It’s pretty much a daily ordeal. My sweetie pie and I sit down to watch TV and, despite having literally thousands of options, we can’t find anything of interest.

Those in charge of entertainment programing seem to have left those of us in more mature age groups behind. The plethora of never-ending superhero sagas, monster-driven teen love stories, simplistic rom-coms, and one-note horror films has become so overwhelming that we are often on the verge of giving up.

So, imagine my surprise when, all in one week, three wonderful programs popped up. I will now put on my movie-reviewer cap, a chapeau I wore briefly as a newspaper reporter. I can still recall the day my editor stood by his desk and yelled, “Anybody want to review a movie?” I leaped from my seat, arm in the air like a second-grader in need of a bathroom break. Since no one else in the newsroom even looked up from their screens, the job fell to me, one I would thoroughly enjoy until I left to become a teacher.

So, I will now utilize those rusty reviewing skills.

The first show was a series called Archie, a BritBox program about the life of movie star Cary Grant, played here by a pitch-perfect Jason Isaacs. When one looks at massively famous people who seem to have it all, we don’t often see beneath the self-constructed shell. In Grant’s case, the lost, abused, little boy who grew up in poverty in England. His brother dies and his grief-stricken, domineering mother is placed in a mental institution by his father, a philanderer who is more interested in other women than his grieving wife. Grant, whose real name was Archie Leach, is practically sold by his father to a Vaudeville show, one that takes him to America. The story is based in part on the book Dear Cary, a memoir by his fourth wife, actor Dyan Cannon, who was 33 years his junior when they married. It was a fascinating, well-acted look at a charming, stunningly suave, anguished man, one who was uncomfortable living as the character he created for us to see and desperately seeking his place in life.

Then there was the film Leave the World Behind, a dystopian-thriller, Netflix original based on the best-selling novel by Rumaan Alam. The story details two families struggling through an odd string of occurrences, seemingly initiated by a cyber-attack. All communication systems are lost. No cellphones, TV, or GPS. They are in what appears to be a remote, extremely wealthy enclave outside of New York City, since one can periodically see the skyline in the distance. The local mansions are inexplicably empty. Animals are acting strangely. (Note that you’ll look at deer in a whole new light.) The actors are heavy hitters—Ethan Hawke, Mahershala Ali, Kevin Bacon, and Julia Roberts, who, rather out of character, plays a disgruntled wife and mother who freely says she hates people. I’ll admit here that I enjoy women on screen who eschew the need to be likable and beautiful in every scene. Robert’s character is distrusting, indignant, and racist even prior to what might be a nationwide—or perhaps worldwide—blackout. My favorite line was uttered by Hawke’s dimwitted character, when in frustration he yells, “I can’t barely do anything without my cellphone and my GPS. I am a useless man,” sentiment he proves while driving around completely lost, unable to manage without technology telling him what to do and which way to go. As giant oil tankers run aground and planes fall from the sky, the families try to make sense of a world gone mad.

Finally, one of the most stunning pictures I’ve seen in years: Maestro, another Netflix original. The biopic details the life of the brilliant American composer and director Leonard Bernstein, focusing mainly on his relationship with his wife Felicia. Bernstein, played by Bradley Cooper, is mercurial, flamboyant, and sometimes depressed. He loves his wife without reservation, but still has sex with men, partners who become part of their household. Cooper, I think, will win awards for his portrayal, and might take home a statue or two for writing and directing, as well. The scenes with Felicia, played by Carey Mulligan, are dynamic and exhausting, the dialogue so quick-paced and overlapping, that viewers get caught up in the urgency. Mulligan displays Felicia’s anguish with small glances and gestures that are heartbreaking. No doubt there might be some hardware in her future, as well. Then, of course, there is the music. Bernstein’s magnificent works are played throughout the film by the London Symphony Orchestra, sometimes as scene-setting background music, sometimes with Cooper brilliantly conducting from the podium.

There you have it. Three beautiful and thought-provoking pieces of cinema, so grab some popcorn and hit the couch.

