 Wow, July 4th has come and gone, and if I’m looking at the calendar correctly, I have about a month until I return to my apartment in Poland. That’s right, we are at the heart of summer vacation, that time of year when educators rest and recharge. I’m doing the best I can to accomplish that while still keeping up with my writing. Here’s to another random update from writing to traveling to just being still in no particular order. 1. For whatever reason, my new fantasy book won’t end. At the time of this posting, I’m 150,000 words in. That’s right, this is basically two books in one, at least if I’m looking at my older romantic comedy book lengths. This is not a romantic comedy. It’s a return to what I remember from Dungeons and Dragons with more angst, family dynamics, and for far too many words. There isn’t enough fighting, but then again, dialogue is more of my forte. While most fantasies lean towards lengthy, I didn’t expect to be working on one book since the end of March. 500 pages in and hopefully, within the next week or two, I’ll finally be at a good stopping point. 2. I should preface that the new book is taking more time because I’m only writing once daily for ninety minutes. I didn’t want to spoil one of the high points of my day, so as consistently as possible, I write from 7:15 to around 8:30 at night. Since I’ve been in Maryland, I have added editing to my morning plate for my new Polish travel memoir. Some might remember the name Forever Poland. That’s still the working title. It seems a bit over the top for me, so expect a change between now and the end of the month. 3. Bookbub promotion number two showed a significantly better return on investment simply from the cost point. I ran a Free Reads promotion for my The Fox and the Girl series book bundle and, as a result, got around 5,500 downloads from Kindle, 500-ish from Apple, 100 from Barnes & Noble, and 500+ from Google Play. That’s pretty good, considering I went into the middle-grades category at a total price of $40. I haven’t looked closely at the review ratings, save for Apple and Amazon, because that’s where the contrast was before with my Rusty Star promotion. With Apple, The Fox and the Girl (bundle) had one rating prior to the promotion and now has 12. Amazon went from 18 to 43. For fun, Google Play has 3-5-star ratings. In comparison, Rusty Star had about 16,000 downloads and currently has 122 Amazon ratings and 53 on Apple. I continue to give props to Apple readers who have a higher rate of reading and rating the books they download. Now, numbers aside, the big factor in discussing the return on investment is simply that I sold multiple copies of Lane (book 4 in the series) after all these downloads. Google Books generated 2 purchases, 4 from Apple, and 9 on Amazon. That’s around $60 in royalties and a net profit on this promotion. While this is great news, I was hoping it would be the same for my Russell Stokes books. I’m still in the hole close to $400.00 from that promotion run. So is life.  4. The new apartment in Wroclaw is perfect as a riverside vista and retreat can be. I slept in my new bed for three nights before taking the train to eastern Poland and then returning to the USA via Turkey. A fun fact I might have mentioned in passing is that I accidentally filmed my apartment building two summers ago, when I visited Wroclaw. I was trying to find my hotel for the evening and took a wrong turn. That turn brought me farther down the same street and, lo and behold, to my future home. 5. Białystok and I are still good friends, even though they continue to tear up my favorite park around Branicki Palace. Honestly, the entire area was fine when I first visited three and a half years ago. Clearly, someone didn’t agree, and the construction continues. Maybe next time, they’ll call it good enough, and we can go back to the way things were. The greater question is what happened to the Mona Lisa tattoo parlor? Now that was a special place.  6. Augustow’s train station feels like quite the walk to the city center. Upon first arriving, there are trees everywhere, and the mile and a half, maybe two miles to civilization keeps things interesting. According to Google Maps, there is a side trail through the woods that might shorten the distance, but when wheeling luggage, I didn’t want to take my chances. On a cooler note, the city is a perfect retreat. I wished I had been there more than one night, as it deserved more time. The water alone screamed for swimming and a proper boat ride along the different lakes and canals. 7. Suwałki is a quiet city, and that’s saying something. It’s the first place since Płock, where I wanted to just stay in my apartment and take in the silence. Even though I consider myself great with directional sense, I managed to misread a landmark and ended up at a ski mountain instead of the lake I wanted to visit. Speaking of said lake, the lack of a proper swimming hole was a bit of a buzzkill. Come on, how can you not have a few good swimming spots near a boat ramp? Where else do boaters go to cool off? Oh… that’s right, they can jump in from anywhere the boat goes. Note to self. 8. Ecoline buses are worth the price and the trip. I took a bus from Suwałki to Vilnius. Not only did the ride only take three hours, but the trip through the countryside of both Poland and Lithuania, with lakes, rivers, and fields, was something I didn’t know I needed until it happened. I know the train is functional too, but if I had to do this route again, bus, hands down.  9. I can finally count Turkey as a real country visit, having left the airport for once. Using the Turkish Airlines promotion, I was able to stay overnight between connecting flights. My hotel on the Black Sea was exactly as described. How can you beat pristine waters, gentle breezes, and views without an audience? To top it off, I met some very friendly tour ambassadors. Turkey pays these cats well. 10. Since my left calf refuses to give me the exact reason it won’t let me run longer than a few miles, I’ve turned to swimming since my return to Maryland. The last time I did any training in a pool was in 2012… That was a special period where I ran from side to side or in the deep end for an hour, hoping it would simulate running. As for actual swimming laps, I haven’t done that with any regularity since my senior year of high school. So let’s do the math, it’s been a while. Don’t worry, I bought googles and a swim cap since I have to at least look the part. 11. I took the train from Boston to Washington D.C. A few years ago, I took this beauty, the regional version, and paid heavily with a serious crick in my neck after a 12-hour ride stopping at every station along Route 1 and then some. Fast forward to 2026, I thought this trip might be different, with the Acela seven-hour jaunt. Days later, my neck still disagrees. To the old people who decided they would hoard all of the overhead bins, pretend you’ve been on a train before and know that the oversize bags go at the front of the car, not crammed in the bin across from you, because you don’t know how to manage your bags. Finally, the woman who rode next to me from New York City onward. I don’t know what was worse, watching you plug in across my legs, your computer, then phone, and then proceed to balance email, social media, puzzles, and actual calls. When it looked like you were able to maybe just be, more calls, a podcast no less, and the sushi dinner that had been sitting in your bag for two hours. No wonder my neck hurt from trying to ignore the noise by looking out the window the entire time.  12. Even a day trip to Lubec, Maine, is better than no trip at all. The stillness is one thing, the fog coming in another, and even better, the scent of sea roses is one that can’t be matched. Note to self: make a point to return in late June, after a recent rain, to take in that smell one more time. Honestly, there is nothing quite like it. Maybe next time the clam diggers will be at a different beach, giving you even more peace. If not, it’s still downright one of the more serene places to be in the States.
