In collaboration with my Dad….a brand new book!

When I was little, I remember my dad and I making up stories. About people who passed us by as we sat on various benches at the mall while my sister and mom shopped. About people we knew or wanted to know or characters that only lived inside our imaginations.

As I grew, I started writing poems. When I felt bold enough, I’d storm stages and read them out loud. Sometimes I wrote stories too.

Three years ago, I encouraged my dad to publish his work. He had been writing stories for years and couldn’t believe someone (who didn’t know him) would want to read his work.

Now, he has three published novels under his belt and is working on a fourth.

A year or so ago, my dad asked me if I might want to write a book with him. Of course I said yes. And many months and words later, our book is in print with an ISBN and cover and I couldn’t be prouder.

A Very Special Dress & Other Stories is an accumulation of a myriad of relationships: a daughter to her father, a dog impatiently waiting for her human to come home, a teenager figuring out their gender identity…..spanning generations and voices.

Purchase this book now:

Checks or money orders only, made payable to Martin Herman & Associates.  NO cash please.

194 Rodney Press, 521 Simsbury Road, Bloomfield, CT 06002


Dear Dad,

Today, you turn seventy-five; I purchase you more paper as you continue writing this new chapter of your life.

Memory: I was Eleanor Roosevelt and you narrated the imagination of magic.

Today, you are reminded that there is no such thing as too old to begin again.

Memory: You take me into your closet to choose whichever ties I’d like. You even encourage my double windsor.

Today, I articulate gratitude for having a father who not only encourages my words but has built up a travelogue of his own.

Memory: New Jersey. Garage sale. Grandfather clock.

Today, you are a published writer. With the most incredible agent/bookseller/partner by your side.

Memory: We are eating lunch in the place we always went to in West Hartford to share good news; I tell you about my relapse and you barely hesitate before taking a bite of honey-mustard-lathered bread and say, “I love you.”

Today, you own your ISBN and I have been traveling with your second novel in my backpack everyday for over a week.

Memory: After midnight in Connecticut, you wait in the kitchen with a pot of coffee and salt & peppered chicken to gossip about dating and love.

Today, it is not just your birthday but a reminder of how important it is to say thank you.


Thank you. For existing. Happy Birthday, Dad.


TODAY: a celebration of a new book by my dad.

Many years ago, while I was still living in Boulder, CO, I was published in an erotica anthology. I came back east to visit and made my way to Connecticut to see my dad. We were both very excited of my publication and even though the content was a bit racy, my dad and I headed to the nearby Barnes & Noble, so he could buy a copy.

Yes, I went with my dad to buy a book of erotica.

I have a fond memory of heading to the “Romance” section, where it was housed and eagerly finding it in its alphabetical place. If my memory is correct, we took photos. My dad holding erotica book, then I.

He has supported me through all my rejection letters and the unexpected acceptances. He has come to my readings and performances, even the ones which had content most fathers would find uncomfortable. He always called himself, a fan.

Now, I get to be his fan, as I help him celebrate his new book, “The Jefferson Files.” Tonight, at 61 Local in Brooklyn, NY at 61 Bergen Street. 7pm.

Being a writer has freed me from so much. I revel in watching his freedom let loose on the page as well.

MY DAD WROTE A BOOK or there is no deadline on starting again

Throughout my life, my dad and I have lifted metaphorical weights together to strengthen our imaginations. As a kid, we’d listen to old radio shows like The Shadow or Suspense! and allow our minds to get lost in the sound effects arriving from the tiny speakers of the radio. When we’d be driving somewhere, we’d make up our own stories, even creating voices for our characters.

He always encouraged me to be creative; this led me to become a poet without any thought of ‘a back-up plan’.

My father never encouraged me away from my dreams, even if they seemed too whimsical.

Almost every time we speak, he asks: Did you send any poems out today? Did you write?

At the age of almost 75, my father has a “six-pack” imagination. This led him to pen his very first novel. For years, he woke early or remained up late to write. In his mind, these words were for my sister and I; however, after reading it and being extremely riveted, I encouraged him to publish it.

My father has run companies, worked as a used car salesman, sold chocolate-shaped ties to department stores. He never imagined he’d write a book one day. Yet, he’s already begun writing another! We see someone over 70 and forget they still have life in them. We assume they are tired; we assume they have lived their dreams out already. How wrong we are…….

On April 15th, in Brooklyn, NY, I get to help celebrate this immense accomplishment with my dad, Martin Herman. If you are in the NYC or tri-state area, I encourage you to come as well. It will be an evening celebrating his new book, The Jefferson FilesThis book spans over a century and is a murder mystery historical fiction adventure starting with the third President of the United States, Thomas Jefferson, a crime, a hidden diary, and an extremely curious and persistent college student.

Come join in on the celebration, which will also feature mixed media poet, Todd Anderson. There WILL B books for sale! Buy a copy. Buy two. Get one signed by this brand new author!

Wednesday, April 15th, 2015

61 Local

61 Bergen Street, Brooklyn




My father reminds me to remain. When his mileage grows further than my eyes can reach, I press yellow post-it notes to borrowed walls to remind myself what to do.

Exist. Write. Nourish. Be kind. Be patient. Be present. BE.

When I ask my students why they write, a list of words unravel off their tongues reminding me how necessary it is to even question this process of documentation.

I write because it keeps me here.

My father is a novelist. I can say this now because he spent many years curving his back toward various computers, writing words down. Amidst the stress(es) of life, he found time to accumulate over 70,000 words into organized chapters and plot twists. A writer writes.

Each time we speak, he asks me how my writing is going. Am I sending work out? Am I broadening my audience? This check-in reminds me my purpose.

I remind my father that he keeps me here too. As a writer, I have grown accustomed to being so enclosed within my thoughts, it has created a distance inside me. I can reveal all my secrets on stage, but that is because they have already been written down. In person, I am zipped-up; this can be a lonely existence.

My father reminds me how I used to be. Before ______. And before _______.

When I was younger and my hair was yellow and soft, we used to listen to old radio shows, barter at garage sales and hoard other people’s junk. My body was less creased, less angry; there were far less stockpiles of scars on my skin. It’s difficult for me to recall that human that once was me.

My father reminds me that there is still happy in me; I just need to be open to rummaging a little.

I remind my father that there is still peace in him; he just needs to be open to some rummaging as well.