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The idea of bucking up under criticism and proving others wrong is a solid one, but what happens when you can’t turn it off?

Since I was an overweight, dyslexic, sometimes bullied child, I have yearned to prove people wrong. “You’re stupid!” “You’re ugly!” “You’re fat!”

When I was 18, my brother made me a twenty-dollar bet that I’d flunk out of school before the end of my freshman year, explaining that I was too stupid to get through college. I took that wager with one thing in mind. I will prove you wrong!

And I did. Even today—and don’t judge me here—I enjoy the fact that there are more degrees on my wall than his. I proved him wrong, which I also did to a lot of other people who told me I wasn’t worthy. “You can’t be a sportscaster!” “You can’t be a referee!” “You can’t be a writer!

Obviously, I believe the idea of pushing past the naysayers was admirable. But I wonder if we ever get to stop proving ourselves. Today, I’m retired from fulltime work and have accomplished most of what I set out to do, and yet I yearn to do more. This attitude, however, is apparently not a positive trait. Insecurity may be at work, especially when one places too much importance on garnering approval.

In the article “Feeling The Need to Prove Yourself to Others,” Michael Schreiner points out that “…if you’re sure of your own talents, abilities, and accomplishments others’ opinions won’t matter to you much, but if you’re secretly unsure of your talents, abilities, and accomplishments these opinions will matter to you very much indeed.”

After thinking about that, I realized that I fall somewhere in the middle. I know I’ve done things well in my life, but—though I hate to admit it—I still care what others think, something Schreiner explains is a waste of time.

“Your time and energy would be much better spent focusing on your own development than on proving yourself to others. Once you get to a certain point of development you’ll no longer care about that approval anyway so you might as well stop caring about it now and decide instead to go about proving yourself to yourself.”

How is that accomplished? I found a few hints. First, stop angling for perfection. It doesn’t really exist, so let it go. Then there’s the idea that praise can be addictive. When people tell us we’re great, we tend to want to hear it over and over and, like a hamster on a wheel, we keep running to get that praise again. So, remember your own strengths, give yourself an attaboy, and move on. Also, stop comparing yourself to others, which in this social media world is almost impossible but which is a much healthier attitude. And finally, be grateful for  the life you have and for what you’ve already accomplished.

Having said all this, I’m pretty sure switching off that little voice in my head that urges me to do more won’t be easy, but I’m willing to give it a try.

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“You snore!” My sweetie-pie squinted at me.

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I periodically snored so loudly I would wake myself up. Ironically, he was the one who used to saw wood, as old folks once said. But then he lost 65 pounds and now he doesn’t make a peep when he’s off in slumberland.

He eyed me. “You should go see a doctor. What if you have sleep apnea?”

I flashed on those TV commercials where frustrated sleepers rip off a facemask attached to a tube attached to a box that pumps oxygen into their lungs, ostensibly to keep their snoring to a minimum. The contraption seemed worse than the problem, so my first thought was, “Heck no!” But eventually he talked me into a visit to the local sleep clinic.

A nice young doctor—Why do they all suddenly look 15?—looked down my throat and took a few notes. “We’ll do a sleep study,” he said.

I glanced at the corner of the examination room where two plastic heads wore versions of continuous positive airway pressure machines, more commonly referred to as CPAPs.

“They’re not as bad as those TV commercials make them out to be,” the doctor explained when he saw me staring. “I wear one every night.”

Later, I pulled a device from a small black box. I’d been instructed to place two sticky pads on the machine, affix it to my forehead, arrange the strap around my head, then situate a tube beneath my nose.

 “Please lie down and sleep.” A lilting female voice with a British accent startled me, but I regained my composure and did as she recommended. I slipped between the sheets, pulled up the covers, and closed my eyes. Though the box sticking to my forehead felt a little strange, I nodded off.

“Your device has been disconnected!”

I jolted up.

“Please reconnect your device!”

It took me a moment, but I soon realized it was the British lady addressing me. One of the sticky pads had come loose, so I pressed it back onto my forehead.

