Mommie Dearest

I’m still crushing on Robyn Peterman and her Fashionably Dead series, and I'm loving it. I’m laughing that I found her by accident, thinking she was Robin Hobb. Robin Hobb is definitely on my TBR list, but not till I’m finished with Robyn Peterman, whose protagonist, Astrid, reminds me a bit of MaryJanice Davidson's Queen Betsy, especially given their mutual love of ridiculously expensive shoes. But there is a lot of originality in the Fashionably Dead series, so check it out. This isn't a book review, though, so onto the topic of the day:  mothers from hell, about which I’ve written recently here. The protagonist of the Fashionably Dead series, Astrid, has one and so did I. In Astrid's case, the woman really was from down under, and I don't mean Australia. In my own situation, it only seemed that way. In both cases, however, Astrid and I were doomed to love mothers who just wouldn't, or couldn't love us back.

Unfortunately, the unrequited love of a child for a parent isn't at all affected by the lack of reciprocity. Which sucks butt, as Astrid would say (she's a woman after my own heart with a mouth like a sailor--which she doesn't filter at all. I try to tone it down for these posts, just because I dislike indulging my inner truck driver, as she tends to want the foot when I give her even an inch. But I've digressed, quite a bit). Time to pretend I meant to get off track and tie it all back together. My mother hated my potty mouth, in fact. So of course I indulged it whenever possible around her. Cause I'm mature like that. And also because I knew, deep in my heart of hearts, that no matter what I said or did, nothing was going to make that woman love me. Nothing.

Which, as Astrid notes repeatedly, didn't make me love her any less. Which hurts. A lot. Endlessly, in fact. It bites the big kahuna when the person who brought you into the world doesn't think the act of her creation made the world a better place. Everyone wants to believe that their progeny makes the world a better place. Except my mother. And Astrid's, apparently.

So this mother-who-doesn't-love-her-daughter meme isn't unheard of, I guess. I always figured if it was common enough for someone to write about, and someone else to publish, it couldn’t be a unique phenomenon. Which makes me sad. Cause I can't imagine it. I can't imagine not loving my children, not wanting what's best for them, and not wanting to give them any good thing, thought, or feeling I can muster. I've always felt that as a parent, I made the choice to bring these souls into the world (with their father, of course) and that I owe them for that decision. I know there are parents out there who believe that the gift of life obligates the child to the parent, but I've always thought that was bass akward.

Kids don't ask to be born. And there are way too many parents out there who have children to satisfy some messed up, broken part inside themselves that needs healing and they believe that babies are just the band aid that can fix them. To me, such thinking couldn't be more backward. It's up to us as parents to be the band-aids that soothe the hurts inflicted by the world on our poor innocent children. Kids aren't born to fill our empty spaces. We're supposed to fill theirs.

The worst part of being the child of a parent who doesn't love you back is that the desire for that non-existent love never goes away. Even after they die and you know, absolutely, that it's game over and the possibility of experiencing true maternal love is gone for good, the wanting doesn't leave completely. This is true for Astrid--who killed her mother (it was completely justified), and still Astrid pined for her mother's love and approbation and mourned her death and subsequent suffering in the fires of Hell. I think there is a special part of Hell reserved for parents who abuse the gift that is their children, whether through violence, neglect or rejection. By the same token, I can totally relate to Astrid's not wanting her mother to suffer there. Call me conflicted. 

And confused, and betrayed and resentful, and guilty and ashamed. Because there is no way around wondering what the hell is wrong with me that my own mother didn't love me. And while years of therapy and other forms of help and support, and, most importantly, the love of my amazing husband and my wonderful friends has helped me to realize that it was her and not me, the shadow of those horrendous emotions will always fall over me, kind of like Monica Lewinsky's dress. There is no way to exorcise them entirely. At best such feelings leave scars in the places that were torn and damaged, leaving them hopefully stronger in some ways, but nevertheless visible and potentially disfiguring.

Parents can do so much harm. And so much good. Such a hard job. Such a great job. But one that comes with certain obligations that must be met whether we want to meet them or not. Parenthood is the one decision we can never take back, no matter how it works out.

But I do believe that we mostly reap what we sow. Not always, and not entirely, but more or less. Makes you think, doesn't it?

So while I eschew pity in all ways, I embrace empathy, and I can feel for Astrid. And for me. We've both healed. And learned. But it does make me wish such recovery and education was unnecessary in the world.

More Will Be Revealed

I'm just finishing the last book in Robyn Peterman's Fashionably Dead series. I've flown through the books, eschewing my responsibilities in favor of reading compulsively.  My favorite kind of reading, in fact. This series has everything, God, Satan, the Seven Deadly Sins, Mother Nature and the Angels of Death and Light.  Awesome stuff. And I'm learning new curse words along the way, which is just even more goodness. I'm never happier than when I can cuss like a sailor. I love my potty mouth, what can I say?  Anyhoo, one of the interesting but frustrating aspects of this story is the fact that some of the characters seem to know what's going on but they won't tell the protagonists. It's unbelievably annoying. And not just to me, to the protagonists as well. I had a boyfriend like that once, a Special Forces officer who wouldn't tell me squat about what he did professionally because then he would have to kill me, yada, yada, yada. Pu-lease. But I was quite young and I fell for it and thought he was deeply mysterious. I was wrong. He was deeply shallow and self-centered, actually. I have a nasty habit of imputing more depth and wisdom to the strong silent types than is actually there. I assume still waters run deep when reticence just masks the fact that someone has little to say. My bad. 

I've strayed far from my subject, shockingly. Which is the obscurity of destiny, otherwise known as existential uncertainty. By which I mean, we have no freaking idea how things will work out as we go along. Will it be OK in the end?  If it isn't OK, is it safe to assume it's not the end?  I read that on a greeting card once and I've always liked that idea. Will I get into that college, meet my soul mate, have healthy children, get my dream job, live in my fantasy house and maintain a size four in perpetuity?  Spoiler alert:  I haven't been a size four for a while, more's the pity. 

The point is, like for Astrid and Dixie in Ms. Peterman's entertaining series, I have no idea what's going on, who I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do, and how it will all work out in the end. I'm hoping someone has a clue and that maybe someday, in some alternate existence, it will all make sense and I will comprehend the bigger picture, the master plan, the reason everything happens if everything, in fact, happens for a reason. I'm hoping more will be revealed, as the saying goes. One of the interesting thought exercises inspired by this series is the question of whether we would behave differently if we knew the outcomes of our actions--and the impacts of those of others. Those in the know in the Fashionably Dead books don't share their knowledge with Astrid or Dixie because they claim it would mess with destiny and free will. So I'm wondering, is this true?  Would knowing how it all turns out change our behavior?  I think that is a Hell to the yeah for sure, don't you?

One of my not-so-secret secrets is that I'm a big believer in divination and channeling. Those who know me well know that I've always been into what is commonly termed the occult, but which is more properly called esoteric teachings and techniques. They mean the same thing, but one sounds a lot better than the other. Kind of like the interjection shit versus shoot. The most compelling reason to seek esoteric knowledge is to be able to garner some insight into the future so we can know what to do and where to go and when to hold on and when to walk away. For example, my husband and I struggled for over three years to get pregnant and have a baby. It was a fairly devastating process, made all the more unbearable because we didn't know if we would be successful. I remember thinking quite clearly that all the needles and meds and surgeries would be so worth it if it all resulted in a baby. But while we were going through it we didn't know whether it would work. And the uncertainly was absolutely brutal. 

If we'd known it was going to work, all of it would have been hard, but doable. If we'd known it wouldn't, we would have stopped and gotten on with our lives. But we didn't know until we did.  We weren't sure until more was revealed. Maybe someone or something up above or out there or somewhere knew how the story ended, but we did not. And not knowing is no fun. 

In the end we had beautiful twin boys. And now we're tortured by the question of how these little hellions will turn out when they grow up. Can we get them to college without law enforcement or early parenthood involved? Will they even go to college?  Will they "launch" successfully, or will they be living in our basement when they are thirty? Will we like their wives?  Or will one of them be a narcissistic sociopath?  One never knows, does one?  Sucks shoot. I mean shit.

Do we have to wait till the show is completely over, aka we're dead, to know whether everything turned out all right? That is not a wonderful prospect either. When will more be revealed?  And here's the kicker question:  what if we knew that things didn't turn out so well?  Would we exit early and spare ourselves months or years of hell?  What if we knew what would happen but had no way to control ourselves so that it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

We probably tell ourselves that if we knew bad things were going to happen, and we had the ability to change our unfortunate fates, we would. But that's a lie we tell ourselves to make us feel better. The hard fact is that we all know very well that eating poorly or too much will lead to all sorts of health problems. We know that smoking will lead to cancer and other chronic illness. We know that a sedentary lifestyle takes years off our lives. And we don't do a damn thing about it.

So, when I think about whether knowing the future or even some aspects of it would change my behavior, the answer is, probably not. Sad but true. It's not like I didn't know the Special Forces relationship would end poorly for all concerned. I did. I stayed anyway, holding on for dear life. Why?  It's called the triumph of hope over experience.  We do it all the time. It's also known as wishful thinking, and it's closely related to its cousins delusion and denial. In fact, it's all one big dysfunctional family. So, it's not clear to me that Astrid's and Dixie's relatives were correct and that obscuring the future or failing to reveal knowledge did anything for our snarky protagonists. But it certainly made for a better story, that's for sure. Probably in real life too.  But I’m sure more will be revealed on that front as well.

