Ghost Lake: A Preview!


Ghost Lake: The mists rise at dusk.

A few years ago I posted a story about a ghostly lake near my house. One or two comments suggested I develop the theme into a novel. I agreed that I could see the potential, but I was still focused on Murdered Justice, which was still a few months from being released. I was so thrilled to have signed with W & B Publishers, and I’d already begun researching and making notes for Pennington’s Hoax. I’d jotted down some possible ideas for books three and four of Maggie Lyon’s adventures, but none of those plots had her anywhere near what could easily turn out as a gothic mystery. Maggie deals with crime, conspiracy, and international intrigue. She’s not likely to find herself in a haunted house with a flashlight.

However, in real life I continued driving through the spectral mists while imagining the many possible creatures that could spring from the bushes onto the road. All sorts of criminals could be lurking within the brush, but I couldn’t see Maggie willingly leaving New York for haunted wetlands in the Pacific Northwest. As I was preparing to send Pennington’s Hoax to the publisher, I had an idea. Maggie wouldn’t “willingly” find herself living in the woods, but she might be convinced to give it a try. Pennington’s Hoax got a new ending, and readers will soon have a new installment of the Maggie Lyon Mysteries. I hope you enjoy this excerpt from Ghost Lake.

Version 2

Ghost Lake: A Maggie Lyon Mystery Coming Soon!

I changed into my hiking boots and decided to venture into the woods now that the rains had stopped for a couple of weeks and our bothersome handyman wasn’t around to stop me from exploring. If I ran across any wildlife, I hoped that it would be more scared of me than I was of it.

I expected that the brambles and vines would trip me up, but to my surprise there was a recently mowed trail that descended along the property line at a steady incline. There were giant firs to my right, and alders under-planted with hazelnuts and elderberry to my left. I couldn’t begin to count the various types of ferns, and I had an immediate sense of satisfaction that many people would pay good money and wait years to enjoy a native landscape like this. Even though the summer dry season had finally arrived, it was cool beneath the canopy. Vine maples at eye level, yellow maples towering above me.

I paused intermittently to examine the wild blackberries prior to ripening. In the densest part of the woods there were the last of the bleeding hearts and some other pink and purple flowers whose names I didn’t know. I spotted a wild rose before coming upon an apple tree in a clearing that still produced fruit in spite of limited sunlight.

There was movement in the bushes to my left, and I immediately turned. At the edge of the clearing, there was a doe with her fawn. The infant’s vibrant white spots stood out on its coat. The pair studied me, and I stood still to see how long they’d linger. We heard a hawk, and that caused them to dash further into the thicket.

I was delighted to discover a seasonal creek running through our property. I was positive that when the rains returned it would be challenging to cross this tributary. I wasn’t sure where it led, but most likely to the Lewis River. Perhaps it had once fed into Hathaway Lake – the ghost lake. I planned to hike the stream one day to find out where it ended. In the meantime, I trekked further and finally reached another clearing under the canopy. My husband Mark-Mario had been telling me that Greg the handyman had been working very hard at reclaiming the property’s neglected areas, but I couldn’t see that the man had done anything more than maintain this one long trail.

I looked around for a place to sit and enjoy nature, but wasn’t keen to sit on the ground. I proceeded further down the slope, trying not to think about the challenging up-hill climb that faced me on my return. The trail narrowed as I came to what I thought was the bottom. Greg had obviously used the tractor’s brush hog for the widest swaths, but the narrowness of the path before me was no wider in my estimation than a riding lawnmower.

Why had Greg meticulously maintained this trail at the property’s edge while warning me like a little girl in a fairy tale to beware of the dangers lurking within the forest? It stood to reason that there was an invisible food chain living in the woods. The deer would draw wolves or wildcats; possibly both. Smaller predators would seek out smaller prey, and while this ecosystem was clearly functioning, I sensed no danger. Perhaps I was too ignorant and foolish.

In movie theaters, audiences scream at the person on the screen to turn back. “Don’t go in there!” I could almost hear an audience in another dimension telling me to go back home as I plodded forward. The trail tapered into a path of hacked out bramble, and in spite of the dry season, there was moist ground beneath my feet. The organic redolence of decayed fallen trees hung in the air, and I breathed pure oxygen. I would’ve turned back, but I wanted more time in nature before I had to return to the problems that required my attention.

