Anne and the no good, horrible, very bad day

Yesterday wasn’t a very good day. First, I was disappointed by some one’s greed, when I thought he was a lot more altruistic. Then, I had a series of meetings that made me feel like a total failure at work, capped off by a dinner during which my discomfort manifested itself as diarrhea of the mouth.  I was mortified. I’m thinking of moving to Australia.

So today I feel like I have an emotional hangover and I have close to zero desire to get out of bed and face my day. I’m feeling pretty certain it will suck as badly as yesterday, and probably my hair won’t cooperate, and I will have nothing to contribute to my work meetings, and I’ll get spinach in my teeth and no one will tell me for an hour. Yup, best to stay in bed and finish Archangel’s Kiss, by Nalini Singh. But wait, if I’m going to read I’m going to think. What would Elena do in my situation? Would she stay in bed and let her disappointment dictate her behavior? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t. She would get up and charge into her day, not letting herself be distracted by the negative naysayers in her head. I really need to channel my inner Elena right about now.

It really is easy to get discouraged and throw in the towel. Some days, it seems so much more seductive to give up than to go on– even when the choice is less dramatic than life and death and just involves suiting up and showing up to the reality of our lives.

Right now, my brain is playing an endless loop of my pathetic performance at last night’s dinner. If I had put my foot in my mouth any more often, I would have died of starvation because I wouldn’t have had any room for the food they served– prepared by a private chef, no less. I felt outclassed and uncomfortable, and my go-to tic is to talk too much.

Again, I’m thinking of Elena, a newly-Made angel just joining an exclusive club whose members have been together for centuries.  Talk about feeling like a fish out of water. But that feeling doesn’t discount her own sense of self-worth– or at least not enough to back down from taking her place among them – no matter how out of place it feels.

That didn’t happen for me yesterday. I really felt out of step the entire day, and today that displacement is coloring my entire perspective. It’s both uncomfortable and unpleasant and I just want it all to go away. And, of course, it will. Probably quite soon. That’s what Elena and her determination and drive have to teach me. Even when we feel like frauds because we don’t feel like we deserve our space amidst the angels– or even among those two didn’t totally screw up yesterday– we can I feel like we’ve earned our position—just by continuing to show up even when we don’t want to. Elena keeps coming back for more, bruised and battered, maybe, but getting stronger for having taken the hits and not letting them keep her down.

Can I do the same? I’m not really feeling it right now, I’ve got to say. But I keep telling myself that feelings are not facts, and I can certainly fake it till I make it today. So what if I’m not feeling it? Does it really matter? Do I need to make that relevant in my decision to take action? No I don’t. Once again, as frequently seems to be the case for me, a little perspective—complements of my favorite fantasy novels—is in order. Yesterday is over and today is a new day. I made some mistakes and I endured some disappointments. Life will go on. I can get up and do what I need to do today. Because moving to Australia is probably going to involve too much paperwork.

Fantasy in Truth

It’s Sunday morning and I am home again after a truly glorious vacation in paradise.  And my first thought, I hate to admit, is that reality bites.  We arrived late, both my husband and one of my sons are feeling like they are getting the flu (although we’re all grateful that the symptoms manifested on the flight home instead of on the way there), and our three dogs woke me up at 6:30 AM as usual (yes, we could train them, but my whole family agrees that we don’t want to “break their spirits”- and yes, I am fully aware of how completely wrongheaded this attitude is, but there you have it).  It’s also cold, and after being warm for a week, the cold is a serious buzz kill. 

Ok, I think I’m done whining, at least for now, although I reserve the right to pick it up later if I want to.  Underneath all of the annoyances and inconveniences of my reality, as I finish yet another installment the Black Dagger Brotherhood, (I re-read Zsadits’s stories, Lover Awakened and Father Mine after finishing The King), it occurs to me that perhaps I need to turn my premise on its head.  This space is devoted to truth in fantasy, but I’m thinking I would be very well served to also look for fantasy in reality.  After all, these books are based on underlying truths, so my reality probably reflects elements of fantasy, right?

Zsadist’s story is full of drama and trauma, and much of it is is sad and disturbing.  Kind of like life, except the elements of this narrative are exaggerated both to entertain and to make a point.  Zsadist is perceived as ruined, not broken, the implication being that broken can sometimes be fixed, but ruined is destroyed forever.   I think that if you live for long enough, or even if you are young, there are moments (or maybe times measured in larger units) when each of us feels irreparably broken—ruined.  These moments of despair can be fleeting, or they might be lasting.  Hopefully, though, they are never permanent, although for some I know they are.