“Please lie down and sleep,” she instructed in a more soothing tone.

I wondered if I should apologize for upsetting her. Then I considered whether she was a real person, watching from some far-off observation facility. Was there a camera in the little box? Or a microphone? I was tempted to say hello, but she again ordered me to get back to sleeping.

The British lady—and perhaps her medical minions—tracked my sleep for three nights, after which I returned the box to the clinic.  

“The doctors will examine the results and inform you of the next steps,” the receptionist explained.

While waiting for the process to play out, I learned that sleep apnea affects roughly 30 million U.S. adults, though only about six million have been diagnosed. The problem, of course, is that the affliction can lead to medical issues like heart attacks and strokes, as well as memory problems, insulin resistance, and an overall sense of exhaustion. I’ve also learned it can cause grumpy partners.

It will be a month or so before I hear if I have to spend a few nights at the sleep clinic attached to wires and electrodes to check my heartrate, breathing, oxygen levels, and some other things. I passed a few of those pretty little bedrooms the last time I visited. I wonder if the British lady will be there and if the minions might leave me a mint on the pillow.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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When my mother was preparing to move from Arizona to Colorado so she could be closer to the grandchildren and great grandchildren, she was obsessed with giving me her stuff. I’d already taken several pieces of furniture over the years, a couple of paintings, and two sets of china, and still she wanted me to take more.

“Here’s my Penn State yearbook,” she said handing me a weathered, green volume with 1948 stamped on the front.

“No, Mom. I barely have room for my own yearbooks.”

Then she dragged a large, two-handled bag across the floor. “These are the notes I took when I was writing my books. You should have them.”

While it’s true that my mother wrote a handful of historical fiction novels over the years, the idea that I might want her old research had me stumped. “Mom! What would I do with it?”

But she was already off, pulling more things out of the closets for me to take.

Recently, my sweetie pie found himself facing the same issue. His dad and stepmom were preparing to move into an independent living facility in Vancouver, Washington. “What do you want?” Ryan’s father asked. A number of firearms had been handed down over the years. There was also a grandfather clock that had been lovingly passed from generation to generation. But when Ryan and I discussed those possessions, we realized we had no use or room for any of them.

And we are not alone. Many younger people are simply not interested in family heirlooms. Millennials, especially, are turning away from possessions, instead focusing on making memories. According to The Simplicity Habit article “Sorry Parents, Millennials Don’t Want Your Stuff,” “… many millennials are renting smaller spaces close to urban areas. And instead of filling their homes with stuff, many prefer to fill their lives with experiences and adventures.”

The article goes on to say exactly what Millennials don’t want: wedding dresses, dinnerware, dark heavy antique furniture, figurine collections, antique dolls, and old school technology like sewing machines and film projectors.

There are several problems in regard to our stuff. One, as previously mentioned, is that young people tend to live in smaller homes and have nowhere to put those spoons you collected from all 50 states or that stack of 1970s rock-and-roll albums perched in the back of your closet.  

I know what you’re thinking. These possessions have sentimental value. But you have to remember, those are your memories. To your kids they’re just so much clutter, objects that will hold them down.

“The more stuff you have, the more difficult it can be to embrace that sense of freedom,” the article explained. “You can’t just pick up and go. You can’t just sell your stuff and travel. You’ve got a house full of things you need to make arrangements for instead, which can be a big barrier. Which is why many Millennials don’t want stuff.”

Now, your kids are not dopes. I’m sure they’d be happy to accept things that have monetary value. So if you have a few original Picasso’s hanging around, or perhaps a large collection of jewelry bearing high-quality gemstones, or a bag of 18th century gold daubloons, I’m guessing your very smart children would say, “Sure. Mom! Okay. We’ll take those.” But let’s be honest, most of that stuff you’re handing down has probably depreciated in value over the years and really isn’t worth very much.

So…what do you do? Donate, donate, donate! Find your local Goodwill or thrift shop. Or, if you need the cash, take it to a consignment store or sell it online. The thing is, don’t make family members feel bad for not wanting your stuff.

