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Steve Robison

I love writing. Writing excites me, moves me, fulfills me. It’s my passion and my purpose.

If you love reading, I hope you’ll find something worthy here. As Ben Franklin said in Poor Richard’s Almanac:

“If you would not be forgotten
As soon as you are dead and rotten
Either write things worth reading
Or do things worth the writing.”

I write because I love writing. And I write so people might cry at my funeral.

Steve

P.S. If you love my writing, please consider buying one or more of my books, writing a review, and reaching out and letting me know. Thanks a million.

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Transcending the Noise

Type: Blog Post

August 21, 2016 6:30 am EDT

Nine hours yesterday. Over seventy for the week. I’ve found my groove and learned some secrets. Mostly, it’s about simply deciding that nothing will stop me from being productive. And it’s about diving in early, before the brain has time to get all worried about the bullshit.

It’s removing myself from the noise. Or transcending the noise. Or getting pissed about the noise, and using that anger... Read More »


Frank's Grandfather

Type: Fiction

August 17, 2016 8:27 pm EDT

He looked like his grandfather, only strangely older. He wasn’t of course. That would be impossible. Chronologically.

But in other ways, many ways, Frank acted and seemed as old as the Appalachians. Maybe his mother’s side of the family had cursed him with bad genes but it seems just as likely that Frank’s mindset and belief were the cause of his premature aging. At forty-two, he looked seventy-two, on a good day. He was constantly complaining, about the weather, about politics, about bullies and the rise of terrorism and the new strains of killer biological weapons. When he wasn’t complaining, he... Read More »


Waking Dreams

Type: Fiction

August 10, 2016 4:21 am EDT

I realized when I woke several mornings at three-thirty that I had interrupted another me, from some faded mirror reality not quite mine, in the sense of this world, this dimension, this reality, but me just the same, another version of me, a shadow seen in the smoky mirror of extra-dimensional beingness.

This explained the strange head cold in the musty heat of August, the tennis elbow, though I’d not played tennis in decades, at least, not here.

Wednesday morning was the strangest. There were four small, sore, irritated reddish pink spots just up the arm from my right wrist. When I looked, still... Read More »


Happy Ecstasy

Type: Poem

August 8, 2016 7:18 pm EDT

The subtle pepper, dark and verboten,
With the slight hint of sweet ripe fruit,
Rips from me
My remaining sanity
As you scream... Read More »