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Happy April Fools’ Day

🎭 April Fools’ Day: Origins, Oddities, and the First Recorded Mention

Every year on April 1st, the world indulges in pranks, hoaxes, and harmless mischief. But where did this curious tradition begin and who in the world first wrote about it?

Well, it seems this truly is a holiday with murky beginnings. Unlike many holidays with clear religious or historical roots, April Fools’ Day is something of a mystery. Historians generally trace its origins back to Europe in the late Middle Ages, though no single source definitively explains it.

One popular theory links the tradition to the calendar shift of 1582, when Catholic Church adopted the Gregorian calendar reform under Pope Gregory XIII. Before this change, many European countries celebrated the New Year around late March through April 1. When January 1 became the official start of the year, those who continued celebrating in April were supposedly mocked as “April fools.” It’s a tidy explanation; however, historians caution that the evidence is thin.

The earliest clear mention of April Fools’ Day appears in 16th-century literature.

In 1561, Flemish poet Eduard de Dene wrote a poem describing a nobleman sending his servant on pointless errands on April 1; this was, essentially, an early version of a prank. The poem is titled “Refereyn vp verzendekens dach / Twelck den eersten April te zyne plach” and is widely considered the first documented reference to the tradition. This suggests that by the mid-1500s, April 1 was already associated with trickery.

A few other historical breadcrumbs hint at the holiday’s spread:

  • In 1392, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales contains a passage some interpret as an April 1 reference though scholars debate this reading.
  • By the 17th century, April Fools’ traditions were common in parts of England and Scotland.
  • In France, the custom evolved into “Poisson d’Avril” (April Fish), where people tape paper fish to others’ backs.

So, who started this silliness you may ask? The honest answer: we don’t know.

April Fools’ Day likely emerged somewhat organically, growing out of seasonal festivals, shifting calendars, and humanity’s timeless love of a good joke. What we do know is that by the 1500s, the tradition was already well enough established to appear in literature.

Perhaps the real charm of April Fools’ Day lies in its mystery. Like a good story or a well-plotted mystery, it leaves just enough clues to intrigue us, but never quite gives away the full truth. And maybe that’s the biggest trick of all.

 

 

 

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The Bone Garden by Tess Gerritsen

 

I believe there’s something uniquely compelling about a mystery that feels unearthed rather than solved. For me, The Bone Garden by Tess Gerritsen delivers exactly that. It is a story told across two timelines, where the past slowly reveals truths buried for generations.

The story begins in the present day, when a woman discovers human remains on her property. But the real story unfolds in 1830s Boston, where Gerritsen immerses readers in a gritty world of early medicine, social divide, and quiet desperation.

Inspired in part by real historical developments tied to Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. and early medical hygiene practices, the book explores a time when progress came at a steep human cost. Grave robbing, overcrowded hospitals, and unchecked disease form the backdrop to a chilling series of murders.

At the center of the story is a young immigrant woman trying to protect a newborn child after her sister’s death all the while a shadowy killer, known as the West End Reaper, stalks those connected to a deadly secret. The suspect? A promising young medical student whose both circumstances and proximity make him an easy target.

I believe Gerritsen’s strength lies in her characters. They are flawed, desperate, and believable and this is not a story driven by coincidence or a single brilliant detective. Instead, the mystery unfolds through a web of human choices, where truth emerges slowly and not always cleanly.

I found the pacing slow at times, particularly in the historical sections, and the modern-day storyline feels secondary. The resolution, while thoughtful, may leave some readers wanting a sharper sense of closure.

Still, The Bone Garden succeeds where it matters most: atmosphere, authenticity, and emotional weight. It reads less like a conventional thriller and more like a carefully reconstructed past and one that lingers after the final page.

A good recommendation for readers who enjoy historical mysteries with depth, texture, and a darker edge.

