Author: Dan Sanders

I'm a dreamer, a weaver of words, actor, picture maker, memory keeper

When April Teaches You How to Feel Warm Again

Some days don’t announce themselves. They don’t kick down the door or roll in with thunder. They just show up quietly, like an old friend who doesn’t need to knock. Today was one of those days.

The official coastal temperature — the one the weather folks love to toss around — sat at a stubborn 47°. Cooler at the coast, they say, as if we haven’t lived long enough to know the ocean keeps its own personality. But then I stepped outside, and the sun hit me in that particular April way, the way that says, Relax. I’ve got this.

And just like that, I felt better already.

MSN Weather, in its polite little digital voice, tried to explain it:
“Dominant factor: humidity.”
Which is really just science’s way of saying the air has softened. The sharp edges have rounded off. Your skin isn’t fighting the cold anymore. The breeze isn’t stealing heat from you like it did all winter. And the sun — well, the sun is finally acting like it remembers what month it is.

Stand in the right spot — out of the sea breeze, tucked against a sun‑warmed wall, maybe near a patch of pavement that’s been soaking up the morning light — and the whole world shifts. The thermometer can cling to its 47°, but your body knows better. Your body says 59°, maybe more. Your body says, Hey, we made it. Look at us now.

That’s the thing about April.
It’s not just a month.
It’s a mood.
It’s the first real exhale after months of bracing yourself. It’s the moment you realize the warmth isn’t a rumor anymore. It’s here. It’s real. And it’s trying its best to meet you halfway.

So yes, the coast may be cooler.
But today?
Today feels warm enough to believe in again.
Warm enough to loosen your shoulders.
Warm enough to remind you that you’re still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling good for no grand reason at all.

And sometimes that’s all a person needs — a little sun, a little shelter from the breeze, and the quiet surprise of feeling warm again.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

Earth Day at the Harbor

Today is Earth Day, and every year it rolls around, I think about how it didn’t begin with a parade or a proclamation, but with a book — Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring back in 1962. One woman sitting at a desk, writing about pesticides and poisoned water, managed to shake the country awake, at least for a moment.

And then there was Gaylord Nelson, a senator from Wisconsin who must’ve felt like he was shouting into the wind. He went on speaking tours, trying to get pollution onto the national radar. The people heard him. The politicians mostly shrugged and went back to whatever they were doing.

So the people did what people sometimes have to do: they organized themselves. They made enough noise that the country couldn’t ignore it anymore. That noise became the first Earth Day in 1970.

Standing here in Rambling Harbor, watching the tide drag the morning light across the water, it’s hard not to think about how long we’ve been warned, and how slow we’ve been to listen. The planet keeps sending messages. The question is whether we’re finally ready to answer.

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Who am I?

I published my first book on March 5th. It’s called I Was There. I probably should’ve called it Who Am I, because it’s a memoir, and since I can’t hang a famous name on it, no one really cares. If I were a famous musician, actor, or politician, it wouldn’t matter if my entire memoir was just me sitting by a luxury pool all day sipping fancy drinks made by an impeccable butler — or better yet, a Butlerette in a miniskirt — people would be clamoring to buy it.

On Amazon, where my book is available, I’m competing with the likes of Liza Minnelli, Maya Angelou, Malcolm X, and Trevor Noah’s mother, for God’s sake — all of whom have written memoirs. And that’s just naming the lesser-known ones, except maybe Trevor’s mother, though I suspect everyone but me knows who she is. I’ll add, with sincere condolences, that all are deceased, and underline that I am not willing to die for this book.

I have considered changing the name to something like Outlaw, rewriting it just a bit — not changing the facts, just throwing in more drama and sex. I could confabulate. In writing, confabulation is when you unknowingly fill in gaps with invented details because your mind wants the story to feel complete, smooth, or emotionally coherent. It’s not lying. It’s not embellishment on purpose. It’s the brain saying, “Let me tidy this up for you,” and slipping in something that feels true even if it isn’t. Then I could list my book under Autofiction, which could easily be misunderstood as autoerotica — and that should outsell Trevor’s mother.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a good friend who’s also writing a book. Hers is about murder, and as I said to her, she has a better chance of gaining buyers because everyone knows what murder is. Along with not dying for this book, I’m also not willing to kill for it. And let me quickly add that my friend is not the murderess in her book either. Though I’ll bet she’s a killer in a miniskirt.

