Beyond the Trope: Finding Truth in Fractured Memories by Allison Martin

Trigger warning: Discussion of PTSD and trauma (non-graphic).

Author Note: Healing is deeply personal. What I share here is my own journey. I believe that fantasy and romance novels can comfort and illuminate, but they should not replace the care and guidance of professionals.

I’ve always used stories as a way to make sense of the world, but somewhere along my writing journey, I’ve discovered that tropes can be way more than just a plot device. They can be a way to name and process difficult and painful experiences in a safe way.

And for my latest Historical Romantasy, I chose trope enemy number one: Amnesia.

Backing up a bit, I grew up on the fantasy classics: epic quests, magical curses, chosen ones, princesses locked in towers. Men, busy being heroes, and learning lessons at the expense of women, usually. 

But it wasn’t until I discovered romance that I truly saw myself in the pages. The idea that women could be messy, angry, stubborn, flawed, complicated, full of desire, and still be the heroes of their own stories, without having to be sacrificed or saved, felt revolutionary.

It was that belief that pushed me to dip my toe into the fantasy waters as an author, and pen the first version of what would become Of Dust and Flame. 

Twelve years ago, I wrote a novella about a fire-weilding girl who wakes up on a 1930s magical circus train with no memory of who she was before. It poured out of me, raw, unfiltered, and unrefined. 

At the time, I couldn’t have explained why I chose to write amnesia into Ella’s story. It just felt necessary.

I proudly published that novella as a baby author, only to discover something the hard way: readers hate the amnesia trope. 

Back then, I barely knew what a trope was. But amnesia had a reputation for being cheap, lazy, and overly dramatic, which after reflection is legit criticism. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that my little novella didn’t have the depth needed to sustain the story and I pulled it, moving on with my life.

Sorta.

Why I couldn’t quite let it go

Ten years and several books later, I’d developed a strange affection for hated, cliched tropes that I’m sure started with Ella. Instead of avoiding them, I wanted to dig into why people railed against them, and if they had any true depth or redeeming qualities beneath their ability to create cheap conflict.

Building a career on writing things people hate was a choice. But one I’ve never regretted.

The first tug back to Ella’s world came during therapy. After finally naming what I’d lived through as PTSD from multiple past sexual assaults, I dove into the science behind why my memories felt scattered and out of order. 

PTSD isn’t just flashbacks; it fragments experiences into jagged memories, burying parts of your history in an effort to protect you. But the issue is these fragments don’t stay buried. They resurface, often in the most bizarre ways, and because the brain doesn’t have the full memory, the experience that your brain is trying to protect you from, repeats itself in your present experience.

Revisiting Ella’s story, it became painfully clear: what I thought was just a plot twist was actually my subconscious trying to make sense of something it couldn’t name at the time. Her fractured memories weren’t a gimmick. They were a reflection of the parts of myself I hadn’t been able to face.

Those who know me, know that my favourite place to live is in the space where science and magic meet. Processing PTSD with a magical deck of tarot cards and the most hated trope on the planet, seemed like the exact spot I needed to be to do this story justice.

Writing the book I couldn’t have written back then

Reopening the manuscript felt like reading a jumbled, disjointed letter from my younger self, but I knew it was time. I knew I was ready.

Years of therapy, research, and my uncanny ability to find patterns in anything, had given me tools my past self didn’t have to breathe life and depth into Ella’s story. 

By then, the injury was mostly healed; I haven’t had a real trigger in nearly five years. I could finally look at what I’d been avoiding and untangle the threads, using historical romantasy to do it.

I rewrote Of Dust and Flame from the ground up, and this time, I felt the magic of this world in my bones.

A trope too close to home

Ella’s amnesia wasn’t just there to create mystery. It became the heart of the story. Her trauma claws its way into her present, shaping her choices and repeating old patterns until she’s forced to process her pain, or be crushed beneath it. 

The dual timelines — the past pushing through and the present she can’t escape — became my way of showing how trauma continuously loops until something breaks it, or it breaks something.

It felt vulnerable to write. Ella’s rage, mistrust, and fear of closeness were all too familiar. 

Fiction gave me distance, but it also demanded honesty about what it’s like to live with memories that don’t stay politely in the past.

For Ella, the past isn't just the past. 

It leaks into her present, reshaping who she trusts, who she pushes away, and why. 

That felt painfully true, because trauma confuses friend and foe, hero and villain — and sometimes, in fictional circuses with cursed tarot and forbidden love, it can even turn a girl into a monster.

About Dust and Flame:

Ella Olsen was born to dazzle under the big top, but her fire-wielding magic has always kept her in the shadows.

When the 1929 financial crash leaves her family’s circus on the brink of collapse, Ella makes a desperate deal to save it—one she can no longer remember. Then, a devastating fire takes everything: her home, her father’s legacy, and her past.

She awakens in Cirque du Mystique, a place of impossible performances where every act is powered by magic. But her arrival isn’t by chance. Maddock, a dangerously charming aerialist, has come to collect on the deal she forgot. Now, Ella must compete in The Spectacle, a deadly showcase where only the strongest survive.

As her memories return, so do the secrets she once buried. The closer she gets to the truth, the more she realizes that history is about to repeat itself—and this time, it might burn her alive.

Buy on Amazon

Allison Martin writes science fiction and fantasy where science, psychology, and earth-based spirituality collide. Her stories are steeped in feminine power, quiet rebellion, and defiant magic. Living in a remote Northern Canadian wilderness community, she believes writing is both craft and alchemy. When she’s not transcribing the stories of stubborn imaginary women and the brave souls who choose to love them, she’s supporting other misfit creatives who want to carve their own path as a brand strategist. 

She loathes social media (or any mass gathering of strangers, really), and prefers the sanctuary and solitude of her own backyard. If you ask her about her weekend plans, she will most likely tell you she’s busy enjoying her mortgage. 

