I'm All In

I just finished my fist reading of Dragos Goes to Washington, the next (short) installment in the Elder Races series by Thea Harrison. At the risk of sounding like a total loser fan girl in serious need of a life, I adored this novella and I'm sure I'll read it several more times over the next couple of months. I could not, and did not put it down from page one till the bittersweet end (bitter because I have to wait another month for the next novella, sweet because, hey, it's PNR and everybody gets an HEA--except the bad guys, of course--they just get dead). With respect to Pia and Dragos and all the rest of the Elder Races, I'm all in.  Just like Thea Harrison describes Pia and her dragon mate, "When they were together, they were all in..." Being all in is the best place to be. And one of the hardest places to get to, at least for me. Which of course deserves an exploratory romp through the convoluted recesses of my grey matter. But hey, you're reading this, so hang on for the ride. 

I am fascinated by the concept of being all in. I've thought about it, I've read about it, and I've experienced this elusive state for brief, shining moments--that sometimes last days, weeks, or maybe even years, but which always seem to pass sooner or later. Which leaves me searching for the next peak experience where I can feel all in.

Like for Pia and Dragos, love, especially new love, can make us feel all in. There is absolutely nothing like the feeling that your new love is the key to the universe, the golden ticket to eternal happiness, the missing piece of the soul.  Tomes have been written about the sensation of merging our hearts, minds and spirits with someone we believe understands us and accepts us in ways that no one ever has or ever will, so I'll assume you know what I'm talking about. It's a blissful feeling, no doubt about it. No matter how it turns out in the end (or at least after the beginning) the all in aspects of new love are life altering. 

But romantic love is not the only thing that produces that all in feeling. Parents can feel that way for their newborns, getting lost in the wonder of new life and the power of creation. Heady stuff. We can be all in with respect to new friends, and even new geographic locations. The all in feeling is easier to access, certainly, during the honeymoon phase of any relationship, but that phase can last a very long time, if we're lucky.

And then there are those who are very fortunate, indeed. I'm taking about the lucky dogs who fall in love with their work or avocations to the point that they are all in for the better part of their lives. It is one area where I've yet to conquer my envy of those immensely blessed individuals who find their passion early and remain faithful to the end of their days. I have a favorite cousin like that; he was discovered by an engaged high school teacher and mentored toward a lasting love of inorganic chemistry. His face absolutely glows from within when he discusses crystal formation and why I should care (I'm sure I should, but I just don't. Sorry, Josh). Then there are those who find their sweet spots later in life, like my ex-fiancé who discovered horseback riding in his mid-thirties and has pursued his passion with a passion ever since.

Quite some time ago, I remember reading a book by the hopelessly unpronounceable  Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi called Flow. The book is about the psychology of optimal experience and I remember thinking very clearly, I gotta get me some of that. According to Mr. Alphabet Soup, we experience flow when we are so completely absorbed in an activity that time seems either to stand still or increase to light speed, we cease paying attention to bodily needs and functions, and we become one with all things as we lose the sense of our own boundaries in the cosmos. Who wouldn't be happy under such circumstances?  Flow is the state of being all in. 

But there's a catch--and isn't there always, dammit? In my world, optimal experiences, those where we are all in, or in the zone or the groove or the flow, are as rare as a tuxedo at a Grateful Dead concert. So what do we pitiful humans do? Well, we make like William Hurt and try to achieve altered states. We pursue better living through chemistry. We seek out extreme adventures to feel the rush that reminds us that we are alive. We take stupid risks to try to experience a poor man's version of flow, because those optimal experiences are flowing past us without stopping to let us feel the burn.

I have a friend I meet for dinner about once a month. After we catch up on the quotidian occurrences at work and at home, we always end up talking about ways to be all in. We both crave it, and because our temperaments are similar, we both feel flow from the same kinds of things. And it is equally inaccessible to both of us, so I know it's not just me.

I yearn to be all in. I desperately want to feel like Pia and Dragos. For a lot of reasons. It would be way cool to breathe fire. Or fly, or heal with my blood.  But what I can more or less reasonably aspire to is to be all in. Of course, when I’m reading my beloved books, I’m pretty much there, so maybe I’m the lucky one after all. 

The Things We Do for Love

I've just finished Book Two in the Black Knight Chronicles, Back in Black, and AC/DC would be a perfect soundtrack for this installment. I can already tell that this series will get better with age, just like our vampire heroes, Jimmy and Greg.  I'm happy to report that the Lost Boys I wrote about here are starting to grow up a bit. Plus, this second offering introduces the world of the Fae, always a winning combination with the Sanguine, as our favorite bloodsuckers are called by the Tinkerbelle types. As the series progresses, we're getting more of the backstory, enough to know that it started with a girl. Doesn't it always?

In this case,  Jimmy Black was a young man at a bar feeling inordinately lucky that he was going to go home with a girl who was clearly out of his league. Looking back, Jimmy figured that this was one time where looking a gift horse in the mouth would have been a good idea, never mind those Trojans. As he tells the story, just as he was about to see heaven with his hottie, she bites him. No, it wasn’t, “Love at first feel.” It was game over, new vamp rising, and, oh, by the way, Jimmy accidentally turns his best friend, Greg, in the process. The things we do for love. Or was that lust?  Can a 20- something male tell the difference?

ight now, I'm reliving the roller coaster that is first love with one of my sons, and the experience is bringing up unpleasant memories of all of the extreme, intense, ridiculous, pathetic, courageous, unbelievable things I've done for love over the years. It's been an emotional saunter down memory lane… making it particularly difficult to watch my boy go down the path, knowing as I do the potholes he will encounter along the way. All parents wish to spare our children pain, but I also know there is no protecting him from life in all its glory and despair. Tell me again who suggested we have children?  Oh, yeah, it was me. And my husband. And we had to work at it too, so I guess we must have been sincere in our desires. Makes me want to go back and knock some sense into my younger self.  Just kidding… most of the time.

Jimmy's wide-eyed incredulity at his good fortune in attracting a beautiful girl reminds me of my own sense of wonder at the dawn of my first relationship. That one wasn't so good, unfortunately, and I ended up doing some pretty terrible things in the name of not-being-able-to-live-without-his-love type of obsession (I won't besmirch the name of love by labeling what I felt for my first boyfriend as such). I accepted infidelity. I ran over whenever he crooked his finger.  I endured casual cruelty, of the emotional variety, because I "loved" him so much and he was really just toying with me for his own amusement. And at some level I knew that, but it didn't matter because he was all I could think about and all that I wanted.  Does anyone else remember the intensity of first love? I do. I felt kicked in the teeth (me and Ozzie).Thank God that shit is over.

The things we do for love suck.  Because when we talk about the things we do for love, we mean the self-sacrificing things, the self-effacing things, the difficult things and the things we never thought we could do, or that we wanted to do. Love makes us strong like bull, and tenacious, and creative, and shameless. Love and fear are the most motivating factors in the world, and while things never work out well when we are motivated by fear, they don't always work out well when we are motivated by love, either.

But is it actually love motivating us when we take self-destructive actions in the name of these strong emotions? As I wrote about earlier, we know a good choice from a bad choice by its fruits. I think the same thing holds true for determining whether our actions are inspired by love or some more base emotion—like lust, pride or greed. When we become obsessed with someone and do things we shouldn't (like taking home strange partners we’ve just met in a bar), our motivation probably isn't pure.

When I look back at my own experiences, and look now at what my son is doing, it's important to look at the fruits. A good relationship makes us better--we feel supported and loved, so we feel free to take chances we otherwise wouldn't, knowing we have a safe harbor from the storms of growth. A good relationship leads to self enhancing activities, not self destruction.

On the other hand, bad relationships just suck us dry—kind of like what that vampire hottie did to Jimmy on their first and only ‘date’. A bad relationship makes us feel desperate, not secure, anxious, not safe, and pessimistic, not hopeful. A bad relationship can lead us to give up our friends, ignore our obligations, and isolate us from our families and communities. Bad relationships erode our self-esteem because we find ourselves doing unhealthy things—middle of the night booty calls, or making frantic phone calls to find out where the ostensible significant other is spending his or her time. Sucks us dry, leaving us desiccated.

So, the things we do for love can be good, of course, but the things we do for feelings less than love can leave us feeling sucker punched.  So let's hear it for growing up and maturing, just like Jimmy and Greg.  Because experience does help us discern the difference between love and lust, as my son will also learn… soon I hope. And I'll feel good that my days of bad behavior in the name of love are well and far behind me. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Life is Change

Yesterday was my twentieth wedding anniversary. I tweeted about it. What? You missed my tweet? Shame on you! Anyway, the event got me to thinking about just how long twenty years is, and all that has happened and all the ways I've changed and haven't changed over the course of two decades. As I was contemplating this passage of time, I was also enjoying a new author (new to me, might not be new to you), John G. Hartness. His series is The Black Knight, and it's about vampires named Black and Knightwood who happen to be private investigators. Book one, A Hard Day's Knight, was fun. And while I could regale you with commentary on nerdy vampires and evil demons, both of which populate Mr. Hartness' book, what I want to discuss is the difference twenty years can make, or not.

In the book, our hero, James (call me Jimmy) Black and his trusty sidekick, Greg Knightwood, are two vampires who were turned two decades ago when they were in college. So they were about 20 when they became undead. Not a great age for boys, who tend not grow up at all until they are about 30. So, according to that logic, Jimmy and Greg should have grown up for about ten years before the events of the book occur. But not so much. In fact, they repeatedly refer to how much hasn't changed in the two decades since their first death, including, mostly, their luck with women, their tendency to make puerile jokes, and their love of all things video. My first thought at contemplating such stasis was, "How incredibly depressing." 

It's not that I didn't like myself twenty years ago. Well, I didn't love myself, that's for sure. But I liked myself better than I had when I was 15, or 20 or 25. The trend was favorable. And it's also not that I didn't appreciate having a body that had 20 fewer years of wear and tear on it. I did. Although in many respects I'm healthier and more fit than I was back then. But, realistically, I looked better back in the day, according to our youth-obsessed culture. I didn't need the kind of skin care regimen I do now, and losing weight was a lot easier. Ah, well.

