Privilege

I finished Spellbinder by Thea Harrison, a number of weeks ago and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. This is the second in her Moonshadow series and it was compelling with a complex plot, characters I felt were old friends and themes that made me think. The story's heroine, Sidonie, a concert violinist, is kidnapped and taken to Avalon (King Arthur’s Avalon), where she is imprisoned and tortured. Eventually, Sid is discovered by a "Magic Man" (he is actually the masculine incarnation of Morgan Le Fey) who heals her and helps her, bringing her food and drink in her prison. In one especially poignant scene, Sid is eating the bread and grapes her savior has brought and she thinks to herself that "she had ever been so grateful for so little before."  And she realizes just how very privileged she'd been. I try to stay away from politics in this space, but the subject of privilege is all over the news, and I need to comment. I hope that many of you saw Tina Fey parodying herself as a privileged white liberal urging all of those outraged by the events in Charlottesville to take up "sheetcaking" as a coping mechanism and grassroots political movement.

In Spellbinder, Sidonie realizes that privilege wasn't something she thought about much. Which is, of course, the nature of privilege. Privilege is what we take for granted because we've never experienced life any other way. It's why there were those—on the left—who fundamentally didn't understand what Tina Fey did. Tina was so brilliant in her satire on privilege, that way too many privileged people had no idea she was engaging in satirical commentary, not political advice.

By any number of metrics, I was born privileged and remain firmly ensconced in the category. I'm white, educated, affluent. By these measures, I possess the social capital that many in this world do not. And that privilege has served me well. I've taken every advantage but I don't fool myself into thinking I "deserved” any of it. If any of us deserves privilege, all of us do. But just that recognition signifies that I'm able to, sometimes, "check my privilege," meaning I can see beyond my circumstances that perhaps my worldview isn't—quite—universal. 

While I'm all of the above, I'm also female and Jewish, two characteristics that topple me from the privilege pedestal and help me, on occasion, to check my privilege.

My husband shares neither my gender nor my religion. Because of this, there are things I know he simply doesn't understand. I don't hold it against him. Usually. But he will never have the experience of being mistaken, again and again, for the secretary in my early career, just because I was a young woman. And it didn't matter that I had three Ivy League degrees, or that I was an authority in my field. They saw two X chromosomes and decided that half my brain was missing. You know, the Y half.

My husband has never had to be hyper vigilant when walking at night. I suspect he thinks I'm a little silly because I won't park my car in a garage after dark and go get it myself. I don't think anyone is completely immune to fearing attack in bad neighborhoods, but men, unlike women, don't worry about sexual assault. They don't have to. Just like Christians don't understand antisemitism. They just don't.  

Sometimes, it feels good to be with others like me, and my husband doesn't belong in that group.  I've always thought he felt slightly uncomfortable, especially in our early years, at Passover Seders and at synagogue on High Holy days. He didn't belong there. Just like Jews feel excluded when people make insensitive remarks that they have no idea are insensitive. They forgot to check their privilege when they ask me what I think about Israel, or whether Jared Kushner is a good influence on his father-in-law (and for the record, no). Christians wouldn't think to ask each other these questions or that their fellow bacon lovers would have any sort of inside track on the answers.

Privilege can harm those who got the short straw in many ways. I'm indebted to Cecilia Tan for some of these ideas about privilege, including the list of potential harms that unequal privilege can create, including objectification, stereotyping, dehumanization, sexism, racism, ableism, and classism. And I know that many white, Christian males (and some females, too, God help them), roll their eyes so far back in their heads when they hear this sort of "drivel" that they resemble Brandon Stark when he's doing his Warg thing. But that doesn't make it any less true.

And I'm not advocating for safe spaces and trigger warnings—necessarily. But would it kill people to think about why some people believe we need them? If you've never experienced the degradation of prejudice, bigotry and willful ignorance, then stop rolling your fucking eyes. Open them. Pay attention next time a woman makes a suggestion and it's ignored and watch what happens when a man makes the same suggestion and he's Einstein. Really?! Really.

And I haven't even touched on what it must be like for people of color. Or people with disabilities. Or people who are transgendered. Or whatever it is we are that we didn't choose to be and can't change. Many of us embrace our identities as being outside the privileged classes. And that's a great response because we accept ourselves and love ourselves just the way we are. But it's not like we could decide to wake up one day and be something else—one of the few, the proud, the privileged. It doesn't work like that.

So, I'm going to get myself some sheet cake and shove it in my mouth while reading my beloved Thea Harrison. Where I find many truths about timely topics, and where I can learn to become a more sensitive and grateful human.

The Pursuit of Happiness

I hate writing. I love having written. So said Ernest Hemingway, or maybe it was Mark Twain, I'm not entirely sure. Regardless, the sentiment is worth exploring. There are many activities we enjoy solely in hindsight, the point of which is only to reflect on their occurrence, rather than enjoy the process. Why am I thinking about happiness in the rearview mirror? Because I just finished the latest Iron Druid short story collection by Kevin Hearne, Besieged. Excellent as always, and I even got a signed copy when I went to see Mr. Hearne speak at a D.C. bookstore last month. I totally geeked out. It was awesome. But I digress. Although not really—see what I did there?  I told you about an experience that I had, partly so I could relive it and review the memory that I made by going to see a favorite author promote his work, and partly to inflate myself in your eyes. Adding to the considerable street cred I received as a result of my adventures, when I introduced myself to the Kev, he actually knew who I was and complimented my work!  I'd have died a happy woman on the way home from that talk. As long as I'd broadcast my brush with the celebrity who knew me before my untimely demise, that is.

What am I talking about, you may wonder? It's this: as Granuaile, the Iron Druid's beautiful protégé, observes while she and Atticus attend a traveling carnival looking to send some demons back to Hell, "There's no happiness here."  In fact, opined the lovely lass, we seem to pursue happiness even when it runs away from us. Sad but true, in both truth and fantasy.

What prompted these dystopian findings by the one who would come to be known as the "Fierce Druid?"  Granuaile noticed that:

People come here to be happy, but I bet they wind up in a fouler mood than when they walked in. Kids want plushies and rides and sugar, and parents want to hang on to their money and their kids. And everybody wants to go away without digestive problems, but that’s not gonna happen.

All too true. How many times have we gone to a concert, or a festival, or a party, convinced it will be fun, only to subject ourselves to the bitter disappointment of frustrated expectations?  We do it all the time, egged on by partners or sometimes pals, who assure us that we’ll have the time of our lives. I'm positive that no one has ever had the time of their life at the annual school auction. Mostly, we suck down drinks in the hope of becoming distracted enough to engage in the same chit chat with at least fifteen different people without vomiting into our mouths. Does anyone really care about the achievements of casual acquaintances' children?

And as we drive home from the event, whatever it is, my husband and I would bemoan the fact that we'd gone there instead of spending the evening at home. Sorting our spice rack. Or consolidating ketchup and mustard in the fridge. But then the next morning rolls around and the memory becomes fonder; we saw friends, shared laughs, were mutually relieved that we didn’t win the condo in Rome, as we had no plans to visit Italy any time soon. Yes, in retrospect, the night was enjoyable and, more importantly, we get to be part of the club with the rest of the parents who were roped into the ballroom with us.