You can sometimes find her online at www.amartinbooks.com or www.quillandkettle.com 

Check out the Quill & Kettle Podcast on Kickstarter for more content on writing, psychology, and alchemizing shadows into compelling stories. Season one will include powerhouse voices in publishing such as Regina Wamba, Kandi Steiner, Willow Winters, and many more.

Meet the Women Who Knock Alpha Heroes Off Their Feet: Alpha Heroines by Delaney Diamond

The alpha hero has had a good run in romance over the years, and for the most part, readers adore men who are confident, powerful, and in control. 

But today, I want to talk to you about the alpha heroine. She’s the kind of woman who possesses the same intensity and strength and can knock even the most alpha hero off his feet.

In my novel, Thiago (Family Ties, book 6), India Monroe embodies that kind of heroine. She’s intelligent, resilient, and refuses to be a pushover—not even for Thiago Santana, her wealthy, commanding boss with whom she is having an affair.

Alpha heroines are as tough as the hero

Alpha heroines don’t bow to power. They challenge the hero in a way few people in his life would dare. For example, Thiago is used to striking fear in the hearts of his staff. When they see him coming, they scramble out of the way, and when he asks them to complete a task, the only answer he expects is “yes.”

India is not so easily intimidated. As an alpha heroine, she doesn’t back down from his dominance, making each clash a conflict of equals. That makes their chemistry explosive. She’s not afraid to push back, and secretly, he loves it because he’s finally met his match.

India’s jaw tightened. “We’re marketers, not magicians. I brought you a strategic rollout after you asked for a proposal less than two weeks after the scandal hit the news. You want quick results, then expect half the quality. Unless you want me and my team to pull all-nighters every night.”

His eyes flicked over her, the way she stood with one hand on her hip, her full lips pressed together in anger, challenging him with her voice and a deadly stare. She was acting as if she was the one in charge, looking at him as if she were ten feet tall.

So damn sexy. He fought the smile threatening to pull the corners of his mouth upward.

“Careful,” he said, his tone low and dangerous, hiding his amusement.

He watched as she moved closer. “You don’t scare me, Thiago.”

Alpha heroines know their worth

Just like the alpha hero, the alpha heroine knows she’s a catch, and India is no different. She’s smart, educated, and does a great job as the vice president of marketing for Santana International’s U.S. operations. After a health scare, she realizes that she’s selling herself short in her no-strings relationship with her boss and starts dating other men. She wants more. She deserves more.

Thiago, however, is not happy when he finds out that she’s seeing other people.

“Is the good doctor the only other man you’re seeing?” Thiago asked in an overly pleasant voice.

India averted her eyes.

Thiago let loose a stream of Spanish curses. “How many others are there?” he demanded.

“You make dating sound awful, and it’s not. Kiara set me up with a friend of her husband’s, and we went out last night. Why do you care?”

“How could you ask such a question!” Thiago bellowed.

Can you tell he was livid? I’m surprised he didn’t pop an artery. Because India has started exploring her options, Thiago has to scramble to hold onto the only woman who has ever made him reconsider the single life.

Alpha heroines redefine the power dynamics of love

Traditionally in a romance, the alpha hero calls the shots. He pursues or protects. But alpha heroines meet these powerful men with a wall of calm defiance and bend the norms.

In the case of India and Thiago, when Thiago finds out that India is seeing someone, he declares that she belongs to him and demands that she stop seeing the other man. She’s an alpha female, so of course, they butt heads.

“I am not the property of any man—”

“Spare me the feminist bullsh*t. I’m not sharing you, and that’s final.”

Her lips pressed together. “All right, Thiago, you want me to stop seeing him. Fine. But I’m confused because you and I don’t have that kind of relationship. We sleep together, but we barely know each other…”

“What do you want to know? Ask me anything,” Thiago said.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Okay.” She carefully placed her phone and the coffee on a side table. “Why are you so mean?”

That wasn’t exactly the kind of question Thiago had in mind, but India used this conversation to call him out on his hypocrisy and point out his flaws. We would expect nothing less from an alpha heroine.

Alpha heroines force the hero to evolve

These women have the power to change the hero by standing firm and forcing him to conduct a self-evaluation. As the CEO of Santana International and coming from a wealthy family, Thiago thrives as a man in control of his environment and the people in it.

But during the course of the story, you’ll see him evolve. He becomes more compassionate, a prime example being when he learns of India’s lupus and implements a company wellness program that benefits all the employees—because of his love for her.

Alpha heroines expect respect, honesty, and equality in their relationships and don’t just tame the hero—they transform him.

Conclusion

Writing Thiago allowed me to explore what happens when two strong personalities come together, their fiery traits creating conflict in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. If you enjoy reading about fierce women who challenge powerful men and knock them off their feet, India and Thiago’s journey might be your next favorite read.

About Thiago:

A no-strings workplace affair spirals into a tug-of-war of emotions. 

Thiago Santana didn’t claw his way to the top of Santana International to get sidetracked by love. As CEO, he’s driven and focused, taking his only break on Friday nights when he indulges in the one temptation he can’t resist: his VP of marketing. But when she starts canceling their meetings, it throws his carefully constructed life into chaos.

India Monroe has always played by her own rules. Sharp, independent, and very ambitious, she has never needed anything beyond her no-strings arrangement with Thiago. But a health scare jolts her into wanting more—more time, more emotion, more commitment.

Now their relationship has changed. Every touch carries tension. Every glance holds a question. If neither surrenders, they might lose the one thing they never meant to risk at all: each other.

Excerpt

After the door closed behind them, tense silence reigned between Thiago and India.

One hand on her hip, she fixed her dark eyes on him.

“Do you have something to say to me?” Thiago asked, taking a seat on the edge of the table and folding his arms.

