J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

... And now for something completely different! Yes, from time to time, I dabble in poetry. I'm no Yeats or Longfellow, admittedly, but I do like to delve into the poetic corners of my mind every now and then. This morning's brisk encounter with winter's first knock at my door brought some words to mind.  I hope you enjoy. _____________________ Frost A chilling frost blankets all in winter’s dew. Arriving sunrise washes all in angelic glow, enticing. Strength of heart erodes facades, releasing joyful smiles. The warmth of day envelops all in shining glee, reveling. Day’s end approaches all in reverent apology, dimming. Hopeful longing for tomorrow’s light, releasing yearning sighs. A chilling frost blankets all in winter’s dew, again.

An unfortunate (or fortunate) byproduct of high levels of stress is the tidal wave of ideas that overwhelms me as I search for an escape. As a result my morning and evening commutes often take me to far greater, bleaker, magnificent or melancholy places than my four wheels would carry me otherwise. I've had this kicking around in my head since I woke up at 4:47 a.m. this morning. I wrote this over my lunch hour a short time ago. Again, please read and share your thoughts. I write for me, certainly, but what good is writing for myself if I can't share it? (FINE. Making a couple of bucks in the process isn't all that bad either, but that truly is secondary. I really just want to go all "Sally Field" and be able to say "they like me! They really like me!") Leave me alone, I'm tired and punchy. IN ANY EVENT....  Have a read, tell me what you think of it. Tell me what you think happened. Tell me who you think these characters are and what they've do

While some of you that may read this blog were first introduced to my writing via The Diligent , you may know by now that science fiction/fantasy is not my normal genre. I'm more of  a "Nicholas Sparks with a dark side" kind of writer. From time to time, though, an idea will grab hold of me without letting go and even I don't know where it will lead me until I stop and read the words that I've written. This story is one I wrote about four years ago, entitled " Lillian's Christmas ." Set in my hometown village of Pittsford, New York, Lillian's Christmas follows William Masters as he struggles to raise two small children in the wake of a family tragedy. Inspired by my love of Christmas and all that surrounds it, this story was my attempt to capture the spirit of the holiday season in its purest sense. Below is the first chapter. For many reasons I am reluctant to publish this story, yet something inside me compels me to do so. I give you this firs

As Halloween rapidly approaches let us all rejoice together in the spirit of the holiday. Come on now, join hands, and let's all wish for the clowns of the world to be swallowed up by a giant, magma filled fissure in the Earth's crust, never to darken our doorways with their creepy, painted faces ever again. I jest, of course. Sort of. I do not really wish all clowns to die flaming deaths in the depths of Hades. Mostly. I do not know when, where or why I developed such a deep-seated case of coulrophobia. I must admit though it is far less an actual fear that it is an instance of clowns just irritating the ever-living snot out of me. (Ok, sidebar here... where did the descriptive terminology that is "ever-living" come from? Snot is not ever-living. I don't know why I really said that, except for the fact that when you put "ever-living" in front of something it makes it that much more dramatically poignant. In any event, that's another Halloween topic