I also need to say my book is not boring. The folks who have read it have all been sincerely enthusiastic in their positive reviews. It deals with ten very turbulent times in my life — ten years when this country was an amalgam of ideas, movements, people, music, war, and yes, even sex. I was involved in some amazing moments with some amazing people, some known to history — people who, if they wrote a memoir today, would give Trevor’s mother a run for her money.

But you see, what I did, I did quietly. Not a lot of fanfare or fangirls or fantastic shenanigans. Maybe what I need to do now is go out and do something to call attention to myself. Maybe run for President on the WTF Party — that’s the What The Fuck Party — or maybe the LWRS Party, the Left Wing Radical Scum Party. You may have heard mention of that breed of human; I think they’re currently under investigation by the residents at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

But the truth is, I never meant to make a splash with my book — not even in a luxury backyard pool with fancy drinks being served by a Butlerette in a miniskirt. I just wanted to tell my story to a few friends and family while there was still time. Part of the problem, I think, is that many of my friends thought I was writing a completely different book — probably about my hazy, crazy days in radio, which I barely mention.

If all of a sudden some major publisher caught on to my book, a major studio made it into a major and successful motion picture, and I suddenly had fame and fortune and miniskirt‑clad Butlerettes running around, I know I’d be looking for the nearest exit to the highest mountain I could find.

In short, I think maybe Emily Dickinson was right, and her idea fits my personality better.

Emily Dickinson wrote:

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you — Nobody — too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d banish us — you know!

How dreary — to be — Somebody!
How public — like a Frog —
To tell your name — the livelong June —
To an admiring Bog!

Maybe that’s the whole point: I never wanted to be Somebody. I just wanted to leave a trail for the other Nobodies to follow home.

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Sunday Morning Sex Ramble

If you thought your Sunday morning coffee packed a punch, wait until you get a taste of this story. Scandal, silk stockings, and a dash of notoriety—Mae West and her infamous play are about to spice up your brunch scroll.

On this day in 1927, actress Mae West was sentenced to 10 days in jail for starring in the play Sex, which she also wrote and directed. It was her first Broadway show. Although Sex received terrible reviews, it drew huge crowds. After 41 weeks, police arrived and arrested the cast and crew, but only West ended up in jail. She was charged with “producing an immoral show and maintaining a public nuisance.” She said, “I wrote the story myself. It’s about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it.” This reminds me of the movie I suggested the other day, “Professor Marston and the Wonder Women” (2017), which explores similar themes of reputation, societal norms, and strong female characters.

While in jail, West had to give up her silk stockings but was allowed to keep her silk underwear. She had her own private cell and charmed the warden and his wife, who invited her to dinner at their home each night. She made friends with other inmates while making beds and dusting. In her free time, she read business articles about different Hollywood studios. She was released two days early for good behavior.

The following year, she wrote and starred in the play Diamond Lil (1928) on Broadway, and it was a big success. She went to Hollywood, got a part in Night After Night (1932), and was allowed to rewrite her scenes. In her first scene, a hatcheck girl says to her, “Goodness, what beautiful diamonds!” and West says, “Goodness has nothing to do with it, dearie.” It was a hit, and the next year she co-starred with Cary Grant in I’m No Angel (1933). By 1935, she was said to be the second-highest-paid person in the United States, after William Randolph Hearst.

Mae West knew a thing or two about stirring the pot—and sometimes, that’s exactly what Sunday mornings are for.

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From the Shores of Styx

A baby cries
from the shores of Styx.

A child cries
from the darkness of a ghetto.

A baby cries,
and a child cries.

A mother cries
as a father dies.

A war starts.
Jobs end.
A house is lost.
A father dies.

The child grows.
The child says why,
but the man knows,
like those before him knew.

And so
the child sighed
as the man dies.