 

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The Ledgers of War

In the late 1960s and mid-1970s, so many of us suffered through the anxieties of a world tainted by the shadow of war and political hypocrisy. Some sixty or so years later, the questions the Vietnam War raised still echo. The following poem is my reflection on those same themes—power, profit, and the young lives too often spent in conflicts decided far from the battlefield. As Yogi Berra might say about today’s circumstances, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

 

The Ledgers of War

The factories thunder through the midnight hours,
Steel presses groan like wounded men.
Old hands in velvet boardrooms whisper
While young blood spills again.

Maps are spread across the tables,
Lines drawn neat in ink and gold.
Every border marked in profit
By men too rich and far too old.

The drums of war keep beating
In halls where none will fight.
Their sons are safe in marble towers
While strangers march at night.

And the contracts keep on growing,
Signed beneath electric light.
Bombs fall hard on distant cities—
Stocks climb higher by the night.

But they tell us once again, ya’ all,
This killing keeps us free.
They say the cost is necessary
For “security.”

Yet the widows know the difference,
And the mothers understand:
A war that fattens bankers’ ledgers
Was never for the land.

See the flags above the courthouse,
Hear the speeches from the stage.
Silver tongues praise noble sacrifice
While counting profit by the page.

Old men praise the glory
Of battles long ago—
But they never feel the cold mud
Where the young must go.

And the earth keeps taking soldiers,
And the rivers carry names,
While the architects of conflict
Play their quiet money games.

Still, they swear the cause is righteous,
Still they claim the price is just—
But history keeps a ledger
Written plainly in our dust.

And someday when the guns fall silent
And the last lie fades away,
The truth will stand like thunder:

It was greed that led the way.

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Book Review: Dying to Know by Tj O’Connor

What happens when a detective is murdered but refuses to stop investigating?

In Dying to Know, Tj O’Connor delivers a clever twist on the classic whodunit by killing his protagonist early and letting him continue the case anyway. Detective Oliver Tucker, “Tuck” to those who knew him, dies from a single gunshot to the heart while investigating suspicious noises in his own home. Death, however, turns out to be far more complicated than Tuck ever imagined.

Returning as an earth-bound spirit, Tuck discovers he has a rare ability: he can sometimes be seen and heard by the living. That includes his wife, Professor Angela Tucker, who soon finds herself at the center of the very mystery that led to her husband’s death. While the premise may briefly recall the film Ghost, this novel is far less romantic fantasy and far more detective-driven mystery.

Tuck is a standout narrator. He is sharp, observant, and intriguingly unreliable as he learns the rules of his new existence. His uncertainty keeps the reader guessing, adding tension and momentum to an already fast-moving plot. The mystery deepens around Kelly’s Dig, where the discovery of Civil War–era remains threatens to halt a lucrative highway project. Suddenly, Tuck’s death appears connected to a web of corruption involving suspicious detectives, mob figures, wealthy developers, university elites, and long-buried historical secrets.

Adding warmth and charm to the story is Hercule, Tuck’s loyal Labrador Retriever, who plays an active and surprisingly heroic role. Dog lovers will be pleased to know that Hercule is no side note but very much part of the action and the emotional core of the story.

O’Connor skillfully weaves history, crime, and the paranormal into a cohesive and well-paced narrative. Multiple subplots converge smoothly, and the mystery remains engagingly opaque right up to the final pages. The result is a fun, fast, and satisfying read that kept me guessing until the end.

Dying to Know is proof that a mystery can be both light on its feet and rich in substance. Fans of cozy mysteries, paranormal fiction, and history-infused crime novels will find plenty to enjoy here.

About the Author

“Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis-life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas-among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who are supply a growing tribe of grands.” https://tjoconnor.com/

 

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Booneville, Arkansas — From Trading Post to County Seat: A Frontier Story

 

Booneville, Arkansas — My Birthplace

Nestled in the Arkansas River Valley between the Ouachita and Ozark Mountains lies Booneville, one of the oldest settlements in western Arkansas, a town whose roots stretch back nearly two centuries, and though I don’t go back that far, it is the place of my birth and where I graduated high school (Go Bearcats!).

Founded in 1828, Booneville began very humbly when a frontier explorer named Walter Cauthron built a log cabin and opened a trading store along the Petit Jean River, still a defining waterway in the area and where my family and I spent many a day fishing.

