My Kind of Love

"So you may say you're in love with me, but you're not in love with the same way that I am in love with you. We're using the same words, but we are not having the same experience…" Said protagonist Sophie Ross in Moonshadow, Thea Harrison's latest offering from the Elder Races world. I read that passage and every one of my failed romantic relationships flashed before my eyes, not to mention my doomed relationship with my late mother. Sophie summed up much of my life in just a couple of phrases… we may be using the same words but we're not having the same experience. I don't think I've ever heard it stated more accurately or succinctly. Miscommunication and talking past one another are the downfall of many relationships. More damaging is a misaligned worldview or competing philosophies of life, love, work or parenting. These misalignments and competitions arise because we fail to define our terms – to ourselves and each other.

Let's say, just for argument's sake that two people fall in love and decide to marry and start a family.  So far, so good. Presumably, they talked about all of this in some detail, and decided they were on the same page prior to the start of this journey. When the woman involved made her vows, she understood them to be literal and binding.  When the husband made the same vows, using the same words, he understood his promises to be more suggestions rather than rules, to be followed for the most part— until they became inconvenient. Fast forward a couple of years and a couple of kids later, and suddenly the guy is feeling peckish; his wife is exhausted from doing the lion's share of childcare, and maybe she's not looking or behaving as well as when they were courting. Suddenly, the language barrier becomes critical. When she said "forsaking all others... as long as we both shall live," she understood that to mean she wouldn't sleep with other men unless her betrothed was dead and buried. When he said the same words, he understood that the promise was only good until he decided to ignore it. Same words, different experience. Devastating results. I have a close friend whose husband did exactly that, and I’ve seen the destruction up close and personal. Makes me burn every time I think about it.

But marriage vows are only one example. Moondshadow offers others. Like the idea of saying, "I love you," to someone and how it’s heard differently than it’s spoken. In Sophie's case, the words meant that she accepted Nikolas as he was, warts and all, and welcomed her feelings for him, nurturing them and letting them blossom. In her view, Nikolas didn't feel the same way, even though he was using the same words. He did not welcome love into his heart. He fought it all the way, resisting the pull of his tender emotions, steeling himself against love’s siren call; of companionship, affection and commitment. He believed it was not for him, so he refused to make a home within himself for such feelings, rejecting his emotional state and denying his passion. Same words, different experiences. 

I've been in this boat too, rearranging the deck chairs as my relationship was going down. I've had two relationships where the men loved me but didn't want to. So, they punished me for inciting them to feel. Kind of like forcing women to cover themselves lest they arouse lust in the hearts of men who see them. Fuck that shit. No, really. I see red when I hear about people who buy into that nonsense. Gentlemen, you can just keep it in your pants, ladies, don’t buy into that bullshit. But I digress.

Back to using the same words to describe different experiences. We've all been there. Parents and children say "I love you" to each other all the time. But the experience is different depending on one's role. That was certainly true with my mother—and my father too. When I expressed my love, it meant one thing to me and another to them. For some parents, filial love means taking care of them or children sacrificing for parents. And for some children, parental love is supposed to equal infinite support—both emotional and material. It's fine if both sides have the same experience.  But, when world views collide… well…. it's a mess.

The language of love is exceptionally nuanced and difficult to negotiate. Many of us end up speaking our own private dialect. There have actually been books written about "love languages" (I like verbal affirmations, but physical affection, gifts, acts of service and quality time are all important, so it's a bit hard to choose—oops, digression yet again). It's all about finding someone who speaks our particular love language or making sure that one or both of the participants buy a Berlitz course. 

When Sophie and Nikolas get lost in translation for a while, it rings true. This fantasy explores an aspect of truth that is important and relevant for all of us. I'm not surprised these characters were created by Thea Harrison, who writes a language of love that teaches me so much rom while thoroughly enjoying the ride.

The Wisdom of Winston

I was lucky enough to be selected as an advance reader for Thea Harrison's newest Elder Races offering, Moonshadow.  As I've mentioned before, I love getting advance copies from my favorite authors. I also loved being a beta reader the one time I had that opportunity (thank you Lilo J. Abernathy!). But back to Thea Harrison—I love her books and I was delighted to see that she hadn't lost her touch.  Moonshadow introduces a new arena (Great Britain) and a new addition to the Elder Races, the Daoine Sidhe knights of the Dark Court (and doesn't that just sound delicious?). These alpha males are strong and sexy and are locked in an interminable battle with an implacable enemy. Their leader, Nikolas, has watched his cohort decline to a mere handful of men, and his enemy laugh at his losses. He has been fighting so long, he doesn't remember a time when he wasn't locked in mortal combat. The temptation to let go, to give up is strong at times. He feels the pull of despair and the seductive call of surrender. But, he is committed to his cause and dedicated to his mission and those he serves. He refuses to give up, and he perseveres.

I wrote last week about my own dance with despair with respect to my writing. Nikolas' struggle and his triumph over despair inspired me to think about my own willingness to take Winston Churchill's advice to, "Never, never, never give up." Considering that the man led his country successfully through World War II, which included some very dark hours, it's probably advice worth taking.

There is a paradox involved in surrender and giving up. On the one hand, giving up usually connotes quitting, which of course no one wants to do (well, perhaps I shouldn't speak for everyone—I don't want to be a quitter). Quitting usually means ending something before it is completed. The thought is anathema to me. I still think about the dissertation I didn't finish twenty years ago (well, maybe closer to twenty-five, but who's counting?) It took me years to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to finish and to make a definitive decision to quit—and while it was probably the right decision at the time, I still regret it on occasion.

Sometimes letting go is the right thing to do. I've written about that before. It's so hard to know when we've held on too long. In Nikolas' case, was it the right thing to do to fight until all the knights of the Dark Court were dead and there was no one left to fight, or to heed the adage that sometimes discretion is the better form of valor? Or is it better to die trying? I haven't personally come across an actual occasion to test this theory, thankfully, so I'm not sure. Does victory vindicate the dead? Nikolas thinks so, and so do those who fought in our popular wars—not so much the ones we prefer to sweep under the rug, but you know, the ones fought by the Greatest Generation, not to mention the Lost Generation.

The jury is still out for me with respect to the price we pay for perseverance. I respect the hell out of dedication and I admire stick-to-it-ness. Grit is great and also necessary. But sometimes the cake isn't worth the bake and the victory, far from being triumphant, is pyrrhic. 

Sometimes, the best strategy for conquest is surrender. Sometimes, resistance is futile and we must give up. This is the paradox. Nikolas achieves victory by surrendering to love (this is a paranormal romance, after all). And I have found peace and joy in surrendering to reality, acceptance and uncertainty, even whenever fiber of my being is screaming for me to fight, fight, fight, in a futile effort to control. Sometimes, it is only when I give up the fight that I get what I want. 

And I know this. But, of course, it's situation specific. And discerning whether a specific situation is one where tying a knot in the rope and holding on for dear life is the right thing to do or letting our hands slip down to initiate the free fall, well that is the question, isn't it?  We don't know, often not even in hindsight if the road not taken would have led to better things. Occasionally, a choice we make about holding and folding is exquisite in its clarity. Hopefully, we are contented with our lot.

Perseverance, discipline and commitment are three character traits I strive to cultivate. And, annoyingly, the cultivation of these traits requires the very characteristics I'm trying to achieve. Please tell me how that is fair?!

But, as I've also written about before, life isn't always fair, so we've got to suck it up, Buttercup (I like that phrase, can you tell by how often I use it?). Nikolas finds his HEA through both persistence and surrender. I suspect that this is true for all of us. So, for today, I will be persistent in reading my beloved books, and surrender to the joy I get from reading them. Win-win

Readers and Writers

I've been away from my blog for a month. For the first time in more than two and a half years. I did this so that I could attempt NaNoWriMo for the first time—National Novel Writing Month. This is an insane proposition where people all over the country (and probably beyond) commit to writing 50,000 words in 30 days during the month of November. And I did it. Meaning I put 50K worth of words on pages, most of which had something to do with their brethren. Not necessarily enough to form a cohesive story, mind you, but there are 50,000 words that relate to each other and are supposed to be a paranormal romance novel.

Except that it turns out that writing a novel is hard. Much harder than I thought it would be. And some of my deepest fears were realized, insofar as I now know with certainty that I have no natural ability in this area whatsoever. Which was pretty upsetting, considering it is my most cherished dream to write the kind of fiction I love to read. I had an OK premise, that with a little bit of work should have been enough to start.

And it was enough to start. One of the most interesting aspects to this experience was that whereas I usually have great difficulty beginning a project, once I get going, almost nothing can stop me from finishing. This time, I jumped in on November 1, and didn't come up for air until the day I crossed the 50,000 word finish line, on November 26. So, I know I can comfortably write 2000 words a day. Considering that I had been writing about 2000 words a week, that was the good news. The bad news was that story arcs, series arcs and character arcs are hard to time, and hard to intertwine. The whole thing deteriorated as I got further and further into the month. Don't try this at home, children. 

On the other hand, do try it. That was the point of the exercise, after all: to do something creative and fun and challenging and to do it. The goal was to commit to a challenge and to meet it, no matter what. And there was a lot of no

matter what that went on during the month of November.

I spent three full weeks of November with a persistent virus that laid me very low. I felt like shit. And I bemoaned my fate. But here's the thing:  feeling poorly meant that I didn't have enough energy to go out much or do much more than lay on my couch, coughing up a lung and decimating whole forests worth of trees to feed my Kleenex habit. But all that couch time doubled as writing time, which worked out well. I was able to follow the NaNoWriMo instructions and write, write, write, suspending judgment and criticism, and not looking back, just putting one foot in front of the other. 