From the shores of Styx,
from the deepest part of Stygian,
a baby cries again—
screaming out of the darkness,
crawling out of the gloom,
refusing to keep the circle.

The child from the darkest recesses of Stygian
screams: I will fight for light,
and though I may lose
and die alone in the dark,
I will have created a glimmer
of hope.

As the man cries,
the woman dies,
and once again
a child rises from the darkness of Stygian,
screaming: I will create light.

And the circle remains
unbroken.

Author’s Note
In Greek mythology, Styx is both a goddess and the river that forms the boundary between the world of the living and the underworld. The rivers Styx, Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, and Cocytus all converge in a great marsh at the center of the underworld. The word Stygian refers to the deep darkness associated with that realm.

2 responses to “From the Shores of Styx”

  1. John Blair Avatar
    John Blair

    In this circle, is there any hope? Or is acceptance of the circle of life hope?

    Like

    Reply
    1. Dan Sanders Avatar
      Dan Sanders

      That life continues is part of the hope, and that the child continues to break free from the darkness, proclaiming they will create light from the darkness, is more of the hope. Of course, the unbroken circle of despair could be an idea of lost hope.

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      Reply

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A valuable Lesson Learned

A valuable Lesson Learned Ramble.

Learning is valuable—about love, good people, and, unfortunately, bad ones: people lacking a crucial human quality. Some call it a heart, others a soul. As the Dalai Lama said, “Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.”

I recently learned a hard lesson about self-publishing—not about the publishing itself,the ready-for-print part, the nuts and bolts of it: learning about print, color, page count, the spine the cover  and a weird little item called a widow, which is when a word gets left over at the end of a page and gets pushed to the next page. That was all difficult enough. Publishing, as a good friend who worked in the business put it, “Publishing is not for the weak of heart.”

Writing a book is hard, and writing about yourself is even harder, especially when recounting a story from 50 years ago. Living it nearly killed me; writing it nearly finished the job.

And then I finally got the book on Amazon and wanted to learn more about reviews and promoting my book, so I joined the KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) community for writers. I soon learned that while 50 percent of those members are good and honest folks wanting to help a rookie writer, it is also populated by scumbag con artists who will scream death and destruction, and forever banishment from Amazon if you break the rules.

And while it is true that Amazon did get into some trouble a few years ago by allowing fake reviews, not just of books but on everything, from air fresheners to underwear, and for good reasons, they have tightened their review process. But it is not the death toll of you and your book if you unintentionally seem to cross the line. What Amazon does not want is for me to pay Jack and Jill to write a review that says Dan Sanders is the greatest writer since John Steinbeck or Charles Dickens. Even if it’s true, Jack and Jill need to decide thta on their own.

In the KDP community, while most folks are good and helpful, I ran into a few who responded with alarm, warning me I had made a mistake but offering to help. They never mention a fee upfront; instead, they engage in several emails before finally revealing a line like, “For a small fee, I can help you out.” One clue is that although many different names are involved, the emails all look like they came from the same cookie-cutter template.

I was so concerned that I asked my first reviewer to remove their review because it was from someone I worked with 40 years ago and haven’t seen since. A scammer claimed that if someone knows you, Amazon will suspect collusion, but I learned that while Amazon is strict, it isn’t unreasonable.

The main reason I wanted to write this is not to make a Mea culpa, but to warn others trying or considering self-publishing. I don’t want anyone to go in as I did—a lamb to the slaughterhouse. I believed everything would be good, but like any competitive profession, it can be underhanded and cutthroat.

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I’m On Goodreads

I woke up to sunshine and clear skies, and the news that five people I’ve never met are already reading my book. I guess this thing is officially out in the wild. If you use Goodreads, you can add I Was There to your “Want to Read” or “Currently Reading” shelf. It helps the algorithm gods notice the little guys.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/249304682-i-was-there

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Nixon lies + Trump parallel Morning Ramble,

Every time I look back at Nixon’s Vietnam “we’re winning” routine, I hear an echo.

Here’s the Nixon highlight reel: • “Vietnamization is working.” (It wasn’t.) • “Peace is at hand.” (It wasn’t.) • “The enemy is weakening.” (They weren’t.) • “I have a secret plan.” (He didn’t.) • “We’re withdrawing because we’re winning.” (We weren’t.) • “The bombing is working.” (It didn’t change the terms.)