13. Last but not least, in vlogging news, I’m going a different route now. No, I’m not deleting the channel, that would be stupid. Instead, no more keywords, no more stupid SEO friendly titles that are overused and frankly not authentic. Let’s be clear: I like to walk around and take in the sights. There’s nothing crazy about this concept. If I’m doing this in Wrocław, one of the largest cities in Poland, I can’t say I discovered a hidden gem, or Poland’s best-kept secret, when there are so many other people living there. We’ll see what this means for views, but at least I’m no longer trying to sell an idea or catch phrase to get clicks when there’s so much more to life and other things to spend my bandwidth on.
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Entitlement in the Wild: When Need Becomes Demand I’m confident I should stick to articles on travel, writing, teaching, and vlogging, yet I feel obligated to rant on this forum occasionally. Perhaps "rant" is too strong a word, but to inform and share perspectives on different topics that pique my interest. For today, I’m bothered about entitlement. What a shocking piece of content to throw out to the world, or perhaps it’s not at all. Let’s be clear, I’m not necessarily talking about personal entitlement that I feel some people embrace, especially when I’m walking the streets of Morocco, and various hands are placed in my face, or when I’m being followed by those looking for a monetary handout. I’m told this is a cultural thing, but I’m not buying it, having been in other parts of the world where there are equally many people in need. I don’t see them getting in my personal space and telling me it’s my duty to help them simply because I’m not from their country or share their skin color. While this is ridiculous in its own way, and honestly, a headache I’m rather tired of facing, it’s not what is keeping my mind busy this afternoon. No, this isn’t the same category. Although it does bring to mind my first trip to Tangier over two years ago. I remember it well as I was attempting to vlog the area to get a feel for the streets, the buildings, the climate, everything really. I was off to meet some future coworkers for a cocktail at some trendy rooftop bar. I kept my DJI camera low as I spotted two backpackers on this side street, eager to make my acquaintance. The conversation went like this: two men, in need of a good bath or a scrubbing, blocked my path. “Hey.” I put up my hand, “Not today.” “No, no, we’re not asking for money.” “I’m serious, not today.” “Please, we don’t want any money.” “Fine, then what do you want?” I stopped reluctantly, not to mention, I couldn’t make a clean break. “We haven’t eaten in a while. Can you buy us dinner?” See what they did there? I certainly did. “No, I can’t. I don’t have any money on me.” “We aren’t asking for money. We just want dinner.” “That’s the same thing as asking for money.” “We are hungry. Just get us some food.” “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. That’s the same thing as giving you money.” Let the semantics play out, and more back-and-forth, until finally I managed to escape this screwed-up conversation, which I never would have dealt with back home on the seacoast in New Hampshire or Maine. I should have taken it as a sign for what life would be like in Tangier for the next two years while my teaching assignment played out. This encounter was tame compared to the random women and men who would appear out of nowhere on the dark streets, at six in the morning, and would simply place their hands in my face or the a-hole who accused a friend and me of “coming to his country and $@%&ing him in the backside” because we wouldn’t give him money for his morning fix. Time Put In vs. Time Skipped I could go on about life in Morocco, where frankly I’m clearly not enough of a fan to stay, nor inclined to deal with the daily hypocrisy that plays out. Then again, we get that everywhere around the world, and what’s normal in Tangier is some other pile of excrement in another location. I do appreciate sharing some of my time in the northeastern tip of Africa, but honestly, I would prefer to forget about that outpost, the location that drained me more than any other to date. My apartment had excellent views of Tangier Bay and the Spanish coastline in the distance, but if you asked me if I would ever do it again, it would be a fast and hard “no.” The place is too noisy, too inconsiderate and transactional, and a constant hammer to my senses that at this stage of my life, I would never be able to deal with again. Even now, as I write this blog, months before I can release it without any reprieve for criticizing a place that is beyond repair, I deal with some shoddy Thai Wok shawarma restaurant that has decided, in lieu of traditional drumming and screaming, they will crank their loudspeakers because it will attract the five people walking this strip before nighttime comes. The Hotel Rembrandt across the way is debating when to start their live music, knowing it’s better to wait till late, like ten or eleven at night, so that no one gets a bit of shut eye until the early morning hours, even their paying guests. Let’s throw in the random hammering from one of the buildings and the apartment above me, under constant renovation, even though “there’s no tenant,” and the water coming from their ceiling was clearly not from their busted water tank, and this is the perfect place to live. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an improvement from my first apartment here, a relic with broken, thin windows over a jazz club, at a busy intersection. That place was a real winner, especially when a pharmacist’s car rammed into the front gate, mangling it into several pieces, and blocking the entrance to the building. If you want a real glimpse at Tangier society, the police didn’t show up to investigate for five hours. This was only after I flagged down a local who happened to be a city councilman (or someone who had a heart) to call about the ordeal. Did you know that Tangier is the second place in my life where I’ve seen a dead body? That’s right, the first time was in 1993 in Yalta, where I was told to keep moving, because the poor gentleman with a gunshot to his head in the canal was not meant to be seen by anyone. I think that was code for a mafia hit. Anyway, fast-forward to the present day, and over a couple of months, I witnessed three tragic deaths in this Moroccan city. Clearly, it’s not a place meant for the likes of me, even though I was told it was a place to stir creativity and that many artists would frequent it. Then again, we appear to have gotten off topic; entitlement was supposed to be the focus of today’s blog, not my personal gripes about a section of the world I hope not to return to. Personal entitlement ― yes, let’s dig into this and bring it closer to my readership, my home country in general, and the fact that I’m at a loss at times as to why it’s gotten so bad. Is this a generational issue, or am I missing the boat completely? For context, when I got my first full-time teaching role in 2002, I was hired for $22,500. This included a stipend for coaching, and housing was included because I was not only teaching history but also serving as a resident dean to high school boys. Using an inflation calculator, do you know how much that amount would be worth in 2026? Roughly, $40,340. Now let’s say I changed my salary to $26,500 to cover the cost of housing in Arkansas at that time, a one-bedroom, even with that added, I would be at $47,500.00. Let’s put some perspective in the mix. In central Maine in 2025, the average starting teaching salary ranges from $42,000 to $45,000. Now, I have twenty-plus years of experience, and sure, there are some positions where I could double that salary, but when you consider the cost of living in those places where salaries are greater and educational preferences, I have yet to make more than $57,000 a year, and that’s with a master’s degree. Clearly, I can’t say I got into education for the money, as it’s not a lucrative profession, nor has the income increased exponentially over time. Even if one slides into the administrative side, there are additional hours to work and responsibilities that can tax one's system and be detrimental to one’s health. What brings me pause, after sharing all this information, is dealing with teachers who complain they aren't earning enough or being paid their