I learned some things along the way. This whole experience was a one day at a time kind of gig. I couldn't project even as far as tomorrow, because the thought of what I was going to write tomorrow filled me with anxiety. So I channeled my inner Scarlett and I didn't think about tomorrow until it came. I learned to block out the nasty naysayers in my mind who constantly berated me for even trying to do this. They told me over and over again how bad my "novel" was and how lame I was for writing it. They told me I was wasting my time. I told them to shut the fuck up. And they did. Mostly. But even when they were threatening to destroy my eardrums with a cacophony of criticism and negativity, I kept going. I didn't realize I could do that as effectively as I did. And I will never be quite as beholden to the voice of my inner critic—which sounds suspiciously like my mother—again.  Worth the price of admission right there. 

 I learned that even though I've always thought of myself as a hard worker, I've learned that I've only been willing to work hard on  things that come easily to me. In other words, when it doesn't feel like work. Something like writing fiction though, which I've wanted to do since I was a little girl captivated by the worlds I visited between the pages of my beloved books, hasn't come easily. I am afraid that I will forever be Salieri to the Mozarts of my craft—good enough to recognize my mediocrity as compared with the masters. 

I am faced with a question that will determine my character:  will I forge ahead, with two steps forward and one (or more) steps back, and test my mettle against a task that truly challenges me? Or will I give up and throw in the towel, determined to continue doing only that which plays to my strengths?  Can I train my brain to tell stories in a compelling way or to create characters that people want to spend time with?  I have no idea. Time will tell.

I do know that the potential to bring the kind of joy to someone else that my favorite authors have given to me saturates my thoughts. Thea Harrison, Karen Marie Moning, Nalini Singh, Faith Hunter, MaryJanice Davidson, JR Ward, Charmaine Harris, Darynda Jones, Jeaniene Frost, Laurell K. Hamilton, Kresley Cole, Katie MacAlister, Molly Harper, Robyn Peterson, Patricia Briggs, Jessica Clare, Kevin Hearne, John G. Hartness and G. A. Aikens are my rock stars. If one of them likes a tweet or comments on one of my Facebook posts, or—swoon city—comments on one of my blogs, I'm delirious with excitement. I would take the work of these authors to a desert island or the zombie apocalypse and count my blessings that life couldn't be too bad if I have my books with me. 

I want to be like all of them. And after spending four weeks trying to emulate them, I have a much better appreciation of just how talented they are, and how truly special their work is. These authors are the best of the best, and there's a reason they dominate the best seller lists. They deserve to be there. 

So we shall see what we shall see. I hope I turn out to be the kind of person who rises to a challenge and takes Winston Churchill's advice to never, never, never give up. It's a new world for me, and it's a scary place. And I hope I make myself proud. As a wise person once told me, and I've written about before in this space, we build self esteem by doing esteemable things. I want to build a mountain from a little pile of clay, as the great Tom Jones said (or sang, as the case may be). I've got high hopes for my mountain.  Now it's time to put some action around my dream.  I want to be a reader and a writer.

Who Are You?

I'm almost finished with Changeling's Fall by Sarah Joy Adams and Emily Lavin Leverett. It's good enough that I'm feeling seriously resentful that I have to take time away from the book to write this blog. I'm anxious to know how it ends and wondering if it will be the beginning of a series. I'm also wondering how two people write a novel together—does one write one chapter and the other write the next one, or do they write scenes from different POVs, or what?  Anyway, the novel has some interesting themes, the foremost of which involves questions of identity and how who we perceive ourselves to be affects who we are versus how others perceive us. These are interesting questions.  In the novel, Deor, a changeling raised in the human world by her human mother, has come to the land of Faerie to find her father and attempt to reverse the illness that is depleting her health. Deor has no idea who sired her, beyond a first name, but there are a number of hints she might be the bastard daughter of the ailing king. Meanwhile, the main male protagonist, Raphael, is being adopted by said king because the monarch claims not to  have any heirs.  Lots of politics and drama ensues, all centered on issues of identity, heritage, relationships and the tangled webs they weave. 

In the world of Changeling's Fall, adoption is a painful process and not knowing one's parentage is equally difficult. I don't think this is all that different from our world. When we are adopted or we adopt a child, by definition we are leaving our biological families who cannot care for us—for many legitimate reasons—to go to a family that—again by definition—wants us desperately. I am not adopted (although I longed to be as a child, away from my mother), nor are my children. But we were planning to go that route to create our family if our efforts to conceive were unsuccessful, and I gave a great deal of thought to the process. In addition, we have many close ties to adopted children that also inform my opinions.

I've always believed that the sting of being given up by birth parents could be offset by the overwhelming love adoptive parents bring to their children. Those who adopt do so with deliberation and consciousness, and the hoops that one must jump through are rigorous, to say the least. You've really got to want to adopt to make it happen. These children are deeply, deeply desired. Receiving that kind of love changes a person. So does giving it. 

But there are still issues of identity that need to be addressed, no matter how much love is involved. In today's world of open adoptions, kids often know their birth parents and can acquire information about health histories or genetic composition. That may not be true with foreign adoptions, but whatever the case, adopted children never know who they would have been if they'd been raised by their DNA donors. Moreover, adoption requires additional efforts to "find" ourselves, and like all of us, discover not only who we are, but also who we want to be.

Not knowing our parents is major obstacle in forging our identities. We can also be affected by not knowing who our parents are, even if we know who they are. For example, I know my father was Jack Uchitel. I know what he looked like and where he was from. I knew his brothers, but not his parents. I adored him with every fiber of my being, but I can't say I really knew him, to my everlasting regret. I knew a small sliver of him as "Daddy," the wonderful guy who turned his attention toward me every once in a while and when he did it was like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one. But I didn't know him as a man, or an employer, or as a friend. I'm not sure what his philosophy of life was, although I could discern bits and pieces based on clues he provided during our rare and brief interactions.  But a lot of my identity is nevertheless based on my being his daughter. If I found out he wasn't my real dad, I think I'd be devastated. And I want, explicitly, to be like him, or at least to be the man I imagine that he was.

My guess is that kids who are adopted go through a bit of that as well; imagining who they would be if their birth parents turned out to be the Platonic ideal of parenthood. Plus they get to assume the mantle of any positive traits of their adoptive parents, and leave behind the parts they don't like with the justification that the relationship isn't biological, so they are not destined by their DNA.

And while many if not most kids do not twist themselves into the same pretzel shapes that I enjoy in playing out these mental machinations, all of us yearn to create ourselves. Or find ourselves. Or lose ourselves in an identity to which we aspire.  And those of us like Deor and Raphael who are among the lucky ones, soon realize that no matter our parentage, biological or adopted, our identities are our own. There may be signposts along the way, clues from our various mothers, fathers and grandparents, but in the end, who we are is all up to us. We need to choose wisely, no matter the circumstances of our birth or upbringing. After all, we can be anyone we want to be.

Note:  This is my last new post for the next month. I will be suspending my blog as I work toward the 50,000 words needed to participate in NaNoWriMo—National Novel Writing Month, November 1-30, 2016. Please wish me luck and send productive and creative thoughts my way, as I can use all the support I can get. I will be posting my word count every day on Twitter (@truthinfantasy), so please like and retweet to show me the love. I plan to be back in December with new posts. Until then, be well and prosper. —Anne

Why We Gotta Hate?

I'm finishing up Laurell K. Hamilton's latest Anita Blake novel, Crimson Death. I love this series, although I have to adjust my mental pacing when I read her books because Ms. Hamilton is the queen of detail – both interior and exterior. But just as the devil is the details, so too are the angels. And, the Anita Blake books contain a wealth of insight into the human psyche, illuminated through the lens of vampires and were animals, most of which don't like each other. Unfortunately, Anita's world is filled with tragic hatred. And while I'd always assumed that these fantasy novels exaggerated reality to make their point, I think the hatred highlighted in these books doesn't go far enough in reflecting our reality. In the world of Anita Blake, the humans hate the vampires and the lycanthropes (werewolves and other were creatures), the vampires hate the lycanthropes and the lycanthropes hate each other (there is a great deal of enmity among the various species). It is a divided world where humans try to pass laws that legislate inter species antagonism; it works as well in their world as it has in ours—hardly at all. In the same way that attempts to enact laws to govern morality are largely ineffective; because police have very little purview over thoughts and words permeated by hatred. We’re all entitled to our opinions, no matter how misguided, fear-based or destructive they are, and there is no such thing as the thought police, even though sometimes we might wish there were.

And while one person's hateful opinion may not have much impact, the collective opinion of a sizable minority of a population most certainly does. I’m not a political person. I’m fairly jaded insofar as I don't believe that elected officials make much difference in these days of constipated government and spin over substance. Having said that, this election has awakened in me a burning need to follow all the news, read every poll and accompanying analysis, get involved and manage my extreme anxiety over the outcome and its aftermath. I'm a mess. And all of this because of my deep distress over the fissures in our society that this election has exposed.

The deep-seated hatred that has been given a powerful voice during this election scares the shit out of me. I had no idea that so many Americans feel so disenfranchised and hopeless about the future that they are willing to believe in vampires and werewolves. Or the functional equivalent of vampires and werewolves and other fantastical beings, that Donald Trump isn't a dangerously deluded bigot and misogynist who could easily lead the world into nuclear war, or, on a less global scale, civil war or revolution. I'm horrified. And exhausted from lying awake at night contemplating the apocalypse.

Hillary Clinton is far from the perfect candidate and I’m not suggesting that reasonable people couldn't disagree about whether she is the best person to run the country. I have no issue with those who believe she is too tarnished to serve or too divisive to be effective (or those whose views are more fiscally or socially conservative). I don't agree, but I will defend your right to your beliefs and their expression. What is different about this election and the tone and tenor of the debate these days is that fantasy has eclipsed reality as the coin of the realm. It is now acceptable to blatantly disregard irrefutable truth in favor of lies we only wish were true. If this isn’t fantasy in truth, then Donald Trump is a billionaire. 