My feet sunk into the earth, and I pushed on a branch to steady my balance. I lifted myself to a spot just ahead, and I realized there was an old gate not too far beyond. It was made of metal; wood would have rotted over the years. Of course, the metal wasn’t faring too well, so I guessed that the gate was at least 40 years old. It wasn’t closed so I passed through it.

I stood underneath a trestle. Behind me was the forest’s dense canopy, but opening before me was tall and wide as if I were stepping into a cathedral. I could hear an occasional car overhead, and there was a trickle of water coming from somewhere. I looked back to see where I’d come from. I might have stepped into another dimension, and I didn’t want my way back to fade into the rest of the foliage leaving me trapped.

At that point I should have turned around. I was no longer on my property, but I was curious. I moved into a thick section of tall grass. I stepped in mud, and everywhere I turned I seemed to bog down to my ankles. My boots were ruined, but I continued until I emerged into an open field. I was in the marshes. I was standing in Ghost Lake, and before me was the yellow police tape marking off the area where they’d found that poor girl.

© 2019 by Patrick Brown

To learn more about my books, especially the three featuring Maggie Lyon, visit my author page at:




A Time to Watch

I wouldn’t say television is a major part of my life, but let’s face it. Without TV, I wouldn’t have had much of a story in Tossed Off the Edge with Sheila’s many references to classic television. The truth is that I hate morning television, which caters to shallowness, and daytime TV—now that soap operas barely exist, sorely lacks in merit. I’d much prefer the fictional lives of well-dressed people worrying about the paternity of their children as opposed to the uncivilized shouting by people with too much exposed flesh waving around DNA tests. At least in soap operas the mothers could narrow down paternal candidates to a couple of men.

I’ve written before how I can’t stand contemporary news productions, so that leaves evening television. I don’t like reality shows unless they cover cooking and home improvement, but I’ll admit to watching a few episodes about an isolationist family in Alaska. I was curious and found something endearing about them, so shoot me. I balance that indulgence with PBS, which is a great resource though not everything is as educational as it is entertaining. I have never missed a single episode of Downton Abbey, but if there’s nothing interesting to me at other times, I turn it off and read. I make this disclaimer about TV to point out that I’m neither addicted nor am I ashamed to admit I watch.

Popping by Bette Davis's cocktail party. Thank goodness for TV where I first learned about her.

Popping by Bette Davis’s cocktail party. Thank goodness for TV where I first learned about her.

There’s nothing wrong with watching TV. It’s one way in which Society keeps up with cultural references. Through this medium, we’re able to see history taking place live around the world and beyond the planet. Man’s first steps on the moon were televised, as have been celebrations and disasters alike.

I know a book devotee who never watches TV. She claims to have a very small one tucked in the closet somewhere for emergencies. How will she know when there’s an emergency if her programming hasn’t been interrupted by the Emergency Broadcasting Service, which I believe still tests periodically? I’m sure she’s one of the honest ones who truly don’t watch because nothing of contemporary culture registers with her. Tucked away in a world of serious books, she has deprived herself of the humor, emotion and beauty, which can be conveyed through performances that happen to be on TV. She truly believes there’s no merit to Television, and it’s been her loss.

I recently encountered another woman who insisted she didn’t watch TV. We were side by side for two or three hours over the course of several days, and she had no idea what I was talking about most of that time. In an effort to be humorous, I’d referenced an iconic scene from I Love Lucy. She claimed to be unfamiliar.

“I don’t watch TV.” Ever? “No.”

I cannot think of anyone as old as she and raised in the United States who hasn’t seen the candy-making episode. She was emphatic that her lack of tuning in was religious. It’s not like I Love Lucy was a bacchanalian romp in Prime Time. Mamie Eisenhower was First Lady, and Ricky and Lucy slept in twin beds! In pajamas, and with less skin showing than she at that moment! Then we got down to it: “I’m sure it’s family friendly, but I don’t have the luxury of time to sit and watch TV.”

This remark rather perturbed me because she assumed that I can’t pull myself away from the TV when her obvious ADHD is the real reason she can’t “sit and watch.” Hell, she couldn’t take two bites of her sandwich without jumping up in between them to check her Facebook status and remind her daughter about after-school cheer practice.

I can tell when someone truly doesn’t watch TV so I pried and I continued to pry until I uncovered enough information to sort her out. I learned that her early morning job requires her to be in bed before Prime Time viewing hours, and her afternoons are busy chauffeuring three kids.

