AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Getting To Know Author A.J. Scott

We had the wonderful opportunity to interview a very talented and wise author by the name of A.J. Scott, who wrote the incredibly touching tale, "The Gift That Keeps on Givin."  We are impressed with your strength and your talent, Mr. Scott. Thank you so much!

DreamMiners Publishing: Tell us a little about yourself  and your background (education, family, etc).

A.J. Scott: Really, I believe my life is summed up in the author's bio. I'm from southern California. I went to North High School, but ended up graduating from Lincoln High School, and since then I've went on to earn multiple degrees from various communities colleges. I am also the second youngest of seven siblings. As for work, I'm the supervising law clerk at FCI Victorville, and I'm a very accomplished paralegal. In my spare time, I volunteer as a suicide companion for those who suffer from the pressures of life and the trials of incarceration.

DreamMiners Publishing: What kind of writing do you do? 

A.J. Scott: I love all kinds of writing, from poetry to short stories and novels. I've even started a screen play, but I have a ways to go with that project. I've ghost written for a couple of associates which short stories were featured in an anthology published by the California Writer's Club. You can check out one of my pieces that is featured on the back cover of "Desert Gold."

DreamMiners Publishing: When did writing become something you wanted to throw yourself into? 

A.J. Scott: About ten years ago I got up the nerve to start putting my thoughts on paper in novel and short story form. But poetry (or what I called poetry, LOL) has been with me since I was in high school.

DreamMiners Publishing: When did you feel confident enough in your writing to unveil it to the public?  

A.J. Scott: Well, "confident"...I don't think that's the right word. I still get butterflies when people read my material. It's like holding your breath until you get the thumbs up.

DreamMiners Publishing: What inspired you to write "The Gift That Keeps On Givin"? 

A.J. Scott: I was reared in a two bedroom house with seven siblings. My father died from a self inflicted bullet wound when I was in the kindergarten, and my mother was left to rear seven children. I thought being poor was unique to my family until I became older and traveled the United States. At that time, I realized that the social issues that I endured as a child plagued every poor or lower class community. These issues are not unique, but are issues that needs addressing. The Gift That Keeps on Givin' is my way of trying to shed some light not only on how many people live in poverty physically, but mentally, intellectually, and emotionally as well.

DreamMiners Publishing: Give us an insight into your main character, Mr. Green. What does he do that is special?

A.J. Scott: Growing up, there was a preacher/school teacher in our community who always walked throughout our neighborhood praying when he wasn't at work. A lot of times he intervened when trouble arose, or the police showed up. He didn't owe anyone anything. He had a family, but he still cared enough to get out of bed in the middle of the night and walk around the block to make sure everything was peaceful. What he did that was special (because you don't see it everyday) is he cared about humanity regardless of our physical condition. He cared about people just like Mr. Green.

DreamMiners Publishing: Your book touches upon many social issues that are prevalent today, including poverty.  Do you see a connection between religion and poverty? 

A.J. Scott: What happens if you drain all the nutrients from the land and not replenish the earth? I believe that we are all caretakers of our communities. And those who have established businesses or institutions in the community should be held to a higher standard of accountability. So to answer your question, religion and poverty has always had a connection. If you look across the nation, the most deprived countries and people in the world are the ones who are the most religious. And in the same breath, the most prosperous people or countries are less religious. Why is that? I believe history tells us that religion and poverty has always run hand and hand because at our lowest state, we tend to cling onto hope. (WIN-Gallup International 2012, Religion and Atheism).

   I also believe that economical institution are fundamental to all societies because usually they are the source of social change. Religion and other institutions are shaped by economic and political institutions; they are something like a superstructure that simply reflects the values of those institutions - market firms, the government, and so on. So if the function of religion is to instill in the masses the values that are conducive of the dominate class, shouldn't religious leaders always be involved in the communities health, stability, and well being?

DreamMiners Publishing: What was the hardest thing about writing your latest book? 

A.J. Scott: Research. Due to the limitations on my life, I find it very difficult to gather statistics background and information when writing.

DreamMiners Publishing: Do you draw from personal experience while writing? 

A.J. Scott: Yes, all the time.

DreamMiners Publishing: Who are some of your literary and poetic influences? 

A.J. Scott: I'm more of a nonfiction reader. So I enjoy autobiographies. But the last book I've read was called "Just Mercy," by Bryan Stevenson. Exceptional book. As for poetry...Maya Angelou is one of my favorites.