And now we’ve got a whole new era of leaders who pull the same trick — declare victory, deny reality, and hope nobody notices the smoke pouring out of the engine room.

Boston folks can smell that a mile away, and I hope the United States still can.

History doesn’t repeat, but the sales pitch sure does.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

My Easter Ramble.

This moment comes from a stretch of my life when I was being moved across the country by U.S. Marshals—an experience that was tense, surreal, and, somehow, funny. I learned early on that if I could get the Marshals to crack a smile, the miles went by a little easier. This particular memory landed on Easter Sunday, somewhere in the endless wheat fields of Kansas, when the only thing to do was look out the window and try to keep the mood human.

“The one day I am sure of on this trip was Easter Sunday, and I remember that because as we traveled through the wheat fields of Kansas—miles and miles of nothing but wheat—I said to the Marshals, ‘You guys know it’s Easter?’ and one replied sarcastically, ‘Yeah, ya’ want to go to church?’ I replied, ‘No, I’m not much on churchgoing, but I thought we might have an Easter egg hunt, and I’ll be glad to play the part of the egg.’ This was the second time I made them laugh.”

For the whole story, the complete book follows the bouncing link at the bottom. But to help avoid Amazon’s paranoid algorithm, I’ll borrow a line from the Grateful Dead:

“Just one thing I ask of you, just one thing for me

Please forget you know my name, my darling Sugaree…”

Shake it, shake it, Sugaree — just don’t tell them that you know me.

Here’s the link to the full book: Here’s the link to the full book: https://a.co/d/016MrqUQ

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My Book, “I Was There”

This book took years. Not because I was writing every day, but because I wasn’t. I’d circle back, pick up a thread, lose it again. Life got in the way. So did doubt. So did the internet. Heck, sometimes cleaning my kitchen had to take priority. Below are a couple of sections from two of the first chapters. The book is available in both paperback and Kindle formats. You don’t need a Kindle device or a special Kindle account to read my book. Anyone can read it on a computer, phone, or tablet using either the free Kindle app or the Kindle Cloud Reader, which opens right in your web browser with no download needed.

I hope you’ll enjoy the read. Those who have read it so far have told me how much they have enjoyed it.

From Chapter 2

“Several years earlier, I had begun writing letters to my draft board. Lyndon Johnson was still president, Nixon waiting in the wings. The letters weren’t meant for Johnson, but I imagined him reading them anyway—grimacing, maybe, before tossing them aside. The draft board wrote back a few times, reminding me I was deferred under 3‑A college status. Eventually, they recalculated me as 1‑A. Combat‑ready. And I welcomed it. You can’t refuse what hasn’t been offered. I was done hiding behind loopholes.”

From Chapter 3

Inside, the induction ceremony began. The room smelled of sweat. The air was thick with the breath of boys pretending not to shake. The recruiter’s voice was flat, rehearsed, like he’d stopped listening years ago.

“Please repeat after me…”

“I do solemnly swear…”

Repeat. Repeat? Hell, I could barely breathe.

“…that I will bear true faith…”

And suddenly I wasn’t in Whitehall anymore. I was back on the football field, hearing my coach yell, “Go in hell‑bent for leather, Little Sandy!” My dad was Big Sandy. The coach used that nickname to rile me up. Hell‑bent for leather — without fear.

My heart picked up the chant until it drowned out everything else.

Then came the words: Step forward.

I sat down.”

For the whole story, follow this link https://a.co/d/016lhY1F

Rating: 1 out of 5.

My Book Has Been Released

Dan Sanders grew up on Staten Island and learned early how to navigate the edges of things—family, faith, war, and the long road toward becoming himself. He spent years in radio, activism, and community work before settling in the Boston area, where he writes about the moments that refuse to stay quiet. He lives in what he calls Rambling Harbor with his cat, Shianna, and continues to tell the stories that shaped him, one honest line at a time.

The Road to “I Was There”

It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a straight shot. It was a long road — with detours, breakdowns, and a few stretches where I didn’t touch the wheel at all.