worth.. Honestly, are teachers woefully underpaid? Sure, compared to what we do as educators and the influence we have on the future workforce and overall the direction of society, absolutely. Do I see that changing anytime soon? Not so much, and that’s not my gripe. Living a debt-free life, I have the luxury of making different career choices that some educators cannot. Still, the complaints from colleagues about how much they get paid and how their degrees should be worth so much more are troubling to me. Why a person with five years of experience demands a significant raise, while a senior educator like myself hasn’t seen a competitive one in years, is troubling. Perhaps their demands have merit, but where’s the parity, the leveling of the playing field? Then again, as school districts continue to raise starting salaries to attract new educators into the field, they aren’t necessarily adjusting the salaries of mid-year professionals or those who have been in the field since the Clinton administration. How can you justify starting a new teacher with a master’s degree and no experience at $50,000, while paying someone with 15 years of experience and a similar educational background $54,000? This happens yearly, and they wonder why good educators are leaving the field altogether. Instead, these younger teachers complain that there are no substantial salary increases once they get their feet on the ground. What do you expect? In the private school world, it’s an entirely different beast, but one that has similar issues. Then again, maybe there’s more wiggle room, not that I have seen it in my experience. Even fifteen years ago, I remember a long conversation with the head of the school on how every person is replaceable. He was kindly sharing with me a badly needed perspective on why salaries are the way they are, and that, at the end of the day, you shouldn’t be in a job just for the paycheck. Today’s generation of workers might not see it that way, as clearly as the general who started his career in the early 1970s. No, most aren’t willing to put in the time. They also don’t want to keep doing something if there’s an easier path. I’ve seen educators who don’t actually want to teach, but want to simply stay in the field for the vacations (more like recovery time for most of us longtimers) and want to supervise or take on administrative roles where they think they can rightfully demand more pay, even though their new positions don’t merit such actions. Others complain about typical teacher responsibilities, such as after-school help sessions, and about the lack of stipends for this covered time. Either way, we are at the point now where the call to be in education isn’t strong enough for the next generation of educators. Many are too busy comparing themselves to the Joneses and want to skip the long-held career progression ladder for more lucrative pastures. While I understand their viewpoint, sheesh, I’d like to make some extra bucks too, but do I think it’s fair to give newbies more money at the expense of my colleagues who have put in the time and done it the right way? Absolutely, not. What Experience Is Still WorthMy big question is why this mentality is so prevalent: why do these new educators, or younger ones at least, think they are more important than their colleagues? Then again, I can look at Tangier, and those people coming up to me for handouts for a prime example. Or perhaps, I can look at it from a more basic viewpoint: these are the same people who won’t restock the paper in a photocopy machine and will leave trash all over the countertop and won’t bother coming in after working hours for a conference, because it’s “considered above and beyond reasonable,” or as I will state not in their DNA to be the better person.
I know other professions are dealing with similar issues, and with AI making it clear that some positions are more replaceable than others. Still, there has to be a middle ground, and at the very least, people need to look in the mirror and decide what kind of person they want to be. Is it really about self-worth? Or is this something deeper, more existential? I don’t know, it’s just food for thought, as many of those blogs become. What do you think? Am I on to something or totally off my rocker? Things We Leave Behind to Move Forward: Reflections on Two Years Living in Tangier, Morocco6/17/2026  Sometimes the formality of a real blog seems restrictive, so in honor of the fact that Tangier has been restrictive and, likewise, freeing in many ways, let’s go to the list of what I learned, or experienced while living in northern Morocco over the last two school years.
These are in no particular order; again, these are just ramblings and thoughts based on one expat's life existing in Tangier.
I’m sure I have more to share, but the point is, Tangier and I were not the best of friends. I sucked it up and amazed myself by staying two full school years. Honestly, I didn’t want to. There were several options waiting for me in Maine. I had days, more than I will share, where I was ready to pack things up and head home to the States. Still, in the back of my head, I knew that if I retreated, I would close the door on future international teaching gigs, especially on returning to schools and areas that resonated more with my soul. The heavy lifting was needed, a hardship posting if you will, where I found my writing voice once more, and survived the grind, the wear and tear that was the hammer of Tangier. With my service medal proudly earned, it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.  I hope to stop back here and leave another message for other travelers this summer. I got a notification on the morning of June 6th, celebrating three years on YouTube. There was a brief smile and the realization that it was more like my 3.5 year anniversary, since there had been a channel before the current one. Oh yes, there was a glorious channel, maybe not glorious, but one molded out of significant travel and exploration of Poland and other countries in Europe, during my stint in Krakow. While those original vlogs no longer exist, as I deleted the first channel in an absurd move to find a better balance and clarity, or we should just label it as temporary insanity, the majority of those cities and towns have gotten new vlogs on the current channel, with only a few spots still needing further attention. Perhaps over the next year, once I’m back in Poland full-time, I will return to Lublin and Lancut to check those things off my to-do list. Then again, I doubt I’ll be heading to Kosice, Berlin, and Thessaloniki anytime soon, but hey, one never knows… Malta does need a return trip. I’m grateful that, even though I haven’t been able to vlog much this past school year, I was able to finish writing a travel memoir about my Polish travels while living in Krakow. With the plan to share that book later this summer, I know it will be a nice bookend for me, regardless of its popularity. With summer now underway, or pretty close, and no summer camp experiences or broken ribs to flip everything into an utter mess, I’m hopeful for a break that balances it all. Yes, travel, writing, and rest. What that means for my blogs, I’m not sure, save the occasional update, unless I feel the need to share my every move over this season. Still, expect Forever Poland news, Niagossi Dragon Traders updates, and some plugs for current books or vlogs.  A series with heart and purpose. See, I had a reason for writing today. Specifically, today is my latest BookBub. Yep, I got selected for a second Free Reads promotion, this time it’s for my Fox and the Girl series, a book bundle covering books 1-3. I feel for Luza and Keira. Honestly, my homage to Narnia deserves better, and between trying pseudonyms, changing book titles, and series names, I’ve managed to market these books in all the wrong ways. Still, the tweens and teens who have found the series generally enjoyed the adventure presented and the story of a bullied teen who found her way, her purpose, and a friend who turned into a sister. I’m proud of the books, and that’s saying more than puffing up my chest, bragging about sales (non-existent ones), but the fact that I know this story serves. Even ten years after Luza and Riley first released, I know there’s something special about their dynamic, the life they live in New Hampshire, and the world they have to face in unsettled times, just as many of us do daily.