And therein lies the true value of our actions. I hate writing. I love having written. I love the postpartum evidence of time well spent, or at least time I can build up to seem well spent. And if it's not writing, it's a night at the carnival with the kids, chasing happiness, finding it only when I'm able to post the pix of my sons riding the Ferris wheel and proudly displaying the plushy Dad won for them by strangling a bottle's neck with a rubber ring. On Facebook, or Instagram or shared texts and emails, the time spent frazzling my nerves and my digestive tract at the local fair is transformed into a Kodak moment to be displayed like jewels that prove our wealth. The wealth of a happy, perfect family. Look, look at us on a fun-filled outing! We're so blissful and so normal. Or not.

I've been suspicious of this chasing happiness phenomenon since I observed my mother "enjoying" her extended family. She'd worked hard to bring her two kids, their spouses and her grandchildren together to celebrate a milestone birthday. She twittered to all her biddies about how marvelous it was that everyone was coming to wish her well and be together—captured, of course, by the professional photographer who’d preserved it for posterity. Which was all fine and dandy. Except when I saw that my mother was hiding in the kitchen, failing to interact with said family, ignoring the grandchildren in favor of washing dishes the housekeepers were paid to clean.

It hit me then, like halitosis from an enthusiastic ticket taker at the movies who leans in to wish me a good time. My mother wasn't interested in the actual experience of hosting her family, just the ability to tell all that she'd done so, to inspire envy, boat loads of it, amongst her blue haired set. High school athletes keep score by sexual conquests. Old mothers by how many times their families visit, young mothers by how often they take their children to the museum or the science center—and how well their photos show off the brilliance of their progeny. It's not the activity but the bragging rights that follow it that count.  The process of writing sucks.  But showing off those bright shiny words…. Well that’s so, so sweet –even if you only view them yourself.

I had a friend once whose husband admonished us for talking while the kids were outside on a cold winter's night in the hotel's hot tub. "Hurry, they're making memories," he gushed, grabbing his camera and rushing to the scene of the memory-in-the-making. I was confused. It was the kids making their own memories, which would be more memorable without the ‘rents horning in on the action. It was a perfect example of ruining the moment by trying to capture it. Happiness doesn't want to be found when it's chased. It comes when we enter the present and live there.

I love Atticus, the Iron Druid, and also Granuaile. What I love most about them is that I'm rarely more fully in the moment than when I'm wallowing between the pages of a captivating book, immersing myself in the world of a talented author's imagination. Those are some of the best moments to be had. Ironically, I love reading. I hate having read. 

No Matter What

I just finished Into the Fire by Jeaniene Frost; the continuation of Vlad (aka Dracula) and Leila's (modern, young wife) story. As is always the case when a centuries-old vampire falls hard for a sweet young thing, Leila has some special talents that recommend her to the ancient Impaler, so I guess it all makes sense. Yet I am haunted by the little voice in my head that questions why such an old, hardened creature like Vlad would fall irretrievably head-over-heels for a 25-year-old carnie. I questioned their supposedly unbreakable bond. And whether it could ever be true, and not just a fantasy, that couples can share a mutual mindset that says, "No matter what, we will work it out."  Which leads to questions about my own insecurities and trust issues, but let's not go there – at least just yet – shall we? As I was reading about Leila's unshakable conviction that nothing could threaten the connection to her beloved, I remembered an exchange with a colleague many moons ago. I wasn't even out of my teens when a slightly older office mate at the law firm where I worked started talking about a fight he'd had with his fiancée. It sounded like a doozy, and when I asked him with trepidation whether this conflagration signaled the end of the relationship, as it would have for any of mine at that time, he looked at me with incredulity and no small amount of pity. "We'll work it out," he assured me. 

"How can you be so certain?" I wondered. 

"Because we love each other. No matter what. We will work it out, whatever it is. No matter what," he responded with all the confidence of the Mooch in front of a presidential lectern. 

I was floored. I could not conceive of such faith. I had never experienced it. It awed me. To the point that I have never forgotten the conversation and have always aspired to a similar standard in my own relationships.

I realize that I have some serious abandonment issues.  I think that many of us do. Unlike a majority of urban dwellers, my colleague and his then-fiancée/now wife were of a similar heritage and shared a community, culture and religion. Perhaps that homogeneity contributed to their mutual certainty. Divorce was simply not an option for them.

I love authors like Jeaniene Frost and books like Into the Fire.  They portray immortal relationships between fiery supernatural types as tempestuous and passionate. What they are not is easy. Or tranquil. Or boring. But rock solid nonetheless. Once again, I like my fantasy with a healthy dose of reality. Because in both truth and fantasy relationships work when we work them. When we fight for them. When we refuse to go along to get along and when we don't back down when we have to remind our spouses again and again not to take us or the marriage for granted. When we acknowledge and accept that while we might want to do two separate things, the marriage demands that we do something together instead. When we accommodate our partner instead of doing it our way. When we compromise instead of doubling down on a position of, “My way or the highway.”

Relationships are fucking hard.

Sometimes, being in a marriage and working it out no matter what feels like a particularly convoluted game of Twister. We're sure the torsion in our spines will result in permanent scoliosis. Or the crick in our neck will leave us forever looking up and on a diagonal slant forever. But rarely is the contortion enduring.  Usually our efforts to bow and buckle with our partners result in the strengthening of our relationships and the knowledge that something we worked to achieve has great value. Imagine that:  we value what we work for. Each time we "work it out," we make our bond more precious. 

Which is why working it out, no matter what, becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy of fulfillment and happiness. Working through the tough times and coming out the other end is hard and commensurately rewarding. If it takes Vlad the Impaler to teach us lessons in perseverance and tenacity, then so be it. I'm down with that as I enjoy my lecture with a healthy dose of entertainment. Like Vlad, I will always work it out with my honey. No matter what. 

Trust, But Verified

I just finished The Accidental Sire, the latest in Molly Harper’s Half Moon Hollow series. In this installment, Meagan is a coed at the University of Kentucky when she is mortally wounded and subsequently turned into a vampire. Not her best day. And it gets worse. Meagan, in turn, accidentally turns her date, Ben, into a vampire like herself—a suped-up vampire special. As Meagan and Ben navigate the treacherous waters as newly risen vamps under the care and supervision of the Vampire Council, Meagan learns to trust herself, and, as a result, others.  Trust is a huge leitmotif in the romance genre generally and especially in paranormal romance; writing about vampires, werewolves and witches, allows authors to take their themes to extremes. Where else but in the paranormal universe could an orphan wake up, after an unfortunate incident involving ultimate frisbee played with a 45-pound weight, as a genetically modified vampire?  Nowhere, that's where. And when said orphan is farmed out to the local vampire council rep for observation and potential rehabilitation, such an orphan might have outsized trust issues. Ya think?

I know all about trust issues. I was raised, as you've heard before, by a narcissistic mother and a benignly neglectful father. I couldn't and didn't trust the people in the world on whom I was supposed to imprint. As a result, I didn't trust anyone, least of all myself. If, as children, we don't learn to trust our parents, when we reach adolescence and begin to individuate, we find we have no inkling of what it means to trust ourselves. This plays out in many unfortunate ways. 

Meagan shows us what it means not to trust ourselves and it's not pretty. We don't think we can do much of anything well. We don't believe we deserve a place at the table, or around the Christmas tree, or in other people's perfect lives, because we're sure everyone else is better and more worthy than we are. Others rate more love, devotion, loyalty and trust because they are inherently superior to our lowly selves. And this is a tape that plays on an endless, self-perpetuating loop. 