Trump's entire campaign is built on magical thinking about the cause of all our national woes, causes that are all based on hate—hate of the other; women, African Americans, Muslims, immigrants, people with disabilities, fat people, veterans who have been mentally traumatized and those ‘losers’ who got themselves captured. If it isn't magical thinking to believe that immigrants and uppity women are the root cause of all societal problems, then I'll believe that Donald Trump would make an amazing Commander-in-Chief.

Trump reminds me of Homer Simpson, a stupid, small-minded man with a comb-over and opinions he does not want challenged by facts. Instead of saying, "Doh!" Trump says, "Wrong!"  Instead of being confined to our television screens using stylized animation, Trump is fully animated and not nearly far enough away from the Oval Office and our nuclear codes for my taste. But just like Homer, Trump doesn't have a fucking clue and he doesn't give a shit. He'd be a bad joke—or a caricature on a television cartoon series—except that his message of hatred has resonated so deeply with so many of our fellow Americans.

His supporters don't care that the New York Times has published a list of Donald's tweets that demonstrate his tenuous grip on reality or lack of cognitive consistency. He can say the sky is blue one day and swear the next that he never agreed that the sky was blue. He contradicts himself and lies so often the media literally can't keep up (I wondered why no one followed up on the fact that Donald was 6'2" his whole life until his medical records were released over the summer and he'd grown an inch—until I realized that if he were one inch taller he would be classified as "overweight" instead of "obese."  Who's a piggy now, Donald?  Oink, oink).

Almost 40% of our population has so much hatred in their hearts that Donald Trump, with his history of bankruptcies, tax evasion, sexual assault and harassment, multiple marriages, ignorance of world events and domestic issues, seems like a viable candidate. He is a hate monger and too many Americans are buying his brand of bile. Which is not a call to hate the haters, but an occasion to ask ourselves what we can do to listen to the legitimate complaints and concerns of those who feel they have no response except hate and vitriol. Those doesn't work, of course, except to get our attention. Which it's done. Or, at least, I hope it has. But if we keep going the way we're headed, The Donald will be able to claim that foreign dragons and unicorns are taking over our zoos to the detriment of our homegrown lizards and horses, and a horrifyingly large portion of the population will believe him. And maybe, just maybe, all of this hatred will somehow get us back to unity, or at least talking to each other again. Hey, if the werewolves and the wereleopards can make peace, surely we can too. Right?

Bad Hombres and Nasty Women

Note:  This is a shamelessly partisan post. I am viscerally, deeply opposed to Donald Trump and an enthusiastic supporter of Hillary Clinton. So if that offends you, stop reading now. I'm reading the new Anita Blake book by Laurell K. Hamilton, Crimson Death. I want to be Anita Blake. I also want to be Mac Lane, Jane Yellowrock, Mercy Thompson, and Meredith Gentry. These are nasty, nasty women in the very best ways possible. And they hook up with some pretty bad hombres, which works for me.

This election has provided endless fodder for Saturday Night Live, and I’ve laughed along with everyone else (except for Donald, of course, who has no sense of humor, but I digress). But there are real issues here and it is deeply disturbing that the American populace is becoming inured to each fresh revelation of the revolting actions and attitudes of a presidential candidate who commands almost 40% of the vote.  But beyond all of that anxiety-producing reality, there are some truly ugly truths about attitudes toward women that have emerged. And while these truths need to see the light of day so the shadows can be banished, it is a painful process for those of us who remember and know what men—not all, of course, but many—think of us and do to us with impunity.

For almost 30 years I worked in the male-dominated field of national security studies, analysis and policy. I worked at the Pentagon for almost 20 years. Within the macho world of Warcraft, aka the American military industrial complex, many men are pigs on the order of Donald Trump. Men don't have to be famous to think they can get away with ogling, touching, grabbing, propositioning and speaking offensively to women. They just have to have a modicum of power.

If I had a dollar for every time I was the subject of inappropriate, vulgar discussions and/or questions, I'd be rich. If I had ten dollars for every time a male colleague came to my hotel room, or put his hands on me (if you wouldn't put your hands on the small of a male colleague's back to "guide" him toward the door, why is it okay to touch a woman in that manner?  Or, if you wouldn't put your hands on a man's shoulders for an unsolicited shoulder massage, why do you think you can do it to me?), I'd be Trump rich. And my bad experiences are probably mild compared to many. Sad.

I have been subjected to sexual harassment and sexual assault. No one was ever punished or even reprimanded for these actions against me. And the worst part—the absolutely worst part—is that I never expected the perpetrators to be rebuked. This is the true tragedy. I figured what millions of girls and women just like me figured: 1) there was nothing I could do; it was the price of doing business in a male-dominated world; 2) to complain or make waves would only serve to punish me, because if I didn't lose my job, I would be the bitch who got good old Jimmy in trouble (but not too much trouble, of course—he would still have a job and the respect of his fellows; I would be forever labeled a troublemaker who couldn't be trusted to do the right thing; and 3) nothing would change, so why bother? 

And all of that is only part of the problem. The other part is that young women were and are raised to believe (or taught by the entertainment and advertising industries) that their greatest worth resides in how they look and how sexually appealing they are to men. As a result, we dress to show off our wares and cultivate our feminine "wiles" to trick, trap and torture poor, unsuspecting men. We believe our value resides in our looks and we have to conform to societal (patriarchal) standards of beauty. Even an older, massively accomplished woman like Hillary Clinton is not immune. I'd like to meet her plastic surgeon, her hairdresser, her stylist and her makeup artist. Because as an aging, accomplished woman in the US, I’m going to need them if I want to succeed.

And then there is the tyranny of standards for female presentation, and the extreme disadvantage it creates. Panty hose, makeup, coiffure, complicated outfits, these are all time sucks. Not to mention keeping our hair colored and our wrinkles relatively smooth. Ridiculously time consuming compared to the male need to "shit, shower and shave" (as an ex-boyfriend of mine described his morning routine) before throwing on a suit and comfortable shoes and facing the day. I would have loved to wear comfortable shoes for the average of five miles a day of walking I did to, from and inside the Pentagon on a daily basis. But that wasn’t an option. Even Anita Blake is not immune from this form of male oppression. She speaks eloquently about the calculation that she and all women must make with respect to calibrating our appearances to a level of precision not seen outside of measurements used to make sure bridges don’t fall. Is my outfit too flirty? Am I showing too much skin? Not enough skin? Are the heels the right height? Am I projecting an image of sufficient power to make sure no one fucks with me, but not so much that men will feel emasculated? If that isn’t a rigged system, I don’t know what is.

And what about the culture of rape on our college campuses?  I've heard no fewer than five men tell me—with an understanding that it is horrifying (so many things to be horrified about these days)—that for college boys, "No means yes and yes means anal."  Really?  In 2016? I thought things were better than when I was in college and was raped by a date. At which time I told myself that it was my own fault for putting myself into a bad situation. And I didn't tell anyone else because I felt ashamed for being so stupid. I'm not sure things have improved since the 1980s, except that we are more aware.

This is where my beautiful, inspirational, amazing fictional heroines come in.  These women would most certainly be considered "nasty" by The Donald and all the white, Christian, heterosexual men who fear the end of their reign of world domination (which is long overdue to be overthrown). They are nasty because they are smart, and accomplished, and fierce. They own their sexuality, their power, their bad-assness. They are each she-who-shall-not-be-fucked-with and they are the kinds of women so many of us want to be.  They've got skills and strength and if some asshole tries to touch them without invitation or permission they might lose a hand. I want to be them. I want all of us to be them.

He's a Keeper

I've finished reading the first two (of three so far) Mick Oberon "Jobs" by Ari Marmell. Good stuff. Mick is a very cool guy, for being one of the Fae and all. The second book, Hallow Point, is a complex romp through 1930s Chicago, and the strange imitation of our world that the Fae have created in their own world (and if Ari Marmell wasn't inspired by my favorite Star Trek episode, "A Piece of the Action," then I'll dress up as Oberon the wolfhound for Halloween!). Anyhoo, one of the interesting aspects of this series is that Marmell carries through several plot points through more than one book. So in the first book, Hot Lead, Cold Iron, we learn that Mick often accepts barters from clients as payment for his private investigative work. Sometimes, Mick isn't sure why he asks for certain things, but he follows his Fae instincts and collects various items in an office drawer. One such item from Mick's "drawer of oddities" turns out to be quite useful in book two, and Mick is justified in his hoarding. Or prescience. Depending on your perspective. Which raises interesting questions about keepers and tossers. I'm a tosser. My husband is a keeper. It makes for tense times when we clean out our closet. Or even our refrigerator.  There is a conflicting worldview between the keepers and the tossers, one that cannot be easily resolved. It goes to a fairly deep place of trust in the Universe, feelings of abundance versus scarcity, and moral imperatives to redistribute wealth and prosperity a bit more equitably. It is about the dichotomy between those who pass things along and those who keep stuff for themselves. Our individual proclivities to keep, toss (or give away) also say a lot about who we are as people, with the keepers and the passers seeming morally superior to those who contribute to landfills simply because they cannot be bothered to find a good home for those items they no longer want or need (not that I have an opinion on this topic or anything).

One person's garbage is another's treasure. Whenever I'm tempted to think something is rubbish, in the literal sense of that word, I'm reminded of someone I know who is the queen of free cycling. This woman free cycles everything, from last week's newspapers to egg cartons to plastic ziplock bags. She finds homes for stuff I wouldn't normally think twice about recycling or taking to the dump. But her actions have caused me to stop and think even more than twice and to consider re-purposing before trashing (she gives her old newspapers to a fellow free cycler who has pet rabbits to line the cages). Apparently, there is almost always someone who wants our garbage. Or what we think of as garbage. 