If you haven’t checked out the series, it’s free for the next few weeks, so download a copy, and who knows, maybe you’ll want to buy the fourth book in the process. Till next update, enjoy the sun wherever you may be. JFK 
Note these are in no particular order, as random thoughts should be. I really missed Ryanair - the Greyhound of the skies. How it continues to amaze me, my fellow passengers, specifically the parents wearing their earpods or headphones while ignoring the fact that their children are blasting their electronics for the rest of us to enjoy.
Reflections on Memorial Day while living in Tangier The trail in Bray, Ireland While my family and friends back in the States celebrate another Memorial Day, where, honestly, people congregate to spend time together and open the summer season, especially in Maine and New Hampshire, I’m here in Tangier, looking for a well-deserved reprieve. Unlike my family, I worked on Monday but will be celebrating on my own later in the week. In a day or two, while the locals celebrate Eid, which I believe is the celebration of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son to God rather than a sheep, I’ll be in England, rebooting and recharging. I’m confident, though, as I look across the Irish Sea, squinting towards Bray and Dublin, that I will remember my first trip to that area, the one I want to share now. While the original travel vlog is gone, the experience, the shared moment, and the reminder that we can all impact others in positive ways remain strong to this day. In honor of the those who have gone before us, especially my fellow veterans who paid the highest price on the field of battle, here’s a blog about making a difference, not because I necessarily wanted to, but because I could. That’s the truth,  Bull Island in Dublin, Ireland (Taken from an old blog I wrote on my first trip to Dublin in November 2022)
There was a point in the walk to Bull Island where I intended to share a short story, but between the wind and the run-in with the Easter Island statue, I dropped the ball entirely. You’ll notice as much when you watch the video. My apologies. With the holiday season underway, especially Thanksgiving, I can’t help but think about how important giving is in all our lives. Many struggle this time of year, far more than at other times. Some lack basic necessities, and others lack emotional or physical support. I don’t need to jump into war-torn areas, where we know the need is great, but as I look outside the door and those I pass on a daily basis, I have no other recourse. As a teacher in New Hampshire, I saw firsthand how school districts support those who don’t have enough food, clothing, or even shelter. Here in Poland, it’s a bit different. I know there is a need, but I don’t know what channels they have to provide. The number of Ukrainian refugees living here clearly shows that Poland is a country that embraces a giving mentality. Many Polish families welcomed Ukrainians into their homes with open arms. They allowed them a place to stay until a suitable arrangement could be made during this trying period. Even now, the country continues to support Ukraine in whatever way it reasonably can. Back in the States, many live in a bubble. I know I did until sixteen years ago when I transitioned out of the Navy and went back into education. I remember gathering the belongings I did have in Maryland and, to my surprise, finding that my favorite fleece blanket was gone. I looked around the house, in every drawer, closet, and box. The unicorn blanket had been a keepsake since middle school and a favorite of mine. I didn’t take it to South Carolina or Florida for fear of it being taken or lost, let alone knowing the blanket couldn’t be brought to boot camp or training command without ample ribbing. To say I was bummed was a bit of an understatement. When it came up in conversation at the dinner table, I found out why the blanket was gone and how. Stephen, in his overly generous nature, had given it to a homeless man in Washington DC. My first thought was you gotta be kidding me. Why did he take my favorite blanket? He didn’t donate his Grizzly Bear fleece, but I guess anything that wasn’t my twin’s was fair picking. That’s exactly what happened. All said, some clothes, a second blanket I overlooked, and the unicorn fleece were all thrown into Stephen’s truck and delivered to a homeless person he saw near the Days Inn in downtown Washington. I couldn’t be mad since it was for a good cause, but I found it fitting that my twin had only given up my belongings. I can hear his voice, “You weren’t using them.” From what I gathered, he did this multiple times. It was sort of a funny joke in the end because Stephen had passed eight months earlier, and I could hear him rationalizing his giving even without having a formal conversation. This was the same guy who, after the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004, said he was changing his life because if the Sox could come back from down 3-0, then he could do anything he set his mind to. Sadly, his own personal quest ended far too soon, but his legacy and the lessons he provided continue to this day. At the very least, I know my blanket found a good home. In Dublin, this specific memory popped into my head after I passed an old woman. Let me backtrack: this memory didn’t show up until a few hours later, on the return walk to my Airbnb. The first time we crossed paths, she was up against a derelict building door. She mumbled something, probably in Gaelic, and held up a paper cup. I waved slightly and carried on, more focused on finding Bram Stoker’s Park and his childhood home. A typical American, I blew by her, but not fast enough to lose sight of her condition or see the whites of her eyes. She was barely sitting up, and if not for the wall, I’m not sure if she wouldn’t be on her side. How she got to that spot, I couldn’t fathom, but at that moment, I also put her out of my mind. In Riga and now here in Dublin, seeing people in hardship pulled at my heartstrings, but I knew I couldn’t give to everyone I saw. There was no way to tell who was truly in need and who was putting on a show. Maybe that’s jaded, but it’s also the truth. Three hours passed, and I was cutting back after my tour of central Dublin. There was the old woman with the squinting eyes still against the wall. A light blue fleece blanket was wrapped around her legs. I’m confident there wasn’t one the first time we crossed paths. Again, she spoke, and I gently shrugged and smiled. Several seconds passed, and I kept walking. I felt for my wallet and wondered how much cash I had. I knew I didn’t have change or anything less than a significant bill. About that time, when I was rationalizing why I shouldn’t stop, Stephen and his unicorn snatching deeds came to mind. Possessed by Stephen’s memory and what was the right thing to do, I turned around. She didn’t see me coming as her back was turned. I tapped her on the shoulder. She lifted the cup, and I shook it off. Slowly, I knelt down and handed her the bill. Tears filled her eyes, and she spoke in Gaelic. I’m pretty sure I know what she said, but we’ll save that for another story. We didn’t have to exchange another word. I saw the angel looking back at me, a woman who hadn’t always been this way, who had a long life up till now, but had fallen on a rough time. I felt