For me, and here’s where I can relate to Zsadist, a centuries-old warrior vampire who is illiterate and seriously psychologically and physically damaged, fighting back from that brink takes effort and courage.  And the person who wrote about Zsadist’s struggles, the brilliant J.R. Ward, understands that reality, which tells me I am not alone.

So, in truth, reality does sometimes bite badly.  But waking up early with no coffee and no warm tropical breezes does not constitute true suckage.  A little perspective, compliments of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, has certainly been welcome this first morning back from my vacation.  But I’m thinking that with a little more reflection, I can find some fantasy in my reality to add a chaser of real appreciation to my perspective.

Fantasy, in common understanding, is something that seems ideal and idealized, something that fires up the pleasure receptors in our brains, and often reflects an enhanced reality or sometimes a complete foray into the totally impossible but radically appealing.  So I have to ask myself as I survey my current situation—any of that going on here? And my answer must be a resounding, unequivocal, and undeniable “YES!”

Those dogs that woke me up at the crack of dawn? Nothing and no one’s gonna love you like your dogs- that unconditional devotion is something not even a mother (of the good variety- not like mine) can offer.  And the chill in the air? The better to snuggle under the covers with my (currently sick) husband, when I crawl back to bed after I’ve let the dogs out and fed them.  No coffee, no problem- good excuse to take the boys out for brunch this morning and have some extra family time.  Ideal? Idealized? You betcha.

So, it’s at least partially a matter of how you look at your reality.  Is life always going to be a bed of roses? No, it’s not.  Sometimes there’s almost no fantasy to be found unless we turn to the paper of our favorite fiction.  But sometimes that same book can be a beacon illuminating the larger truth in our own personal reality, highlighting the precious parts, the little glimmers of brilliance to be found within the daily grind.  Even if there’s no daily grind to be had in my morning coffee pot. 

Self, Multiplied

I’m sitting in an airplane flying to Costa Rica.  How cool is that?  And I’ve just finished reading the latest People and Us magazines. Highly redundant, I know, but I really enjoy getting both versions of truth/fantasy and reading all about the celebrities.  Why? I mean, I get the gossip and schadenfreude aspects, of course. I read earlier in The Week (my favorite news magazine) that there are some who believe that Gwyneth Paltrow is even using her “superior divorce” to lord it over mere mortals who have never heard of “conscious un-coupling.”  Really?!  Or really?  Can they do it without bitterness and acrimony?  What happens when one or the other decides to date or get serious about someone? How does this self-proclaimed lifestyle guru talk about the failure of her marriage as she touts the perfection of her existence and exhorts us to be just like her (by buying her stuff, of course)?

And here’s where we get back to my smut reading, per se (although I actually think that People and Us count as being in the same category—fantasy porn—only not as good as the fiction I read). For many of these celebrities (and who are we kidding—for ourselves too—Facebook whitewash anyone?) the image we project out into the world is really only one aspect of ourselves.  Yes, my family is traveling to exotic locales for Spring Break where we plan to have a series of awesome adventures (zip lining, riding ATVs, surfing for the first time, wildlife tours, sunset cruises).  All of that is true.  But it’s only part of the truth—the fantasy part—because we are totally blessed and living the dream—and who wouldn’t fantasize about that?

But it’s not the whole truth. In the complete version—not just the sizzle reel—our twin 14-year-old boys will bicker endlessly, I’ll scream at them, my husband and I will squabble over what to do for dinner or whose turn it is on the iPad (we only brought one), someone will inevitably get sunburned badly, someone will lose one of their electronic devices, and all of us will complain at one point or another about the food, the activities, each other, and. . .   you get the picture. The complete picture, not just the parts I want you to see.

So, that’s the reality. But it doesn’t discount the truth in the fantasy. The truth is still there.  Even if Gwyneth and Chris are getting divorced, they are still two talented artists and gifted individuals with a contribution to make to the world.  Just like me.  And you.

In fact, there is a standard section in Us magazine called, “Stars—They’re Just Like Us,” and it captures pictures of actors feeding the meter or balancing multiple Starbucks cups, or squeezing the produce.

Because that is another truth about fantasy—we all yearn to believe that underneath it all, we are all the same, and we are all connected in our humanity.  And we want to know that the spark of specialness resides in all of us, and maybe we can someday be rich, or famous, or loved or successful—just like them, because they are just like us.

We all want to know that the beautiful princess sometimes shape-shifts into a rumpled, puffy, stinky mess with dragon breath to boot—just like us.  That’s one of the reasons I brake for shapeshifters in my beloved smut.  Sure, they might be hunky heartthrobs who look like Joe Manganiello and Sam Trammell, but hey, when the moon is full, watch out, they turn into real animals—right down to the dog breath, and not just when they wake up in the morning.