If we're not fans of free cycling, there is Goodwill or the myriad church thrift stores or consignment shops that accept our used clothes, books, furniture, kitchenware, etc. I love these places, and have donated mountains of stuff over the years. Personally, I have two rules that have served me well in terms of keeping my home fairly clutter free and satisfying my desire to share the wealth I've been blessed with. I do not practice perfectly, but I do try my best. The first is the One-Year rule:  if I haven't used it or worn it in a year, it gets given away to someone who will use it more often than I do. The second rule is One-In, One-Out. I'm less good about this one, which states that if I buy a new pair of jeans, I give away an old pair. But it's a good rule. We used to do this with our kids at Christmas and birthdays. It helped (I hope) to encourage them to realize that not everyone has what they do, and no one needs fifteen different colored light sabers (or even five). 

Having said all of this and ensconced myself firmly in the camp of the toss-till-it's-de-cluttered camp, I feel it's only fair to make the case for Mick Oberon and his fellow hoarders—I mean collectors. There is something to be said for finding the exact right item one needs in our "junk" drawer, as Mick does, or in the garage where it's lived for 20 years. This is my husband's philosophy with respect to…everything. "You never know when you might need it!"  Not true; I can state with certainty that I will never, ever need a 30-year-old oxygen tank that has not been used or inspected in 25 years when I go scuba diving.  I enjoy breathing, even underwater, and plan to continue until my dying day, which I prefer to be in the far distant future, far away from water. I'm also pretty confident that I will never use my wedding dress again, and I have no daughters, so that could probably go as well.

But my examples are somewhat extreme and cut-and-dried (although we still have that oxygen tank plus his ancient BC vest that we have never taken with us on a diving vacation and my wedding dress is in the same box it was stored in 21 years ago—but we were moving on…). What about more ambiguous examples? Like my children's "art" from elementary school?  Or framed wall pictures of me as a little girl that used to hang in my mother's house before she died?  I feel bad throwing that shit away, but who would want it? It would be creepy for me to hang baby pix of myself in my house, and neither of my kids will be mistaken for Picasso, so I don't think their childhood drawings will have any value.

And what happens when we down size and de-cluttering is an imperative rather than a satisfying way to avoid writing (oh, did I say that out loud?)? I've never understood the idea of the offsite storage unit. Unless you're a criminal, in which case it makes a more sense. But why would we want our stuff somewhere on the other side of the railroad tracks in some creepy warehouse that I'd never want to visit lest said criminals decided to lure me into their portable pseudo-operating room to perform surgery without anesthesia?  Maybe I've been watching too many episodes of Criminal Minds, but still, you know what I'm saying. 

The way I figure it, I can go through my crap now and make sure I've sorted and stored the things that I truly value and need…or my kids can have that happy task when I kick the bucket sometime down the road. It seems unfair to burden my sons with such a thankless job, so my plan is to do it myself. Preferably while my husband is otherwise occupied.  So I can finally trash that stupid tank. And his monogrammed bowling ball. Mustn't forget that. I doubt even Mick Oberon, which his penchant for odd items, would accept that ball as barter for finding my lost dog. If I had lost my dog, that is. On the other hand, one never knows when a monogrammed bowling ball might come in handy. You know, for bowling. Maybe. Someday. 

It's a Dog's Life

I love Kevin Hearne. The Iron Druid is one of my favorite urban fantasy series. Hearne’s humor always makes me chuckle – I sometimes laugh out loud. I also appreciate his insight and advice; he’s one of my best literary therapists. It’s no wonder, then, that I eagerly awaited the release of his novella, The Purloined Poodle, despite the fact that it's written in the first "person" from the perspective of the Iron Druid's Irish Wolfhound, Oberon. [And no, it hasn’t escaped me that I'm reading a lot of books whose main characters are named Oberon. Truth is definitely stranger than fiction]. I’m not normally the kind of person who reads books written by dogs. Or by humans channeling dogs. But I love Oberon, and the first of his Meaty Mysteries did it for me in a big way. Not just because I was entertained and amused. But also because reading about a dog's life reminded me to think about what's important in my own. One of the most salient lessons that dogs can teach us is to live in the present moment. This is much, much easier said than done, and apparently, it's much easier for dogs than for people. This makes sense for several reasons that I'm almost afraid to talk about lest dog-loving fanatics (including myself) will give me grief. I mean no offense to the lovers of our four-legged friends. First off, there is the issue of brain size; if you have limited headspace, it's probably easier to stay focused on what's in front of you (this could explain the serenity of fools—but I digress). Second is the issue of free will—which, in my humble opinion—is a prerequisite to possessing a soul. And I'm not sure that dogs have free will, so they don't have any issues with making the right choice… like staying in the present moment. If it were easy, everyone would do it. But dogs don't have to worry about their souls ‘cause they are all going to Heaven, and doing the right thing by living in the moment doesn't need to be difficult for them.

We can learn many things from our canine friends: pay attention to what’s in front of us; hear and don’t just listen; see don’t just look. When a dog smells something, he's really taking it into his body—for better and for worse. He's fully present to his sense of smell. And when we touch our dogs or they touch us, if we're paying attention and not absently patting their heads, the communion is a wondrous thing. Because that's what presence does. It allows us to live fully. In reality, we only have the now. Our minds have not yet cottoned to this fact of life, however. Dogs do a much better job.

Another advantage that Oberon highlighted is that dogs enjoy the simple pleasures of life, and therefore seem much happier than we are. They love to run through the grass, and snooze in the sun and cuddle with a loved one. They enjoy their meals, and they take pleasure in pleasing their friends. Humans are capable of the same pleasures, no matter our circumstances. These pleasures cost nothing, and even if they are few and far between, instead of ruining the experience by thinking about its rarity, a dog would revel in the pleasure that was offered. I could learn something from this doggie ability to enjoy happiness where I find it.

Dogs seem to be fully integrated in their minds and bodies, something I didn't even know to desire and work toward for most of my half-century of living. There is no divide for them, which is likely another key to their unique capacity for living in the moment. Dogs live their lives as whole beings. Most of us have forgotten that we came into this world whole and somewhere underneath all the shit, we still are. Most dogs have a lot less shit piled on top of their basic integrity.

Another lesson our dogs can teach us is about values. Doggie values are the best: loyalty, affection, protection, honesty, generosity, the ability to trust, and good, old-fashioned pack values where families love and support each other through thick and thin. It doesn't really get much better than that. Perhaps The Donald could get a dog and learn a thing or two. On second thought, I wouldn't do that to the dog.

Dogs also trust their instincts, something else I'd like to learn to do better.  Dogs seem to have excellent access to their instinctive knowledge and they don't second-guess themselves.  All of us know immediately if a dog thinks we are good people. And we've all seen those who dogs don't like. I don't know about you, but I would be wary of anyone to whom my dogs took an instant dislike. Sketchy, for sure. So not only can we learn something about how to value our own instincts, but dogs are generous in sharing their instincts with us too. Beautiful animals.

So, once again I’m indebted to Kevin Hearne for writing an excellent story. And I offer many thanks to Oberon and his four-legged fellows for making me a better biped.

Breaking the Cycle

I just whipped through the beginning of a new series by MaryJanice Davidson. I love MaryJanice, creator of such memorable characters as Queen Betsy, Fred the Mermaid and the royal family of Alaska.  She makes me laugh out loud, even while she explores meatier topics. In Deja Who, Leah Nazir is an Insighter, a therapist of sorts who helps people explore aspects of their past lives that are leaking into their present reality. In this world, all of us ride the karmic wheel, reincarnating over and over again until we've learned our lessons or paid our debts.  Leah is no exception to this rule. She is living out her karmic destiny to endure a mother from hell only to get murdered by a psychopath who follows her through lifetimes. She seems resigned to her fate, at least at first. Eventually, though she realizes that karma is not inevitable and she breaks the abusive and murderous cycle once and for all. Along the way to her HEA, we get to experience Leah's "Mommie Dearest" moments up close and personal. And I will say this: if there were ever a time that I considered myself and my nightmare of a mother to be terminally unique, the plethora of books—in the paranormal fantasy genre alone—that include mothers from hell, literally and figuratively, disabuse me of that notion. In Leah's case, "It," as she calls her mother, is the worst caricature of a stage mother imaginable. "It" promoted Leah as a child actress, included herself as part of any acting deal in supporting roles, and then stole all the money Leah earned. "It" makes Kris Jenner (Kris Jenner is the ‘mom-a-ger’ of Kardashians] and Britney Spears' parents look like amateurs.

But despite the outrageous abuses, and the vicarious living that "It" did through Leah, there is no such thing as black and white when it comes to our parents. We want to love them. We want to believe them. We want to trust them. And the bad ones use these desires against us to manipulate our feelings. They make us feel wrong. No matter how right we are. Leah rides this emotional rollercoaster over and over throughout her lifetimes.

Being made wrong by our parents is an interesting phenomenon. In my experience, and also that of Leah, and Astrid (in Robyn Peterman's Fashionably Dead series) and Granuaile (in the Iron Druid series), it makes us want to be right more than anything. This tendency can get us into trouble, but that is a topic for another post.  It also ignites in us a deep desire to wrench from our bad parent an admission that they were wrong. They were wrong to dismiss us. Wrong to hurt us. Wrong not to love us as we deserve to be loved. We want an apology, an acknowledgement that it shouldn't have been that way. For most of us, it's like waiting for Godot.

These negative formative experiences also lead to a need for external validation. Because we were made wrong by the person who made us (and presumably any error of execution in the creation should reflect on the creator, in this case the DNA donors and those that raised us, but, strangely, only seem to reflect on the creation itself. Weird.), we need to be told we are all right by others. We seek this validation like Keith Richards looking for his next fix (back in the day, of course, when men were men and veins were afraid).

This is a terrible position to occupy. Needing and seeking validation and extreme self-righteousness lead to what I've termed the "Superiority-Inferiority" complex, which can be described by those afflicted as thinking of ourselves as the "piece of shit around which the universe revolves."  I'm sure all of us know people like this. I am a person like this. No fun. No fun at all. It makes me a highly critical and judgmental perfectionist with impossibly high standards which no one, including myself, can meet. We look for maternal (or paternal) surrogates, and we ache for someone to tell us that we are right and our parents are wrong. Mostly, we want our parents to utter that exact phrase as they lay prostrate at our feet. Hey, we can dream, right?