what she felt and knew this small gesture would help her more than it would help me find another place to stuff my mouth and fill my stomach. I walked home hopeful for the old woman. More importantly, I was thankful for Stephen, his memory, and the lesson he taught me years earlier. In this season of Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter how much you give, but that you put yourself in the right place to help those in need, in a way that truly serves. If you happen to see a unicorn fleece blanket, do let me know. Teacher Burnout or Time to Walk Away? When Educators Know the Classroom Has Left Them Behind5/17/2026  A perfect homework key If there is one profession where employees need some time to recharge and renew, it’s, hands down, education. For people who think otherwise, I would simply say you’ve never been in a classroom, dealt with twenty to thirty kids and their emotional, physical, and educational issues for months at a time. Even for the most seasoned veterans, by the time June rolls around, we’re tired. I should know, speaking as one of those very educators. What grace and patience we had from September through April have been tapped. How many times can one tell Sally to take out her homework, writing supplies, and start the warm-up exercise, when it’s been the same routine since day one? And parents… let’s be entirely honest: how many emails and grade updates can we share to help you understand that it’s not just teachers and kids in the educational process? It takes the home unit as well, especially in my current base of operations, Morocco. Then again, in some cultures, or maybe it’s just people with changed circumstances, there is no bandwidth or desire to help their kids learn what it really means to be a productive, functioning, and good human being. We could dive into semantics, who needs to do what, and what each role is expected to do and should, but in this blog, I’d rather focus on my fellow educators who are tired and ready to recharge. The question for many, whether they want to admit it or not, is whether this is the final school year they go through this routine, or if the summer is enough to bring them back to this increasingly difficult and at times trying profession. Granted, we all know the educators who have no business being in the classroom to begin with. For them, it’s more about whether they understand that this is not a place for the uninitiated, those who simply want to punch a clock and keep the children at arm’s length, or those who feel the children should simply be robots who follow every directive with blind obedience. For that matter, those who lack empathy and see only in black and white should be shown the door. Here’s a list for teachers to consider whether to hang things up for good. I’m sure I’ll leave some out, but having served in a pseudo-administrative role these past few years, I can speak not only from a teacher’s perspective but also from that of someone who coaches and works with them.  Nine plus years ago - the science experiment that went bad Let’s check out this list.
1. Teachers who pass blame and their classroom issues onto administrators or fellow colleagues need to take a moment. Sure, there are some bad administrators in this world, just like there are bad teachers, but generally speaking, people learn their roles and manage the best they can. Some struggle, but those in administration managed to secure the role by impressing someone, and as teachers, we need to give them grace, even if at times it feels like we don’t receive any in kind. The teacher can’t assume that every admin is out to get them and not support them in the classroom. When you start to believe that, it’s likely time to run for the hills. I don’t care how frustrated you are; if you really think your classroom issues and students' problems are from a lack of support, then you might not be doing your job effectively. If it’s been going on for several years, it’s more about you and time to decide if this career fits. 2. Let’s shift the blame from the administration to the students. Come on, the students should be happy and feel privileged to have you in their classroom as their instructor for the year. Sheesh, if they aren’t understanding the concepts, doing work, and behaving like angels, clearly that’s entirely on them. Honestly, it’s not as black-and-white as one would hope. We are dealing with children after all, who use school as a safe place to test boundaries. Are some total a-holes…yep, while some are the absolute salt of the earth and wonderful human beings. The ones in the middle, those are the ones you can reach the most, if you show that you care and are willing to work with them. Does it solve homework completion? Not necessarily, only because we can’t impact what happens when those students go home. Are students awful human beings for being disruptive in class, pushing buttons, and not making the first mark? No, it’s part of the job to create a system to navigate all of this. It takes work, buy-in, and effort from the teacher to create an environment that gets most of the students on board. If a teacher can’t, then find a different school and see if that population resonates more. Should it not, then it’s not the students, but the educator who isn’t cut out for this dynamic, for this career choice. Not every person who becomes a teacher is able to do the job, and the sooner they realize this, the better for all involved. 3. Toxic teachers, the same ones who want praise for doing their actual job, and also want to be paid as though they are better than their colleagues and should have preferential treatment for scheduling, class selection, and duty assignments, should find another life path. The tricky thing about these educators is that they won’t exactly realize it’s time to hang things up. Sure, they’ll mention it occasionally and will daydream about other educational roles, ones that they aren’t qualified for, but feel their experience alone makes them not only viable candidates, but ones that should get paid for taking on this new burden. Granted, many of these types don’t know they are doing this because many are wounded, narcissistic souls who haven’t had enough people call them out on their nonsense. These people are the ones who also blame administrators, students, and parents, and won’t hold up the mirror to their own diluted selves. I wish I could say I feel for these people, but these are the ones who need to be shown the door. If their administration had a backbone, a paper trail, or an authentic understanding that the students are better off without these energy vampires, then these teachers wouldn’t be reflecting on whether to stay; they'd already be gone. 4. Teachers who manipulate the school day and don’t put in the time the role demands need to decide whether they can meet the constraints of the position or look elsewhere. Sure, teaching hours are better than in many professions, with holidays off and, for the most part, every night but a few times a year. Allegedly, we also get summers off. Regardless, those who care won’t leave school until their classroom is ready for the next school day. If grading isn’t complete, it’s done either at home after scheduled work hours or on weekends. That’s the rub: educators have set hours, but veterans know there isn’t enough time in the schedule to get everything done