Midnight in the Garden of Love and Indifference

So, another deep dive into my psyche compliments of my current psychologist/spiritual director/life coach, Kevin Hearne. As I progress in my journey through Shattered, which I am thoroughly enjoying, he throws in a monologue on the realities of parental love, or lack thereof. Deep shit for sure. And a topic that pushes every button I have. Let's review the lessons he's offering and then examine them one by one. First, he says that there is no power that can force someone to love another. True enough. Second, he says that it is by degrees of love that we wither or bloom... In both the giving and receiving. Lastly, he cautions that we should not torture ourselves with what might have been. These passages actually come in reverse order from what I'm describing, but hopefully Mr. Hearne won't be offended by the liberties I'm taking in analyzing his profound prose.

The first contention (I feel like I'm starting a debate round with my son) is that there is no power that can force someone to love us. To be precise, he says that there is no power that is able to force one to love another, so it would also stand to reason that there is no power that can force us to love someone we don’t. All of this is true in my experience and unutterably sad. I spent the majority of my life trying to make my mother love me, just as Granuaile seeks her father's love in the book, with similarly ineffective results. I had many a therapist explain to me that one cannot get blood from a stone, or words to that effect. But that sure as shit didn't keep me from trying. And from bashing my head against that stone over and over. And, to be precise again, because precision is important, there was plenty of blood that came from that particular stone. Unfortunately, it was all mine. 

At this point in the process, I have come to believe, or perhaps chosen to believe (and I'm not sure it matters, as it is now my reality) that my mother was incapable of loving me. I choose to believe this partially because there is evidence to support this as truth--I was told by a qualified professional that my mother suffered from narcissistic personality disorder--and partially because I have learned over time that I am worthy of love, especially my mother's. As a mother myself, I know that love for our children really is an instinctual tendency, and it must be overcome by nurture, in whatever nasty way that life has of disrupting our natural tendencies toward love and kindness and generosity, although this is the topic for another post. In any case, for my mother, and for me, nurture trumped nature and the woman simply did not love me, and absolutely nothing I ever did or said made the slightest difference at all. I had no power to make her love me, despite my focusing my not-inconsequential efforts toward that end.

Which leads to contention number two from Dr. Hearne, that it is by degrees of love, given or withheld, that influences whether we go toward the light or away from it. I believe this to be true as well. I have long regarded my mother and her lack of love for me as my shadow teacher. I learned so very much from her about how not to behave and how not to live. As a parent, I've been able to follow a fairly clear path just by thinking, what would my mother do, and then doing the opposite of that. It seems to be working, but check back with me in about ten to fifteen years or so, and I'll let you know if we've succeeded in raising happy, well-adjusted and contributing members of society who still love their parents. Fingers crossed!

My mother and her feelings for me certainly shaped me more than any other single aspect of my life. For years it was all about proving myself to her, trying to earn her attention and respect, all to no avail. Then it was about saying the hell with her, and forging my own path regardless of her judgment on the subject. The only issue with option two was that I continued to have to listen to her criticism and survive her attempts to undermine my confidence at every opportunity. Which detracted from my efforts to create the life I wanted, although I didn't realize it at the time. So while I definitely didn't wither, neither did I bloom as fully as I might have. Which leads to point number three.

Kevin Hearne tells us, through the voice of an Indian deity, no less, that we should avoid torturing ourselves with fantasies of what might have been. He’s right, of course, as this kind of fantasizing is nothing but a time thief, which can only lead to bitterness and anger. But wow, it's hard not to go there sometimes, especially when I'm feeling vulnerable for whatever reason. There is absolutely nothing to be gained from thinking about how different my life would have been if my mother hadn't been a narcissist. Of how things might have felt if my parents had provided anything more than financial support to my brother and me. How different my choices might have been if I'd basked in the glow of knowing that no matter what, I was loved and valued for who I was, just because I am here on this earth and I was born to parents who loved me for me. Nope, not going there at all. 

And here's why, and it's not just because Kevin Hearne thinks it's a good idea, even though it doesn't hurt to be reminded of this truth from time to time as I consume my fantasy. It's because I love who I am, and I appreciate that it is the totality of my past experiences that have gotten me here. I have no idea who I would be if I hadn't been formed in the crucible of my mother's indifference and distain. I might have had a better relationship with my brother, which would be wonderful, but I might not be married to my husband or have the kids I have. I might not have the friendships that I do with women who have known me my whole life and who continue to walk the journey with me now. Or the friends from my more recent past, to whom I was attracted and was attractive to as the person I am today. Who knows who I would be if the past were not how it was. 

So score three for Dr. Hearne, and I'll let him know he can send me the bill for the extremely productive therapy session I received while reading his excellent book. And score another for truth in fantasy, as I continue to find so many rich veins of gold to mine for depth and profundity as I am entertained and diverted from the heavier aspects of life. 

I'm Friends with the Monster

I've just finished the fourth installment of Patricia Briggs' Alpha and Omega series, Dead Heat. I actually like this series even better than her Mercy Thompson series, which I like a whole lot. And it's kind of fun that my sister-in-law lives in the area the Mercy books are located. But that's not the topic at hand. I'm sure you are surprised. Today, I want to talk about the monster within. In the story, Anna, a woman who is transformed into a werewolf forcibly and then horribly abused, works to hide her monster--not the werewolf she now becomes during the full moon, but the one borne of her abuse that dwells secretly inside her. She doesn't let this monster out, and she hides it even from her beloved husband, who is also a werewolf, and the one who saved her from her tormenter. Anna is convinced that if her husband, Charles, "truly understood that she had this twisted and broken part, maybe he could not love her."  I don't know about you, but, wow, could I relate. Actually, I'm lying, I believe I do know about you; I believe that each of us has something within us, maybe buried very deeply, that we fear if people knew about, they wouldn't love us. Maybe we don't consider our inner ugliness to be a full-fledged monster, but then, again, maybe we do. But I think all of us have a part or parts that we are convinced make us unlovable if someone really knew the depth and breath of what was in there. I think we are all mistaken. We are lovable in our entirety.

I know that when the right (or wrong, depending on one's perspective) buttons get pushed, I unleash my inner Hulk, and rip the seams of my outward civility to bellow like a banshee and get so far up in someone's face that we're sharing the same air space-as in breathing each other's breaths. Not a beautiful site unless I’m swapping spit with my hubby. I've been told that no one wants to see that side of me very often. 

And even if I'm working hard to ensure my inner Buddha is overwhelming my inner bitch, the knowledge that she exists colors the way I think about myself and how I present myself to the world. I really don't want people to see that part of me. I don't want anyone to know that I sometimes invoke my inner demons not to exorcise them, but just to snuggle (thank you Darynda Jones). Sometimes, I'm not very nice. Even if it's only inside my own head. Especially when it's just in my head. God forbid anyone else had to listen to that running commentary. No one would ever speak to me again. They'd know, without a shred of doubt, that I am truly certifiable.

And there's the rub. We want to be known, we crave being seen for who we are--in our entirety and not just the pretty parts, but at the same time, its scares the pants off of us. I've written about this before here, but this comment by Anna is a bit different. We all have warts. The question of the day is whether we all have Dr. Jekyl's alter ego renting space in our heads? Maybe not. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it is a matter of degree, not kind. But if this is so, and we are all similarly afflicted, why do we go to such lengths to hide the parts we seem unworthy of public scrutiny?  Why are we so convinced that we are unlovable in all our aspects? Can't our monsters all just get along?  Can they not be taught to play well with others?  Can they at least be acknowledged and taken out occasionally to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on their faces?  Must they be hidden away like yesterday's underwear left on the floor and hastily shoved under the bed when someone comes in the room? If we're all in the same boat, can't we all row together?

Apparently not. Or at least not that I've seen. For me, way back when, I was all about showing my prospective husband the monster within. I wanted him to understand that I was damaged goods in so many ways when he found me and started to love me. I was determined to be clear about what he was getting himself into so that I didn't have to worry, as I had in previous relationships, that he would uncover my secret self and fall out of love. And the thing I love maybe best of all about him is that he is well aware that there's a whole lot of coyote ugly inside me that is part of the deal. He understands that he signed up for the whole package and that I'm not a cafeteria, where he can take what he likes and leave the rest. Thank God. Not sure where I'd be without that. Probably as worried as Anna is in Dead Heat that her monster, the broken, twisted parts, will be exposed and will cost her the love of her husband.

We need to be friends with the monsters under our beds and get along with the voices inside of our heads, just like Marshall Mathers tells us to do. Monsters need love too. 

A Life's Work

I just finished Rose Montague's first foray into the world of YA paranormal fantasy, Norma Jean’s School of Witchery, Book I, Jewel.  which I thoroughly enjoyed. There were many elements of the book that I liked and that may very well provide blog fodder in the future, but for today I want to focus on a small piece of the story where Jewel, the heroine who lends her name to the title, reads a book that helps her to understand her magic. In the story, Jewel comments that the book she is reading was written by an author who dedicated his life to the topic at hand. In fact, the book represents his "Life's Work," which is pretty much what it sounds like. Jewel comments that not many people pursue a life's work these days. And that got me to thinking. Uh, oh.

I think Jewel is right (or at least Rose Montague is). I think there are fewer and fewer people who take up a life's work. And I think the reason is manifold. First of all, life is work, and I think many of us are too busy trying to live it and that is the sum total of their Life's Work. And that is OK, at least from my perspective, because for a lot of us, life really is hard. 

On the other hand, for others, we make life harder than it has to be, and then we don't have room for anything else. I know a lot of people, myself included sometimes, who make first-world problems, like choosing which camps to send their kids to or which color tile to choose for the guest bathroom, into major freaking productions. When everything is a big deal requiring major effort, there is very little time or space for a Life's Work among all the other work of life.

