Why all my fiction author names are secret (Let us discuss the crazy family lawsuit)

Given that I am a professional urban fantasy, "comic book novel," and science fiction author, some of my blog readers may wonder why all of my pen-names are secret.

Simple, one of my relatives is bug-shit crazy, and has a lawyer that they abuse me with. 

Or at least, they attack me with the idea that they have a lawyer, the entire America legal system on their side, and a "vivid memory" of my father committing an unspeakable crime against them, reminding every two or three years that if I proceed any further as a professional writer that I will go to prison doing hard time for not turning my father in for the crime. Which has no statue of limitations. But Dad's dead--1984, a bag of bones.

Yeah, so first lawyer attack, I simply ignore because I have dodged actual prison time.

This inability to notice the power of my little sister to rule my life triggers a pattern.

It goes like this. Jealous little sister, let's call her "Charity," sees that "Michael Ramalia" (a pen-name I claimed before she was even born) has became a better author than she, so she orders another sibling of mine, let's call her "Chastity," to attack me. Listen  . . . 

"You can only call yourself Emil Eckstein, the first name on your birth certificate. You must legally confine yourself to activities that reflect fairly on the family. Science fiction writing is a sin, so it's off-limits; we're good Christians. Never mind that your mother, Lilith, is telling people that you are in prison for drug offenses because you refuse to visit her (due to the ongoing abuse of your good name), or the fact that your Sagebrush sister is openly a Wiccan witch--no you must only do those things that a retard can legally do because our mom claims to have an IQ test that reveals that you are a moron IQ-wise."

Would you like some time to process that? For me, this nonsense started when I was born. I have been living with this bullshit for sixty years. And counting. My mom's side of the family might be a little nuts. Theosophist (relabeled Christian) spirit medium level nuts. My mother's entire purpose in life, she was told by her parents, my asshole grandparents, was to take care of her retarded sister, a child that my grandparents allowed to suffer brain damage because they did not believe in doctors. Nice people. 

Basically, when my mother went insane, she brainwashed several of my siblings into believing that the law said that I was "family property," basically a slave that had to get everyone's permission to do anything beyond minimum wage labor. With no right to education, freedom of speech, religion, or any basic American freedoms. In other words, my grandfather (who my dad said "had a white sheet in his closet") would have been so proud of my mom, for turning me into a black man. Yeah, my family has power issues.

Which is why my sister shut down all the Michael Ramalia science fiction with the help of other sibling over the last decade. So if you liked it, sorry, my sisters could not handle it. 

Yeah, so a very promising science fiction universe had to be sacrificed to please the demon goddess of jealous siblings--sorry, Aunt Ghost Vickie, no honor for you.

I had chosen the name, Michael Ramalia, to honor my recently murdered Gardnerian Wiccan aunt when I was fifteen. I promised myself that I would write science fiction of the type that my aunt read, openly as a Wiccan to honor her. Then my mother hit me!!!!

This is the moment that my mother became a physical child abuser. Mark the moment.

I was forced into the broom closet. Made to act like a retard. Ordered to pretend to be a Christian. My mom ripped out my heart, and made me eat it. The demonic bitch. Nice. 

Recently, as in this decade, my mother died, so the fight to be her necromancer began.

For the record, I wanted nothing to do with it. I was born into it, with both of my mother's batshit crazy parents alive. I knew deep in my heart that I carried that madness in me. 

During my last days with my "foster mother," (it had gotten that bad that last year in high school) I hugged the idea that she tossed at me that she was not my real mother. Today, the veteran of temporal magick, hypnosis, ceremonial High Grade initiate understands that Sagebrush Mom was not Star Mother, that indeed they were not the same woman. 

When the army had trouble obtaining my birth certificate, my folks had to sign a paper swearing that they were my one and only parents. I wondered if my mother was lying, just to get me out of the house. Later, I would have trouble obtaining my birth certificate; in the end, Lilith would be the one to get it for me. To this day, I have not sent in my DNA because I am not sure that I am a hundred percent related to everyone. Yes, I am my father's son . . . but Mom made it clear that I was never the fruit of her womb. Secrets.