She’s one of today’s viewers who don’t count streaming or watching something on a device other than an actual TV as watching TV. What they are seeing may not be on a TV screen, and it may not come from a network, but it’s still tele-vision. This anti-TV snob finally let it slip that while she didn’t have cable or satellite, she has a 60” TV and an active Netflix account, which streams like Glory from Heaven afar! She spat out sex and violence plotlines that would curl Pastor Sorenson’s blond hair. She knew more about these shows than the people in the writer’s room. She may not have watched it at 8:00 Eastern/7:00 Central, but she had watched it and that’s my point.

And yet she carried on as if she were intellectually superior to everyone else in the room. If I think someone watches too much for my taste, I think that’s bad, but I don’t like it one bit if someone thinks the same of me. Frankly, I don’t like trying to make conversation when the other person implies that their acumen is superior to mine, their lives are somehow richer and their spiritual plane higher because they have kept TV out of their lives. I want to see proof. Exactly what have you accomplished this week with all that extra time spent not watching a Ken Burns documentary?

© 2016 by Patrick Brown

Visit my author page at to learn about my books “Moral Ambiguity” and “Tossed Off the Edge.”


Sheila’s First Chapter

To whet your appetite, in case you have not had a chance to read my latest book Tossed Off the Edge, here is an excerpt of the first chapter!

Regina Knight Harrison Donavan Taylor Donavan McDonald McDonald Woodward Merriweather Todd’s funeral was held on channel seven at 1:00 p.m. local time in every time zone across the country. If you had ever watched daytime TV between 1970 until her demise, you couldn’t have missed her. She was blond and dramatic, and she had been shot, paralyzed, kidnapped, raped and tortured numerous times. On her better days, she had given or received a number of internal organs, suffered heart attacks and endured a radical mastectomy. There was also a debilitating stroke in her background, not to mention the mental problems and the mad scientist who cloned her so that serial murders could be committed in her name.

Miss Sheila Wozniak as "Regina" in a rare, care-free mood.

Miss Sheila Wozniak as “Regina” in a rare, care-free mood.

In spite of all the difficulties, including the births, deaths and sudden appearances of various children to whom she could and could not recall giving birth, and siblings who popped up year after year that she had never known, Regina maintained a strong faith in the power of love. She was a one-man woman in spite of having been married nine times to seven different husbands who got younger and younger as Regina aged.

Coincidentally, the actress who played her has won the same number of Emmys as on-screen marriages, but no more. Regina has died and will stay dead. I’m prostrate with grief. Oh, I know you think I’m being silly for soap operas are known for their mistaken deaths, surprise resurrections, bodies that were never found only to show up again and again. There have even been shocking deaths televised with the corpse in the coffin, which showed up thirty years later. The audience believed it when they were told the dead man, who would’ve been 107 by then, had been living in the next town over without so much as a nurse to come by and check on him during all that time.

No, Regina is dead. The network told me so personally when they delivered my pink slip. You see, I wrote Regina’s story line for twenty years. Sheila Wozniak might’ve spoken the lines and taken all the glory, but I wrote Regina’s words, her screams, her tears and her heart-felt soliloquies for half of her televised life. No one knew Regina better than I for I was guiding her life.

I had plans for Regina to outlive Sheila Wozniak. Whether the actress retired or ended up having to be rolled onto the set in a wheelchair to read a couple of lines off the prompter, I would bide my time until they replaced her with a younger actress. It didn’t concern me that eventually Regina might end up younger than her daughter—the one switched at birth and raised by the maniacal couple from Argentina. The Edge of Conflict was just getting started at forty years. I envisioned at least twenty-five more years of untapped trauma and tragedy for Regina, but there was one malady she couldn’t overcome in spite of all her other miraculous triumphs: innate stubbornness.

The network was trying to save money during a massive, international recession, and one way was to ship all of daytime TV’s production to the West Coast. I, for one, was looking forward to warmer winters. Since the advent of the Internet, I’d dreamed of submitting my scripts and canvases from the beaches of Jamaica and Hawaii. While technology made life easier for some of us—actors could do in two hours what once took two days—I was required to make regular appearances at the studio for meetings and rewrites.

Unlike primetime writers, I didn’t get as much time off, and in spite of my love of New York, I thought that being closer to the film industry might help me sell that neglected screenplay. Whether or not the film was a success or ever made for that matter, I felt that a sale would solidify my shaky financial condition. Unfortunately, Sheila Wozniak is an East Coast diva who is disgusted by anything west of the eastern shore of the Hudson River.

