I'm not sure, but I'm hoping to find out. Having just returned from Mexico and still ill, I'm a little behind the curve this week. But after my super drugs kick in (garlic, cayenne, and some great herbs to boost my immunity), I'm sure I'll be back on track.

Not all details are carved in stone yet, so I'll wait until they are before sharing publicly. But they are VERY exciting! Until then, I hope you enjoy a few nibbles of cake batter:

This site has been running since 2006, when I foresaw a downturn in the newspaper industry that had been my bread and butter since 1988. As of today, you'll notice a new feature to the right (or, if this column has been archived, on the right side of the home page). That new feature is a donate button.

It's there because today I'm doing something I never wanted to do: I'm going to ask you to help me continue running this site, writing my books and speaking out about serious topics like child sexual abuse and domestic violence.

If you've read my book, you know the newspaper industry helped save my four children and I from going on the public dole. But even more important, it provided us with a decent standard of living and gave me the chance to stand where I do today: as a survivor who has come very, very far from the battered, frightened and woefully insecure victim she once was.

In 2008, as the print journalism world took a steep nosedive, I left my last newspaper job at the Cumberland Times-News in Cumberland, Md. I carried away two awards for the newspaper columns that readers have known me for from the first one I wrote just before Linda Benson first gave me a weekly column in 1988, which we together titled "Vintage Berry Wine."

I've tried to make this website a continuation of that very first column, as a way of reaching out to all of you—"old" readers who have followed my newspaper work—and new readers who have found out about me in other ways. I'd like to think I've succeeded, even though my writing hasn't occurred at a weekly basis here. Sometimes it's been more, but often times, it's been much less.

That's because last year I finally jumped into the shark-infested waters of the self-publishing world. I did this so I could give you what you've been asking for since you first heard of it: Sister of Silence, the memoir that covers 14 years of my life—beginning when I was sexually abused at 13, and continuing until I finally faced the demons I'd been living with for so long, by checking myself into a mental hospital in 1991.

To do this, I formed my own small, independent publishing company, Nellie Bly Books. (It's no mistake that I named my company after one of the best journalists in the country, Elizabeth Jane Cochran, a Pittsburgh, Pa., journalist who went by the pen name "Nellie Bly." She was credited with many things, including the invention of investigative journalism and in 1887 she went undercover at a "lunatic asylum" in New York City. Her subsequent exposè is said to have been responsible for bringing about some much-needed reforms in mental hospitals. Bly courageously exposed corruption and wrote about, among other things, social reform and unwed mothers.)

If I believed in reincarnation, I would say I was Nellie Bly in a past life. But I don't and besides, I've only accomplished a tiny sliver of what she did, and my writing might be worthy of being called a poor imitation of hers, at best. But getting back to the business of writing . . .

Since I have a business degree, I knew exactly what I was doing when I formed this LLC—and why it was such a big gamble. Business classes taught me that the majority of small start-ups fail within the first year. They also taught me the best way to minimize that risk was to have enough working capital on hand to keep NBB afloat until it started to turn a profit—or for at least two years.

Using just such capital—with proceeds I'd squirreled away from my unemployment—I paid $6,000 for a small print run of 2,000 paperback copies of SOS. (This figure does not include shipping or the other hefty fees involved, such as filing for and receiving approval for the NBB logo from the United States Patent and Trademark Office.) In the meantime, I hired consultants to do some necessary work I couldn't do (such as designing the book cover and logo, or formatting the new SOS e-book), and paid for a part-time office worker.

I also gave away hundreds of books—and ate the cost of shipping and handling myself. If you divide only the print cost above, and tack on $3.62 (the average cost to mail just one book at media rate), you will see that each paperback book has cost me more than $6 apiece. But that figure is still quite low, given all of the other work that goes into making sure you—my readers—receive the quality products you deserve.

So the measly $6K does not begin to cover the expenses I incur, when I fly to conferences and speak about about abuse, or talk to high school or college students—for which I have not been reimbursed by anyone. Nor does it cover the upcoming SOS book trailer—which will be filmed next week, and which will require two days worth of food, some lodging, a few props, and other costs for our small group.

The long and short of it is this: I had hoped to begin making a profit sooner rather than later. And while my ebook is selling quite well, even on the best days those sales nets me only a few dollars, at most. That isn't enough to do all I need to do, to continue doing what I've been doing for the last 13 years. Especially when I'm not getting a salary every two weeks, like I did at my last job.