“You undermined me in front of my team.”

“You brought me an unacceptable strategy.”

Her jaw tightened. “We’re marketers, not magicians. I brought you a strategic rollout after you asked for a proposal less than two weeks after the scandal hit the news. You want quick results, then expect half the quality. Unless you want me and my team to pull all-nighters every night.”

His eyes flicked over her, the way she stood with one hand on her hip, her full lips pressed together in anger, challenging him with her voice and a deadly stare. She was acting as if she was the one in charge, looking at him as if she were ten feet tall.

So damn sexy. He fought the smile threatening to pull the corners of his mouth upward.

“Careful,” he said, his tone low and dangerous, hiding his amusement.

He watched as she moved closer. “You don’t scare me, Thiago.”

“Hmm. That’s a problem, don’t you think?”

She held his gaze, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Electricity crashed between them—anger laced with sexual awareness. He ached to reach for her but resisted the urge. They didn’t cross the line at work. Too risky.

“Was there a reason you asked me to stay behind?”

“I wanted to make sure you can meet my… demands.”

She flicked her tongue to the top left corner of her mouth, toying with him. “Don’t I always?”

Thiago clenched his hand into a fist on the table. Damn, this woman. Insatiable desire for her consumed him with no end in sight.

India turned on her heel. “If I’m going to meet your deadline, I have to go.”

She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her.

“India.”

She stopped but didn’t look back.

Thiago pushed off the table and took a few steps in her direction. “Are we still on for tonight?”

She turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing into an expression hot enough to curdle milk. “Maybe,” she said coolly.

Thiago exhaled through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Then she walked out without waiting for a response. She was infuriating, but she was the best part of his week.

Knowing her, she’d remain pissed right up until he saw her later.

Which meant the sex tonight would be incredible.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About Delaney Diamond

Delaney Diamond is the USA Today Bestselling Author of more than 60 contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels, and dozens of romance short stories. She reads romance novels, mysteries, thrillers, and a fair amount of nonfiction. When she’s not busy reading or writing, she’s in the kitchen trying out new recipes, dining at one of her favorite restaurants, or traveling to an interesting locale. To get sneak peeks, notices of sale prices, and find out about new releases, join her mailing list. And enjoy free stories on her website at delaneydiamond.com.

Giveaway

Which alpha heroine trait do you most like to see in a romance novel? Tell me in the comments for a chance to win an eBook copy of the first two books in the Family Ties series, Audra – The Prequel and Ethan.

One winner will be randomly selected and announced in the comments.

Eligibility: Open to international entrants.

Deadline to enter: November 15, 2025.

When Love Lasts Without Marriage: A Baby Boomer’s Memoir

A Version Of The Truth is a memoir that offers an intimate look at a unique relationship. It began in the 1980s, lasted for nearly 40 years, and suddenly, at the end, there was a twist. Back at the beginning, many Baby Boomers like my partner Jack and I explored the new relationship rules that grew when we were young adults during “the summer of love.” Many of us eschewed traditional marriage, with its “in sickness or in health” agreement, and now, as we approach our 70s and 80s, one of us has fallen ill. When there are no marriage vows or even “domestic partnership,” how does the relationship navigate this new territory? That was my challenge. 

For most of our long relationship, although we spent only two nights a week together and never married or shared a home, I relied on Jack for advice, emotional support, and hands-on DIY projects of every sort. We saw one another through houses, cars, careers, crises and celebrations. He even helped me overcome my lifelong fear of dogs and I became a greyhound rescuer and owner. But in the last decade of our time together, things shifted.

My job as a psychotherapist had made no physical demands, but Jack had been a construction worker. Those requirements took a permanent toll on his health and by the time we had been together for 35 years he had faced multiple surgeries, a heart attack, a mild stroke, and prostate cancer that needed to be carefully monitored. I helped him as best I could, but since we had no formal agreement, like many couples in our generation, I had no role in managing his health. A lifelong Renaissance man who prided himself on his independence, he was determined to face these challenges on his own. He did allow me to use my computer to monitor his doctor’s appointments and medication, but that didn’t help when his memory began to fail and, as I learned after one harrowing experience, he had stopped paying his bills and his phone service had been discontinued. He finally agreed to a regimen that meant he’d bring his mail and checkbook to my house once a week, I would open the bills and write the checks, he would sign them and I’d mail them from the mailbox at my curb. It was a band-aid effort and I knew things couldn’t go on this way.

I also knew I wasn’t alone. There are thousands of us Baby Boomers who dodged the formalities as young adults and who now were without a safety net as we faced our partners’ health concerns. So, when it’s not blood ties or written decrees, what title do we invoke when, say, we’re on hold with our partner’s cardiologist or oncologist while his office decides if they can talk to us? How do I label the role I’ve been playing since Reagan was president?

There’s a twist at the end of this memoir that shocked me, rocked my friends and family, and still reverberates. I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so let’s agree that the folks who come up with those titles and labels will probably never invent a name for this emerging life situation, its demands, and its aftermath.

About the Author

Marsh Rose is an author, freelance writer and psychotherapist. Her preferred genre is memoir and creative nonfiction, and her short stories and essays have appeared in a variety of publications including Cosmopolitan Magazine, the San Francisco Chronicle, Salon and Carve Magazine among others. Her essay, “False Memory,” won first prize for creative nonfiction from New Millennium Writings in 2018 and she was a winner in Tulip Tree’s “Wild Women” contest, June/July 2025, for her essay “Dinosaur Rock.” She has also authored two novels, Lies and Love in Alaska and Escape Routes. Marsh began her writing life at the age of 14 as a cub reporter in Massachusetts, changed careers when she became a licensed psychotherapist in 1992, and now divides her time among writing, her on-line psychotherapy practice, and her passion for rescuing racing greyhounds. She lives in the wine country in northern California with her greyhound, Adin. 