Sheila and I have been friends ever since I started writing for her. She loved my ideas and encouraged my creativity. She was a pro and had played with gusto every outlandish script I’d ever written. She was the network’s sweetheart and cash cow. She had Satan for an agent and each contract renewal was better than the last. She knew her value and capitalized on it. When I gave her amnesia and turned her into a biker chick, she went upstairs to the execs and demanded an expensive leather bomber jacket.

“Regina Knight-Donavan-Taylor,” she said, as she had only been married a few times at that point (that the audience knew about), “would not wear a cheap vinyl jacket. The audience can see how cheap this is, and you should be embarrassed!” Sheila had balls, and not even Jack Ginsberg, head of the network’s daytime division, could tell her that if Regina had amnesia and forgot that she was an heiress, it was unlikely that her new persona was as discerning.

I loved my job, and I loved Regina. I’d been in love with her since those summers back in Texas when my babysitter sat me down beside her every hot summer afternoon to watch her “stories” with her. I soon figured out that this woman dealing with a philandering husband, who might have fathered some crazy woman’s child, had a certain quality about her. Even though her story was set in the Midwest, Regina seemed to have a grace and charm that was more at home in London’s West End. I would later find out that Sheila had studied in England, which confirmed that if there were a Hillvale, Wisconsin, there was no one living there who could flit about her grandmother’s Edwardian mansion with such presence.

Sheila had just signed another five-year contract when the big-wigs announced that the show would pack up in six months, and we would be in California by mid-January. We were offered two choices: move or quit. I had thrown my entire career into Regina. Hillvale might leave New York, but Regina would never leave Hillvale. She couldn’t exist outside of that little berg of indeterminate size and geography. I had always told myself that there would always be a Regina as long as Sheila wanted there to be a Regina; even longer if I had anything to do with it.

I can still hear the shouting as Sheila interrupted the announcement: “Marty! I’m not going!” She was seated in her special chair on the set in full Regina makeup and hair. Marty was at least the fifth head of the daytime division since Jack Ginsberg had succumbed to a heart attack. As Regina went through husbands, Sheila went through network execs.

Miss Wozniak wearing the same look as when she was told the production of "The Edge of Conflict" was moving west without her.

Miss Wozniak wearing the same look as when she was told the production of “The Edge of Conflict” was moving west without her.

“Now Sheila,” began Marty. “I mean Miss Wozniak.” I couldn’t see, but could tell that she had shot him that withering look that everyone except her fans, her director and I got whenever she was addressed by her first name. She had a public image as America’s sweetheart to maintain, so she was always on a first-name basis with her adoring public. Those she respected could address her as Sheila, but actors younger than she and all network brass said Miss Wozniak—at least to her face.

I admit it was strange to hear Regina’s daughter (one of the ones she had remembered giving birth to) say, “Oh, darling Mother, please come out of that coma,” a mere few seconds before the director yelled “cut” and she apologized to darling Mother with the words, “I’m sorry Miss Wozniak, I promise not to block your shot next time.”

“Don’t put me off Marty!” Sheila shouted in that voice she reserved for Friday cliffhangers, “This is utter nonsense! I refuse to have my show moved out from under me because the men upstairs think they can save a buck!”

I was pretty impressed that she could play this scene without a script. Of course, by this time, it was hard to tell where Sheila left off and Regina began. The only thing I would have written differently was the remark about it being “my” show. I still shudder when I think of the younger cast members visibly stepping back, and the look on Brie Feinberg’s face. Brie had been playing Francesca Barker-Pate-Donavan-Knight-Woodward-Knight-Handler-Pitt-Jorgensen for thirty-five years. Francesca was Regina’s arch enemy, chief competition, one-time lover, occasional step-mother, and her step-daughter (twice!). The two had a great relationship off-screen as Sheila and Brie, but Brie’s blind loyalty ended the moment Sheila said out loud what everyone had always suspected that she believed: The Edge of Conflict was her show.

In the days that followed, Sheila and Brie huddled in their shared dressing room when they weren’t shooting. Brie had a lot of debts, and there was no way she could afford to quit. She was going to make the move west. While Brie was still smarting over Sheila’s remarks, she knew that her survival depended on Sheila’s remaining on the show. In spite of not wanting to ever speak to Sheila again, she tried to explain that if both of them stood up to the brass, the network might reconsider. If not, perhaps Sheila could accept the offer to be flown out two weeks a month to film her scenes in marathon sessions.

Sheila knew that it wouldn’t take long for that airfare bill to be cut from the budget, and then she would be asked to move or quit exactly as she was being asked to do at that moment.