In addition, I am woefully overworked—and I've never been a workaholic. I'm passionate about researching, writing, and reporting, but I have other things I enjoy as well, that have nothing to do with my work. The entire reason for this particular column came about earlier this week, when I met a friend at 7:30 a.m., after just 3.5 hours of sleep, to do some volunteer work.

She and other people have been coming out of the woodwork this week, urging me to seek financial assistance in the form of donations from individuals and other companies. That's why I'm taking their advice today. When donations have reached a level where I can continue my work without killing myself, the "Donate" button will come down. Until then, it's there for anyone who wants to help support a "starving writer" determined to continue doing just that: writing and providing something meaningful for you to read.

Thank you for reading, for helping, and for just being here!

Editor's note: For the time being, the donate button has been disabled.

Posted by Daleen at 11:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

One of the lightest memories to linger from my daughter's 9-10-11 wedding involves a special guest, who did not receive an official invitation to the informal, country hitchin'—but who chose to attend, nonetheless. Insisted upon it, if you will, in a rather dramatic fashion.

The wedding reception featured a veritable buffet of home-grown and home-cooked food. Among other things, there were roasting ears drenched in butter, homemade pecan pie (among my favorite, and second only to key lime), barbecued pork (This little piggy spent the entire night roasting on a spit, didn't utter a sound, and didn't make it back home.) and hamburgers.

The bride proudly told me the burgers came from her own cow, which she killed all by herself. Much to the amazed chagrin of her then-fiancé, whom I hereby dub "Cal." (After that much-loved country singer, Cal Smith, whose hit song, "Country Bumpkin," reminds me of my daughter's romance with her new husband.)

An aside: For anyone reading this column who may not know, I changed the names of my four children in my book, to provide them a measure of anonymity. Cal is my new son-in-law, having married my third daughter, "Gabby."

Here's the story she told, but I can assure you it did not affect the taste of the burgers in any way. At all. Free of hormones or antibiotics, and farm-fed by a girl who loves animals as much as her grandmother, they were absolutely delicious. Even considering the bovine's manner of demise. (And now, depending upon your own connection to animal life and the enjoyment it gives us, one might wish to pause for a moment of silence, reflecting on all of God's creatures who have made the ultimate sacrifice.)

Gabby was operating a piece of farm equipment—the same Kubota tractor she rode in on to meet her groom at the altar. She was trying to unload a hay bale when, unfortunately, "Gertrude" chose that exact same moment to lumber along in front of said machine.

Just as the 800-pound round bale dropped from the bucket onto the ground and began rolling . . . directly into Gertrude.

"It broke her neck and I had to put her down," Gabby explained. "She was clearly suicidal. She walked right into the path of the hay bale," Gabby added, laughing.

But Call did not think it quite that funny. "Gabby I've been farming for 20 years and I've never heard of someone killing a cow with a hay bale!" she said, relating Cal's comment upon learning of the cow's demise..

So yes, it was not a bull (adult male, with intact testicles). Nor was it a steer (sans testicles). Gertrude was a cow (adult female) and she paid with her life—just so, I think, she could attend the wedding. Of all the guests in attendance, I vote the award for best (posthumous) wedding gift go to her.

Editor's note: If you have ever thought about running amok, or have lived with someone who has, please check out Sister of Silence, which is not about bovines of either gender, with or without testicles. You can buy it here: Nellie Bly Books

Posted by Daleen at 03:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The bride rode in on a tractor. She wasn’t chauffeured; she drove it herself. I think that takes the cake, as far as weddings go. And it may even be a first. All I know is, it was quite an entrance.

“Gabby” does everything her way, and does a little of everything, too. Even replaces old hot water heaters. Uncle Bruce calls her Wonder Woman. “Is there anything she can’t do?” he asked in amazement.

As we stood near the reception area waiting for the bridal party to arrive, we heard the tractor before we saw it. Her soon-to-be groom turned to me and asked, “What’s she going to do—ride the tractor?” My head bobbed up and down, and I grinned.

He just shook his blond head back and forth, but I’m sure that was pride I saw reflected in his blue eyes.

So, here’s the lead-up to the Big Day. They were supposed to have gotten married last summer. But life and family interfered, and it was rescheduled. Gabby called me to say they had a date. The date. “It’s going to be Sept. 10, 2011,” she said. There was a pause.

“Get it? 9-10-11,” she said, adding, “That way (my fiancée) won’t forget it.” (Did I tell you she has a sense of humor, too?)