I took comfort throughout my adult life that I was disowned. It was part of my plan.

"Look, not included in Lilith's Will. Not in your universe. No longer part of craziness."

Therefore, if not in Last Will and Testament, I no longer have to play by crazy rules.

Then towards the end of my mother's life, Lilith had to complicate the initate's life.

Demon Mom invited her most Wayward Son, the Thief of Magick, to his secret power place. Yes, let that sink in. It's like Mom looked up my address, and took a compass.

"What is the minimum distance that my bastard son can walk from his house?"

The fact that we can hear the peacocks during the summer from the Denver Zoo is purely coincidence, and in no way should be read as an indication that my mother was a witch. 

Please note that this event was ten years ago, this past summer. She knew about the cancer. Mom had the Sight. Lilith knew who would be her necromancer. Destiny.

I was curious what she wanted. Personally, I believed that it was a "neutral ground" treaty discussion about how the Demonic Lawyer had read the Dawn War Blog. Law.

Today, with emotional processing time, minister programming, and the benefit of nearly dying last year (2024), I realize that my mother had to know that she was dying. Faith.

The only way that I was going to say no was if I was still so angry that . . .

One of my sisters, bless her for helping Mom invite siblings to this event, was surprised to learn that I was included. "Why wouldn't I invite him? He's my son." Mom?

Morgana Draconis attended that event. Outward, Morgan Drake Eckstein. For them, they saw Emil, whoever the hell he was. I had no idea what horror stories they had been fed.

I had rules. No alone time with anyone. Too dangerous. Most definitely, not Demon Mom.

So imagine my surprise and horror to find myself alone with my mother. Oddest conversation. "Is my mother mentally unwell? That is not how that event happened. No, I have not done that hobby in over a decade. Sadly, you are unaware of true profession."

Please note that this event happened a decade ago. Decades earlier, starting as a teenager, I wrote science fiction; but I gave it up to be a Hierophant. Yeah, I might have done an "IQ in the upper 5% of population" college nerd prank doing National Novel Writing Month in the form of solar system colonization police procedure. Which I completed "Almost."

What do I mean that I "Almost completed a science fiction novel at age forty in my freshman semester, Community College of Denver?" First, know that the NNWM is fifty thousand words. And my shortage on the novel was the amount of my papers that semester. Yes, I did math in those days. Thought about doing science. Was already forty.

Loved to look at whiny classmates complaining about how many pages that the professor wanted for the final paper that I did 50k my very first semester: I wasn't scared. Pro bitch.

But to bring it up when I am clearly on a minister track, my scholar achievements are aimed at understanding a single microcosm of a pagan school; while my published existence has been divided between annoyed Hermetic Golden Dawn genius and crusading occult super villain Mad Uncle Morgan to reduce to "novelist" was interesting.

As was my mother rewriting that last battle between the two of us over that damn high school play. I so wanted to scream at her, "You so did not offer to sew costumes for that play. Dad asked how much tickets were. He gave you the bait." I held my peace. PAX.

Yet it was enough of a history rewrite for a crack to happen in my personal universe.

Thanks to my long time High Priestess, Maggie Moonstone, I tend to err on Mercy. Or did.

Today, I speak as someone who has been kicked out of a Wiccan community church for "falling down drunk," or so they claim, plus never once contributing in my years of leaching off of the community and its kindness, all eyes witnessed it, did they not? Truth.

Tonight, I speak as an initiate of Golden Dawn and Thelemic AA who has been kicked out of the system by the Chosen One of the Third Order. As an Adept who been convicted of black magick three times. Who now can't use a Lesser Ritual without burning. For days.

Over the last decade, my fucking migraines have grown to the point that I can't work for someone else. There is no such thing as a minimum wage option for me, dear sister. 

