Life in the Zone

I’m enjoying Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series and I've been struck by one of the major themes running through all the entries. In each book, the protagonists, both Psy (who are cerebral beings conditioned not to feel emotions) and Changelings (shapeshifters who are very passionate and physical by nature) are called to leave their comfort zones again and again. Sometimes the foray outside the zone is incremental and sometimes it is exponential. But however they get there, and the how and why is what makes up the plot, of course, they all have to go. And the process is both fascinating and instructive.

What is our comfort zone?  I think most of us don't really know. I think we go through life living in it and avoiding going out because we experience leaving as discomfort. And who wants to be uncomfortable? Like when the doctor says, no it isn't going to hurt, it's just "uncomfortable".  Yeah, right. I've heard that before and it's a crock of you know what.

But sometimes, life forces us from our comfort zones, just like in Ms. Singh's entertaining novels. In most paranormal fantasy, the circumstances that require a foray beyond the zone usually involve life and death in a way that that leaves little room for decisions. In the current book, Hostage to Pleasure (OK, at this point I'm repeating the titles just as a hoot-- hostage to pleasure?  Really?!  I mean, hokey titles are fun, I guess, but we are really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, folks). Anyway, back to my comfort zone (actually, getting caught reading a book called "Hostage to Pleasure" would definitely take me out of my comfort zone--oh, wait-- everyone now knows I read smut, so it's OK!).

Now I'm really going to get back to the subject at hand—comfort. We all seek it and seek to avoid its opposite. In fact, human beings will go to great lengths to stay comfortable, including tolerating the devil you know, a concept I understand in theory, but not in reality. Why would you take certain hell for a possible reprieve?  Even if the possibility of worse also exists?  But we do, almost every time. Because, as a species, we are risk averse. We don't like to take chances. But it is in the chances that growth and progress can occur.

In the current book, Ashaya, a Psy, is called—repeatedly—to leave the comfort zone of shields and silence that have kept her safe her entire life and protected the son she loves. Her putative Changeling lover, Dorian, pushes her to creep ever-closer to experiences and emotions that are wholly new for her. She is terrified, excruciatingly uncomfortable and totally overwhelmed by his love and his hunger for her. We are meant to feel her conflict and her inevitable approach to the event horizon. And we do. Ms. Singh does an excellent job of conveying the contradictory arguments and counterarguments that take place in Ashaya's mind. We are right there with her as she contemplates her jump off the cliff. And we also get to feel vicariously the rewards of leaving the zone, which in her case are both sensual and practical.

I was certainly entertained. In many ways. And, as these books so often do, it made me think. And what I thought was, wow, Ashaya is so lucky. And not just because she has a lover who actually stopped to consider what it would take for a woman like her to be sexually satisfied (which, in her case, included engaging her intellect as well as her body). But also because there was someone to push her out of her comfort zone so she could become more of the person she was meant to be.

If you read the book, and I sincerely hope you will, as this series, like Ms. Singh's Guild Hunter series, is an outstanding example of paranormal fantasy, you might think to yourself that Ashaya is pushed too hard toward leaving the zone. And while it is fun to read about, it's not clear that many of us want to be pushed that hard. It could feel like the choice was being made for us. But we always have choices. For me, I am profoundly grateful that there is someone or even more than one someone who pushes me to be a better person. And not just my therapist.

I think we all need a push out of our comfort zones, and it is incumbent on us to find people to play that role in our lives. But we tend to shun people like that, or rebuff their efforts to help us grow. I'm definitely guilty of that. I prefer to be the one pushing people out of their Lazy-Boys, not the one with a heel firmly planted in her seat.

But there is another way to be inspired to move beyond easy street and out into the places that will challenge us to evolve:  we can read!!  As I have worked to share with my Facebook and Twitter followers, reading is where we to go to expand our minds, become more empathetic people, reduce stress and also to be inspired to change. Change involves leaving our comfort zones. No way around that. But I think it becomes easier to do after I read about it in my beloved fiction books. What do you think?

Pick up a book, call a friend for support, make an appointment with your therapist, but however it happens, it's time to move beyond the zone. Grow!  Change!  The devil you know is still a demonic bastard. Take a chance that there is an angel just around the next bend.

Post Modern Family

In A Shiver of Light, Laurell K. Hamilton writes about family; what it should be, and, as she notes, so seldom is. I’ve been traveling with my family again, spending time in California in places that we used to call home and no longer are. Ms. Hamilton (I have the strongest urge to call all of my beloved authors by their first names, partially because I feel like I know them, and partially because women are usually referred to by their first names while men are usually called by their last names—but I’ve digressed—again), or Laurell, also writes about the way home should be, but, like family, seldom is.

A Shiver of Light is part of the Meredith Gentry series, and in Merry’s world home and family are very, very complicated concepts and entities, involving relatives who want to kill you and multiple biological fathers of the same children (this is a paranormal world, after all).  Luckily, my life isn’t quite so complex, but the underlying concepts are still the same.  What is family supposed to be?  What does home mean?  Somewhere along the way, I basically gave up on the idea of the TV sitcom families, and accepted that I wasn’t going to be living with the Huxtables or even the Dumphries.  Maybe more like the Aadams Family.

When I was 14, my family took a trip to Europe.  By the beginning of the second week of a two-week trip, I remember having a major meltdown over something terribly important to me at the time,  with all the angst a teenager can muster (quite a bit, I assure you) and screaming at my parents, that I wanted to be a real family, not some dysfunctional imitation of the Cosbys.

When I was 14, I doubt I had any idea of what I meant by a “real family,” and it’s not clear that time has sharpened that picture very much. But what I think I meant, and what Laurell Hamilton alludes to, is a feeling of connection, of belonging, of being part of a team whose members all have your back and who will defend and support you no matter what.

Like Meredith Gentry, I didn’t come from a family like that.  And while no one was out to kill me, the name of the game in my family of origin was never show any weakness that could be exploited—because it would be.  There was no emotional support and no achievement was ever good enough.  Such a damaging way to grow up, and in her earlier Meredith Gentry books, Hamilton absolutely nails the devastation that this causes, earning her my undying devotion.  No on was interested in knowing who I was, or what I liked or dreamed of.  The members of my family of origin had very specific ideas about who I was supposed to be and what I was supposed to do.  And if I didn’t live up to their ideas of me, then I had failed and I was punished.

I always figure if someone writes a book about experiences I’ve had, especially the painful ones, it’s because I’m not so different from other people out there and we have a virtual community of dysfunction.  And while that may not sound so positive, I have always felt that it is.  It’s good to know not everyone grew up with the Brady Bunch or the Cleavers (as in “Leave it to…”).

I always dreamed of family gatherings like those of the Kennedys (and see how well that family turned out).  Or like the wealthy family in The Wedding Crashers.  In my family, it was different; my mother or my aunts would cook for three days at the holidays, we’d scarf it all down in ten minutes, and then my cousins or my brother would start telling puerile, vulgar jokes.  Everyone would get hammered, and often someone would end up in tears.  Sounds fun, huh? It wasn't.

If it was just my parents and my brother, we’d all sit around staring at each other with nothing to say and then bolting from the table as soon as possible.

So, if all of this tells us what home and family should not be, how does Merry help us understand what family should be?  To begin with, of course, it’s necessary for at least most of us to see past the polyamorous lifestyle that all of Laurell Hamilton’s heroines seem to embrace.  I cannot imagine having to negotiate sex and parenting with more than one partner.  It’s hard enough to agree with one guy about when, where, how often, and how to be intimate; can you imagine that conversation among five or six?  And then imagine what a smart and resourceful child could do in terms of playing one parent against the other, and the next, and the next.  I would have had an absolute field day with that, as a teen, that's for sure.

But if we look beyond that, what Merry shows us are relationships filled with love, respect, deep acceptance of differences and deformities, and forgiveness of transgressions.  In fact, it’s an excellent model of what family should involve—patience, tolerance, gracious compromise, happiness for others, and a willingness to give everyone his or her time in the spotlight.  Definitely something for everyone to aspire to and to emulate.

And perhaps it takes the kind of dysfunctional background that I and Merry grew up with to appreciate the gift of a family that embodies the loving, positive aspects of home and family that Merry (and I) are trying to create, given the choice and the willingness.  Cue the rose petals dropping from the sky now.

Message in a Bottle

I'm in a dry spell. I'm between books. I hate that. As I've noted previously here, I could opt for a retread or look for new blood. I'm just not in the mood for any of my old favorites right now, and I'm having trouble finding a new love to settle down with. So I'm on the market. I'm dating. Thank God for the Internet, too, because it makes meeting new authors so much easier, although it's important not to discount the joys of bookstore browsing. And there are so many ways to look for love these days:  I can speed date by downloading a number of samples onto my Kindle (or read the opening pages of hard copy books at the brick and mortar stores); I can find lists and reviews of paranormal fantasy and romance all over the internet; I can spend some quality time with my favorite book blog, Maryse.net, and although she's moved further toward contemporary fiction than I would like, she's still awesome and I couldn't live without her series reading order feature; I can ask friends for recommendations (although mostly my friends ask me); I can ask my Face Book and Twitter followers (thanks, guys!! I love you all!!); and I can ask all of you--what are your favorites?