The truth in shapeshifting fantasy romance is that we all have different aspects of ourselves—the ones we show to new romantic partners (before they see us without makeup or before we’ve shaved, or find out that our favorite nightgown would look right at home on Betty White, or that we sleep in ripped sweats), the ones we post on Facebook and Instagram, and then the other parts that might be a bit closer to our animal natures (like how we inhale our food when no one is looking, or sniff the armpits of a shirt we wore yesterday before we decide to throw it on to go somewhere where no one knows what we wore yesterday).

The most wonderful part of my favorite books is that all of these various aspects are integrated—like multiple personalities—and we get positive role models for our two-natured (or more) selves. And that, my friends, is worth the price of the paperback.  Accepting ourselves as being both/and instead of either/or is a blessing. Learning to hold multiple realities simultaneously is the work of a lifetime. As is understanding that the more negative or less attractive aspects of ourselves do nothing to discount the more positive and pretty parts we prefer to ponder (have I mentioned that I love alliteration?).  Reading fantasy helped me to make those connections, and that has been a gift that keeps on giving long after I put the books away and got back to “real life.”  Whatever that is. 

Find the beach, not the rocks

We’re going home today after an incredible week in a tropical paradise.  I hadn’t wanted to come on this trip, actually.  Costa Rica was on my husband’s bucket list, but Central America was pretty far down on my list of places to see before I die.  But, he’d been wanting to go for so long, and I didn’t have any good reasons to oppose him except that the rain forest sounded like a scary place and engaging in adventure activities in developing nations seemed about as smart and as safe as going on the rides at the local county fair.  But he promised me a nice place to stay on the beach with a pool and someone to serve me cocktails with umbrellas and at that point I couldn’t say no. 

Turns out that my preconceptions are entirely unfounded (not an infrequent occurrence, a fact you’d think might register with my gray matter, but not so much).  Costa Rica is a magical place (and we all know how much I love magic).  It is spectacularly beautiful and completely unpretentious, even at a high-end resort.  The people we met were very open and friendly, and everyone seemed to be content with life, generally speaking.  I had looked up the weather before we arrived and was nervous about what appeared to be extreme heat, but turned out to be a non-problem with the ocean breeze and a perfect level of humidity--and I was warm for the first time since November, which was such a gift.

But all that will be over in a few hours, as we finish packing and head inexorably back to our real lives, something I find I’m not that excited to do, which is unusual.  I’m almost always itching to get back to work and friends and hustle and bustle and the happy busyness of my life in Maryland.  Not to mention our doggies, whom we haven’t seen for a week.  But this time, I’m in no hurry and would stay, at least a little longer, if I could.  I have been so relaxed here, and sleeping well and feeling so productive, all at the same time.  It’s been like a fantasy.

So my question is, what does this fantasy have to tell me about my reality that I need to know?  First off, and something I’ve known for quite a while—I’ve got to get out of the cold.  I hate east coast winters, but summers in the swamp aren’t a whole lot better, with humidity you can cut with a knife that coats your skin like nasty sunscreen.  So, I need to make a plan to move.  Check—we’ve got that going on, although not until our kids graduate from high school.  Second, my week in paradise has taught me the value of quiet space to think and to write—apparently, I have a lot to say—and taking the time and effort to excavate all of this from my psyche has been exceptionally worthwhile.  I hadn’t really stopped long enough to make the space to let myself—my true self—flow in, like the tide.

What I have learned from watching my view out the window here in Costa Rica is that the water comes toward the shore, no matter what.  As the saying goes, time and tide wait for no one.  This is certainly true.  But, in different places, the shore has different characteristics.  In front of where we’re staying, the beach is sandy, with a gentle slope towards the water.  A little further down the shore, however, there is a large outcropping of rocks that the waves hit with a certain level of force and crash over and around.

Kind of like how my authentic self has been trying to get some bandwidth in my mind so that I can be aware of who I really am and what I really want.  Up until fairly recently, the huge waves of my true self have been repeatedly been hitting the rocks of the persona I’ve created because I thought I was supposed to or because I didn’t have enough self-esteem/respect/confidence to do things differently.  These elements of my persona, the face I created to show the world (and myself) how fabulous, smart, and together I was, were so many rocks on the shore of my inner reality- blocking important elements of my authentic self from having access to the soft, sandy beach (I’m really not sure this metaphor is working, so just go with me on this one, will you?)

