Cover Release for The Haunting of William Gray





I am so excited to be able to share the cover for my second novel with The Wild Rose PressThe Haunting of William Gray!

Participating in the progress of publishing a novel can be daunting at times, but nothing is more rewarding than seeing an end result we are all pleased with.

Covers set the tone and give the readers an impression of what lies just beyond.  They can delight an author or give us angst. Beyond the cover awaits friendship, love, betrayal, greed, death, and destruction in a beautiful southern coastal town with deep roots in American history.

Benevolent spirit or vengeful ghost–that is what Madeline Waters and William Gray must discover about the apparition haunting Gray Estate in The Haunting of William Gray.”

Rae Monet is the cover artist for both my published novels and has done a great job.  A million thanks to her.

So, readers, what do you think?

The Haunting of William Gray will be available for pre-sale in October and worldwide release is November 11, 2015.


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Los Angeles Emmy Awards

There are a few Emmy Awards you will only find on reneejohnsonwrites!


Yes, you read that right.  I flew out to LA to bring you a special selection of awards.


So, without further delay, I’ll get started.  Pull up a chair alongside this red carpet event!

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reneejohnsonwrites chooses best performance by a boutique hotel–The O Hotel and Spa!

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Best pre-show party–Rachel at L’Occitane.

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Best Opera Performance–Liam Bonner with Placido Domingo’s Gianni Schicchi  and Lorraine Snyder for any performance.

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Best Bartender–Steve at The O Hotel and Bar.IMG_0516             IMG_0029        IMG_0054

Best adaptation of a Southern Staple–Fried Green Tomato topped with Crab!


Best Concierge by an Artist–Christopher at The O Hotel!


Best street act performed in sync! (Brentwood Boys)


Best beach–Santa Monica!


Best sailing performance in the wake of a tsunami warning! (nameless at Venice Beach)


Best use of signs–Los Angeles Sister Cities.


Best superhero in Hollywood–Spiderman!


Best Italian Menu–Trastevere in Hollywood.

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Best use of lights–a tie!

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Best museum experience–Grammy Museum!

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Best shopping experience–Fig at 7th.IMG_0419

Best use of wind machine–Mother Nature!

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Best side-of-building art–a tie!

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Best architecture–The LA Phil!

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Best overall star–Marilyn Monroe!

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Best performance ever–Andrea Bocelli at The Dolby Theatre!

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Best use of make-up–Oscar!!  (Doesn’t he look positively golden?)


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When Life Ends…

We received a dire phone call the first of last week from our son Caleb and his wife of seven months, Amber.  Our daughter-in-law’s mother had suffered an aneurysm.

Her funeral was this past Saturday.

Instantly I was thrown back into the days following my mother’s death.  I remembered the things people did that I found helpful and meaningful and then tried to do them for Amber.

mama and daddy on wedding day 1953 001[1]

In the beginning…my parents 1953

And I recalled the moments when I suffered the most or anguished over things I wished I’d said, even though our last words to each other were, “I love you.”

Turning to what I know, I wrote a letter to her and sealed it in with her for eternity.  I wished she could write one back to me, float it down on a cloud or in a basket of reeds along the river.

I’m still looking for it.

There were times when I didn’t sleep, couldn’t breathe, when I thought I might suffocate.  I considered asking my doctor for medication, thinking I might not be able to hold up during the visitation and the funeral.  I’m eternally grateful that I didn’t; that I realized there would come a time when I would have to walk through the valley of sadness and it might as well be when my friends and family were gathered around me.

Flashbacks slammed into my mind, especially when I saw Amber and her sister–like my sister and me–standing beside their mother for the last time.

One after another these memories scrambled forward on shaky legs–my sister and I choosing our mother’s coffin, picking out songs to be sung, her favorite Bible verses to be read, selecting the pall bearers.

The moment I will always think of as the saddest, most painful, heart wrenching of them all, was the one right before she was taken to the church when the funeral director–a friend and a person with the demeanor that shows he is in the absolute right line of work–warned me of my last few minutes before we would be asked to leave.

“That’s when I’ll panic and fall apart?” I asked.

He nodded.  “Yes,” he answered.  “It won’t be easy.”

I’m thankful that he was so honest, because the sheer rising of terror from my gut when I realized I would never look upon her face again in this life, nearly wiped me out.  I stared at her, trying to memorize every curve of her cheek, the line of her nose, the shape of her brow.  I touched her stiff fingers and listened to the seconds clicking away on our time together.

I watched as Amber suffered through this as well, her involuntary cries an emotional peal I recognized too well.  It wasn’t easy for her either.  It never is.

My mother’s voice is still on my answering machine–message 1.

“Hi, it’s mom.  Just wondering how everyone was.  Call me.”

I used to talk back to it.  “I’m not doing well, mom.  I’m having a lot of difficulty with this.”

Sometimes I skip over it because it makes me cry, but I’ve dared everyone to erase it, even though I’ve been advised it might be healthier not to have it there.

Like me, Amber lost her father first, so losing her mother is a particularly rough blow.  Technically, we are both orphans.

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My parents…walking away…I imagine he greeted her and this was how they looked in the end as in the beginning.

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Roses are read…

My husband sent me roses.  Three dozen.


But he that dares not grasp the thorn, should never crave the rose.” — Anne Bronte

He sent them to my workplace and everyone who saw them asked about the occasion.  It wasn’t our anniversary, my birthday, the day we first met.  On the surface, there was no logical explanation.

As most women will attest, that is the best time to receive flowers.


The rose is without explanation.  She blooms, because she blooms.” — Angelus Silesius

Still, I knew the reason.

He was glad to have his wife back from the ravages of her day job sprinkled with the constant attention to the round of edits looming on the second novel.

My head had been bent over the keyboard, ear to the telephone, or I was in meetings or functions and absent altogether.

I knew at the beginning of May that my schedule would be rough for weeks.  I suppose most of you have figured this out since I’m only blogging occasionally.

So the title isn’t a misspelling, an error.

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Love flows like flowers and grows like water.  I’m so thirsty for romance, I could drink a dozen roses.” — Jarod Kintz

My roses require a little reading between the lines, read and absorbed for their deeper meaning, inhaled for the aroma of sweetness when there’s time to truly slow down and breathe.