There’s always been some mystery around its name and in my younger days I was told it was named for Daniel Boone. However, I have since learned some local tradition claims Cauthron intended to call the place “Bonneville,” honoring his friend Captain Benjamin Bonneville, an army officer stationed nearby at Fort Smith with whom he shared a love for exploration. But, as stated above, those within my circle of friends and family seemed to always believe the town was later named for Daniel Boone, the famed woodsman and relative of the Logan family, the county’s namesakes. Whether any of that is true, I can’t say but I would be interested to hear from anyone who has heard a version of how Booneville got its name.

As the frontier drew more settlers, the town’s early importance grew. When Scott County was created in 1833 from Crawford County, Booneville became the county seat for the area known as Sabre/Saber County that would later become southern Logan County. A post office (first called Petit Jean) was established in 1837, and soon after, lots in Booneville were auctioned as the town began to take structured shape.

Life on the Arkansas frontier was difficult. During the Civil War, Booneville’s residents fought on both sides, and while the town wasn’t a battlefield, raids and supply confiscations were common in the surrounding countryside.

By the time it was incorporated in 1878, Booneville had blossomed into a thriving community with general stores, a cotton gin, drugstores, blacksmith shops, and more as it became the economic heart of a growing region.

The coming of the railroad in 1898, a year after the birth of my grandfather, was transformative. The Choctaw, Oklahoma & Gulf Railroad (later part of the Rock Island Railroad for which my grandfather, my dad, and one of my uncles would eventually work) chose Booneville as a division point for crew changes and logistics. For decades, rail traffic helped sustain local businesses and connect the town to markets far beyond the river valley.

Another Booneville milestone came in 1901, when Logan County’s citizens voted to create a second county seat for the southern half of the county, a recognition of how far residents had to travel over rugged hills to reach the original seat in Paris. Booneville won that election, and the first courthouse was constructed that year, establishing the town’s civic centrality for future generations. The original courthouse was built in 1901 and served until 1928. That original 1901 courthouse was razed in 1928 to make way for a new building.

Today’s courthouse was constructed in 1928–29, with the cornerstone laid June 8, 1929, and courts held later that summer.

Today, Booneville remains a community that honors its layered past, from trading post to railroad hub to county seat, while embracing a blend of small business, outdoor recreation, and quiet valley life.

 

 

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When Legends Ride Longer Than History: Belle Starr, a Photograph, and My Grandfather’s Story

Mis-Identified as Belle Starr (It isn’t). This photo posted on the internet (non-attributed) claims the person on the left is the infamous outlaw. The photo caught my attention because of the stories my grandfather used to tell.

When I was a boy, my grandfather—born in 1897 near Charleston, AR—used to tell my brother and I stories about his younger days roaming through Indian Territory, what is now Oklahoma. Of the many tales he used to tell, one story always stood out.

He claimed he once saw Belle Starr.

To us, sitting wide-eyed around a campfire, or across from him in his living room playing checkers, this was electrifying. Belle Starr, the Bandit Queen, the outlaw woman who rode with bad men and worse reputations. The idea that our grandfather had crossed paths with her made the past feel close enough to touch.

We believed him completely.

Years later, with a little more history under my belt and a few more miles behind me, I realized something didn’t quite add up. Belle Starr was killed in 1889. My grandfather wasn’t born until 1897. For him to have seen her, and remember her,  he would have needed a remarkably clear memory for some one so young.

So, what happened?

Was my grandfather simply mistaken? Did he see another woman on horseback and, over time, the name changed? Or was he doing what good storytellers have always done, stretching the truth just enough to make a story worth telling?

I suspect the answer is a little of all three.

Recently, I came across an old photograph (pictured above) of two riders on horseback, one appearing almost regal, authoritative. The image has sometimes been identified as Belle Starr, allegedly taken in Fort Smith, Arkansas, around the turn of the 20th century. But that date alone tells us it cannot be her. Belle Starr was already legend by then.