So, plenty of options, but the hard fact is that there is just no guarantee that I won't have to kiss a lot of frogs before I find my prince. And then there's the fear that there are no more princes left out there, and I'll need to abandon the genre because I've read all the good offerings.

But I'm going to back away from the abyss and assume that I haven't exhausted the supply of great paranormal and urban fantasy that exists in the world. I'm going to choose to believe that there's someone new out there for me to discover and that I'm going to go wild with excitement that I've found new love.

Sometimes it's good to visualize our goals, so what would I like to see in these new books with which I want to fall madly, passionately in love?  Well, for one, they definitely need to have mad, passionate love, of both the physical and emotional varieties. Preferably with lots of detailed descriptions. Oh no, did I just say that out loud?!  Next, the characters must be attractive in the metaphysical sense (although I always like it when the female protagonist isn't too beautiful  in the physical sense because it gives hope to the rest of us). But they need to be people I can both relate to and root for, in the cheerleading sense of the word. I want to want them to get their HEA. I don't want to feel apathetic about whether they find happiness and fulfillment or worse, not like them enough to feel actively hostile toward them.

And then there is the plot. So many of these novels could elevate themselves into the pantheon of great reads of all times just by having a more interesting plot. A little plausibility (within the bounds of paranormal "reality" of course) goes a long way toward making a plot line compelling. There is a fine line between believable and are you freaking kidding me?!  Kind of like the line between a wild time and a flat line.  But perhaps less life threatening.

I want a real page-turner. I want the characters' personalities and personal histories to contribute to the development of the story.  J. R. Ward is a master of this, as are Karen Marie Moning, Thea Harrison and Nalini Singh. Others aren't quite as good, but are good enough and make up for slightly less-than-stellar-plots with amazing characters.

And then there are those, who shall remain nameless, whose plots really fall down six, eight or ten books into the series and the author is clearly resting on her laurels. That is always a true heartbreaker. The sense of betrayal I've experienced when I've invested countless hours with an author and a series, only to have it go absolutely nowhere can be overwhelming.  It is such a disappointment when there is no resolution but only increasingly silly, implausible, or, worst of all, boring new installments. The horror!  And I'm not a fan of horror, thank you very much.  I've always admired J.K. Rowling for her backward planning in terms of plot. I know there were plenty of folks who criticized Rowling for the neat and tidy way she wrapped everything up, but personally, I want my fantasy fiction to have more closure than real life usually does. That's why I read fiction. If I want to be depressed, I'll read the newspaper. Or George Martin, who defies all genre conventions. I think you are probably getting the picture here. So help me!  Please send me your suggestions. I'm sending out an SOS and looking for message in a bottle. Please help me find an oasis in this desert. Or I'll continue to mangle my metaphors and then where will we be?

Bad Boys-Whatcha Gonna Do?

So, I've been reading and I've been wondering, as I often do. Why is it that we are so attracted to the bad boys?  We know they are no good for us and that they will likely betray us and break our hearts.  We know we should take the late, great Maya Angelou's advice and when they tell us they aren't good at commitment or even at hanging around till morning, we should believe them. But we don't. Or maybe I should just speak for myself--I didn't. Past tense, mind you, as I've been happily married to a nice boy (with an edge, of course, because God knows I could never do straight nice) for a good long while now. But back to those compelling bad boys who I've been contemplating, compliments or Darynda Jones, whose boy embodies ultimate badness--as in son of Satan bad. Can't get much badder than that, can you?

And this is exactly why I love paranormal and urban fantasy--you want a bad boy, then I'll give you bad boys in spades--or in Hades as the case may be.  Reyes Farrow in Jones' fun and addictive  Charley Davidson series is the spawn of Hell, forged in the furnace of the underworld and sent to Earth to betray the one woman who holds the key to saving humanity. Hyperbole much?  You betcha and I live for it.  Who wouldn’t want to redeem this ultimate bad boy?  I know I would—or would have, past tense, of course.

So, why is Darynda Jones'  heroine, Charley, so drawn to this tarnished hero?  Well, I'm fairly certain his smoking hot looks and laser-like focus on Charley had something to do with it. Have you ever noticed that all the bad boys seem to be gorgeous?  Not to mention the chemistry generated by the whole "I was created to love you" shtick and the compulsion created by the irresistible forbidden fruit aspect.  No, that's not attractive at all--kind of like a black hole doesn't draw matter inexorably to its inky depths. Yeah, like that. Resistance is futile. Surrender, Dorothy (which reminds me, I wanted to have both those phrases stenciled on our bedroom wall, but my husband was opposed. Wonder why?  But I've gone fairly far off the reservation here and I'd better rein it in).

Back to those luscious bad boys and the women who love them. I have to say that I feel less like a freak when I read about paranormal heroines who fall for this cliché along with the rest of us. On the other hand, Charley belongs in the same category as Queen Betsy, so I'm so not sure we are too alike in that way, but that is another issue entirely. And, of course, Charley is the daughter of the light (similar to Blue in The Light Who Shines), so I'm not sure there's much similarity there either.

But, I'm a seeker of truth in fantasy, as you know, and there is a lot to be had in this particular trope.  Lots of good women love bad men. I suspect it's because many of us have a savior complex, and most of us believe in the transformative power of true love (kind of like the Princess Bride). But in seeking to save these bad boys from themselves and their demons, many women fall into dangerous habits. Like tolerating bad or abusive behavior. Or doing things we normally would never consider, like waiting for the phone to ring when we could be out with friends or saying yes to an obvious booty call when we are looking for romance and relationship.

I don't know about you, but I was guilty more than once of believing that I was the woman who was going to tame that wild man. I was going to become as necessary to him as breathing and he was going to realize he could not live without me. And I would accomplish this Herculean feat through anticipating his every whim and fulfilling his every need. So, any guesses as to how that worked out for me?  I'll give you a hint:  not so well.

Because in reality, sons of Satan really are not nice guys underneath it all. And we aren't going to get them to change, as a rule. We're just going to get our hearts stomped along the way. Because another name for those bad boys is "player" and most of us are looking for "keepers."  These are rarely one and the same guy.

And so it never really seemed to work out as well as it does in my beloved fantasy novels. Unfortunately, this is one instance where life doesn't really imitate art. Bad boys tend to be bad people in general. They don't often have a heart of gold underneath a gruff exterior. They don't usually settle down with one woman and stick around for the long haul. Even if a woman manages to get her guy to the altar, many of those bad boys seem to forget the part of the marriage vows where they promised to forsake all others. Sons of Satan, or their real-life counterparts, are best dealt with at arms length. Because they really are compelling and it's hard not to act like a moth to an open flame. But try to remember what happens to those poor moths. There's a reason your mother told you not to touch the stove. It hurts.

Living in the Now

I have always had a strong aversion to books written in the present tense. In fact, I have been known to completely avoid books I would otherwise love to read because the author chose a first or third person present tense POV. And I remember being royally pissed off upon discovering that a book I was really looking forward to reading was off the list because of what I've always thought of as an annoying pretentiousness on the part of the author. Once again, however, I've had to reexamine the stories I tell myself to preserve my own self-righteousness. This is one of those occasions. First came the Hunger Games trilogy, which I felt compelled to read so that I could join the conversation about this cultural phenom. Now it's Lilo J. Abernathy's The Light Who Shines that has grabbed my attention and won't let go. And as I felt the compulsion to keep reading the book, despite its grammatical gaffe (at least in my view), I started to think about why this literary device bothered me so much.  As they say, when we are distressed or annoyed or angry with someone or something, we need to look to ourselves for the causes and solutions to the problem.  I seriously hate when “they” are right. It makes me seriously distressed, annoyed and angry.  On the other hand, I’m guessing no one really cares about that, so onward and upward. Hoo-ha!  

OK—back to the subject at hand, after my little departure from my usual laser-like focus.  Well, maybe that is a teensy exaggeration. Maybe my focus is more like a defective laser. So, the question on the table is, why is it so hard to live in the present? I'm not sure, truth be told, although I've thought about it a lot.

Apparently, there are more compelling things to do besides live in the moment, and I’ve written about this phenomenon before. Instead of living in the moment, I can sit at a red light and wish it were green, thinking about how much faster I would get there if it were. I can read catalogues and fantasize about what a particular dress would look like if I wore it out to dinner, or how a new couch would look in my living room. I can even remove myself one more step from the reality of the present moment and think about what that dress would look like on me if I lost ten pounds or about how that new couch would look in my new house.

What do all of these examples have in common?  They imagine a reality that doesn't exist--and in this projected reality, my imagined life is better in some ways than my actual life. It may be as seemingly benign as wishing the traffic light were a different color. But it's not. And I don't weigh ten pounds less, at least in this moment, and I live in my present house, not some future fantasy version. At least right now.  Which is all we have, really. Right now.  The present tense. Just like Lilo Abernathy.  Damn.