But while I didn't have as many wrinkles and my skin hadn't had as long to bow to the law of gravity, nor did I have the perspective that I do now. There's something about being able to look back such a long distance in the rearview mirror that allows me to relax into the present with much more serenity and grace than I was capable of twenty years ago.

So many of my life questions have been answered in a positive way. I now know how so much of the story ends--I know that I chose wisely and well in my husband--after all, we still like each other 20 years later, and we also still love each other.  I look around and realize that is no small feat. I know that I finally did get pregnant--after four long and painful years filled with surgeries, injections and more time in stirrups than the U.S. equestrian team. I know that I'm not the best parent that ever lived, but also that I've  avoided many of the mistakes that my parents made. I know that the friends I had had twenty years ago are still my friends today--as are the ones I met over 45 years ago. I know that I finally beat bulimia--although it took much, much longer than I would have thought or hoped.

The upshot here is that a lot has happened in 20 years that has affected me profoundly. And unlike Jimmy and Greg, I'm not immortal, so those 20 years count--and they count a lot. Many believe that the years between 30 and 50 represent our prime--the zenith of our mental and physical existence (my mother used to say that a woman didn't grow into her face until she was 30, and we've already discussed the male brain --such as it is).

I think I'd be pretty bummed if I traversed my 30s and 40s and had not much to show for it (for Jimmy and Greg it's their 20s and 30s, but still).  God knows that I pray to make new mistakes, and to not repeat the past ad infinitum. That's just depressing--Groundhog Day again and again. So, for me, there was definitely a flash of sadness as I read about two perpetual boys, who happen to be dark creatures of the night (sort of), but prefer to play at being Peter Pan, living as Lost Boys in a basement apartment in a municipal cemetery (not that that is cliched or anything).

And as I contemplated the characters in my paranormal fantasy novel, I thought about all the people I've met and known who resemble our unaging and unchanging heroes more than is flattering. Unfortunately, I know a number of lost beings who refuse to learn the lessons of the Universe, and who get stuck in the past and in their limitations so that they never grow and evolve. These sad souls stay in bad marriages, show up for the same bad jobs day after day, and drink at the same bar stools night after night. They are vaguely--or not so vaguely--dissatisfied with their existence, filled with self loathing and disfiguring bitterness, yet unwilling to do anything to change their circumstances. These people break my heart.

Life is change. And in the world according to me, only fictional vampires should endure an unchanging existence. Certainly not people. We must all aspire to evolution in a positive the direction so that the problems we had 20 years ago differ in kind and not just degree from those that darken our doorsteps today. We have nothing to fear but stagnation--and that should scare the pants off us, no matter how old we are.

Reject equilibrium. Protest stasis. Eschew satisfaction with the status quo. Embrace growth. Pursue adaptation. Stretch. Reach.

Or not. Your call.

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions

I am a decisive person. I do not dither, nor do I waste time second-guessing myself. I have very little patience for those who can't make up their minds about what to order for dinner, which movie to see and which outfit to wear for a date. I'm equally intolerant even when the dithering is about a weighty decision. I understand that (hopefully) we'll only buy one wedding dress in this lifetime, but that doesn't justify spending three months trying on 300 dresses to make the decision. There is just no need to try on 300 of anything. Or to look at 1100 paint samples for the kitchen walls, or to take days to determine whether acting or sculpture is our elective choice. As I've written about before, there is no such thing as a perfect choice. We do the best we can with the information at hand; it’s an imperfect system that results in imperfect choices. But it's the best we can do.

hy am I contemplating decisions today?  Well, I'm finishing up an installment in Karen Marie Moning's Highlander series. I must say that I find it almost inconceivable (I associate the slightly slobbery voice of Wallace Shawn in the Princess Bride with this word) that the mind that brought forth Jerricho Barrons and Mac Lane also wrote these tales of time travel. Not that the Highlander books aren't good—they are. But they are not nearly as complex and deep as the Fever series, which includes some of the best fantasy ever written, IMHO.

Anyhoo, in The Highlander's Touch, the heroine, Lisa, has to make a big decision—whether to stay in the 14th century with her Highlander love, or return to the 21st century to be with her dying mother. Tough choice. I'm pretty sure I know what I'd do, but then, I wasn't a huge fan of my maternal DNA donor, as you know. But Lisa is completely flummoxed by the choice, so much so that she risks incurring the wrath of the Faerie Queen as she vacillates between the 14th and 21st centuries. How to choose?  How do we know which is the right choice?

While I posit that few of us are faced with the kind of decision that Lisa had to make, most of us deal with difficult choices all the time. I'm always astounded when I stop to think about how many decisions I make in a day – let alone in a week, a month or a year. Decisions about what to eat and what to cook; what to wear and what to buy to wear; what to say to our kids when they transgress and what to say when they are heartbroken. We make decisions about which books to read, which people to date, which jobs to take, which hobbies to pursue, and with whom we spend our free time. We choose between political parties and among various causes and initiatives to support.  We choose whether to reproduce or to adopt or to forgo kids altogether. We choose where to live and whether to use paper or plastic, cash or credit, gas or diesel.

We make hundreds of choices without giving any of them too much thought, and then we agonize over other decisions.  Choice is a privilege, and it's often one we take for granted. Some of us have the luxury of time to weigh each decision carefully, but it's not clear that those who take longer make better choices. I’ve seen those wedding pictures—and trust that you have also wondered how the winner triumphed over the other 299 choices.

How do we know we've made a good decision?  Well, I can’t decide—just kidding. I'm a big believer in the Biblical concept that, ‘by their fruits you will know them’. A good choice will bear good fruits—serenity, peace, and a sense of well-being. A bad choice is a lot like a bad meal—it might feel all right going down, but then it repeats itself ad nauseam (pun intended) after the fact.  A good choice is one where we don't spend too much time looking in the rearview mirror at what might have been.  We make the choice and then move on, secure in the knowledge that it was a good – or even just a good enough— move.

Sometimes the fruits are not apparent for a long time after the decision is made. When it was time to choose a high school for our boys, my husband and I looked at it from every angle. Did we choose well?  Talk to me in about three years and I'll let you know. It feels mostly good now, but we'll see whether our sons grow up to be the kind of men with whom we want to associate – or even associate with us. I hope so with every fiber of my being, but I won't know for a while still. Thank heavens for the fruits of the grape vine while we “enjoy” the journey.

Choices and decisions are hard. But what would be harder would be not to have any say at all about our destiny. The biggest thing about the choices we make is that they are ours. We make them and we own them. And like Lisa, we live with the consequences of our decisions, big and small. Without the time travel, of course, but with the same surety of a path well chosen.

The Sound of Darkness

I'm feeling quite down. I don't know whether to be angry with myself, my spouse, my kids, colleagues or friends. I'm thinking "all of the above."  While I was busy being dark and depressed, I came across a Facebook post by Tony Robbins that talked about forgiveness and how important it is to happiness. Mr. Robbins claimed that expectations are the root of all unhappiness. So I guess I expect too much and forgive too little.  What to do?  Turn to my favorite form of Prozac, of course, my beloved books. My books can always take me out of myself, which is a good place to be right now.  And what better book to read than one that reflects my mood--The Dark Prince by Christine Feehan. This is a classic in the paranormal fantasy genre, and, in fact, it's such a classic that I'm reading the author's cut. Pretty cool. Makes me think about what other author's cut books would be like--I'm thinking Dragon Bound, Angel's Blood, One Foot in the Grave, but I digress).

he hero of the book, Mikhail, is an overbearing ass at times, and he's the eponymous Dark Prince. Basically, this means he acts like I feel right now, doing an excellent imitation of Eyeore. Except, supposedly, he can't feel anything. That part was kind of confusing. But the no-feeling thing sounds pretty good right now. Anyhoo, Mikhail is on his last emotional legs and is about to give into despair. He's lost the will to go on.

Until he meets Raven, his lifemate.  Which is great. Except she's human. Which isn't so great. But the salient point here is that I'm feeling a certain affinity to the darkness in the Dark Prince and I need a little light, only I don't know where to find it. Mikhail looks to Raven to light his darkness. She's willing, mostly, until her own darkness threatens to overwhelm both of them.

I'm guessing (I'm in the middle of the book) that both Raven and Mikhail will find their way to the light and that the sound of joy eventually drowns out the sound of darkness. But what about the rest of us? How can we dispel the gloom that surrounds us when we get into a dark place? I decided to take a poll and see what kinds of solutions I could find.

One friend told me to turn my face to the sun and let the light erase the shadows. Good advice as far as it goes, but beyond a splash of freckles across my nose from the UV exposure, I wasn't sure the physical nature of the suggestion did anything to counteract my metaphysical woes. I love the sun, and if I'm sitting beneath it in my favorite bikini on a Caribbean beach, it's possible my mood would improve (as long as I'm not looking too closely at my tummy). Barring that, however, I felt I needed more.

Enter friend number two, who recommended that I not paint my life with one brush. Huh?  Again with the analogical tips. "Whatever do you mean," I asked my friend (in truth, I might have said something more along the lines of "WTF, woman?!" but it wouldn't be polite to say so).  She calmly explained that while some aspects of my life may seem bleak at the moment, she knew for a fact that some parts were working well. She told me that there was no reason to paint the entire canvas black, the Rolling Stones to the contrary. She had a point. Often, when I'm unhappy about one thing, everything seems off kilter and not the way I want it to be.

A third friend suggested I look at the world through rose-tinted glasses. Not the rose-colored ones that Pollyanna wore, but ones that washed everything I looked at in a hue of appreciation and love. Sounded good, but I wasn't sure of the execution. It wasn't clear how to trade in my progressive lenses--the ones that get darker automatically when you go outside. My progressive glasses get darker when my outlook takes a header and my mood plummets with it. Guess I need a new prescription. Or I needed to turn the binoculars around so that I could focus my attention on the light and not the darkness.