One of the most healing moments of my life was when a psychologist, who had seen me and my mother together, told me, in a private session, that it wasn't me, it was my mother. I do not have the words to describe the feeling of liberation I experienced upon hearing those words. Changed my life.

But the one thing no one has ever mentioned before was something that MaryJanice Davidson touched on in Deja Who.  Guilt. Guilt—the intense, unrelenting guilt that a child feels for resenting or even hating the person who we’re supposed to love best in the world. And who supposedly loves us best as well. I never thought about that guilt, which makes about as much sense as survivor guilt. It is no one's fault that we survived and others didn't. I feel that way about my brother. I made it out of our childhood home mostly intact. He did not. So while I was able to put myself back together again, my brother, sadly, remains more like Humpty Dumpty. So I got a double whammy of irrational but heartbreakingly real guilt; guilt that I could honestly say that I didn't love my mother, and guilt that I survived our childhood, metaphorically speaking, and my brother did not.

I keep thinking I'm finished writing about my awful mother. But then I keep reading my beloved books and her character—and mine—keep popping up. I hope that I have been as successful in breaking the karmic cycle as Leah was, but I guess I won't know for sure until my next incarnation. Or maybe, just maybe, I will be able to see the last turn of this particular wheel in the lives of my own children and in the nature of my relationship with them as they mature into adults. I’ll keep striving to be the mother I wanted but never had as I ride the wheel of fate, seeking to break this karmic cycle. Only time will tell.

Spin Dragons

We live in a world of spin. She who controls the story controls reality. The truth is no longer relevant, and any fantasy, provided enough of us believe, has been crowned as gospel. It seems that many of us think this is a new phenomenon, or at least greatly magnified in the current political, economic and societal milieu. It's not. Propaganda has been around since the dawn of time, and it's always been a fact that only winners write history. So I was very intrigued by the story arc running through Jessie Donovan's Stonefire British Dragons series. In the world of Jessie Donovan's dragons, humans don't think much of dragon shifters, and the humans control the flow of information. So the dragon shifters are feared, persecuted and tightly controlled in where they can live, who they can mate, and when and how they can interact with humans. But then one of the "approved" human mates decides to write a book shedding light on the mysterious dragon shifter culture and hopefully helping the humans to dispel fear with facts and embrace the dragon shifters as alien, but familiar at the same time, leading to less friction and more cooperation between species.

It's a good strategy, but it's not without its risks. In Revealing the Dragons, Jessie Donovan explores what happens when truth supplants speculation, and how different factions react, depending on what they have to gain or lose. Ms. Donovan imbues her dragon fantasy story with a great deal of truth.

In the book, lots of humans are eager to learn more about the exotic dragon shifters, and the book about them by the human mate, Melanie, is well received. But there are factions that have no interest in "humanizing" the dragon shifters, despite the fact that they spend most of their time in human form, and some of them are, actually, half human, with human mothers. Nor are the fear-mongers out there willing to be confused by the facts. They need monsters in order to lead the villagers in hatred and ignorance, and anything that threatens to negate the fear gets added to the list of that which is hated. So Melanie and her mate's clan become targets of hate and violence. Again, lots of truth here.

We live in a world without dragons (more's the pity), but we don't live in a world where this story line is unrealistic (an even greater pity). And while I try to keep this space apolitical, I can't help but comment that one of our presidential candidates could double for either Gaston (who was rejected by Beauty and led the villagers against the Beast in retaliation) or the village idiot, who's IQ may be impaired, but his ability to dredge up fear and hatred is unfortunately unlimited.

People who somnambulate through life will always be subject to fear and hate mongers.   It's hard to wake up and take responsibility for our own lives. It's so much easier to blame others for our troubles. Hell, it's so much easier to raise ourselves up by standing on the backs of those we oppress than it is to do the hard work to stand tall on our own. Our fear keeps us passive and malleable and ripe for manipulation by those who have figured out that to the victors go the spoils. And those who seek to win, in the dragon shifter world as well as our own, learned a long time ago that creating a bullshit problem and then offering the solution is an excellent way to accrue power, money, influence and prestige.

So, in Ms. Donovan's dragon world, the dragons become the (nonexistent) problem and the dragon hunters become the saviors of the world. In our reality, the "Muslims" or the "Jews" or the "Blacks" or pick your favorite minority become the (equally nonexistent) problem, and only The Donald can save us. Yeah, right. It would be ludicrous if it wasn't so diarrhea inducing frightening. Seeing as I belong to one of the hated minorities and know from personal and cultural experience how damaging this worldview is, my guts are fairly watery right now. 

But the antidote to mindless fear and ignorance is, as Ms. Donovan writes, information and familiarity. The more we know about each other, the more (reasonable people) learn to understand that there are more similarities between us than differences. And that even where there are differences, that's OK, because being different is good; our differences make life exciting and help us to learn and do new things and think about things from differing perspectives and maybe, in doing so, revolutionize the world, cure cancer, make contact with alien beings, end poverty. Or maybe just end racism, and homophobia or antisemitism or Pavlovian responses to terrorism that target peace loving, law abiding Muslims. Yeah, that would be nice. Oh, and, you know, treat dragon shifters fairly and with compassion, cause that's important too.

You Say You Want an Evolution

When three paranormal fantasy superstar authors (Kresley Cole, Larissa Ione and Gena Showalter) get together to put out an anthology, Blood Red Kiss, well, I had to read it, of course. I was a bit disappointed to see that the Kresley Cole offering was a retread of "Warlord Wants Forever," an excellent short story, but one I've read and listened to, although not written about previously. The second offering, by Larissa Ione, called “Forsaken by Night,” was a real page turner and left me wanting more, as only a master writer can do. In the story, Ms. Ione gives us just enough of the world building to give the story weight and coherence, but not so much that I fully understand all that I'd like to know. She skillfully weaves several themes into the short piece, but the one that caught my attention, as it often does, is the theme of change. Apparently, change is the one constant for humans and paranormals alike. The thing about change is that it can be fast and dramatic, as in a revolution, or slow and easy, as in evolutionary change.  In this story, the protagonist is forced to accept that the clan leader who exiled him more than a decade previously had changed enough to warrant a second chance, even as the protagonist himself was given a second chance based on his own evolution. That was the most dramatic element of the story—the lack of drama. Neither the outcast nor the clan leader who exiled him had had any sort of revolutionary shift. Just the steady forward movement toward wisdom and growth that constitutes evolution. Less an earthquake than the gradual erosion of rock under running water. 

Evolution is not nearly as sexy as revolution. The slow and steady march of time that leads us toward progressive and meaningful change isn't glamorous, and often we don't even know it's occurring. It's not until we realize that we are meeting a situation with a new set of eyes and seeing things in a different way than we used to, or we notice that we are more or less reactive than before that we realize that evolution has happened and we are no longer who we were.

Sometimes, these evolutionary changes are for the better, but not always. I've learned to avoid wearing yoga leggings or sweats all the time, or really anything with spandex in it, because I don't notice when I'm slowly gaining weight until the muffin top threatens to breach even my stretchy pants and my regular clothes no longer fit. Similarly, we can skip a trip or two to the gym for a week or two in a row, but we need to be careful because before we know it, we're out of the habit of working out entirely and that pesky muffin top is back. Or we have a couple glasses of wine several times a week, which turns into every night, which turns into a drinking problem down the road. We've all been in one or more of these situations where the slow creep of bad habits turns into a much bigger problem than we realized because the progression was so incremental. 

On the other hand, good habits can slip in under our radar as well, and before we know it, we're doing well without really trying. That's the theory behind adding green foods (i.e. veggies) to our plates; if we slowly increase our consumption of the good stuff, we'll have less and less room for the junk food that is ruining our health. Adding one minute a week to our treadmill or elliptical routine gets us over an hour by the end of a year if we started out at ten minutes. Adding five seconds every few days to our planks gets us to two minutes without our ever noticing it.

And what about other habits that seems so overwhelming when viewed in their entireties? Like people pleasing? Or the opposite of that, being a curmudgeon?  Taking tiny steps out of our comfort zones can make a big difference. Even something as small as saying we didn't enjoy a movie when our friend clearly did can begin an inexorable evolution toward speaking our truth. Every little drop of water over that stone is one more step toward transformation, maybe from rough to smooth or heavy to light or sadness to joy. Each small step counts. Not dramatically, in and of itself, but slowly and steadily over time. 

The thing about evolution is that it's a lot less scary than revolution. And it tends to leave much less of a mess in its wake. In my work as a health coach, I often tell people that while a pill or maybe surgery might seem to work faster, the mess such revolutionary tactics create often hardly seems worth it. It's like going out to dinner because we don't feel like cooking. Most of the time, it's actually faster and easier to throw something together than to get in the car, drive to the restaurant, order our food, wait for it, send it back because something wasn't right, eat it, drive home, etc. It may seem like it would be easier, and in some respects it is.  But until we get a Star Trek-like device that can conjure whatever we want to eat out of thin air, most nights it's easier to just eat stay put.

As a society, we don't like to wait much. We have the collective attention spans of chimps on crack. With evolutionary changes, that can actually work in our favor. Sometimes change happens when we were paying attention to something else. Like we realize that "all of a sudden" we're looking forward to yoga class, or we wake up one day and understand that the ex-boyfriend we exiled to the friend zone is stirring decidedly more-than-friendly feelings. Or we realize that all the work we've done to launch a new business over the past five years has made us an "overnight success."  The payoff in each of these situations was the result of evolution, even though, from the outside, it might appear revolutionary. 

So don't knock evolution till you try it. As in Larissa Ione's story in Blood Red Kiss, we may find that change happens, even when we aren't paying attention. If it's change we like, we'll continue to go with the flow.  If we find we've fallen—slowly—into bad habits, it might take a more revolutionary approach to stem the flow.  But evolution beats revolution for ease and comfort every time, although it makes for a more mature story. 

