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Or I should say, “my scammers”.

Every day, my spam folder fills up with scammer spam. There have been 331 in my Spam folder during the last 30 days.

Half of them promise me big book sales if I let them feature me in their book club. Operative words: Book Club. They don’t have a book club. They’re impersonating a real book club with 1000+ members. Operative words: 1000+ members.

The other half of the scammer spammers have written a 3000+ word treatise on how they’re going to make me famous if I let them promote my book. Operative word: promote.

Yes, I understand that a newly-published writer needs help with promotion and a good promoter must be paid. Fair enough. But how does one choose?

In my case, I chose the one book promoter who did not appear in my spam folder. He’s working on my promotion as we speak.

So how do we weed out the scammers from the real book clubs and book promoters?

Carefully.

It requires hours of searching and carefully checking the email addresses of the impersonaters vs. the real thing. Usually the impersonators of book clubs have a gmail address with a couple of extra letters tossed into a copy of the real book club’s email address.

I almost forgot to mention the impersonators of Publishers! If you go to the page of most any famous Senior Editor at a famous Book Group, you’ll find that there’s a warning, letting you know that there are currently impersonators out there trying to trick writers into believing that Mr. or Ms Senior Editor thinks you’re the next big thing. As in, the NY-Times-Book-List Big Thing. Incredible.

I could write another book in the time that it takes to separate the weeds from the blooms.

But this is Reality. Capital R. It began as soon as my memoir, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll, got a smidgeon of traction. They came out of the woodwork, pushing and shoving to get to their place in my spam folder.

Do I sound like I’m complaining? Yeah. I am. Sorry.

Seriously, it’s like wearing a sign that says “Kick Me!”

Do me a favor and visit my Goodreads page. And visit my Goodreads REVIEWs page too. There are two pages of reviews.

As an official Goodreads author, my page has places where we can have a conversation, and you can ask me questions. Go ahead and try it.

There’s also a link to buy my book.

Here on Substack, I publish a chapter every Sunday, so subscribing to my Substack has that benefit, besides these witty little pieces written when I’m dead tired from facing down the scammers.
Cheers!

!

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A few days later, it was the first day of school. I sat as still as possible in our regular hairstyling chair—that is, Daddy’s chair at the head of the kitchen table. Mummy dragged her rat-tail comb through my tangles.

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SCHOOL DAYS

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If I told you that, at age seventy-five, I have never heard the words “I love you” from any man, past or present, you might not believe it.

How can this be?

One might make the excuse that the men I had relationships with did not throw about “I love yous” casually, and you might be right.

I didn’t date during high school. Those were my deepest depression years. I went to my high school’s Saturday night dances religiously, hoping for the best but wearing my sadness on my sleeve. I naively thought that I might find someone equally depressed to bond with …and dance.

It never happened. I stood in the same spot on the ancient hardwood floor in the dark gymnasium every week.

“Yes, I’ve been up all night, baby, leanin’ on the windowsill…” Bob Dylan

It was probably for the best since I didn’t know how to dance beyond American Bandstand. My girlfriends attended Friday-night ballroom dancing classes at the United Church of Christ. They had a good time, met some cute boys, and became proficient at the waltz, the foxtrot, and the twist.

My mother said I couldn’t join them because “that’s how girls get pregnant.”

Unfortunately, I had no knowledge of sex beyond the pages of the “Growing Up and Liking It” booklet that my mother thrust into my hand with a sanitary napkin when I was twelve. The diagrams of eggs traveling from the fallopian tubes to the uterus to await a sperm did nothing to enlighten me. I thought it was darn poor editing by the Modess Corporation.

And so, every day when my school bus passed the United Church of Christ, I peered out the window, wondering what might go on there that resulted in pregnancy.