Any way I sliced it, I needed to either embrace the shadows and wallow in my misery (with or without company, although I prefer my misery with a side of fellow travelers always, as I've written about before).  I was leaning toward the wallowing activity, and feeling a strong connection to the Dark Prince. He seemed so noble in his unhappiness. Why is that, anyway?  Why do women love to love men who brood?  Men definitely don't love women who brood. But I'm getting off track again.

I'm not sure there is a solution here except to grin and bear it and assume that the sun will eventually break free of the clouds. I'll be able to listen again to the pitter patter of the light instead of the bass notes of the darkness. And maybe I'll find someone like Raven to light the way for me. As Albert Schweitzer famously said, "At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us."  Indeed. 

Phobias-R-Us

I just finished a delightful romp through the pages of Robyn Peterman's Switching Hour, book one in her “Magic and Mayhem” series. My biggest complaint is that she provided a fairly sizable excerpt from book two, but it's not even available for pre-order on Amazon. That's what I call a tease. Not nice, Ms. Peterman! And despite the fact that I've berated other authors for writing shallow, frothy characters that long for the depth of Paris Hilton, Ms. Peterman makes it work. Anyone who can get me to laugh out loud is someone on my "must read" list. Belly laughs are to life what silly tiny coats are to toy poodles; an absurd yet perfect fit. Anyway, this isn't a review, although my expression of gratitude to Robyn Peterman for lightening my day and mind with such an enjoyable diversion is sincere. Today, I am going to focus on is our heroine's deep aversion to commitment and how relatable I found it. Zelda is not one to stick around, nor did she have any intention of becoming emotionally attached. In fact, she fought tooth and nail (a little shifter humor there) against feeling anything other than admiration for her smoking hot wardrobe. Phobias-R-Us. Zelda and I might as well be wearing signs.

My affinity to this particular psychological boogeyman was mostly negated when I waltzed down the aisle twenty years ago and let out a very audible sigh of relief upon walking up the steps to join hands with my soon-to-be husband. In many ways, I couldn't believe I'd actually made the trek and hadn't passed out from the anxiety of it all. I'd spent my life sliding bass ackwards into any sort of commitments, and my marriage was no exception. First we bought the dog, the car and the house together with me thinking Xanax thoughts at each step. Then, we merged our checking accounts and got a joint credit card. Finally, we tied the knot. We got home from our honeymoon and nothing had changed but my name (truthfully, I couldn't wait to unload my maiden name--UCHITEL--yes, I know, you have no idea how to pronounce it--hence my enthusiasm for ditching it, even though I adored my father).

It wasn't until I became convinced that life as I knew it wouldn't come to a screeching halt that I was able to entertain the prospect of forever. I always believed that marriage would be a ball and chain around my ankle, cramping my considerable style and damning me to hausfrau hell for all eternity. Turns out I was dead wrong. It was the kids who were the real balls and chains. Just kidding, my darling boys.

When we commit to one thing, we pay the opportunity costs of being able to choose something else. And what if we're wrong? What if we find something better elsewhere? After all, the grass is always greener on the other side (which turns out not to be true--I've spoken to a number of my divorced friends who assure me that life after marriage is not all that fun, and dating in mid-life is kind of like trying to find the way out of an Escher drawing, frustrating without much discernible progress.

Zelda has a different problem with commitment, which is based on her unfortunate upbringing by a narcissistic witch of a mother. Given that I was raised by a narcissistic bitch of a mother, Zelda and I are practically twins separated at birth. Narcissistic parents raise distrustful children who grow up to be adults with serious confidence issues-- both in terms of self confidence and confidence in others. Me and Zelda, we've got that going on. Zelda doesn't want to get attached to anyone or anything because she doesn't plan to stick around, so why bother to develop feelings that will inevitably get hurt?  No gain beyond a designer dud, no pain. Seems simple enough.

Have you ever gone to someone's house and there's nothing hanging on the walls? Usually they say something like, "Yeah, well, we never hung the paintings because we figured we'd only be here a year or two."  Meanwhile, they've been living in that bare-walled box for going on seven years. These are people with commitment issues-- not getting attached to physical spaces is usually just the tip of the phobic iceberg; my guess is that folks like this have trouble committing to an entree selection. They get their order, but want to trade with you halfway through. You know these types. Hell, you might even be one of them.

Like Zelda, however, I have learned over time that making a choice and sticking to it can be quite satisfying. I'm still deliriously happy that I decided to marry my sainted husband. And that we put down roots here in Annapolis and raised our family in one place (although the wanderlust in my soul has had to be placated with lots of travel to cool places to see awesome friends as a counterbalance to remaining in our home). There is power and beauty in commitment. There is growth in commitment, including expansion of the heart.  Commitment can even make a heart as small as the Grinch’s grow three sizes at a stretch. And I thought it was just my hips that were expanding.

At the end of Switching Hour, Zelda embraces her destiny. She also bags the hot guy and decides she can tolerate living in the middle of nowhere, as long as she can continue to rock the ultra chic wardrobe (which looks ridiculous in West Virginia, of course, but this is a fantasy book). I guess when you put it like that, happily ever after starts to look pretty good. I can commit to that.

I'm Stuck on a Feeling

I'm still powering through the Audible edition of The Black Dagger Brotherhood series by one of my favorite writer crushes, JR Ward. Currently, Lover Mine is serenading me. This is John Matthew's story, and it's a good one. I'm sure I'll have a lot more to say about John as I continue to listen blissfully to the next 23 hours of heaven. Today's rumination is about love—of the unrequited variety. John Matthew has a bad case. And it's making him a basket case. 

I've often wondered about the affliction known as unreturned feelings.  How is it possible to feel strongly for someone who doesn't return the emotion?  In most of my experience, I've been able to overcome my affection –although perhaps not lust—for men who didn't reciprocate my feelings for them. This does not count, of course, my visceral, excruciatingly painful crush on David Cassidy of Partridge Family fame during my tween years (you know, in the last century—not even that late in the last century). For him, my heart beat faster and my soul yearned. And while he had no idea I was alive (until I met him in person, backstage at a concert, when I was 35—a gift from my beloved husband), I pined for years. 

But that is the point, you see. I had no control over my feelings (or anything else for that matter, as I discussed in my last post). And my feelings did not actually affect the universe: my tears didn’t cause rain to pour down from the heavens – although at times I did feel like I was under a metaphorical rain cloud. My feelings didn't register on David's radar at all. He had no idea that when he sang, “I Think I Love You,” that I thought, “I Can Feel Your Heartbeat.” Feelings don't actually alter reality. As I'm often told by well-meaning friends, feelings aren't facts. And they’re not our fault. 

We can't help the way we feel. We have some input (depending on our level of impulse control) on how we behave in response to our emotions (see my post on this topic here), but many of us can't even master that. Particularly when it comes to love. In one of my all-time favorite movies, Anne of the Thousand Days, Richard Burton's King Henry VIII complains bitterly, "Even a king cannot choose where he will love."  If kings can't do it, then it's probably off the table for the rest of us. 

We can decide—intellectually—that we will feel one way or another. For me, when I've lost that loving feeling, the fat lady is done singing and it's over. Recently, one of my sons impressed the hell out of me in how he broke up with his (first serious) girlfriend. They'd been seeing each other all summer and it had been a very sweet and intense relationship, as summer lovin’ can be with teenagers. With the beginning of the school year and the advent of football season, my son quickly realized that it was too difficult to maintain his relationship at its summertime intensity. Further, he realized that he no longer felt the same way he had a mere three months before. When he spoke to her about parting, he told her, "I'm just not feeling the connection anymore."  What a wonderful (although sad) way to express himself. She was understandably devastated, but she was (emotionally) free to move on, knowing that he doesn't care for her romantically anymore. 

 But my son’s now old flame may not move on. She might pine. She might whine (to her friends). She might not get over my son quickly. Or, she may have another beau next week. Who knows? Whatever she's going to feel, she's going to feel it regardless of what anyone says to her. And whatever he's going to feel, he's going to feel. We are all entitled to our feelings, and we can't get mad at others for how they feel. Never mind that some of these feelings bear no resemblance to reality—we must honor them because feelings are exempt from the blame game — even if we think said feelings are dumb. Not that I'm ever frustrated by this occurrence, mind you. We can't come back with a rapier-like retort because that would just be wrong, right?

So if feelings aren't facts and how we feel is not our fault, what can we do about them?  Well, naturally, we can drink heavily, which is always a good option. It's five o'clock somewhere in the world, isn't it?  We can indulge in our favorite compulsion (chocolate, anyone?). We can make like ostriches and bury our heads in denial and self-delusion. We can act out inappropriately and we can get sick. 

I don't actually recommend any of the above options. None of those choices leads to a happy ending. Instead, we can practice processing our emotions in a healthy and constructive way. We can begin by accurately identifying our feelings, a skill that many lack. When my son was young (the one with the excellent break-up line), he used to get a lot of stomachaches. I was worried about his digestion until someone helped me figure out that what he was experiencing as stomach pain was actually unacknowledged anxiety that was manifesting as physical discomfort. When we were able to address the causes of his anxiety, the tummy troubles resolved themselves. 

For those of us who aren't five years old, you'd think that we could do a better job when we play "Name That Feeling."  Most of us know, generally, when we are happy and sad, irritated and mad. But not all the time. Sometimes, it's hard to know how we are feeling, except that it's bad. We may not have a clue as to what is causing the ill will within us. Emotion identification is a learned skill. I'm sure there are classes on it somewhere. 

Once we've identified our feelings, there are a number of ways to process them. Among my favorites are journaling, yoga, walking, meditating, body work (massage, acupuncture) and energy work (Reiki, chakra balancing). All of these modalities can help us work through strong emotions and prevent them from becoming trapped, only to erupt sometime and somewhere else that is inappropriate. 