Turns out, I like to have a bit of time to sit and read and write.  I prefer, at least more than I thought I did, to be casual and un-made-up rather than wearing my power wardrobe every day.  I prefer walking on the beach to using an elliptical.  Turns out I’m a lot more of a human being instead of a human doing than I thought I was.  Revelation.

And, most importantly, at least for this little space and my current activity, I’ve had some time to interpret and process the idea that I can build an identity on my previously hidden and guilty pleasure—reading smut.  And how cool is that?  I’ve been practicing telling people (who I’ll likely never see again, granted) that I write a blog on finding authenticity in vampire porn.  And yes, they look at me a little funny, but I’m okay with that.

Because, for once, they are looking at me—revealed in a very visceral way, not the me I usually choose to show everyone except those few who are part of my very limited circle (all of whom look at me funny pretty much all the time).

So, I’m finding truth in fantasy all over the place, not to mention all over the world.  I‘ve learned it is everywhere, and I plan to keep searching and sharing.  I truly hope you’ll come along for the ride.  

Endings and transitions

Endings are difficult.  And sad. And anxiety-producing.  When something ends, it means change.  Today is our last real day of vacation- we are going home tomorrow and leaving this tropical paradise behind.  Cue the depressing music.  But even more tragic is the fact that I finished the latest entry in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series by JR Ward, The King.  And I am truly bereft.

These days, I do all of my reading on my Kindle, which has got to be the greatest invention since paranormal romance novels.  Put the two together and I can have hundreds or even thousands of books at my fingertips at any given time.  And while it took a bit of time to get used to reading on an e-reader as opposed to feeling, seeing, and smelling the pages of hardcopy books in my hands, it has been totally worth it.  For one, it really is less expensive, especially if you read a lot.  Secondly, an e-reader seriously cuts down on clutter around the house from having all the books piling up around you.  Yes, one can certainly borrow books from the library or do a book exchange or purchase used books or giveaway your books.  I know. But I’m a little weird, and I have a little problem with a book-buying addiction.  I like to own my books. I like to know they’re there somewhere should I ever want to re-read or reference them (something I have never actually done until I started thinking about writing this blog).  Interestingly, with absolutely everything else, I am a big time tosser.  I recycle everything.  I’m a believer that if I haven’t used it or accessed it within the past year, I am morally bound to pass it along to someone who might get some use out of it.  In fact, I’m fairly obsessive about this rule.

Except when it comes to books. And then I’m obsessive in the opposite direction.  I’ve got books from grade school, high school, college, and various stints in graduate school.  You can trace my whole life’s history by taking a tour through my book collection. 

So the move to an e-reader was a very conscious decision for me. It was mostly prompted by the reality that I was traveling to Europe a fair amount for my job at the time, and bringing three or six paperbacks per trip was taking up too much space in my luggage and adding too much weight once the 50lb rule started to be enforced.  And God help me if one of them was a hardcover.  That was just not good.  On top of that, there was the not inconsequential issue of having my boss, the 3-star general equivalent with whom I was traveling- who is a very proper gentleman- reading the back of my Meredith Gentry novel by Laurell K. Hamilton about how Merry needed to produce an heir to the throne and that therefore she needed to have sex with her cadre of bodyguards.  As in plural.  I very clearly remember my boss asking me very pointedly, “Multiple bodyguards?” and then trying to scan the page I was reading.  Which, of course, included a very graphic sex scene (with Laurell K. Hamilton, I do mean graphic- and awesome, I might add).  I was fairly well mortified and if I could have walked away, I would have.  Except that we were on an airplane at 35,000 feet and there was really nowhere to go.

But back to endings and transitions.  The point I was trying to get to about the Kindle, although I’ve certainly taken a circuitous route, is that there is a cool feature of the Kindle that measures your reading speed and estimates the time remaining in the book.  It’s kind of a countdown to doom, as I know exactly how long I have until I won’t have any more of my story left to read.  It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, however, as it also tells me how long I have until I can find out how all the plot twists are resolved, which has a sort of calming effect on me when I’m feeling out of control (more on that aspect of storytelling as an anti-anxiety remedy in another post).

So, last night I was reading in bed before I went to sleep, and I knew that I only had 30 minutes left till the end of the book (and the end of the series at this point until JR Ward writes another installment).  Then comes the calculation on whether to finish before sleep or upon waking, but it really wasn’t much of a contest.  There was a lot of action toward the end, and I really couldn’t wait.  And it was good.  And I went to sleep thinking about Wrath and Beth and the brothers and wishing JR Ward would hurry the hell up! Unreasonable, I know, as she is fairly prolific and relatively quick.