DreamMiners Publishing: Do you have any current works in progress or ready for publication? 

A.J. Scott: Yes I do. I have five manuscripts that are complete, and I am presently working on two more. I also have a book of poetry I am formulating that my daughter and I wrote together. She's an excellent poet as well.

DreamMiners Publishing: What advice would you give aspiring writers and authors? 

A.J. Scott: Regardless of time restraints, environmental conditions, or the personal pressures that comes with life, always make time for your craft. Writing may be the only freedom you will ever experience.

DreamMiners Publishing: Is "The Gift" a symbolic work of literature?  Do you see Mr. Green and Pastor Warrick as representative  of the difference between religion and spirituality? 

A.J. Scott: Symbolic...I would rather say "The Gift" is a harsh reality that's experienced by millions of people in economically deprived communities. Poverty, homelessness, the mentally disabled or disadvantaged, brokenness, drug and alcohol addiction, mass incarceration, joblessness, under-education, abuse, and being reared in a single parent home are just the untold stories of millions of people. They are social issues that surpass color lines, ethnicity, and touches the heart of humanity.

 I believe religion is something that is taught. Spirituality is what we are born with: a spirit. So if "love" is the first fruit of the spirit, it is not taught. They don't teach us about love in school, on street corners, or in daily relationships because it is an emotion that's unexplained. It'll make you do things that a normal person wouldn't normally do. And we, as humans, sometimes identify with things like emotions or body language when it's visual or spoken. Pastor Warrick is not different. Mr. Green's character is who Pastor Warrick will immaculate as he matures through life and service.

DreamMiners Publishing: In your book, you discuss the Fair Sentencing Act, which reduces the disparity between the amount of crack cocaine and power cocaine needed to trigger certain criminal penalties.  Can you discuss how this act is relevant to the story, and perhaps in your own life?   

A.J. Scott: In the "80's" when the crack epidemic spread throughout African-American and lower class communities, hundreds of thousands of men were incarcerated with draconian sentences. In 1988, a now friend of mine by the name of Richard Winrow was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole for a nonviolent drug offense. An offense in which the drug amounts were less than the contents of a 100 Sweet & Low packets. Twenty seven years later, he is still incarcerated. Anthony Kizzee, Peter Burkins, Ralph Thompson, Michael Raven, and hundreds of other individuals, who could not afford a paid attorney, and that was considered indigent by the court, received life sentences behind small amounts of crack cocaine. But, because President Obama pushed for and signed into law the Fair Sentencing Act (FSA), which reduces the penalty and drug ratio for crack to powder cocaine offense from 100:1 to 18:1, I've been able to advocate for some of these individuals to receive sentence reductions. But some (over 8,000 individuals who have mandatory minimum sentences) still haven't received the benefit of the FSA which Congress and the U.S. Sentencing Commission declared the old law before the FSA racially bias and unconstitutionally enacted.

Mr. Green lost his son to an unmerciful system that has had its lingering affects in impoverished communities for 30 years. So to acknowledge an act of compassion, The Fair Sentencing Act was more than appropriate in this story, because I believe it healed some of our social issues by giving incarcerated fathers and mothers another chance to repair their broken families. It also sheds light on my situation as well. When Congress make their final vote on the "Sentencing Reform and Corrections Act (S.2123)," (which should be within the next few months), it will not only make the FSA retroactive to people with mandatory minimum sentences, but it cracks the door for my release from imprisonment as well.

Thanks for this opportunity.

Click here to order your copy of A.J. Scott's first novel, "The Gift That Keeps On Givin'" today!

NEW RELEASE: The Gift That Keeps on Givin' by A.J. Scott

The Gift That Keeps on Givin'
by A.J. Scott

$9.98

DreamMiners Publishing is proud to present "The Gift That Keeps on Givin'" by A.J. Scott.

This heartwarming book tells the story of one prophet and one preacher who are on one mission: to save a disenchanted community from the trappings of poverty and loss. 

A heartwarming tale of how one man can reunite a community broken down by poverty and substance abuse. The adage, "It's better to give than receive," is Mr. Green's credo, and in the process he demonstrates that God's love lives beyond the Church walls.

This story reminds us how a simple gesture can change a person's day, and perhaps even change the course of their lives. Through faith and selflessness, Mr. Green shows us the power of love and the difference it can make to so many people.