As a bonus…you might be surprised by how much better you feel once you’ve spent some time decluttering. So get to it!

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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Perhaps you’ve heard the expression, “The future is now.” I never gave that phrase much thought until I received an email from my publisher. My historical fiction novel, Your Forgotten Sons, will be released by Next Chapter Publishing on June 6^th, 2024 in honor of the 80^th anniversary of D-Day. I mention the launch because I got an interesting request in regard to the book.

“(O)ur team has been working on improving our publishing workflow by making use of some of the latest advancements in technology, namely the huge leaps Artificial Intelligence and LLM’s (Large Language Models) have made in the past 12 months,” the CEO of the company explained.

I paused, rather dramatically in hindsight, then continued reading.

“At this point, editing & proofreading are the most time-consuming parts of the process. By using LLM-assisted editing, it’s possible to drastically reduce the time it takes to prepare your manuscript for publication, while still maintaining high quality and even improving it compared to human editing & proofreading. In a recent test, an LLM scored 90% in a copyediting assessment, while on average human copyeditors scored 50% – 70%.”

I thought about that for a minute. Like most authors, I’ve dreamed of a perfect manuscript—something as rare as a teenager without a cellphone—but I couldn’t help but consider some of the lovely editors I’ve worked with in the past. That I was even considering a switch to their digital counterpart made me feel like a traitor to the human race.

The email continued. “After the editing & proofreading process is completed, you’ll receive the manuscript back for approval and comments, just like when working with a normal editor, and you can approve/disapprove every change before the manuscript moves forward to layout design.”

I waffled, then wondered what might happen if I was disappointed with the AI editor. Could I be assigned a human editor instead?

“Yes, that’s possible!” my boss explained. “If you’re unhappy with the results, we can do another round with a human editor; however, based on our data so far, the system has been very effective, especially in picking up typos and grammatical errors.”

Though I wanted to stand up and defend human editors, in the end I agreed to be part of the experimental program. Still, I feel a bit guilty signing onto the deal. In the meantime, I’m trying to come up with a name for my AI editor. Hal came to mind, but that didn’t end too well for astrounaut Dave in 2001: A Space Oddssey, so I guess I’ll just wait for my new editor to get in touch.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, here’s a look at my new book.

Your Forgotten Sons

Inspired by a true story

Anne Montgomery

Bud Richardville is inducted into the Army as the United States prepares for the invasion of Europe in 1943. A chance comment has Bud assigned to a Graves Registration Company, where his unit is tasked with locating, identifying, and burying the dead. Bud ships out, leaving behind his new wife, Loryane, a mysterious woman who has stolen his heart but whose secretive nature and shadowy past leave many unanswered questions. When Bud and his men hit the beach at Normandy, they are immediately thrust into the horrors of what working in a graves unit entails. Bud is beaten down by the gruesome demands of his job and losses in his personal life, but then he meets Eva, an optimistic soul who despite the war can see a positive future. Will Eva’s love be enough to save him?

Release Date: June 6, 2024

Next Chapter Publishing

Get your copy wherever you buy books.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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Feet. We don’t give them much thought until something goes awry.

For me, that began at birth, when, after swiping some black ink on my tiny sole and marking my birth certificate, it became obvious that my left foot was crooked.

“Make sure to massage her foot several times a day,” the doctor told my mom. “That might straighten it out.”

But my mother—today approaching 99—admits she quickly got tired of rubbing my foot, as I was an annoying baby, a red-haired screamer who would only eat fruit. So it would not be until my senior year in college, when I could no longer wear a shoe in the cold, Ohio winter that a surgeon finally corrected the problem.

I mention my feet because, as I said previously, many of us ignore those very important bits until they remind us that we need to treat them properly. Note here that we do some pretty awful things to our feet. Need I mention spike heels, or platform shoes, or flip flops, or shoes that narrow down to points so sharp they could be utilized as deadly weapons, should one be so inclined?