Because that seems to be the rub, right?  I spend precious time projecting into an imagined future in which everything is arranged exactly as I think I want it to be. At which point, I tell myself, I will be content to live in that moment, because then it will be perfect and I won't have to project any more. Right?

There is an alternative, and very popular, method for escaping the present tense that is actually reflected in most novels--we can superimpose an idealized past onto our present moment. So instead of thinking about an alternative future, I can sit at that red light and think about how it was green last week when I drove through it, and wasn't that so much better than this stinking present moment. Or I can remember when I was ten pounds lighter and sigh with regret that the best days are behind me.

Either way, I'm absolutely not living in the present moment. Because the moment I am living now is somehow defective. It's not working for me. It's not quite good enough for me to spend my time here. When I'm at work, I'd rather be home. When I'm at home, I'd rather be on vacation. When I'm eating at a certain restaurant, I think about whether it would be better elsewhere.

Clearly, I don't do this all the time. I do spend time in the present moment. I can get caught up in what I'm doing (like right now, as this blog flows out of me like my hand is being chased across the page).  In fact, I seek out experiences and activities that motivate me to be in the moment, and so do many others. It's why roller coasters and extreme sports are so popular. It's why people take mind-altering substances--alcohol and drugs tend to focus the mind, or make us lose so much focus and mental function we can't go anywhere but where we are.

So, we flee from the present when we are perfectly capable of embracing it, and drug ourselves to prevent our escape from reality, which paradoxically serves to ensure our escape from reality. So confusing. We're all pretty screwed up. Or maybe it's just me. I'll speak for myself here and let you do the same.  Am I the only one who likes to time travel? 

So, maybe I will seek out more books written in the present tense to remind me to be where I am, not in my future or in my past. If all such books are as good as Ms. Abernathy's, it will be a joy, not a hardship. 

Taming Our Inner Ugly

I just finished Jessica Sims' (aka Jessica Clare) latest Midnight Liaisons novel, Wanted: Wild Things (I wonder: is there someone whose job it is to sit in a room and think up silly book titles?  Must be). I really enjoy the books in this series--light, funny, and quick to read, they feel like a frothy confection one might consume at the end of a heavy meal. But underneath Ms. Clare's meringue peaks are some fairly deep themes, if one cares to look for them. Kind of like the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. In this latest offering, about a faery Changling and her primordial lover (as in large hairy male who shape shifts into a saber tooth cat), Clare explores the concept of self-hatred and its effect on relationships and the psyche. As always in the world of fantasy, the circumstances can be manipulated to amplify whichever reality the author wants to explore. In this case, the female protagonist turns into a hideous monster with ugly scales and horns any time she feels attraction to a man and he touches her in any way. Tell me you can't relate to that in a metaphorical way?

I certainly can. The whole idea that I immediately began to feel unworthy and unattractive (hey, that could be the name of MaryJanice Davidson's next book!) when in the company of a guy I liked is very familiar territory. My first thoughts after meeting someone (back when I was dating many moons ago) were all about what was wrong with me. And if I actually thought about what was right with me, it mostly had to do with appealing to a man's more base needs--the ones that could be satisfied by any woman with a pulse.

Where do these attack thoughts come from?  Why do so many of us turn into ugly monsters, at least in our heads, and then behave accordingly by either running away as fast as we can or behaving in a manner that pushes the guy right out the door?  What's up with that?  And I know it's not just me. So many of us do that.

But not all of us, certainly. I was talking to a woman just the other day who seemed not to suffer at all from this self-inflicted wound. She was large and in charge, weighing in at a minimum of 350 and she clearly loved herself, loved her shape and told me in no uncertain terms that she was hotter than the steamy Maryland day we were both "enjoying."  She had some health concerns about her weight, but absolutely no issues about her self-image or inherent attractiveness. I remember thinking to myself that her mother did a much better job than mine in giving her daughter self-confidence. Then again, most mothers did a better job in pretty much all ways than mine, but that is a subject for another blog post.

Why do some women look in the mirror and feel content--no matter what is looking back at them--and others see only our flaws?  I know I've written about this before, but it takes up a lot of my head space, not to mention my time in attending to my self-perceived deficiencies. Why else do we wear makeup and color our hair and shave our legs and stuff our feet into hideously uncomfortable shoes to make our calf muscles look more shapely and our midriffs look more streamlined?  Why do we spend time looking for the perfect skirt or dress that does wonders for our derrières?  Because we feel like we need to look better than we do without those activities and accouterments.

So this whole undermining phenomenon is largely self-imposed. We can't seem to help our transformation into something twisted and unattractive when confronted by a man we might find interesting because we can't seem to get out of our own way. In the novel that sparked the trip down this particular rabbit hole, Ryder, the Changeling protagonist, works to control her inner ugly creature, largely to no avail. Again, a metaphor for real life.

So, what to do about this whole issue?  In Ryder's case, true love trumps her feelings of insecurity and inadequacy. And that is certainly a recipe for success for the rest of us. I know that meeting and marrying my amazing husband has done wonders for my self-esteem and self-confidence. But I still wonder sometimes how he saw through the mountains of crap that low self-esteem had piled onto my actual personality down to who I really was so that he could fall in love with me. Clearly, he had some sort of X-Ray vision, able to cut through my ineffective defenses to see beneath them to my soul and recognize the match with his. And I thank my lucky stars every day that he was able to do this, because in keeping with my usual MO, I did my level best to push him away when we first got together. But he persevered and stuck around.

But what happens if we don't meet a man of such far-sightedness and dedication?  I think the answer, as always, is that we need to learn to save ourselves and either just say "no, thank you, I'm not listening" to our negative voices, or ignore them and act as if they don't exist. Either way, we need to run away from the negativity, not from possible partners.

Like Ryder, we need to come to terms with our inner beasts and embrace the totality of who were are so we can get on with our lives as fully realized humans. Even if we're not supernatural, we are all superstars and we need remember that.

Love at First Sight

I’ve always believed in love at first sight.  More importantly, I’ve always wanted to believe in it.  I love the idea of love, of being swept off my feet with the deep knowledge of the rightness of someone for me.  I love the idea of my highly rational and intellectually-oriented self being overcome with emotion so that I have no choice but to feel, rather than think.  Phew—is it warm in here or am I having a power surge? Don’t mind me, I’m losing myself in the fantasy of falling hard and falling fast.  It’s heady stuff. I should know- I remember the night I met my husband (in a bar, I might add). After ditching our friends for a dinner á deux followed by some steamy necking in the car, I raced home to call my best friend to say- “I’ve met someone.”  As in someone who really lights my fire, curls my toes and inspires my feet to do a happy dance, despite my sky-high pumps (we’ve discussed those, I know).

And while I might not describe it as a Godfather-like lightning bolt, I was definitely aware I was in the presence of something potentially very special.  It’s not tally clear my beloved reciprocated those feelings (it did take him more than nine months to tell me he loved me, even though he’d cleared out half his closet for my stuff by our second date. So maybe he did know and his mouth took a bit of time to catch up to his heart—he is a man, after all).

So I’m absolutely into love at first sight, and I never discount it in my beloved fantasy books—as long as the author captures the wonder and joy and the stomach-dropping, fear-laced excitement of it all in describing it.  I’m currently reading a new series (The Dark Ones) by an author whose work I’ve enjoyed before, Katie MacAlister.  And this first book in a longer series (hooray for long series with lots and lots of books!) includes a love at first sight trope between Joy and Raphael.  And Katie MacAlister does a really good job of evoking the headiness and compulsion of love at first sight. Joy battles realistically with her better judgment about diving headfirst into a relationship with a tall, dark and hunky mystery man who has a shady pasty and secrets to keep.  But she can’t help herself, can she, cause she’s smitten but good.

And, and as I read this first offering in a series I’m hoping will become one of my growing list of favorites, I find myself wishing I, too, had fallen head-over-heels in love from the very first page.

But I didn’t.  Not really.  Sure, I could see the potential, and I have really high hopes for this series, but I’ve got to say, this is where I have to put my big girl panties on and settle in for some delayed gratification like adults are supposed to do.  But my inner five-year-old is totally bemoaning the fact that I have to wait for the author to lay all of the foundation for her specific world, its rules and attributes, etc., not to mention character development and long-term plot exposition for what is clearly envisioned as a lengthy series.  Still—I want that loving feeling—right from the get-go.  Like it was with my husband all those years ago.

So, while this book is really good and it’s definitely keeping my interest, I’m not head-over-heels, but I know I can look forward to a deepening relationship with these characters and this world over time, and that is truly awesome. And I really am doing a happy dance in anticipation of having my gratification met in a most satisfying manner as I frolic with the rest of the series.  But there is a tiny little part of me that is disappointed that I didn’t get to feel my tummy drop with the thrill of love at first sight.  This time. Of course, tomorrow is another day, luckily.  And I did get to read about love at first site in the words of a very talented author, which is almost as good.