Or we can just fake it ‘til we feel it. We can act our way into right feeling good while waiting for the unpleasant feelings to pass. Which they usually do. Eventually. If we allow ourselves to feel them as opposed to bury them. 

Feelings are a messy business. It's why Vulcans, those clever aliens, eschew them. So much cleaner without those pesky emotions. At the beginning of Lover Mine, it's clear that John Matthew thinks so. He'd love to be a Vulcan instead of a vampire. But he's stuck with his feelings, just like the rest of us. 
 

Out of Control

As I mentioned in my bio (I trust you've memorized it by now, naturally), I suffered from disordered eating for many years, starting when I was sixteen. My teenaged years were not kind to me, and I responded to the vagaries of fate and the cruelty of my mother by controlling the only thing I could, my body. My mother monitored every morsel that crossed my lips, so of course I wanted to eat the world. But I didn't want to get fat. My friend showed me how to stick my fingers down my throat. Voila! Problem solved; I could have my cake and eat it too – all while wearing skinny jeans. I could get away with something. I could have something that was mine, mine, all mine – secrets. I could maintain control. All of us do it. Whether it's a daily ritual – performing morning ablutions in a specific order, or engaging in superstitious activities prior to getting on an airplane; I require my husband tell me that, "everything is going to be all right," before I step on a plane – each and every flight, before each leg of a journey, whether we are flying together or not. We think if we are excruciatingly careful –cross all our t's and dot every last I — nothing bad will happen. If we take our umbrella, it won't rain. If we avoid broken mirrors, our luck will hold. If we always use our turn signals, we will drive safely and avoid accidents. We believe that if we're with our children, they won't get sick or hurt. We strive to do what's expected of us in the hope that we'll get our white picket fence or whatever else constitutes our ideal HEA.

But here's the thing:  none of it matters. Control is an illusion, a soap bubble of iridescent beauty that we long to follow to the ends of the earth, only to have it pop the moment we try to touch it. Why am I feeling so fatalistic?   It’s Maria Dahvana Headley’s fault. I’m enthralled by her extraordinary new novel, Queen of Kings, about Cleopatra, vampire and destroyer of worlds.  In Queen of Kings, Cleopatra tries to control her life’s outcome by summoning the goddess Sehkmet, and in so doing, she destroys everything.

There is a formula for happiness and contentment that exhorts us to take action and let go of the results: to act as if everything were up to us and pray as if all results were up to God. We can only do what we can do. And we can't do what we cannot do. Sounds simplistic, I know, but how many of us actually take these axioms to heart? Very few of us.

Too many of us force our wills all over our lives and the lives of those around us. You know what I mean; we want something to work so badly, or we believe that a certain outcome is critical to our happiness or success, so we move heaven and earth to achieve it (or we try, at least).  We sacrifice time, relationships, our health and our wealth to “make” something happen.  We try to force an issue through brute strength or dogged persistence or saccharine sweetness. When our efforts fail, we redouble our efforts, only to stand stymied when our children do something irrevocably stupid, or we don't get the job, or our spouse walks out on us, commenting that, "I'm not happy."  Even worse, we are baffled when the doctor pronounces a dread disease, or a promising treatment fails to deliver despite our best efforts and entreaties to God.  Cleopatra goes down this road with disastrous results—she wants to ensure eternity for herself and her love, Mark Antony, and she is willing to do anything or give anything up to achieve that—including her soul.  We all know what happens when we make Faustian bargains.  And yet we do it anyway—convinced we know what we need to make us happy or complete. We believe that what we need is control over outcomes.  If only… fill in the blank any way you want. If only we had control, all would be well.

But, we have no control. We just like to pretend we do. We listen to motivational speakers and Nike ads that tell us to ‘just do it.’ And we do. Which is great. But then what?  What happens when one of my wonderful indie author friends finally gets her book published, only to see her sales fall to single digits, despite the quality of the material? How can we believe there is any literary control to be had when 50 Shades of Grey is a blockbuster, and Rose Montague, Lilo J. Abernathy and Elle Boca aren't on all the bestseller lists?  No control.

The way I figure it, if Cleopatra, with all her power and influence, couldn't make things turn out to her liking, how will we lesser mortals fare?  If Princess Di can be cut down in the full flower of life, anyone can be, right?  If Paul Walker can die so senselessly, what master plan could be in play? No control. We have no control.

So what does that mean?  Does it mean we throw our hands in the air and the the towel down to the ground and say, "The hell with it?"  Of course not. It means that we continue to take action. Perhaps not the kind chosen by the vampiric version of the Queen of the Nile, but action nonetheless.

Because we can be certain of only one thing:  while we can't guarantee the outcomes of our actions, we can reliably predict the result of inaction: nothing.

So, we must summon strength from our God(s), rituals, or magical thinking, and keep on keeping on because while we can’t control most outcomes, wresting control of our fate via inaction won't give us the outcomes we're hoping to achieve.  No control. 

Still Waters Run Deep

I went to the saddest funeral I’ve ever attended yesterday. While the widow (a second wife, married 15 years) seemed sad (she was crying), she was alone in her grief; hers was the only damp eye in the house. The pastor’s eulogy was formulaic. When the dead man's eldest daughter spoke about her deceased father, the most personal detail she shared was how many blue jeans he owned, because it was all he wore. I didn't know this man well, but I found myself thinking I didn't miss much. Could that be true?  Could it be that there was no there there? Contemplating the superficiality of some lives got me to thinking about  Kimberly Raye’s Dead End Dating series. The protagonist, Lil, about whom I've written before, is certainly likable, but she's not particularly deep. I wonder what her eulogy would sound like--she was sweet and she loved Prada?  Because, honestly, there's not much there, there. On the other hand, as my friend claims, maybe depth is highly overrated. 

But is it?  I'm a big fan of depth. I persist in the belief that every human has some there, there even if it's not much. As a natural health practitioner, I spend quite a bit of time listening to people’s backstories. On the surface, some of these folks appear simple, mean, shallow or petty. But it's been my experience that when you scratch the surface, assuming someone has lowered their defenses enough to acknowledge the itch, there is usually a hidden current that others may know nothing about. But, do still waters always run deep?  Is everyone who plays their cards close to their chest hiding a royal flush?  I think the law of averages says that not all are – but there are some. How can we distinguish between those whose depths are worth mining and those whose veins have run dry, or worse, yield only fool's gold?

Sometimes, it's hard to discern the difference.  In some cases,  the vein is buried so deeply beneath denial, distractions and the deadening effect of abandoned dreams, that it becomes wholly inaccessible to anyone. And how sad is that?  If we assume that every child on this planet is born with the potential to lead an extraordinary life and to experience the full spectrum of emotions, why doesn’t every embodied spirit do it?  What happened to those who don't?  Or, is my assumption wrong, and there are some who enter the world superficial from the start? What about the guy whose funeral I attended? What happened to him along the way that the most the pastor could say was that he had five children, owned an HVAC business and dressed in denim? What happened to his there? And do Lil’s waters run deep – so deep that we’ll have to wait until another book to see what’s churning beneath her designer duds?

Many of us project our own inner screen onto others. If we are deep and interesting (as I know all of my readers are!), we assume the same about others and that we just haven't uncovered it all yet. This creates a delicious challenge to uncover the buried treasure of someone's hidden personality, one of my favorite activities. All of us want to know what's behind the mask of the Phantom of the Opera, don't we?  Of course, sometimes we are disappointed or horrified when we pull that mask off, but what’s life without a little risk? And that is the promise that keeps me digging like a dog after a bone–I want to plumb others’ hidden depths.  This insatiable and optimistic curiosity will incite me to buy another book in the Dead End Dating series in the hope that Lil’s creator will allow us to see further beneath her still waters.

I'm a wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve, don't-try-to-play-poker-because-your-face-will-give-you-away kind of gal. As a result, I tend to project sagacity and iron-fisted control (which I admire) onto those who keep their thoughts and emotions to themselves (I also tend to want to poke such people till they bleed, which I've discussed here, but I digress). I figure that all of that silence and intensity is masking profundity.  After all, if someone has the ability to look wise and contemplative in the face of titillating revelations and provocative rejoinders, there must be a plethora of activity occurring below that placid surface. If we could only get to it.

Unfortunately, I've had to (reluctantly) abandon this belief. Sometimes, it is ignorance and apathy that inspire silence and solemnity.  Maybe that was the case with the recently deceased denim-wearing HVAC dude?  Maybe, because sometimes those quiet types offer no supremacy of circumspection and authority of erudition to explain their measured, non-committal responses. Sometimes there really is no there there--no deep thoughts, no concern for the world at large There are people who just meander through their days wondering which questions they can answer on Jeopardy, or the size of  Kim Kardashian's butt , the next HVAC job or the latest Prada collection. Some folks create and inhabit worlds that are so small they have nothing to talk about and don’t leave people with anything to say about them at their funerals. 

I don't want to be like that poor dead man. And I don't want to be like Lil, frankly, even though she is funny and entertaining and has a better wardrobe than I. I want to make sure there's a lot of there there in me and in those with whom I hang . I don't think depth is overrated – I think it’s highly underrated. I believe in buried treasure. So, if your waters are still – I will come digging… and maybe find something worthy of inclusion in a eulogy. I plan to leave people with a lot to say – hopefully most of it good.

Why I Write What I Write

This post first appeared on the Write Bitches website back in May 2015. I appreciate their asking me to think about this topic.  I’m reprinting it here because I need a bit of a reminder about why I’m doing this.

I used to be a writer. When I was a child, and probably until around my early teenage years, I was “known” for my writing abilities (you know, by my elementary school). I won childhood awards for my fiction, and I went to sleep at night thinking of stories about imaginary people whose lives consumed me. I still have the novel I wrote when I was 12, an episodic adventure about three people stranded on a desert island, complete with a love triangle and contemplations of mortality and integrity (I was a precocious tween). I drafted over a hundred hand-written pages, and I remember the intense pride I felt at the accomplishment.