A few days before the wedding, things began to go wrong. First, the bride’s sister, “Trista,” missed her connection, when Uncle Bruce drove from Wisconsin and offered to pick her up along the way. It was a case of last-minute plans and poor cell phone signals. And it gave me at least 20 more grey hairs.

The 30 other ones came from Bruce and my 70 MPH drive on the Kingwood Pike last Thursday afternoon. That’s because I was on my way home from Gabby’s house when my cell rang. “Hello, Daleen. I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I’m here at the Ramada Inn. The bad news is, I’m having chest pains and I’m short of breath. Do you think you can take me to the hospital?” Bruce asked.

I knew he wouldn’t call an ambulance, so I didn’t even suggest it. He had driven from Sheboygan and for the better part of two days, he’d had chest pains. But he kept saying it was because he was tired, and because he was stressed about his brand new car, since someone dinged it, leaving white paint all over the fender.

So I just pushed the hazard button and hit the accelerator. I certainly didn’t want to find him dead in his hotel room. (And now, I’d like to take a second to thank everyone who was kind enough to pull over and let me fly by that day—as well as apologize to anyone who thought I was rude, in case I did tailgate you.)

With being the MOB (mother of the bride) comes certain privileges and expectations. I think they should add to that list rescuing out-of-town relatives and staying by their bedside for four hours. And why not? It’s just one more important task to check off your list, prior to the wedding.

While Bruce laid around like a gentleman of leisure, having people wait on him and give him a shave and answer his every beck and call, we regrouped, and Trista came by train. I picked her up the next morning in Pittsburgh, Pa., which is 90 minutes north of here. She kindly offered to wait inside the station for more than an hour, until 6 a.m., so I could get a little more sleep. And while I wanted to take her up on that lovely offer, my mind just wouldn’t stay asleep. So, wide awake at 2:30 a.m., my day began, and I got on the road an hour later.

Friday slipped quickly by, and before I knew it, Sept. 10 had arrived. So had Gabby’s brother, “Slade,” freshly in from D.C. And ill to the point of not having a voice. The poor guy was so sick he asked his oldest sister to drive him to the train in Cumberland the very next morning, where he went home to get some sleep. But in the meantime, he walked the MOB down the hill to a waiting hay bale, where she sat and enjoyed seeing her third daughter finally go from fiancée to bride, all in a matter of minutes. Wearing a white fairy-tale wedding gown, which—if you were looking closely enough—allowed her green leather cowboy boots to peek out from beneath its hem every so often.

The setting was as beautiful as the bride, and as the guests sat atop hay bales in the middle of a field filled with sunshine and happy smiles, the couple exchanged vows in front of a mirrored pond.

Afterward, the groom escorted his bride away, and past the tractor that carried her there.

Posted by Daleen at 11:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Having waited more than 20 years to hear Maya Angelou speak, I was not disappointed when she appeared at West Virginia University Friday night. I doubt the author of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, among many other books, knows how to disappoint.

I was a little surprised that she was so funny (Her stories about flying on commercial airlines versus traveling by private bus were hilarious!) and amazed at her ability to recall so much information. It makes me yearn to be 83, so I can know that much. (Okay, maybe not quite that mature.) How did she cram all the poetry and other stuff in there, anyway? Apparently, it was because she was a reader. And a believer: not only did her mother and other loved ones believe in her as a child, but she believes in her own abilities, and the ability of the human brain, since it is--as she said--far more powerful than any computer out there.

These are important reminders for anyone who claims to not like reading, or who prefers playing video games or hanging out at social networking sites. Especially in this day and age when reading--which expands not just your horizons, but also your brain--takes time, and there are no shortcuts.

In case you've never had the privilege of seeing her in person, she is graceful and elegant, and holds herself well. (At age 15, she was already six-feet tall.) She wore a black gown and dark glasses and had her hair covered with a classy-looking wrap. (I think it's ironic that, except for one Mountain Stage performance, I've never sat that close to the stage before. Yet somehow, I ended up with a seat smack in the center, two rows away.)

Here are a few points I took away from her speech: First and foremost, it takes courage to survive--especially if you've been abused, as she was at age seven. Second, we all have something to give to someone else; she calls it "being the rainbow in their cloud." Third, there is no room for racist remarks or attitudes in our world.

That's when she told the story about being a director and having an office in Hollywood, when the "suits" came by and one of them used a racist term unrelated to Blacks, but apparently connected to some other group of people. Angelou told them she would have none of it and ordered them to leave her office. When the "suits" reminded her it was their office (since they owned it), she promptly left.