When did you receive a gift for no apparent reason, whose meaning was abundantly clear to you?

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Favorite Books on Writing


Writers are foremost readers.  We consume words with voracious appetites.  Books line our walls, collect in corners in ramshackle towers, and cover the tops of our coffee tables.

We just can’t get enough!

Yet, ask any of us where to find our favorites, and there will be a sacred location with erect spines marching across a shelf.  Grabbing any one of the collection is an automatic response, little thought to its specific space given.

That’s a clue we’ve reached for it on numerous occasions, and the reason it occupies a place of honor.

So when another writing friend asked me which books on writing were my personal favorites, I didn’t have far to go to answer.  And while I was selecting my list for her, I thought I would share it with you as well.

Book - Bird by Bird

Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird has been a favorite of many writers since its publication.  It was the first one in my collection of books on writing.  Each reader will find a unique pearl of wisdom from it.  For me, it was learning not to rush through my stories.

Slow down, give each scene its due diligence, take a bit of the pressure off yourself.

This is a great starter book and describes a lot of the author’s own struggles with becoming an author.  If you haven’t started writing your main project yet–you know the one pecking at the backs of your eyeballs–start with this book.

Book - On Writing

I don’t write horror, although Southern Gothic and Suspense are both categories I would say my work falls into.  But you don’t have to be a horror writer to glean a boat load of wisdom from Stephen King’s On Writing.

In fact, this is my favorite book of all time on the craft of writing.

Yep, you read it right.  Stephen King knows what we are looking for and gives it to us in this book of advice to writers.  He says right up front that he assumes we have already read the basic books on writing and that he will not bore us with more sage wisdom on avoiding grammatical mistakes.

This book is about what you can do to improve your work.  And the one piece of advice I have religiously followed is from this book.  It is crucial–at least for me.

Once completed, put that manuscript away for thirty days at least.  Don’t look at it, don’t reread it, don’t even think about it.  Why?

As the writer, you know everything about your characters.  You have been living inside of their heads.  You know what they eat, when they sleep, what their bad habits are.  This knowledge needs time to evaporate before you can realistically judge how well you are communicating it to your readers.

And there are endless other tidbits of wisdom within the pages of this book.  It’s also easy to read and understand, and will give you a bit of insight into Stephen King’s journey into the macabre.  It’s fascinating!

Book - The First Five Pages

Noah Lukeman gives some vital instruction in The First Five Pages.

This is advice geared to help writers start out with a bang, grab the attention of the reader right from the start.  We tend to want the reader to know all of the backstory so they can then appreciate the struggles the main character(s) is/are facing.

But he also knows if we fail to engage the reader within the first few pages, they won’t stick around for the really good stuff.  This applies to agents and publishers as well.  You want to snatch their interest within those initial few minutes, closer to two pages than five.  Some say it is paramount to capture the reader’s attention within the first two paragraphs.

Even the first line can make you or break you.  Write everything if you must, then skip about sixty pages and make that your opening hook.  Read Lukeman for more pointers.

Book - The Right to Write

Janet Hulstrand, the instructor who made the most difference in my writing life, introduced me to Julia Cameron’s work.  This book, The Right to Write, was assigned as a precursor to studying with Hulstrand at The Essoyes School.

Boy, did it open my eyes!

For those who know me, even those who have known me for most of my life, my writing compulsion was a secret I hid from them.  I even hid it from my husband.  It wasn’t that I was writing hideously dark stories whose discovery might have made me seem like a deranged lunatic.  It was mostly that I felt as if I didn’t have the right to think of myself as a writer.

Who was I?  What gave me the right to assume my thoughts and imagination would resonate with others?  Why did everything in my life trigger a story, even if as far from reality as humanly possible?

The Right to Write answers a lot of these questions and Cameron gives the reader several assignments which are crucial to undertake.  It was through a few of her challenges that I made significant discoveries.  And I kept them in a journal which has been priceless to look back upon.

Book - Vein of Gold

Being impressed with Cameron’s The Right to Write, naturally led to an exploration of another of her works, The Vein of Gold.  In it, she helps us explore our inner archeological dig sites in order to strike that invaluable golden vein of inspiration.

We each have faced our own individual struggles, and our perception of them is based on our past experiences.  What do you have to write about that is uniquely your own story to tell?  Read this if you want help in unearthing your own golden nuggets.

Book - The Plot Thickens

Like Julia Cameron, Noah Lukeman occupies more than one space on my shelf.  In addition to The First Five Pages, his The Plot Thickens, helps writers focus on the storyline.

Another writer friend with enough degrees in poetry and creative writing to intimidate the average person, confided to me the serious lack of instruction offered on plotting.  Without a good plot, there will be little to hold a story together.

If you feel like your education let you down a bit in this area, start with Lukeman’s advice on plotting. Then follow it up with my all-time favorite plotting instructional written by Martha Alderson.


Alderson’s The Plot Whisperer has been a valuable source of plotting guidelines for me.  One pre-reviewer of the novel my publisher is releasing next, commented on my success at tying up all of the ends, answering every question, polishing the book into something satisfying for the reader.

That was amazing for me to hear.  And likely due to some of the advice offered by Alderson in The Plot Whisperer.  It is realistic, how-to information, presented in an understandable fashion.

There you have it!  My all-time favorite books on the craft of writing can now be yours as well.

How about you?  Do you have a favorite book or even website that offers valuable information to you about building new worlds through words?

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Summer Called…

Where am I?
If the header above isn’t clue enough, click here!

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Why I Choose to Remember My 50th Blood-Bath of a Birthday Instead of Trying to Forget It


In celebration of Karen Hunt’s birthday on June 6, I want to share her raw and moving post about her fiftieth. Unforgettable, it will leave you with a better understanding of who she is, as well as reinforcing the power of words.

Originally posted on Karenalainehunt's Blog:


Looking back, what is the birthday that stands out most in your mind?

How about someone else’s birthday that is especially memorable?

Are they remembered with love or regret?

Laughter or tears?

Why do you remember these birthdays in particular?