NOW AVAILABLE ON CREATESPACE AND AMAZON! 

Be sure to visit "The Gift" on Facebook and give us a like! 

FEATURED WRITER OF THE WEEK: KARLA FLETCHER

It's

It's the smile on my face when I see you 
After being apart 
It's the way I laugh when you're around
How sad I get when you are gone
When all my tears fall to the ground 
It's the way my heart skips a beat 
It's how I feel every song within my feet 
It's like a first dance or a first kiss 
Everything is fast, everything is bliss 
Love is not for the sensitive or the weak 
It takes time 
More than just 1 week 
It's the way my eyes light up 
Every day 
It's peaceful like the first snowfall 
On a chilly winter day 
But like the seasons we change too 

fall becomes winter into spring 
Our love too shall blossom 
Like rose petals open to the sun 
Many adventures soon to come 
Many memories we shall make 
Many pictures we will take 
It's not easy 
Most of the time it's hard 
But it's all worthwhile 
It's the way you look at me 
At the end of the night 
It's the way you ask 
For a kiss goodnight 
It's all a compromise
It's give and take 
It's how we work together 
Even when we need a break 
Sometimes we argue, sometimes we fight 
But never go to bed angry at the end of the night 
Love is not easy, it's not for the weak 
Love is work love is time 
Love is having you 
Love is the way I feel about you 
Its the way we kiss it's the way we smile 
It's the way we plan 
It's what we are it's what we do 
Love is me 
Love is you

Karla Fletcher is a 24 year old poet who has been writing poetry since she was very young. She is currently writing on a children's book, as well as publishing a collection of her own poetry. 

FEATURED WRITER OF THE WEEK: STEVE KLEPETAR

Teasing Out the Strands

Last night she walked in the moonlight until

exhaustion drove her back to bed. Her brother

climbed a mountain in her mind, always bent

upward toward the damp, hanging mist, silent,

inexorable as a shadow with no face. Maybe

his legs burned, but he never spoke, just toiled

up the path of that rocky slope. Somewhere

an ocean roared to an audience of sand and stars.

She drank the wind, made it last and tease her

thirst. She wrote to him, an essay in letter form,

teasing out the strands of their commingled blood,

held a mirror to his stony back, which cracked

and sent the usual shiver through her aching arms.

Each jagged shard she dropped into a black crevasse.

Sky Burned Above Her

and she swam

through milky flame and her tongue burned

hopeful and free, gliding the tree line, eying

crossroads and nests.  Dust and devils of wind

and emptiness stretched across red sand. 

She hugged her name to her chest

that vivid spell on her lips, wide mouth a river

meandering across the meadow of her face –

tree above her a last pale word, a web of shade

and a language of cloth and tongues

a gift found with a blind hand, house with a chimney

and bell, musical shrub  rope braided with golden sparks

tossed into the careless sky, a falling woman tumbling

like rain down into the mirrors of my own drowned bed.

What Do You Mean?

What do you mean when you say that time

does not exist, that light from dead stars

reaches our eyes as harbingers of laughter

and sparkling bubbles of wine? 

Yesterday at the gym, you climbed the wall

slowly, gripping red and purple stones,

humming an old lullaby to quiet your

thrumming nerves. All the pretty little horses

and then you are two, with a yellow blanket

shoved in your mouth. Tomorrow you may

hit a home-run into the tennis courts, startling

the players or you may fall from an oak,

break your wrist. The sea lies speechless on

summer nights, waves have been rolling,

crashing on sand forever, as the sun, bloated 

and wild, consumes your madly spinning earth.

Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014.  Three collections appeared in 2013: Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications), Blue Season (with Joseph Lisowski, mgv2>publishing), and My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press).  An e-chapbook, Return of the Bride of Frankenstein, came out in 2014 as part of the Barometric Pressures series of e-chapbooks by Kind of a Hurricane Press.

FEATURED WRITER OF THE WEEK: CASSANDRA DALLETT

Big Black Buck

Eating noodle soup under the TV

a black man’s murder looping and looping through the meal

I am not brainwashed enough

not immune to this inoculation

every murder a loss no matter how they point to criminality.

We walk the lake under confusing sky

sunshine glaring between dark clouds

blowing by surprisingly fast rain then shine

then shining in rain I yell, “where is the rainbow”

two sisters on a bench smile all dazzling teeth and natural hair

cubes of buildings hug the choppy lake

and blush flowers hug the Masonic buildings.