Racism "gets down in the carpet, and into the furniture where you're sitting and then it's all over your clothes and before you know it, it's in you," Angelou said.

Personally, I like her zero-tolerance for racist attitudes and comments, and think it's something we can all imitate.

There is so much more to say about the woman who is a celebrated poet, author, professor, playwright, producer, director and civil rights activist--among other things. In addition to speaking several languages, she has more than 30 honorary degrees, a Pulitzer nomination, three Grammy awards and even the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Not to mention the fact that she's been invited to write poetry for former President Bill Clinton's inauguration speech, and the United Nations.

I think I'll wrap this up by saying that of all the things I liked about her performance, the one thing she said that I won't forget is that people who don't smile can't be trusted.

Friday night Angelou smiled most of the time. So we can trust her.

Posted by Daleen at 10:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Here's a bit of news you won't read on The Daily Beast. My recent trip to New York had some wonderful highs and some serious lows, among which was being robbed. That's a first for me, and one I'd rather not have experienced.

I sure hope the thieves who broke into my rental car and stole my camcorder enjoy the footage they found, as well as feel proud of their efforts--after going my entire adult life (for me, adulthood began at 16) without a camcorder, due to not having enough money to buy one, for the most part--I purchased one last year to tape my grandsons. The only footage I had of my own four children came from their grandparents, who shared that single video with me. I kept hoping to buy one, but it never worked out. Something I was determined to change, when it came to my grandchildren.

So last summer I purchased the $550 toy, and found not only did it do a great job of taping my bambinos, it also worked swell as a tool for my writing work. Case in point: I taped my two most recent speaking events, including the one where I discussed the La'Shanda Armstrong tragedy in Frostburg. I planned to post it on You Tube, and would have, as soon as I had help uploading it. In addition, part of the footage was going to go into my book trailer--which a business friend said I really, really need. So much for that.

Because not only does my rental insurance not cover it, neither does my own auto insurance, which is liability coverage only. (Who keeps full coverage on a car that's 14 years old?) This is where the saying, "Easy come, easy go," does not apply. I will be waiting for awhile to replace it.

Meanwhile readers, I am finding out, are identifying me with my writing. And so my recent piece in The Daily Beast about La'Shanda Armstrong's funeral came with more public flogging. Apparently, in reporting the facts, as I did there, some people assume these are my opinions. Not necessarily. But if they were, I certainly could not include them in a hard news piece. That's what op-eds are for, like this first one I did for The Beast. Which I was flogged for, as well. Oh well, I guess we can't please everyone all the time, can we? (I'll save my rebuttals for another day, or post comments on the articles themselves.)

Finally, en route to the funeral, I stopped at a convenience store to: a) Ask for directions; b) Use the restroom and, c) Charge my dying cell phone. That's when I was mooned. Unintentionally. The clerk told me to knock on the door and if no one answered, and the key was also outside the door, on a ledge, then the loo was vacant. So I knocked, got no response, and realized the key was right there. I picked it up, inserted it, opened the door and, viola, I was mooned in less than a New York minute.

Poor chap, he didn't even know it, since he was in the process of flushing and had his backside to me. (Yes, even though I gasped and immediately closed the door, I saw that much.) Thank goodness he didn't see me, too!!! I figured he would come out and know exactly who had invaded his privacy, but before he could, two more people came into the store. Much to my relief.

Watcha wanna bet next time he takes the key inside with him?

Editor's note: Sister of Silence, which is not about being mooned, but which does nonetheless actually contain some humor--since laughter really is the best medicine--is available now for only $14.99. And no, I'm not exploiting the recent tragedy to sell my book. I'm exploiting the guy who mooned me.

Posted by Daleen at 02:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

As a journalist, I was outraged when I learned of Lara Logan’s sexual assault. As a woman—even more so. With only two days to go until the release of a book about my own 13-year ordeal as a survivor of rape, I found it incredulous not only that Logan was brutally victimized, but that thinking people still speak before they think.

I was so disgusted I posted a link to the Salon article about Logan on Facebook, and then said, “So being blonde gives one a license to rape fair-haired women? Give me a break!”

