Cost of delaying my autobiography and Denver history

One of the things that I always ask after a Righteous Exile and the obligatory “year and a day” for She  Who Must Rule to find a lawyer that actually thinks that the claimed restrictions over my actions for “my sins against the community” will be legally enforceable in a court of law is “How much did delaying cost me as an author and pagan minister?” Both in terms of income and the damage to my social standing.

One half of that question is God Awful Easy to answer—for every time I am kicked out of a group, I lose all my standing in that community—in fact, campaigns to discredit me (or bind me with “white magick”) have been called down upon me by several Past Witch Queens. Who are dead now, so I can discuss it.

If there are any readers from Denver here, just know that for me, the First Denver Witch War never ended. Not even the birth of the Open Full Moon (OFM) community could bring a true ceasefire for me.

In fact, with Event-Group Thirteen kicking me out—it was the thirteen group that I became a brief member of (provided that the lawyer actually has to admit that I was part of the congregation)—I have officially been expelled from every society that I was ever a member of. It’s that simple—I always lose my social standing, all my associated friends, and another bit of training that I can never admit to having.

Because the Great Gherkin Collective has always prevented me from joining the guild.

Oh the number of black balls that only exist in the lunatic mind of She Who Must Rule. All three dozen of them. Over the last forty-two years, I have (once history been rewritten) never got past the interview squad. Not even once. Which might explain the absence of signed non-disclosure agreements (NDAs). Or not. There are a whole bunch of NDAs that I don’t remember signing . . . and which not one copy can be found anywhere. Opps, turns out an Oath of Obligation does not suspend the legal rights of journalists.

By the way, I have always been honest about being a lifestyle reporter after I fled Small Town America.

Yeah, I am not allowed to ever mention that I am witch when operating under my legal IRS name. But . . .

Fun fact: My mother believed that I could be killed by a brother, without them going to jail, for being a pagan (Wiccan/ Hermetic/ Rosicrucian) without the Express Permission of all bloodline relatives. Fun!!!

As a result, I have lived the last forty-two years (thirty-eight living in Denver) in the Broom Closet.

Yes, Morgana Draconis may be my True Name, but it is not the name that the IRS knows me by.

Sadly, my family discovered my Morgan Drake Eckstein handle while I was in university. Have I mentioned that one of my siblings plans on suing me (getting me imprisoned) for Gross Negligence, if I dare write an autobiography that mentions the fact that my mother—the Perfect Last Prophetess of the Jealous One—was committing Federal Fraud by having an undisclosed affair. Yes, Mom claimed that all the kids were my dad’s—ask me why I have never taken a DNA test—hence they qualified for benefits.

If you are curious, my family is just one of three spiritual communities trying to scare me with lawyers.

 All three of which are engaged in dodgy decision-making—which they claim is Non-Reportable.

As in the Spiritual Purity of their self-proclaimed leader blocks all publication of negative opinions.

As in journalists, historians, literary students, religious seekers, and all-else are forbidden to criticize.

And I have just gave Group Thirteen three years to find that lawyer who can make me their bitch. Two years to the Amazing Meltdown Girl, representative of every creative artist I have screwed over. And a whole year to a sibling that I firmly suspect suffers from bipolar disorder (on the nasty manic setting).

You claimed that your demands to restrict my actions were legal . . .

. . . so where the fuck is the lawyer you keep claiming is going make me your prison bitch?

Nice thing about not having friends is that I can badmouth all those I suspect are Great Gherkins.

So was there a monetary cost to delaying the release of the autobiography and unofficial history of Denver? Hell, yes, there was—Meltdown Girl accused me of copyright theft, costing me my Amazon Publisher Account. That was a blow that I did not need as a science fiction author. Makes my sis happy.

But assuming that I can figure a work-around to make up for losing access to 80% of the market . . .

 . . . well, I am not seeing it. Essentially, I took the last three years off to recalibrate my Author Voice to one that has no friends and family speaking to me. And who will never be able to recover these friends.

Yet, if I am being honest, money-wise, it made no difference if the history shipped three years ago, or tomorrow. Exactly the same readers would buy it—no matter when the release date was. Sub-niche.

Oh, there were a couple of my readers who died of Covid-19. Still worth writing for my sole reader.

Let me be clear—I am writing a history of Denver’s occult community, more specifically my own journey through its ranks, for the only reader that matters—myself. If no one else reads it, then that’s normal.

Something that should worry a lawyer is the fact that I blogged—for free—twenty years. Over two thousand blog posts. (The only reason that my Cult Watchdog blog is not listed in my profile is that many of the posts there do not reflect how much my Author Voice changed during college in my forties.) Free.

And one lawyer should be particularly worried for many of those blog posts were written with the Full Knowledge that my mother was a fraudulent medium, an Evil Church Lady, and maybe mentally ill.

If I could have only proved it . . . oh well, that’s the fun thing about Cults, they all remind me of Mom.

Let me address the lawyer directly—multiple people in the community knew that Mom was a cheater.

And if I am going to jail for Gross Negligence (any of the three promised lawsuits) for endangering others, newsflash—my critics are guilty of the exact same crime, not reporting a crime, conspiracy.

Unlike the others, I have no problem with going to jail—Mom predicted that happening every Friday. I have planned on my legal defense for years (vide that twenty years of cult watchdogging). I am ready.

Here is the deal—send me to prison, if I survive, I will be writing about it after I am out. As a pagan (Wiccan) minister in Denver who regretted not being able to prove that his mother was a warlock.

Any accounting about this latest Witch War drama trauma llama, even after the Pothead Mind-Rape is properly being concerned about, ends up with the same bottom line—by Righteous Exile, you have given yourself a place in my standup performance (vide Fireside event schedule), another story to tell.

As long as I live long enough to clean up the half million words of autohistory before I die, Zero Cost.