On the last day of high school, I met an older boy in the parking lot, where he was conveniently breaking up with his girlfriend. We dated all summer, and after that, he visited me every weekend, driving out to UMASS from BC in his old Ford Galaxie 500. He always arrived with a fragrant bouquet of mixed spring flowers wrapped in green tissue paper straight from the florist. He also brought a six-pack of beer for himself. I didn’t drink alcohol even though there were several bars in town, and fake IDs were easy to get.

We commenced with some basic necking and petting in my room, followed by dinner (I had only eaten in a sit-down restaurant once before) and a movie. Easy Rider, Rosemary’s Baby, Bullitt.

After returning me to my dorm at curfew time, he went to a men’s dorm to spend the night in his best friend’s room. At the time, colleges took in loco parentis very seriously regarding female college students.

We dated all through college, and I remained a virgin for half of that. I naively thought he was also a virgin. From what I know now, he and Jim likely went out drinking and whoring until the bars closed.

Those were the days when men were men and women were girls.

One thing led to another, and I was engaged to my college boyfriend for nearly two years.

Wedding plans were begun. My dress was custom-designed with Renaissance elegance suited to my Art major style. A cake was ordered, caterers were booked, and a hall was selected for the reception.

If you’ve read my coming-of-age memoir, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll, you know that one night, after I had shut off my bedside lamp after studying late for a Psych exam, I was startled awake by the ringing of my telephone.

It was Western Union.

“Telegram for Linda ---------.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“The wedding is off.” Stop. “Return the ring.” Stop. “A letter will follow.” Stop.

So much for that. I guess there was a reason he never said, “I love you.”

A letter never did follow, and the coward never did meet me at my home to pick up the ring.

(My mother said he came mid-week when I was back at school.)

I was thrown back like a small fry trout, treading water in the dating pool once again.

There were men whose names I cannot recall, and a marriage, but no “I love yous”.

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BABY STEPS

Chapter One

A Fierce First Memory

“Linda! God damn it, girl, where are you?” said Mummy. 

A clap of thunder announced a summer storm rolling across the valley. I ran faster, skidding bar…

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Before we begin, here’s what Jack Canfield said about The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

⭐ Advance Praise

“A moving coming-of-age story and a powerful testament to a girl’s determination to overcom…

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It was difficult to get psyched to write a Substack piece when my brain was treading water. I mean, who wants to read a downer?

Then I got an idea from Jeremy Baker. Yes, YOU, Jeremy Baker.

Jeremy Baker publishes his Chapters on Substack. I didn’t know it was a thing, but now I have a way to share my content.

The Girl with the Black and Black Doll is my Coming-of-Age Memoir… growing up isolated, feral, and Depressed (Yes, capital D) on a 3-generation family farm in 1950-60s Massachusetts.

Chapters will be posted to the Paid subscribers one chapter at a time on Sundays, beginning April 5, 2026.

Decide if you want to get in on the fun. Every chapter has a surprise. No spoilers here, but yeah, you’ll either laugh or cry.

It’s been a while. I hope I’m not mucking this up.

Okay, the ball’s in your court. Maybe share this…

Groan. A sports metaphor on the first day of the Sweet Sixteen? How could I resist?

As expected, the concert was awesome with its off-the-wall mix of progressive, psychedelic, and art rock defined by “philosophical, melancholic lyrics, sonic experimentation, and massive soundscapes”. (Wait! Did I just say “off-the-wall”? Oops. Freudian slip.)

When I was a teacher of youth-at-risk decades ago, we occasionally rode together in my Subaru. We always sang “Another Brick in the Wall”.

“Teacher! Leave them kids alone!”

At the concert, I was sitting in the front row, as I always do, because when you’re buying one ticket, it’s always easy to get one of those leftover single front row seats.

When I stood up at Intermission, I got my mind blown.

Turning to face the rest of the audience, I was very confused.

90% of the audience was male! And, interestingly enough, they all appeared to be my generation! Age 70+! I could hardly see a female anywhere. Orchestra floor or balcony. WTF??