I can relate, you see, because I’m blond and I’ve been called attractive. I’ve also been a journalist since 1988. Equally important, I still remember traveling, at age 16, from the States in 1979 to visit my parents in Jordan, a Muslim country, and the jokes my family made before I flew there. “I wouldn’t be surprised if some sheik didn’t kidnap you and take you to his harem,” my uncle said, in large part because of the pale blond hair that came down to my waist.

I wrote about how “pretty girls” become targets for violence, and a subsequent unsettling interaction with an Arabic man during my visit to Jordan in my book, Sister of Silence. That brief incident occurred as I was exiting a taxi in Amman with my Muslim neighbor, a girl named Aminah. Much to my shock and chagrin, an elderly fellow pinched my backside. Upon hearing my protests, Aminah began yelling in Arabic, apparently swearing at the fellow as he fled. “You have to be careful. Some men here are just bad,” she said.

Now juxtapose that with the scene that greeted my parents, when they arrived one month earlier, and found hanging in the city square three men who had been convicted of raping a young girl.

But what I was thinking, and what I’ve continued to think since then, is that Aminah, who came to my aid, and the Egyptian women and military men who came to Logan’s aid, share a spirit we can learn from: they stepped up and took action.

This is far more than happened as a 15-year-old high school student was gang-raped in 2009 outside of a homecoming dance in Richmond, Calif. Instead, police reported that as many as 20 people either took part—or stood and watched—the heinous crime.

Rape has been used as a weapon of war for centuries. But it’s also a tool used by husbands to control their wives; by college students who expect “payment” for spending money on a young woman after, say, a date; and by incestuous male relatives who prey upon their unsuspecting daughters or sisters, believing these females are no more than convenient objects, useful solely to satisfy their base sexual desires.

The crime doesn’t just take women as its prisoners; men are equally vulnerable. Nor are attractive journalists the only ones thus targeted: any woman, regardless of her physical appearance or vocation, is at risk. I say this because I still remember, while a cub reporter working at my first newspaper, the story about the 80-something woman from our small, rural community, who was raped when her home was broken into.

It has been said that rape (and/or sexual assault) is about control. But it is also about a lack of stability, something that is undeniably in short supply in Egypt right now.

Nor do American homes, or Christian homes, or any home anywhere in the world where violence exists, have a stable foundation. A pattern of violence, as has been seen recently in Egypt, bears a strong resemblance to the same pattern that can be seen in homes of people of any religion, wherever such violence festers.

Logan’s assault is by far one of the worst crimes to occur, as a result of recent Egyptian events, but can it be worse than what happened to the 15-year-old Richmond girl on American soil? I understand that a “hands-off” policy once applied to journalists, much like human rights workers or doctors. After all, these are the very people who try to stay neutral, who travel to report on events or help injured victims in a war-torn area. Sadly, that “hands-off” policy seems to have vanished, wherever skirmishes occur throughout the world. Anymore, anyone who “gets in the way” is considered fair game.

I voiced my disapproval and disgust over Logan’s undeserved and traumatic mistreatment, but what I personally like to take away is that, regardless of what else happened to her in Tahrir Square—people stood up for Logan, and helped her make her way to safety. All while in a Muslim nation.

Not a Christian nation, where here in this country we instead stand around with our cell phones, taking pictures while a teenager is gang-raped. And where no one comes to her aid.

It is this action that will make a difference in how we as a society, as a world of people interdependent upon each other, go forward from here. And what we do will define us—and can powerfully lessen the trauma that comes from rape. I have tried to shatter the silence that surrounded my own experiences with rape, by writing about it as a journalist and speaking in public wherever possible. Asra Nomani, another courageous journalist who has also voiced her concern about this crime and its aftereffects, has said my book helps us “emerge in the light . . . with a sense of hope, authenticity and courage.”

Personally, I hope other people take a page from Aminah, and from Logan’s rescuers, and are willing to speak up and show that same kind of courage, so that other victims of any type of sexual assault can—like I pray Logan is able to do—emerge in the light, too.

Editor's Note: For more information about Sister of Silence, or to find out how to order a copy, go to: http://nellieblybooks.com/sister-of-silence.html

Posted by Daleen at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I’ve been thinking it for several years and now I think it’s time to say it. “It” being what I thought after taking a family friend to the movies today, where we watched a commercial prior to the beginning of what turned out to be five previews for other upcoming flicks. Before the movie even started.

That will be my next post: Why is it necessary to have five to seven previews (and now, a few commercials) which take up from 15-25 minutes and waste my time? Am I the only person who doesn’t mind showing up “late” these days, knowing that by the time I park the car, buy a ticket, get some popcorn and a soda, and feel my way to a seat in the darkened theatre, the main feature still will not have begun playing?