Did my mother, the psychic, know that my world was about to start to burn? Did Lilith understand that at the end of the day, I could not outbuild the invasion of migraines?

Whether the work cycle starts at midnight, sunrise, noon, or sunset, it does not matter.

Migraines come for me at all times. Intense, Catholic Saint "visions of heavens and hells" level migraines. Sometimes I don't eat for days. The record is Eight. Judged by Thoth. 24.

So the general idea that my mother's bloodline, in any way, can continue to restrict the freedom of my actions, including blocking the use of pen-name (author brands) or professions, because you are related to me, or are the more powerful witch, or are entitled to punish me because of some weird Christian Wiccan theory--bullshit! Sue me!

By the way, that is what my old Golden Dawn War blog told my mom. Sue me! War!

Yeah, my pen-names are currently secret because of how strange 2024 was. It tried to kill me. The year really did. First, two great characters show up. Then boom, migraine. Plus.

It was the plus that annoyed me. The migraine had taken me out for two days, Black magick had left a bad taste in my mouth. Some witch had it in for me. Pissed off who?

"Please refrain from sending letters and your "wiccan rituals." I do not need to be sent wiccan rituals as I am a wiccan and a witch. We are not family. You have made that clear on numerous occasions. I do not want you to have any contact with myself or my children." That was sent to me on Facebook, private messenger on the fifth day of 2024.

Heck of a way to start the year off, right? My year just got better and better. Went to hell.

In theory, I should be allowed to mention any author brand name that I want to on this blog without fear because this is America, and I have an equal right to be a witch. USA.

In practice, I found my toxic sister's Facebook post first thing on my feed for several days straight before I lost both of my computers; my writer's block got worse, and our pottery kiln blew out a three thousand part. Not to mention my spiraling health. Black magick?

Oh, would my mother really teach her black magick? No! But Demon Mom would throw "black energy" at slow staff members, so if you can sense it, you learn it. Demon Child?

Hence, I am retiring the Michael Ramalia author brand--sorry Icarus fans--long live the New Egyptian Space Empire. I will always have a soft spot in my Creator's Heart for the First Pharaoh and Her Sisters being based on my mother and my sisters as they were.

From this point on, let see what randomly sets off a "possibly mentally ill" not-related to me "foster" sibling (the DNA could come out as not related at all . . . hence "her mother committed a crime--yes! DNA for the win!) who will not be reading this blog. She is not on my "imaginary Sits in the Front Row" audience list. My Dead Mom might be on that list.

But just in case, yes, I will discuss writing science fiction because that is my Day Job. 

Dear sister, if you are stalking me, against your own damn wishes--it is bad luck to Google yourself--quit obsessing about Name Fame; you don't know the whole damn story. NOX.

What brought about Jealous Sister meltdown was that I sent her three Olive Branches.

After investing over 120 pages of "family zine" to all the siblings that I had working postal addresses for. I have rules. Small Press rules. If an address bounces, it's off the list. Death.

For Christmas 2023, I sent a "Good Catholic Dad" story. I forgot. Lies have been told. NOX.

Dear Jealous Sister, all your sibling allies, and your delightful lawyer, I am Morgana Draconis, Morgan Drake Eckstein. Or Emil Eckstein, if you want to be all legal.

If you want to get me arrested for the crime that the Youngest Witch has a "vivid memory" of my father committing, I want to point out that my defense will be that Baby Witch was only a Year and a Half maximum old when my father died, so big fat liar. 

Oh, I am retarded. Must restrict to set of activities that all siblings approve of. Minimum wage only. Okay . . . please produce this IQ test. The family has claimed this since 1983 . . . 

As for my use of the Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram being proof of Criminal Satanism and Insanity, vide my previous blog, which should establish that you should fuck yourself.

But if you have something else, send it to: 2727 N. Cook St. Denver, CO 80205

I used to say on my old blog, and I will say it here: "My mom can threaten to sue all she wants. It does not make it real. Only a paper notice from actual lawyer is a real promise."