Fixing Humpty Dumpty

I've written before about how events in my life seem to be eerily reflected in the books I am reading. You have to admit, this is quite strange. In fact, there might even be a story idea here; woman predicts the future through reading novels whose plots come true in her life. This is a bit like the YA fantasy series, Inkheart, which I read with my children some years ago, but not really.  Anyhoo, I must say that I'm not so excited that life is imitating art these days. In this particular instance, I can relate all too closely with Thea Harrison's more recent Elder Races novella, Pia Saves the Day. In this installment of the epic tale of Dragos and Pia, there is an accident and Dragos is injured and loses his memory. Pia must think fast and do what needs to be done to bring him back to his senses and to her. Now, don't get me wrong. You all know how much I love Pia and Dragos, but this book made me distinctly uncomfortable. Because the expected HEA didn't really look like I expected. Which makes Harrison an excellent writer, but kind of threw me for a loop.

And then I started to feel like I was riding the Anaconda at King's Dominion when the loops kept coming fast and furious. My husband and I had a fight. It was one of those types of fights that make you go down to the basement to check the foundation for cracks afterward. And there were some cracks. Which was frightening. And in the aftermath of the earthquake, when the repairs are being made, you have to wonder if the repairs will make the structure stronger or weaker.  I'm pretty sure it will be stronger. But only time will tell. And living with uncertainty (which we all do every minute of every day, in reality, although we don't always acknowledge it), is even more frightening. But I can take some inspiration, as I always do, from my beloved fantasy books, and look to Pia and Dragos for my example.

When I read the exchanges between Pia and Dragos after the accident when he doesn't remember her, I was immediately transported to that awful place when I'm fighting with my husband and it feels like any connection we once had has been irreparably severed. Now, I'm told that not everyone feels this way during fights, but I come from a very dysfunctional family of origin where being cut—completely—was the SOP for my mother when she was angry. And that feeling of having the rug pulled out from under me when the most important person in the world is mad or unhappy with me is devastating to this day.

And that is exactly what happened to Pia when Dragos doesn't remember her. The coldness with which he regards her is glacial and so different from the heat they normally generate together. Devastating. She feels like someone stabbed her in the heart. I could relate, though I wish I could not. But she is lucky (which she reminds herself about quite often, which Iove about her). Her troubles were no one's fault--just a freak accident. Mine were of our own making, where the vast differences in my and my husband's personalities had come home to roost and cause all manner of issues.

The details are neither important nor interesting to anyone but my spouse and me. But the unfolding of events and their aftermath follow a pattern that will be familiar to anyone who’s ever had a long-term relationship. I did something that made him unhappy. He did something that both hurt and angered me. Both of us were too raw to talk about it, so we retreated to excruciating courtesy (much like the Elven High Lord and his consort in another Elder Races book, Lord's Fall) lest we exacerbate an already volatile situation.

But, just like Pia with Dragos, those carefully choreographed interactions were absolutely miserable. Because that is not the way it’s supposed to be between people who are in love and who have built a life together. We are the ones who can be free and uninhibited with each other. We can be ourselves with no fear of reprisal or rejection. At least that is the way it’s supposed to be. And when it’s not, the world tilts on its axis and everything is skewed. Nothing feels right when my primary relationship is off kilter. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and I know he feels the same.

But sometimes, like with Pia and Dragos, it takes more than a penny to make things right. It takes time and work to put the pieces back together. And sometimes, some of the pieces might be missing, or damaged. Sometimes, we need to create new pieces to make things whole again. And the hope is that the new edifice will be even better and stronger than the original, and that it will be enhanced by all the extra work.

But the fear is that one or the other builder won't be up to the task, that one or the other of us won't have the skill or willingness to do what must be done or that the contractor simply won't show up for work one day.  Or that a hairline fracture that didn't seem to be very relevant will turn out to be major defect in a load-bearing wall. And the fear can be corrosive in itself, whispering in my ear that it will all fall apart, so I'd better make contingency plans. But when it comes to relationships that are important to me, I don't believe in contingency plans. I believe in making like Lindbergh and not planning for failure.  I believe in assuming success and doing what it takes to achieve it.  And I believe in having faith that my partner will do the same.

That doesn't eliminate the fear, but I've always loved the axiom that says courage is fear that has said its prayers. Being afraid doesn’t mean being paralyzed. So I'll take another cue from Dragos and Pia and take one step at a time in putting it all back together again after Humpty Dumpty has fallen. And because this is a paranormal fairy tale, where everyone gets their HEA, the ending will be different this time, and all the king's horses and all the king's men will get the job done.

Ask and You Shall Receive. . . Sometimes

This morning, I was thinking about how much easier it is these days to ask for what I want—from my husband, my friends, my professional relationships—even strangers, such as when I have a particularly complex food or beverage order (thank you, Starbucks).  Nowadays, it’s OK to make like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, and be as particular as we want in the precision of our preferences.  Today, it feels a lot safer to be picky, and for some of us, it’s even a badge of honor, or a symbol of recognition and secretly-nurtured special status when the barista remembers that we like a half-caf skinny latte with four pumps and whip cream (not really, but I’ve heard others order such things. My taste in coffee, like clothes, runs more toward basic black).

Anyway, back to asking for—and sometimes getting—what we want.  This used to be an activity fraught with danger and anxiety for me.  There were so many levels to my fears and lack of confidence that I believed I neither deserved nor could remotely expect to have my desires honored, so much so that I was loathe to even ask.  Asking for something specific, or even simply acknowledging my preferences was a very risky business for me.  In my family, having opinions other than my mother’s or preferences she didn’t share was a complete non-starter.  So I learned not to express my renegade thoughts, and eventually, I wasn’t even aware I had them anymore.  Tough stuff. Reminds me a bit of the conditioning of the Psy into Silence in Nalini Singh’s Psy-Changeling series.  But, I’m straying off the path again.  Need to snap that rubber band around my wrist, apparently.

So, asking for what I want and need by no means comes naturally to me.  In fact, it took years to excavate first the fact that I might actually want different things than those who loved me (“love” being a subjective term in this case, but we can discuss the consequences of toxic “love” at another time), and then even longer to have the courage to tell anyone about it.

And, interestingly, all of these fairly deep ruminations were dredged up as I read about Elena and Raphael in the Guild Hunter Series by Nalini Singh.  One of the reasons I love these books is the way Singh develops the relationship between a mortal woman and a millennia-old archangel who basically rules the world.  The books are essentially about the power of authentic love to transform us, and what that transformation looks like.  So that is one very thought-provoking element that we’ll explore later.  The other part of this, though, is how well Singh is able to illustrate the strength it takes to fight for ourselves in a relationship that threatens to overwhelm us.  And the courage that is reflected in the risks we take to stand our ground in asking for—repeatedly if necessary—what we need and what we want to make a relationship work.

As it often is in fiction, this situation is magnified by the circumstances in the novel so that we can better examine it.  In the case of Elena and Raphael, we are watching two inherently unequal beings trying to forge a partnership based on mutual respect, mutual sacrifice, and mutual benefit.  That is a fairly tall order in this situation.  Raphael has never been human.  He is thousands of years old, and he is one of the ten most powerful beings in the world.  This is not a guy used to hearing the word “no”.  This is a common theme in paranormal fiction, where the concept of the alpha male who is powerful, rich, highly intelligent and gorgeous is redefined by supernatural abilities, including flight, superhuman strength, mind reading, mesmerizing, etc., which enhance the package.

How would it be possible for a woman to hold her own in such a relationship? How can she stand up to someone when a part of her just wants to melt into him completely? How does the person who is, or feels, one down in the relationship stand eye to eye with the other?

I don’t know about you, but I can totally relate to this.  There have been so many occasions where I looked over at the person next to me, or across from me—and this includes friends, lovers, and professional colleague—and thought to myself, “I am totally outclassed. This person is way out of my league,” at which point, every instinct I have urges me to make myself small and insignificant and to elevate this other person to Godhood so that I can merely follow his or her every lead.  Disagree? Point out that he or she is wrong about something? Ask for something I need that this individual has not deigned to give me unbidden? Are you nuts? And risk becoming an object of pity, derision or wrath?  Or, most frightening of all, of becoming completely and totally invisible and ignored? NFW. Not happening.  What if the person thinks I’m stupid, or crazy or too demanding or simply too much trouble? What if he decides that I’m too annoying, like a fly that repeatedly lands on your arm.  We tend to swat flies away, or kill them outright.  Who would want to be that fly? Not me, that’s for sure.

Given all of these painful perceptions (that may or may not reflect reality in any way, mind you) the thought of standing up for myself in certain relationships inspired tremendous fear.  Especially in love relationships.  Because what happens if we ask for something and we don’t get it? Do we leave? Do we threaten to leave? Do we stay and nurture a resentment? It is in the asking that we take the leap.  Which is hard enough.  But, as I’ve quoted elsewhere, in the inimitable words of J.R. Ward, the leap isn’t the hard part, it’s the fall that will kill you.

What if we fall? Will we be irreparably broken? Will the relationship that we risked ruining by asking for what we want or need be damaged for good? And what happens then?

This is hard shit.  Don’t kid yourself.  And sometimes, it’s a leap too far.  But it’s important to ask ourselves, what is it we really want or desperately need that we’re too afraid to ask for? Even if we’re just asking ourselves, it’s still a scary question.