My digression is leftover from the commercial that played today, a commercial that helped combine not a few years of annoyance and downright frustration together, so that I finally have to speak up and say something. And this is it:

Does anyone even have body odor anymore? How would we know if they did? Is there a single cook left in a kitchen anywhere in this country who doesn’t mind the smell of garlic? Or how about the fragrance of wet dog, old tennis shoes and musty books? My personal favorite scent is coffee a la fried bacon and eggs, but who knows what that smells like these days.

And do you know why? It’s because someone—no, everyone—has one of those irritating deodorizers plugged into the outlet in their kitchen, and their bathroom, and their living room. Along with every other room in the house.

In the Febreze commercial that played today, some really neat things were taking place in the background, which the characters in the foreground were oblivious to. That’s because their attention was caught and held by what is apparently the newest plug-in deodorizer on the market: it captivated them in such a way that the audience was led to believe the characters were experiencing some kind of out-of-body (or a really good drug) experience. Not that they were simply so overwhelmed by a plug-in deodorizer that they couldn’t control themselves.

If I had been in the room where the plug-in thingy was, I wouldn’t be able to control myself, either. That’s because I’m a member of the population that has allergies to such chemicals. I’ve had them since 1988, and just when I think there couldn’t possibly be another product on the market to make my suffering any worse, along comes those stupid plug-ins, designed to hide, mask and cover up every natural odor known to man.

Personally, I’ll take the smell of sweat, rotten broccoli or even dirty diapers any day—because these things are not chemicals that cause illness, and those odors don’t excite my olfactory senses, making my nose run, causing me to cough, or develop phlegm that lasts for hours, if not days. And then, if I don’t take enough medicine (Mind you, that’s at least three: an antihistamine, a decongestant and a nasal spray.), I can end up with a sinus infection that has knocked me on my derriere and, in the past, made me a captive to corporate sick days.

As someone with allergies, I don’t go near the chemical aisle in the supermarket, but if I must, I hold my breath and make a mad dash for whatever item I need, and then just as quickly run out again. By the time I take my next breath, I feel like I might just pass out—which is why I save the chemical aisle for another family member. (Or skip it completely and use vinegar for my household cleaning.)

As someone with allergies, I have had to force myself to ask friends and family not to wear cologne, aftershave, perfume or scented hair products. And at my last job, a fellow coworker stripped her personal hygiene cabinet of everything she thought could be the culprit, but I still continued to sneeze around her. Finally, while sitting in a staff meeting one day, I realized what it was: her clothing! She was using a detergent known for its strong-arm scent. (Truth be told, I actually miss wearing perfume, and I’ve had to use fragrance-free everything for the last two decades.)

Once in a blue moon, I have found a scented product I can use. This has happened maybe 10 times, tops. But when it happens, it’s usually because the product is natural—not man-made. Even then, I’m very cautious, because for some reason, the natural floral fragrances can cause an allergic reaction, too.

But I cannot imagine that any company in the near future is going to create a deodorizer thingy that is unscented, or which doesn’t send me into a coughing attack. So until they do, I can only appeal to everyone who uses the things: When was the last time you actually got a whiff of your beloved’s underarm and was it really that bad? Or was the fragrance wafting from the electric candle so powerful, you wouldn’t know?

Tell me, is it too much to ask to be able to smell burnt cookies and Fido’s wet fur, instead?

Posted by Daleen at 11:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

You just never know where life will take you, but 20/10 looks promising. Life is full of exciting possibilities, and every day is a fresh page, waiting to be unfurled. I joined the ranks of the 15.3 million unemployed Americans some time ago, and I remain jobless today.

That being said, I’m hopeful—not just about my circumstances, but about life in general. For instance, many people who lost their jobs have gone on to become entrepreneurs, hatching small businesses that will at least give them something to work for. Maybe that’s what I’ll do, too.

Although being without paid employment isn’t the best thing that can happen to you, there are some perks. For one thing, it gives you time to give back to others. Get out your door and help a neighbor, or volunteer with a local charity, or reevaluate your life’s path—which could result in giving back to others, depending on how successful your reevaluation is. And how well you act on what you find needs fixing or modifying.

I’d like to do that, too. I’d like for this space—whatever it is: blog, advocacy site, meaningless meanderings that are simply a way to continue doing what I love, which is write—to evolve into a positive place to spend a few minutes, and gain a new perspective on life’s ups and downs.