unless one is really effective at time management. Even those who are, if you can’t handle Wednesday afternoon meetings, eight o’clock arrival times, and late afternoon departures, then maybe you need to pause for a bit. Those teachers who show up five minutes before the kids arrive and are running for the door right after the students board the buses home are not doing it right. Sure, that’s my judgment, but if the contract says teachers need to be on site at 8 am, then 8:20 doesn't live up to your end of the bargain. Crying about no time to eat lunch is another big warning flag. Here’s an idea: snack throughout the day, knowing that with kids, things come up. If there is a behavior issue, you shouldn’t be passing on a problem that can be managed in the classroom to someone else, simply because you want a twenty-five-minute break to eat an overpriced school lunch. Would it be nice to always have a planning period, or two, and ample time to eat, sure? But if you are the educator who is complaining to the administration or the teacher’s association about your inability to be flexible at a job that demands constant flexibility, it’s time. 5. On a similar note, those professionals who believe sick days are free days off even if they aren’t sick should reflect on whether their hearts are in the right place. I’ll never forget a colleague whose contract wasn't renewed because of budget cuts. I was in the same situation, but I came to work early every day and usually left later than others, yet this yahoo still had 30-something sick days on the books. What did he do? He took every Friday off and several Mondays for the last 2.5 months of the school year. That’s not someone who should be in the classroom, and if you might fit that mold, the one who is asking HR how many sick days you have left (to use), post that resume now. 6. I’m confident there are more flags that show it’s time to leave the profession, but number one would be when an educator has reached the point where they don’t like the kids, period. Sure, throughout the year, all teachers have a love-hate relationship with their classroom. If they don’t, I want to meet these kind souls. For the most part, it should be a constructive relationship, but if the teacher sees these kids as imbeciles or losers and doesn’t like anything about them, it’s a giant red flag. Our profession dictates time with children, so if being in their presence is revolting, regardless of the reason, it should be a no-brainer to leave. Over the years, I have seen and heard teachers berate their students, telling them they aren’t capable of earning a grade or learning a concept. How dare you, teacher? Sure, some students underachieve, and some don’t put in the time, and yes, we can push them to do more, but when we start questioning their capabilities by putting limitations on what they can accomplish, it’s time to leave. I’d rather have a mediocre colleague who wants nothing but the best for their students than the pedagogically sound educator who demeans and questions the integrity of kids just because they weren’t the teachers who gave them those foundational skills or explained a concept in a way that resonated. On a passing note, educators who believe they are the only ones capable of doing the job should reflect on the profession and whether it serves. Schools are a team effort, period. When one loses sight of this perspective, there is no place for them. Did I leave any of the big ones out? Are there other warning signs? BookBub Free Reads Review (2026): Indie Author Results with 13,000+ Downloads Across Platforms5/5/2026  Rusty Star was the book being promoted. It must have been around a decade ago when I first heard of BookBub. As an independent author, the service is virtually a slam dunk for getting fresh downloads and purchases. The first time I contemplated applying was with The Fox and the Girl series. I just finished writing the last two books, and with a completed series and virtually no traction, the idea of being selected and potentially reaching thousands of new readers was undoubtedly tempting. Then reality set in. There was an application process and vetting, with whatever whim they decided to follow on a given day. Sure, they will say otherwise, but it’s odd how some books with few to no ratings get selected, while others with well over a hundred get no love either. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Authors know that if you can get a featured deal “Bub,” it will mean a bump in sales, regardless. I can’t tell you how many times I applied only to be rejected. Let me think for a moment … maybe nine is the current number. That sounds about right. The first one was in 2018. When I wasn’t selected for this opportunity, to fork over a boatload of money to gain access to more readers, I found myself using Fussy Librarian. Over the years, this has been a reliable service, where I know I’ll get some eyes. Some genres do better than others, but I would say it’s worth the price point, even though it’s not the thousands of downloads that BookBub can bring. To that end, I recently applied to BookBub for a featured deal and wasn’t selected. Not a big surprise at all, but what was surprising was that I was offered a slot to participate in their relatively new service, Free Reads. Full disclosure: I couldn’t find much about this (it only started in fall 2025), and what were the typical results for people who put their free books in this newsletter. Hence, this week’s blog shares some numbers so other writers aren’t entirely in the dark. Then again, my personal findings are interesting regardless, because without knowing the exact readership numbers to BookBub’s Free Reads newsletters and the genres they put as preferences, it’s a bit grey. I also can’t tell you how much of a bump was given by the readership versus just being at the top of the charts, and between getting movement on the Amazon and Apple algorithms. Let’s dig into the actual numbers and interpret them accordingly. The price point for this promotion, to put Rusty Star in the Free Reads newsletter, was $500.00. In comparison, I paid $79.00 for Fussy Librarian. The Fussy Librarian promotion was in early March. All told, on Amazon, if I did the numbers right, I got 1069 downloads. On Google Books, 96, and between Apple/Barnes & Noble, because I can’t differentiate them right now, there were 483 books. That promotion brought in 1648 downloads. From what I have observed, my ratings on Amazon went from 18 to 28, and Goodreads was in the low 20s. I applied to BookBub with 28 ratings and possibly one or two on Apple. Let’s look at the week leading up to the Free Reads promotion. In some act of cosmic humor, and maybe also to prove to me that I don’t need to pay to move any of my books, three days before the scheduled promotion, there were around 55 downloads each on Apple and Barnes & Noble. There might have been 5 on Google Books. More interestingly, 1928 downloads from Amazon. We’ll call that the Stephen Anniversary treat. In effect, that was more than my Fussy promotion, and it was entirely just algorithm-driven. Even the rankings on Amazon were good enough to break the top 100 overall.  The numbers the day before the Free Reads promotion. At the peak, Rusty Star was #6 Free in the Kindle Store. The Free Reads newsletter was emailed out later that week, and things really took off.