Something for Nothing

I just finished the first book in what promises to be an outstanding new series, The Light Who Shines by the fabulously named Lilo J. Abernathy. I read this book because I discovered Lilo on Twitter (along with Rose Montague, whose first book, Jade, was also quite compelling). Both Lilo and Rose were very generous to a just-starting-out blogger and social media neophyte, and I wanted to give their books a chance. I'd done this with a few other new authors, but with less happy results (in other words, the books were not that good, unfortunately). Anyway, I've digressed before I've even begun. The point here is that I loved the book and it has given me significant food for thought and inspired several blog posts. In Lilo's world, there are three types of humans; Normals (like you and me); the Gifted, who have some sort of magical capability (like controlling fire, or seeing souls or auras, or being able to portal from one place to another as if Scotty were beaming them around); and the Vampires, who come in two varieties, Dark Vampires, who are evil, and Daylight Vampires, who have not yet given into bloodlust and become Dark. There are many interesting aspects to this world, and the world building is particularly good in the book, which bodes extremely well for the series. But the part I want to focus on today is the existence of the Gifted.

In this world, the Gifted are largely reviled and persecuted by many of the Norms.  Which is paradoxical at best and suicidal at worst, because the Gifted help protect the Norms from the Dark Vampires, who kill indiscriminately--and for whom normal humans are essentially a Happy Meal--easy, fast and convenient to eat.

But prejudice is rampant in this world, and the Gifted suffer for their gifts. Which made me think about the adage that there is no such thing as a free lunch. I believe this to be true and I think that the pursuit of something for nothing and your kicks for free is one of the major scourges of the human condition.

After all, who wouldn't want free swag?  I don't know anyone who wouldn't. Including me. And I also know that plenty of us, maybe all of us "Norms" have done some pretty silly things to game the system and put one over on Fate.  And the examples of our persistent, but futile efforts are legion, in small and large ways.

When we look for "deals" we are looking for a free lunch--when we buy one/get one free, does anyone really believe that the store didn't inflate the price so they could run the sale?  When we read about--or buy--magic weight loss pills or products (vibrating belts, anyone?), aren't we just practicing the triumph of hope over experience?  Of course we are. There is no such thing as a free lunch. 

That awesome prescription that takes your pain away?  It has nasty side effects, including addiciton. The incredible stain remover that is guaranteed to clean red wine off a white dress?  Not so much. Improve your memory while you sleep?  Forget about it. Enhance your sexual stamina even though you are well past your prime?  A sucker's bet.

But we all do it, some of us more than others. We don't want to put in the work. Or, equally likely, we didn't believe Baretta when he warned us not to do the crime if we can't do the time. No free lunch.

What I loved about The Light Who Shines is that Ms. Abernathy gets this reality, and like all my favorite books, there is a lot of truth in fantasy here.  She explores at length the costs of being Gifted in her world and the consequences of those costs. Moreover, Ms. Abernathy also highlights the price of receiving gifts--what it means when the gifts we give engender resentment, fear and rejection. And the concomitant confusion and grief on the part of the giver whose gifts are accepted, but with barely concealed distaste and as much distance as possible.

I've always felt this is a strange phenomenon, but I can also understand its origins. No one likes to feel beholden, or dependent, or both. In fact, the creation of this kind of dependency through ill-advised generosity is more common than one might think. My family is a great example, where my brother ended up hating my mother, who helped him financially for his entire adult life. In the end, she did neither herself nor her son any favors by failing to wean him away from living on more than he could earn. No free lunch, remember?  My mother wanted gratitude and admiration for her handouts and my brother wanted independence and self-sufficiency, but couldn't give up the extra income. The result was misery all around. I always understood that my mother's help came with a hefty price tag, and I was never willing to pay. Thankfully.

This is not to say that I always took the high road. If you've read my bio you know I spent many years as an active bulimic. Which was all about having my cake and eating it too. Literally and figuratively. Didn't work out so well for me. Never does.

So maybe reading about the price of being Gifted and the costs of giving might help all of us to remember that no one is getting something for nothing. No one. We should stop pursuing that particular pipe dream. It might just turn out to be a bomb. Better to accept the downside to every upside and understand that if we accept a gift, we owe the giver, and we should be gracious about that. And grateful. Nothing in life worth having comes easy.  As Ms. Abernathy so ably illuminates, no free lunch.

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall

There is something seriously wrong with me.  And no, it's not that I constantly digress when writing these blog posts. It's a much bigger problem:  I can't enjoy my down time unless I know with certainty that it's a choice. You know what I'm talking about: it's only fun to stay home on a Saturday night curled up with your latest fabulous fantasy novel (say, Thea Harrison's two new awesome offerings or Lara Adrian's just-published Midnight Breed novel, or the new Jeaniene Frost book, for example) if and only if I know I could be doing something else, and I just don't want to.  In the same way, I find that vacation is a lot more fun when my work is fulfilling and I'm making a decision to put it aside to go away somewhere and play. I like having options; life is so much more interesting when we are making affirmative choices, rather than letting life happen to us.  Being reactive is no fun.  It's all about being proactive, but proactivity requires a comparison between at least two alternatives. Choices create contrast.  And contrast creates the sharp relief and helps us to see our lives with true perspective.

So, I'm in an in-between place right now, but instead of enjoying my break and feeling grateful for the slow, end-of-summer pace, I'm totally stressed that there will be no end to my break and my life will unfold without purpose or meaning. Really?  Do they have a name for this kind of consistently-catastrophic-thinking- despite-all-evidence-to-the-contrary? Do I actually believe that this moment of down time signifies the end of all choices for all eternity?  Am I really that pathetic?  If I ponder long enough,  I'm sure I can think of a character this relates to—some sad sack minor character who acts as a foil highlighting what not to do for the main characters who would never think or behave in such a self-defeating way. Or if they behaved this stupidly, like Pia with her first dumb-ass boyfriend in Dragon Bound, for instance, they get over themselves quickly because this is such a silly way to be.

But I can't seem to help myself, unfortunately.  I'm between fantasy series, I'm between work projects, and, frankly, I'm between success and failure with respect to this blog (although you can certainly help me tip the scales toward success by reading, liking, commenting on and sharing my blog/website--pretty please?). I absolutely HATE the in-between. But, again, that is just a shortsighted attitude that discounts the long-term likelihood that nothing stays the same forever and neither will this.

It is also unrealistic to think a life of meaningful evolution is going to be a completely linear progression. Two steps forward and one step back. Or, less dramatically, two steps forward and then a bit of a break to recoup, recharge and reflect. This is a good thing, right? Yes, it is. But I'm the kind of person who believes that if I'm not moving forward then I must be moving backward. And while that may be true in theory, it is also true that while we are smack dab in the middle of everything, it can be difficult to judge our actual location on the path of life.  And, in reality, slowing down does not necessarily mean sliding the transmission into reverse. Neutral is a gear in which we can move forward as well as backward--or just stay in one place for a brief time.

Often, progress can only be perceived in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, when it seems like we're going nowhere or regressing, from the perspective of hindsight we can see that we were actually moving forward by leaps and bounds. Even if it doesn't feel that way in the moment.  We see this in books all the time, where an apparent set back turns out to be the set up for good things that come later. Pia and her penny are a perfect example of that. Or Elena being hired by Raphael, Sookie and the Rattrays, or Bella getting kidnapped by the Lessers. There are so many examples in fantasy, as there are in life.

So a bit of faith is probably justified that all will be well and that inspiration or at least an interesting project will arrive at my doorstep any time now. I can probably relax and enjoy this in-between time where there are few deadlines and demands.  I can sink into summertime for a little while longer and let the living be easy. I can probably stop waiting for the other shoe to fall and just put the damn things on already and walk away from this counterproductive activity.

Authentic Beauty

I recently stopped by to see a friend of mine, the New York Times best selling author, Laura Kaye. It was an unexpected visit, and when her husband ushered me in, Laura was sitting on the floor of her living room, in shorts and a t-shirt, wrapping gifts for her daughter's birthday. Her hair was scraped back from her face in a clip and she didn't have a speck of makeup on. And she looked amazing—a natural beauty. And I thought to myself, wow, I wish I looked like that with no enhancements or embellishments. But I don't. I need help to look merely acceptable.  And I wondered—to myself—at what point during the process of using artifice to appear more aesthetically pleasing do we cross the line from making the most of what we've got to projecting a completely false face (and body) to the world, undermining our efforts to be authentic and to live authentically?

As I contemplated these questions, I thought of one of my all-time favorite characters, Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse. Over the course of the series, Sookie is repeatedly given the opportunity to ingest vampire blood, which acts, among other things, to enhance physical beauty, including adding luster and body to hair, brightening skin, teeth and eyes, and generally serving to make humans look better. In the end, Sookie rejects these enhancements, feeling that they made her into someone she wasn't.

I remember being struck by Sookie's choices and thinking—gee, if I could look like I'd been to the most exclusive hairdresser in town, and then to the best spa and the most exclusive cosmetic dentist and plastic surgeon in the world just by drinking a little vampire blood—straight from the vein of a gorgeous vampire who has the hots for me--I'd be all over that action like Bobby Flay on a grill. 