But it is a petite morte (coincidentally, just like an orgasm) when a book ends and I need to say goodbye, at least for now, to make believe people who have become very important to me.  And as I contemplate The King and mine the story for the lessons it has to teach me, I am forever grateful that these books exist to entertain, inspire, instruct, and comfort me.  And I know that with books, as with life, when one door closes, another opens somewhere.  There are new books to read, new adventures to be had, new challenges to face.  And endings are required for beginnings.  As I read in a Cosmo article once, the girl who suffers from a breakup today is free to fall in love again tomorrow.  And new love is a wonderful feeling.  So, I’ll be sad today and look forward to becoming totally involved in another story tomorrow.  That works for me. 

The Wanted

“Glad You Came” by The Wanted is one of my favorite songs.  I love the clever lyrics of the refrain where the last word of the previous line becomes the first word of the next line.  It also has a compelling rhythm to it that pounds out in a very demanding way.  The whole thing kind of reminds me of sex where one thing leads inexorably, but a bit unexpectedly, to another—all accompanied by a strong and steady beat.  All good here.

 I was reminded of the name of the group as I read The King by J.R. Ward.  One of the elements in her world building is the idea of the bonded male (world building is an important element of fantasy writing where the lay of the land is explicated and the laws are set out- and it’s really important for an author to be consistent- so that there are no incongruous deus ex machina moments—like when Batman is always able to pull exactly the right tool or device out of his utility belt to solve the problem of the hour—that always annoyed me), because nothing will cause a fan backlash faster than when a writer colors outside of the lines with respect to the rules he or she has developed.  So, for example, it would be the height of illegitimacy for one of J.R. Ward’s vampires to be able to go out during the day (unless they are half human) or for Sookie Stackhouse, who reads minds, to suddenly become telekinetic when that was not one of her stated abilities.  Being consistent in world building is important for verisimilitude—which is a critical characteristic of good fantasy, ironically.  But I’ve digressed quite a bit.

Back to “The Wanted” and how it relates to The Black Dagger Brotherhood series.  As part of the internal rules, each vampire male bonds with a specific female who becomes his mate.  And when a male becomes bonded, it’s for life.  And while it doesn’t seem to work quite that way for females, it always seems to work out such that the bonded male woos and wins the female he desires, and she, in turn, becomes totally devoted to him.

I think Stephanie Meyers in the Twilight series said it best: when a male is totally focused on a female, when he loves her beyond reason and would do anything to see her happy and content and always puts her needs before his own, why wouldn’t she respond with reciprocal feelings?  Well, there’s the stalker angle, where that kind of devotion could be a little creepy, depending on who the guy was.  But, in these books the guy is always super-hot, smart, competent, and successful.  So what’s not to love? It’s a dream come true, at least for most women, I would guess (but let me know your thoughts on that, for sure).

And there’s the rub: it’s all a dream—just a fantasy.  But, as this is a space devoted to finding truth in fiction, let’s delve a littler deeper to find out what this trope actually means and why it’s repeated so often (Kresley Cole’s Immortal After Dark series, Thea Harrison’s Elder Races series, and G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin series, to name just a few, all contain variations on the theme of the bonded or mated male and his singular female).

Because in truth, don’t we all want to be wanted with that kind of intensity? I know I do.  And I figure I’m not terminally unique, more’s the pity, so I must have a lot of company at this particular party.  Being wanted is heady stuff. Being wanted elevates us, makes us feel desirable and enhanced (unless we pull a Woody Allen and decide we’d never want to join a club that would accept us as members- but that is a different problem altogether and a subject for another post).  Don’t we all dream of being pursued- with intent and persistence?  Of being chosen over all others and recognized as being special—at least to one among our species (it’s not quite the same to generate such dedication from our dog).  Doesn’t it play right into our deepest desires to be singled out with laser-like focus as the object of someone’s undying love? Wouldn’t such an event validate us in a way that we long to experience? I will only speak for myself here, but my answer is a resounding “Hell yes! Where do I sign up for that?!”

To be so decisively, definitively, demonstrably loved and wanted, that is the ideal, and that’s what these books are reflecting—our deepest desire to belong, to be a part of something bigger than ourselves—to be half of a consuming love for the ages.

And, I believe some of us do get that, but they are the lucky few, and it’s not clear to me that these chosen few share any particular characteristics or physical traits; I’ve met some really physically unattractive women whose husbands are utterly and completely besotted with them, so it’s not about external beauty, for sure, and I’ve met some men who seem like total jerks, and their wives kiss the ground they walk on, so it’s not a personality contest, either.