On June 6th I will turn 59. Birthdays always make me think back to the ones before. I’ve had some doozies. Especially my 50th. In a perfect world (according to the media and celebrities and self-help gurus), turning fifty should be some sort of meaningful Zen-like epiphany, where you realize how wise you have become; you should be pleased because you are still in great shape; you have saved enough in a steady job to be looking forward to retirement, and/or those alimony checks are substantial because you weren’t one of those stupid women who signed a pre-nup; and maybe you even have a loving relationship with…

View original 4,503 more words

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How do you communicate your stories?

Since the beginning of human consciousness, the desire to record stories has existed.  Early cave paintings from 15,000 BC in Lascaux, France, hieroglyphics in Egypt, Native American Petroglyphs, and oral traditions through song and dance in almost every country, have left behind footprints and myths of those who walked before us.

“After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” — Phillip Pullman

Picture courtesy of Wikipedia a

Picture courtesy of Wikipedia a”Lascaux2″ by Cro-Magnon peoples – Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons –

As a Southern American, the ballads of local legends–such as Tom Dula (Dooley)–have lived with me, as well as though infamous only within my family.  Maybe someday I’ll share one or two of those.

Maybe not.


Recently, I found myself backstage at the NC Opera in Raleigh, NC.  Speaking with performers as they awaited their turn at hair and makeup, I discovered the same passion thriving in the hearts of those within the company as those within the souls of writers.

We are all communicating stories.

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Lorraine Snyder, my beautiful songbird friend, was performing with the cast.  I had been observing her transformation throughout the day as she piled her hair into pin curls to give her stage wig something to grip onto.  Mozart is a favorite of hers.

“There is something magical about being a part of Mozart’s opera of Don Giovanni,” she exclaimed with passion.  “To think of his words, his music, being sung so many years after he has been gone, is amazing!” Her face lit up as she talked about Mozart and the opportunity to be on stage with the talented members of the production company.


“…opera offers such deep sensations that they will remain in a heart for a lifetime.”  — Andrea Bocelli

And the chance for me to experience all that happens behind the stage was incredible. There are many people whose faces you will not see, but whose work is integral to the performance; those timing the stage entrances, the scene changers, lighting directors, ones in charge of wigs and makeup, steamers and cleaners who work diligently on the costumes, sound directors, etc. They never take the stage, but without them, there would be no performance.

“Funny how a beautiful song could tell such a sad story.”  — Sarah Dessen, Lock and Key

My fellow blogging friend, Otto Munchow, is brilliant with his depictions through photography.  Capturing people whose struggles, joy, pain, elation, and other attributes are clearly visible on their faces and within their body language, he documents more than one moment in time.  He is communicating their stories through photography.

“A photograph shouldn’t be just a picture, it should be a philosophy.”  — Amit Kalantri

I challenge you to look at a piece of sculpture and only see stone.  Behind every chiseled curve is an essay.   Giambologna’s Rape of the Sabines comes to mind as a fantastic example of story shaped from stone.

“Giambologna sabine”. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons –

Quilters and crafters stitch together maps of their stories.  From Colonial American Samplers, to modern collages of baseball uniforms sewn together to depict a youth’s maturation from t-ball through college sports, we find folk art full of richly depicted stories.

Ballet, jazz, folk dance–these aren’t simply forms of dancing, but artistic forms of physical storytelling.  One of my favorite ballets, The Nutcracker, comes glaringly to mind, along with Swan Lake.  Here’s a clip of The Royal Ballet Company performing Swan Lake.  Enjoy.

Many bloggers are documenting their lives on the internet, telling their stories one vignette at a time.  Some have a theme, maybe a spouse with a debilitating disease, or a child with a learning disability, or just the day-to-day drama of trying to balance career, family, self-care, meal preparation, and the challenges of home and marriage.

We–the readers, watchers, listeners, participants–find meaning in our lives through others depictions and words.  They unite us, give us a little hope that we are not alone, validate our pain, joy, trials and triumphs.

How do you communicate your stories?

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Trudging through standing water in the midst of a rainstorm, I felt a bit like the mariner who had once lived in the residence at Edgartown on Marthas Vineyard, Massachusetts. Beneath an arch, I pushed through a garden gate, past a long wooden table and chairs, pots of flowers taking a beating from the downpour, up a ramp, and into the French door as I had been instructed.

He must have noticed my arrival before my fingers ever touched the door handle. I had no sooner stepped inside of the houseinn reallythan a smiling face approached, welcoming me to Noepe. Introductions commenced, the delicious aroma of something from the kitchen wafting through the warm interior calling him back to tend to dinner.

Jack Sonni Picture taken by Craig Clement

Jack Sonni
Picture taken by Craig Clement

That was how I met Jack Sonni.

That is generally how all of the residents taking part in the Writing Residency at Marthas Vineyard meet Jack. He is the on-site writer in residence, official greeter, and house manager at Noepe Center for Literary Arts. Jack was, is, and will be a whole lot more.

You may recognize his name from his time with the band, Dire Straits. Here’s a clip–Jack is the one in the red coat!

So, what is a rocknroll guitarist and vocal stylist doing as writer-in-residence at Noepe? Thats what youre about to find out.

Picture by Craig Clement

Picture by Craig Clement

RJ: Jack, thank you for joining us today. You already know that when I do an interview I dig around in the archives of my subject. The first thing I found about you was that you were born John Thomas Sonni, which is a lovely name. How did you become Jack?

JS:  I was named after my Italian grandfather, Giovanni Tommaso, which translates in English to John Thomas.  It was my own search for who I was that led to my adopting ‘Jack’ as my given name when I started college.  All of my ‘rock idols’ had these catchy names: David Bowie, Keith Richards, Mick Jagger.  Going by Johnny Sonni wasn’t rock’n’roll enough for me!

RJ: Are those the musicians influencing you most?

JS:  Bowie, definitely.  I think he’s amazing.  The Stones, for sure. Also Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Pete Townsend.  And my dad passive-aggressively pushed the idea of my becoming a musician.  Although he wasn’t a fan of rock’n’roll, he bought me a guitar when I was thirteen years old, and supported my lessons, perhaps as a vehicle of his own fantasies.

RJ: Was that your main interest during your formative years?