Amazon - 11,081 downloads over the course of my promotion. In a remarkable newsworthy moment, there were approximately 2200 downloads through Apple/Barnes & Noble, with roughly 1600 to Apple and 600 to Barnes & Noble. Just for fun, Google Books jumped in and contributed 703. All told, from April 17 to April 28, 13,984 downloads across all platforms. If I wanted to sneak in the bump earlier in the week, 15,921 downloads for half the month. What does this mean exactly? Well, it means I potentially gained thousands of readers this month. Ratings on Amazon have gone from 28 to 41. Now there’s no way to tell how many of those were from my mid-April bump or from the promotion. Goodreads is now at 54. Double Cross, the follow-up book, has garnered 12 sales. On Apple, oh how I love Apple readers, we have gone from 2 ratings to 40. Given its significantly lower downloads, that number is revealing. It means that Apple readers are more serious about their books, while the Amazon ones might just store them for a rainy day. Double Cross purchases are currently at 9. And because we shouldn't leave anyone out, the ratings for Barnes and Noble are abysmal. There are zero, yes, zero ratings, despite 600 downloads. Or I simply can’t figure out where to find them. Then again, Google Books, I believe, is at five. It’s still early in the process, but after two weeks of running the promotion, those are the numbers. I don’t know if I would do it again for the price point. Sure, I’m now showing up on more people’s recommended lists, and I can brag about being number one on several Amazon genre lists, but aside from that, I have to sit and wait to see if I make my money back. As an independent author, while fun to share my stories, between editing costs, book cover design, and promotions, I have yet to break even on any project. That’s the reality of my writing journey. But I love what I create and will keep finding ways to get more eyes on my catalog. I’ll update with more numbers at the end of May, but that’s it for today. Later, JFK Update May 25 - While the Apple reviews have slowed, Amazon has taken off. Maybe it just took readers longer to get to the book. Current numbers as of this morning are Apple at 47 ratings, Amazon at 80, and Goodreads at 71. For perspective, Apple had only a tenth as many downloads as Amazon. Double Cross sales over the same time are an even three on Apple and three on Amazon.  I did something crazy this past weekend. Not since the somewhat flawed trip to Asilah and the wedding reception I wanted no part of did I take my friend up on her offer and head to the mountains. Yes, it was time to check off Morocco’s Blue City, Chefchaouen, the tourist mecca most international visitors and expats flock to for blue walls and photo-friendly moments. Then again, from my brief exchange with the shady guy on the street who asked me if I wanted some hash, maybe people come here for other, nefarious reasons. Full disclosure: I have known about Morocco’s Epcot Center for three years, since IntotheBloom shared her adventures (https://www.intothebloom.com/chefchaouen-photo-guide/). Dominika’s blog gave me hope it might be worth a visit, until I actually started living here and realized it was a hub for people to check off their travel lists, as though it were a necessary stop on the way to seeing the real Morocco.  Let’s be clear: aside from some blue-painted walls, which would look better whitewashed, any charm this village in the mountains has comes not from the vendors or the tourists who do their ridiculous dance. Sure, there are some lovely bags, bath salts, and a ridiculous amount of knockoff paintings showing some senorita in the streets, or a lone cat stalking the medina, but the real charm of this city comes from the quieter moments. That, my friends, is what I will focus on as opposed to giving you a list of where to visit or what to see, let alone what to eat. Come on, I went out of my way to eat at a local pizza restaurant because I was hungry and didn’t want to walk around any longer looking for some authentic Moroccan cuisine that was likely as good as the same standard tourist menu they hawk at us here in Tangier. Then again, maybe if I had gone to Twins and gotten some tagine or couscous, I wouldn’t have dealt with the wrath of one of my students. Note to self: always consult your students for tips before any adventures. Back to the silence, or at least the perception of such compared to the constant hammer and grind of the big city in Tangier. That’s what this trip was about: getting away, for an overnight retreat, to not have to deal with the incessant noise, whether from the hobbyist renovator who might live above my head and has decided that Saturdays are the best days to pretend he is redoing the apartment, but more likely he is attempting to look occupied going from room to room in an attempt to hide from his wife. Between that nutjob who has been “busy” since October on this pressing project, the same one that flooded my kitchen the previous January, and the drone of motorists not communicating with their horns, but simply being a-holes, I needed a proper respite. We aren’t even considering the random drum circle that loves to frequent the restaurant below my apartment window, or the women who walk around doing their glorified throat singing that sounds more like a battle cry to my ears. Chefchaouen seemed promising, with at least fewer people to contend with and, if we were lucky, a bit of quiet. Granted, this is Morocco, so one has to put such things in perspective, just like dealing with idiots jumping in front of cars because they can, or parking attendants stopping vehicles to get them to go to a different lot when it makes little sense. The ride itself was already a blessing in disguise. Sure, the GPS told us the trip would take two hours, but it took us two and a half because, unlike the trucks and cars that seem oblivious to common sense or rules of the road, we drove like our grandmother would on her way to church. There was no rush, just a sense we would get there in time to appreciate the service. I treasured the change of pace, the sheep and goats who claimed the roadside as their own, and the occasional mule eager to push its master into the passing traffic.  Thank goodness, we didn’t stop at the intermittent mountain-side vistas where suspect old women carried prepared food in plastic containers and vendors were selling necklaces that I could have been ripped off for just as easily, here in Tangier. However, according to my friend, the food was fresh cheese and bread, so maybe we should have stopped after all. The roadside coffee is some of the best in Morocco, spiced if that is your thing. I suppose a follow-up trip might be necessary to confirm if this is, in fact, the truth. I also seem to remember a mention of Morocco’s number-one barbecue venue, but you know the pizza was calling in Chefchaouen, so we continued on at our measured pace. We were more concerned about getting to the mountain city, past the random police markers where everyone appeared to be waved on, and no one was actually being stopped. I know, I for one, was eager to be pulled over so they could see me in the front seat with an assortment of stuffed friends on my lap and an empty container of gummy bears. All we needed were some Slim Jims and Combos to make this the perfect trip. When we finally arrived at the Blue City, after driving up a significant incline with way too many street lights, as though people actually walked this route, when I knew it was really for dogs dropped off at the bottom by rescue organizations, I wondered if we had made the right call. Several minutes passed before we parked the car in front of a hotel, with too many taxis blocking the way and people who had no clue where they were going or why. As with the alluring seaside hamlet of Asilah, the questionable, potentially dubious act of old men standing on the streets, jingling their keys, made me ponder what awesome rooms for the night they were offering. What could go wrong in paying for a room from a stranger on the outskirts of the old medina? I’m sure these are only the best, safest places without shared bathrooms and beds free of bedbugs and other fun overnight visitors. If only my friend had been more adventurous, or if I had wanted to eat the price of our reserved riad, we could have experienced one of Morocco’s greatest charms. Alas, like with Twins, I’m sure we missed out on what others only dream about. By the time we arrived, the blue streets were busy with old-timers and their hiking sticks blocking the already narrow alleys, gathering closely and listening to their tour guides, who were sharing only the greatest history lessons on the ancient practice of painting walls blue, as if it were something special. We forced our way around these veterans of the traveling circuit, past the vendors whose stands were encroaching even more of the path, and Generation Z members paying for opportunities to pose in beautiful corners on provided cushioned chairs, because it would help their auras.  