenix home in 1979, and that night becomes the dividing line of the book. But Fig Trees is interested in much more than the murder itself. Ross reconstructs the world around it: her sisters, her mother’s habits, school, birthdays, television shows, food, church, games, friendships, and the frightening instability that followed her mother’s death. Early in the memoir, Ross writes, “Memory isn’t a calendar.” That line becomes a useful way to understand the whole book. She’s telling the story as a person remembering childhood decades later, where certain details remain startlingly vivid while dates and sequences sometimes blur.
One of the book’s strongest qualities is the way Ross lets ordinary objects carry emotional weight. Bullet holes remain in curtains her mother made. A jigsaw puzzle becomes a memory of patience and tenderness. A piano becomes a way of trying to make her mother proud. The fig trees themselves grow into the book’s central image because they connect Ross to the everyday version of her mother, the woman who gardened, cooked, sewed, hummed, and cared for her children. These details give Jill, Ross’s mother, a presence beyond the fact of her death. Ross also includes excerpts from her mother’s letters home to Australia, which let readers encounter Jill’s humour, homesickness, curiosity, and growing unease in her own words. That choice adds another layer to the memoir because Ross isn’t simply remembering her mother as a child once knew her. She’s also meeting her again as an adult.
The chapters about life after the murder are especially affecting because Ross remembers childhood survival in such practical terms. Grief exists beside hunger, school lunches, Christmas presents, bruises, chores, television, and the constant effort to protect her younger sister Ayrlie. Some of the hardest passages describe Ross finding ways to get food for the two of them, whether through babysitting money or the quiet help of a friend who brought an extra lunch. Reflecting on that kindness, Ross describes love as “The kind with paper bags and silence.” It’s a small line, but it captures something the memoir returns to again and again. Care often appears through modest acts. The relationship among Ross and her sisters is especially important in this way. Their games, arguments, private worlds, and shared memories show children improvising their own forms of comfort when the adults around them can’t reliably provide it.
Ross’s style is direct, emotionally open, and strongly rooted in sensory memory. She remembers wallpaper patterns, the smell of food, television programs, pool water, songs, toys, the texture of objects, and the strange thoughts that occur to children during terrifying situations. Those childlike observations are often what make the darkest scenes feel convincing. The memoir also moves frequently between the child Ross was and the adult Ross interpreting what happened, so the reader sees both immediate experience and decades of reflection layered together. Its short, episodic chapters suit that approach. Ross accumulates memories until a fuller childhood emerges. Moments such as the imaginary “Club” she created with Ayrlie or the sisters’ stuffed-animal battles matter because they restore playfulness and personality to a story that could otherwise be defined entirely by trauma.
By the end, Fig Trees feels like an act of reconstruction. Ross is piecing together her mother, her sisters, and herself from memories, letters, objects, and stories that survived. The closing sections become more reflective, particularly as Ross considers the adult lives of the three sisters and writes directly to her mother. What stayed with me most was the memoir’s attention to the coexistence of grief and affection. Ross can remember fear and still remember laughter; she can describe cruelty while holding tightly to the people who offered kindness; she can mourn the childhood that ended while taking pleasure in the childhood moments that survived in memory. The fig trees are a fitting title because they come to represent exactly that mixture. They keep growing after Jill is gone, carrying both the ache of her absence and the evidence that she was there. That makes Fig Trees an intimate and deeply personal account of how a child remembers a mother and how those memories continue to change as the child grows older.
Pages: 245 | ASIN : B0GX2XFZWJ
Grief and Loss
Pablo follows a beloved dog who is separated from his family and embarks on an unexpected journey home, forming an unlikely friendship and discovering the meaning of love, courage, and belonging along the way. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
The inspiration for the setup of Pablo’s story was one that just hit me all at once in a flash! A good friend of mine challenged me to write something, and I had long pondered that conversation – even debating with myself on what I wanted to write. Then the idea for Pablo hit me like a lightning bolt. I literally had the entire story laid out in my head in a flash of creative sorcery. It was remarkable! As I started flushing the idea out further, and being that PABLO is a Mexican dog, I had the idea to write PABLO in English with Spanish words and phrases. So children can learn some Spanish while reading the book. Then, when my mother suddenly passed away, I was grieving and had the idea to incorporate the Five Stages of Grief into the book to help parents and educators openly discuss grief and loss with children. I thought to myself, “If I can help one child deal with what I’m dealing with right now, it will all be worth it”. The response has been amazing. The grief component is really resonating with librarians and parents alike, and I’m very thankful for that.