JS:  You know, I really loved reading—the escape it offered.  I wasn’t interested in sports and we moved around a lot because my dad was in the military.  During high school I actually attended three different schools in three different states.  Reading always grounded me.  The Sword and the Stone was my favorite book.  I’d read it again and again.  At some point I just knew I was going to pull the sword from the stone and I was going to become King of whatever it was I was doing.  That was the fantasy anyway!

RJ: At what age did you discover writing in addition to reading?

JS:  I was in third grade and our class was going to put on a play of Ali Baba and The Forty Thieves, a story I loved, so I volunteered to write the script.  I’m not sure why I thought I could do it other than I just wanted to be the one to tell the story.  That was validating for me, but it didn’t make my mom all that happy! She was the one who had to transcribe my writing, type it all out and format it for the mimeograph machine! Then make all the copies and collate sets of the play for everyone. Wasn’t all that easy making copies back then and I can remember her frowning at the extra work and stress.

Picture of Jack Sonni by Craig Clement

Picture of Jack Sonni by Craig Clement

All I wanted to do was sit under palm trees and write books. ̶ Jack Sonni

RJ: And you did become king of sorts as you performed with Dire Straits on stage in 23 countries and with Live Aid alongside other artists such as Sting. What was that like?

JS:  “What was it like being a rock star,” is actually the first line of my memoir!  It’s the first question most people ask when they hear about my past.  You know Renee, I’d been in New York City for almost ten years chasing the rock star dream and it nearly killed me — literally. So I quit. In my head, it was done. I was working behind the counter in a guitar shop and had decided to go back to school for my main passion—writing.  Fordham had accepted me already.  Then just a couple days after I received my acceptance letter,  I got a call from Mark Knopfler with Dire Straits to come and join him on the road.  I was literally in the store one day, on the road the next. Caught up in the whirlwind, the heady seduction of performing on stage with my idols was a powerful thing.

But to answer the question—being a rock star is everything you imagine it to be and more.  I got to live out every last one of my rock’n’roll fantasies.  It’s when you are no longer being a rock star—once you’ve been one—that can mess your head up! Like flying first class for a while and suddenly being kicked down to coach…or the Greyhound bus!

RJ: So what happened that brought that to an end?

JS:  Mark changed his mind about his course, which inevitably altered mine.  I remained in Australia after the tour was over and the band all went back to England. I was enjoying the lifestyle of Sydney, Melbourne, Perth.  I met my future ex-wife there.  Surfing, playing music, getting my own band together, kept me busy.  Then I got a call from record label executive friend of mine who convinced me to move to Los Angeles to pursue a solo deal. That didn’t happen for a multitude of reasons and I really lost my taste for the business. By the time the girls were born, I knew I didn’t want to put them through the roller-coaster life of being a working musician because the struggle never really ends unless you’re on of the very lucky few.  I found I was good at ‘working up ads’—another form of writing I suppose—and became a marketing manager for a company that made guitar gear which led to an eighteen year career.

RJ: When did you leave marketing?

JS:  I wasn’t happy and hated going to work every day. Then the girls graduated high school, dad got ill, a close friend died from cancer.  I decided to go after my best life—NOW!  It had that kind of urgency.  One of the last conversations with my dad was with me telling him I intended to quit my job, sell my house, and go write.  And he said, “Do what makes you happy!”

Jack's daughters

Left to Right: Silas, Hendrix, and Merrick in front. Caitlin and Nadine in back

RJ: And your daughterstwinsare twenty-six now. Can you share some insight on what it was like raising twin daughters?

JS:  Let’s see…what was it like? It was the best of times. It was the worst of times! As a single dad raising two girls I certainly acquired a great appreciation for what single mothers go through. My girls, Caitlin and Nadine, weighed less than 3 pounds when they were born. They spent six weeks in Neonatal ICU until they were about double that weight and could come home. BUT they were still incapable of going much longer than 3 hours without feeding for almost six months! So they were waking up several times throughout the night keeping their mother and I in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation for six months.

I was completely out of my mind! I’m fairly certain it’s what led to the end of the marriage and my-ex leaving the girls to my primary care a short time later. Naturally, there were other complications in it but not going to get into that here. Suffice to say, it wasn’t easy on anyone involved.

But watching my babies grow into beautiful, intelligent caring women both incredible mothers of their own now – the greatest reward in my life. We have a relationship that I cherish deeply. Girls are so sweet and easy when they’re little. Playing quietly with each other and generally a joy. Girls are fantastic because dad is a god in their eyes! That is until about 12 or 13 when suddenly seemingly overnight things went from “Oh Daddy, you’re the best!” and getting endless cuddles and hugs to well, let’s say this – all I saw for about four years was eye rolling and that head thing where it looks like they’ve lost any muscle control and sways on their necks in a figure eight. Along with a tongue click and that exasperated huff. But we survived and they came back from whatever dimension the aliens who took my little girls away to and we’ve been fab ever since! We talk – well, text because god forbid they actually use the phone as a phone and call – pretty much every day.

Without exaggeration my girls are the reason I’m still on this planet. In my darkest hours and there have been some very very dark ones, what stayed my hand and kept me from taking my own life was the realization that it was not my life to take. It belonged to them. I was responsible not only for them, but to them.

RJ: Is that why you chose the stones for the skull ring you wear in the colors of your daughters eyes? Jack's ring

JS: The one I wear was made by silversmith known for his “outlaw” jewelry and has done work for Keith Richards, although not the exact skull ring he wears that was fashioned by an artist in London.  He has his reason for wearing it – this quote from an interview in 1988.

And this {points to his skull ring} is to remind me that were all the same under the skin. The skull it has nothing to do with bravado and surface bullshit.”—Keith Richards 

I took to wearing a skull ring in my corporate working days to remind me that, regardless of how buried it felt at the time, there was another me under the surface. When designing it, I wanted to have elements that represented my daughters – to always remind me of my obligation to them should the darkness return – so the eyes are stones the color of my daughters’ eyes.  On the sides – in gold – there are stars, encircled by trailing flames – two comets representing my girls – the lights that travel through my darkest hours.

Picture by Craig Clement

Picture by Craig Clement

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.”—Carl Jung

RJ: How did you wind up at Noepe?