Fast-forward many years. While I still employed my interest and skills in pursuit of academic and professional excellence, I stopped writing for myself entirely. I’m not clear about what happened, but it probably involved severe family dysfunction, a descent into addiction, and the resulting loss of my essential self. I forgot who and what I was. I lost sight of my fundamental identity as a writer and it has taken me a long time to reclaim the faculties that make me who I am and largely define why I am here.

We’ve all read the adage that writers write because they have to. There is something inside us that needs to be released. I understand that metaphor, but as I consider my writing, I don’t quite experience it that way. For me, my mind and my hands feel like conduits for something outside of myself that is using me as an amanuensis. Sometimes the experience is more of a dialogue that I am transcribing, and I am able to engage with my Muse and produce the results of our “conversation.” At other times, I will sit down with pen and paper, or at my computer, or just with my thumbs tapping rhythmically at my phone’s touch screen (a favorite writing position for me, strangely), and have no idea what is going to come out. At those times, I’m often filled with a sense of wonder and excitement, as the words that fill the page or the screen disclose themselves to me.

There are times when I read what I’ve written and marvel at the nuance and complexity of my Muse. Occasionally I’ll look back and realize I written something that was revelatory to me. Sometimes, I’ll recognize the thoughts and the analytical process behind the concepts, but the precise expression will make me smile with gratitude that I was the vehicle of expression for those particular phrases.

I write what I write because it’s what I have to say. There is an imperative quality to my writing, now that the faculty has been restored to me. The writing is a gift and a demand of my Muse, who I have embraced once again, and I find I must honor it or ignore it at my peril. Occasionally, I indulge in fantasies of what I wish I could write, but cannot. In my dreams, I create epic stories in my beloved fantasy genre; I join my idols in the paranormal and urban fantasy world and produce books that readers like me fall into and lose themselves completely, only to emerge from the fictional world transformed by the experience. Would that I could write such novels. But I can’t. Because while these writers are my rock stars, I’m only with the band, not part of it. I write what I’m inspired to write while reading the inspiration of others. I’m a derivative writer, rather than an original producer. But that’s OK. I’m profoundly grateful for the gifts I’ve been given, even if they are not the ones I would have chosen. You know, me and Mick, we can’t always get what we want, but apparently we can get what we need.

When I first picked up my pen again after a decades-long hiatus, I had dreams of fame and fortune associated with my newfound passion. I would look out into the distance and think about all the people whose lives I would touch and change for the better. I fantasized about speaking engagements and book signings and television interviews. I was so sure my writing didn’t “count” unless it was externally validated. It seemed to me like the tree falling in the forest; if I wrote and no one read my words, did they make a sound?

I’ve since abandoned that line of thought as my Muse has gently reminded me that the gift is wholly independent of outside input. In fact, my Muse demands complete detachment from the fruits of my labor. As in many aspects of life, I must take the action and let go of the results, as I have absolutely no control over what anyone thinks of my writing, how others will interpret it, and whether it will go anywhere beyond my hands. I spill onto the page and release my words to the universe. Perhaps they will return to me in the form of recognition and praise. Maybe they will join the infinite number of their fellows in the ether, never to be seen or heard from again, except as additional bricks in the wall of creativity that separates our species from the others that inhabit our world.

Art will out. It must, or risk becoming a festering wound, a stone baby, poisoning its creators. Art is love, and love is generative. Whether we experience our writing as spores that grow within us needing to be liberated into the world, or as a whisper in our ear that insists on being given voice, our writing must be freed of the confines of our minds and our souls. In letting go of our words, writers are renewed, expanded, allowed to progress in our purpose and able to feel fulfilled.

That’s why I write what I write.
 

To Infinity and Beyond

I'm in the middle of reading Dead End Dating by Kimberly Raye. It's as light and airy as a good soufflé, and just about as filling. But one needs a good dessert every now and then, and I'm enjoying this sweet diversion. Ms. Raye has created an interesting world. One's outward appearance and social and economic status can be trumped by one's ability to procreate; male and female desirability is rated according to their fertility. This matrix would’ve put me at the edge of the dating pool. But because I wasn’t born a vampire, it doesn't matter. Of course, I'm not a made vampire either, or even a werevamp, so I don't fit into Ms. Raye's world at all, more's the pity. But here's the thing about the world of Dead End Dating (DED): it's just like ours, except that it includes creatures of the night. Which allows me to think about eternity in terms I can understand—and which make me shudder. In the novel, our protagonist, Lil, must deal with parental expectations, financial realities, adult responsibilities, family obligations and the stigma of being single. Lil tries to buck the system by remaining aggressively unattached and attempting to make her own way in the world through innovative entrepreneurship. But her choice of commerce belies the militancy of her stance concerning the need for a life partner—which in this world is called—frighteningly—an "eternity mate."  Lil runs a dating service for lonely heart vampires. Yup. She's a vampire Yenta (for those of you who don't speak Yiddish, that means "matchmaker"--like the one in Fiddler on the Roof). Just what the vampire world needed. 

And while this novel indulges my taste for escapist fiction— it's certainly doing the trick of distracting me from my errant children (who are grounded this week and banned from their electronic devices, including phones) and the confounding dashboard on my new car (which I had to get because I totaled my old car last week—don't ask), there is an unsettling undercurrent pulling me toward dangerous waters as I metaphorically turn the pages on my Kindle.

The problem is a mixed message on a number of different levels. In the born vampire world of DED, there is no such thing as love, and finding an eternity mate is all about propagating the species. Individuals with the best chance of making baby vampires are supposed to get together and take – or make as the case may be –one for the team. Very clinical. And yet, apparently, these practical pairings are expected to go the distance—which in this case can last hundreds of years, if not more.

Contrast that with Lil's perspective, which is a little paradoxical. She claims to be a modern vamp—who happens to be 500 years old. She is a ‘fish and bicycle’ kinda gal. But, simultaneously, she's holding out for true love—fertility ratings be damned. And, her clients are the antithesis of her claim that women need a man as much as fish need bicycles.

So which is it?  Do women need men or not?   Should we hold out for true love or settle for compatibility? This is not a facetious question—there is a lot to be said for compatibility especially over the long, long haul.  Everyone always says passion fades—but a similar approach to neatness, eating, sleeping, money and sex, among other things, makes a lifetime together pleasant as well as pleasurable.  In the DED world, compatibility is gauged in terms of fecundity and virility, but it presents a good thought exercise for our world nonetheless.

Seems to me that the answer is simple—which doesn't make acting on it easy. Women don't need men to be complete their lives. There is no shame or tragedy in being single—particularly when it is by choice and not circumstance. We women can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and never forget that we don't need a man (isn't that how it goes?  No, well maybe it should). And for those of us who choose men with whom we had passion but not lasting love, that's okay too. Passion is fun and life affirming. Which is awesome and not everyone gets to experience such passion.

In the same way, some of us choose a more steady, less exciting path. Also an excellent choice, and many of these pairings are able to run the marathon and not just the sprint because of the even keel of both boats (yes, I'm shamelessly mixing metaphors, I know). Again, not everyone gets to make this choice, and not all of us would choose it, given the chance.

Some of us, among those who desire to partner for life, are lucky enough to have it all—passion and compatibility. Lucky us. But from where I'm sitting, this is not an everyday occurrence, and should not be expected. Because while most of us grow up thinking we will eventually marry and perhaps reproduce, some of us come to believe that the idea of an eternity mate inspires thoughts of Meatloaf. Not the dinner entree, but the musician who sings "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."  Poor Meatloaf is praying for the end of time, so he can end his time with his mate. Eternity can feel like forever, especially with the wrong partner.

Let’s hope Lil does her job well, even if not for herself. Because in her world, the dashboard light is on for an awfully long time – as is the one in my new car… which I hope to have figured out how to turn off shortly.

I Want My HEA

I started reading romance novels as a freshman in high school. In retrospect, it probably wasn't my best move. Before I started dating and before anyone explained the facts of life to me (not the birds and the bees, but the realities of male/female interaction), I was influenced in by Fern Michaels, Kathleen E. Woodiwiss and Johanna Lindsey in this arena. Unfortunately, I took the lessons of these wonderful authors to heart and had an extremely warped view of romantic relationships and how romantic love should be expressed. I thought the fantasy was truth. And while you know I believe in truth in fantasy, I missed the memo in my teens and drank the Kool-Aid without any discernment or analysis at all (although I'm trying hard to make up for it now). It must be said that the historical romances I devoured in the 1980s didn't have much in common with the paranormal romances I enjoy today or anything in common with my favorite urban fantasy books. The historical romances I enjoyed featured ultra masculine heroes and beautifully feminine heroines who, according to the formula, don't like each other much and who work hard to fight their mutual attraction and overcome the many obstacles to their love, only to succumb to the inevitable and realize that they are soul mates as they achieve their happily ever after.

The power dynamic was always in favor of the male who always ends up rescuing the woman in some form or other—although, in the same way Julia Roberts assures Richard Gere that the beautiful princess at the end of the story turns around and saves the prince who first saved her—the female protagonist in my romance novels always succeeded in making her man a better person, a la Helen Hunt and the inappropriately older Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets. Given the mutual salvation, one could avoid thinking that these novels might have been written by Bobby Riggs. By the same token, no one would inadvertently credit their authorship to Billie Jean King, either.  

My love of reading brainwashed me at an early age to expect, erroneously,  that real men—the kind to whom a young woman like me would be attracted—didn't always want to acknowledge or act on their hidden love for the young woman in question. I also expected that there would be impediments to our love and that it was okay to be involved in relationships with extreme power imbalances where I was always in the weaker position.  I read it in bestselling books, after all.

I made some abysmally poor choices based partially on these romance-novel-inspired beliefs. But at least these books were straightforward and explicit in the messages they promulgated: women need men to save them or complete them and to just cuddle with them. No man = no happily ever after.  And I didn’t want my life to be a losing equation. Clearly, these authors were unaware of the new paradigm where a woman needs a man as much as a fish needs a bicycle. Apparently, those fish are in serious need of some pedal pushers.  