Without giving away all my secrets, I will admit to partaking of many of the services the beauty industry offers in this country. I certainly wear makeup more often than not if I'm going out of the house.  And I wouldn't want anyone to see me at the beauty salon with foil all over my head, doing an excellent imitation of someone trying to channel radio signals from outer space.

I haven't done it yet, but neither have I ruled out plastic surgery down the road if my neck becomes saggy and my jowls start to head south. I'm honestly not sure how far I would go to preserve my looks—not that I want to look 25 again, but I'm also not sure, when I get there, that I want to look like I'm a typical 50-year old, either. I don't think I want to walk gently into that good night of looking old when I certainly don’t feel old.

So what about Sookie's decision to accept the inevitable ravages of the years to live life as an authentic human? If we choose to fight the tide of time, are we choosing to live less than authentically?  As you know, living authentically is my purpose in life and exploring ways to do that and sharing my insights is my current life's work. If I want to inspire others to live authentically, how far can I go with respect to physical improvements that aren't "natural" and still make a claim to authenticity?

How much artificial enhancement is too much?  When do we become like fem-bots—plastic, perfect people without a hair out of place or a wrinkle on our foreheads? If you look at most celebrities these days, they all seem to look the same—identically symmetrical faces with absolutely no affect because all of their emotive expressions have been Botoxed out of existence. How much of a slippery slope is it from hair dye and facial moisturizers to lasers and scalpels and vacuum cleaners sucking the fat from our thighs and our abdomens?

Maybe we should all make like Sookie and just say no. Maybe we should allow ourselves to grow old gracefully, even if grace isn't always as pretty as holding back the onslaught of time across our faces and our bodies. That seems like such a leap of faith, though, to accept ourselves as we really are, and to eschew smoothing out the rough edges of our physical imperfections.

I wish I could take that leap. But I don't look as pretty as Laura Kaye without my makeup on and my hair done. So, I may have to allow this bit of inauthenticity to slip by the barricades that normally serve to weed out dishonesty and prevarication in my life—the boundaries that help me live a life of integrity.  At least for a while—just until I can accept myself as being beautiful with no adornments at all. I’m working on it. Really.  But I won't hold my breath just yet. I might turn blue.

Waiting for Life To Start

So, I’m reading book two of Katie MacAlister’s Dark Ones series.  This book follows the tormented vampire (Dark One), Christian, as he waits to find his Beloved, who is the only woman who can save him from the Hell on Earth he is living.  As we’ve discussed before click here, the idea of one specific woman for that special vampire or werewolf is a common theme in paranormal fiction.  It’s good, it works.  But, you need to ask yourself, does this whole idea of waiting for THE ONE reinforce the message that life doesn’t start until—fill  in the blank—occurs?  Does this specific example and so many like it set us up to hang out in that most depressing of destinations, Dr. Seuss’ The Waiting Place?

When I was young, I distinctly remember waiting (with great impatience) for my life to start.  When I graduated from high and got the hell out of my parents’ house, my life would start.  When I was able to leave my first university and transfer back to a New York school, my life would start. When I met the man of my dreams, when we got married, when we succeeded in having children, when I figured out my career, etc., etc., my life would start.

I finally figured out, very belatedly it’s true, that I was spending my life in the dreaded Waiting Place.   The one Dr. Seuss warned me about.

I knew better, I did.  I remember having this exact conversation with a therapist when I was 19-years-old (I lived in Manhattan in the 1980s--everyone was in therapy!) and my awesome therapist, Lynn, told me very clearly- “Anne, this is your life, so you need to live it.”  OK, good advice.  It caused me to pinch myself periodically and think, “This is my life, I’m living it”, which kind of worked a little bit, but not really.

Turns out that time passes in exactly the same manner in my fake life as it did in my real life, so whether I was living in one or the other, time continued slip-sliding away, in the immortal words of Paul Simon.  That was definitely not good at all.

Turns out, there were a lot of issues involved in actually embracing the whole “this is my life” proposition.  The biggest problem, of course, was that by waiting for my “real” life to start, which sometimes meant the end of a work day, or a work week, or the completion of a major project, or the end of my kids’ school year or soccer season, the holidays, etc.,  I was actually spending my time,  by definition, in an inauthentic way—as in not real.

So if I was spending the majority of my time living an inauthentic life, my very authentic fear was that one day my time would be up and I would look back and realize that my fake life eclipsed any hope of having a real life, and now it was game over.

At this point, a pit stop and lane change were definitely in order.

First, the pit stop- this is the part where we duck and cover, stop and smell the roses, just breathe, make like a Talking Head and then you may ask yourselves “How did I get here?”

That’s a good question, but it’s a bit of the tail wagging the dog.  A better first question is, where the hell am I anyway? Seems like the answer to that would be obvious, but not so much.

Sometimes, we seem to be in one place, and really we’re clear across town, or across the country, or, in some extreme cases, not even inhabiting the same astral plane that we thought we were.  For example, I was married to the guy of my dreams, I had a blossoming career that was going gangbusters, we lived in a spectacular house and I had good friends and the time and money to have a lot of fun.  Seems like Nirvana, no?  Apparently not.  For some, it takes losing everything to bring what really matters into sharp focus.  For me, it took having it all to realize that something was decidedly –and devastatingly- missing.  What, you may ask, could possibly be missing?  And the answer, I’m sorry to say, was me.

The actress who played Princess Leia in the Star Wars trilogy, Carrie Fisher, once wrote, 'Having a Great Time, Wish I Were Here.” And that was me.  Because it turns out that while I was busy creating the life I thought I wanted, I forgot to create myself in the process.  For me, there was no there there, and it made for a gaping empty hole where my joy and fulfillment should be.

So what I finally learned, slowly and painfully, was that life really isn’t like my fantasy novels in this particular instance.  There’s nothing outside ourselves that can save us.  There’s no one—at least in my humble opinion—who can complete us, as Christian was waiting for.  There’s no accomplishment that will fulfill us if we’re hollow inside, having failed to do the work to uncover who we truly are and what we are truly here to do.  And if we’re waiting for that special someone to be our missing puzzle piece, or the accolade or award that’s going to convince us that we are worthy, we’re going to spend a long time in the Waiting Place. And who wants to disappoint Dr. Seuss?

Better to blow that particular popsicle stand and get on with the business of finding or making ourselves and then sharing that person with the world.  At which point the wonderful spouse and beautiful house can be fully enjoyed and appreciated, cause nothing attracts joy as much as truth.  And truth is something we live, not something we wait for.

What Women Want

I have often wondered-- to anyone who will listen-- why more men don't read women's romance novels to get some pointers. I mean, really, men are always complaining about how incomprehensible women are and how they never know what women are thinking or what women want. To that I say, "Poppycock!"  There is mountain of information out there for anyone who cares to look for it. And I'm not just talking about studies and scholarly works, although many of those exist as well. I'm talking about the myriad books written by women, for women about women. Women know what women want. And we are exceptionally willing to share that information with anyone willing to make the effort to pay attention.

An excellent, though fictional, example of a man who takes his research seriously and then applies it with heart-stopping efficacy is Judd Lauren in Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. His story is called Caressed by Ice (and yes, I totally realize that these ridiculous titles are a massive deterrent to men ever picking up these books!). But I loved the fact that although he was a virgin (most Psy are, as they have eschewed emotion and passion, so sex is definitely out of the equation) but he has taken the time to learn about how to pleasure a woman. I like that in a man. Diana Gabaldon once wrote in her Outlander series that virginity in men was underrated as what they lacked in experience or technique they more than made up for in enthusiasm. I've always remembered that reference and smiled. And I smiled even more when I read Judd's story. There is a lot of material in that book for men who are looking for useful tips.

Anyhoo, back to the subject at hand, what women want and why men are so generally reluctant or incapable of giving it to them. In my travels, I've spoken to hundreds of women, most of whom sing the same refrain-- their men are fairly clueless about how to make them happy-- romantically, sexually, domestically and even professionally. As far as I can tell, most men have no idea how to make love or seduce a woman.  Have men never wondered why so many women have learned to emulate Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally?  Why is this a necessary skill for savvy women?  For a couple of reasons, all of which have to do with protecting the male ego and/or ending the tedium of sex as soon as possible.

From my perspective, it is never OK to fake an orgasm, for a variety of sound reasons. Firstly, if you fake it, he'll never learn. Secondly, it rewards poor performance and who wants to do that?  And lastly, it is a big fat lie that corrodes intimacy between two people. So just say no, not, "Yes, yes, oh, God, yes," unless you really mean it. 

So what might men learn if they picked up the same books I love to read?  First, they will learn that Ms. Gabaldon was onto something when she extolled the virtues of enthusiasm. Every woman loves a man who is totally into her body with genuine enthusiasm-- defined as intense and eager enjoyment, interest and approval. Women want you to notice all of them--not just the high points. But those as well. And we'd like a little more specificity in your comments other than, "great rack."