But mostly, the ideal is a fantasy—a perfection toward which we strive while recognizing the simple underlying truth that we all just want you to want me, like the old Cheap Trick song says.  And even if it’s not perfect, it’s still deeply satisfying when we feel way, even just a little.  And the ideal, as represented in these awesome reads, reminds us that because this is our world, and we get to do at least some of the world building, the need to be the wanted is as compelling for men as it is for women, and women would do well to remember the Golden Rule in these situations. When we offer the status of the wanted to another, it’s a good bet that those feelings will be reciprocated, just like Stephanie Meyers says.  Score another for truth in fantasy!  

What scares the monsters?

What does it mean to be brave?  What does courage look like? One way to explore these questions is to look at what scares the monsters in our fantasy novels.  When you are a six-and-a half-foot, 270-pound vampire/ dragon-in-human-form/werewolf/or powerful mage (they all seem to be physically large, have you noticed?) is there really anything that scares you?  Apparently, yes.  Even though that which scares the monsters may not be what scares you and me. But it’s worth looking at to see what inhabits their nightmares to understand how it might illuminate our own.

One of the things I’ve learned from my books is that scary things, like preferences, are extremely personal and particular. Some people prefer dogs to cats and vanilla to chocolate. Some like beef, while others like chicken. Standard stuff, for sure. But what about our fears? One of my close friends becomes paralyzed at the idea of public speaking, while for me it is something I look forward to. I woke up once and the space heater in my room was on fire, the smoke so thick, I actually couldn’t really see the fire. I very calmly threw a blanket on it, picked it up and dropped it in a tiled shower, turned on the water, put out the fire, opened the bedroom window and went back to sleep. No problem. But when my husband I and I took out a sea kayak yesterday on completely calm waters, I panicked as soon as we got twenty feet beyond the surf and insisted we go back.  I’m afraid of water, but not fire. For someone else, it might be the opposite.

Seems there is no accounting for tastes or fears.  And it doesn’t seem like we have much say in how it’s all going to go down.  I’m currently reading the latest in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series (BDB, for those in the know) by J.R. Ward. This one is focused mainly on Wrath, son of Wrath, the king of the vampires, and definitely one badass dude.  Turns out Wrath can throw a billiard table across the room, but the idea of anything happening to his wife turns his bowels watery (one thing I like about the BDB books is that its characters use the potty—and believe it or not, that is always one of my metrics for relatability, which is an element that makes a good book great, and the BDB books consistently make the top ten paranormal series on all the lists I’ve seen, including mine).

Back to Wrath’s fears.  He is afraid of his inability/incompetence when it comes to navigating emotional depths with both his wife and his brothers in arms, the other massive, powerful, scary males who constitute the Black Dagger Brotherhood.  When you are good at kicking ass and taking names, the touchy-feely stuff is scary as hell. That’s probably true for most men, even if they don’t fight bad guys for a living or keep the world safe from the real monsters.

Another one of my favorite characters is Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, created by Laurel K. Hamilton. Anita is an extraordinarily complex character, and I’ll be talking about her in great detail in other posts, but for today, I want to focus on a recurring theme in her books.  For Anita, killing monsters and saving the world is part of her daily grind and all of that doesn’t really phase her (although she does worry quite a bit about straddling the line past which hunting and killing the monsters makes you one of them, another interesting thought for later posts). What really gets Anita’s adrenaline pumping, though, is dealing with others’ emotional pain—bearing witness to it and attempting to help those in pain by simply sharing space with them.

Anita might come back from an incredibly difficult night of fighting crime and confronting truly frightening creatures (can you say “Mother of All Darkness”? Makes your blood run cold), and then get all foot-dragging and hesitant about visiting a friend and his family in a hospital room in order to offer support and comfort.

For me, all of this highlights the fact that I spend a lot of time in denial, thinking I am actually being brave. I’m the kind of person who never avoids a confrontation when it’s necessary.  I don’t seek them out (contrary to popular belief), but I don’t fear them, either. I’m willing to say the hard things to people—the stuff that is difficult to say and harder to hear—like “we don’t want you on our team anymore, we have to let you go.”  Or, “We’re sorry, but we just don’t have a spot for you with us.  You aren’t really what we are looking for.”  Or, “I know you wrote this and you think it’s really good, but, unfortunately, it’s really not, and it’s better you hear it from me than from someone else.”  I’m also the one who will always tell you (even if you’re a complete stranger) that you have lipstick on your teeth or if your fly is open.