And then there is the modern attention problem, again, something I can relate to more than I care to admit. I watch my children as they negotiate two or three screens at a time. Even my husband works with somewhere between three and six screens going at any given time. We all have the attention spans of tsetse flies. How can the ADD generation focus on one subject long enough to make it a Life's Work? We don't even hold jobs for more than two or three years at a time. Mid-life career shifts are common (again, guilty as charged) and choosing a major has become an exercise in serious angst because making one choice, by definition, eliminates alternative options as the realities of opportunity costs set in. And even in this age of uber-specialization, you don't hear a whole lot about life's work these days. Because who really wants to make their Life's Work all about such narrow subjects as animal husbandry in colonial Virginia among farmers with only pigs and chickens. Or cyber hacking into magnet school databases in New York City. Or the ever-popular micro-breweries in Idaho and Wyoming. We've gone so deep we can't climb out of the holes we've dug for ourselves.

So, to review, we're either hopelessly shallow or impossibly deep, thereby making it ever more difficult to focus on meaningful topics for a Life's Work. I'm more than halfway through my life (and that's if I live to a ripe old age) and I find I love the idea of a Life's Work. I want to make a significant contribution to a field of study or learning. I want to have original thoughts that inspire and inform and impact the world. I want to make a difference with my life and I want to leave a legacy of positive change.

But where to focus amongst all the distractions this world has to offer? Clearly, whatever my Life's Work entails it will involve words on a page or screen.  And it will likely involve soapboxes--meaning my standing on one pontificating about how to live well or at least better. More authentically. More true to our true selves. Because you know I believe that is what life is all about. Is my Life's Work this blog?  I don't think so. Is it the book I'm sort of working on (I am working on it, and even writing here and there, but it's still more of a gleam in my eye than a proper book or even a solid beginning)?  Maybe I should switch to fiction, except I seem to have absolutely zero imagination when it comes to that, to my eternal sadness.

And, in the immortal words of Danielle LaPorte, if it hasn't happened by now, perhaps it's not meant to be. That is the thought that scares me most of all.

But, in the other immortal words of one of my all-time heroes, Winston Churchill, "Never, never, never give up."  So I won't. My life isn't over, so there is still time for my Life's Work to unfold.

In the meantime, I will continue to read great paranormal and urban fantasy and write this blog, which brings me so much pleasure. Thanks to Rose Montague and her fellow authors for their Life's Work in entertaining us all.

Sarcasm R Us

For Christmas a few years ago I bought my husband a sweatshirt that said, "National Sarcasm Society: Like We Need Your Support."  He still wears that sweatshirt, despite the fact that it is the color of baby poo (not sure what the manufacturer was thinking there, but perhaps it was something along the lines of, "Yeah, like we need your business" and therefore chose the ugliest color they could come up with). The point of recounting this anecdote is to illustrate that we are one sarcastic family. I think it started with my father-in-law and has been passed down the generations to his son and now his grandsons, who are teenaged sarcastic wits, which is actually somewhat frightening.

Why this focus on sarcasm?  I'm reading Kevin Hearne's seventh offering in the Iron Druid chronicles, Shattered. As always, Mr. Hearne provides numerous amusing passages and turns of phrase for me to highlight and re-read when I need a laugh. So far, my favorites are an exchange between Atticus O'Sullivan's Irish Wolf Hound, Oberon, with whom Atticus can mind speak, and the Iron Druid himself where they are describing another Druid who has been in suspended animation for two thousand years. Atticus describes him as not knowing the language well and having a short fuse. Oberon responds that such a description qualifies him to be an action movie star. Laugh out loud stuff. In another passage, Atticus' apprentice, the newly minted Druid, Granuaile, remarks that, "the garden of sarcasm is watered with impatience, and mine chose that moment to bloom." I love it!

Because it's so true. In our household, we are the most sarcastic when we are impatient with each other (which seems to happen a lot of the time--outsiders might suspect we don't like each other much, but actually the opposite is true and we keep each other laughing). We are also sarcastic just to be funny, or to engage. The sarcasm stems from familiarity and ease with each other and we sometimes have to remember to put a lid on it when we are with others. When we forget to do that we get in trouble for our rapier sharp wit--or was that for our dim wit?   It's definitely one or the other.

I'm from New York, and while my sarcastic streak is not nearly as well developed as that of my husband or even our sons, I can certainly appreciate their particular brand of humor. After all, in New York we have to ask each other, "Do you have the time, or should I just go f**k myself?"  Just kidding!  New Yorkers are the salt of the earth (I've never understood that phrase, which is supposed to be benevolent, but salt can be quite salty-and it can even burn in certain circumstances-- so I guess it does apply to New Yorkers).

Anyway, I love a good sarcastic riposte, at least most of the time. There are instances where the pointy end of the sarcastic sword can sting, or feel like a knife to the belly if the timing is wrong or the fine line between funny and mean gets crossed, which happens on occassion. Especially by our boys, who at fifteen are still learning how to be appropriate in social and relational situations--kind of like Kevin Hearne's two-thousand year old Rip Van Winkle, for whom social mores have changed just a wee bit from what he's used to. He needed to be told that a smile from a pretty girl was not an invitation into her bed and any attempts to interpret it as such could result in the involvement of law enforcement. It's good that times have changed.

Sarcasm also has another unsightly underbelly, as it can be a favorite tool of the passive-aggressive cowards who can't seem to say what they mean and mean what they say. I think we all use humor on occasion to deflect deeper but uncomfortable truths about how we are feeling or what we really want. In such cases, sarcasm is no joke and can be quite destructive. This distinction is something we are trying to teach our kids and it's a tough one. Using humor to hide truth is not the exclusive province of the passive-aggressive among us; we all do it when we say something that comes from a place of authenticity within us and we feel tentative about illuminating our depths. When we don't get the reaction we were hoping for, we retreat into the "I was just kidding" lie and hope no one notices that we were asking for something we really wanted but couldn't bear to have rejected or even questioned.  This is especially true if the desire is deep enough and therefore fragile in its vulnerability.

So, I love sarcasm, especially when it's wielded by a master like Kevin Hearne. And I mostly love it amongst my family members. But it's good to remember the other side of that double-edged sword, and ensure that we're not hurting anyone with our wit. Like I needed to remind you of that!

Acceptance Is Key

I'm just finishing Lisa Shearin's second installment of the SPI Files series, The Dragon Conspiracy. These books are a fun romp through my hometown of New York City, now inhabited by vampires, goblins, elves and dragons (always my favorites), among other mythical creatures. The aspect of this book that captured my thoughts today is the concept of acceptance. Now, I'm a big believer in the serenity prayer. For those of you living under a rock, this prayer asks the Divine to "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."  It's a good prayer, and an excellent blueprint for living a contented and productive life. In The Dragon Conspiracy, several of the major characters are called to accept their lot in life, including major illness and its concomitant limitations, as well as the idiosyncrasies and concomitant limitations of those with whom we engage.

For me, acceptance actually does require supernatural abilities. Acceptance is difficult. Acceptance can look a lot like acknowledging defeat. Acceptance can look like agreement or acquiescence. Acceptance can feel like conformity. And worst of all, acceptance can feel like collusion with evil, or at least that which is not good. But, because those with a lot of serenity in their auras tout the advantages of this state of being, perhaps it behooves us to explore the concept a bit and determine whether these feelings about acceptance have any actual basis in reality.

Acceptance is a choice we make. It is one that, for me at least, meets with significant resistance even when my conscious mind believes it might be a good idea. Like ceasing to beat one's head against a wall is a good idea. It hurts less that way. But when acceptance looks like throwing in the towel, I find it challenging. I don't like to give up. And I don't like to be bested. By anything. One example of this is with illness or injury. When I was diagnosed with an auto-immune disorder, I was anything but accepting. Hell no, I had zero intention of feeling like an 80-year old woman when I was only half that age. Hell no, I would not accept that my only options were serious medications with hideous side effects. And absolutely hell, no, I would not accept that there was little I could do about it.

Accepting that diagnosis felt like defeat and I was having none of it.  And not accepting my fate as final led down paths that have greatly enriched my life, and I am profoundly grateful for that. But not accepting the limitations that my disorder imposed was not my best idea ever. Acceptance of current limitations within the context of hope for better things to come was an important aspect of my recovery. Not accepting it meant that I was just making everything worse by writing checks that my body couldn't cash (and believe me, I was no top gun!).

Acceptance can also look like agreement. I know I've found myself judging myself and others harshly for not fighting fate and at least going down swinging. I know this is also a value to many--not going down without a fight, and I certainly understand that--Dylan Thomas knew what he was talking about when he exhorted us to fight, fight, fight against the dying of the light. But when to fight and when to retreat, that is the question, never mind existential issues. I don't want to be the one seen to be agreeing with that with which I disagree or reject. And acceptance can certainly look like that on occasion.

And acceptance can also look and feel like one step beyond agreement. Acceptance can be perceived as being in cahoots with the bad thing. I know a lot of people through my work as a naturopath who not only accept their diagnoses, but embrace them like the one who got away. It always disturbs me when I see that and I always make a mental vow to myself that I will never be that way. But it's hard to know another's heart and it may be that what looks like conspiracy to me is the only way someone else can accept their lot and move ahead as best they can with their lives. I struggle not to judge, though, despite understanding that each of us walks our own paths toward truth.

Lack of acceptance also causes all sorts of problems. Just because we don't accept something, like physical or financial realities, doesn't make them any less real. Not accepting that my body just won't do what it did when I was twenty can lead to a myriad of embarrassing and potentially dangerous situations. In my opinion, no middle-aged woman should sport micro-mini skirts, I don't care how great your legs are, and no one my age has the reflexes or recuperative powers we did thirty years ago. So accepting those limitations is probably a good idea. This is not to say that I don't strive to look and feel my best. But it is my best at almost fifty, not my best as compared to my twenty-year-old self.