JS:  I was in New York, working on a memoir.  A friend suggested Martha’s Vineyard Writing Residency, I applied, and was accepted.  I had gotten an agent quickly and then nothing happened.  The agency had one idea for the memoir, the publisher had an idea of what it should look like, and I had another.  It was never my intention to write the typical, ‘sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll,’ memoir, and initially they seemed excited that it was something different.  For me, the fantasy I lived with Dire Straits was an intermission in my ‘real’ life.  It was only a chapter.  I feel incredibly lucky and fortunate to have experienced it, but it was a painful ending and my heart was broken for a long time.  It was brutal reliving it.

In the end, all they really wanted was the same old story, which wasn’t and isn’t mine. But having the time to focus on it at Noepe, unburdened with the shackles of everyday life, just cruising through memories and cranking out pages, was priceless.  I still have it, and will likely do something with it at another point in my life.  But it became clear that in order to remain authentic about my life, it just wasn’t the right time to release it, and maybe not the right team.

RJ: Would you have rather not have had the experience at all?

JS:  Good question.  I have asked myself that many times.  I went through a major identity crisis, asking:  Who am I?  It was like becoming suddenly invisible, failing to exist at all.  And part of the anger and disappointment was in myself for not following my creative writing dreams.

RJ: But it isnt too late to do that. You read for us from a post on your blog titled: This is Why I Write. Where did that inspiration come from?

Because what is remembered is less important than the why these moments return. ̶ Jack Sonni

JS:  I had lost interest in finishing the memoir, but the lack of completing it made me question everything.  What is the point?  Why did I turn my back on John Thomas and became Jack?  What made me change my name?   What was behind the need to become something – or someone – other than who I am? Why can’t I finish this book?  So, I took Justen’s Monastic Writing workshop on the vineyard—the same one you took in Italy.  And I knew then I had to write; to make new stuff.  Why do I write?  I scribbled that question on my white board and the piece came together.

RJ: You are around writers all of the time. They come to Noepe for workshops during the summer, or for residencies during the spring and fall. What is your favorite part of watching their process as they acclimate to the environment at Marthas Vineyard and the influence of other writers?

JS:  I love watching the first twenty minutes after people arrive; wide-eyed amazement at the physical beauty of the inn.  For the first two or three days they walk around, making coffee, transitioning into permission to write.  It’s a fantasy, an unencumbered time and space to write.  I watch as they find their space and sit for hours, just cranking away.  And then, about three days before the end, the pressure kicks in.  They realize it is about to be over.

RJ: (Laughing) I dont think I had any trouble transitioning.

JS:  I don’t know.  I recall you hunting for that perfect space in the house that felt right to you, and the settling in of the realization that writing was all you had to do once you found it.

Jack at Ag Fair

RJ: You are right about that! And you were great about offering maps, bus schedules, carpooling. Is that part of your description as House Manager?

JS:  Yes, of course.  I’m incredibly fortunate to have a place to come and write.  In exchange, I can take a load off of Justen Ahren so that he can focus on Noepe.  Because of my experience, I can help with some of the marketing to help grow awareness of what he’s created here, which continues to grow.  We share a common vision, and I love giving tours, creating a sociable environment, engendering a community spirit.  I’m the on-premises face, and I do some cooking, which is lots of fun, especially the nights I cook with Justen for the welcome dinner.

Jack and nan's pizza         Jack Sonni demonstrating pizza toss

RJ: Ours was wonderful, by the way. And you even taught my group to make pizzas, including the dough, using a pizza peel and a stone. So much fun! And it was such a great way to end our session at Noepe. Did your cookbook, Gatherings, spring from this passion?

 gatherings cookbook

JS:  I cook for the same reasons I play music or write. It’s an artistic expression and an excuse to gather people. Well, that and the fact that I like to eat really good food and realized at an early age if I didn’t learn to make it myself I was doomed to a lifetime of bad food! For years, it was a way for me to relax after working my corporate. Come home, crack a bottle of wine, and start making dinner for me and the girls. I also discovered when they were little – as early as 5 or 6 – that they would eat anything they were involved in cooking. And I mean anything!! I was determined not to raise picky eaters.  So I had two small step stools and they were my prep and sous chefs!

Jack's pizza

Jack Sonni in the kitchen

I’ve been spoiled by having a circle of friends for which eating well is a priority and includes the chefs and winemakers I profiled in Gatherings.   But our group includes some truly talented “kitchen hackers” who can hold their own alongside the pros! I thought I was a decent chef but after years of living in Healdsburg CA (in the middle of Sonoma wine country) the bar is pretty damn high. But it taught me a lot – most importantly to relax and have fun in the kitchen. It’s like music in so many ways – you learn some basic rules and techniques then improvise and turn you creativity loose. Some stuff works…some can be spectacular failures but it’s still better than take out from fast food joints!!

My pizza making started because I moved to LA and couldn’t find any decent pizza so started out to learn how to make pizza the way I liked it – which is in a fairly classic Neapolitan style. I love good pizza – it is definitely one of the courses in my final meal. So is fried chicken. Something I am determined to get down before I die!! I’m a big fan of southern cuisine – cajun as well – and my travels to Mississippi and Tennessee have been driven largely by food!

Gathering for holiday meals was a big part of my growing up. I have huge extended families on both of my parents’ sides–one Italian, and the other, Swedish and Polish.  At Christmas and Thanksgiving there were so many people gathered, the dinners were held in the local fire hall! So cooking up a meal and gathering folks is in my bones. I love the process of cooking and then sitting around a table, drinking and chatting. My goal was to have my home be a salon for artists and smart, interesting people. Falling into Noepe feeds that part of my soul in a big way!

RJ: You know Jack, I bestowed you with a title after that meal; Gentleman Chef. I saw you at the printer early in the morning, printing off recipes for us to take away. You brought down scales for measuring flour, your own stone. I thought your investment of time and energy was generous and gracious. That aside, can you tell us what you are working on now? Are you playing music still? What are you writing?