Because of this, a lot of people think I’m brave. And sometimes, so do I.  But true bravery, as Wrath and Anita show us, is when we do the things that are actually hard for us, not for someone else. It’s not a big deal for me to say the hard thing to someone, but boy, do I hate being on the receiving end of that dialogue.  Doing the hard thing for me, being brave, is accepting criticism or rejection with grace and dignity and trying to learn something about myself from the experience, rather than blowing off the message by discounting the messenger, as I am wont to do (well, she’s a total bitch anyway, so why should I care what she says?.  Oh, my husband is being a jerk, so I won’t process the underlying truth he’s trying to communicate to me but that I don’t want to hear).

See—denial—it’s not just a river in Egypt (I know, I know, that is so old and so clichéd, but I never get tired of it). And Wrath and Anita, in working through their own difficulties, help me get a better picture of my own.  It’s like being able to see something in your peripheral vision that disappears when you look at it directly.

The other awesome thing about all of this self-reflection through reading fantasy is that it’s cheaper than therapy and you can progress at your own pace.  Because sometimes facing your own shit is the hardest thing you’ll do today, and maybe it’s even OK to wait and be brave tomorrow. Me and Scarlett. 

Recognizing Destiny

It occurred to me this morning while overlooking the beach from my villa in Costa Rica—and how awesome is that, the truth in my fantasy of world travel—that sometimes, or even often or most of the time, I don’t recognize something important—like a legitimate interest or a passion or a life direction—because it didn’t look like I expected.

The way this blog started was that I had recently decided that despite my abiding passion for my beloved fantasy novels, I needed to stop reading them—give them up—because they were distracting me from discovering my true life’s purpose/the right direction in which to travel/getting on with my “real” work to improve the world and leave my mark upon it, etc., etc., etc.

I had remembered that when I was in graduate school at the aforementioned Ivy League University, I only allowed myself to read magazines during the school semester.  I saved all of my novels for breaks because there was so much work I had to do for school—hundreds of pages a week—and it was just too hard to put down a novel (assuming it was good) and do the work I was supposed to do. I would either fall behind in my schoolwork or fall behind in my sleep from staying up too late reading fiction.  Either way, I was behind in something vital, leaving me scrambling to catch up, which sucked.

Therefore, as virtuously, and sanctimoniously as only an Ivy League student can, I sacrificed my beloved books on the altar of scholastic achievement.  This was a lesson I remembered recently as I noticed that I was spending quite a bit of time reading smut as opposed to living my life. And I was forced to ask myself, why am I spending so much time escaping my reality, if, in fact, that was what I was doing?

My reality is pretty sweet. I have a husband who loves me completely and who is my best friend and extremely compatible life partner. We have two exceptional 14-year-old twin boys who are healthy and happy. We have considerable abundance in our lives to the point where we rarely have to make significant financial trade-offs.  I am finally healthy after years of debilitating and depressing illness, and I do work that changes people’s lives for the better and makes a significant contribution to national security.  This is really not to brag, but rather to acknowledge my many blessings and to own my gifts and talents (more about that process in another post).

So, why was I spending so much time escaping a reality that would constitute so many others’ fantasies? My first thought was that this was my addictive nature rearing its ugly head (I consider myself a food addict after almost two decades of suffering with an extreme eating disorder, which is currently quiet, thankfully). In my view, once an addict, always an addict, and what is addiction, really, except escape from reality, as the Queen song says (and I’m guessing those boys knew a thing or two about addiction)?

Anyway, back to my efforts to classify my reading hobby as a destructive habit that needed to be overcome. I was influenced in this thought by Julia Cameron, the author of The Artist’s Way (one of my favorite books of all time, and one I highly commend to anyone who feels stuck or unfulfilled).  She recommends, among many other things, that we take a week off reading and watching TV, just to see what comes up.   I had gone through the entire Artist’s Way process some time ago, but had decided to skip that part—not because I didn’t think it had value, but because I absolutely dreaded giving up my books.

I clearly needed to pay attention to that dread.  It was pointing to an important truth, although it wasn’t the truth I thought it was. I had a work trip coming up to Las Vegas (yes, I know, rough life when my work travel takes me to Sin City).  I knew that usually I didn’t have a lot of down time in Vegas, given my work schedule, so I thought it would be a good time to abstain.  Instead of reading smut, I decided to spend my time journaling and doing the exercises in my newest favorite motivational workbook, The Fire Starter Sessions (which I highly, highly recommend, by the way). Danielle Laporte, the genius author of the book, asks, what would your life be like if you only did what was easy?  Very interesting question. She also asks what we think about all the time and what we could stay up all night talking about.