So we're back to the serenity prayer, and the need for the wisdom to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. It's a tricky proposition for sure. And in the end, it's often no less of a gamble than a good game of five-card draw. As in poker, there is certainly an element of skill and experience involved. But don't forget Lady Luck. First off, she hates being discounted (I share that particular affliction, but that is the subject of another post).  And secondly she'll bite you in the ass every time.

So, I don't know about you, but I'll take all the help I can get in this endeavor. I'm all about Divine intervention in my life and I invite it in whenever I remember to do so. Sometimes I forget to ask for help, and sometimes I'm determined (quite stupidly, in fact), to go it alone. But I crave the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, along with courage and wisdom, so I'll keep my knee pads handy and avail myself early and often.

Projecting Personas

How do we choose which persona to project onto the world? Some of us choose to be people pleasers, while others choose to be tough guys. As we know, our projected persona is but one aspect of our authentic selves (and often it is a minor aspect rather than a major player). So how do we settle on it in our own minds?  What do our choices say about us? I’m reading book three in the Dragon Kin series.  This one is about Dagmar Reinholdt, otherwise known as “The Beast” and Gwenvael the Handsome, a total tomcat of a dragon. I think their nicknames say it all about their choices—although some might argue that nicknames are often conferred, not selected. Sometimes nicknames are meant to be insulting (I was called four-eyes and Pinocchio in grade school, which was devastating at the time, but then I got contacts and a nose job and had my own swan moment, so it was all good).

So, how do we choose a persona?  For some, our parents choose for us, encouraging us to be kind and unselfish and ambitious.  Or maybe to be athletic or intellectual. Then there are those exceptional parents, who may actually wait to see which character traits and preferences a child comes to inherently, but those parents are few and far between—especially if the child is “exuberant” (read: wild and out-of-control) or “confident” (read:  stubborn and willful). Oftentimes it seems, as parents, we don’t get the children we were hoping for—and yes, I know that every expectant parent ostensibly hopes for a healthy child, but once that is accomplished, the wish list tends to grow exponentially to include intelligence, beauty, poise, popularity, and a winning personality. In other words, most of us want attractive, athletic, smart, and (ultimately) non-celibate versions of the Dalai Lama and/or Mother Theresa.  Don’t lie—you know you are resonating with that!

So, as parents (or as sons and daughters, as the case may be), we project our fantasies of the ideal child (or have them projected all over us) and we are then imprinted at an early age with an image of the ideal, or at least someone else’s version.  At that point, we can go in one of two ways—we can try to adopt the projection as our own, if it fits at all well, and sometimes even if it doesn’t—or we can reject that image and go in another, usually opposite, direction.

My mother wanted me to be a lady and a shining example of 1950s womanhood (think Mrs. Beaver of Cleaver fame).  She tried hard to pound me into that mold.  Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way to square that circle, and as early as kindergarten I had teachers intervening between me and my mother to help negotiate a dress code we could both live with (suffice it to say that my mother wanted a little princess and I was only interested in the attitude, not the clothes).  What an ongoing mess all of that was—with one of the last things my mother ever saying to me was that in her mind, I was a failure as a woman.  Because I work outside the home and avoid cooking and cleaning like the plague. Her definition was fairly limited, for sure.

Nothing I did pleased my mother—so I stopped trying at an early age.  And the persona I chose to present to the world included a big chip on my shoulder and a confrontational, take-no-prisoners attitude that screamed, “I do what I want and I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think!”  Charming, I know.  But, for my persona, I needed to let you know that your opinions couldn’t touch me or make me do anything I didn’t want to do (clearly, the military was not an option for me). Others with a less traumatic upbringing adopt other kinds of personas—but most of our choices are straight out of central casting:  the Good Wife; the Loving Mother; the Bad Boy; the Tough Guy; the Nice Girl; the Queen Bee; the Man; you get the picture.

If an author of one of my beloved books wrote a character like that (and sometimes they do, although they probably won’t make my top ten list if that is the case), we’d call the writing flat and predictable and give it two thumbs down.

But we give ourselves a free pass when we do that exact same thing.  We project a comfortable (yes, even when it’s ridiculously uncomfortable), predictable (another word for controllable) image on the screen of others’ personalities and then we follow the script accordingly—even when the inner monologue in our brains is completely divergent with the BS coming out of our mouths.  “No problem” could mean “NFW,” but we are too scared to say so.  “I’d love to” could be “I’d rather chew glass,” and “I don’t mind at all,” usually signifies that we are thinking murderous thoughts behind the façade of a simpering smile.

So, why do we do this and how can we stop?  We do it because it’s what we know and therefore it defines our comfort zones.  And it’s really hard to venture out of the boxes we create for ourselves, so we tend not to do it.  Sometimes, we aren’t even aware that we’ve boxed ourselves into our projected personas, so ingrained in our make-believe identities are we.  We need to reflect, contemplate our navels a bit and look inward, Grasshopper.  There are usually clues—like the fact that we don’t want to get out of bed in the morning, or we have IBS, or migraines or chronic fatigue—or some other disorder that may indicate that we aren’t who we want to be.  This is tough stuff. In case you were wondering, and without giving away too much, I can say that Dagmar the Beast and Gwenvael the Handsome end up being much more than just formidable or gorgeous, although they are that, too (our personas usually reflect at least one aspect of our true selves).  And in unveiling their whole selves, to each other and eventually to the world, they spring off the pages in all three dimensions. Because who wants to be Flat Stanley?

The Immortality of Dogs

My dog is dying. His name is Beau and he is supposed to be a miniature dachshund, but he has a bit of a weight problem and he wouldn't make the grade in terms of being best in class, I'll say that much. But he is an awesome dog.  But he is sick. And we have to decide when to let him go.  What a horrible decision to have to make. Every day we get up and have to think about whether today is a good day to die. 

And one of the things I've been thinking about is why I've never read about any characters in paranormal fiction who have pets. Well, that isn't totally true; Sookie Stackhouse had a cat, but the poor thing eventually meets the same sad end as the red-shirted guys on Star Trek. Their deaths always progress the plot line, but you definitely have to feel for the poor suckers. Same with Sookie's cat.

But, as far as I can remember, that is the only pet I can think of.  I'm sure you'll remind me if I've overlooked someone. And supernatural pets like Atticus O'Sullivan's dog, Oberon, and Bluebell Kildare's trusty sidekick, Varg, don't count. 

Why don't characters in paranormal and urban fantasy have pets?  Well, first of all, many of them are pets, of the shapeshifting variety. I would imagine it's hard to keep a dog or cat when your other body is a wolf or a coyote or a cougar, as in Patricia Briggs novels or Faith Hunter's works. Maybe it would feel too much like keeping a friend on a leash. I know that in our collective newfound fascination with the BDSM lifestyle, we are all aware that there are those among us who enjoy leading their friends and lovers around by the nose, literally, and housing them in cages, but most of us only like to be titillated by that sort of second hand description, not live it. So too among the supernatural, so that having a pet, for the shapeshifting crowd, would probably just seem weird.

But another reason, I'm sure, for the dearth of dog and cat companions among the paranormal creatures of my beloved books, is the very difficulty I'm having now when faced with the reality of our animals' short lives, at least as compared to ours. It seems so unfair that creatures who love us so unconditionally, and for whom our love is so uncomplicated, should pass from our lives in what seems like the blink of an eye. I grew up desperately wanting a puppy, but my parents wouldn't let me get one. And I knew I would marry my husband well before he proposed when he made my dreams come true and presented me with a fur ball with a red bow who was my first-ever dog, and the animal love of my life, a golden cocker spaniel named Belle (because she was so beautiful and she was a Christmas gift). When Belle died eight years ago I was inconsolable. Her memory can still stir deep feelings within me, that's how much I loved her and how bereft I felt when she died.

And the way I figure it, for immortals or the extremely long-lived creatures of my beloved books, why would they subject themselves to that kind of grief, over and over again? It's bad enough for them that mortals are given only a relatively short few decades on this plane of existence. Pity the poor immortals who become attached to their mortal lovers and companions who must then suffer their deaths. Kind of like pets for us.  The short lifespan of a human being is difficult enough for immortals to tolerate, forget about the eye-blink of life that actual animals enjoy upon this earth.

And in trying to make a decision about my beloved pup and when to let him go to the big dog park in the sky, I understand why immortals eschew the love of animals. It would be too painful for them to become attached. Even though the love of an animal is such a pure joy to experience. So I feel sorry for the poor immortals, even as I feel sorry for myself and my family as we move ever closer to the time to say goodbye. Because even in the depth of my grief and the sure knowledge of the pain that will accompany the inevitable letting go of my dog, I am grateful for the love and acceptance and happiness he's offered to me and my family so freely and effortlessly. I'm grateful for having him in our lives. And when the time comes, so much sooner than I would like, I'll surrender him to the earth and the sky and the universe and hope to see him someday on the other side. And I'll continue to pity the poor paranormal creatures who have no idea what they are missing. 

The Betrayer

[Note:  I wrote this post almost a year ago when I was in the throes of grief from a very difficult time for me.  I’m happy to report that things are much better now.] My latest fantasy adventure centers on a character called “The Betrayer.”  The book is Katie Macallister’s third installment of her Dark Ones series called Sex, Lies and Vampires.  It is quite entertaining, as were the first two in the lineup.  This one has a slight twist from its predecessors—instead of the vampire trying to convince his one and only (the “Beloved”) that she should cleave to him for eternity, in this story, it is the Beloved who pushes for the Joining (a kind of eternal marriage for the Dark One and his Beloved), against the protestations of her vampire lover.