That explained a situation earlier that evening. It was brutally cold out, so the venue was allowing ticket holders to wait in the relatively small entry area (6’x20’?). We were packed like sardines. As soon as I took my gloves off, I looked up to see that they were all men. Huh? There was one woman with, presumably, her husband. At the time, I hadn’t given it a thought beyond coincidence.

But when I got home that night, I searched “Pink Floyd fan base gender breakdown”.

Sure enough. The results said:

“Based on a 2009 large-scale survey conducted by Neptune Pink Floyd, the Pink Floyd fan base is overwhelmingly male, with only approximately 11% female listeners, suggesting a gender composition of roughly 89% male and 11% female.

Key insights into the Pink Floyd fanbase gender breakdown:

• Dominant Male Demographic: The survey highlights a heavily male-skewed demographic, with the author noting a need to “spread the word” of the band to more female fans.

• Rock Genre Context: The male-dominated nature of the fan base is consistent with wider trends in rock music, which is often considered more male-centric.”

Now I understand why the male sitting next to me felt it necessary to explain that his wife “didn’t want to attend”.

My interest in writing humor grew from reading newspapers. I already had a long-established habit of reading the Worcester Evening Gazette daily and The New York Times on Sunday. I began my routine with the funnies in first grade. By seventh grade, I had branched into syndicated columns, the arts, style, and some of The New York Times’ Sunday Books section.

In the Gazette, I discovered Art Buchwald’s syndicated column on the lower right corner of the editorial page, below the fold. His blend of humor and Washington politics hit a sweet spot in my literary interests.

I think it’s safe to say that I was the only seventh grader at St. Joseph’s reading political satire. I loved Buchwald’s style, which encouraged my goal of someday writing words that might make people laugh. His column alone inspired me to become a high school journalist for our town’s local weekly.

Long story short, one day during my sophomore year, I was moved to write a fan letter to Mr. Buchwald in my neatest penmanship. I told him how much I enjoyed his column, especially his humor.

I closed with: “I would be very pleased if I might receive a personal letter from you.”

Not long afterward, I received a hand-typed (Courier 10) and hand-signed letter from Mr. Buchwald on a 5x7” sheet of engraved Washington Post letterhead. He thanked me for my letter and interest in his column, and he closed with the following:

“Would you like to run away to Brazil with me?”

Naïve as I was, I didn’t understand that this was his literal response to a request for a “personal” letter. I didn’t get the joke. (Remember, I still didn’t know what sex was.)

I brought the letter to my father, who was sitting in the living room, smoking in the dark as he often did. I noticed the glowing tip of his cigarette and turned on the table lamp next to him. He scanned the letter and seemed unamused. Without a word, he held it back to me.

I wandered into the kitchen to share the letter with my mother. She wiped her hands on her apron and read it slowly. Twice. She, too, had no comment.

Do you see a pattern here? Neither of my parents ever thought it appropriate to help me understand subjects I asked for help understanding. They always responded with silence. Or, in my father’s case—contempt; and in my mother’s case—”I don’t know.”

I brought the letter upstairs to my bedroom, and after reading it a few times, I tucked it away in my oak drop-front desk and never looked at it again. At some point, after I went away to college, my mother threw the letter away, along with six years’ worth of my British pen pal letters and the folder of poetry I had written in ninth grade! Yes, “exclamation point,” indeed!

My mother had no respect for the written word—mine or anyone else’s. I remember the precise cubby in my desk where I placed Mr. Buchwald’s letter. Top cubby, all the way to the right. I remember reaching in, touching all four sides and the top, all the way to the back, and bending over to peer inside. The letter was gone, and Mum said she didn’t know what had happened to it. Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Years later, I discovered that 1963, the year I had written to Mr. Buchwald to compliment him on his column, was the same year that he was hospitalized for severe depression.

I instantly recognized the irony.

A depressed young girl in Massachusetts writes a letter to her literary hero, who is also depressed.