As you go out into the big, cold world, remember that it’s not all that big these days, and it’s warming up as we speak. Literally, in more ways than can be measured by degrees. Whatever your own circumstances, I hope you can find the good in it, and in yourself. It’s out there. It really is, even if you’re trying to find it while waiting in the unemployment line.

Posted by Daleen at 04:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

When it comes to protecting our children from abusive dating habits, by way of teaching them about healthy relationships, sex or even interpersonal boundaries, this is what’s happening all around the country: we are failing our youth.

And if parents don’t stop with the “not my kid” mentality, what should come as a strong warning will end up paving the way to what some experts are calling “a new wave of disturbing abuse” in the future.

The alarming results of a new survey show that not only are tweens (age 11-14) and teens (age 15-19) pairing off into couples, they are having sex (including oral sex) and getting beaten and battered in the process. And if that isn’t bad enough, their parents are clueless about what’s really going on.

Consider these actual findings—and these are not opinions; the survey asked about tweens and teens' own or their friends’ dating practices, as well as the parents' beliefs about what’s going on:

When it comes to tweens:

• 72-percent say dating begins by age 14.
  What’s worse: Nine-percent say dating even begins at age 10 or younger.
• 28-percent say having sex (going all the way) is part of the relationship.
  What’s worse: More than one in four kids say some type of sex is part of dating.
• 24-percent say physical dating violence is a serious problem for tweens their age.
  What’s worse: Only 51-percent know the warning signs of a bad relationship.
• 69-percent who had sex by age 14 experienced one or more forms of dating abuse.
  What’s worse: 36-percent of them were pressured into have oral sex they didn’t want.

When it comes to teens:

• 34-percent say an angry partner has hit, kicked or choked them.
  What’s worse: The earlier teens begin having sex, the higher their level of abuse.
• 42-percent say physical dating violence is a serious problem for teens their age.
  What’s worse: This finding is almost double that of tweens and shows these serious problems increase with age.
• 42-percent reported having had sex.
  What’s worse: 44-percent of teens were pressured into having oral sex or intercourse when they did not want to.
• 58-percent who had sex by age 14 report tracking behavior.
  What’s worse: Tracking behavior consists of demands to know where a partner is at all times, or whom he/she is with, and cell phones are being used for such purposes.

When it comes to parents:

• 70-percent aren’t talking about dating relationships because their kids are “too young.”
  What’s worse: That’s a weak excuse for parents who are too embarrassed or intimidated to do what they know they should.
• Parents overestimate what they think they know about their tweens’ dating habits.
  What’s worse: While 20-percent of tweens say their parents know “little or nothing” about their dating—only 6-percent of parents admitted this was the case.
• Only 8-percent reported their child has “hooked up.”
  What’s worse: Twice as many tweens (17-percent) report having hooked up, showing that parents are woefully ignorant when it comes to their own children’s behavior.
• 39-percent of parents think teens in general “make out,” while only 17-percent of parents think their teen has or will.
  What’s worse: Parents who refuse to face facts may pay dearly, and jeopardize their child’s health, safety and even his/her life.

That’s what I took away from a press conference held July 8 at the
National Press Club in Washington, DC. While I didn’t find the result surprising, having experienced many of the same things discussed therein myself, it is nonetheless sad and scary that 32 years later, parents are still not doing their jobs.

In my next post, you’ll meet Sami, a teen whose ex-boyfriend sexually abused her in the woods behind her school and in her own home. You’ll also meet the Burkes, whose daughter Lindsay was viciously killed when she tried to end an abusive relationship.

Their stories will inspire you to do what you can to help yourself and others—especially your own children.

The national survey was commissioned by Liz Claiborne Inc. and LoveisRespect.org. More than 2,000 online interviews were conducted, and demographic quotas were used to achieve a gender, age and ethnic mix that would align with U.S. Census data.


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Posted by Daleen at 05:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

For the last two years I've been working at the Cumberland Times-News as a police reporter, where the press releases that cross my desk continually remind me why I wrote Sister Of Silence. Violence against women shows no sign of slowing, with more children sexually assaulted by their neighbors or even killed by their parents, and more women being battered in their own homes or even (more and more, it seems) in public during broad daylight. And the cases of teen or adult women who are raped remain an unending problem.