This book took years. Not because I was writing every day, but because I wasn’t. I’d circle back, pick up a thread, lose it again. Life got in the way. So did doubt. So did the internet.

But the story never left. It waited. And every time someone asked — “Are you still working on it?” or “When’s the book coming out?” — it reminded me that I was still on the road.

So thank you. To everyone who kept asking. To those who read the early chapters, who saw the fog and the mountains and said, “Keep going.”

The book is out now. It’s called “I Was There”. Because I was. And now, so are you.

And who knows what comes next — maybe that’s the best part. Maybe even another book

follow this link to the Amazon page: https://a.co/d/01jMzMsm

About Me
I’m a dreamer with some rough edges, a word‑slinger, an actor, a picture‑maker, and a guy who hangs onto the stories that don’t always behave. I write from a small harbor shaped by memory, Boston weather, and all the quiet corners where truth sits down and refuses to move.
I Was There is one road I’ve walked. There’ll be others. There always are.

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Rambling Harbor — Evening Edition Ramble AKA WTF Again

Tonight’s tide brought in a story I wish I didn’t recognize.

Evening settles over the Harbor like a worn jacket, the kind you keep by the door because it knows your shape better than you do. The light goes soft, the gulls quiet down, and the world finally stops shouting long enough for you to hear the small truths rattling around in your own chest. That’s when the news found me tonight — not with a bang, but with that familiar sting that comes when history gets pushed around like furniture someone’s tired of looking at.

Another round of funding carved out of Black museums. A Black heritage sign quietly taken down in Boston, as if memory itself were something optional, something you could tuck away when it makes the wrong people uneasy. It didn’t surprise me, but it sure as hell set something off — not a blaze, just that low, steady rumble from a place that’s been paying attention for too many years.

And this isn’t the first time I’ve felt that rumble. A few years back, I resigned from an organization I’d given time and heart to. Not because I heard the man say anything — I never did. This was all online, all at a distance. But then I read he was running for political office in Texas, and one of his proud public stances was opposition to what was then being called “critical race theory.” That was enough. I didn’t need a speech or a meeting or a debate. I just knew I wasn’t going to stay in a place led by someone who wanted to shut down the teaching of systemic racism and the harder truths of American history. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe the problem isn’t the truth. So I walked. Quietly. Cleanly. And I didn’t look back.

And now here we are again, only the stage is bigger, and the stakes are heavier. Grants pulled from the Massachusetts Museum of African American History because the work doesn’t “align with priorities.” Heritage markers taken down like they were never there. Museums and cultural programs frozen out because they dare to tell the story straight. And the language is always the same — “divisive concepts,” “ideological concerns,” “restoring sanity.” Whenever politicians start talking about restoring sanity, you can bet they’re about to erase something.

It’s the same old dance: erase, rename, sanitize, repeat. Pretend it’s about budgets. Pretend it’s about neutrality. Pretend it’s anything except what it is — a slow tightening of the blindfold. And the people doing the tightening always swear they’re the ones protecting us from indoctrination. Meanwhile, the museums they’re defunding are the ones holding the receipts, the records, the stories this country has spent centuries trying to bury.

And what really gets me is the déjà vu of it all. I’ve seen this movie before. I’ve walked out of rooms — and online spaces — over it. And now it’s happening on a national scale, with institutions and memory and public truth on the line. Every time someone says “critical race theory,” what they really mean is “stop telling the parts of the story we don’t like.” Every time a sign comes down, or a grant disappears, they’re hoping the story goes with it.

So here I am, evening deepening over Rambling Harbor, the tide pulling at the edges of the day, and I’m thinking about how fragile memory becomes when people in power decide it’s optional. I’m thinking about how many times we’ve had to fight just to keep the truth in the daylight. And I’m thinking about how history isn’t fragile at all — but apparently some people are.

That’s the ramble tonight. The Harbor’s quiet, but the headlines aren’t. And somewhere out there, the truth is still trying to speak, even if someone keeps reaching for the dimmer switch.

From Rambling Harbor, I ask again: what do we do now?

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Rating: 1 out of 5.