JS:  I play music for fun and as an excuse to gather friends. The idea of being serious about any kind of music career is a tiny speck in my review mirror. I still love playing as much as I always have and truly enjoy getting musicians together to play the odd gig now and then. But I’m MUCH looser about it now and have been for a while. I have absolutely zero to prove to anyone when it comes to playing rock n roll. There was a period where I felt I had to protect my reputation or live up to some expectations, but that’s long gone as well Outside of the gigs I did in Italy with other musicians who’d toured with the band at different periods which was a very strange, wonderfully weird experience, I’ve gone in a different direction from the ‘Straits Zone’.

My new writing project is a novel. Working in fiction is what I’d wanted to do from the beginning and the memoir was a sidetrack. I learned a ton by working on it and maybe it’s what I needed to do to get to the book I’m working on now. The story is inspired by some things I discovered about my family background and learned on my travels cross country – especially my time in Mississippi. I’ve taken to describing it as “The Godfather” meets “Justified” – the cast of characters include immigrant coal miners, bootleggers, mafiosi, juke joint blues musicians and a beautiful Italian woman with a mysterious past! Set in 1927 it follows a pair of half-brothers running from a crime one committed in Western Pennsylvania as they travel south through the Mississippi Delta trying to get to New Orleans but run straight into the Great Flood of 1927. There’s a robbery plot complete with double and maybe even triple crosses and a few surprises that should make it a fun read and a great movie!! That is if I can get it out of my head and onto the page!!

Jack Sonni picture by Craig Clement

Jack Sonni picture by Craig Clement

RJ: I am afraid you probably know what is coming next. I’m going to ask for an excerpt, fully aware that this is still a work-in-progress. So how about it Jack? Will you share something from your mystery/suspense novel?

JS:   It’s very much a work in progress! I’m just now starting to write after taking about 4 months to research, gather notes and put the storyline together – which I know will change as I let the characters speak and guide me while writing. And I’m not sure if it can be placed in the mystery/suspense category. I see it more in line with crime fiction and I aspire to write something in the vein of American Noir writers like Tom Franklin, Larry Brown, Dennis Woodrell, Don Winslow and Denis Johnson – not that I’d dare compare or place myself in their company! But I certainly wouldn’t refuse a spot on the same shelf as any one of those guys!

RJ:  Dear readers, you get to be the first people to peek at Jack’s fabulous novel-in-progress.  After much pleading, he agreed to offer up a couple of paragraphs.  I’m so excited for him, but even more so at being able to share this tidbit with you:

photo by Craig Clement

photo by Craig Clement


Corky watched in stunned silence as Sal wiped the bloody blade on a bar rag. He hadn’t seen the stiletto in his hand when his half-brother stepped towards the sheriff who now lay on the juke joint kitchen floor, blood bubbling from the hole in his throat. The man coughed a shower of red and died.

“Jesus, Sal,” Corky said, his voice a rasped whisper. He knew but he never expected to witness the type of work Sal did for his mafiosi bosses.

Serafina stood frozen, braced against the closed kitchen door, eyes bouncing from Corky to the dead sheriff to Sal and back again. The music, and the noise of the crowd dancing, thumped against the walls.

Sal dropped the bloodied rag on the sheriff’s chest and then, stepping across the body, bent to pick up two of the canvas bags of money from the distillery robbery. He tossed one each to Sal and Serafina, grabbed the last one and walked to the back door.

He opened the door, bowed and sweeping his arm across his waist, directed the others outside.

Corky nodded to Serafina who rushed through the doorway. The teenager followed, passing Sal without meeting the assassin’s eyes. Closing the door, Sal stepped to stand under the tin porch roof with the waiting pair. He pulled the collar of his coat to his ears, and without a word between them, the trio of Italians walked into the pouring rain of the Mississippi night.

RJ:  Wow!  Jack, I’m hooked already.  As soon as this is published, I want to feature it again right here!  But for today, I have one last question. If you could spend one hour with anyone, from anywhereliving or deceasedwho would it be and why?

JS:  I’m going to cheat and pick one of each!

Living — I’d love to hang out with Bob Dylan. I’m a big fan of his writing and fascinated by how he’s dealt with his fame by creating a persona in his music and writing voice that exists out of time, really. He’s become this larger than life legendary character – quintessentially American – someone like Jesse James where the legend has completely overshadowed the real person.

As far as someone from the past — Carl Jung. I am so impressed by his writings. His openness to the spiritual and magical amazes me.  And I know I could just sit and listen to him expound on anything.  Actually – I’d like to have them both over for dinner! But if I had to choose one. Mr Jung. He had an incredible mind.

RJ: As do you, John Thomas (Jack) Sonni! Thank you for sharing your story. It is truly like no other! 

Check out his website!  Facebook!  Twitter!

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My Monastic Writing Experience in Orvieto, Italy

Writers attend workshops and retreats for various reasons.  Some wish to hone their skills of description or dialogue, others are seeking inspiration or direction, and then there are those of us who have something to explore within ourselves—something too difficult to sort through with our morning coffee while retaining a smiling face and carefree demeanor.

When I accepted Justen Ahren’s invitation to join his Monastic Writing group studying in Italy, we both knew I was part of the latter category.  My inward journey would be much more difficult than the procession of planes, trains, and taxi cabs I would need to arrive at the base of the cliff which had long protected the residents of Orvieto.

Orvieto - cliff “After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.”Nelson Mandela

A week in a medieval Italian hillside village of artisans, wine makers, divine architecture, Cathedrals, Italian food, all to be enjoyed during the spaces between writing class and reflection.  Delightful!

Boarding the funicular—a tram of sorts crawling up the steep sheer cliff-face to the ancient town—I sat at an angle trying to see over the edge across the vineyards and groves of olive trees before we ascended into the tunnel.  For a minute, I thought I saw him—my father—sitting at the base of the turnstile waving goodbye.  I had felt his presence with me nearly every day since his death when I was eleven.

Orvieto - villa in mist 2               Orvieto - landscape and monastery

Talking to the other passengers—especially the one I had just discovered was another member of our retreat—I tried to ignore the feeling of separation from him.  He seemed to be saying, “You have to do this alone kiddo.  I’ll be right here when you get back.”

A bus picked us up at the end of the funicular’s jaunt and completed the climb to the very top of the hill, squeezing through tight corners scraped by the previous mirrors and sides of trucks too large to fit through the narrow alleys.