The wind has pushed pools of green sludge to the sides

and I wonder at the spectacle, the piles of black bodies

we witness, and witness, stew into a frenzy but cannot stop

Broadcasting photos of Kenyan students face down bullet ridden

like the boy on the news will not bring them back or honor life

it will not help the mainstream to see this is deliberate.

This barrage of bodies, the reading of autopsies, the dissection of black flesh

are they always surprised at the pink humanity revealed

we all bleed the same but we don’t die the same

heaping holocaust piles of black bodies inhabit the news

if they are reported at all

those students barely made the evening rundown

the news channels too busy repeating themselves

about fallen planes full of white folks

burning up the Swiss alps.

Broke on Valentines

There was Dre

but we broke up every week

me shrieking and smashing glass

silently crushing me

There was Anthony

who stomped me into the Emergency room

because I didn’t tell him

I was throwing a gum wrapper out the window

for his passenger

at least that was the only reason I ever heard

before his voice turned into monster

and he chased me down

his full weight pushing my face into the ground

still I cried when February 14^th rolled around

him in jail and me alone  

too bruised up to date

Dre resurfaced only to rip me off

in some phony check scam

he needed studio time for his budding rap career

After that would come Vano

he was in Prison every Valentines day and all the holidays

and I was in furlough on gun charges by the end

of me and him I fled the state

Back East Valentines day my lovers spent with real girlfriends

Steve Lee was the first one I called my own

mostly I was drunk-tripping filling his mouth with words

my paranoid mind could pick a fight with

him just young wanting to drink with his friends

but I would not be seconded by Crazy Horse and them

so I left him for Johnny Walker

John was older a more vetted alcoholic than Steve

we flirted before Christmas and fucked by New Years Eve

snuck around till I couldn’t keep the secret

moved him in

in a mess of fist fights and knives thrown

cops called and my head split open by the cordless phone

Bleeding for it I fought John constantly

and unlike Steve he didn’t hesitate to hit back

my forehead opened on the damned door jamb

I threw the iron and hammered out his windshield

while he tried to run me over

and we were done    before Valentines

Again I ate my heart out

a paper box red and empty

I cried into forty ounces of beer

I didn’t have another man till JB

back in Cali knocked up round and horny

he slid though late nights off the block and hopped up

speed balls snorted off my dinner plates

his slim frame chocolate lean

needle pin eyes gravel throat drawl

they call that heron dick

and we could fuck all night long

He got back out of jail when my son just made one

and paroled straight over to my place

after all the money was spent and job lost

the hustle ground us down

my jealousy about losing him back to the streets

he was gone by MLK Day

my head reopened with the same ass phone

he took the car and all the shit he’d given

left me      stripped down and starving

the sky relentless   like my tears    in the year of El Nino

Valentine’s Day rained down

found me broke and alone

walking home soaked to the bone.

Cassandra Dallett lives in Oakland, CA. Cassandra is a Pushcart nominee and reads often around the San Francisco Bay Area. She was the winner of the March 2015 Literary Death Match. In addition to six chapbooks, she has published online and in many print magazines and anthologies such as Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, The Bicycle Review, Chiron Review, This Is Poetry: Women of The Small Press. A full-length book of poetry, Wet Reckless was released to good reviews, from Manic D Press May of 2014. A new book Bad Sandy will be released on Dangerous Hair Press in spring of 2015.

FEATURED WRITER: REGINA VITOLO

ENDED AS ASHES

I heard the gunshot, felt the bullet enter his brain,

remembered how he raced the humid winds along

Montgomery Street, the soft stutter of his carefully

chosen words, the echo of my mother’s opinions,

his emotionless green eyes, his perfect roman nose

I envied, his sensuous lips, golden hair, smooth skin,

the silence of his judgment, the empty apartment

with photographs of horses, the Dresden figurines

our mother collected, the heart medications on

his end table, the telephone that rarely rang,

the male lover whose murmurs my brother would

never hear again, the collapse of his body, my

ungainly brother who hid his pain, barely occupied

space on this earth, left no footprint of his life,

ended as ashes, mailed to me by a Florida coroner. 