The story combines comedy, adventure, and moments of grief. How did you balance those very different emotional tones for young readers?
The comedic and adventure components of PABLO can naturally flow while flushing out the story. The grief component was far more challenging. I wanted to subtly weave the Five Stages of grief into the book without forcing the Five Stages down readers’ throats. I wanted to make sure I handled all the stages of grief properly, but subtly, to make sure each stage was easily accessible to children and parents/educators. The lesson plan at the back of the book encourages open discussion about grief and loss with children, and the work Missy did with us on that is invaluable. There are also further lesson plan materials on our website at www.kidstori.com
How did you and illustrator Irvin Walkes work together to develop the visual world of Pablo?
Irvin did a remarkable job with the art on PABLO. It took almost three years to complete, as every page was hand-drawn and painted. Our process was not unlike Disney films of old, with the art. I always wanted to create a 1070’s throwback feel with a modern twist, and Irvin accomplished all that and more! There was Irvin the artist, Jason (Publisher), Rob (designer), and I getting together weekly to review and work on all the art. Some panels magically worked right away, while others took years of revisions. Irvin would board the panel, and we would tweak the art tirelessly to make sure it was perfect before we advanced to color or texture. If we did not like something, even the smallest little detail, Irvin went back to the drawing board, starting the panel from scratch until we all felt it was just right. We have thousands of iterations of the different panels of art in the book.
Do you see more adventures ahead for Pablo and his family?
Well… There may just be an easter egg in PABLO setting up a sequel… See if you can find it. 🙂
OH! – And when you finish reading PABLO, don’t forget to play PABLO: The Video Game! We spent three years working on that as well, and we feel it is a wonderful complement to the book!
Drinking From God’s Well
Theodore McDowell’s Drinking From God’s Well: Exploring the Journey From Trauma to Renewal and Recovery is a book-length poetry collection shaped as a spiritual and autobiographical account of addiction, mental illness, family trauma, grief, recovery, and faith. Its three-part structure moves from “The Struggle to Survive” through “Releasing the Pain” and finally to “Life on Life’s Terms,” giving the collection a clear emotional progression from crisis toward a more settled form of acceptance. McDowell writes repeatedly from the most difficult regions of his life: homelessness, substance abuse, a traumatic brain injury, bipolar disorder, estrangement from his children, the deterioration of his marriage, his sister’s suicide, his mother’s dementia, and his own encounters with suicidal despair. Yet the collection treats these experiences as parts of an ongoing spiritual life. The result is poetry that functions at once as memoir, confession, prayer, lament, and meditation on how a damaged life can be gathered into meaning.
McDowell’s strongest poetic feature is his recurring network of images. Jazz is especially important. Saxophones, improvisation, rhythm, silence, and blues become ways of understanding marriage, grief, mental illness, and recovery. Nature serves a similar purpose. Redbud trees, morning glories, egrets, lakes, storms, and falling leaves give physical form to emotional states that might otherwise remain abstract. These repeated images also create continuity across poems written from different stages of life. A storm can embody marital conflict in one poem, while morning light becomes an image of reconciliation in another. Water shifts from danger and uncertainty to cleansing, grace, and renewal. McDowell’s Christian imagery is equally persistent, but his faith is rarely presented as effortless certainty. God is questioned, resisted, cursed, sought, and finally experienced through suffering, forgiveness, human intimacy, and ordinary moments. This tension gives the spiritual dimension of the book much of its substance.
The collection is particularly effective when McDowell turns from his own suffering toward the people who endured its consequences. Poems about his wife and children complicate the recovery narrative by insisting that sobriety alone can’t repair years of injury. In “An Amends to My Daughter,” the speaker tries to listen without defending himself as his daughter describes the damage addiction caused during her childhood. The emotional turning point arrives not with easy reconciliation but with her quiet statement, “I finally feel heard.” That moment captures one of the book’s central understandings of forgiveness: healing requires attention, accountability, time, and the willingness to remain present before another person’s pain. Throughout the collection, marriage is treated with similar seriousness. Love appears as desire, memory, resentment, caretaking, endurance, physical intimacy, companionship, and spiritual shelter. McDowell’s imagery can be highly concentrated, sometimes layering biblical, musical, natural, and erotic references within the same poem, but that density reflects the way the book understands memory itself. The past is continually resurfacing inside the present, transformed by age but never entirely erased.