The aspect of the book that has captured my attention is this concept of the Betrayer (the Dark One, Adrian) being redeemed.  Poor Adrian is in thrall to a Demon Lord, who, as you might guess from his title, is not a nice guy.  This not-very-nice Demon Lord has forced Adrian to do many things over the centuries until Adrian is reviled and ostracized among his kind.  Moreover, Adrian has some fairly deep self-hatred and despair going on, so he’s not the most cheery vampire ever portrayed in fantasy fiction.  Be that as it may, Adrian’s Beloved, Nell, is convinced her love can redeem Adrian and that maybe her supernatural skills can lift the curse binding him to the Demon Lord.  Given the inevitability of an HEA this kind of book, my money was on Nell from the get-go.

Back to how all this relates to me (cause that’s what it’s all about, never mind that hokey pokey shit).  Reading about the Betrayer has sparked some thoughts about the nature of betrayal generally, and what betrayal means in a love relationship specifically.  As it often is in fiction, a situation or event is exaggerated to make sure the reader gets the point. Adrian’s betrayal involves the rather grandiose transgression of providing a steady stream of vampire sacrifices to satisfy the unholy appetites of his Demon Lord.  This is admittedly on the far end of the moral bankruptcy scale.  In human terms, such actions would be akin to a spouse stepping out of a marriage to get his thrills and chills in the arms of another. I think we can all agree that such behavior constitutes betrayal from any perspective.

But what if the nature of the betrayal is less extreme than sexual or romantic dalliance?  What if the Betrayer earns his (or her) appellation though acts singular—or repeated—that don’t cross the line into indisputable immorality? What if the betrayal that transforms the beloved into the betrayer involves disappointed expectations or needs?  What then?  Is the betrayer redeemable or doomed to eternal exclusion and isolation?

What am I talking about here?  Well, I’ll tell you: I consider it a sign of disrespect and maybe even passive/aggressive acting out when my husband doesn’t pick up after himself and maintain our shared living space in some semblance of order (not to the level of my OCD-influenced standards, but somewhere to the right of dirty underwear and socks left to mold in piles on the floor and dishes left to wash themselves in the sink).  I really didn’t think it was that much to ask, given the fact that he is well aware—because I’ve told him at least 100,000 times—that physical clutter and actual filth makes me palpably anxious (see above comment on OCD tendencies).  And, while it took several sessions of couples’ counseling to help him understand the seriousness and depth of my needs, he eventually got with the program.  More or less.

But what happens when my needs are less concrete—but even more elemental to my overall well-being and he can’t—or won’t—meet them?  What do I do with that?  This situation is perfectly reflected in my current novel, so the issue is front and center in my psyche at this moment.  Adrian is convinced that Nell can unmake the Demon Lord’s curse, but Nell is afraid to tap into her abilities because of the potential cost (frying her brain circuits) and the probability (in her mind) of failure. So she begins by refusing to do it, but of course she comes around in the end.

In my world, the analogous circumstance is that I need my husband to meet my needs for emotional connection on a deep level as I grieve the deaths of my mother, my mentor and two others who were like a mother and father to me growing up, all within the space of a few months.  Each of these deaths was expected and congruent with the circle of life.  They were all old and sick and it was a blessing for them to release their spirits from their physical tethers.  Good for them, but it leaves the rest of us behind to put our lives back together in a place our loved ones no longer physically occupy.  It’s a process that is, at heart, a solitary pursuit. But it’s also a journey in which the felt presence of those we love can keep us connected in a positive way to the here and now.

To walk this path with another is to deepen the intimacy between two individuals and create a shared experience that binds the two together more securely.  In such a dance, it’s the one grieving who must lead. It is the task of the witness to be present and aware and provide a physical and emotional anchor to help ground the one who mourns in the world of life and of love.

But what happens when the efforts of the witness fall short, through ignorance or inherent limitations or even a subconscious desire to withhold what comfort can be provided because of perceived hurts or other such emotional payback?

I feel betrayed by the one who’s supposed to love me the most.  And I wonder what to do with these feelings and whether the betrayer can be redeemed by my love and whether I can be redeemed by his.  In the book, Nell overcomes her self-limitation to help her vampire husband restore his soul, defeat the Demon Lord and live happily ever after.

I’m not sure what my HEA looks like here.  I predict that I will rise above this hurt, which I have to assume is inadvertent (or I wouldn’t be married to this man) and we will go on and be happy in all the myriad ways we are, because he is, in truth, a wonderful person.  But the potential—and reality—for true emotional intimacy will have taken a hit for sure, and my inclination and ability to turn to him for emotional support during the tough times will be stifled.  And that will constitute a betrayal of my own. 

Force Multiplier

I'm just about finished with the third book in Elle Boca's Unelmoija fantasy series, The Spiritshifter. The series chronicles the adventures of Amy McKnight, her family and friends, who belong to a secret race of superhuman beings known as the Weeia. I don't want to give away too much of the plot (this is one reason I don't write book reviews--too hard without spoilers to write a good analysis, in my view, and then I'd ruin the experience for others). I recommend the series with its original premise and world and likable characters who generate my empathy and support-- I've found myself rooting for them the whole way. And without giving away any surprises, I want to talk about an interesting ability that one of the characters develops--an amplification ability wherein this character is able to stimulate the development of others' latent powers, magnifying nascent abilities and helping people to be, essentially, all that they can be. Who needs the army, anyway?

This plot twist got me thinking about how cool it would be if there were some truth in this fantasy. What if there was such a thing as an amplifier in real life?  What would that look like?  What character traits might I be interested in amplifying?  Would this be a selective amplification?  Could I amplify the parts of myself I like and turn down the volume on the parts that are not quite ready for prime time? And even if the volume control didn't work in the direction of decreasing the decibel level, could the increase button only apply to those aspects I enjoy about myself?

Could be tricky, but might be worth a stroll down this particular rabbit hole. What would I choose to amplify?  That is fairly easy, I think. I recently completed most of the exercises in my new favorite personal development book, The Desire Map (and yes, I'm constantly in search of ever-more personal development, but no, The Desire Map is not some pornographic cartography book on how to find the elusive "G spot"). Anyhoo, back to the topic at hand, The Desire Map, by the brilliant Danielle LaPorte, is about how to identify and achieve goals with soul. The concept behind the book, with which I whole-heartedly agree, is that desire is the most powerful, creative force in the universe, and that tapping into that power is not only available to each and every one of us, but it is also the most empowering thing we can do for ourselves. The books instructs us to identify our core desired feelings, which is actually a lot harder than it sounds. It's one of the things I worked on during my retreat a few weeks ago.

So it is a no-brainer that I'd want to amplify my core desired feelings. Danielle suggests we pick five. Mine were as follows:  mindful; soulful; resourceful (in every sense of that word); spirited (as in filled with spirit); and in Divine communion. So, if I'm ordering off the amplification menu, I'd like a heaping plateful of being full--full of mind, soul, spirit, resources and God. I'd like as much of that as I can get, thank you very much. Crank up the volume till you can hear it four lanes away from where my car radio is playing. I want maximum power on my sub-woofer so it’s all about that bass. You know what I'm talking about, right?

And while I'm at it, playing my tunes of fullness at maximum volume, let's add grateful, heart-full, truthful, peaceful and full of kindness, generosity and good will toward all. Because, honestly, that's really what I want. If I can amplify my positive characteristics and abilities like Ms. Boca's characters, I want to be as full of the good stuff as possible. If the down volume button is in good working order, let's dial down pettiness, schadenfreude, envy, jealousy, self-righteousness, controlling and manipulative tendencies, not to mention fear, resentment, and general discontent. Wouldn't that be something? I can hardly imagine it, though I suspect it would be miraculous to experience.  

Which leads me to ask, logically, whether any of this magical amplification and commensurate sound dampening is possible in the real world, and if so, how can we achieve it? As you may have cottoned to by this point, I do, in fact, believe that the kind of amplification described in the Unelmoija books is possible in the real world. How to do it, you may wonder.  The same way you can get to Carnegie Hall: practice, practice, practice.  Life gives us so many opportunities to practice being full of the good stuff and loving toward all.  And because practice makes perfect, the fact that we sometimes fall short of the mark is no excuse not to pick ourselves up and practice some more, perfection being an ideal not actually achievable in the real world. We must avoid the massive pothole on the road of life called perfectionism, lest it derails us on our journeys as we become mired in the tar pits of perfectionism. Just don’t go there. Turn down the amplification volume on perfectionism and turn it up on persistence in getting back on the horse after we’ve been thrown off that damn beast.

So thank you to Elle Boca whose books are a fun romp through an interesting world filled with [mostly] nice people. I love the idea of amplifying my good traits and I love the idea that there might be others out there who can help me amplify the good stuff in my life.  And the idea I love best of all is the one where I act as the amplifier for others around me, and help them turn up the volume on the fullness of their lives.

Live Long and Prosper

I had another blog post prepared for today, but I couldn’t let the death of the man who played one of my favorite fantasy characters of all time pass without comment.  I love Mr. Spock, and I’ve always admired what I knew of Leonard Nimoy. I was very sad to hear of his passing. What follows are some random thoughts on life, Star Trek, the dichotomy of the characters played by Leonard Nimoy and William Shatner, and the fact that my mind boggles at the thought that next year is the fiftieth anniversary of the debut of the original series.

For me, Star Trek represents the original truth in fantasy. 

It’s where I first learned that there were deep thoughts to be considered while engaging in “mindless” entertainment, and profound philosophy to be contemplated through the prism of fiction—scientific, paranormal or otherwise.