Fast forward to about six years ago, when I fist discovered Sookie Stackhouse in Charlaine Harris' Southern Vampire world. I fell in love with Sookie and her fierce independence. I loved that she didn't just melt at the feet of the first vampire who came a’ calling. She remained her own person and stayed true to her values and beliefs. Sookie was my hero.  Then I was introduced to Anita Blake, and while it may not have been love at first sight, our relationship grew into a strong and lasting one (at least on my side). Anita kicked butt and took names. She was glorious.

But there was one small problem—while Sookie and Anita were busy being themselves and resisting the temptation to become the willing love slaves of Vampire Bill and Eric Northman or Richard and Jean-Luc, I was berating my poor husband for not being more like my fantasy lovers—Bill, Eric, and Jean-Luc (I was never on Team Richard, sorry, he was way too conflicted—I have more than enough angst for all of us). Instead of internalizing the best way to maintain my own power in potentially imbalanced relationships, or how to be true to myself despite being head-over-heels in lust/love, or aspiring to strap knives to my wrists and thighs, I was pining for males who do not and cannot exist outside the pages of my next generation romances. Wow, I guess I missed the memo again. 

Not to mention that my husband got rightly and truly annoyed by my constant comparisons of him to males who aren't real.   He did not appreciate being forced to read Dark Lover by J.R. Ward and encouraged to take notes so that he could learn how I wanted to be treated (I still think that J.R. Ward, Kresley Cole, Thea Harrison and Nalini Singh should be required reading for all men with female partners, as I've written about here, but I digress). He reminded me, none too gently (although it's possible I may have deserved the brusque delivery), that it's easy to be perfect within the pages of a book, for the finite amount of time I will spend with my fantasy lover (which of course reminds me of the memorable novel, Fantasy Lover, by Sherilyn Kenyon, where the male protagonist literally comes to life from a book and exists only to pleasure the woman who called him forth—but we can talk about that later – during my husband’s next trip).

I know my husband is right though, and it seems impossible that these protagonists not only get their happily ever after, but that their HEAs last for hundreds or thousands of years, as all of these characters are immortal.  In my real marriage, with my real (and wonderfully amazing, saint-like) husband, it's been a challenge to keep the spark alive for only two decades. I cannot imagine the effort required within a monogamous relationship that last centuries. More power to 'em, but my expectations may have been just a tiny bit inflated by reading about these fabulous vampires, werewolves and faeries at such an impressionable age (like, say, 45).

So the take-away here is that perhaps I'm too susceptible to the truth in the fantasy books I read—or maybe it’s the fantasy I’m a sucker for. I certainly was when I was 15, and apparently I still am at 50. I'm a bit more self-aware these days, but I need to stay on my guard. Because I want my HEA, the hell with my MTV. 

True North

I've already written a bit about the series I'm reading, Bella Forrest’s A Shade of Vampire, and the sharp moral compass of the female protagonist, Sophia. For an 18-year-old, Sophia is incredibly self-possessed and oozes integrity.  These two characteristics, along with her certainty about who she wants to be in life, inform all of her decisions.  As I was reading about her, I couldn't help but wonder if this particular trope was more fantasy than truth. Do most people –especially those who are so young—have this absolute a moral compass? When we talk about doing the right thing, don't many of us need a burning bush to show us the way?  In a landscape of infinite grey, does black and white always stand out the way we think it should?  Could it be that we know the difference between right and wrong as clearly as Sophia — but that we don't always want to acknowledge it?

As I was getting into Sophia’s head—via the multiple first person accounts that Ms. Forrest uses in her novels—I was struck by how confident Sophia was about her views of right and wrong. Sure, she had moments of doubt, but they seemed to last only seconds, not the days or weeks of angst I'm used to when faced with difficult choices or moral quagmires. Morality and virtue are tricky things, and I think most people fall into one of two camps—absolutists or relativists.  In theory, I can posit a reality in which absolute truth exists, but in the non-theoretical version, I just can't see it.  Which makes knowing the difference between right and wrong more difficult to discern. Or admit.

When I was 21-years old, I went to Israel for a year. Through an unplanned series of events, I ended up working for a private detective agency as an undercover agent. Yes, really. My job was to pose as an American volunteer on various kibbutzim (collective living communes) and discover whether the residents, mostly younger members, were using and/or distributing narcotics. It was a pretty cool job, I thought, and I was sure it was right up my alley, as I'd grown up wanting to work for the CIA. Turns out, I was well suited to the task and good at the work. But something wasn't right.  Although it took longer than it should have to realize the problem —because I didn't really want the answer.

You see, in order to do my work, I had to lie to people I came to like and respect. And a couple of times, I had to betray their trust and report on illegal—although not necessarily immoral—activities. At first, I was conflicted and confused. But finally, I was able to ask myself a question young Sophia understood well before I did: who did I want to be? Did I want to be a liar, even if it was professionally sanctioned and lying meant I was just doing my job? Did I want to turn on people with whom I'd shared meals? People who confided in me and let me into their lives (although unwittingly under false pretenses)? The answer to all of these questions was a clear "no."  But that clarity took some time to manifest.

When we allow our desired identity to dictate our behavioral choices, we can usually achieve our moral goals. If we want to be women and men of integrity, by my definition, we must strive to be honest, generous, tolerant, compassionate and kind. We don't lie, cheat or steal. We are not mean. Our word is worthy. Our commitments have weight.  We do not cheapen ourselves by approaching life as a dilettante. We are clear about our own values and we live them. But none of this is easy. And often, it's not much fun.

As I’m reading about the scrupulous Sophia, I'm watching one of my sons struggle to figure out what Sophia is so sure of. He has a girlfriend he really likes, but I don’t. I think she’s throwing off his moral compass, because, from my (admittedly biased) perspective, her actions have led my son to do some things I wish he hadn't. So I asked him the same questions I ask myself with respect to all of my relationships:  do you like who you are in relation to this person? Are you happy with the choices you're making as a result of your involvement with him or her?

These are questions we all have to answer for ourselves. Honestly. Because it's one thing if my son decides to lie to me about this girlfriend and his relationship with her; it’s another issue entirely if he's lying to himself.  All of us lie to ourselves at times, but I’ve found I’ve become more self aware with age. I was all about the rationalizations when I was younger. I find it harder to fool myself these days.

All of us want what we want when we want it. And it's a major bummer when our moral codes interfere with our perceived pursuit of happiness. But one thing I've learned since I was 21 is that the pursuit of pleasure and instant gratification is not the same thing as happiness. I don't believe we can be truly happy when we are morally bankrupt, or even just deficit spending. And our underlying unhappiness comes out in all sorts of ways—including bad moods and self-destructive behavior. Somewhere, we know right from wrong, even when we don't admit it to ourselves. Even when the bush is merely smoking.

It would be great if all of us had internal moral compasses that pointed toward True North without fail. And if we demanded that our values align with our personal Polaris at all times. And if we agreed on common values. Alas, I've not encountered these conditions on this plane of existence. Maybe in the next world. Or an alternate Universe.

For today, I'll continue to admire paranormal fantasy heroines like Sophia, and continue to strive to make the best choices I can, based on the person I want to be. And I'll try to teach my children to do the same, although I understand that exhorting my son to be more like Sophia is not a winning parental strategy, so I’ll probably restrain myself. The truth is that we all stray sometimes from the moral straight and narrow because True North is not always visible.

A Bridge Too far

Some months ago I had the privilege of being asked to beta reader the second offering in the Bluebell Kildare series by Lilo J. Abernathy. It was a new experience for me, and one I enjoyed and hope to repeat. At the time, Lilo was primarily seeking comments on the plot progression and character development. One of the questions she asked her beta readers concerned how far she could take the actions of one of her characters before that character became too "unlikable" in the minds of her readers. It was a fascinating question--and an astute one. In contemplating the answer for Lilo, I was reminded about other books where this phenomenon occurred and how the authors handled it.

Another author who grapples explicitly with this question is Bella Forrest. Her series is not my usual fare, and is quite different in many respects from Lilo Abernathy’s series, but some of the central questions are the same. In the Shade of Vampire series, Derek, a 500-year-old vampire, struggles to contain his predatory nature and control his impulses to kill and destroy human lives for the sake of his beloved, Sophia—who is mortal. Another issue for the couple is the need to come to terms not only with his choices in the present day, but also with his past actions—the ones he cannot change, but which make Sophia cringe. Derek has done some horrible things over the course of his life--and he'd actually slept for the vast majority of his existence, so who knows how many more poor choices and dirty deeds he would have executed if he'd been awake for the whole time?

Sophia, our teenaged heroine, has a particularly well-developed moral compass for a such a young woman. She's in love with Derek, who has been nothing but wonderful to her, but she is fully aware of his darker vampire nature, and she is conflicted about all that he's done and still might do. She wonders if she's fallen for a monster. So do I. 

This is a common theme in much of paranormal fantasy. It's hard to posit a centuries-long lifespan and not include a history of misdeeds and callous choices. Life has not always been as easy as it is in twenty-first century developed countries and the arbiter of moral choices was likely different in the Middle Ages, before running water, electricity, and IPhones.  So, choices that were made when slavery was an accepted aspect of life (like, say, in Jesus' time), take on a different ethical timbre in light of the social mores and accepted practices of the era.

But what about more clearly defined moral choices?  As I'm reading A Shade of Vampire on my Kindle, I'm listening (still!) to J. R. Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood series on Audible. I'm up to Lover Avenged—Rehvenge's story. Rehvenge is a drug dealing bookie pimp--not to put too fine a point on it. He routinely engages in acts of depravity. How is Ms. Ward going to reconcile that with him getting his HEA? I won't spoil it for you, but you know he does, so it's an interesting question. One thing J. R. Ward does better than anyone, though, is to get into the heads of all her characters so we can identify with the humanity there, and relate to even the most morally challenging characters. Which is how she makes it work. Lilo Abernathy does an excellent job in this arena as well, making potentially unlikable characters—or at least characters who do unlikeable things—relatable.