Drinking From God’s Well has broadened from survival and recovery into a meditation on aging, mortality, gratitude, and the sacred character of ordinary life. Grandchildren, morning coffee, gardening, family meals, walks, music, a wife’s presence in another room, and the simple experience of waking sober acquire the significance that earlier poems gave to catastrophe. McDowell doesn’t portray renewal as the disappearance of trauma. In “Trauma and Grace,” he describes the continuing work of recovery as “finding the miracle / within the marrow of suffering,” while accepting wounds and scar tissue as part of the foundation of renewal. That idea provides an apt description of the entire collection. Drinking From God’s Well is a sustained poetic attempt to integrate suffering into a life that can still contain faith, intimacy, beauty, responsibility, and joy. Its final achievement is not a declaration that the past has been conquered, but a vision of a person able to inhabit his whole history and still recognize grace within it.
Pages: 310 | ASIN : B0D48ZDSRL
I Was, Am, Will Be
J. R. Rice’s I Was, Am, Will Be is a collection of poetry, prose, dramatic scenes, letters, and visual compositions arranged as a journey through identity, grief, love, race, mental illness, family, and artistic purpose. Its seven chapters move from the compulsion to write through romance, cultural alienation, trauma, mortality, and remembrance, creating the shape of a coming-of-age narrative without relying on a conventional plot. Travel through Greece, France, Spain, and the Netherlands gives the speaker physical distance from Oakland, while memory keeps drawing him back to family, formative losses, and the experiences that made writing necessary. The result is an autobiographical work whose structure reflects its central concern: how a person gathers a coherent self from scattered places, relationships, and versions of the past.
Rice’s voice is energetic, exposed, and deliberately restless. He moves between formal allusion, conversational humor, spoken-word repetition, pop-culture references, and blunt confession, often allowing several registers to occupy the same poem. That flexibility suits a speaker who understands himself through many inheritances, including Black literary tradition, hip-hop, teaching, Oakland, family history, and European travel. In “Affirmations,” the repeated question “Why write?” develops into an account of writing as survival, witness, ancestry, and civic responsibility. Elsewhere, comic encounters in bars, museums, cafés, and bedrooms keep the book grounded in ordinary experience, even when its themes become philosophical. Rice’s strongest passages let wit and sorrow work together, so humor becomes part of the speaker’s endurance rather than a pause from serious material.
The collection’s emotional force grows as its recurring images gain meaning. Stairs, cliffs, flight, falling, trees, water, mirrors, and roads repeatedly place the speaker between danger and transformation. The line “You are what remains from damage” captures the book’s guiding insight: identity can contain injury without being reduced to it. The later chapters deepen that idea through accounts of bipolar disorder, suicidal thought, gun violence, childhood sexual abuse, pregnancy loss, and a father’s terminal illness. These subjects are handled with a directness that can be harrowing, yet the collection consistently searches for language capable of carrying pain toward understanding. Its repetitions sometimes feel incantatory and sometimes obsessive, accurately reflecting a mind returning to unresolved memories until they yield a different meaning.
The final movement toward family and remembrance gives the book its clearest sense of arrival. In “Depends,” the narrator’s care for his dying father transforms dependency, embarrassment, anger, and tenderness into a scene of difficult intimacy. Their exchange ends with the father’s answer, “Depends,” a modest conclusion that fits a book committed to uncertainty, choice, and continual becoming. I Was, Am, Will Be is ultimately a record of self-reclamation, one that treats writing as testimony, discipline, inheritance, and a reason to remain alive. Rice’s expansive form allows the collection to hold contradictions without smoothing them away, and its most enduring achievement is the portrait of a speaker learning that freedom comes through remembering, naming, forgiving, and choosing to live.
Pages: 34 | ISBN : 978-1088026465
Excavating the Cruelty of Memories
Theodore McDowell’s Excavating the Cruelty of Memories: Exploring the Depths of Adult Trauma is a book of poetry that reads like an intensely personal memoir broken into lyric fragments. Its four sections move through traumatic brain injury, homelessness and street life, psychiatric hospitalization, and addiction, but the deeper subject running through all of them is identity: what happens to a person when memory, family, faith, work, and even a familiar sense of self become unstable. McDowell gives the collection a clear emotional architecture, so even as individual poems shift in time, perspective, and setting, they feel connected by one continuing struggle to understand the man who existed before the injuries and the man who survived them.