GRAY UPON GREY

written while listening to Gustav Mahler’s

Symphony #1

  

a scraggly column of stick figures,

shoes too large, striped uniforms

gray upon grey, marching through

mud and muck

truculent winds beating against backs

bent forward, hope as dismal as the dirt

footprints swerving, breathing stench

the slaughterhouse

waiting, a phantom building, steel mixed

with concrete, windowless, a writhing

coffin to confine these creatures, once

men, less so now

living a permanent toothache, the agony

unaccompanied by ecstasy, relief denied,

cavities prodded and pried open, privacy

throttled by malice

the stars blink, the moon bleeds, a meteorite

flashes, ashes rise to clog nostrils impervious

to odor, while death licks lips and dries tear

ducts, cataracts film eyes

roadside camp fires fail to charm, crouching

figures transform into fierce wolves, fangs

bared, gnashing hungrily at putrid air, a cello

haunts the night,

the darkest of hours shrouding mankind.

Regina Vitolo was born in Brooklyn near the Bond Bread Factory and Ebbets Field. One YA novel published in 1984, mostly poetry published since. She has evolved, even though the world has not.

FEATURED POET OF THE WEEK: EDWARD RADKE

garnet from her pantry

gale garnet filters in

from her pantry

but the sunshine she eclipsed

like the trick he

pulled on her telescope

but much more adept

she channels the song

but she doesn't know

she's in the sequel

about two years behind her

her daddy's third verse advice

let the scavenger hunt commence

pointing out nuance, you know

can really further your

southern spiral advance

wonder if compasses are

boxed in the strata

in the realm of love

there is no chance

 _______________________________________________________

 scripts

 religion the safety valve

the old world scripts

and the fearful are wise enough

not to come off of them

where did the balance tip

when we went towards

mass cooperatives

steam powered fever dreams

that created the farm

the first reservation

how can we tip the

pyramid on it's point

trying to extend downtime

towards that base in the air

the forest as with

all forms of darkness was there

for your entertainment

wonder and protection

were they really happy

before she tasted the fruits

of that apple picking harvest

beyond any labor

in the first fall

which brought annulment

and eviction from above

this is what we get

when the dreamer

sobers up and awake

during the night

atheists were asked to

leave the field crew

easterners grow heavy

with a western relocation

 _______________________________________________________

 if and when

if and when you tire of

waking up next to whomever

was somehow blessed

by proximity at least

the night before

will you still call

oddly a touching line

was somewhere in there

whether it is him or

someone closer with more to lose

tragic and devastated might

be more than the

flip of some silver

kindred spirit or the

mate of another ship eternal

even if in similar spheres they sprint

and keep the same company

had she answered

another sign in another house

on a different page

he wouldn't have to answer

write or direct like this

reading through the verse and line

with the threat of a larger

stronger chemical throng and presence

crashing the dance floor downstairs

between the syllable stress

and the heavy accents

a tiny apocalypse

some say ain't there

but feel those ghosts run cold

on the nape between the blades

and across the range of your shoulders

 ____________________________________________________

 dear john (a how to)?

he had seen enough to provide

experts as references

to ladies and gentlemen alike

first things first

for those who find electronic communication

too cold and impersonal

but the sound of the human voice

a risky persuasion back to the fold

and face to face a bloody mess

are you travelling alone?

is future well being a concern?

or is it current self preservation?

 _____________________________________________________

 the first of april

three doors wide

to the first of april

him unhinged, and the

chiltonville first congregational

two who shall remain nameless

came back with the mule

no finely brushed charger

to herald your arrival and rule

in to this jerusalem

your river, your reigns

and this light course

infusing and flowering each stem

gladly your fool suffers

a soldier against doubt

a child in your glory

a transmission never over or out

once just mud before

your wheel, your kiln

and your chisel

a disciple now forever more

standing on his knees

in blood and crushed glass

a shivering mosaic

your instrument by soft decree

how laughable

when the ordinary presumes

it may come before you

trying to speak to you on the level

 ______________________________________________

 three views of her in reverse from this current vantage

barbed today on this

sky of cumuli

she is these circles of wire

once the sky itself

that put the spheres of razor foreground

softly out of focus

and further back once that chickadee

perched so agile at dawn

upon these slinkies spiked and stretched

 _____________________________________________

 Edward Radke is a poet, freelance writer, artist and photographer from Plymouth MA.  His work has appeared in numerous online public and print publications, and he is co-founder of DreamMiners Publishing and Creative Arts Services.