I am not quite old enough to have seen the original Star Trek during its first run on television from 1966-1969.  When I started watching it ten years after its debut, it was already a cultural phenom, and “Trekkie” was already a semi-derogatory appellation leveled by boys and girls in khaki pants and oxford shirts against those of us who wouldn’t be caught dead in clothes colored like Easter eggs on LSD. By the time I was in high school, William Shatner had already appeared on Saturday Night Live urging the costumed audience at a make-believe Star Trek convention to “get a life.”

But we had a life, and it was reflected perfectly in the brilliant teleplays written by the inimitable Gene Roddenberry and the magnificent minds who dreamt up The Trouble with Tribbles,Plato’s Stepchildren, Amok Time and A Piece of the Action (if I’ve left out your favorites, please do let me know so we can discuss it at sufficient length to make the eyeballs of non-fans roll back in their sockets, leaving only the whites showing as a token of their frustration and disgust).  My life was filled with Star Trek action figures when I was younger, and incessant conversations about the similarities of Let That Be Your Last Battlefield (with the half black/half white characters) and Dr. Seuss’ story about the Sneetches (remember? The Star-Belly Sneetches had bellies with stars; the Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars). I learned everything there is to know about the futility and tragedy of racism from that episode. I learned about war (A Taste of Armageddon), overpopulation (The Mark of Gideon), and class warfare (The Cloud Minders) from Star Trek.  I learned that love doesn’t conquer all well before I lived it or read The Vampire Academy books (see my blog about that here) in the heartbreaking episode, This Side of Paradise.  I actually believe all of philosophy is a footnote not to Plato, but to Gene Roddenberry.

In my late teens in New York City, I remember listening to morning radio with the disc jockey derisively describing a new class at the City University of New York (CUNY).  Apparently, it was a philosophy course based on the characters of Kirk and Spock and the differences between a logical approach and an emotional/instinctual attitude and methodology.  The DJ was clearly unimpressed.  He called it, “beaming them into class any way you can.”  I was highly amused, but also a little annoyed.  That DJ was totally incorrect and the professor was well ahead of his time in the early eighties. I’m sure that the class had a waiting list a mile long, and that the students got a perspective on philosophy that they never forgot.  Relating difficult and controversial concepts to the mnemonic of compelling storytelling is what my blog and my headspace is all about.  We are human, and we relate through stories, which is why fiction is such an effective tool of education and thought provocation. It’s why Schoolhouse Rock was so successful in teaching millions of kids the preamble of the Constitution, all about conjunction junction and that he’s just a bill, yes he’s only a bill, sitting there on Capitol Hill.  We learn and think and make connections when we hear stories. 

And in reading all the beautiful tributes and reminiscences on social media over the weekend, I was reminded about one of the most clever pieces I’ve ever read, a passage depicting an imaginary conversation between Kirk and Spock in the bodies and situation of Atticus O’Sullivan, the Iron Druid, and his trusty Irish Wolfhound, Oberon, in the series by Kevin Hearne.  Hearne is clearly a true Trekkie, which is only one of the things that attracts me to him.  He is also the creator of one of the most original set of characters in paranormal and urban fantasy, and the Star Trek exchange was just the icing on the cake.  I highly recommend that you read the passage from Hearne’s book, Hammered (I’ve posted the poster based on the passage on my Facebook page here).  Even if you don’t like Star Trek, I dare you not to laugh.  And read the Iron Druid series while you’re at it.  It’s a fan favorite for a reason.

And 50 years later admirers around the world are mourning the death of Leonard Nimoy—as well as the descent into the abyss that is represented by William Shatner’s becoming the celebrity spokesman for Priceline—what’s next, George Lucas endorsing Hyundais?  I know now we are witnessing the decline of civilization as we know it when the man who could imply the hottest sex in the galaxy just by zipping up his boots is spewing drivel in support of discount travel arrangements.  Really, Bill--after manning the helm of the Enterprise, can you really contemplate the indignity of economy class? But I digress.  I do that from time to time.

Back to my beloved Mr. Spock. I’ll say this about that—there is a photo making its way around the Twitterverse, a candid shot of Shatner and Nimoy between takes on the Star Trek set.  Shatner is eating something and grinning, and he looks handsome and manly and everything that Captain Kirk should be. But it’s Leonard Nimoy who dominates the picture.  The smile he wears illuminates his face like the light of a thousand supernovas.  And all I could think was that I would have given a lot to know what put that smile on his face. Because when Spock smiles, we know that the angels are singing in Heaven.  Live long and prosper, Leonard, as you explore that final frontier.

Biology is a Benefit

Having recently revisited an old favorite, I decided to dive right into a new author and a new series. I first discovered Tima Maria Lacoba on Twitter over the past few months. She is an indie author from the other side of the world and her book, Bloodgifted, is the first in a series about the Dantonville vampires. In Tima's world, vampirism is a curse and the Brethren, as the vampires are known, are working to achieve the conditions to undo the curse and become human once again (well, at least some of the Brethren share this goal). Another interesting aspect of this world is that the central relationship depicts a mutually beneficial exchange wherein the Bloodgifted is destined to feed her guardian vampire and he is obligated to protect her from other Brethren in return (not to mention that her status confers significant anti-aging benefits as well, so that at 50, the main character looks about 25).  This takes the trope of vampires feeding off of humans and providing pleasure or other advantages (more robust health and immunity, slowed aging, etc.) one step farther and made me think.  Always a dangerous proposition.

I started to think about the centrality of the relationship in Bloodgifted as an example of the phenomenon of symbiosis and its various manifestations: mutualism; commensalism; and parasitism. Nature is a fascinating mother, isn't she? In my other incarnation as a traditional naturopath, I've learned all about the vital role that pre- and pro-biotics play in our digestive system. Kind of weird/gross to think that we have several pounds of bacteria living happily in our guts. And that is just one of many examples that nature provides of independent entities needing each other. I'm more interested in a less literal or scientific definition of this phenomenon, despite how compelling the example of gobie fish and shrimp can be.

When I started thinking about symbiosis, my first thought was of the parasitic variety. I know that in my own life, I've been the unhappy host to a number of parasitic entities, including several of my boyfriends in the past. And I've had to look hard at these experiences and acknowledge the fact that my status has been voluntarily entered into and maintained, sometimes even long after I realized I was being used. This was a sobering and fairly unwelcome thought. It is much more comforting to believe that any instances of playing hostess with the mostess was the result of trickery on the parasite's part, or sweet naïveté on my end. But the truth is much less flattering.  

If we are willing participants in a parasitic relationship does that transform the relationship to one of mutualism, where both parties are benefiting, even if the benefits are less than equal? Or perhaps more benignly, could the relationship be characterized as an example of commensalism, wherein only one participant benefits and the other is neither harmed nor helped?  When I stayed in abusive or destructive relationships (and this included familial relationships such as those I had with my mother and my brother), I needed to face the reality that I must have been getting something I wanted or needed. Even if that something was the perception of being absolved of responsibility for my life. If I'm the victim of bad actors, then it's not my fault that my life sucks. If my boyfriend treats me poorly, but I hold on in the belief that my love can save him and help him evolve into a caring and generous human who will be so grateful for my loyalty and steadfastness that he will reward me by becoming the best partner ever, then I am a wonderful person whose circumstances, which are not my fault, are less than ideal. Wow. What convoluted thinking. 

Of course, there's another mindset at work in situations like this as well:  we allow the dysfunction to continue in the misguided belief that we don't deserve any better and a parasitic relationship is better than no relationship at all. There is way too much of that going on as well in the world and I've certainly contributed as much or more than my fair share.

So what to do about all of this depressing contemplation?  Let's turn that frown upside down and think about relationships that work, symbiosis that is characterized by mutualism. These relationships exist in nature, too, and certainly in many of our lives. My beloved doggies, for example, live with our family in a wonderful example of mutualism that works. Moreover, I'm lucky enough now that my central relationship with my husband is most definitely mutually beneficial ( I can only speak for myself, of course, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that he is getting something from the deal as well.) And I've always been blessed with amazing friendships that have withstood the test of time in their mutual benefit.

As I examine every aspect of my life, I can honestly and gratefully say that each of the relationships I have today serves me well and that I'm committed to ensuring that I'm giving back in equal measure. This is true both professionally. and personally.  I no longer feel used or abused at work, which has been true in the past and I don't approach any of my social engagements with dread or indifference; if I do, I cancel, because life is just too short.

I spend my time, energy and attention on people, places and activities that benefit me, even as I work to ensure everything I touch is just a little better than when I found it. It is an excellent way to live and to practice authenticity. And I appreciate the reminder from Tima Maria Lacoba, whose book, Bloodgifted, and whose actions on social media, have benefited me greatly. So here's to symbiotic mutualism where everyone’s a winner. Win-win-win. 

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste

I'm taking my own FaceBook advice and rereading an old favorite before moving on to a new series. Today's selection is Dead Until Dark, the first in the Southern Vampire series by Charlaine Harris, on which the HBO True Blood series is based. I love this book. It is the book that started my fascination and love of all things vampire and shapeshifter and fae and witch. Charlaine Harris began her writing career with mysteries, so the book has a murder mystery as the central plot line, which helped ease me into the genre. Not that I needed much easing, mind you. In any case, in rereading Dead Until Dark, I was struck by a central tenet of the plot, the fact that the main character, Sookie Stackhouse, a barmaid in northern Louisiana, also happens to be telepathic. As in she can read people's thoughts as they are thinking them. And I began to wonder, what are people's minds full of?  Are they in fact mindful?  Or are thoughts leaking out their ears, leaving them empty-headed?  What about my own mind?