Here is the link to her website: https://www.marshroseauthor.com/

Q&A with Sarah May, She Journeys

She Journeys is such a deeply personal memoir. What was the turning point when you knew you were ready to put your story into words?

The honest answer is that it wasn’t so much a personal turning point as it was the changing of life circumstances that aligned to give me the time and space to finally write She Journeys. I knew I wanted to write a book about my divorce and subsequent healing from the beginning, but it would take seven years to even begin that process. Life was busy, I was working three jobs and had very little free time. It wasn’t until I left those jobs, sold my belongings, moved into a van I built with my partner, and set out on the road that everything changed. I discovered that for me, creativity required openness, space, inspiration. Van life gave me that. I’ve now lived in the van full time for the last five years, four of which were spent writing and editing this book from America’s public lands. I felt a deep level of safety living in a home I built and loved, being held and inspired by nature, being in a loving, respectful partnership, and having amazing support in the form of healers and teachers; all which allowed me to go to hard places and tell the story I knew I had to tell.   

Writing about infidelity, divorce, and trauma can reopen wounds. How did you balance honesty with protecting your emotional well-being while writing? What was the most challenging chapter to write? How did you decide to keep private vs public?

Writing memoir is not only to remember, but in some cases, to relive. Revisiting the past was painful and there were many triggering, difficult moments. But I had the safety, support, and tools to navigate the emotions, pain, and shame. Cracking open old journals and cringing at my own codependence, dysfunction, and denial, watching or listening to interviews from the time of the helicopter crash, it all brought up so much, but this time I had the space, perspective, and ability to navigate it. When it got to be too much, I took breaks and sought support. The hardest chapter to write (and read out loud for the audiobook) was Chapter 12 titled Terror. It was my intention to be as honest, raw, and vulnerable as possible so I shared almost everything except details that would infringe on my ex-husband’s identity or privacy. 

Your book explores the shattering of expectations. Looking back, what expectations were the hardest to release—and which became the most liberating?

When I was married at twenty-one, I truly believed I’d found my soul mate, my forever person, my life partner. I expected him to honor his wedding vows and I expected to be in a relationship of loyalty, trust, and love. But in just two short years, I would come to see that words mean little and that behavior is the best testament to someone’s character. So ultimately marriage, this thing I expected to be wonderful turned out to be the most painful and debilitating experience of my life. A living nightmare. That was hard to grieve and a hard dream to let die. I held on for a long time. Learning that love does not mean pain and betrayal isn’t a reflection of self-worth was liberating, but it came at a big cost. 

You describe healing through therapy, spirituality, travel, and even living in a van. Which of these experiences most surprised you in how transformative it became?

All of them! In their own ways each of these aspects of my life were deeply transformative and healing, but in different capacities; many of which I didn’t anticipate at the outset, but discovered along the way. Stepping into a yoga studio and fumbling my way through class taught me that I was stronger than I knew. Travelling across the country showed me how capable I was and how reminded me of how beautiful life can be, how good it can feel. Therapy taught me how to name my emotions, to process in a healthy way, and to address the trauma, pain and stories of the past. Van life gifted me the time and space to finally write my book, to slow down, and to enjoy life. Plant medicine has helped me heal somatically and psychically in ways that continue to blow me away. I believe that there are so many paths to healing. There’s no “one size fits all” or one right way. Whatever resonates or helps may be different for each of us, but the healing path is the most important one we can take.  

“From wounds to wisdom” is such a powerful phrase. What does wisdom look like for you today compared to when you began your journey?

I love that expression, because I truly believe that if we can take our wounds and make some kind of meaning, or take some kind of learning then we are choosing to be more powerful than our pain. Taking personal responsibility for my life, my happiness, and my healing was a pivotal moment for me – asking “what role did I play in my own suffering?” changed everything. Instead of blame and victimhood, I began to tell a different story – a more empowered one. I have a lot of compassion for the girl who was stuck in the story of her wounds after so much heartbreak, but I have even more respect for the woman who chose to find freedom, peace, and forgiveness. Hers is story I’m most proud to tell. 

How did traveling across the country change your relationship with yourself?

I was twenty-three when I packed up my car and set out on the road during my divorce. I was still numb from shock and trauma and depression, but that trip became the foundation for my new life. Having experiences (even if they were scary and vulnerable) like camping alone, backpacking, and travelling solo were so empowering and showed me how capable and strong I was after feeling so devastated. The road gave me space to reflect and process, nature gave me inspiration and wonder, my body carried me to some amazing places. Whether it was a campfire under the stars or swinging in my hammock strung between pines, I slowly came back online and fell back in love with life. Most importantly, I awoke to the possibility of a future that could be so much brighter and lighter than the past I left behind. 

Your story is both deeply personal and universally relatable. What do you hope readers—especially women navigating heartbreak—take away from your journey?

I wrote a book that would have given me hope in the midst of my heartbreak. Pain can be isolating, and trauma can be so disempowering. I hope that my story can help other women feel less alone and to maybe even be inspired about the life that could be waiting. My own heartbreak was the gateway to deeper homecoming. 

If a reader walked away remembering only one lesson from She Journeys, what would you want it to be?

It never matters how we begin again. Only that we do. When our lives fall apart or we lose what we think is our “everything” and we aren’t sure how to go on; the only thing that matters is that we do. We pick ourselves up off the floor, we get out of bed, we leave the relationship, we take the next breath, put one foot in front of the other. It doesn’t matter how messy or imperfect we are or how many mistakes we make, the only thing that matters is that we have the courage to embark on the journey ahead. There is always hope. Always. 

Finally, as you look ahead beyond this memoir, what parts of your own story are still unfolding—and how do you see your path forward?