But it's not just a problem in this small Western Maryland town where I work: it's a national problem. And that's why people need to know how to change their behavior, saving themselves and loved ones in the process. So the time for Sister Of Silence has arrived. While I continue working in the newsroom, covering these serious problems, I can only hope it helps others as much as the processes and knowledge it contains helped me.

During the past eighteen months, this site was down, and for that I apologize. Sometimes the daily business of making a living just gets in the way. But now it's back up and ready to go. Read, enjoy and learn - how living life differently is its own reward!

Posted by Daleen at 07:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

In August 2003, during a two-day whirlwind trip to the Big Apple with my daughter, Jocelyn, it was hot, humid and sweltering. The day we left, you could barely cross the street, what for the traffic, the cops and the pedestrians. Just a few hours after that, though, the lights went out when a huge power outage occurred. I think we had just gone through the Holland Tunnel, when everything went black.

In March, thoughts of that earlier journey were with me as I began mentally planning my itinerary for this trip, in the hope that I would be able to do some networking, as well as get my foot in the door for some future freelance reporting assignments at some national magazines.

I anticipated taking that trip in late May or early June. I was forced to postpone it when forces larger than myself intervened, however, in the way of pneumonia, the ‘flu, and a few family factors.

So now it’s nearly August and I’m just now in the Big Apple … where Con Edison can’t seem to figure out how to restore power to about 20,000 very hot and angry electricity customers who have been without lights for more than a week. (Thank goodness I’m staying in the Bronx, with some good friends.) Again, the lights go out when I’m in town. I don’t know if someone’s trying to tell me something, or what.

Well, in spite of having to delay my trip here, some pretty significant things have happened along the way, and the timing turned out perfectly. (Which would explain why I’ve been less than diligent in posting to this site as frequently as I wanted to … my apologies to all of you!) First of all, I learned in June that my book (the rough draft, since it’s still not published) took first place in this year’s annual West Virginia Writers Competition. That means I not only earned my very first dollar for a project that began back in 1988 when I started writing simply for my own personal satisfaction (using my dozens of diaries for source material), but also that Richard Currey, the author who judged my entry from among the 72 entered, must think I can write.

Richard Currey, for anyone who doesn’t know, hails from Parkersburg, West Virginia, although he (like me) found himself living in the Washington, D.C., area while still a child. And, he has gotten incredible praise for his own writing. From Currey’s web site, the Dallas Morning News had this to say about his work:

"When Richard Currey writes, he speaks the truth. The poetry of his language, his wisdom, and his compassion, sets us free. His journeys into the human heart are like tiny miracles..."

So the fact that Currey looked at my book and deemed it worthy of such an honor … well, it’s just very humbling. And it also tells me that I need to keep trying.

Part of being a writer – and news reporters are even worse at this (or they used to be, before the trend began for them to become the news!) – means that you are the person behind the scenes. You have pen in hand, notebook drawn, ready to fire with your ink the first time your subject speaks. But as an author (albeit, an unpublished one), you have to step out of the shadows and tell the world: “Here I am. Look at what I’ve done. I have something to say that no one else can.”

I’ve had a hard time doing that. And that needs to change. For in January, with the Sago Mine disaster, I realized that my story is not just about me or women like me. It’s about a people – an Appalachian people – and how their blood, sweat and tears are making their own lives more difficult than they ever needed to be. In turn, other people, in other occupations throughout the country, can glean something from the story those of us with connections to the coalfields have to share.

The reality that I must change my stance from being behind the scenes, to being in the scene, hit me when I received, unsolicited, a fabulous letter from a woman who once worked “as an editorial reader in the New York publishing world.” She pointed out that my book has a great potential to empower others, and as I read her words, I was struck by how important this story – my story – is.

At the same time, I finally received word that one of the top experts in his field (and a retired special agent from the FBI) has agreed to write the foreword for my book. Before last week, it was up in the air. Now, it’s been confirmed.

Then, the other day, a New Yorker himself told me to get off my duff and publish my book. You see, when my trip to NYC was delayed, I was fortunate enough to learn about the Backspace Conference, held at the Algonquin Hotel here in Manhattan just over the weekend. It brought agents, editors and authors together for two days of some of the finest networking I’ve been involved with in quite awhile. Among the people I met and spoke to was Joel Fried, another author (and quite a funny one) who heard about my book and made me promise to get my queries out to agents right away, so he can come to my first book signing in West Virginia.

So the last few days in the Big Apple have been intense, to say the least. And I’m not even talking about the power outage in Queens.

Posted by Daleen at 11:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)