Meagan has new friends she loves and trusts, but her recent status as a vampire disrupts those budding relationships. She has no family and no roots. She accepts, with a minimum of protest, that she had to leave her dorm and college life to live in some backwoods part of Kentucky while someone decided whether and when she could return to a life of her own choosing (and it's true that she was threatened with living out her almost immortal life in the black cells of the vampire council, so she didn't have a lot of options, but still...). 

When we don't trust ourselves, we are reluctant to try new things. After all, we will likely fail, so what's the point? We accept defeat as our due, and rarely protest unfair or underhanded treatment. A failure to trust results in attachment disorder—an inability to cleave to people, ideas, or institutions. Why bother?  We won't be here long, just until "they" figure out we don't belong, or that we're a fraud, or that someone made a mistake letting us in to begin with. 

And this tragic cycle of distrust, self-sabotage and predictable betrayal continues until we see the error of our thinking (usually with the help of a good therapist), or someone forces us to examine our assumptions—usually by refusing to abandon us even when we tell them it's in their best interests. 

I spent years telling my husband he could do better. And he spent years telling me he had the best and to shut the fuck up. I urged him to rotate his stock. He informed me that farming wasn't his jam. I planned to leave him before he could leave me. He made it too hard to leave by being too wonderful —mostly. But it took me an inordinate amount of time to trust him and trust the relationship. In the end, it was only that—time—that allowed me to believe. 

We build trust, in ourselves and others, when we excel and then fail, and the other—be that a person or an organization or even an ideal—is still there. We're human. We're allowed, even expected, to be imperfect. It's only we sad sacks with the tragic pasts who think that perfection is what everyone requires lest we get kicked to the curb. Meagan had learned the hard way to lock up her heart and keep her suitcase packed. For the first six months of our relationship, I refused to leave a toothbrush or a change of panties at my then-boyfriend, now husband's, house. He cleared a drawer and half his closet for me. I had a sudden urge to bolt out the back door. 

As often happens, I found truth that was very close to home in my beloved fantasy novels. I always expect Molly Harper to deliver and I was not disappointed. She, along with many of her fellow paranormal fantasy authors, have taught me to trust that I will always find truth in fantasy.

The One We Feed

I'm in the middle of the newest Shayne Silvers offering, Unchained, the first in the new Feathers and Fire series. In this book, we're introduced to Callie Penrose, a girl with a gift for magic and mayhem. As you know, I'm a fan of Nate Temple, Shayne Silvers' other series protagonist.  Nate shows up in this book as well, but Callie is the focus. Callie is complex, cool and compelling. She is a woman divided. She is being pulled in different directions. She must choose who she will be, which side will win. I can relate.  In the beginning of Unchained, Callie's mentor tells her the story of the two wolves. This is a favorite anecdote recounted in yoga classes all over the country. I've heard it a number of times. It goes like this:

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.” The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?” The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I love this story. I know these wolves. They are endlessly hungry, but not equally aggressive. The whining of the bad wolf is so much louder than the whimpers of the good wolf. And everyone knows about the squeaky wheel getting the grease. It's true. To the loudest goes the spoils. And I have my theories about why that evil lupine is so much more flamboyant than his beneficent brother. If the choice is free, then the right choice is the more difficult one to make, as I've written about before here.

It's harder to feed the good wolf. He eats the more expensive food and requires more costly care. The good wolf is high maintenance. The evil wolf is the easy houseguest. We can throw some sheets and towels his way and rest assured that he'll handle it. Until it's time to pay the piper. You know, when we've gained 30 pounds. Or smoked some poisonous weed. Or killed someone when we were driving under the influence. “But Officer, I only had a couple of cocktails...”

It's simple to make good choices. But it's not easy. In fact, it’s as hell. In Unchained, Callie has to make some choices about who she's going to be and for whom she's going to work. What will her life mean? Will she fight for justice or succumb to fear? These are fictional choices of a fictional character, but they reflect the truth that faces all of us. Who are we going to choose to be, based on our actions, our affiliations, our choices?

I don't know about you, but this shit is hard, especially when it's real. Will we be the enabler or the enforcer as parents? When no one is looking, will we leave a note on the windshield of the car we just side-swiped? Will we take that flirtation the next level while we rationalize that our spouse has already done the same or that it has no bearing on our marriage?

The examples are as endless as individuals who make these choices. It's hard. There's a war inside of us, just like the one raging in Callie Penrose. Which wolf will we feed?  Can we feed one and then the other in an endless see-saw of good versus evil? Can we, like the protagonist of QBVII, make up for our mistakes with good deeds?  Does the evil wolf, once indulged, slink off meekly into the sunset with his tail between his legs, never to be heard from again?  Or does he come back emboldened? What if he's a werewolf and not just a regular wolf?  Does that give him more power?

Who the fuck knows?  Not me. Maybe Callie. Or Nate Temple. Or Shayne Silvers. But definitely not me. I'm confused and fearful that I'm feeding the wrong wolf. I'm sure it won't get me where I want to be. But that just makes me like everyone else. Like Callie and Nate. Feeding the wolf who howls the loudest. Or maybe the wolf who's hungrier. The good wolf is always the one who's starving. Because the evil wolf is fat, dumb and deadly. 

Of Monsters and Men

John G. Hartness is comfortable writing about monsters and those who hunt them. In the latest Shadow Council novella, Angel Dance, Frankenstein's monster, aka Adam Franks, is hunting demons and zombie alligators in the Big Easy and environs. Helping him in his endeavors is a voodoo priestess, a militant nun, and the disembodied consciousness of a tech genius who was killed in the line of duty—monster hunting duty, that is. What could possibly go wrong? Because it's a novella and not a novel, fewer things go wrong than they otherwise would, but it's still a fun ride and the bad guys get theirs, which is always important in urban fantasy, not to mention the real world. The depth in this slim volume is to be found in the minds and hearts of the characters born of John Hartness’ imagination. I've written before about the monsters within and also about what makes us human, but I don't think I've contemplated humanity from the perspective of the monsters themselves and it's an interesting viewpoint. When we weigh the pros and cons of Frankenstein's monster as "human" to which category would he belong?

That Frankenstein's monster has a name is the first step on his road to humanity. He's got a name and not just a label. He's not 24601, he's more like Jean Valjean. Having a name humanizes us. It's the first gift our parents give us after they give us life. Naming ourselves is a key strategy if we're ever attacked by a serial killer—we're told to tell our tormentor our name to avoid being wholly objectified (what, you didn't read or see Silence of the Lambs? Get on that, it's good shit). It appears that Adam named himself (aka the first man) and adopted a modified version of his "father's" surname. Clever monster.

In addition to a name, Adam also has feelings—which he doesn't welcome because they come with pain (can't have one without the other, as I've also noted in a previous post). Adam seems somewhat indifferent to the emotional highs that feelings engender but is highly sensitive to the depths of despair to which grief can drive us. It doesn't feel like an equitable arrangement to Adam, and he would prefer to do without those pesky feelings. Which he can't. Too bad, so sad. He's got to feel along with the rest of us. Sometimes, he feels irritable about his feelings. Ironic that.