I’m still on the road and loving van life with my now-husband who is also an author (Andrew Singer who wrote Now Is the Time: A Van Life Road Trip). We are on an independent bookstore tour promoting our books, meeting amazing people, and sharing our stories. It’s been an amazing year finally putting She Journeys out into the world, but I’m looking ahead to what might come next. I’m excited to share healing offerings like workshops based on themes in the book, a Divorce Ritual, and private sessions to support others on their own journeys of healing and transformation. I’m dreaming up the next book and the next adventure! 

About her latest book, She Journeys:

Few things can shatter our hearts like expectations. Sarah expected to live happily ever after. She expected her husband to honor his vows. She expected his military helicopter to land safely. But when the unimaginable occurred and her world unraveled completely, the undoing of her expectations left her on her knees, fighting for her life. To save herself, Sarah packed her car, and set out to hike across the country. But pain, codependence, and trauma challenged her as she moved forward. Her journey took her from a sailboat to a yoga studio, from a therapist’s couch to a shaman’s ceremony; eventually selling everything and moving into a van, Sarah rebuilt, from the inside out. “She Journeys” is a testament to the transformative power of healing. From darkness to light, from a marriage ended to a life reclaimed, we are reminded that it never matters how we begin. Only that we do. From wounds to wisdom, She is every woman who must find her way from heartbreak to homecoming.

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

Get to know Sarah:

Sarah May is a yoga instructor, Reiki healer, and intuitive. She provides her clients with powerful practices and healing insights from the studio to private sessions, retreats, and women’s circles. Sarah received her Master of Science in Conflict Analysis and Resolution and previously managed a non-profit. “She Journeys” is her debut memoir. In 2020, she and her husband—fellow author Andrew Singer—converted a cargo van and hit the road. They spend their time exploring and writing across America’s public lands. When not on wheels, Houston and San Diego are her homebase. Learn more at: www.shejourneys.us

Where I Wandered by Eleanor Lerman

When I was in elementary school, my teacher handed out a poem that had been copied onto a sheet of paper. The poem was “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost, which ends with these famous lines:

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.”

We discussed the poem, answering the teacher’s questions about what we thought might happen if there were two roads ahead of you and you chose to take the one that fewer people traveled. We probably spent an hour or so with Robert Frost and then turned our attention to other things. I didn’t know it then, but as time and the years went on, those few lines became a kind of touchstone for me. At the time my class read that poem I was just one of a group of nice Jewish girls in my Bronx neighborhood who had no intention of doing anything other than taking the same road that everyone else took—that is, until mother died of cancer when I was thirteen and everything changed. I remember very little about that time because my father, who had no idea of how to cope with raising my younger brother and me all by himself, went out and found a new mother for us within a couple of months and told us to forget about the old one. He hid her pictures and any other traces of her in our apartment. Scared, confused, and with no idea of how to do anything but what we were told, my brother and I followed his instructions until, years later, we began to have conversations that eventually loosened our father’s hold on us and slowly let the shadowy memories we had of our mother back into our lives.

But in the early days after my mother’s death I had to return to school, which is when I had my first lesson about how it feels to be different. I was the only kid in my class with a dead mother and so I stood out among my friends, who all lived in normal, two-parent households. One of the most important things a young girl wants is to be like everyone else in her group but now I was different, and that made me feel ashamed. I didn’t want to stand out in any way, but I had no choice about what had happened and that made me angry. As time went on though, I began to actually lean into my new identity as the angry girl. The thought in my head was something like, You think I’m different? Well, I’ll show you what being different really means.

For me, that meant following the music I heard on the radio—which had morphed from gentle pop songs into rock and roll—down to Greenwich Village, where I wandered around by myself. I think my father was still too dazed to even notice I was gone most nights, while I learned to dress myself like a vagabond with long black hair, kohl-rimmed eyes, and bell-bottom jeans. In the Village, everybody was different and so I fit in. I roamed around from the hippie haunts on West Fourth Street to MacDougal Street to the then-hidden addresses of the gay clubs further downtown. I was neither this nor that; I learned it didn’t matter to anyone in this new world who you were or what lonely road had led you there. Come join us, everyone said, from boys in bands to drag queens roller skating down Christopher Street, and join I did. Home felt so dangerous and crazy that the further away I got from it, the safer I felt.

The reason my home life seemed dangerous to me was because soon after my father’s marriage to the new mother, she began to exhibit mental health issues—depression, anger, and an inability to provide any sense of normalcy at home. For example, much of the time no one bothered to make dinner for us so my brother and I ate a lot of macaroni and cheese or remnants of the school lunch that we brought home. Also, the new mother was always angry with me because I wouldn’t include my new stepsister, Jackie, in whatever I was doing. Jackie was two years younger than me and teenagers don’t generally take their little sister with them, even if they’re doing nice, normal teenager things, which I clearly wasn’t. And, after the first year or two that we all lived together, Jackie wasn’t behaving like a normal person, anyway.

I now understand that she had developed schizophrenia (an illness that can often appear during puberty), and though I didn’t know what to call it at that time, I could see that there was something very wrong with her. She was violent, she talked to demons, she drew crazy pictures on the living room walls, she ripped up her clothes, either refused to eat or else ate until she gained nearly one hundred pounds. My stepmother wouldn’t let anyone erase the pictures Jackie drew on the living room walls (which were things like huge, staring eyes or big, blank faces) because she said this was Jackie’s art and her way of expressing herself. She also insisted that Jackie’s problems were caused by low blood sugar, exacerbated by the fact that I wasn’t being nice to her. Very soon, I was making plans to get out of that house.