Another example of this phenomenon is found in Kresley Cole's Immortals After Dark series. I had trouble with this one, because the actions of one of the villains Ms. Cole transforms into a romantic hero go over the line, even for me—and I'm inclined to forgive my fantasy characters quite a lot. As the series progresses, it turns out that one of the bad guys is the long-lost love of one of the heroines. As a result of their love, he comes to see the error of his ways, but those ways were horrific. I just couldn't go there, no matter how sorry he was or how much he loved his mate. I couldn't overcome my revulsion at what he'd done. 

But that was the exception, not the rule. Most of the time, if the female protagonist can forgive the tarnished hero, so can I. Mostly because I want to believe that love heals and changes people for the better. I also want to believe that when two people are committed to making it work, it usually does.

In others, the impropriety is a bridge too far, and there is no going back. These are the waters that authors must navigate between their own convictions and attachments to the characters they create and the need to garner empathy for their creations on the part of their readers. It can be tricky. For example, a lot of readers clearly prefer female characters with little or no previous sexual experience as mates for their über alpha males (most of whom have had plenty of willing women). This is a trope that burns my butt, but I'm guessing that these tendencies reflect the majority opinion out there about the relative acceptability of multiple partners for men and women. I've written about how I feel about that here, and once again, Kresley Cole is the exception to that rule.

In the end, the question of how bad is too bad and how far is too far is in the eye of the beholder. Most of the time, most authors get it right for most readers. But there is no such thing as making everyone happy all of the time. So accomplished authors, like Lilo Abernathy, will continue to grapple with these questions while they ply their craft and shape their drafts and work to find a way to walk the line between realistic fantasy and characters who behave in a morally acceptable manner. Tough stuff, for sure.

It's Not You, It's Me

I'm still thinking about the latest offering in Katie MacAlister's Dragon series, Dragon Fall. The title refers to the male protagonist, Kostya, a proud Black Dragon, and leader of his Sept, who's been used and abused by a former flame and has sworn off women in any sort of serious capacity. In other words, he's got commitment issues. So when our heroine, Aiofe (EE-fuh), falls for the Black Dragon, he is determined not to fall for her. This, of course, creates a challenge that many women couldn't resist. I know. I used to be one of them. 

"It's not you, it's me."  I don't know how many times I've heard that line, or some variation. Conversely, I can't count how many times I've used it to offer a nice but unsuitable guy a "soft landing" and the salvation of a bit of face. And because I've used the line so often, I know that everyone who uses those words has incredibly brown eyes. You know, from being mired in the shit. So when I've heard these syllables pass the lips of a man I liked and wanted, it's made me sad. And then it made me mad. And then it made me think. Uh oh. You know what that leads to...

Have any of you ever seen the 1958 film Indiscreet, with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman?  No?  Run, don't walk. A funny, charming and very entertaining movie. Anyway, the central tenet of the story is that Cary Grant is a bachelor who pretends to be married and unable to get a divorce. Why, you may ask. Because, he explains, if he were to tell women that he won't get married, they will simply redouble their efforts to ensnare him in matrimony. When he tells them he is married and can't possibly get a divorce, they don't even try. Sneaky, huh? It's not you, it's him. Sure it is. 

Why do women want men who don't want them? I am convinced that if my first fiancé hadn't refused to marry me for so many years we would have broken up much earlier and I could have spared myself years of suffering.  But no, he had been married once, it hadn't ended well, and he was determined to avoid making the same mistake twice. So what happened, you may wonder. Well, I'll tell you even if you don't: two months after we decided to get married (and I say it this way because he never actually asked me--he told our mothers that we were thinking of getting married later that year--and the whole thing kind of snowballed from there), I decided that I didn't want to marry him after all. In the end, I just wanted him to want to marry me. 

On the surface, this is not a story that speaks well of my character. But I wasn't a duplicitous or malicious person. I was simply (and sadly) clueless about myself, my wants and my needs.  At the time, I didn't know myself at all. I was quite lost. And while I didn't treat my fiancé too well, that probably made us even, so we'll chalk the whole thing up to interpersonal skills that were egregiously lacking on both sides. Takes two to tango, after all. 

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the one with commitment issues was me. So it was true, ironically enough, it really was me, not him. In that case. But, simultaneously, it was him and not me, too. There are lots of men who push women away, and there is no shortage of women who love them. There are books written on the subject, so it must happen quite a bit, and not just in fantasy novels. 

What does it say about a woman when she continually goes after men who are not available either emotionally or for other reasons?  Nothing good for her, that's for sure. Usually it indicates some serious deficiencies in the woman's self-esteem department. Women who pursue men who reject them often feel as if they (the women) don't deserve love and loyalty. We believe we aren't good enough to "get" a man, so we create self-fulfilling prophesies to ensure that we don't.   

Some women (but not me, thankfully) pursue (or accept) married men--perhaps on the grounds that they believe they don't deserve a man of their own, or they don't deserve to be the main event. Those situations are always tragic and rarely end well (I've never understood why a woman would want a man who's left another woman for her--if he can leave one woman, he can leave another--but I'm told by a good friend that I'm wrong about this--I hope so, for her sake). Falling in love with a married man is the epitome of becoming emotionally attached to someone who is unavailable at the most concrete level possible. Some of us are more subtle than that. Or more in denial, a concept with which I am well acquainted. 

For me, it was important--apparently--to believe that the commitment issues were all my boyfriends' problem--it took a long time for me to realize I was the one with the ring phobia--which was why I kept choosing men committed to staying uncommitted.  As long as I could blame someone else for my inability to make it down an aisle or to an altar, I could delude myself that I was desperate to be a wife and mother and assume the mantle of domestic goddess for the rest of my days and it was only that the men I picked wouldn't put a ring on it. 

In the end, it took finding and falling for the love of my life to smack some self awareness into my head and start to help me get over myself.  Love is a powerful motivator, and, as it was for Kostya in Katie MacAlister's fun tale, the stubborn are no match for true love. Dragons fall and so did I. Thankfully. 
 

Gal Pals and Other Necessities

I just spent a long weekend with one of my childhood friends to celebrate our 50th birthdays. Yes, I'm still celebrating and I don't want to hear any guff about it—and I'll tell you why. First, I respectfully disagree with another of my friends who believes that the mere fact of meeting this milestone as a privileged American female who's had every conceivable opportunity is not necessarily worth celebrating. It is. For me, it's more than important to mark and rejoice in every happy life event because, God knows, life delivers more than enough adversity to each of us. We should glom onto life’s joyful occasions like chocolate frosting clings to the tops of cupcakes. All that gooey goodness should be savored against the time when our mouths fill with the ashes of failure, loss and despair. Because the bad stuff will come, sure as the earth will continue to rotate on its axis and the sun will rise tomorrow.

 So, back to my weekend with an amazing woman who is literally changing the world. This was the last of my trips to spend quality time with my lifelong friends looking back on how far we've come, how much we've been through together and taking the time to appreciate the gift that these strong, lasting friendships are.  And because I'm me, I couldn't help but relate my band of ‘besties’ to the many tightly knit bands of brothers in the paranormal fantasy books that I love almost as much as my sisters of the heart. Except that my delightful daydream was disconcertingly interrupted by the realization that there are some disturbing differences between my reality and my fantasy books. 

One difference on my side of the fact/fiction divide is that I can't truthfully characterize my small group of friends as a pack. It's true that all of these women know each other, and most of us grew up together attending the same school for most of elementary and high school. And we've been through many of each other's life events together and they've all shared each of my major milestones where they are coerced into camaraderie for my sake,  including my wedding, baby shower and the funerals of my parents. None of these women actually like each other, however. Their only real common denominator is that they love me. So they tolerate each other for my benefit, but would never seek each other out as independent friends. This makes things hard for me, as there are no fun-filled collective gatherings. Which is sad for me, but I've long accepted the way it is.

But the other major difference between my experiences and those I read about in my beloved fantasy books is that almost without exception (the one stand-out being Kresley Cole's Immortals After Dark series), when my fantasy authors give us para-familial groups of vampires, werewolves and other supernatural creatures who live, love and fight together, providing support and strength to each other as my friends do for me, they are always male. Several examples spring to mind.

At the top of the heap we have JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood and Karen Marie Moning's mysterious Nine (not to mention the MacKeltars in the same Fever series). Then there are Lara Adrian's Midnight Breed warriors, Katie MacAlister's variously colored Dragons, Dragos' Sentinals in Thea Harrison's Elder Races series (there is a token female in the group, but she's a Harpy, which, by definition, makes her a bitch who holds herself aloof from the group of guys). I could go on, but I think you get the point.  

What I find somewhat surprising about these testosterone-fueled friendship fests is that in my experience it's women who pursue and nurture these kinds of relationships, not men. It's almost as if all of these authors, who are uniformly women, have transferred the intimacy and unwavering loyalty that I've seen among female friends to their groups of imaginary males. Now, it is true that men who fight together over time and live through intense circumstance form especially tight bonds, so it's not as if this phenomenon is unknown in the real world. So I don't have a problem, per se, that we are offered these groups of connected male characters who are tailor-made to form the basis for an ongoing series where each one in turn finds a life mate and whose journey to their HEA is the basis for the plot for the books in the series.

There is nothing wrong with highlighting male bonding. What's missing for me in this genre, at least as a gross generalization, is the dearth of comparable female relationships. In fact, much of the time in the series listed above, the poor female protagonists are forced to leave their previous lives behind to cleave to their supernatural soul mates and learn to make new friends among the mates of their boyfriend's brothers. Seems unfair. Not to mention an opportunity squandered to showcase the deep love and profound bonding that gal pals can achieve over a lifetime. Such lifelong friends could serve to anchor our female protagonists in their essential selves as they embark on the not inconsequential task of adjusting to having life as they know it irrevocably upended (usually by falling I love with an über alpha male who happens to belong to a paranormal species the woman had no idea existed prior to their meeting). Wouldn't it be nice if these ladies had their peeps behind them to catch them when they faint from shock? But no, the arms that usually catch our erstwhile heroines belong to their male loves—which makes these women all the more dependent on their men for support.