Mostly, Adam has feelings surrounding his friends. I think he's as bewildered as the rest of us that Frankenstein's monster has friends, but we can all probably think of people we know about whom we could say the same thing. But Adam does have friends who he cares about and who care about him. And those friendships create obligations that are potentially dangerous.  They also create opportunities for more, intense feelings. And eventually they require Adam to let go of the mortals who have touched his once dead heart, to return them to the depths of the earth on whose surface he continues to walk. Hmmm... sound familiar?  He's just like us. Or perhaps we're just like him. Beyond feelings, our monster is also developing a sense of humor as these stories progress. In the beginning, Adam is as humorless as my old algebra teacher, and equally literal in his thinking (have I ever mentioned how much I hated algebra? No?  Let me tell you... just kidding!  See, I have a wonderful sense of humor, but I digress). As we get to know Adam, he finds delight in teasing his fellow monster hunters and jerking their chains a bit. I'm not sure how funny it would be to have Frankenstein's monster punking me, in fact; I'd probably run away screaming, having lost my sense of humor completely, but that could just be me. With each joke and prank, Adam became more human to me and I become more invested in his fate.

Adam also has a moral compass, a directional aide I think most monsters eschew. For example, one of the criterion for Pinocchio to become a real boy was the development of his conscience, allowing Jiminy Cricket to take on other tasks. Unfortunately, I think if we make the possession of a conscience a requirement for humanity a lot of us would fade from this plane of existence. Having a working moral compass seems less and less prevalent in our society; the new normal feels like anarchy where truth is not just relative but alternate; a lack of basic human dignity and a sense of fairness is sorely lacking in our leadership. But I'll get off my soapbox now. The truth is I'd much rather have Frankenstein's creation in the White House than the monster currently in residence. But I digress. Again..

Another tantalizing clue in this story relates to the possibility that Adam has a soul, which is what distinguishes other monsters from men in several series that I've read. Adam had always assumed he was soul-less, but new information indicates that his assumptions are incorrect, as assumptions tend to be. I expect John Hartness will develop this line of inquiry in later novellas and I'm looking forward to it. In the interim, we'll put "having a soul" in the TBD category and count it neither for nor against Adam.

We are left with our judgment, then. Is Adam a monster or not?  Can we count him as human? Where should we draw the line? As I was writing it occurred to me that many of us human types would be found wanting if we applied these criteria to determine the validity of our own humanity. Maybe the line between monsters and men (and women) is more blurred than we'd like to admit. Maybe all of us have the potential to be monsters and all monsters have the potential to be redeemed. I'll wait for the next John Hartness novella and see what he thinks while I spend my time gazing at my navel, a decidedly human endeavor.

The Redemption of Self Love

I flew through Robyn Peterman’s latest Magic and Mayhem novel, A Tale of Two Witches. I was delirious as I turned the pages and sorry to read the final sentence.  Robyn Peterman is unique in her ability to write about Marsupial Demon Slayers together with serious themes of despair and redemption and make it work and show us, once again, that there is ground truth in fun, fantasy fiction. This installment tells the story of Sassy, Zelda's slightly dim, but loyal and well-meaning BFF. Sassy is a mass of seething insecurity covered by a thick layer of self-doubt and self-hatred. She's convinced she can't do much of anything right, and sure that the kangaroo shifter of her dreams, Jeeves, will see through her external beauty to the ugliness she's positive it hides. She lives in fear of the other shoe dropping (about which I wrote here) and has accepted that any happiness or goodness in her life must be a mistake. Her parents, needless to say, did a number on her and she's lived with the consequences her whole life. On the plus side, Sassy has a best friend, a romantic partner, adopted children and a Goddess, all of whom are willing to love her into loving herself.

This is a story about redemption—and one to which I could relate. We've talked about it here before: careless, malicious parents make Jack and Jill fucked up for life—or at least until serious therapy and a bit of luck and grace can, sometimes, turn things around.  It worked for Sassy and it worked for me.  It's a formula for success: find people who love us fiercely and let them love us until we can love ourselves – so simple, yet so true.

In A Tale of Two Witches, Sassy is just staying until she gets the boot, at least in her own mind. She knows that she isn't a good or valuable person, but she's hoping some of her man's good nature will rub off on her via osmosis as she cleaves to him in love until he scrapes her off like a barnacle on the bottom of a boat. He can't convince her he doesn't feel that way, but vows to stay until she believes. She's dubious, but grateful for the reprieve -- while it lasts, of course.

Evidence of Sassy's worth abounds, but she is blind to it. Does any of this sound familiar to anyone but me?  For much of my life I felt like a total fraud, convinced that if people knew the real me, no one would ever love me. My heart melted for Sassy as her loved ones tried valiantly to convince her she was lovable, to no avail. Sassy's self- loathing was deep and seemingly wise. Of course, as this is fiction, Sassy finds self-love rather quickly, which results in her HEA. In fact, one of the best things about this book is that the heroine's HEA is all about learning to love herself, rather than finding a man to love her. Sassy starts the book with the love of her mate, but it's only by the end that she believes in it.

Because this blog is called "Truth in Fantasy," we can be sure that Sassy's tale has something to teach the rest of us living in the real world. Sassy finds self-love through paying attention to all that she is and all that she does. She also finally realizes that if so many awesome people love her, there must be more to her than she knows.

I have a friend about whom I've spoken before, who has grown and evolved exponentially in the past few years through a daily practice of listing her gratitudes and successes. Every single day for the past four and a half years, this woman has sat down to take note of what she did well that day and what she's grateful for. I think it takes her about fifteen or so minutes each night and she treats the task like a holy obligation. And, as a result of her acknowledging that she does many things well each and every day, over the years the denigrating voices that have attacked her from childhood have slowly softened to the point where she barely hears them nowadays. And when she does, she's able to banish those voices to the depths of Hell from whence they came. Yes, those voices, the ones that tell us we're not lovable are just plain wrong. The ones that drown out those who give us ‘atta boys’ and backslaps, even when the praise is external to us and the nastiness is self- inflicted. This is because, in the immortal words of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, the bad stuff is easier to hear. Why is that?  Another question to ask God if I ever get to meet Her. I have no blessed clue. But I know it's true. Which is why I've worked so hard to say positive things to my own children. But they have their insecurities too, and I don't think I put them there, so maybe this shit is hard wired into our cells as part of the human condition. Or at least it is for most of us. It is the rare human who believes in their own goodness and innate worth. I haven't met a lot of these people, but they are wildly attractive to the rest of us because we want what they have. Like Sassy with Jeeves. Those who are truly humble, embracing their own gifts and talents without hubris or any pretenses of perfection, are few and far between. I've always wanted to be like that, and I'm working hard to get there.

Like Sassy, I have a partner who loves me and a BFF who couldn't be more supportive or loving. I have kids who adore me and devoted friends. All of this, plus some heavy-duty therapy and other kinds of help have shifted my self-hate toward something more resembling self-acceptance. I'm working toward self-love and I mean to get there. Maybe by the time I'm a purple and red hat-wearing grandmother, I'll have achieved the holy grail of self-love and feel the sparkly stuff in my insides described by Sassy when she finally loves herself as much as everyone else does.

It's wonderful that someone wrote a paranormal romance about learning to love ourselves and made it hot and sexy, fun and fabulous, while paying homage to the fact that all true romance begins at home in our very own hearts.