And that’s the point.

The real Belle Starr—born Myra Maybelle Shirley—was a complex, flawed, fascinating woman. She lived hard, skirted the law, and became famous largely because newspapers and dime novels needed a female outlaw to sell. She understood image long before branding was a concept. By the time she was murdered in 1889, her reputation was already larger than her life.

After her death, Belle Starr didn’t disappear. She multiplied.

Women who dressed boldly, rode well, lived independently, or broke expectations were called Belle Starr. Photographs were labeled Belle Starr. Stories drifted, names attached themselves to faces, and legend filled the gaps history left behind.

Which brings me back to my grandfather.

I don’t think he was lying. I think he saw someone—a woman who carried herself with confidence, maybe notoriety, maybe just presence—and over time, memory did what memory always does. It shaped the truth into something truer than fact. And when he told the story, he wasn’t giving us a history lesson. He was giving us a gift.

He was teaching us how stories work.

The mis-identified photograph, the real Belle Starr, and my grandfather’s recollection all exist on the same spectrum—where history fades into myth, and myth rides on because it tells us something we still want to hear.

In the Ozarks, and across the old frontier, legends don’t die easily. They just change horses.

 

 

Thank you!

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Lewis Carroll: A Birthday in Wonderland

 

Tomorrow marks the birthday of Lewis Carroll, born Charles Lutwidge Dodgson on January 27, 1832, one of literature’s most curious minds and one of my personal favorites. Carroll was a man of many contradictions: a mathematician who adored nonsense, a logician who delighted in paradox, and a shy Oxford don who created one of the most enduring dreamscapes in world literature.

Dodgson spent most of his adult life at Christ Church, Oxford, teaching mathematics and writing scholarly works that, at first glance, seem worlds apart from talking rabbits and grinning cats. Yet it was precisely his logical mind that helped shape the strange internal consistency of Wonderland. The madness, after all, always follows its own rules.

His most famous works, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking-Glass (1871), were inspired by a real child, Alice Liddell, during a river outing along the Thames. What began as an improvised story became a literary phenomenon, blending wordplay, satire, philosophy, and dream logic in a way that still feels fresh more than 150 years later.

Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky” remains a masterclass in literary nonsense. Filled with invented words that somehow feel meaningful (“slithy,” “toves,” “borogoves”), it demonstrates his genius for sound, rhythm, and suggestion. Readers may not always know what is happening but they know exactly how it feels.

Beyond fiction, Carroll was also an early photographer, producing striking portraits, and a serious thinker on logic, puzzles, and games. That mix of playfulness and precision is what gives his writing its lasting power. Wonderland isn’t random chaos but rather it’s a mirror held up to the absurdities of adulthood, authority, and language itself.

Perhaps that’s why Carroll endures. We return to his work not just for whimsy, but for the subtle reminder that the world often makes more sense when we allow ourselves to see it sideways.

So today—or tomorrow—may be the perfect time to follow a white rabbit, reread a favorite passage, and celebrate a writer who proved that nonsense, in the right hands, can be profound.

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What Sells—and Why?

 First, let’s take a realistic look at books, genres, and reader habits, shall we.

Every January, I and fellow writers ask a familiar question, sometimes out loud, sometimes quietly: What kind of writing actually sells? Is it Poetry? Short stories? Novels? Series fiction?

The honest answer is:  it depends, but not in the way we might expect.

Rather than chasing trends or mythical bestsellers, it’s far more useful to understand how readers actually behave, and how different genres tend to perform over time. This is especially useful for independent authors. This isn’t about promises. It’s about patterns.

The Big Myth: One Genre Will Save You

I think there’s a common belief among writers that choosing the right genre guarantees success. In reality, genres don’t succeed in isolation. They succeed based on reader commitment, time investment, emotional connection, and how books relate to one another. Let’s face it, different genres serve different purposes. This applies to both readers and writers.