“No,” she insisted to Brie, “we must make them see the error of their ways—for their own good.”

Except for the library set of Regina’s Edwardian mansion in Hillvale, everything had changed in recent years. The power of daytime television had waned, and unscripted TV with “real people” had pulled the younger audience away. The older audience was literally dying off, and the remaining few under the age of forty weren’t really interested in the love life of someone with an AARP card. Sheila’s bedroom scenes were a rare occurrence at this late stage, but when we had to go there, the focus was noticeably soft. We’d been threatened with high-definition television at one point, but to Sheila’s relief, the cost was more than the network wanted to spend.

I was called into a staff meeting in September. The network had reached a settlement with Sheila in regard to her contract. She still denied that her case was terminal.

“I came back from the dead when I flat-lined after that building in the underground city collapsed on top of me,” she said.

“That’s true,” I said. “But I had to write that time travel bit where you entered the scene just outside the disaster area in order to shove yourself out of the way in time.”

“You’re right! I forgot about that.”

“Sheila, I don’t think you’re going to make it this time.”

“Pish tash!” said Sheila, but it sounded like Regina.

After I was directed to reconstruct Regina’s canvas and condense five years of projected story into a few weeks, I came up with the mother of all deathbed scenes. They shot it six weeks before it aired, and after it was edited, I was let go.

Sheila wasn’t answering her phone when I called a few hours before Regina’s funeral. I thought maybe she would want some company or perhaps would want to go to lunch; anything to get out of the house during her nationally televised swansong.

The familiar theme music came on with the photo album of cast members past and present. Though I had written the funeral scene, which was eighty-percent of the episode, I was already in tears. Regina had died two weeks earlier, but grief and misery required forty years of flashbacks, which also covered the down time as the show made its official move to the new Los Angeles studio.

To give the audience absolutely no hope of a resurrection, the network commanded that the camera zoom in on Regina before they closed the lid, latched the casket in four places, and slid it into a fiery chamber for an on-air cremation. Save for Houdini and my special time-travel writing, there was no way anyone could get out of that inferno alive.

It was the end of an era.

To get the entire story of Sheila Wozniak and learn how she was Tossed Off the Edge, visit:

© 2014 by Patrick Brown

Tossed Off the Edge

When I was a kid, our summers had a certain routine. There might be swimming lessons or vacation bible school in the morning, but afternoons were spent indoors in front of the TV to get out of the sweltering heat. After the game shows went off, my sister Karen would watch her soap operas. Being ten years older, she was my babysitter, and when she was later married and living away from us, I visited her occasionally.

I wasn’t immediately in love with the genre, as I preferred cartoons and sit-com reruns whenever they played throughout the afternoon. I could deal with the game shows, but I left the room when it came to that trio of ABC soaps, which dominated our TV viewing for 90 minutes each afternoon from 2:00 to 3:30.

As a five year-old, Dark Shadows scared the hell out of me when they showed a disfigured Angelique one day. I couldn’t go down the hallway at night without a light on for weeks. Our mother forbade my sister from letting me watch, and it was a pity because I wasn’t interested in General Hospital or One Life to Live. Mother was home one afternoon from work, and I heard her ask Karen if Viki was still Niki “or what.” Karen explained that the multiple personality storyline had been resolved years before, and that the issue at hand was Viki’s realization that her dead husband Joe was, in fact, not dead, and she had remarried Steve in good conscience. Now she would have to choose which husband she wanted.

I was sitting in the corner of the living room playing with toys when my interest was piqued. Some woman named Viki had been Niki, and now she wasn’t. How was that possible? I seemed to grasp that one was good and one was bad, and that both lived in the same body. Interesting.

Jump ahead another five years, and I was visiting Karen in her first apartment. She said we could go to the pool after our lunch was settled. There was something about having to wait a certain amount of time after eating before going in the water. Interestingly enough, that time coincided with the end of the day’s soaps. Bored but polite, I watched with her a couple of afternoons. It turned out that Viki’s father was very ill, and her wicked stepmother Dorian Lord was preventing Viki from seeing her father.

Little did I know, but these scenes were key to many future stories that would play out and be rehashed for over 30 more years, and like many an unsuspecting viewer, I had become hooked. When I returned home, I was allowed to stay by myself without a babysitter for the rest of the summer. Each day I tuned in to watch One Life to Live, and before I returned to school in the fall, I had already added General Hospital and All My Children. Fortunately, I had three friends who watched the same shows, and if someone were fortunate enough to get the flu at some point, the rest of us could get a play-by-play of the murders, trials and divorces during the winter sweeps months.