Figuring It Out

I'm enjoying the many pleasures of Kresley Cole. Her Immortals After Dark series is fast, fun and hot, hot, hot. What's not to love?  Her latest offering, Wicked Abyss, follows the unlikely adventures of a fairy princess, Lila, and the King of Hell, Sian. What could possibly go wrong?  Absolutely everything, of course, and that's why I'm such a Kresley Cole fan girl. And while I love all her female protagonists, Lila is something extra special. Her grit, resourcefulness and sass won me over from the get-go, and I'm cheering wildly for her to get her HEA. Luckily, I'm pretty confident that she will overcome all obstacles to find true love and save herself and her realm. Her eventual success, I'm betting, will be the result of Lila's life's motto: "Figure it the fuck out."  FITFO for short. I love FITFO. I've lived a goodly portion of my life under the assumption that absolutely everything is figure-out-able, in the immortal words of my favorite business guru, Marie Forleo. As you all know, I'm pretty confident in my intellectual capacity and I'm usually sure that with a combination of applied brainpower and a bit of creativity, I can always figure it the fuck out.

In college, I decided I needed to get out of Dodge and find a geographic cure for all my problems. My parents were less than supportive and my bank account was pretty flimsy. So, how to go abroad and have someone pay me to do it?  I figured it out; I talked my way into a post-college program and convinced them that even though I hadn't graduated, I would be an asset to their organization. My parents were less than pleased that their financial obstacles had been worked around. Oh, well. At least I waved to them as the plane took off.

I've had to figure out how to navigate new jobs, difficult bosses, stupid administrative rules, mean girls, queen bees and wannabes. How to get my kids the resources they need. How to get out of my own way to marry the man of my dreams, and how to age gracefully (or, at least, that’s what I tell myself).  I've figured out legal problems that have stumped lawyers, insurance issues that caused grown actuaries to cry, and esoteric graduation requirements. No matter the situation, I'm always confident that there's a solution if only I'm smart enough, determined enough and savvy enough to find it. FITFO has been an excellent strategy throughout most of my life. It's gotten me out of many a dark place and over many a high mountain. My superlative ability to figure it the fuck out has led to what some might call intellectual arrogance.  I just call it "justified.”

But there is a downside to all this stellar brain activity of mine: it leads to the sometimes erroneous conclusion that just about everything is subject to being figured out. And if I haven't figured it out, it must be because I haven't tried hard enough or long enough or smartly enough. At which point I double down on my efforts and wait for solutions to rain down upon me because I'm just that good—roadblocks should disappear before me as quickly as the bag of M&M's I promised myself would last the week.

And therein lies the rub: the one thing that doesn't seem subject to the rules of FITFO is... me. Sadly, when it comes to myself and my bad habits, character defects and addictive behaviors, I simply cannot figure it the fuck out. And neither can any of the rest of us, if the prevalence of both self-help books and the people who continue to need them are any indication. One doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to know that eating too much and moving too little will result in more flab than fitness. Nor does one need an Ivy League degree to understand that spending more money than one makes will result in debt. Or that excessive gambling usually doesn't end well. Or that heavy drinking leads to miserable hangovers. We don't really need self-help books to tell us that being successful means leaving our comfort zone, getting our fat asses off the couch, working hard and daring to take risks. We don't need expert advice to figure out that relationships fail when we keep score, believe our partners should read our minds, put ourselves first all the time and expect our other half to actually be our other half.  And yet we continue to read how-to books to figure out how to live. And then we continue to live badly. Or at least not as well as we could.

Because FITFO doesn't apply to us. I can figure out your life easily. And you can probably figure out mine. But we are more limited when it comes to helping ourselves. It sucks. But it is what it is, and if we know this, maybe, sometimes, we can figure out ways around our own blind spots and inadequacies. If not, we can continue to read self-help books instead of actually helping ourselves. I'm not sure, but I'm going to keep reading about Lila in Wicked Abyss while I figure it the fuck out.

If It's Not One Thing, It's Another

Life has gotten in the way. I'm quite behind on my reading and my writing. New job, kids home for the summer, new toys to play with and fix.... It's all good, but it's wreaking havoc with my schedule and my routine. I'm also sad. I hate to be interrupted when reading the next book in Shayne Silver's Nate Temple supernatural thriller series. But life didn't ask me before it kept me away from Beast Master, which is gearing up to be the most compelling book so far, and the message of the story resonates; if it's not one thing, it's another. I know I'm dating myself when I remember Rosanne Rosannadanna, the hilarious character created by the inimitable Gilda Radner on Saturday Night Live. Rosanne was known to go off on tangents and when questioned about the relevance of her comments to the topic at hand, she would state that, "It just goes to show you, if it's not one thing, it's another."  So true. For Gilda, who died too soon, for Nate Temple, whose troubles never seem to end (thankfully), and for the rest of us too.

Nate can't seem to come up for air before another mishap befalls him. In this excursion, he must wrangle the Beast Master who runs a supernatural fight club where contenders don't volunteer and often don't leave the arena alive. On top of that, Nate's fiancée is AWOL and his powers have been constrained. He's a one-armed paperhanger in a house with '70's decor in desperate need of an upgrade. No rest for the weary and he's not even getting weekends off. Life is hard for our hero. He's overworked and underpaid. This is a guy with plenty of resources and advantages at his disposal. And yet, not even Nate can catch a break. If he's in such dire straights, where does that leave the rest of us? …Up Shit Creek without a paddle, jumping out of airplanes without a chute, and dealing with our mothers without Valium (okay, maybe that last one is my personal issue). Actually, it leaves us smack dab in the realm of reality—truth in fantasy strikes again.

While none of us is dealing with supernatural politics and battling various über villains, Nate's fate reflects our own. For all of us, if it's not one thing, it's another. The pipe bursts and the septic system overflows. Or our kid popped one of his brackets off his teeth and needs to get to the orthodontist, STAT. Or the dog is scooting her butt on the floor and needs her glands expressed. Or our co-worker was called away on a family emergency and twelve hour days won't even begin to cover the workload. The car died. The computer exploded with no back up, the fridge is on the fritz, and the air conditioner is out.  My best friend is in crisis at the same time Jehovah's Witnesses ring my doorbell and spy me through the glass so I can't hide.  Calgon, take me away. Or, if a bubble bath is not available, a stiff drink will do in a pinch. Sometimes, it feels like my head is swiveling 360° and that green pea soup is about to spew from my mouth. I warn my loved ones to stand back while I have a breakdown and bemoan my fate. And then I take a step back and try to get some perspective (with more or less success, depending on the day – and the time for a bubble bath… or a drink).

I'm freaking lucky to have family and friends, a job and a car, a computer, a fridge and an air conditioner.  I'm blessed to be a homeowner and a mother to boys and dogs alike. My life is full, full, full -- sometimes overly so, but then I tell myself to suck it up, Buttercup (like Nate, I often talk to myself. And I answer too!).

A full life sure as shit beats the alternative.  There is no life lived to capacity that isn't overflowing with stuff going sideways sometimes. Kids pop brackets, computers explode, cars die. It's the way of the world, the signs of a life well lived.

We could sit at home and eat frozen dinners and watch TV or play video games and if we can make the rent, well, we wouldn't have to worry about too many distractions in our small little world. But to that I say, fuck no. Give me the troubles with the joy, the pizza with the reflux and the democracy with the Donald. ‘You pays your money and you takes your chances.’ And sooner or later, the wheel of fortune spins again, and you're on top again… at least for a while.