It's Better to Be Lucky than Good

I'm still thinking about Hot Lead, Cold Iron, the first of the Mick Oberon "jobs" (books) in the series.  Mick is a member of the Fae, but he's in exile on Earth from Elphame (Faerie) for sins not yet disclosed. He’s busy making a living as a PI in 1930s Chicago and working his particular brand of magic. One of the original elements of this series and its world building is the specific nature of Mick's magic—the way he manipulates luck to his advantage and the disadvantage of his foes.  I've never read anything quite like it, and, of course, it got me to thinking, as I am wont to do. I've often heard the expression, "It's better to be lucky than good."  I've also heard that, "The harder I worked, the luckier I got."  And, finally, we have the admonition that luck is a backstabbing bitch, deserting us when we need her most. So, let's explore the concept of luck and the role that it plays in our lives. 

The way Mick works his magic is to gather small strands of luck around himself, adding to the probability that a plan will go his way, or he will be the victor in a fight. If the odds are against him, his magic will ensure that odds are “ever in his favor.” Think about how important it would be to ensure that at the moment we walk up to the stage, we don’t trip on our dress (like Jennifer Lawrence at the Oscars), or fall on our asses (like Madonna in concert). Manipulating luck would mean that our flies would never be open at a particularly inopportune time, nor would we have toilet paper stuck to our heels or lettuce in between our front teeth for the world to see. Being lucky means being in the right place at the right time to meet the man or woman of our dreams, to be spotted by the person who will make our career, or to be able to take advantage of an opportunity. Luck means clear skies for our Ireland vacation, even though it rains there most of the year, or seeing the top of the Arenal volcano in Costa Rica, even though we were only there for a couple of hours and some wait weeks to catch a glimpse of the summit. It’s good to be lucky.

But luck is not always with us. We anthropomorphize luck as a fickle woman, favoring us one moment and abandoning us the next, and there is some truth to the randomness of her affections. As an aside, I notice that we don’t imbue men with those characteristics (it’s always women who are fickle), but I digress. Regardless of the sexist nature of the personification of luck, it is true that luck doesn’t seem to be something we can count on, although it sure does seem to visit some more than others.

Some of us are born lucky. My husband is like that; my former fiancé was not. And that was something I considered in ending the engagement to one and going through with the marriage to the other. Not the only thing, mind you, but one conscious consideration. My husband seems to walk under a golden cloud. Almost everything he touches works out, and he has the best parking karma of anyone I’ve ever known. Of course, as I write this, I am stressing that in highlighting his luck, the woman in question will leave him flat, but I’m going to have some faith that she’ll continue to grace him with her presence. My former fiancé, on the other hand, couldn’t help but take the hard way home every single time. Life just seemed to come with difficulty for him. He was aware of his paucity of luck, and he worked hard to make sure that he was good enough to rise above any bad luck that came his way.

The other aspect of Mick’s magic is equally brilliant. By stealing the luck of his opponents, Mick doubly magnifies his chances for success. It’s a win-win, although this aspect of his luck smacks a bit of schadenfreude, and I’m not sure I am comfortable hoping for the same sort of ability for myself. Because while increasing my own luck seems like a neat trick, taking away the good fortune of others seems somewhat nasty to me, and if we believe in the karmic version of luck (which I haven’t seen so far in Mick’s case), then stealing others’ fortune will come back to bite us in the ass with a vengeance down the road. But if luck isn’t a zero sum game, then it might be just fine to amp up our own share and safeguard ourselves again trouble and strife. Or just make sure we get good parking whenever possible.  

Humanity without the Humans

I just finished Fashionably Dead and Wed and I not only couldn't put it down, but I laughed my ass off. Which was apparently wildly inappropriate while my husband was listening to QBVII on Audible in the car seat next to me. Oh, well. He's used to my sloppy hysterical giggles when I read my beloved books. That's one of the many reasons I love him. But my mad love for my honey is not the subject of this post, or at least not directly. The subject is humanity, a topic I've explored before; because nothing prompts me faster to ponder the essence of humanity than a bunch of Vampyres, Fairies and Demons. You know, the usual suspects in a Robyn Peterman novel.   In this particular outing, one of my favorite heroines, Astrid, a True Immortal and the personification of Compassion, wants to marry her vampire prince in homage to her human heritage. As she prepares for her nuptials, Astrid decides she's made a mistake, and that clinging to her mortal past will just make her less inclined to accept her eternal life with grace and serenity. She fears being one of those women who continue to wear mini skirts well past their prime, clinging to a youth that has gone the way of all flesh. Well, perhaps that isn't the best example, as Astrid will look young and hot forever, but she doesn't want to sour on her present existence by living in the past, especially as her current incarnation will last till the end of time, what with the whole True Immortal thing.

Astrid resolutely, if sadly, decides to turn her back on her humanity, which is being represented by this wedding in Hell (long story—read the book), but she is dissuaded from her chosen path by her grandfather, who is the personification of Wisdom. He advises that she cling with all she is worth to her humanity, as it is that which will make eternity not only bearable, but also joyful. It was interesting advice that deserves some unpacking.

I think what Astrid’s grandpa was telling her was that it’s neither frivolous nor foolish to wish to mark important occasions. Such occasions cause us to stop, pause and reflect on the passage of time, that which is important to us, and that which we want to share and declare to our families, friends and the world at large. For example, I attended the Bar Mitzvah of a close friend’s son this weekend. The experience was surprisingly emotional for me on a number of different levels. First was the inevitable reminder that time is slip sliding away and I haven’t figured out much of anything yet. The second was the gut-punch of loss that I felt that my friend’s mother wasn’t there, as she passed two years ago—and how I can’t believe it’s been two years already. Third, I felt regret that I had chosen to eschew the same celebrations for my own sons, mostly because I didn’t think it would be meaningful for me, as I’m not particularly observant. I think I was wrong. And yes, they can always choose to have the ceremony later, as adults, but it won’t be the same.

Similarly, I counsel anyone who will stand still long enough to listen to go on a honeymoon immediately after their wedding. There are some couples who choose to delay their “honeymoon” till months or even years after the wedding, which I think is a big mistake. Any sort of trip that doesn’t start when the marriage does is just a vacation. Never in our lives is there a time when we are first married, when our rings are super shiny (which is how everyone in Italy knew we were newlyweds on our honeymoon almost 21 years ago), and our love is erupting from our hearts. There is nothing like it when we refer to our spouse as our “husband” or “wife.” I’ve always said that the location of the honeymoon and the activities don’t matter, as long as the couple is away from their day-to-day lives and responsibilities for a little while to savor the moment.

And isn’t that what being human is all about? Astrid talks about the meaning of life being love, and that is true as far as it goes. But what is love, in some ways, that a magnifying glass for the present moment? The moment when are hearts are so full of feeling for others and for the lives we’ve been given that there is no room to live in the past or project into the future. What better way to enhance the present moment that to mark it with rites and rituals, ceremonies and celebrations? Such activities help us with our magic magnifying glasses, spinning the focus control so that we see only that which is in front of us and surrounding us.

When I was in graduate school, I planned to skip my graduation ceremony for my master’s degree. I was in a PhD program, and figured I would attend that service if I made it. My father had recently died, and his absence would be a gaping hole in my heart as I walked across the stage and accepted my diploma. What was the point? But my favorite professor, who was my advisor, employer, friend and mentor, urged me to reconsider. He, who was forty years my senior, said that we must take every opportunity to celebrate the joys of life, to recognize our own achievements and those of others, and stop time periodically to take stock of where we are, how we got there, and where we want to go from there. It was good advice. Such moments remind us of our humanity by plastering us to the present moment and forcing us to remember—or discover—that which is important to us and that which is not.

Unlike Astrid, we don’t have forever, and we need to make every moment count. In Astrid’s case, eternity without love and an appreciation for every moment would be worse than having a wedding in Hell (you know, where her Uncle Satan lives). For us, we will reach the end of this existence all too soon. Without clinging to our humanity with everything we’ve got, we’ll have missed the entire point of the exercise.

Of Signs and Symbols

I've started a new series, although I'm not quite sure where I found it. Hot Lead, Cold Iron by Ari Marmell is the first Mick Oberon "job" (story/book) and it's different enough to be intriguing. The book is an homage to the hard boiled dick novels of the early and mid-twentieth century coupled with faithful adherence to the traditional tropes of urban fantasy in the style of Jim Butcher and Kevin Hearne, with language from my favorite Star Trek episode, A Piece of the Action thrown in for good measure. What could be bad?  Turns out, nothing. The book is a delightful discovery and my only disappointment is that there are only three books so far in the series. I am also indebted to the author for highlighting an oversight in my understanding of magic, which I've discussed before. I've always said that the formula for magic was focus, energy and intention. What I forgot, and Mick Oberon reminded me, is that the language of magic is symbolism.   One of the reasons I forgot about symbolism is that it is a dying language, kind of like Latin (cognates of which are a favorite among wizards, druids and magical beings everywhere—expelliarmus!). But signs and symbols have always been a part of spell casting and magic generally. Think about salt circles, pentagram, ruins and the symbolism of the Tarot deck—any deck, really, although Rider-Waite is the classic and it is heavily symbolic. Symbols often mark a hidden path; think The DaVinci Code, cairns along twisted forest trail, or any treasure map worth its name.

Symbolism is esoteric and implicit. It can be subtle and often requires thought and decoding to understand. We live in a world of instant gratification and spoon-fed opinions and entertainment. We have no patience for anything that isn't in-your-face obvious. It's supposed to be like that, otherwise, why use signs and symbols? The problem for the modern mind is that symbolism has depth and most of us think depth is overrated. 