I had a portable black-and-white TV in my dorm room so that I could occasionally keep up with the shows without the world discovering my interest via some over-crowded TV lounge in the student union. This was a couple of years after Luke and Laura’s adventures, and the discovery that Phoebe Tyler Wallingford’s husband was a former circus carney. I wasn’t watching much One Life to Live at that point until I landed on an episode in 1985 and heard the name Nicole Smith mentioned. That sounded very familiar, and I remembered something about Niki Smith. Could it be? Could they be reviving a story from the past? They had, and I barely missed an episode over the next ten years.

My break with this great show was when I was finally disgusted with a particular story canvas (as I would learn it was called). The story had to have been the worst since I’d stayed committed to the show when Tina Clayton Lord Roberts had gone over the Iguazu Falls two months pregnant and reappeared three months later with a premature baby that was as developmentally on track as a full term baby several months older. I’d lived through underground cities, trips to Heaven, time travel to the old west, but I couldn’t buy into an Irish pub being dismantled stone by stone and reassembled in Pennsylvania in a matter of weeks. That was utterly stupid.

Two years later, Karen was living in the United States again, and she had caught up with her favorite shows. She indicated that I would be interested in the current stories, and I gave it a try. Like returning to an addiction, I was watching daily. I tried to watch less regularly over the next four years, but by 2001, I was a faithful watcher for the next decade.

Then came the tragic news that ABC was bringing an end to One Life to Live and All My Children. There have been world disasters and plane crashes that have not touched me like the news that these stylish people were going to fade from the American landscape and leave me with an extra 45 minutes each day. (I fast-forwarded through the commercials.)

Throughout the years, I was not only fascinated by the stories, but by the behind-the-scenes aspect of the shows. What most people probably never understood was that producing a one-hour broadcast five days a week, 52 weeks a year is the most difficult thing to do in television, and for the actors, it’s the hardest job. Primetime is weekly, films take weeks or months, and live theatre allows actors to say the same things each night. Daytime dramas are tough, and that has intrigued me.

At one point, I thought it would be great to write for one someday, and I suppose the news of the cancellations hit me with the fact that the door was closed. I’d never write about Viki’s tenth marriage or her fourteenth kidnapping. How many children did she have that were still out there, undiscovered and unaccounted for? And did Dorian kill Victor? She’ll never get to confess for real because the sets have been struck and the online version has been tied up in litigation.

The cancellations happened around the time that I was working with a very difficult personality on a professional level. The recession was taking place, and everything we tried in dealing with it was met with, “We’ve always done it this way.” I kept wondering how long she was going to keep this up. The world was changing, and she’d had her day in the sun. When were the rest of us going to be able to make a difference if we were constantly being blocked by a diva who was grasping at anything to stay in the leading position?

Out of frustration with the cancellation and a most difficult soul, I wrote the first chapter to my new book Tossed Off the Edge. I had thought it would be a few pages of a piece that would remain unshared. It would never go anywhere, and that’s where it remained.

A few months later, when my soap was approaching its end, I passed by a bookstore in Studio City. In the window was a celebrity biography, and it hit me. I could take that first chapter and weave it into a tribute to daytime TV while having a bit of fun with the self-indulgent celebrity tell-all. Two weeks later, I had three more chapters, and it wasn’t long before I was writing every evening when I got home.

The cover of my latest book "Tossed Off the Edge." Inside, you'll learn about the crazy life of self-indulgent diva Sheila Wozniak.

The cover of my latest book “Tossed Off the Edge.” Inside, you’ll learn about the crazy life of self-indulgent diva Sheila Wozniak.

The end result is a humorous look at a soap opera star whose show The Edge of Conflict has not been cancelled, but from which she has been “tossed,” fired, booted and left for dead. In fact, the network was so eager for her to go that they televised an on-air cremation so that there was no way for their phoenix to rise from the ashes.

For 40 years, Sheila Wozniak played the tragic Regina Knight Harrison Donavan Taylor Donavan McDonald McDonald Woodward Merriweather Todd, and after four decades, she doesn’t seem to know where she leaves off and Regina begins. In her confusion, she also weaves vintage and current television shows and films into her life’s narrative. Thankfully, she has a ghost-writer named, coincidentally, Patrick Brown, who does his best to research and sort out what he can determine is fact from fiction.

Tossed Off the Edge is currently available at:

© 2014 by Patrick Brown