Orvieto - Approaching Duomo “When you reach the top, that’s when the climb begins.”Michael Caine

When we exited, there was no doubt as to our being at the right place.  The famous glittering, golden-faced Duomo commanded the piazza, and every eye within its visibility.  Soaring skyward in the front, its sides in long rungs of greenish-black basalt and white travertine, it held a thousand stories within the sculpture-topped crevices of mosaics.

Orvieto - Duomo from side                       Orvieto - Hotel Duomo

The Hotel Duomo had to be nearby.  Slipping around to the striped-side of the cathedral, we spied the awning announcing its presence, and strolled into an adventure which began with a welcome reception of charcuterie at a local trattoria.  Sitting around wine-barrel tables, we got acquainted with each other and the famous Orvieto Classico, a white wine made from grapes grown in the soft tufa, limestone, and volcanic soil!  Then we moved on to some serious dining at a restaurant nearby.

Orvieto - salami                    Orvieto - restaurant 4

Being in Umbria in early November, truffles—tartufo in Italian—were abundant.  I could barely wait to dig into that first meal of gnocchi with spinach, bacon, and of course, truffles!  (As the week progressed, my dining would include pizza with prosciutto and truffles, pork ragout over polenta, stuffed zucchini blossoms, sausage with artichokes, steak and salad, and even a wonderful sandwich of brie and prosciutto on freshly baked bread, and a chocolate pyramid with ground hazelnuts.  There wasn’t a bad meal to be had in Orvieto, especially the night we convinced Chef Lorenzo Polegri at the Zeppelin Restaurant to give us a dining experience we wouldn’t forget.  Read about it here if you haven’t already.)

Orvieto - view from window                    Orvieto - vespa

My room at Hotel Duomo—206—also had a name: Simone Mosca!  And it was surprisingly quiet to be just around the side of the church.  I feared the bells would keep me awake, but they didn’t bother me at all.  And the huge windows could be tilted in or rolled open so that the view would be unfettered.  I adored it, the tile roof lines sloping toward me, and the cobblestone street below which was often the setting for nuns walking past, or a Vespa chugging along.

Orvieto - wood carving 1                 Orvieto - wood carving 2

Forget everything you have ever heard about European breakfast options of bread and coffee.  Breakfast at Hotel Duomo was wonderful.  Every cup of cappuccino was made fresh, capped with a serious head of steamed, frothy milk.  Anything I could possibly want was on the bar; boiled eggs, salami, ham, cheeses, croissants, toast, cakes, cereals, yogurt, and fruits—namely tiny clementine oranges so fresh the leaves were still attached.

Coffee!  Chocolate!  I was thinking I could handle this kind of suffering.  Not too painful so far.

Orvieto - Enoteca and Wine bar                  Orvieto - Wine bar

Even the first day of writing prompts wasn’t especially emotional.  We set our intentions for the week.  What did we want to achieve?  Here’s what I wrote:  “My intention for the week is to release the fear resulting from the exposure of my work to the written obvious page.”

Initially, sharing was easy.  Justen gave great prompts and our group was very productive, needing little incentive to delve into our responses.  He was also quite clever, easing us gently into harmony with one another and it worked.  Tiptoeing into the shallow end of the writing pool, I didn’t realize how deep the water was getting until it was over my head.

Orvieto - mist                 Orvieto - Duomo crown

It happened on the second full day.  Mist hung like snow clouds, obliterating the view from the top of the cliff.  Even the heavens seemed to be saying, ‘Don’t look, Renee.’

Justen took us into the Duomo to write.  Ancient and adorned with paintings, sculptures, mosaics, relics, stained glass, it existed so fully I could almost hear its breath.  Centuries of exaltation, grief, spirituality, life, death, art, undulated in the sacred atmosphere of the church.

I felt a symbiotic sense of unity with the Cathedral, as if I was writing in its womb, birthing a creation I had been gestating for many years.  Was it the beautiful, soft music?  The altar I was sitting in front of?  The sparse ribbons of light cascading through stone shaved so thinly it looked like stained glass?  The sculpture of Christ lying in his mother’s arms after the Crucifixion, his limp hand pointing toward me?

There are some things even a writer can’t find the words for.  There are some things that we become writers in order to make sense of.  I knew internally that somewhere between these two statements, a place existed where I would one day release a grenade of emotions onto paper and let it absorb the resulting shrapnel from the exploding shards of my memories. That place was the Duomo in Orvieto, Italy.


As we gathered back together in a circle of chairs which the church officials had agreed to let us assemble, Justen saw the tears in my eyes and patted me on the shoulder.  Looking away quickly, I didn’t want him to know I was crying.  I didn’t want anyone to know. When something has been locked away in the dark for a long time, there is a lot of fear and resistance to shining a light on it.  The eleven-year-old inside of me couldn’t bear it.  I couldn’t let myself become that vulnerable. It was about to get worse.

Orvieto - Justen and me cropped

Renee Johnson and Justen Ahren in Orvieto, Italy

Back at the hotel, sitting in what would become our usual spot, it was time to share.  There had been two prompts.  Both had brought up images and emotions so well-hidden and disguised I barely knew what to do with them when they surfaced.  Freshly wounded, the thought of speaking the words was too traumatic.

First round, I passed.  Second, I passed.

“Again?” Justen asked.

I knew he only wanted to encourage me, but I couldn’t do it.  The group rallied around me.

The next day, painful memories from other participants were shared and with their tears, my cowardice became evident.  I started to break.  Slowly, I peeled away one layer at a time, giving small vignettes to Justen—one very painful one about what I was experiencing.  He gently reminded me that I had achieved my intention; to release my fear about seeing the words on the written, obvious page.  I had confronted them and they had not destroyed me.