But don't get too comfortable. Because remember, if it's not one thing, it's another. That's life. And if you don't believe me, just ask Nate Temple.

Using Our Power for Good

I'm still thinking about Shayne Silvers' Silver Tongue, one of the Nate Temple supernatural thriller series. The book explores some deep themes, as I wrote about last week, and I'm still exploring its depths. In this post, I'd like to discuss reliance on one aspect of our power—whether that be supernatural power or the more mundane like beauty, brains or brawn. It's an interesting issue, and a bad habit to which many of us succumb. As Nate Temple tells us, "When you know you can use your powers to get what you want, you can very easily find that you are using it for every single situation. You need to use your mind, values, morals. Your power isn't the be-all, end-all." From the mouths of fictional characters... easier said than done, Master Temple.  I was a physically unattractive child, all gangly limbs, sharp angles and a nose that earned me the lovely epithet, "Pinocchio."  My childhood was super fun. Not. Anyway, as an ugly duckling, it fell to me to observe the pretty girls, the petite beauties with upturned noses and perfect hair, who knew from an early age how to work their looks to achieve their goals. A bat of an eyelash here, big puppy dog eyes there, a flirtatious grin, a seductive glance. These girls knew exactly what they were doing to capitalize on their assets. I envied them so much it hurt.

But I noticed something else as the green-eyed monster was devouring me from the inside out. I noticed that because I wasn't so pretty, and therefore somewhat invisible to boys and many adults as well, I was forced to rely on other assets. I didn't have beauty, but I was smart. My intelligence garnered me all sorts of accolades, leading to achievement and success. I slowly realized that if I had to choose, I was much more content with brains over beauty, because I could use my mind to get what I wanted. And I did.  

Athletes rely on their bodies to go where they otherwise couldn't (I'm watching my sons' friends earn admittance to colleges well beyond their intellectual capacity as a result of their skill on a lacrosse field). These boys and girls and men and women are learning that their physicality is the golden ticket and they work it. I totally get it.

But each of us—beauty, brains and brawn—can be more unbalanced than Donald Trump talking about the mayor of London. Speaking from my own experience, I'm usually convinced that everything is “figure-out-able,” as Marie Forleo claims. I can attack any problem with my big brain and it will bow down to my intellectual superiority. Well, maybe not so much. I've gotten into serious trouble by using only the top twelve inches of my body. I forget about my heart, my values, my morals, as Nate Temple warns. This can be a problem and lead to ridiculous and dangerous outcomes.

I can think myself into justifying anything. I'm very persuasive, especially in the confines of my own head: just one more cookie; that street looks kosher; I don't need to study anymore for that exam; just this once. We've all been there, done that, some with better results than others. The biggest problem with only having a hammer, be that beauty, brains or brawn, is that everything looks like a nail. Even if it's a fragile flower. Over reliance on one characteristic or attribute leads to laziness and mediocrity, if not worse.

It also leads to our building up one set of muscles at the expense of all the rest. Imagine what we'd look like if we only did biceps curls at the gym. Or we only did squats. Eventually, we would look weird or even grotesque. Here, like so many other places, balance is the special sauce on the Big Mac of our lives. Without it, we taste like shit.

For me, I had to make the perilous eighteen inch drop from my head to my heart, allowing more than the facts to influence my actions. I also learned rather late, unfortunately, that even a big brain is housed in a decaying body, and if I only paid attention to developing my intellect, the flesh that housed it was going to go the way of all of it.

For those who rely on their looks, well, I'll just mention Cher, Ellen Barkin, Melanie Griffith and Barry Manilow and let you draw your own conclusions. That shit don't last, people, and having your eyes close when you sit down is not attractive. Just say no.

Ditto for the athletes trying to maintain their youth and its attendant strength and endurance. Also ephemeral. And if that is all you have, then you need to plan well. I always feel bad for athletes who claw their way out of poverty with their athleticism, only to burn brightly for a short time with no plan for a future that doesn't include multi-million dollar contracts. Very sad, because like everything else in life, this too shall pass.

And maybe that is the point. Every dog has its day, and all of us have attributes with planned obsolescence. Therefore, it's important to cultivate the characteristics that last, like values and morals. That Nate Temple dude knows from whence he speaks. We should listen. And read. And think. And exercise. And take pride in our appearance even if we're not as beautiful as Venus and Adonis. We should cast our net widely and use all that we have, staying balanced in our approach to life and in pursuit of our goals. It's the way to use our power for good. 

A Good Man

I'm back to the supernatural world of Nate Temple, and glad to be here with Silver Tongue, the fourth book in Shayne Silvers’ series.  The growing complexity of the series is gratifying and this book tackles some of the most complex issues of all: early in the novel someone asks Nate, "What does being a good man mean to you?"  Nate replies, "It's becoming more unclear as the years go by."  This is deep truth—truth in fantasy. As all outstanding fantasy does, Silver Tongue reflects reality, together with a big dose of analytical exploration. What does it mean to be a good man or a good woman? The question brought me up short. Most of us think ourselves to be "good" people, at least deep down. I doubt my readers are comprised of murderers and rapists, kidnappers or professional thieves. So, we can take that kind of black and white definition off the table (this is not to say that those who commit serious crimes cannot be redeemed, but that is a topic for another post). Less clear is whether our essential goodness is irreparably stained by the more mundane transgressions: white lies; cheating in its various incarnations; and less than grand thefts—of the physical and intellectual variety. Most of us are not wholly innocent of such crimes, but do transgressions like these exclude us from the panoply of goodness? I don’t believe so – and if that is the case, then what constitutes goodness in humanity? And what bars us from its ranks? I'm with Nate in believing that the definition of goodness is becoming less clear as the years pass. When I was younger, being ‘good’ meant working hard, being loyal, practicing kindness and behaving generously. All of those attributes are certainly "good," of course. The issues arise when one of those objectives conflicts with one or more of the others. What does it mean to be good when the legitimate demands of work preclude being kind or generous? We can't give away what we haven't got, and work-life balance is highly skewed for so many of us on the hamster wheel of life. What does being a good person mean to us when we have to choose between spending time with our kids or our friends? Our spouse or our parents? Our family or our community? If we're trying to be good, if that is a value for us, where are the guideposts that tell us which sacrifices are the right ones (our soul for a loved one's life, for example), or which choices are good, better and best? I think, as Nate implies, that as we get older and have some life experience under our belts, what it means to be good changes; as we age, things grow more complicated. And while love songs and sitcoms may lead us to the conclusion that good choices have neon signs to identify them, often the choice that would support our claims to goodness can only be found in the rearview mirror. In the moment, when we make the daily choices that constitute our lives and label us as "good" or "bad," there is much less clarity. Fear, frustration, disappointment and impatience can begin to cloud our judgment about what is good. When we can no longer call ourselves young, we may feel that we've been there, done that, and already given away the t-shirt, along with other remnants of a past no longer relevant to the future. When we think we know the situation or circumstances, or our fear projects onto the future events based on the past, we may make less than good choices. If we close down communication with someone we love because we've been hurt previously and that baggage informs our current relationship, that cannot be a choice for good, although we believe it to be so. If we dismiss a friend in need because they've been where they are before and we're all out of fucks to give, we may make bad choices in the name of doing ourselves good.