As much as I love and adore my husband of 20 years, who is not only my life partner, lover, co-parent and friend, I still need my girlfriends. These women nurture aspects of my being that would wither and die without their specific brand of love and support. Not to mention that I would hate to burden my husband with the care and feeding of all the different aspects of my personality and my soul that exist. That could overwhelm even my most devoted of mates.

So, all you writers who are my rock stars, perhaps you would consider illuminating this element of reality and injecting this truth into your fantasy. It might be worthwhile. It certainly makes my life richer and more fulfilling.
 

You Can't Fix Crazy

I've just finished the latest offering in Katie MacAlister's dragon shifter series, Dragon Fall. Sometimes it's hard to read a new book in a series when I read its predecessors a while ago, but it was fun nevertheless. A major plot element in this novel has to do with the female protagonist, Aoife (pronounced EE-fuh) being committed to an asylum because she claimed to witness a supernatural event (she did) Which she was told made her crazy and in need of treatment (which she wasn’t). Unfortunately, I could relate.  

In the past, I've questioned my own sanity. And had others question it as well. Not my best memories. The depth of this line of inquiry usually relates to our self-confidence, self-esteem, and the amount of influence those who believe that our mental hygiene could use a bath exert on us. This is not to say that authentic mental illness doesn't exist, or that anything bad happened to me as a result of being forced into therapy. I'm a big fan of therapy. However, benefiting from therapy and having people think you are a wing nut are two entirely different things. One is okay and one is definitely not okay. Poor Aiofe spends two years learning how to convince others that she isn’t crazy and can be trusted on the outside.  Being told you are crazy when you’re not can actually make you crazy. 

I'm pretty sure I've told you the story of my mother and the Christmas trees. In a nutshell, she claimed we'd had only one tree—ever. I remembered years' worth of trees. She insisted I was insane and that I made up stories. I insisted she was the whack job, but, in truth, there was a tiny worm of doubt in the back of my mind that whispered, ‘I could be wrong and she might be right’.  It was a very small voice, but despite the low decibels, it served to undermine my confidence—what little I had after being raised by a narcissist. So, flash forward about 30 years, and imagine my intense satisfaction at finding irrefutable photographic proof that completely vindicated me. Cue the happy dance.  

Above and beyond the pleasure I felt in besting my nemesis—I mean my mother—there was also the deep relief of being 100% positive that I hadn't lost my mind. This is always good to have confirmed. But this vindication led me to wonder why there are those who are bound and determined to convince others that they're nuts.  

Because, like Claude Rains and Ingrid Bergman in the movie classic Gaslight, and also in Katie MacAlister's Dragon Fall, when one person is trying to convince another that he or she is crazy, there's usually a reason. For Claude and Ingrid, it had to do with hidden treasure. With Aoife and her family, the reason was more benign, but the outcome was still devastating. For Mommie Dearest and me, it was all about power and control.

All of us like to be right. When we are right, we feel we're in control. And while control is a specious concept, humans continue to seek it like missiles seek the heat of engines. For some of us less secure folks, being right is often a zero sum game, so that our being right automatically makes someone else wrong. At which point the whole exercise degenerates into a power struggle, like when a parent catches a child (or even another adult) in an obvious lie and confronts the liar with impregnable logic at which point the liar starts hurling stories like spaghetti against a wall, hoping something will stick. It rarely does. But no matter how ridiculous and convoluted the liar’s blather is, no matter how red-handed they are caught, they give no quarter and will admit to no wrongdoing. It's something to behold. Frustrating as hell, in fact because we both know the truth, but only one will acknowledge it.

Some, like my mother, take this phenomenon to the extreme and actually begin to believe their own bullshit. This level of denial is just not pretty. But there are those ugly souls who prefer to offer up our sanity on the altar of their inability to admit they are wrong or apologize. Or even just acknowledge a mistake, forget the mea culpa. It's very difficult to deal with these people.  

And then there are those who will apologize, but not without doing an excellent imitation of having teeth pulled. Why?  What does it cost us to say—out loud—that we are wrong?  Or we didn't know?  Or we need freaking directions? What is up with men and directions anyway?  But I digress (I'm getting better about that—have you noticed?). Again, it all goes back to power and control and, honestly, how sad is that?

Personally, I pride myself on my willingness to admit to ‘asshatery’ (it really should be a word) early and often.  On the other hand, I've been known to be as guilty of digging in my heels as the next guy (and I do mean guy) when I feel threatened or insecure. In those situations I will go to great lengths to be right, channeling my inner Spock to defend my positions. Given my messed up upbringing, I expend far too much energy bolstering my arguments, dotting my I's and crossing my T's.  Just so I can claim the high ground of the righteous. But I can, and do, admit when I'm wrong. Most of the time.

So there you have it. When we have been the object of a Gaslight campaign, we are willing to pay a lot, figuratively, to ensure our ability to be unassailably correct. Because once our sanity has been questioned, we want to make sure it never happens again (either that or we're male and cannot tolerate being wrong). Any way you slice it, though, you can't fix crazy, so it's definitely something I don't want to be. And I guess I should thank Heaven for small favors that I was never committed to an institution to safeguard someone else's ideas of how things should be. It can always be worse, as Katie MacAlister’s Dragon Fall attests, in the best way possible.

 

 

 
 

Stop, Drop and Roll

I'm enjoying Hour of the Lion, the first of two shapeshifter books by Cherise Sinclair. I've read some of Ms. Sinclair's non-fantasy novels about alternative lifestyles, which are quite good (thank you, Laurell Hamilton. After reading your work I am always open to more variety in my literary life), and so far, her fantasy work does not disappoint.

 One of the central conflicts in Hour of the Lion is an ailing drug kingpin’s desire to co-opt the magic of shapeshifters to cure his degenerative illness. Because Ms. Sinclair's story involves a bad guy coercing magic from unwilling shapeshifters, I'm guessing that he won't get the his HEA, but we shall see. What struck me about this trope was the visceral fear and fundamental lack of acceptance by the drug kingpin of his inevitable decline and eventual demise. I find myself spending more and more time thinking the same type of thoughts, sadly—as the contemplation of deterioration and death is not the most productive or pleasant of pastimes. But I find it increasingly difficult to avoid reminders of sickness and mortality for a variety of disquieting reasons. And while I can certainly relate to his fear, and maybe even his desire for a magical solution to the problems of decreasing quality of life as we head toward the grave, I do know that I don't share the villain’s willingness to go to any length to avoid them. 

I don't watch much TV (too busy reading and writing!) and what I do watch is usually On Demand or recorded so that I can avoid or fast-forward through commercials. So I was surprised anew as I sat in my husband's office the other day and idly turned my attention to the TV screen where he keeps MSNBC on in the background throughout his day to stay informed about markets and world events. So many of the commercials were for medications to treat all manner of nasty diseases. Which got me thinking about other new developments in American life, including ubiquitous cancer centers, dialysis centers, medical imaging places and other evidence that we are far sicker than we used to be. I will forgo an exposition on my personal theories behind the rise of these phenomena—at least for now—and simply say these ads and about locations and medications to treat illness are a constant reminder that decrepitude is right around the corner. According to the commercials I saw,  my physical and cognitive health is in immediate danger of irreversible decline. And the hits just keep on coming.

 I watched my father's health decline as Lou Gherig's disease robbed him of life slowly and painfully. His eventual death was merciful, delivering him from the body that betrayed him. I was grateful that my mother died suddenly and quickly before the last of her dignity was stolen by an inability to live independently. I'm watching my mother's surviving, but rapidly aging, sisters as they progress through their own cycles of disease and decline. It's heartbreaking. I'm left with the unappealing choice of whether it is better for the body or the mind to go first. Sucks any way you think about it.

I want to live to a ripe old age, feeling good and thinking clearly until I drop dead – and I mean this literally, I want to stop, drop and roll belly up in my tracks.  Or, not wake up one morning (with apologies to  to my husband if he is the one trying to wake me). That kind of good life and quick death doesn't seem to happen very often nowadays. One can't go to the doctor without a new diagnosis for which there happens to be some innovative, grossly expensive medication or treatment. I'm not a fan. And all of these reminders – the commercials, the diagnoses, the proliferating hospitals—just feed our fear of our decline toward death—which is exactly what they are designed to do.

Why? Because fear leads to desperation that in turn leads to poor choices. Like the poor course of action the villain in Hour of the Lion initiates when he traps and tortures shapeshifters to learn the secret of their magic. A bad choice that I'm sure won't end well for him. But not too different from some of the choices we make to cling to life at any cost.  We subject ourselves to torturous treatment to stave off the effects of physical and cognitive decline. You don't get anything for nothing in this world (except sometimes love, which is wonderful), and most "healing" modalities come with a very steep price tag in the form of side effects and negative consequences.

To my way of thinking, much of the time, the cure is worse than the disease. And the thought that someone is going to have to change my diapers and feed me to keep me alive – technically at least - is horrifying. The idea that I won't be able to think clearly or express myself anymore is also beyond depressing. Being aware of the slow deterioration of my faculties seems like a fate worse than death. And death seems pretty undesirable too. A no-win situation if ever there was one.

Getting old is not for the fainthearted, but it beats the alternative under certain circumstances.  One way to ruin it call is to suck the joy right out of the present moment by thinking about all the ways that future moments might suck. So, best to just say ‘no’ to the negativity and naysayers. And stop watching commercials. Or reading magazines.  Or looking out the window at a landscape pockmarked by medical facilities. Perhaps spending time in gratitude that such is not my current reality and having some faith that I'll have the wherewithal to deal with whatever gets thrown my way might be the best way to face my (likely) path to infirmity. Without resort to desperate measures or trying to highjack someone else's magic.