Except, of course, it's not. Depth is there regardless of whether we choose to acknowledge it. Symbols and signs often constitute the pathway that leads us to our own depths, as well as deep places outside ourselves. And most esoteric spiritual and religious books and teachings use the language of symbols so that if a seeker really wants the knowledge, she has to work for it. Very little of what comes easily is valued. Those who illuminate an obscure path with symbolic clues know this.

Symbolism is the language of dreams and, as such, a gateway to our unconscious minds. When we dream about showing up naked to a test, it's not because we actually fear that we'll forget to dress. Those dreams are about vulnerability and exposure. The symbolism of dreams is so well documented, in fact, that one can read books (or Google) the symbolism of dreams. My mother-in-law taught a class on the subject some years ago. There is a lot there to explore in our dreams. And it's all about the symbols.  

Depth psychology is almost exclusively an illumination of symbols and what they point to in terms of our patterns and neuroses. By exposing that to which the symbols refer, we can begin to understand the motivations behind self-destructive or outwardly destructive behaviors. We peel the layers back one by one, digging deeper and deeper into the symbolism of the unconscious mind and this process is supposedly very healing to old wounds. 

Symbols are the language of both spirituality and religion. A cross is a symbol, the Star of David is a symbol, and a candle in a window is a symbol. We all know what they mean, although they can mean different things to different people. That's what makes them interesting and subtle and subject to interpretation. There is a great deal of symbolism in each of the western religions (I'm sure in the east as well, but I'm not as familiar with those traditions). The wafer in the mass, Elijah's cup, a Muslim woman's headscarf. These are all symbols of something else that point to the Divine and humanity's place in relation to the infinite. Fascinating stuff.

Symbols can stir deep emotions. Think about someone burning an American flag. It's just a piece of cloth. Except it's not. Think about Serrano's Immersion, otherwise known as the "Piss Christ." It's just a piece of plastic submerged in a cup of urine. Gross? Yes.  But unless we imbue that piece of plastic with some meaning beyond its constituent parts, it's not a big deal. If we see meaning beyond the explicit in that plastic crucifix, then yes, that changes the whole equation.

Finally, symbolism is the language of the imagination. Our creativity is fueled by signs and symbols. We draw and paint and write in symbols. My personal favorite, of course, is the writing part of creativity, and my very favorite thing to do is to write and read creative analogies, many of which involve symbolism and one thing pointing to another. In fact, I've always wanted to write a book with the best analogies and metaphors I've read in my many literary travels. Hot Lead, Cold Iron has oodles of them; I'm in analogy heaven, and my imagination is swirling.

I'm indebted to Ari Marmell for this imaginative, symbolic gambol through an alternate 1930s Chicago and some instruction on the necessary ingredients  of magic and mayhem. I love symbolism and I'm always looking for signs. I can find meaning in the random order of my iTunes playlist, completely sure I'm receiving messages from the Universe, as well as the specific positions of magazines in a doctor's waiting room. Needless to say, with this book, I'm in my element and having a rip-roaring good time. 

Healing the Past

I'm enjoying Jessie Donovan's Stonefire British Dragons series. The books are fun and flighty, and you know me and my dragons. Love. In the fourth installment, Healed by the Dragon, Arabella is a female dragon shifter who was captured and tortured by dragon hunters as a teen (they also killed her mother, so she has some major scars—and not just the ones on her face).  She hides away for a decade, afraid of her dragon and everyone else until the leader of a neighboring dragon clan swoops in to win her heart and give her an HEA.  The moral of the story, beyond that most paranormal fantasy usually ends with a happily ever after, is that everything we need to heal the past can be found in the present. According to Jessie Donovan (and me) it's not necessary to relive the past in order to heal it. The Universe gives us opportunities in the present to repair the damage – and, if we're willing to take the other steps necessary to move toward— freedom from the bondage of that which we cannot change.  

Because we can't.  We can't go back and either undo or redo the past—it's over.  And whatever happened there has made us who we are today, for better and for worse. Somehow, and in some way, we must come to terms with whatever trauma or loss or lack that we endured, and find a way to accept it. We must also accept that no matter what, there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.

There is a lot to do to heal our past. None of it, however, requires that we relive it over and over again. Instead, we must grieve. When we survive terrible experiences, whether they are physical, emotional or psychological (or all of the above), we must grieve the death of the person we were or could have been.

I look back now and wonder how much pain and suffering I could have avoided if my mother hadn't been a narcissist who was essentially incapable of loving me. Who could I have been with support and encouragement as a child—someone who experienced love and security and a sense that all was right in the world? I have no idea. I suspect that I would have been, could have been, should have been amazing. Happy.  Content. Compassionate (towards myself). I was none of those things then and for a long time afterward.

I've had to come to terms with the fact that I was a damaged, anxious, defensive, distrustful child, teen and new adult.  I had to accept that and grieve the person I coulda, shoulda, woulda been before I could rebuild a life for myself and experience all of those beautiful moments I missed growing up. I had to accept that this was my path—harder than those of some, infinitely easier than that of many.

The second requirement for healing the past in the present is forgiveness. We must forgive those who harmed us, and we must forgive ourselves for being harmed.  I know we're not supposed to blame the victim—especially when we are that victim—but we do, and we must stop. We blame the Other or the Universe for bad acts, but we blame ourselves for not avoiding them, or not getting through it all with less damage, or not getting over it quickly. All of this must be forgiven if we are to move forward. Tough stuff.

And lastly, if we are to have a real shot at healing the past, we need to take a leap of faith. It is my belief that for all of us who need to heal, there is an underlying belief that the past is the future. Somewhere deep inside we believe that the past is a predictor of the future. If it happened once it will happen again, and perhaps again after that. So unless we willingly suspend disbelief and trust that the present and the future need not be a repeat of the past, we will never be truly healed. No matter how good things get. Because we will be so hyper-vigilant watching for that other shoe, or Damocles' damn sword, or sharks falling out of tornados on top of us that we cannot truly enjoy any healing that might occur.

Once all of that work is done, then it's time to allow ourselves to be vulnerable again. This is the hardest part of all. Because, in truth, we are always vulnerable. But we deny this truth and instead seek to protect ourselves by bracing for and expecting the worst. In our damaged minds we believe that by hardening our hearts, they will never be broken again. But the truth is that we stayed broken because our hearts never healed and so we were never whole. If we can soften and open and receive, it's true that we might get hurt again, but the alternative is to stay hurt to the point where we convince ourselves we no longer feel the pain. This is a dangerous delusion.

Like Arabella in Healing the Dragon, the only way out is through. Through the fear and the potential suffering to the joy on the other side. That way through is what allows us to be open to the explore experiences that heal—to be the parents to our children that we never had. To be the loving partner that we always wanted to attract. To give our all to a worthy cause or take a leap towards a new career, lifestyle, location, whatever. But all of this must come after the grief, and the forgiveness and acceptance of our own vulnerability.

It's not enough to rewrite our present in words and scenes that salve our past wounds. That is necessary but not sufficient. In order to truly experience and benefit from the present healing the past, we must accept, grieve and forgive. And then open ourselves to new experiences that reorder our thinking and our lives for the better.  A tall order. But if the dragon can do it, so can I.

Love after Love

My new ambition is to be a writer who is so successful that my deleted scenes and alternate endings, middles and beginnings can be pulled from the trash and put together into a book that becomes a bestseller.  I want to be Jeaniene Frost. Her Outtakes from the Grave was not only interesting and exciting, but an original and brilliant concept. Here, Ms. Frost provides insights into a writer's mind and process. We see what she left out and why. Fascinating read, and it leads to the topic at hand, which is about second chances for love. In Outtakes from the Grave, the longest and most compelling section was an alternate plot line where the central couple, Cat and Bones (one of the great paranormal couples of all time), are challenged by his complete memory loss of her. Bones doesn't remember who Cat is, or that they are married and wildly in love. The scenes are excruciating to read—can you imagine your significant other forgetting you? Horrifying. And they also raise an interesting question: would we fall in love with the same person twice?  I wondered about this when I read a similar trope in Thea Harrison's novella, Pia Saves the Day, where her mate, Dragos, loses his memory. In both cases, these males fall in love with their mates all over again. I wonder how much truth there is in this particular fantasy.

What do you think?  Does our current partner have the ability to woo us a second time if we lost our memories of them and met them as strangers today?  Keep in mind that in this scenario we're not going back to who we were when we met; the question is whether if we were who we are right now, and we met our mate who they are right now without any historical knowledge of them or us would we fall in love a second time?

At this point in our lives, we are older and hopefully wiser. Would we gravitate toward good looks, knowing as we do now that such metrics are ephemeral?  Would we interrogate our erstwhile partner and determine their level of industry, responsibility and integrity?  Would we find them wanting?

Would we be attracted to the same things in our mate that we were then?  Have we learned that what we thought was there, wasn't? What was important to us at 25 might be quite different at 50. Have we changed sufficiently that we no longer share the same values and worldview?  Does this matter?  Would we take what we've had and determine that moving on with no harm, no foul is the way to go – knowing that the history is not shared?

Another question is whether compatibility is more important than shared interests. Many people commit to each other based on similar resumes.  They work and/or play in the same arenas and conclude that this is enough to build a life. I've never believed that, and my own marriage bears this out; my husband and I share few interests or hobbies (although we both love to travel together, which has created a powerful bond and allowed us to make many beautiful memories together).  What we do have, and what has been a backbone of our longevity, is an uncanny compatibility and the ability to divvy up responsibilities in an equitable and mutually satisfying manner. So, I picked correctly the first time—compatibility over shared interests—and I would do it again.

If we had it to do over again and we were in a position to accept or reject our current partner in an alternate universe where they no longer knew us, would we follow the adage that birds of a feather flock together or that opposites attract? That is a harder question for me. I went with "opposites attract," and while it's been a good move in many ways, it's also been the source of many marital issues. So, having had no experience with a partner whose feathers are like mine, I'm not sure what I would do, but probably stick with the one that brung me. I'm a little afraid that if I had a mate who was much like me, it would quickly go nuclear.