The question of goodness is complicated. And I believe it is relative. Yes, there are probably some absolute truths out there, but a major milestone marking the passage of years is that we come to realize that we have no way of seeing the big picture in many instances, and we are in no position to judge. Not even ourselves. Although most of us do. And there is very little mercy to be found in the depths of our own minds, particularly when we have turned our attention to our own actions.

So where do we stand on the question of what it means to be a good person? Well, intentions are important, although not definitive. Outcomes are relevant, although not categorical. A sincere effort to do the best we can with the information we have, trying first to do no harm and second to do some good is probably a decent place to start, but it might not be where we end up. In the final analysis, I recommend reading Silver Tongue and meeting me in the comments section for a longer discussion. I'm good with that.

They Really Like Us!

I tried. I did. I intended to read only the first book, just for a little pick-me-up. And then move on to the rest of my TBR list, which is beginning to virtually rival the Empire State Building in height (only because I read on my Kindle). But I couldn't resist. Once I entered the world of the Elder Races, I was hooked—line and sinker—and moved helplessly on to the next and the next. So, here we are with another post inspired by Thea Harrison's amazing books.   The book in question is Storm's Heart, within which we learn about Niniane, the heir to the Dark Fae throne, and her Wyr mate, the Thunderbird Tiago. This is one kick ass couple and the story of their mating as Niniane ascends the throne amidst assassination attempts and disgruntled subjects is storytelling as art. One of the most interesting passages in the book comes as Niniane contemplates what it will take to be queen and thinks about what her old mentor and protector, Dragos (my favorite dragon), would do. Dragos told Niniane that she had "one great flaw when it came to taking the throne."  "You want to be liked," Dragos had warned her. Wanting to be liked is not a helpful characteristic in a leader. It's not the best quality for the rest of us, either, if we want to live a life of integrity and fulfillment. 

Most of us want to be liked. I believe that many of us are stuck in our high school years, where our lives were defined by who liked us and who didn't. The popular boys and girls ruled the roost, while the geeks and freaks hugged the shadows and tried to avoid notice. It was hell. Then, when we grew up, we were shoved into the same situation at work, at the yoga studio (yep, those who can execute a perfect standing split tend to congregate away from those of us whose legs will never make a 180° angle in this lifetime), and even at our kids' schools.

Personally, I learned a long time ago to abandon any hope of being widely liked. My give-a-shit meter has never been particularly sensitive and I've never suffered fools well. Not to mention I have resting bitch face, so when you put all of that together, no one who doesn't know me thinks I'm cute and cuddly. Nope, they think I’m a nasty woman and I'm fine with that. It means fewer people trying to start up a conversation on airplanes or in line. Works for me. Because I know I'm not easily liked (it takes a certain amount of discernment to warm to me, which is perfect for my misanthropic tendencies), I don't care and I don't try. Which also happens to make me a good leader and a strong decision maker. I'm okay making unpopular choices. I'm willing to risk confrontation and others' unhappiness to do the right thing. Or the thing that's right for me, although not necessarily for others. 

But I'm the exception, not the rule. Most folks say "yes" when they'd rather say "no."  They say and do things to please others rather than risk disapprobation and unpopularity. I understand. I'm sure if I'd ever been more universally liked, I would behave the same way. I watch as others volunteer to be class mom and team mom and plan the after-work social and assume extra shifts because someone else is having a bad day. I watch as people do and say outrageous things so that others will see them as generous, as a team player. As nice.

It's good to be nice. It's better to be happy. How many self-help sites and books try to teach us that "No" is a complete sentence? How many of us take on tasks and obligations because we don't want to upset, disappoint or otherwise ruffle anyone else's feathers? We inconvenience ourselves so that others will be spared. We smile and we add just one more thing to our plate. We go against our better judgment and offer to bring the chili to the potluck, even if we don't own a crock-pot. We can go get one. Because then we will be liked. Then we will be a part of the whole.

Except it doesn't work that way. The more we do so that others will like us and approve of us, the more the hole in our soul grows. Far from becoming complete, we deplete our resources and steal time and attention from those who should rightfully expect it, like our spouses and our children, so that someone else can spend time with their family. That shit is just fucked up. 

Living like this breeds exhaustion, burn out and resentment. It’s living a lie. We're too "nice" to refuse to take on one more thing. We're too addicted to being liked to stand up for ourselves and say NFW. And we find that while others may like us, we don't like ourselves too much. Sounds like a problem to me. 

Life is not a popularity contest, reality TV notwithstanding. The truth is that not everyone is going to like us. And we are going to disappoint some people and piss others off. That's okay. The trick is to make sure the person we are disappointing isn't ourselves or a loved one.

I'm not suggesting we imitate the Lord of the Flies. We don't need to revert to life being nasty, brutish and short. But we do need to get and keep our priorities straight. It doesn't matter if we are part of the popular crowd, or how high we climb on the social ladder, as long as we are taking care of ourselves and our loved ones on whichever rung we land.

Niniane learns this lesson early in her story. She realizes that she's not going to make all of the people happy all of the time. Instead, she learned to be strategic instead of sycophantic, fair instead of well-meaning, and effective instead of milquetoast. If she can do it, so can I and so can you. And those who count will still really, really like us.  

A Mother's Love

I know I write about mothers frequently. Mostly, I write about bad mothers because that was my own early experience -- and because the bad or absent mommy is such a reliable trope in fiction – like the classics from the Brothers Grimm to that misogynistic asshole, Walt Disney, and the multitude of dead mothers his stories portray. I get it. As Tolstoy explains, all happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Trials and tribulations make for a good story. If it's a paranormal romance, of course, the perils of Pauline give way to a well-constructed happily ever after, so it all works out … eventually. So, back to motherhood. I had a mother. I am a mother. The two experiences are, thankfully, vastly different. Today, I'm going to look to one of my very favorite books to illuminate these issues. Yes, I'm between books and revisited Thea Harrison's Dragon Bound, just because I wanted a guaranteed good time and this book always delivers. Moreover, Dragon Bound touched significantly on the role of (good) mothers in forming us, protecting us and preparing us to leave the nest, so it was apropos over Mother's Day weekend. Mothers give us a legacy of genetics (in the case of biological mothers), of philosophy, as well as a conscious and unconscious transmission of a worldview, our place in it, and the myriad 'should’s" and "should not’s" that color our perspectives for the rest of our lives, whether we accept or reject what we've been taught. In Dragon Bound, the love of Pia's mother is her salvation -- and that which holds her back, which is so often the case.

In the story, Pia's mother was primarily concerned with securing Pia's survival, knowing that she would be a target if her secrets were revealed. To protect her, her mother trained Pia early on, educating her about the dangers of the world and equipping her with walls and safeguards against that which might harm her. Pia's mother had the best of intentions and clearly loved her daughter beyond all measure. But sometimes, in an effort to shield our children from the ugliness of reality, we make the mistake of attempting to prepare the path for the child instead of preparing the child for the path.. And, in so doing, ironically enough, ensure that our progeny will stumble on that path, despite our best preparation. 

As in all the finest fantasy, the depictions of Pia's mythical mother are achingly real. I, too, have worked hard to inculcate the necessary safeguards into the minds and hearts of my sons so that their suffering on this mortal coil will be minimal. But I know that my work will likely help in some ways and hurt in others. Sometimes, the farther we run from pain the faster it finds us. This truly sucks – in both truth and fantasy.