Orvieto - Duomo Square 1                       Orvieto - Justen in action

Time passed quickly.  Days of writing all over Orvieto—in bustling piazzas,

cliff-side overlooks

Orvieto - cliff scene                        Orvieto - church 3 san giovanni

with villas and vineyards below us, an outdoor garden space, inside dining room, staring across the moss-laden Etruscan tombs,                Orvieto - Etruscan tombs

as well as inside the Duomo—eating, walking in the rain,

Orvieto - steeple                 Orvieto - church 5

           in and out of old Cathedrals,

Orvieto - Church 2                             Orvieto - church 1

glancing over foggy vistas,            Orvieto - villa in mist

shopping for small things I could bring back in my carry-on luggage, tasting wines and

freshly-pressed olive oils,                     Orvieto - olive oil tasting Renee at olive oil tasting in Orvieto  Orvieto - wine bar kir

lighting candles for loved ones beneath fading frescoes, Orvieto - church 5 niche painting touring ancient grottos, peering into wells,Orvieto - street scene

walking backward through time in archeological digs with unearthed shards of the relics in one place and a reproduction of what it would have looked like beside of it,

Orvieto - archeological museum          Orvieto - Street scene 2

getting to know my new friends, climbing to the top of the Clock Tower,

Orvieto - bells of bell tower best                      Orvieto - church 4

meeting Geppetto at the Magic Shop, shown here with Jarita Davis**,

Orvieto - magic shop                         Orvieto - Geppeto and Jarita

waiting out a rainstorm after a mad dash beneath a portico,

Orvieto - Suit of armor Orvieto - Pinocchio

sitting on a bench in the piazza outside of the Duomo staring at the glittering face of her beauty.

Orvieto - Pottery                           Orvieto - Pottery 2

We wrote every day for three hours, had afternoons free to explore, and would come back together around 7:00 pm for dinner.  Sometimes we would share a piece we had written before we set off for another dining experience.  It was during one of these times I announced what I intended to read—the piece about the day of writing in the Duomo—the piece about the darkness following my father’s suicide.  I can still see Justen’s enormous, surprised eyes in my memory.  Would I be able to do it?  Would I cry?

Courage is grace under pressure.”Ernest Hemingway

I wouldn’t say it was easy.  It wasn’t.  But it didn’t annihilate me.  I didn’t cry, though I thought I was going to.  Suddenly, I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed by my emotions, even the dark ones.  Another of the participants had chosen to read a letter she had written on healing.  Quietly, she passed it to me after sharing her very thoughtful advice.

There are no coincidences.” –Jarita Davis

Orvieto - hotelier                     Orvieto - hotelier's wife

Near the end of the trip, our wonderfully expressive hotelier, Mr. Massaccesi, graciously agreed to give us a tour of his private cantina in the grotto beneath the hotel.  One of the highlights of the entire trip for me was watching Jarita as she translated for him.  He became so animated in his story his speech became quicker and faster and Jarita was no longer thinking about the words or even their meanings, just doing a side-by-side translation standing on a ledge beside of him.  It was brilliant.

“Il mondo é nato qui,” he said.

“The world was born here,” Jarita translated. I believed him.

Orvieto - view from window 2           IMG_2045

At the end of the journey, we all wrote a little note to each other, predominantly about what we appreciated most in the writing shared with the group.  And I kept a journal of the entire experience, including my favorite thoughts from the participants. Justen said this to me the morning after I revealed my heartrending piece

“Yesterday, you began to make a sound and a language for the unspeakable.” 

Thank you, Justen, for helping me to claim my voice.

Zeppelin entrance                Orvieto - restaurant 2

Zeppelin Restaurant on left, Antica Cantina on Right

We were quiet on the last evening—a bit tired, reflective, and still overwhelmed from the dining adventure at Zeppelin Restaurant the previous evening.  Packing for the return journey commenced.  I awoke early the next morning.  There had been some scheduled demonstrations in Rome with the Italian labor union which I wrote about at Writingfeemail.

Two trains were going into Termini Station from Orvieto, one at 7:30 a.m. and another at 11:30 a.m.  The bus for the funicular didn’t start running until 7:20.  I made the decision to leave before the sun came up; assuring myself the Corso Cavour had street lamps. Orvieto - sunset  There was little happening so early in the morning.  Besides stopping in at a tobacco shop to get the ticket for the funicular, I ploughed ahead, hearing my luggage wheels bump against the cobblestone as I hiked down the hill. Soft rain had begun to fall, mist collected in every cavity.  

Pay attention, I scolded myself.  Notice the pools of light reflected on the wet surfaces.  Listen for the bells, the thump of the newspaper cart headed to the various stores for stocking.  See the agile cat maneuvering the treacherous ledge of the cliff wall.

Orvieto - leather artisan Maria                   Orvieto - art reminder

I passed stores I remembered shopping in.  Smiling, I recalled Maria from the leather shop, the kind wine purveyor who remarked to me that he remembered seeing Jarita and me coming into town,

Orvieto - wine purveyor           Orvieto - Shields

the store where I had purchased a scarf from a lady proudly remarking it was reversible and hand sewn, the market whose baskets of fruits and vegetables were now locked down.  My hand slipped into my pocket, fingers caressing the chestnut given to me by the vendor, a token she could never know held a world of meaning.

Orvieto - market with oranges                Orvieto - market with chestnuts

“Dad,” I whispered.  “I did it.”

It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.”Sir Edmund Hillary

Later in the morning I slipped into Santa Maria Sopra Minerva,

Rome - SMSM exterior                  Rome - Santa Maria Sopra Minerva entrance

my favorite church in Rome, and the only Gothic one still in existence there.  With my journal and ink pen in hand, I found a pew facing Michelangelo’s statue of Christ and repeated the exercises Justen had taught us in Orvieto.

Write whatever comes up,” he had instructed.

Rome - SMSM Christ     Rome - SMSM ceiling

Alone in Rome, I was slightly fearful of what may surface.  I needn’t have worried.  What came up was joy, gladness, a happy heart.  I wrote for two hours, uninterrupted.  Then I laid it all to rest, my intention fulfilled.

If you read the previous post about Justen Ahren and his Approach to Monastic Writing, then you are familiar with his intentions as well.  His desire to open us up to the possibilities of receiving what the universe would have us write, devote ourselves to it, and use the tools we learned from him as a method of engaging in conversation within ourselves, had come to fruition.

“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.”Kahlil Gibran, from On Joy and Sorrow  

**Jarita Davis granted permission for the use of her name and image here. 

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