In the book, and then later in the series, Sookie makes a point of pointing out that most individuals' everyday, random thoughts are fairly pedestrian. Shopping lists, worry about finances, jobs, children, etc. And then there is the preoccupation with sex, sex, and more sex. I'm guessing she was talking more about the males of our species, but given the popularity of my favorite genre, not to mention your garden-variety romance novels, which is a billion-dollar business in this country, there must be quite a few women who are also filling their minds with lascivious contemplation. These days we all have sex on the brain, with the likes of the 50 Shades of Grey movie breaking box office records, and female pop stars practically fornicating on stage for the benefit of their audiences.

So it seems that our everyday thoughts aren't really of the lofty variety. And I'm as guilty as the next person, preoccupied as I am with my interminable to do lists and keeping the various aspects of my roles as wife, mother, friend, employer, employee, etc. straight and in their various compartments. And this is of course not to mention my plans for the future and my reminiscences of the past.

It would appear that my mind, like most, is quite full, even though I doubt anyone reading it would find anything of overwhelming interest or import going on between my ears. But am I mindful, in the expansive and philosophical sense of that concept?  In a word, no, I'm not. Although I'd like to be, and I strive to achieve little moments or even minutes of mindfulness in my daily life. I meditate. I practice yoga. I journal. In short, I make a conscious effort to take my brain off autopilot and bring it back to the present moment to appreciate the here and now and contemplate something more profound than my strategies for packing all my necessary errands into my workday while also stretching time to accommodate a couple of seconds of relaxation and vegetation.

Phew, just thinking of all the energy it takes to negotiate my day seems almost overwhelming. Not to mention boring for anyone bothering to climb into my skull and take a walk through the twisted pathways of my thought processes. As I think about it, I wonder at the mediocrity of that with which I choose to occupy my headspace. I'm thankful for these blog posts, which take me out of the banality of my daily musings and focus my attention on something bigger than myself and my petty pondering for at least a little while.

Apparently, I would not be much of a candidate for Sookie to tune into if she were looking for captivating entertainment, using her little gift, or disability, as she considers it. On the other hand, all of you reading my blogs get a bit of a glimpse into my grey matter, albeit while I'm actually trying to be engaging and entertaining. So, it occurs to me that through reading my blog, you get to approximate Sookie's experience. What do you think? Have I interrupted your own mundane thoughts and interjected a bit of true mindfulness, in the form of filling your mind with something worthwhile? I can only hope so. And I would certainly love to know, if you'd care to share your thoughts with me.

The Muddle of Love

I'm reading the final book in the Sanctum trilogy, The Prophecy. The series has gotten better with each installment, always a nice surprise. And I haven't finished it yet, so we'll have to see how Madhuri Blaylock sews it all up into a tidy bow for us, but I'm certainly enjoying the ride along the way to completion. Halfway through the book, however, the aspect that has struck me the most is the number of couples portrayed in the plot, and just how different each of their love stories is. Also quite unexpectedly, this fantasy series is not following the usual (and beloved, don't get me wrong) patterns of paranormal romance or even urban fantasy. There are many more than one set of lovers, and certainly not all of them are going to get a traditional HEA, or perhaps even any HEA at all. But, as I love surprises, this is all good and definitely provides lots of material for me to think about and write about. Yay me.

In the interest of not spoiling the book for anyone, as well as for the benefit of those who read my blog but not the books I write about (an audience I will be trying harder to reach over the coming weeks and months, so stay tuned for upcoming changes to my modus operandi), I won't tell you which specific characters I'm talking about as putter along here.

There are many of sets of complicated couples in this book. And because all of these characters are supernatural, many of them have lived and loved through many human lifetimes. Something I really can't imagine (my husband and I will celebrate twenty years of marriage this year and that seems like quite a long time to me--can't think what a two-hundred year celebration would look or feel like, but I digress).  For some of these characters, it also means they've been locked in passionate battles for centuries as well. Can you imagine engaging in the dynamics of a dysfunctional relationship over that many years?  Yikes! 

But the most compelling thing about Madhuri Blaylock's characters is the authenticity of the duality of love that she portrays for each of her couples. One couple accepts that the other will share as many beds as they want, but that that relationship between the two of them won't be affected. Talk about an open relationship. Maybe that’s the way to make centuries of love last. Expand your horizons, so to speak. For this pair, it seems to be the difference between lust and love; sex with others falls into the first category, but for the two of them together, it's making love. This would be a bridge too far for many, but would also embody the definition of to each their own. It doesn’t go quite as far as Laurrell Hamilton, but it goes too far for my apparently provincial tastes. I’d be interested in your thoughts on the matter.

Then there is the couple in The Prophecy who have loved each other across multiple lifetimes but who have chosen, each in their own way, to leave each other in this lifetime. Except they still yearn for each other. And mostly stay away from each other, but not entirely. Sucks to be them for sure. I don't believe I could deny myself to that extent, and, honestly, it’s all a little too much Brief Encounter for me, but I will say this for Ms. Blaylock:  she does an excellent job of describing the simultaneous holding of mutually exclusive realities, which is really what life is about, isn’t it?  It reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver, In Backwater Woods, which exhorts us to hold on as tightly as we can to love, even knowing that the objects of our love are mortal and will pass from this earth and from us.  It is hard to reconcile such diametrically opposed realities, and yet that is what life calls us to do all the time.  The couples portrayed in The Prophecy reflect this difficult experience.

Another pair in the book has loved each other over the years—the long years of immortal lifetimes—and for each the other is the one that they call home, the one that they feel compelled to come back to.  And yet despite this bond, this durable magnetism toward each other, one is betrayed by the other in an undeniable and unendurable way.  Elements of Greek tragedy all over the place here, and then the real heartbreak unfolds when the one betrayed must kill the beloved who transgressed.  The whole scene was absolutely gut wrenching. And then, in the aftermath of the murder, there is an attempted suicide that was a visceral reminder that love doesn’t die in the face of betrayal, but is transmuted into something aborted and distorted.  It left me wishing for the possibility of an off switch or a reset button, although neither exists in reality nor in the world of the Sanctum. But when I think about love betrayed and the pain that is engendered by feelings that no longer have a basis in purity or joy, I find myself slipping into fantasies of “if only.”

For yet another couple in this book, there is the confusion that accompanies love divided.  The author describes the lingering touch of first love combined with the futility of ill-fated lovers mixed in with the certainty of love in the present moment.  What a hot mess that whole thing is. And I do mean in every sense of the word. Hot as in passionate, angry, sexy, dangerous, damaging, and compelling. All at the same time.  Who wouldn’t be confused?

But the thing about love is that it comes in all of these shapes and sizes in the real world, and it’s always interesting, thought-provoking and inspiring to read about its various manifestation in my beloved books.  It’s only my love of books that is completely pure and uncomplicated.  All the rest is mostly a muddle. One we can’t, and wouldn’t want to live without, of course, but a muddle just the same.

There is No "I" in Team

I just finished the advanced reader copy of the second in the J'Amigos trilogy by Rose Montague. This book is Jane, which follows Jade (Jill will complete the trilogy sometime in the future), and will be available for purchase beginning next week. First let me say that I loved the experience of having an advance copy. I totally felt like I was in the cool kids club. I am in such awe of authors who write the kind of fiction I love to read that I always feel slightly star struck when any author notices me at all. To get this kind of attention feels like I won the jackpot!  I enjoyed this novel, which was written in the best tradition of a buddy story/road trip tale. Jade and Jill are in hot pursuit of a real badass and have lots of adventures along the way. All of which are a lot of fun. But the aspect of the book I liked the best, and which gave me the most food for thought, was the deep level of teamwork, a constructive division of labor and shared effort that the whole story embodies. Jade, Jane, Jill and all their friends and helpers are a wonderful example of people coming together to reach a common goal and achieve a united purpose. In this case the joint effort is to stop a bad guy and help a lot of people along the way.

I love the humanity—in the best sense of that word—of all of Rose Montague's supernatural characters. I love that in Rose's world, so many different types of supes are willing to work together and support each other (this doesn't apply to every singe one, of course, but most). I also loved the excellent example that the main characters portray in their willingness to ask for and accept help. I think these abilities—working together with individuals who are different culturally and socially than we are, asking for help in a way that is expansive and inclusive, rather than humiliating and defeatist, and accepting help graciously and with an intent to return the favor either specifically to those who helped, or more generally to others in need—are highly underrated and neither reported nor exalted in the way they should be or in the way that Rose Montague achieves so seamlessly that one might even miss its importance.

Her first feat in describing characters from different walks of supernatural life working together and accepting each other was interesting and compelling. In creating the character of Jade, who's both a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll, mixed in with blues, jazz, hip hop and rap along the way, Rose Montague has highlighted the direction in which our whole society is moving. It's getting to be that we're all mongrels who have bits of many nationalities, cultures, ethnicities and religions in our backgrounds. My children certainly got a mixed bag from me and my husband, whose backgrounds could not be more different (well, I guess they could if one of us were a blend of Basque and Aboriginal and the other were Mayan with a dash of Japanese and the Mongolian steppe thrown in, but still, we come from distinct ancestries). And these days, our identities are not only fluid, but the aspects of ourselves we choose to highlight may change over the course of our lives, depending on many factors, including who we choose to marry, as it did for Jade in Rose's book. The character of Jade is a unifying one, and the mission also serves to bring people together. It's a beautiful thing. 

Secondly, I was very intrigued by the ease and grace with which Rose Montague describes the way Jade and Jane, two very powerful beings in their own right, and even more so when they join forces, ask for help. It is as natural as rain for them to seek assistance when they need it without any of the angst or drama that attends mere mortals asking for help. We get so bent out of shape about it. We tell ourselves that a need for help tells everyone that we are insufficient in ourselves to get the job done. Like asking for help is the ultimate admission of powerlessness and failure. Why do we believe that and why can't we get over ourselves? I used to be as guilty as the next person of this silly, self-centered behavior, but I've definitely gotten over myself. Now, my attitude is, why should I struggle to go it alone when I can ask for help and share the load? It seems so simple, but I know from both experience and observation that it just isn't. So it's wonderful to see such a great example of asking for help in action in Jane.