Every woman I've ever met, even the least vain or self-absorbed ones, are proud or pleased with some part or parts of their bodies. We have studied ourselves in mirrors and inspected the parts we can see without one.  We want men to appreciate the parts of ourselves we think are pretty--or at least adequate. It could be our hair, our skin, our eyes, or our cheekbones, our shoulders or the way our hipbones meet our thighs. But there is something. Or more than one thing. And that's what we want you to notice and celebrate.

My beloved fantasy books also tell me that women want to be appreciated for more than their physical attributes. They want men to notice, comment on and engage them about their interests, accomplishments, aspirations and ambitions. Women want men to appreciate them for who they are in terms of the positive aspects of their personalities, and to feel confident that our men can tolerate and cope with the more challenging aspects that make up the complete, real woman—not some video game avatar or mail-order bride who submits to a man’s every whim.  Real women have imperfections, just like Gerry Bartlett’s vampires.  To communicate a willingness and ability to do this, however, men need to notice these things first. Which involves observation, analysis and research. We want you to ask questions. And actually listen to and process the answers.

Women want you to learn about their particular erogenous zones. In every single paranormal romance I read, the men lavish endless attention on necks, calves, hip bones, jaw lines and the small of a woman's back, among other places. I've not heard about a lot of real men who do the same, have you? Real men tend to go straight for the good stuff, so to speak. We want our bodies to be wonderlands for our men. Not amusement parks or the local drive through. 

Women want to feel like our men are barely hanging onto any semblance of control with us. Women want to live in Rihanna’s song that tells men we want you to make us feel like we're “the only girl in the world for you, like we're the only ones who you'll ever love, the only ones who know your heart, the only ones who make you feel like a man.” Getting the picture here?

We want men to act as if the passion they feel for us is threatening to overwhelm them at any moment. We women want to be responsible for driving our men absolutely wild. And when we don't, when sex becomes an exercise similar to watching the Karate Kid (wax on, wax off), or worse, wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, most of us start going over the grocery list while they finish up.

But men don't read these books, and therefore remain clueless about what women want. Silly boys, these tricks are most definitely not for kids.

Oh, the Humanity!

I’ve been encouraged recently—on a number of different fronts—to contemplate what it means to be human.  And what better way to engage in such contemplation than through the prism of those creatures that inhabit my beloved fantasy novels and who are most definitely not human. What does it mean to be human? Many have answered this question, and it’s not my intention to provide a survey of philosophical or spiritual or biological theories in this space.  I would like to follow a thread offered in the most recent Dark Ones book I’ve read by Katie MacAlister.

In these books, she explores the consequences of some of the Dark Ones (vampires) being born without a soul, and the quest of those so cursed to find their beloved, the one woman in the world who can redeem their souls for them. MacAllister describes the state of being soulless as an unrelenting torment of pain, loneliness and need.  It is this endless need to which the Beloved responds, because of her ability to assuage the pain and fill the emptiness.

In her book, Even Vampires Get the Blues, MacAlister adds a bit of a twist, and this time, it is the Beloved, who, after redeeming the soul of her Dark One, loses her own.   Because she had been human (or mostly, in this case) and because she had had a soul before she lost it, Sam knows exactly what she is missing and the pain is that much greater.  MacAllister explains, “A soul means different things to different cultures.  To most, it’s the thing that makes us more than just sentient, the part of us that lives on when our bodies fail and turn to dust… I came to realize another function of the soul—it connected us to humanity, made us a part of a common experience… [and without it] I felt detached.”  Sam wonders how her Dark One lived so long without a soul with his sanity intact.  He explains to her that that it was all he’d ever known, so it didn’t seem as bad as having had it and lost it.

I really love the idea of the soul as that which connects us to each other, and that it is the connection that makes us human.  It’s a particularly interesting thought in this age of digital detachment, with everyone tied to electronic experiences—living life through the lenses of our cell phone cameras.  Can we really be connected to our own lives—much less each other—if we are so dependent on our electronics that we cannot, by definition, be present in the moment?

I was recently at a school chorus concert in which my son was performing.  I was struck by how many parents we watching their children through their phones and tablets as they recorded the event.  I watch my own kids recording their lives through selfies and pictures of everything they do—including the food they eat, which then gets posted to Instagram for others to validate the experience with likes—or perhaps the reality will be that my kids’ experiences will be discounted or negated if no one “likes” their Instagram pictures.

Have we created a world where authenticity is equated with the stamp of external approval and life doesn’t count if no one watches us—from the rear view mirror that a photo or video necessarily depicts (even if it’s nominally “real time”).  Have we willingly relinquished our souls—that which connects us—to a series of machines that we allow to control our experiences? Are we losing the ability to connect as one human to another?

Are we voluntarily forfeiting our souls for the illusion of immortality that a digital record presents for posterity? Do we get to live forever—young and vibrant—in pictures and sound waves with the only cost being never really having lived it in the first place?

I don’t have the answers to these questions.  In fact, I’m just scratching the surface of these questions and thoughts.  But, as I sit with my pen and notebook and practice connecting my hand with the paper, I am thinking about connection, and having a soul, and what we’re giving up in exchange for the convenience and experiences we can only get with mechanical assistance.

I’m not ready to denounce this age of digital dominance.  But, like a Dark One born without a soul, I’m wondering if our children, who will grow up never having known any other way to be, will even know what they are missing by adding an electronic filter to all of their experiences.  Perhaps they will never seek to redeem themselves and claim their souls because digital detachment is the new normal and they’ll see no need to fix that which they don’t consider broken  I hope that’s not the case.  I still believe it’s the connection that keeps me human. 

Old Familiar Places

As you all know, I get so sad when I come to the end of a series.  Truly, I dread the time when I know I have nothing left to read in a particular set of books because I’ve spent so much time with the characters and become so invested in their stories that I just don’t want the party to end.  But end it does, as my wishes rarely have a terribly significant impact on reality, which is a shame.  Anyway—the end of a series leaves me with two choices—spend some time researching a new author and a new cast of characters in a fantasy world I’d want to inhabit for a time, or go back to an old favorite and console myself with the comfort of familiarity and proven enjoyment as I recover from the end of a beautiful relationship.

I’ve been known to do both, in fact, and it occurs to me that my habits are not so far off from what happens in real life when a love relationship ends.  How many of us have scrolled through our contacts (back in my day it was an address book, but same concept) looking for someone we can call for some uncomplicated love?  I know I’ve been guilty of that more than once (before my marriage, of course).  When a relationship ends, it sometimes seems like too much trouble to get to know someone new.  It’s a daunting task to endure the inevitable awkwardness and uncertainty of “will it work or not” that occurs when we audition a new prospect for the role of dream lover or even potential life partner –or both- if we’re very, very lucky.  Sometimes the thought of starting all over again seems like losing those last ten pounds, climbing Mt. Everest and getting a 1600 on the SATs all at the same time.  No can do.  At least not when I’m still raw from the end of a particularly wonderful series.

And that’s when a retread is just the thing.  It’s familiar.  It’s predictable.  It’s comfortable and comforting.  At least in terms of revisiting books.  Because if we take my analogy a bit further, it doesn’t hold up so well in the real world. In the real world, moving backwards and rekindling old flames can sometimes mean opening a can of exceptionally unpleasant worms. For example, we might know that a toddle down memory lane with an old lover is an extremely bad idea, but how many of us actually listen to that insistent little voice in our heads saying “Danger, Will Robinson”? Not me, I’ll tell you.  Nah, I used to barrel forward heedless of the danger, knowing that the old familiar road seemed a lot less scary than forging a new path.  Sometimes, the road less traveled just looks isolated and foreboding and definitely best avoided.  After all, I’m from New York where I learned that if a neighborhood park or street is deserted, then what the hell are you thinking by being there? Asking for big trouble, that’s what.

And who wants big trouble, right? But that’s the fear talking, not the part of us that embraces new experiences, trusting that expanding our horizons is (almost) always for the good and an endeavor to be pursued.  So, the good news is that after a few repeat performances with someone we’ve danced with before, and the realization that it doesn’t work any better now than it did then, we feel ready to move onto new adventures.

Luckily for me –and for you, too, there is significantly less angst involved in transitioning between fantasy novels than there is in romantic relationships.  The really good news in that there’s always a lot less baggage and fewer bad memories associated with revisiting a particular fantasy series that we’ve loved and lost.  We we reread books, there’s no resentment or anger or heartache (unless you are one of the folks who’s still mad at Charlaine Harris for how she ended the Sookie Stackhouse series—come on, guys, she foreshadowed that particular plot twist beginning in the very first book and then kept dropping hints like bread crumbs for Hansel and Gretel to follow! Get over it, already!).  Oops, did I digress again?

Back to the issue at hand, revisiting well-loved books or even whole series.  Personally, I reread Sookie’s story at least once a year, and also the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. I pick up Dragon Bound by Thea Harrison when nothing and no one else can elevate my mood from the pits of despair, just cause I love it so much. I frolic with G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin when I want to smile, and laugh out loud with MaryJanice Davidson’s Queen Betsy when I really need a belly-full.