None of the aforementioned footwear is good for us, still I have always believed that it’s better to wear any shoes than none at all. But it turns out I might be wrong. Scientists now believe that walking barefoot might reduce injuries to our feet and improve posture and balance, because going about sans shoes can help improve flexibility and strength in the foot’s muscles and ligaments.

Now, that doesn’t mean you should toss your shoes and socks and go running about willy-nilly in wild places. Though it seems our ancient ancestors, the Neanderthals, might have done so. But they spent their caveman lives building up a thick layer of callous that protected them from thorns and stones and even snow, something our delicate, modern-day feet probably couldn’t handle. So, if you want to improve your balance and strength, pick a nice clean surface upon which to walk barefoot, a place free of anything that might make you weep, should you step on it.

In the meantime, if you want to keep your tootsies happy, maintain good foot hygiene by washing and drying your feet regularly. Then slather them with some nice lotion to prevent cracks, which can sometimes lead to infections. Wearing the proper size shoes is a must. Remember that different manufactures size shoes differently and our shoe size may change as we age. Also, take proper care of your toenails by cutting them straight across, remember to exercise regularly, and don’t ignore foot pain. Head to the podiatrist at the first sign of a problem.

Scientists believe that people have been wearing shoes for about 40,000 years. And I’m guessing we will continue to do so. In 2023, the footwear market in the U.S. alone is expected to bring in a whopping $88 billion. That said, think about your feet when you’re out fondling shoes. Look down before swiping your credit card for that strappy pair of Manolo Blahnik’s spike heels. Then… ask what would make your feet happy.

The answer, perhaps, might be no shoes at all.

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On occassion, there are rules that, at first glance, don’t seem to make sense. For example, some friends recently visited me on the lovely island of St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands where I have a home. My pretty island sports numerous white sand beaches, and, like me, my friend Abby couldn’t wait to do some beachcombing.

Like many Caribbean islands, there’s an abundance of interesting objects that wash up during high tide. There’s multi-colored sea glass, the rough edges ground down by years of rolling about in the waves: green, blue, brown, aqua, white, and on very rare occasions red. There are sea fans that appear to be made of lace and smoothed chunks of blonde driftwood. Here in St. Croix we also have something special called “chaney”, pieces of pottery and china that are said to have been tossed off ships because they were broken and importers didn’t want to pay taxes on damaged goods. Many of these pieces remain vibrant and beautiful despite centuries in the sea.

Then, of course, there are shells. It’s hard not to be amazed by nature when staring at a beautifully coiled shell. I will admit here that I have spent much of my life picking up shells and taking them home to display. However, I’ve now learned the practice is not sustainable.

“I saw that we aren’t supposed to pick up shells,” Abby said, looking a bit deflated as we roamed a rocky stretch of beach just outside of Christiansted Harbor.

I nodded. “I know.”

“But why?” Abby asked.

I considered her question. The oceans are so vast, the idea of taking home a single shell seems insignificant in the extreme. Still, the reasoning is sound. It’s all about real estate. Crab housing, as it were, and I managed to prove the rule makers were not crazy.

Some of you may have had hermit crabs as pets. We step gingerly in my home because the little guys often come through the doors and wander about. Some of them are quite big. Recently I found one as big as my hand trudging through the backyard. The problem is that as they grow they need bigger shells to move into.

The other day I noticed a crab toting a shell that appeared too small. I thought about his predicament that afternoon when we spotted two beautiful black-and-white magpie shells. The snails that had once resided in them were long gone, so, yes, I brought them home. But I didn’t put them on a shelf. Instead, I placed them on the floor in a corner of the porch. I flipped both shells open side up and left them there.

I could not have been more thrilled the next day when my crab friend was walking around wearing the smaller of the two shells. He’d flipped both of them over and decided the little shell was perfect. Then he left his old shell right in the same spot.

In the interest of crab happiness, I will now leave most shells on the beach. But since my land crabs don’t mix well with water, I’ll continue to place a few on the porch, because even nature needs a little help now and then.

Anne Montgomery’s novels can be found wherever books are sold.

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