I pretended to be a nomad, not of the digital kind, but a man who knew where he was going, away from this prescribed schtick, and to our awaiting riad, far enough from the madness, but with enough charm to make it worthwhile. We weren’t disappointed. This place wasn’t next to the kasbah or to the square that needs no name, because everyone and their friend has taken a photo at this thing. No, our place was off the main path, no vendors, no madness, unless you call the young girls forcing the boys to play soccer somewhere else madness or simply role playing for their adult years when the men would find other reasons to avoid their spouses. The riad was a complete contrast to life in Tangier. Tiles galore, fountains, and an abundance of designs that, while not my preferred aesthetic, worked. More importantly, the little living room with the vintage couches proved an ideal spot for a delivered Chinese dinner, and the rooftop terrace offered views without the headaches of sharing space with hundreds of other people watching the setting sun. Don’t misunderstand me, we ventured out to play tourist, but within reason. There was, of course, the walk to the river, looking for that connection to nature where even in constructed chaos, the sounds of water can still soothe the soul. We walked to the Spanish Mosque in search of good views and aloe plants I could entertain the thought of digging up for a lifetime supply, but most importantly, we walked to clear our heads from the demands of school life, where students require our undivided attention and some parents prefer preferential standing when the need arises. Aside from a few stumbles on loose cobbles eager to claim new victims, we found a near-empty cafe that other tourists feared to go to. I now found a reason to explore the next morning, when everyone else was sleeping off a night of excess and boisterous activity. I fell asleep in silence, without even the hum of activity outside to stir. As the residents and tourists disappeared into their rooms, bringing many of the city’s cats with them, we woke to explore a new city, untouched, unbothered, and free of commercial transactions. That’s when the real fun began, with four-legged angels keeping us safe and leading us to the best spots without the madness that a Moroccan experience typically entails. While I’m sure you want to hear more, I’ll let the vlog take over from here. In the end, the trip to Chefchaouen was a good one. I’m still unsure whether I liked the city, but I appreciated the well-deserved respite from constant noise and the opportunity to be closer to nature, even as I watched others treat it as a place meant for tourists rather than a home to so many.  This is always an interesting time of year for me, or has been since 2005. For Americans, some of us are getting those last-minute tax returns in, but with that already checked off the books, for me, it’s more about reflecting on the twin brother who passed in his prime. I find it humorous the lead-up, the week before the anniversary, where, frankly, even now, 21 years later, I’m subdued in some moments, reflective at others, and any patience I do have is out the door as my body and mind go back to that week and those last interactions. The movie Fever Pitch springs its head as that was the last movie I told my Red Sox-obsessed brother to go to with his expecting fiancée. They never did make it to the movie, nor did he get to watch the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy episode with the Red Sox championship players, including our mutual favorites of Jason Varitek and Tim Wakefield. Little things still bring me pause, even here in Tangier, living what feels like half a world away. His son is turning 21 this year, which we all know is a rite of passage. Still, it’s a bit surreal to watch his child grow into a man, while my brother never got to experience any of that process. As for his fiancée, she made the final transition home a decade after Stephen, leaving a heavier weight on this annual holiday. We aren’t just talking about my twin, but the woman he loved as well. I know it’s far easier to write she died, but then again, the word transition makes it seem less final. Even Stephen, my dear twin, physically died. Trust me, I’m well aware, as I can see the bloodied clothes from the car accident, and can feel the emotions run through me as if it were yesterday. Sheesh, I can open up the page from Running With Vince, where I literally explained that scene, the plastic bag with his belongings, those blood-stained clothes representing some relic that the medics and hospital thought we would want to keep. His car was totaled, I know it well as I climbed in through the trunk, trying to salvage what belongings remained, or dare I say, he left behind. Fittingly, Phil Collins' greatest hits CD was taken with him, lost in the carnage, as were several other musical hits that Stephen had commandeered without my permission years earlier. I still laugh, finding these little tokens in the years that have passed. Again, he physically left, but his influence and touch still permeate everything, or maybe just enough of my daily environment to realize he is still around, helping in other ways. Even now, here in Morocco, I put on our local radio station 98.7, from Somersworth, New Hampshire, and the first song that comes on is REO Speedwagon’s “Keep On Loving You.” If I needed a cosmic wink that Brother Bear was around, there couldn’t have been a clearer sign. This was one of his anthems, a song I have been forced to like, and a funny reminder of the twin dynamic we shared. Flashback to the infamous Snow Bowl, the game between the Raiders and Patriots, that led to the “Tuck Rule” and to Adam Vinatieri’s winning kick that eventually took us to the Super Bowl. The dynamic duo started off at Crazy’s Ottos, a dive bar to begin the game, so Stephen could check in with his local bookie (no joke) and have a couple beers with heavenly wings while watching our home team play. I don’t remember much about the first half of the game or even up until the fourth quarter, save that we were losing 13-3 and I told him we were going home to watch the rest of the game from there. There was no point in being sad at a bar when we could do it from the living room, less than two miles away. Stephen turned up the television as we arrived just in time to watch the Patriots drive down the field and score their first touchdown of the game. He was nuts. He was loud. He was drinking his beer and screaming at the television set with every run, pass, and play. It was ridiculous, but then again, this was Patriots football, and Stephen loved them dearly. A few minutes later, he was back at it again. The Patriots had the ball and were driving in blizzard-like conditions. Somehow, some way, Vinatieri nailed that 45-yard kick through the uprights, tying the game and taking us to overtime. Stephen was off the rails, screaming louder, jumping up and down, and of course turning on his celebration anthem of REO Speedwagon. He was a party unto himself. Even with me pleading with him to turn down the music so I could hear the television, he insisted on getting through the first verse and chorus before he recentered enough for the overtime period. He also refused to move out of the way so I could turn the stereo off, which made the entire exchange even funnier. I was excited about the overtime period, but I didn’t need to shout to the neighbors on the other side of our living room wall or to anyone walking their dogs past the front door. He was so LOUD, but that was him. I just wanted to clap and take it all in. Now, in 2026, the song still plays, and I’m brought back to those moments, to this exchange and others. It doesn’t take much to bring him front and center, and for that I’m grateful. As for football games, I can’t watch them anymore without taking on his boisterous traits or the over-the-top passion for our home team to do well. I will say I prefer the little winks, his reminding me of our moments, of the twin boys who grew up together, and even now, years later, share a bond that can’t be broken. Anniversaries will continue to come and go, with different perspectives and challenges, but the love remains. That’s all that matters. |
Meet Mr. Jon- a traveler at heart who loves a good story and walk. Jonathan has over twenty years experience in independent publishing. While he prides himself on crafting a good story, nothing truly beats an adventure and a camera. 
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