Another question along these lines is whether this reasoning applies to friends as well as lovers/life partners?  If our friends forgot us, would we still want to be friends with them? I've often contemplated that my oldest, closest friends—my sisters by choice not blood—could not be more different from each other and from me. We were thrust together as small children and we grew up together, but beyond many shared formative experiences, we don't have much in common, nor are we particularly compatible. So if one of us lost the memory of the other, it could totally sink the relationship. Which would be utterly devastating. These women are my rocks in the turbulent sea of life. So I will be like Scarlett O'Hara and just not think about that today.

This particular thought experiment had one more related and relevant question: if it is true that we would fall in love with the same person again and even again, is it possible to achieve that without the dramatic loss of memory, or the threat of a total loss through illness, injury, death or betrayal?  In other words, when the thrill is gone and the honeymoon is over, when the hard work of building careers and raising families is done, can two people rekindle the chemistry that brought them together in the first place? Is it possible to fall head over heels in love with our partners long after the bloom is off the rose? I think the answer is yes and that with time, effort and persistent focus, we can all remember that love after love is possible and magical even within a single union.

Presence Is the Best Present

I recently finished Man in Black by John G. Hartness. The series is getting better and better and I read it in one sitting. In this installment, our boy, Jimmy Black, is now the top vampire in Charlotte, NC. He's come a long way, baby. Jimmy has had to grow up in a hurry and figure out how to get serious about his new responsibilities. It's not easy being the head honcho in the first place, but on top of that, no one is taking him seriously. Not the other vampires, and not even the very human crime boss of Charlotte, Marcus Owen, despite his own deficiencies in the paranormal department.  And while Jimmy feels confident in his inherent superiority to a mere mortal, he is not prepared for the effect of Owen's outsized presence. When Jimmy meets Owen for the first time, he is surprisingly overwhelmed. As Jimmy learned, presence is an interesting attribute. One either has it or they don't. And while it might be possible to dampen one's presence for effect or necessity and grow in presence over time, one cannot amplify a quality that isn't … present.

But man, oh, man, when it’s there, presence is a force of nature. Have you ever seen Bill Clinton in person?  He electrifies a place. President Obama has his fair share as well. Many politicians do.  Preachers too. Rock stars and A-list actors may have it more than anyone.  When we meet someone with the gift of presence, we know it. They are the ones towards whom all heads turn when they enter a room.  Sometimes it's a function of physical beauty, like Marilyn Monroe or James Dean (if you're an old movie buff, as I am—think Margot Robbie or Chris Pine if not). But even when the person with presence is beautiful, it's something more than that. Personally, I think it's chemical—even when you haven't actually seen this kind of individual walk into a room, you know they're there because your lizard brain senses it. And if we become the object of such a person's attention? Oh, Nelly, things get hot.  These people have power.

Power is itself an attribute or sign of presence. Powerful people often feel like they also have great presence. The issue is, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Did Nelson Mandela have presence before he acquired power?  Did Elvis Presley? What about Anna Wintour?  If we looked at their high school yearbooks, would all of these folks have "Most Likely to Succeed" labels under their awkward teenaged photos (and yes, I understand that Nelson Mandela likely didn't have a yearbook photo). I suspect that presence of the inherent, chemical variety is a prerequisite for presence of the powerful variety and that the second enhances the first—but can't necessarily make it stick.  Look at Bill Gates; not much presence there, just s geeky guy with enough smarts to change the world.  His achievements confer power, and the power bestows a titch of presence, but not really. Bill Gates just doesn’t have it, despite his smarts, his wealth and his power. That’s a great trifecta, but it’s not the same as having presence. Ask Hillary Clinton, who hasn't "caught" any presence from her husband, which is a shame, because she could use it against Trump, who, unfortunately, has quite a bit of presence.

Presence conveys an illusion of competence, trustworthiness and strength (there could be truth below the illusion, but not necessarily). When a man or woman of presence tells us something, we are apt to believe it. It's almost like being mesmerized by a vampire.  We want to believe this incredible creature who is telling us things with great confidence and weight. We yearn to believe.  In fact, depending on the level of personal presence someone has, and the degree to which we consciously or unconsciously want to give up our will, we do believe. It’s an authority and obedience thing.

Presence conveys authority. Which is scary. I remember going to a Michael Jackson concert in the 1980s at a huge stadium in Florida. And as I was looking around at all of the delirious fans, I had the unpleasant thought that if Michael asked his fans to jump up and down squealing like pigs, they would. If he asked them to turn to the person next to them and land a sucker punch, my fear was that way too many would jump on that bandwagon, just because Michael asked. The authority of presence can certainly be abused. We’ve seen that too, all too often.

Presence is a quirky concept. Like pornography, we know it when we see and feel it, but we may not be able to describe it. But it’s hard to ignore when it’s there. I suspect that as overwhelmed as Jimmy was by Marcus Owens' presence, and as underwhelmed as Marcus was by Jimmy's, Jimmy Black, Master of Charlotte will grow in presence as he settles into his powerful job. And if that happens, the seeds of that presence were always there. I guess that John Hartness has been waiting quite some time to let Jimmy's inner badass out. And I also suspect that we will all take notice.  Because it's a big deal when Elvis has left the building.

The Gift of Desperation

As I mentioned last week, I'm reading a new-to-me series by Jessie Donovan about the Stonefire British Dragons. Interestingly, I found this series through Facebook ads, so in case anyone was wondering, they work. I'm always willing to give a new author a whirl around the dance floor, especially when they write about dragons. The original premise of this series, and the title of the first book, is that human women are Sacrificed to the Dragon. In a clever twist on the trope of virgins being slaughtered for the sake of appeasing horrific monsters (and gods), in this version, willing human women (not virgins) who have been found to be compatible with dragonmen for the purpose of procreation, trade their bodies as baby-making entities in exchange for dragon blood, which has miraculous healing properties. Now, one cannot look too closely at this premise, as it has holes bigger than a Mac truck, or maybe a dragon, but if we gloss over that caveat, then it works. In the second book, Seducing the Dragon, the female protagonist seeks protection against dragon hunters who want to kill her in exchange for becoming a dragon-shifter's mate.  Again, the construct is rickety, but if we go with it, the book is fun and sexy. These plots inspired me to think about what we humans are willing to do when we're desperate. I know I'm not giving anything away when I tell you that both of these women, one a sacrifice and one a seductress, end up getting their HEAs with their hunky dragonmen. But what got them there in the first place was the gift of desperation, one desperate to save her dying brother and the other desperate to save herself.

In the 12-step Rooms (as the meeting places for Alcoholics Anonymous and all of its spin-offs are called), they talk about the "gift of desperation."  This refers to the (usually horrible) circumstances that lead an addict to contemplate the need for recovery. In many (although not all) cases, folks who stumble or crawl into the Rooms have hit "rock bottom," and are aware—somewhere in their addled brains—that if they don't change their ways, the only outcome is insanity or death. J.R. Ward describes this phenomenon through the character of Phury, who is a drug addict. Phury spirals downward, slowly and then faster and faster as he circles the hole in the toilet, contemplating the event horizon from which he will not return. Spoiler alert—Phury gets help and gets his shit together but only thanks to utter desperation.

It seems paradoxical to call desperation a gift. Desperate people aren’t stable. Nor are they rational. Desperate people get that way because they have lost something, like a lover, a job, their homes, their families, their wealth and/or their health. Desperate people understand what it is to look in a mirror and feel such self loathing that it makes the hatred between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump seem blasé. Desperate people don't believe there is a way out of the mess they are in, whether it's one of their own making or a situation that fate has foisted upon them. And desperate people, as a result of their desperation, do desperate things.  

Desperate deeds can be described as something we would never contemplate doing if we were in our right minds. Like signing up to be sacrificed to a dragon we've never met and having his dragon baby. Or not drinking when we can't really imagine life without alcohol. Or maybe telling someone how we really feel, because we figure we have nothing left to lose. Or, in the best cases, surrendering the fight because we just can't fight anymore, and accepting the reality in which we are living, which is the first step toward meaningful change.

That last desperate act—accepting a reality that does not conform to our fantasies—is probably the hardest, most desperate thing we can do. It's the moment we accept that our mate isn't as smart, or capable, or attractive or interesting as we thought—or at least hoped. We've all been there when the honeymoon is over, and we are left with the realization that our better half is actually no better than we are, but equally imperfect and damaged by living our lives. And then there is the equally horrifying moment when we realize that they feel exactly the same way. But from there, lasting relationships can be by built on a solid foundation.

Even more desperate is the act of accepting ourselves. For those of us of a certain age, there comes a time when we realize that we haven't yet changed the world, and given the lateness of the hour, it may never happen. We must accept the reality that our bodies are bigger, slower and less energetic than they used to be.  And when we butt up against that reality, some of us do desperate things to negate a reality we don't want. Like buying a muscle car and having an affair with a younger woman, which really reeks of desperation like nothing else.

But the gift of desperation can also lead us toward the light—not the one we will supposedly see when we finally depart this mortal plain, but the one at the end of a long, dark and lonely tunnel that isn’t a freight train. When we are willing to contemplate actions that seemed anathema before we were desperate, we just might find absolution, or relief, or freedom from the bondage of self. The man who changed his terrible eating habits because of a heart attack might discover that clean eating feels amazing. The woman who takes up exercise to lose dangerous belly fat might learn that a runner's high is better than that second glass of wine at dinner. We might find out we are stronger and more courageous than we knew, more creative than we hoped, and more attractive when we live authentically instead of projecting a persona we believed others would want.

Desperation is indeed a gift, although we may only be able to acknowledge that in hindsight. While we're feeling it, desperation can be desperately uncomfortable.  And it would certainly be nice if we didn't have to go to such lengths to do things that turn out to be the best things we could do, but often, that's what it takes. So like Jessie Donovan's sacrifice and seductress, I will be grateful for the gift of desperation. And for authors who write about dragons. Because dragons are always a gift.