What gives the book its force is McDowell’s physical, restless imagery. Music is everywhere too, especially jazz and blues, giving the poems a pulse when the speaker’s life feels most disordered. Biblical language enters just as naturally, with God appearing as comforter, adversary, absence, mystery, and sometimes the only presence large enough to argue with. The result is poetry that feels lived. One of the collection’s most revealing moments comes when McDowell describes his injured brain as having been “rewired to speak in poetry,” turning words into the means by which a damaged identity can begin assembling itself again.
The book is also deeply concerned with the people standing near the center of the speaker’s suffering. His wife and children aren’t scenery in a story about illness. They carry wounds of their own, and several poems move into their emotional territory, allowing fear, resentment, exhaustion, tenderness, and loyalty to complicate the narrator’s understanding of himself. His parents and sister become equally powerful presences as therapy begins uncovering the violence and grief beneath idealized childhood memories. In the title poem, recollections that begin with fishing, a mother waving from a kitchen window, and a sister inventing heroic stories eventually open into alcoholism, domestic violence, abuse, and suicide. That excavation gives the collection its emotional depth. Trauma here isn’t one catastrophic event. It accumulates, resurfaces, changes shape, and travels through families.
By the end, recovery has become less a clean destination than a difficult practice of recognition. Sobriety, forgiveness, marriage, aging, grief, faith, and self-knowledge all remain unsettled, which makes the closing poems feel earned. Even the last poem leaves McDowell kneeling at a literal crossroads, still wrestling with God, death, memory, and the question of what comes next. That choice suits a book whose greatest strength is its willingness to remain inside contradiction: beauty beside degradation, love beside damage, belief beside fury, and survival beside the persistent pull of self-destruction. Excavating the Cruelty of Memories is a fierce, intimate testament to the way a shattered life can find its voice without pretending the cracks have disappeared.
Pages: 252 | ASIN : B0D98YQ6JZ
Evenings on the Edge of Death
Evenings on the Edge of Death is Theodore McDowell’s deeply personal work of poeticized nonfiction, built from memories of childhood trauma, dementia, family violence, mental illness, marriage, addiction, faith, and grief. McDowell arranges the book as a series of emotional collages, moving through his relationships with his mother, father, sister, wife, and finally toward his own reckoning with aging and death. The form suits the subject beautifully. Memory rarely arrives in neat chronological order, especially when trauma and dementia are involved, and these pieces return again and again to certain images, gestures, places, and wounds. A nursing home window, a childhood beach, a glass of whiskey, a cathedral, a river, a garden, a hand reaching for another hand. The repetition gives the book the feeling of someone sorting through a lifetime and asking which memories have shaped him, which have damaged him, and which might still save him.
Some of the book’s strongest writing comes from McDowell’s willingness to hold love and injury in the same frame. His father can be frightening, abusive, wounded, and finally vulnerable. His mother is nurturing and beloved, but she also becomes inseparable from the complicated family history she helped sustain. His sister Rachel carries the scars of abuse into mental illness, addiction, and suicide, leaving her brother with grief that refuses any easy resolution. The poems about her are particularly haunting because McDowell keeps reaching past the manner of her death toward the girl she once was, the sister who danced, painted, dreamed, and made him feel safe. That movement is central to the whole book. He keeps trying to recover the person from the tragedy. Even forgiveness remains complicated. It isn’t presented as a clean moral achievement, but as something unfinished, painful, necessary, and sometimes beyond reach. The book understands that family love can survive alongside anger, and that grief often keeps both alive.
The later sections widen the emotional range as McDowell turns toward marriage, aging, illness, and the possibility of losing his own memory. His marriage becomes another place where the past keeps pressing on the present, but it’s also where tenderness, endurance, physical intimacy, disappointment, forgiveness, and companionship are allowed to coexist. The spiritual dimension grows richer here as well. Christianity is central, but McDowell’s religious imagination is restless and searching, filled with cathedrals, crucifixes, resurrection, Buddhist meditation, prayer, nature, doubt, and an almost physical hunger for grace. He repeatedly finds the sacred in ordinary things: cards played on a porch, hands joined during a walk, flowers in a garden, a wife waiting beside a hospital bed. One of the book’s most affecting ideas is that remembering someone can itself become an act of love. After his mother’s death, the speaker understands himself as her “memory keeper,” carrying her forward through stories and gestures passed to another generation.