Finally, asking for help and accepting it gracefully are also two different animals entirely. Sometimes, we ask for help but then turn around and resent the hell out of the person or persons who gave it to us. We don't want to need the help, and when someone actually provides it we feel embarrassed or inadequate or deficient in some way, which makes us defensive. And, as I've written about before here, what is the most common idea of a good defense? You got it, a good offense. So we go on the offensive against the very people who are trying to be helpful, loving and supportive. Sucks for all concerned. But not Jade and Jane. They are appreciative and generous with those who have offered to lend a hand in their quest to stop the evil that they are chasing. On several occasions in Jane, the two protagonists go out of their way to acknowledge and repay the generosity of their supporters. It's lovely to see and an excellent reminder of how I want to behave.

So I'm grateful to Rose Montague for both the opportunity to read her new book ahead of time and for the reminder that teamwork works, even among those with little in common, and asking for and accepting help can be done graciously and easily. And for a good read along the way. My favorite things, all together:  a great yarn, a good lesson, and a shining example to follow. Can't beat that with a metal baseball bat (to understand that reference you'll have to read Jane, which I suggest you do!)

Reading Deprivation

I'm on day five of my seven day retreat. And it's been a trip, even though I've barely left this tiny condo. I've climbed the mountain and reached the highest peak. I've flung myself right off that peak into the dark jaws of the abyss. I've dusted myself off and climbed right back up. And so on and so forth. It's been exhausting. It's been exhilarating. It's been transformative. But, I'm guessing you probably don't care too much about all that, so I will proceed to the topic at hand. Reading. Or the lack thereof. As I've mentioned, I decided to explore Julia Cameron's suggested week of reading deprivation to prime the pump of my creativity. According to her theory, words, for creatives like myself (and like you and everyone else in the world), are anesthetizing little pills that we consume to quash our own creativity as we internalize someone else's.  When I first read about this almost four years ago, I thought NFW. No way I'm giving up my books. I love them too much.

Then, last year, in another effort to find myself (I know that Tolkien said that not all who wander are lost, but I'm beginning to wonder about myself), I had decided to give the whole reading deprivation thing a try. I didn't end up doing it and, in fact, the act of NOT giving up my books last year is what led me to the realization that they were so much more for me than just the vehicles of my escape from reality.

What I realized last year was that I love my smut, and I wanted to share that love with anyone who cared to join me. So I did. My blog, Truth in Fantasy, was born, and all the words in my brain and my heart and my soul were able to spill out onto the page and travel through the ether to your computer or smart phone screen. And it was a glorious thing. 

I'd found a way to incorporate my reading of paranormal and urban fantasy into my intellectual life. I realized, with tremendous joy, that I had discovered a method by which I could make my favorite activity meaningful and purposeful for me, and hopefully others as well, so that I could indulge and know that I was doing more than just whiling away a few minutes or a few hours. I had alchemized my fantasy fiction habit into a productive, constructive pursuit and therefore justified the inordinate amount of time I spent with my beloved books. This felt like heaven on Earth to me. And writing my blog has been a gift of the creative gods; and it was good.

But, apparently, I still needed to inflict this week of reading deprivation on myself to see what it was all about. And it made some amount of sense, as I didn't want my retreat to turn into a vacation--it was supposed to be, and has been, something much more sacred, where I spend totally unstructured time completely alone to see what comes up. Plenty, let me tell you. I recommend this exercise to anyone whose life is busy and full (so pretty much all of us), particularly around a major life milestone or event (I'm hitting the half-century mark shortly). But, again, let me limit myself to talking about what I've learned by taking a fiction reading hiatus for five days now.

The first thing is that I miss my books. I truly do love them. There aren't any books in this condo, besides the ones I brought (I decided to interpret Julia Cameron's exhortation to put down the reading material as meaning only my beloved fiction, news, TV, movies, stuff that "distracts".  I have been reading inspirational and motivational books, including Ms. Cameron's The Right to Write, which has been revelatory). I love the way books feel surrounding me on bookshelves, on coffee tables and desks, in piles on the floor (can you imagine what my house looks like?!). I love the way books smell and feel. I love knowing that they are there for me to pick up and hold and read and touch. But I also love my Kindle. I'm on my third, maybe fourth, actually. And while I have the Kindle app on my phone and iPad, I love having an e-reader, dedicated to my books. I love knowing that I have hundreds of books at my fingertips to read whenever I want to. And when I travel, I just need to bring my Kindle with me to ensure I have access to all of my treasure trove of words, sentences, paragraphs and pages.

I love the fictional characters in my books. I think about them. I worry about them and hope they will get their HEA. I wonder what they would do, and sometimes I adjust my behavior accordingly. I strive to be more like Pia, Anita, Mac, Jane, Kat, Merry, Sookie, Elena, Rose, Bluebell, Jade, Mercy, Myst, Nix, Dev, Amy and even Betsy sometimes. These women inspire me. Their creators inspire me. They are my Muses and they are the source of my creativity. What I've learned is that I didn't need to put these books down to ignite my creative spark, I need to pick them up. What I've come to realize is that these books, these characters and these stories are the foil for my own imaginative ramblings. They are the mainspring of my thoughtful patter; the foundation on which I've been able to articulate my philosophy and therefore share it with the world.

I thought my blog would be a good excuse to read my smut. But I've come to find out that my smut has been the vehicle of my self expression, the path by which my ideas can become embodied so they have form and shape and dimension. These books have given me the ability to explore my interior world and mine for gold inside my own headspace.

What a gift this is. And I'm actually so grateful that I've also been given the ability to see with such clarity my own truths.  Many thanks to Ms. Cameron for helping to get to this point. It has been painful and wonderful by turns. And it has been worth every emotion it's pulled forth from me. 

I recommend a week of reading deprivation. I'm imagining the homecoming will be very sweet indeed. I'll return to my beloved books with even more appreciation than I had before. Almost hard to believe that could be, but there you have it. I guess, absence makes the heart grow fonder after all.

Retreat

I'm on retreat. Not with a group, and not as part of an organized event. I'm calling it a "self-directed" retreat. I spent some time preparing, gathering materials, including inspirational books, pads, notebooks, my favorite pens in multiple colors, candles, tarot cards, food, pillows, etc. I don't need to go anywhere except for walks to move my body and clear my mind.  I chose a spot near the beach in the off-season, so there would be few people, no noise, lots of peace. I eschewed Wi-Fi and told everyone I know that I was going to be unavailable. I decided to practice Julia Cameron's week of reading deprivation in order to open the channel to my creativity and allow the Muse to enter and breathe her inspiration into my essence. I wanted to be sure to honor the gift of time alone and away that my family had given me, particularly my husband, who becomes a single parent to two teenaged boys in my absence, no easy task.

It's been two days, out of a planned week. And I've learned some things. There were several objectives associated with this undertaking. A primary objective was to outline the book I want to write. The original plan was to turn my blog--this very one you are reading--into a book. I thought I was being so clever (I often do, and I'm often wrong, which would make you think that I would stop thinking I'm all that, but not so much). In any event, my original thinking was to marry my passion for smut with my penchant for proselytizing and write a blog and then a book that had a ready-made audience of people who read paranormal and urban fantasy. I carefully plotted my strategy of promoting myself through FaceBook and Twitter and presenting my work to authors who would reward my penetrating insights with recommendations to their readers to run, not walk to read my pearls of wisdom. And thus my audience would be built, and when I took my soon-to-be-written book to prospective publishers, they would jump at the chance to exploit the extensive readership I'd already created and I'd have a bidding war for who would give me the biggest advance. 

As you have probably guessed by this point, things have not really gone according to plan.  With several notable, wonderful exceptions, who are worth mentioning, paranormal and urban fantasy authors have not rushed to help me to promote my work and expand my audience. These exceptions are authors I've mentioned before, and they include Rose Montague, Lilo Abernathy,  Elle Boca and Madhuri Blaylock. These independent authors have gone way above and beyond to extend the hand of support and friendship by telling their readers about me and asking them to check out my work, like and tweet my blog posts, even when the posts are not about their work. They take the time to write comments and engage with me. And I am beyond appreciative.

But despite the best efforts of these amazing writers and my indefatigable assistant, Jamie, it's not really working, and hence one of the reasons for the retreat. A retreat can be a time to run from something, or to something. It can be a time to take stock, lick wounds, regroup, and gather forces for another attempt. A retreat can be strategic or tactical, methodical or more like a rout. A retreat can be temporary or final.

I'm not entirely sure yet what the nature of this retreat will end up being, or the outcomes. I do know that it would appear that my original plan was flawed and that only I and a small handful of others are interested in thinking and discussing deep thoughts we've had while reading vampire porn. Apparently, most of those who read these books just want to be entertained. Which is perfectly fine and totally valid. I want to be entertained as well. But my idea of fun includes navel gazing and philosophical discourse. At least sometimes. And I seem to be in the minority among the folks who ready fantasy.

And at this point it's not clear that there is enough of an audience for such musings so as to make this a viable subject for a book-length effort. This is not to say that I'm planning to stop writing Truth in Fantasy. I'm not. I enjoy it. But perhaps it is better as a blog rather than a book. Perhaps the book that is struggling to be born of my thoughts and feelings is related but not explicitly. I'm not sure yet, but I'll keep you posted.

In the interim, I'd like to express my sincere gratitude to those of you who do read these posts and who recommend them to your friends. And a special thank you, again, to Elle, Madhuri, Lilo and Rose. You ladies are the Shit, as Dani O'Malley would say.