Of course, neither of them knows this fact about the other.

The girl comments on his humor, and he responds in kind.

His letter cheered me. I can only hope that my letter cheered him.

Linda Summersea

On January 31, 2026 I was fortunate to be one of the 10 readers at the Straw Dog Writers Guild Annual Author Showcase. I was a wonderful event with a full house of smiling faces and rousing applause. Following is my reading: Chapter 51, Revolution in the Air, from my coming-of-age memoir, The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

Revolution in the Air

Meanwhile, unrest was on the rise in America, and soon, revolution was brewing in protest of the Vietnam War.

Suddenly, almost everyone was using the f-bomb as an all-purpose verb (Fuck that!), adjective (Fucking Nixon!), and noun (I don’t give a fuck).

Easy Rider, a film that celebrated the counterculture, premiered in theaters. Massive demonstrations—sit-ins, love-ins—occurred across the country as peaceful protests against the War.

The largest anti-war protest in U.S. was scheduled for November 15, 1969, in Washington, D.C.

“There’s going to be a march on Washington next month,” said Tom. “Against the Vietnam War. I’m going, for sure. Do you want to go with me?”

“Definitely. Will your old Ford make it to D.C.?” I asked.

“I doubt it. We’ll hitchhike,” said Tom, and that’s what we did.

We met in Amherst bright and early on Saturday morning, with only the clothes on our backs and maybe ten or twenty dollars between us. We wore our peace symbols and moratorium buttons, and it didn’t take long to make the trip—three rides from western Massachusetts to Washington, D.C.

I remember climbing up into the cab of a semi, sliding across the bench seat to make room for Tom beside me, and noticing a pair of black lace panties hanging from the rearview mirror. I was still painfully shy, and I blushed. That ride took us from New Jersey to D.C., where the driver dropped us off right in the middle of the crowds on the National Mall, west of the Washington Monument.

The air was as crisp as a Macintosh apple, the sky was blue, and the crowd of bell-bottomed marchers stood shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see.

We never got close enough to hear the speeches. We never heard Pete Seeger sing “Give Peace a Chance” repeatedly for ten minutes. Nor did we hear the songs of Arlo Guthrie, Peter, Paul, and Mary, or any other activist musicians. But we were there, and that meant something.

Word had it that President Nixon watched college football in the White House while more than half a million protesters gathered outside.

The crowd’s mood was electric, and the day was mostly peaceful.

Information Stations were set up around the mall with info about free places to stay. Seminaries, schools, and private homes volunteered to house the protesters overnight. Later in the afternoon, we met a lady there—a university professor—who was offering space for ten to sleep at her home, we joined the others piling into her van. The next thing I knew, we were sitting around a huge kitchen table eating a hearty lentil soup prepared by our host from a recipe in The New York Times Cookbook.

That night, I slept on a cushioned window seat in a living room carpeted with deep-pile the color of our farm’s fresh cream. The following day, the professor gave us a ride to the highway, and Tom and I hitchhiked north.

Somewhere in Connecticut, a state trooper pulled over.

Hitchhiking was illegal on the Connecticut interstate.

He asked where we were headed. And he told us to get in the back seat.

Somewhat sympathetically, he drove us to the Massachusetts state line, where we stuck out our thumbs again.

Thanksgiving was a couple of days later, and my family didn’t discuss the Moratorium March, the Vietnam War, or any subject that was so important to my fellow college students and me.

The night before, while my mother stuffed the turkey, the rest of us ate supper in the dining room with my father listening to CBS News with Walter Cronkite

playing on our TV in the adjacent living room.

“Tom and I hitchhiked to Washington D.C. last weekend for the Moratorium March against the Vietnam War. We got there in three rides,” I piped up.

No comment.

“We didn’t get to hear the speakers, but seeing the thousands of marchers on the mall was incredible.”

No comment.

“We weren’t far from the Washington Monument. I’m so glad we got to participate in a real example of activism.”