Meanwhile, my anger was getting to the point where it was taking over my life. I was angry at my mother for leaving me, angry at my father for bringing the new mother and her dangerous daughter into our lives, angry at everything and everybody—except my brother, who I wasn’t supposed to talk to anymore unless we included our stepsister, which was impossible unless we wanted to include the demons, too. (We didn’t.) To make matters worse, we moved from the Bronx to what was then a dying beach town at the edge of Queens. My home life became more and more chaotic; there were nights when my stepsister would be walking around with a knife, threatening her mother while the two of them screamed at each other. I was hiding in the basement of our new house, watching Star Trek and wishing I could explore the stars with Mr. Spock; my brother was locked in his room filling out the paperwork to get loans for colleges in a far-away state. My father’s solution to the madness in his household was to appear in the living room and ask us all to join him in his bedroom to watch “Wheel of Fortune,” and that’s what we did. My stepsister put down the knife for half an hour. My stepmother rested her screaming voice. My brother and I crept out of our lairs and sat on the bed with the rest of them, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. It was these nights that taught me how to avoid reality and pretend everything is fine. Fine, fine, fine.

I left when I was eighteen. As I was walking down the hallway that night with a bag of clothes and my notebook full of the poems I had begun to write, my father, seeing that I was going out and remembering that he was supposed to try to exert some sort of control over me, asked where I was going. “I’m leaving,” I said. He then asked when I would be back. “Never,” I told him. And I was gone.

I went back to the only place that had felt like home to me since my mother died: the Village. I had already found a job there, managing a workshop that made parts for harpsichords. The job came with an apartment upstairs, which meant I was living a life that would not be possible in New York City today, because where would an eighteen-year-old who barely graduated high school find a job that also came with a small apartment that rented for a few hundred dollars a month? Apparently, fate moved in with me too, because our neighbors, who lived in an old carriage house on a cobbled lane behind our building, had to walk through the workshop to get their mail—and that was how I met Harrison Starr and his wife Sandy. Harrison was a film producer and Sandy was an art historian. There was a blackboard in the workshop where I was supposed to make a list of parts we needed to order for the harpsichords, but instead, I wrote poems on it. Harrison would stop to read the poems and one day, he suggested that I try to get them published. That had never occurred to me—it seemed impossible, like something real writers did—but because Harrison encouraged me, I sent the poems to Wesleyan University Press and in 1973, when I was twenty-one, they published my first collection of poetry, Armed Love. Because of the unexpected notoriety that book brought me, and because Harrison and Sandy invited me into their lives and introduced me to their friends, a wide circle of artists and writers who were all extraordinarily kind to me, I began to believe it was actually possible to become something more than a lonely, angry young woman scribbling poems on a blackboard.

When he was sixteen, my brother left home to go to college in Massachusetts and we re-started what became our lifelong conversations about our broken family. He was the one who called me on a weekday afternoon and told me to turn on the television, where I saw my father and stepmother on a national talk show. My father was wearing a maroon suit with coffee stains on it; my stepmother was wearing a lot of makeup and had a beauty parlor hairdo. They were pleading for help to find my stepsister, who had run away from home. At one point, my stepmother held up a candy wrapper she claimed to have found in the bedroom I had shared with my stepsister, insisting this was proof that her daughter must have been abducted by people who made her eat chocolate, which had affected her blood sugar level and thus made her pliable enough to let them spirit her away.

Time went on. I left the workshop. Harrison and Sandy moved to California. I got a job as an editor for a philanthropic foundation. My brother was living in Washington, D.C. and I stayed in New York, but we kept on talking. Our conversations were more about work now: he was a journalist who also became the producer of America’s Most Wanted for many years and the co-author of numerous non-fiction books and articles. Along with my day job as an editor, I had gone on to write a number of novels, along with collections of short stories and poetry. On the surface, everything was going well—but behind the scenes, my mother’s death was like a bomb that continued to explode in my mind over and over again. While I had become very good at pretending to be a normal person, I really wasn’t. No matter what kind of success I had as a writer, no matter what awards I won or praise I received, I couldn’t feel that any of it actually applied to me, the me that was still lost, still wandering down some lonely road wishing I could find my mother. I didn’t remember her, I didn’t remember her voice, I could hardly remember any time she had embraced me, or told me she loved me, and without these things I felt unmoored from my own life. Nothing and no one felt safe to me. And the older I got, the worse these feelings became. How could I still feel that I needed my mommy? It was embarrassing. It was as bad as walking into the classroom as The Only Child With A Dead Mommy, and I didn’t know how to make myself feel better.

When I was in my forties, my stepmother died. A few years later, my father died. They had been in separate nursing facilities for some time—my father because he had serious health problems; my stepmother because she had dementia and had become dangerous to herself and everyone around her. My brother and I had divided up the chore of taking care of these two people: he dealt with my stepmother, I managed my father’s journey from one nursing home to another and then finally, to the hospital where he died. Almost up until he had to go into a nursing home, my father was still carrying out the task my stepmother had assigned him, which was to visit morgues and view the bodies of dead girls who fit the description of my missing stepsister. He never found her, nor did the police or any of the private detectives my parents hired, and to this day we have no idea what happened to that poor girl. (There’s another story to be told here—much too long and complicated for this brief essay—about the near-impossibility of getting help for people afflicted with mental illness and the tragic effects that failure has on families.) 

After both my father and stepmother were gone, the conversations between my brother and I turned back to our childhood because we were both still struggling to deal with the effects that not only our mother’s death but also the breakup of our extended family had on us. Before my mother died, two sets of aunts and uncles along with my six cousins and my grandmother all lived in the same Bronx tenement. But one of my uncles—my mother’s brother—blamed my father for my mother’s death because he felt that my father had not found the right doctors to treat her. Eventually, everyone moved away and though my brother remained close with all of them, I did not. I was too angry at everybody to try to preserve those relationships and too young to imagine the effect that losing these people who I had loved and who I saw every day of my life would have on me. It was as if along with my mother, the rest of my family had simply disappeared.