And do you know what came to mind when contemplating those questions (I’m guessing you may have a fairly good idea by this point, am I right?)? What came to me is that I am passionate about my smut—but not because I use it to escape my reality (OK—not only because it sometimes serves as a release from the stresses of daily life), but because these books make me think—they make me ponder, they inspire me to see the world and specific situations with new eyes.  These fantasies expand my perceptions of reality and open my mind and my heart (and occasionally even my body) to new possibilities. And that is the opposite of escapism—it’s embracing reality, diving in headfirst, learning, exploring, understanding, growing, and progressing.

These books excite my enthusiasm and my passion. They motivate and stimulate. They are an integral part of my destiny—but because my destiny didn’t look like I expected, I didn’t recognize it. So you’ve gotta ask yourself, what else doesn’t look like you expected?  A soul mate, who may be blond when you always go for dark hair? The greatness of your kids, because they never voluntarily pick up a book and reading is your passion (guilty as charged here!)? Your dream job, because how can managing an office be anyone’s dream-come-true?

I’m sure there are lots of examples of failure to recognize something important because it didn’t look like we thought it should. Maybe our fantasies can help illuminate our true reality, not just the ones we think we should want. Maybe Billy Joel was right all along, and sometimes a fantasy is all you need.

Lives of the saints (and sinners)

Have you ever heard the word “hagiography”?  As I understand, it is the Christian concept of reading or telling the story of saints or holy men and women—describing their lives and activities and the ways in which they answer the call of their God to go beyond themselves to serve a greater purpose. The idea is that if we hear or read about these extraordinary people, we will be inspired to behave in a similar manner.  We become elevated by their example.

We do exactly the same thing in secular culture.  We read the biographies of great men and women, as told by others, and we read their autobiographies and memoirs with even more enthusiasm.  We somehow think that if we can do like they did or say what they said, we’ll be more like they are.  And I think this is fundamentally true.

However, I vastly prefer to take as my examples the heroes and heroines of my fantasy smut novels.  For one thing, their sex lives are way better, and they are willing to tell me all about it, which is just awesome.  Secondly, for some reason which I’m sure I’ll get around to exploring one of these days, I’m a lot more interested in make believe people than in the real deal.  I’m sure there’s a deep psychological explanation for this, but we’ll let that go for now.

In the event, I think it’s a much more Herculean feat to walk away from Vampire Bill if you’re Sookie Stackhouse than it would have been—and was—to tell some badboy treating me poorly to go pound sand. In the past, I was fairly inclined to accept bad behavior because I was afraid no one would want me or have me, or some such insecure drivel that seemed critical al the time.

But Sookie, of True Blood fame, one of the greatest protagonists ever created by the tremendously talented Charlaine Harris, Sookie, who’d been a virgin before her vampire lover, was able to walk away.  Even though, as a vampire, Bill was sexually tireless, endlessly creative and had a bite that could send women over the cliff of a world-stopping orgasm.  Even though she wasn’t certain she’d ever have another lover whose mind she couldn’t read (it’s a real mood killer, Sookie explains, to stay in the sexual moment when your partner is thinking that your rear end is a tad too big for his taste—totally!). When you look at it like that, my own fears and insecurities pale by comparison and her strength of character, her integrity and the power of her will are truly inspiring.

I’d be lying if I told you that I never thought about Sookie doing the hard thing and walking away from Bill after she decides she needs some time to figure out whether the relationship is good for her or just intensely pleasurable (and no, I’ve learned, those aren’t the same things). Wouldn’t we all have done well at certain points in our lives to have asked ourselves the same question, and, more importantly, acted on it?

I also think about Sookie breaking her blood bond to the white-hot Viking vampire, Eric (and doesn’t that description just do it for you?!) because she wants to make sure her feelings are real and her own, rather than being magically altered or enhanced.  In truth, I must admit that I questioned Sookie’s sanity just a bit with that one—after all, who really cares whether you get butterflies in your stomach and damp down below when confronted by a blond Adonis who claims to love you because he put a spell on you?  At first glance, not me, I can tell you that much.  But I like Sookie and I admire her, so her actions made me think—maybe her decision to cut the blood bond makes sense if living in reality rather than fantasy is the goal.

And isn’t that interesting--a fictional character whose premium on authenticity makes me question my own blithe discounting of the same. Maybe I have something to learn from Ms. Stackhouse after all—someone who is not real—about that which is real and a better way of negotiating it.

The bottom line here is that reading about Sookie’s life and getting into her head through a first-person narrative, makes me want to be a better person who makes superior decisions and behaves with integrity.

Kind of like the concept of I started with—hagiography. But instead of reading about the saints, I get to read about the sinners. Way more fun, if you ask me.