And then…

“I don’t want to hear another goddamn word,” said Dad. He slammed the words across the table and glared at me.

Nothing had changed at home. My staunch Republican father ruled our household with a cold, tight fist. And like President Nixon, Dad said he would remain uninfluenced by the protests. The arguments at home continued. The Vietnam War continued.

And any prospect for peace in our household was as unlikely as peace in Southeast Asia.

Dad continued to sit by the fireplace to watch the CBS News while Walter Cronkite reported the daily number of U.S. casualties in Vietnam every night, without fail, as routine as the weather report.

“And that’s the way it is,” said Walter Cronkite, signing off with his trademark closing.

Related notes

I thought my childhood was scary. Ha! You can read the first five chapters free here on my book page at Amazon… and (maybe) buy the book.

amazon.com/Girl-Black-B…

https://www.youtube.com/@LindaSummersea

https://store.bookbaby.com/book/the-girl-with-the-black-and-blue-doll

The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is a moving coming-of-age story and a powerful testament to a girl’s determination to overcome unbelievably difficult circumstances and finally succeed. I loved reading this book. I couldn’t stop turning the pages. I believe it will someday make a great movie...but don’t wait for that—read it now!     Jack Canfield, Coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestselling Chicken Soup for the Soul® series and The Success PrinciplesTM: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be

Many readers will be able to relate to The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll. Linda describes the loneliness of growing up in a dysfunctional family. At the same time, her story evokes so much nostalgia, while her resilience is nothing less than inspirational.This is a memoir worth reading.  Willie Handler, author of Out From the Shadows:Growing up with Holocaust Survivor Parents

The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll is a survival memoir that introduces us to three-year-old Linda as she flees her mother’s anger by sliding into the far reaches of her bunk bed underworld with her battered Betsy Wetsy doll.

The setting is a three-generation family farm in 1950s and 1960s New England. Her story reveals a feral child who is parentified early on, taking on heavy responsibilities and enduring neglect, which contributes to Linda’s childhood shyness and depression.

Linda’s mother is a skilled liar who will do anything to shirk her responsibilities as a parent, especially failing to satisfy Linda’s curiosity about life by replying to her daughter’s many questions with “I don’t know.” Linda’s father is a depressed and temperamental man with regrets for paths not taken. Her grandparents are an intriguing mix that brings both love and bewilderment into her life, and while her siblings are burdensome weights in Linda’s early years, they become invisible as time goes on.

As soon as she enters the wonderland of kindergarten, Linda dreams of possibilities beyond the borders of the farm. Mummy says she’s too big for her britches, and before long, Daddy will maintain she is not college material. He wants Linda to work in a factory!

The girl with the black and blue doll faces increasingly intense emotional setbacks. Her childhood is one disaster after another, from gunshots at the school bus stop to a disastrous one-and-only birthday party and a shocking Christmas morning.

But although Linda’s growing-up years are filled with mistreatment and mishaps, her character somehow holds the will and the drive to persevere.

Even though her successes are not celebrated at home, Linda continues to excel academically in high school, but socially, she feels lost. The turning point comes when Linda arrives at college, where, against all odds, she finds kindred spirits. It’s the Age of Aquarius, and Linda fits right in, embracing the flower child lifestyle while listening to psychedelic rock. Here, for the reader, it’s inspiring to see Linda transform into an independent young woman amid the Hippie Movement and the Vietnam War.

If you enjoy a fast-paced story with twists and turns, you’ll like The Girl with the Black and Blue Doll.

Today, we would see her family as dysfunctional and her depression as undiagnosed Body Dysmorphic Disorder. It’s especially relevant in today’s settings of Social Media, TikTok, and anywhere where young people are bullied and vulnerable to depression and self-image difficulties.

Genre: Teen & Young Adult Memoir, Adult Memoir.

Recommended also for parents, teachers, therapists, counselors, coaches, and anyone who works with young people.