Anyway. The time came when only one of our aunts was still alive. My brother arranged for me to see her to talk about my mother. My aunt said that the only thing my mother cared about when she knew that she was dying was my brother and me. Over and over again she kept asking, “Who will take care of my children?” I guess she knew my father wasn’t a good candidate for that job.

When I was on the train going home that day, I kept thinking of my mother worrying about who would take care of my brother and me. I called him and told him about this and he said, “You know the answer to that, and mommy must have, too. We were always like Hansel and Gretel, wandering through the dark forest, hand in hand. We took care of each other. We took care of ourselves.”

Somehow, just hearing him say that helped me a lot. Somehow, that made a connection between my mother and me that I had needed for the longest time. Before she had gotten sick, my mother bought me a typewriter, a little gray manual that must have been a big expense for a woman who had to run the household on very little money. In the year before my mother died, I wrote an endless number of stories on that typewriter (in particular, I remember a Major Work about a horse named Champion) and my mother gave me a manilla envelope to keep my stories in. I still have the typewriter and the envelope full of stories which, someday, I intend to read again. (In particular, I want to find out how far along I got in the Major Work.) When I realized that giving me the typewriter meant that my mother must have understood who I really was and that I was going to be a writer, helped me with what I have finally begun to do—feel grief, real, heart-wrenching grief about my mother’s death. It’s taken fifty years to get there, but at least I can feel it now, so much so that in my new collection of poetry,* an entire section of the book is devoted to an exploration of grief, especially the grief of losing my mother. It was cathartic to write those poems and to think of her while I was writing. It was probably the first time since she died that I let myself feel how much I miss her.

All these years later, my brother and I still talk about my mother and what happened to our family after she died. It helps immensely that we can serve as witnesses for each other, able to testify about how hard it was to pull ourselves out of harm’s way after we lost our mother and learn to make rewarding lives for ourselves. As a journalist, my brother’s job is to tell the truth. Mine is to tell stories. This story, however, is all true. My mother’s name was Lillian. She was born in Boston in 1920 and died in New York City in 1965 when she was forty-four (one month shy of her forty-fifth birthday). I hope she isn’t still worrying about us. The road less traveled was hard to navigate in the beginning but it’s gotten easier as time goes on because Hansel and Gretel know where they’re going now. As most stories promise, they’re going to find their way home.

*Oleander Marriage (Mayapple Press 2025)

About the Author

During a career that now spans over fifty years, Eleanor Lerman has published numerous award-winning collections of poetry, short stories, and novels. One of the youngest people ever to be named a finalist for the National Book Award in Poetry, she also won the inaugural Juniper Prize from the University of Massachusetts Press and the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the American Academy of Poets, among other accolades. In addition, her novels have been recognized with numerous awards including the John W. Campbell Award for Best Book of Science Fiction and being shortlisted for The Chautauqua Prize; recent awards for her short fiction have included being named a finalist for the Missouri Review Perkoff Prize. She has also received a Guggenheim Fellowship for poetry as well as fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts for poetry and the New York Foundation for the Arts for fiction. Her most recent work, Slim Blue Universe (Mayapple Press 2023) was named a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Medal Provocateur, awarded to “the best on the frontier of poetry—the experimental, the innovative, the daring and stunning, the impromptu in technique and voice.” In 2026, She Writes Press will publish King the Wonder Dog and Other Stories, her collection of new short stories. Find her online at eleanorlerman.com and on Facebook (facebook.com/eleanor.lerman). 

Q&A with Rob Tonkin

What inspired you to choose the title, and how does that label reflect your journey and the people you encountered throughout your life?

The title is bold, and "the proverbial they" say the title is how people discover a book. As someone who had a career in marketing before I became an author, I can tell you that is definitely a part of it! It also represents a version of myself that I’ve since moved beyond. But "asshole" is a word with a ton of different meanings. For me, it’s a metaphor for how people can treat one another—sometimes unknowingly, sometimes with malice, and often just as a learned behavior.

Two good people raised me, but their treatment of me left a lot to be desired. The betrayals, abandonment, and neglect I experienced, I consider to be asshole behavior. And then I was sexually abused by people I worked for—people who were, without a doubt, assholes. Assholes seemed to be everywhere in my life, and over time, I absorbed it all and became one myself. The book is about how I fell, and what it took for me to rise. It’s not just a history of assholes, but more of a common thread running through the narrative. Ultimately, this book is a mirror for anyone who’s wrestled with masks, the need for approval, and that deep hunger to feel like you are enough.

You describe growing up with privilege but lacking emotional connection. How did that tension between success and emotional isolation inform your early choices?

That tension really gave me the push I needed to become independent and build a life of my own. But in the process, I missed out on a lot of my childhood. As a kid, I lacked the emotional intelligence to navigate the chaos around me, so I found ways to survive. After a while, all the bumps and excitement started to feel normal. I was like an animal constantly in fight-or-flight mode. The tension came from this constant push and pull between pain and redemption. I was drawn to the polished cliques and the glitz of the entertainment industry, yet in the book, I share all the cracks I saw in that shiny facade, both while I was living it and after the dust settled.

You worked with huge names like The Black Eyed Peas, blink-182, and One Direction. From the outside, it looks glamorous—what was it really like behind the scenes? At what point did you realize the glamour didn’t match reality—and how did that realization impact your personal identity?

Most people I met in the entertainment industry were probably dealing with some level of a dysfunctional childhood, just like me. Because of that, the environment felt strangely comfortable. Getting screamed at didn’t bother me the way it might bother others. For years, I was completely unaware, just seeking validation from people higher up in the pecking order. Meeting bands was a rush, like any other compulsion or addiction that makes you feel good—at least for a little while. The bigger the talent, the better the rush. It started with local bands and then had to be national acts to get that same feeling of accomplishment. And then bigger and bigger names to bring the same sensation. Eventually, all of it wore off, and it mattered very little.