And the best part is that there’s absolutely no downside to indulging in my desire to make everything old new again with my reading and plumb the depths of these beautiful books to get a new insight or remind myself of a profound truth. Rereading books is nothing, in fact, like revisiting an old lover who might have picked up something nasty since the last interlude.  So, stick with books for your retreads rather than last year’s boyfriend or girlfriend. Because we can’t find truth in fantasy everywhere, just between the pages of our beloved books. And after we've finished revisiting books we've read before, we can move on to something new and marvelous.

Cold as Ice

I've returned to reading Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. I'm reading the third installment, Caressed by Ice (really?!  Can we not come up with less cheesy titles, please?). I love these books, almost as much as the author's Guild Hunter series, which are among my all-time favorites. The premise of the Psy-Changeling books, like the premise of the Guild Hunters series, is extremely original and the plots are interesting and unpredictable (not how things end, of course, as these books follow a formula that results in an inevitable HEA. But that is not only OK, it's one of the reasons I and so many like me love this genre--we want happy endings. We enjoy the illusion of control that these novels represent. If you've been reading my Facebook page--and please, please do and tell your friends--then you know I scour the web for articles that explain that reading reduces stress and relaxes us.) OK, I've digressed quite a bit from the subject at hand. More so than usual. Forgive me and please keep reading about the very fascinating Psy-Changeling world. To summarize, the Psy are masters of their own minds, having developed their mental and intellectual capacities to the fullest extent possible. These folks are masters of their domain and totally in control.  Unfortunately, what they figured out was that all of this mental might came with a hefty price tag for a significant portion of the population: insanity. And when super-smart people start losing their marbles, the result is dangerous for everyone. The solution was to turn everyone into a Vulcan and condition all the emotions out of existence--and therefor the potential for madness (or at least most of the potential, except for those pesky sociopaths).  So what you are left with are cold, calm, calculating people whose judgment is never clouded by emotion and whose women are never bothered by PMS, apparently. 

On the other hand, we have the Changelings, who have gone in the opposite direction and embraced their animal natures to the point that they become animals-- they are, in fact, shapeshifters. These folks are physicality personified, and they are filled with emotion and passion, which they express through their bodies--changelings crave touch while Psy avoid it like the plague.

So, pretty interesting stuff. And when they get together, unwillingly of course, it kind of reminds me of Amok Time run amok (stop rolling your eyes-- that was a pretty clever Star Trek reference). And the books explore the mutual impact both species have on each other as they come together in love and self-interest.

I really love  these books, and I think a part of my fascination is that I am acutely uncomfortable with--and therefore attracted to--people who don't show their emotions. This is because I'm most definitely a wear your heart on your sleeve kind of gal. You know the type--I almost never hold back. As my mother would say, if it's on my lung, it's on my tongue. I have a hard time practicing verbal restraint. I have no poker face. My eyebrows are constantly encroaching on my hairline and I do a mean imitation of Edvard Munch's The Scream--as in OMG, NFW, LMFAO. 

So, when I am confronted by people who keep their thoughts and emotions much closer to the chest, it kind of makes me crazy. Perhaps not Jack Nicholson in The Shining crazy, but not too far off.  I hate not knowing what people are thinking and feeling. It makes me nuts when these ice queens and kings adopt a supercilious attitude of "aren't you the cute little out of control psycho?"  Their lack of affect seems to scream at me, "I'm so much better than you because you can't even get a grip on yourself much less anyone or anything else."

I find myself fantasizing about stabbing Mr. and Ms. Spock with a fork to see if they bleed green blood. Figuratively, of course. Have you ever felt that way?  Don't you sometimes wonder what it would take to make someone like this get excited?  Or even slightly agitated?  I'm sure this is the allure behind the prim and proper librarian whipping off her glasses and letting down her hair to become a sexually voracious hellion.   We who are more emotional want to entice these Stepford wives to lose control  Utterly and completely. 

And sometimes I'm really not a very nice person and I become deliberately provocative to see if I can't shatter the wall of ice that seems to be rising in front of me like I should expect to see Jon Snow at any moment.  Just to see if I can. Usually, I can.  Not something I am terribly proud of, but there you have it. 

Because restrained emotions can be interpreted as a lack of feeling, which is hurtful and feels like rejection. And who wants to feel rejected?  Not me, that's who.  And while I can tell myself intellectually that the other feels as strongly as I do, it just doesn't seem that way.  And it is so unfair that as I am busy expressing and emoting all over the place so that others are never in doubt about my feelings, but I’m not getting any of that in return.

Unfortunately, I've found that it is the most Pyrrhic of victories to succeed in provoking such self-contained people to overflow their carefully constructed barriers. No good ever comes of it, unless you are living in a Nalini Singh novel, in which case breaking through the ice cold obstacles to reveal the passionate and possessive nature below always works out well for her protagonists. 

For the rest of us, I think the thing to do is remember that we are all different but that we all share the same humanity.  Just because we don't all express ourselves in the same way doesn't mean that we don't all feel the same things. I think we probably do. Still waters run deep and all of that.

And, as I continue to read the Psy-Changeling series, I think I will continue to enjoy the virtual victory of watching these arctic individuals thaw. I can live vicariously through the Changelings as they do something in the pages of my beloved books that doesn't necessarily work as well in real life. Because I've learned to dig and pick and poke and prod only at my peril. I've also learned to take people as they are and to let them share with me in a way that works for them. Most of the time. When that doesn't work, I read Nalini’s Singh’s books and learn to live with disappointment.  Or, I play Foreigner loudly on my wireless speaker and hope someone takes the hint.  

Winning the Lottery

In the book, Jade, a very promising first novel by Rose Montague, the main character has the ability to pick and choose the best of the best in terms of attributes and accessories. When this aspect of the plot was finally revealed, it was a question I couldn't stop pondering:  if I could pick anything to be and to have, what would I choose?  Why?  And what might these choices say about me?

Do I get to choose with the wisdom of all my decades on the planet? Or do I need to make my choices ahead of time with no real context for decisions or a clear understanding of consequences, intended or otherwise, as Jade does?  While it was very entertaining to read about Jade and her escapades, let's assume for argument's sake that I get to choose with the knowledge and understanding of my current self, and then I get to go back in time and rewind my life to my early 20s, just because (because this is my blog and my fantasy and because I'm hoping you will be able to find your own truths in my fantasy this time).

So, what would I choose first?  I have one voice in my head arguing for looks (and that voice sounds a lot like my mother's) and another urging me toward intelligence and wisdom. I'll choose door number two, in this instance.  After all, looks fade and learning is forever. On the other hand (and, unfortunately, there always seems to be another hand, until I feel like an octopus, sometimes), I don't know of a lot of normal, happy geniuses. With great intelligence seems to come great weirdness. So maybe being super smart is not all it's cracked up to be. I heard it said once about a self-help program that there was no one too stupid to go through it, but plenty who proved too smart for their own good. So, onto door number one, now, because, I've got to say, beauty would be a very close second on my list.

Like many of us, I've always wished my--fill in the blank--were: bigger/smaller/flatter/rounder/firmer/thicker/thinner, you name it. Sound familiar?  And while we are obsessing over the imperfections, sometimes with OCD intensity, no one else really notices. I read recently that Shakira said that she doesn't dwell on her figure flaws (does she have any?) because men find confidence so much more attractive than any particular physical attribute or lack thereof.

So, instead of beauty, which is fleeting, maybe I should go for confidence, which can last a lifetime. Hmmm.

And then, onto door number three, where to go next?  I'm thinking wealth. Fabulous wealth. Sounds good, yes?  But wait, there's more (said in my best QVC voice). There are some issues with wealth, at least as far as I've observed, which also has some scientific support. Being wealthy does not seem to translate into being happy or content (which I think is the point of this particular fantasy sport). There are lots of wealthy people I know and read about who seem fairly miserable, in fact. And what's more, these folks' wealth provides an endless supply of diversion and distraction that only serves to delay any positive action they might otherwise take to ameliorate their personal circumstances to make them more supportive of happiness. It is hard to buckle down and do the difficult work to walk through fear, insecurity and anxieties when you can just buy another outfit or go on another fabulous vacation.  It sounds good, sure, but putting off the need to confront reality only goes so far. Look at the mess most famous people make of their lives, despite the wealth, or, in some cases, maybe because of it. And there are studies that show that people who win the lottery are actually less happy afterwards than they were before.

So, ix-nay on the ealth-way, I think. And that brings me to a screeching halt on this exercise in mental masturbation. Because I don't think I'm going to get any satisfaction at all here. Every time I think about rearranging the hand I was actually dealt, I can come up with reasons why I shouldn't.  I read in one of my beloved fantasy novels (but I can't remember which one!  An occupational hazard, I guess), that if each of is threw all our problems in a big heap in the middle of the floor, none of us would choose to pick up the problems of another.

And because every attribute comes with its own set of issues, some more numerous than National Geographic, as Molly Harper would say, I think I'll stick with my own set of perks and flaws, at least for today.  And while I’m at it, I’ll go back to reading and contemplating the wisdom and entertainment of Jade.

But if someone offers me the winning lottery ticket tomorrow, I might have to rethink this whole thing again.