By the final pages, Evenings on the Edge of Death has become more than a record of what happened to one family. It’s an inquiry into what remains after memory fails, bodies weaken, relationships fracture, and the people who knew our stories disappear. McDowell doesn’t leave the reader stranded in that darkness. His final movement toward self-creation and grace feels earned precisely because the book has spent so much time among bruises, hospital rooms, graves, addictions, regrets, and unanswered prayers. In the closing poem, fly fishing becomes an image of casting back into memory and trauma while still standing in the living current, and the book ends with the possibility of being made new even in old age. Evenings on the Edge of Death turns a lifetime of bruises, broken memories, love, and loss into something enduring: a testament to the stubborn grace that can still find us when almost everything else has slipped away.
Pages: 171 | ASIN : B0CVJ4PR85
Pivoting From Blue – One Year of Death, Divorce & Discovery
Pivoting From Blue by Skip Van Gardner is a deeply personal work of autobiographical fiction, family drama, and grief fiction built around one chaotic, transformative year in its narrator’s life. Divorce, aging parents, a father nearing death, family conflict, parenthood, physical and emotional upheaval, and a terrifying boat trip across the Gulf Stream all pile into what Van Gardner simply calls “The Year.” The novel moves back and forth through those experiences, which makes sense because that’s how the narrator experiences them. One problem changes how he sees another, and an event that initially feels disastrous can look completely different months later. The result reads less like a neatly plotted sequence of events and more like someone trying to understand, in real time, how his entire life arrived at a breaking point and what might be waiting beyond it.
Van Gardner’s first-person voice gives this novel most of its personality. He’s profane, funny, angry, sentimental, self-critical, spiritual, and occasionally all of those things within a page or two. There’s very little distance between the narrator and what he’s feeling, so arguments, panic attacks, walks through the neighborhood, divorce mediation, hospice visits, dinners with his parents, and moments with his children can all carry surprising weight. Some of the book’s most memorable writing comes from the contrast between ordinary details and enormous emotions. A fruit tree, a song, a sunrise, a recliner, a plate of fried conch, or a final handshake becomes part of the narrator’s way of processing change. Music is especially important throughout the novel, functioning almost like an emotional map of the year. That openness also gives the book an intentionally sprawling quality. Van Gardner circles back to ideas, people, and grievances because the narrator himself is still working through them, and that repetition becomes part of the experience of being inside his head.
At the center of this grief and spiritual fiction novel is a growing fascination with what happens when a person’s familiar way of seeing the world collapses. The dangerous Bahamas crossing becomes the book’s major turning point, leading to what the narrator calls “The Compression,” an altered way of experiencing memory, color, sound, time, relationships, and faith. From there, walking, therapy, prayer, nature, and writing become tools for rebuilding his life. The book’s spiritual passages, particularly his experiences involving the Courts of Heaven, are presented with the same conviction as the family and marital events surrounding them. Van Gardner isn’t especially interested in separating the emotional, physical, and spiritual parts of his transformation. They’re intertwined. That approach gives the novel its distinctive identity and turns a story about divorce and death into a broader examination of forgiveness, accountability, love, mortality, and the strange clarity that can arrive when circumstances force someone to confront himself.
The final stretch brings the book’s major threads together through the death of the narrator’s father, the struggle over his mother’s care, and his changing understanding of his marriage and family. Those chapters contain some of the book’s sharpest anger, but they also reveal why so much of Pivoting From Blue has been concerned with memory. Van Gardner keeps returning to the question of what remains after a life is reduced to photographs, possessions, legal documents, stories, and the memories held by other people. By the end, writing itself becomes his answer. This contemporary family drama is ultimately about choosing to participate fully in life while there’s still time to do it. Van Gardner closes “The Year” with plenty of scars still visible, but also with a much clearer sense of what deserves his attention. That makes Pivoting From Blue an intimate, messy, frequently funny, spiritually charged story about a man discovering that surviving upheaval is only part of the journey. The harder and more meaningful work is deciding how to live afterward.
Pages: 284 | ASIN : B0H6Y5S3XP