For those who think the backstage of concerts is a non-stop party, that's not true. But public figures do have an unfair advantage and are treated like VIPs by almost everyone. Being in their entourage gave me access to similar perks. Some of those were amazing and incredibly fun, but like fireworks, they were fleeting.

How did the mentorship and early abuse you mention shape your work patterns and emotional responses in adulthood?

It most affected my ability to trust other people. I lived from a place of being a victim, and I was attracted to that weakness in my relationships. It also gave me the fuel I needed to manipulate and control situations to get what I wanted.

Looking back as an adult, do you feel if young Rob talked with his dad about the abuse, would that have changed the trajectory of your relationship?

I honestly don’t know. I can imagine my father’s reaction might have made the situation worse. I never told my parents about the sexual abuse I experienced in the late 70s. My father was so conservative that it was impossible to predict what he’d do, and I feared something much worse than simple anger, like total humiliation. I feared he would blame me, or forbid me from working at the radio station and pursuing my dreams, maybe berate me, or use it against me to control me.

I was also afraid he would react in an overly pragmatic way, pulling out a legal pad to get the facts, devoid of emotion, maybe even involving law enforcement. Or, possibly even worse, that he would react with uncontrollable, nervous laughter, as if the pain I was sharing was too absurd to process. I even thought it was possible he would just turn into a silent statue, completely unresponsive. Because of these fears and the lack of a close relationship, that job and my dream of being somebody in the entertainment world became my lifeline, my entire survival system.

Your memoir balanced moments of humor, brutally honest and grit. How did you strike a balance between vulnerability and humor in recounting deeply personal—and painful—experiences? Did it reopen wounds that you healed?

There are definitely some fears that come with sharing a story as raw as mine. I didn’t set out to be witty or to make readers cry. For me, vulnerability has a secret power, and I used that to weave together the words of each wild story. The entire experience of writing the book was both painful and relieving. I revisited many emotional wounds stored deep in my body and mind, which ultimately led to a cathartic feeling, much like the story arc itself.

How did you navigate deciding which stories to include—and which to omit—to create a coherent, emotionally impactful memoir?

The first draft included everything—and I mean everything—totaling nearly 200,000 words. I had the help of a skilled journalist and editor whom I’ve known for years, which meant we were comfortable enough to disagree on things as much as we agreed. They helped me sort through that mountain of stories and text to shape the narrative. But I also kept editing as I went, losing count of the iterations. I rearranged parts and cut entire stories or segments that made the manuscript feel slow. I wanted to make sure each chapter could stand on its own while still having smooth transitions to keep the reader engaged. Then I added more life to scenes with vivid descriptions, levity, and dialogue.

I didn't have a specific reader in mind, but I knew I wanted concise chapters because that’s how I enjoy reading books. So they kept getting shorter, and I kept adding more of them. There’s a satisfaction that comes with finishing a few chapters or a whole section in a short time, and that became my goal—to give readers the same pleasure I find in a gripping page-turner.

Who do you most hope reads your memoir, and what would you want them to feel or learn from your story of trauma, industry culture, and transformation?

There isn’t one specific person I have in mind. I hope my book offers hope to those who believe they’re doomed to a miserable life. My journey is proof that the “defective programming” I received as a kid can be reprogrammed. It’s not easy, and I don’t know any shortcuts. Many readers have asked me for a blueprint, but that’s the core issue—no one, not a skilled therapist or an intellectual, can tell another person how to fix themselves. Everyone has to find their own way to change, their own recipe for reprogramming. I hope my book can be a catalyst for that.

As for industry culture, our society places too much importance on public figures. They make mistakes just like everyone else. Cancel culture is a complex issue, and it’s difficult to separate a person’s genius or the adoration they receive from their monstrous deeds. When it comes to my own transformation, that’s all I can control and be responsible for. I hope people can see that my damaged parts and bad decisions are not just excuses, but components of who I am. Forgiveness supports my self-love; in that sense, my story isn’t unique, but what would satisfy me in sharing it is if reading it helps others.

Now that you’ve shared your truth in this memoir, what’s next for you—personally or professionally?

I am indeed writing more. What that looks like is still unclear right now, but I have several ideas in development. One of the reasons I chose to publish this book instead of keeping it as a keepsake for my friends and family was to explore the unknown opportunities that might arise from releasing it into the wider world.

If younger Rob could hear this memoir someday, what do you hope he’d understand—or forgive—in himself?

The grief and shame that come from trauma include mistrust, a distorted self-image, and the loneliness of despair and isolation. I hope he would understand and forgive the poor reactions I had to these and other feelings—the reactions that came from those deep wounds.

About the book:

What if the life you built—the success, the status, the wealth—was just a carefully crafted illusion hiding the truth you refused to face?

In this unflinchingly honest memoir, a man born into privilege but starved of emotional connection takes readers on a California journey through ambition, excess, and the painful search for self-worth. Raised in a dysfunctional household, he spent his childhood yearning for love and validation, only to chase approval in all the wrong places—first in the cool cliques of his youth, then in the seductive but empty world of entertainment.

From rubbing shoulders with Hollywood icons to battling imposter syndrome, self-destruction, and the weight of his own unhealed wounds, he learned the hard way that no amount of wealth or popularity could mend a fractured soul. But through disciplined effort, self-reflection, reckoning with past mistakes, and embracing the uncomfortable truths about himself, he discovered something greater than success: authenticity.

Told with sharp wit, brutal honesty, and a hard-earned sense of redemption, this memoir is a gripping testament to the resilience of the human spirit.

If you’ve ever questioned your own worth, chased the wrong dreams, had someone call you an asshole, or wondered if true change is possible—this story will stay with you long after the final page.

Get your copy on Amazon | Bookshop.org