Novels and Series: Or, what I call The Long Game

Full-length novels—particularly series fiction—tend to generate the strongest long-term sales. Why? Because readers don’t just buy one book. They buy into a world. This is where series fiction benefits with ongoing characters, narrative momentum, and reader loyalty. A single novel may sell modestly. A second or third often lifts the first. Sales accumulate over time rather than arriving all at once.

Short Stories: The Gateway Books

Short story collections are often underestimated but here’s something to consider: They are less intimidating to new readers, easier to sample, and ideal for readers drawn to voice and atmosphere. Short stories may not outsell novels, but they frequently introduce readers who later commit to longer works. They are often the entry point rather than the destination.

Poetry: The Smallest Market—and the Deepest One

I think it may be fair to say poetry is honest about its place in publishing. I mean it rarely dominates sales charts, but it builds something else: connection. Poetry readers tend to buy intentionally, revisit books, and follow writers across genres. Poetry sells slowly, but it sells faithfully.

What Readers Actually Do

I believe readers don’t actually think in genres as much as we writers do. Instead, they seem to think in terms of mood, trust, voice, and time available. Many readers discover a writer through one form and explore others later. Sales often follow relationships, not categories.

A Better Question to Ask

Instead of asking which genre sells the most, a better question is: which genre leads readers to the others? For many independent authors, the strongest strategy isn’t choosing one genre—but allowing each genre to support the rest.

Author’s Note

As a writer who works across novels, short stories, and poetry, I’ve seen firsthand how these forms interact rather than compete. Some readers arrive through a poem, others through a short story, and many eventually settle into longer fiction. Over time, I’ve learned that building a body of work, not chasing a single category, creates the most durable connection with readers.

 

 

 

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Know Them By Their Deeds…

I recently watched an interesting, if not somewhat disturbing video on YouTube that got me thinking about all the Tech-bro hype appearing on television and around the blogosphere. I’ll post a link to the video below but first, some of my thoughts.

Know Them by Their Systems, Not Their Speeches

For centuries people have relied on a simple moral compass: “Know them by their deeds, not their words.” It is a proverb born of hard experience, the kind that comes from watching smooth talkers rise to power while ordinary people pay the price.

In our own era, that wisdom feels more relevant than ever — especially when we look at the world of tech billionaires and the culture of “tech bros” that surrounds them.

They speak often of saving humanity. They promise that artificial intelligence will liberate us from drudgery, that innovation will make the world fairer, and that disruption is necessary for progress. Their TED talks shimmer with optimism, their manifestos glow with utopian language, and their interviews are filled with confident declarations about the bright future they are building.

Yet when we shift our gaze from their words to their deeds, a very different picture emerges.

We see staggering concentrations of wealth in fewer and fewer hands while working families struggle to afford housing, healthcare, and basic stability. We see companies that celebrate “connection” while monetizing surveillance and eroding privacy. We see relentless extraction of resources that strains water, air, and the living systems of the planet. We see labor treated as disposable, even as corporate profits soar.

Perhaps most troubling, we see many of these same leaders quietly preparing for collapse — buying remote land, constructing fortified retreats, and investing in personal escape plans — rather than working collectively to prevent the very crises they anticipate.

That is why I find a sharper version of the old saying more fitting for our time:

“Know them by what their systems do to ordinary people, not by what their founders say about the future.”

This reframing matters. It moves the focus away from individual personalities, whether they are saints, sinners, or something in between, and places it where it belongs: on the systems of power they create and profit from.

A system that consistently widens inequality, weakens democracy, damages the environment, and treats human beings as data points or replaceable units can fairly be described as structurally cold, even if its architects claim warm intentions. It may not be populated by clinical psychopaths, but it can still produce psychopathic results.

In the end, grand rhetoric means little if daily reality grows harsher for most people.

The real test of progress is not how dazzling the technology is, but whether life becomes more humane, more secure, and more sustainable for the many, not just the few.

Until that standard is met, I’ll keep judging tech elites the old-fashioned way: by their deeds, not their speeches.

Here’s the video by a journalist that got me thinking about this:

“Tech billionaires are planning for a future where humans don’t exist, and they’re already building it.” – Taylor Lorenz