Like Pia's unnamed mother, I've tried to teach my kids to be successful in our world. I've taught them right from wrong and I've also worked to make sure they understand that not everyone plays by the same rules. People are mean sometimes. And as much as I would like to think it's not true, my kids—wait for it—don't always behave wonderfully either. What to do in a situation where our children's problems are overwhelmingly self-inflicted? Clearly, let them suffer the consequences of their actions. And then stroke their hair when they lay their heads in our lap looking for comfort when they find the consequences particularly uncomfortable. Such a fine, fine line. So hard to walk without stumbling ourselves.

I'm pretty sure my mother would have bubble wrapped me and kept me at home throughout my childhood if she'd had the option. And while I understand the impulse, it's one I've resisted over and over. Sometimes, when we make our kids too safe, as Pia's mother tried to do, we cut them off from experiences that would help them stretch and grow and achieve their wildest dreams. If we teach them to be completely risk averse, we also teach them to limit their expectations.

We want our kids to play safely. But playing it safe is not a strategy for a life lived fully, at least in my humble opinion.  Fate favors the bold! And being bold means sometimes falling flat on our faces. Or our asses. Not sure which is worse. But I want to encourage my kids to take chances while shielding them from harm. Oxymoronic, I know. But I can't help myself. I’m a mother.

The thing about parenting is this:  it's a dance. We do our best and hope that our kids will ignore our advice when they should, and take it to heart when it’ll help. Which means that we hope they will be smarter than we were. Most of us want our children to be more successful—however we and they define it—than we are. And we all hope that every decision we make as parents will benefit our progeny. But we, like them, pays our money and takes our chances.

If I can be half as good a mother as Pia's—or even as Pia herself turns out to be -- then I will be content.

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

I've got to begin by being a fan girl for just a few minutes. Guess who I got to meet last week at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention?  Charlaine Harris! Darynda Jones! Molly Harper! And Robyn Peterman! And they were all lovely and wonderful and gracious and totally cool. And funny! They were all exactly who you would expect them to be. Interestingly, all these authors write in the first person, and while they are all different than the characters they've created, of course, their actual voices are remarkably reminiscent of their book voices. Nowhere was this more evident than with the inimitable Robyn Peterman. It must be hard for these authors to have rabid fans come up and tell them how much we love them and how much we enjoy their books. I know they appreciate it, but it must be weird to be accosted total strangers who act like they know you.  But I do feel like I know these women. And I do love them. Especially Robyn Peterman. She is the bomb. And, the convention happened to coincide with the release of her latest Fashionably Dead book, Fashionably Fanged, and while I didn't have a lot of time to read last week, I've been catching up since I got back, and it's just as full of awesome sauce as the rest of this laugh-out-loud series. As with all of her hilarious books, Robyn Peterman's latest offering is funny with an undertone of seriousness. As Ms. Peterman said at the conference, comedy isn't funny unless it also includes pathos. I need my laughs with a side of tears, please. In this case, our heroine, Venus, is a kick ass Vampyre warrior who is part of the monarch's inner circle. She is also a former slave whose entire family was tortured and killed by a sadistic landowner. This horrible human being got his just desserts when Venus, after becoming a Vampyre, terminated him with extreme prejudice. Since then, Venus has been searching for his wife, Claudia, who stood by and watched as Venus' loved ones were slaughtered. Except when Venus finds Claudia, who is also a Vampyre now, all is not what it seemed and forgiveness is the watchword of the day. Venus had already gotten in some practice with forgiveness, as she had also been called to forgive her mate, Gareth, for being a manwhore and for not claiming her earlier. I found myself admiring Venus. She seemed able to let go of anger and truly embrace the adage that forgiveness is letting go of all hope of having a better past. Me, not so much. 

I struggle with forgiveness. Not with the petty stuff;  I'm usually more than willing to overlook that. I'm also not one to hold a grudge, and if someone is sorry and asks for forgiveness, I don't think I've ever denied such a request. Unfortunately, not all of those who have wronged me (or who I think have wronged me) have sought absolution from me. The part I find most challenging about forgiveness is letting go of past actions and moving on when the perpetrator of crimes against me doesn't see that they did anything wrong and/or they keep doing it.

I have three people on my hard to forgive list. They are all related to me, unsurprisingly. Family is where the heart is and where the knife through the heart resides as well. No one can hurt us like those we love, because we are the most vulnerable to those to whom we've given our hearts—or those who claimed them because we can't choose our parents.

You all know about my mother. Narcissistic nightmare. Enough said. I've worked hard to forgive her. To understand that she was damaged and sick and all that stuff. I also understand that my holding onto whatever shit I'm still clutching isn't doing her any harm at all. She's six feet under, and she can't change a damn thing. She was a horrible mother and she scarred me for life. But I want to forgive her. I want to finally, completely and absolutely release all the anger and grief and frustration that she inspired in me. I am not stupid, and I do realize that I will never have the childhood I always wanted and that I will never have a mother who loved me—in any recognizable semblance of that emotion.  What's done is done and let the dead bury the dead—whatever that means. I'm over it. Finally. Thankfully. 

I'm also having a hard time forgiving my brother—my mother's ultimate victim.  He is a disaster and I know exactly how and why he ended up the way he did and why he's done the terrible things he's done. But I can't feel all warm and fuzzy toward him. I don't wish him ill, but neither can I be a part of his life anymore. Continuing to subject myself to his abuse would be masochistic and suicidal and I am neither.

So where do I go with all of this? Like Venus, I can't change my past. But unlike her, neither can I just cozy up to those who hurt me and say, "All is forgiven, let's sing  Kumbaya." My mother has been gone almost four years, and the absence of additional offense has helped mellow my feelings for her. I can't change my past and I won't give her any more of my present or my future. Done. My brother?  Well, he continues to be a heartbreaker, but I think I would forgive him if he asked and if our future relationship diverged from our past. But he has no interest in that. Can I forgive him?  Yes—for the past. Unfortunately, he continues to behave badly in the present and it's difficult to ignore that reality, so the forgiveness needs to be an ongoing activity with him.

And who is the last, most challenging person on my list of those who need my pardon? Me, that's who. I find it almost impossible to forgive myself for my myriad trespasses. All the tasks I failed to perform. The food I eat when I shouldn't. The exercise I don't do. The gossip I don't avoid. The bitching and whining I indulge in far too often.  Every day there are things for which I castigate myself and then continue to self-flagellate well beyond any reasonable expiration date. It's almost impossible to let that shit go, and of course it's by far the most toxic.

And then, ironically, I need to forgive myself for not forgiving myself. And I don't and the cycle continues. Vicious and pointless yet seemingly unending. Sucks to be me. But I'm guessing I'm not alone in all this self-condemnation. For many of us, no one is harder on us than we are. And maybe all that crushing judgement that we heap upon ourselves slides off our own plates and onto those of others we condemn and then fail to forgive. Wow. I'm going deep and dark. Too much pathos and not enough humor. Better get back to Venus and the porno grannies—although I'm going to save those old bats for another post—but don't forget about them, they rock.

Where will I leave this?  Unresolved.  We ask God to forgive us our trespasses, and God knows, I'm not God or anything close to him/her/it. So I will continue to struggle with forgiveness. And I will continue to enjoy reading about these important themes in wonderful books by wonderful authors like Robyn Peterman. And in case I haven't mentioned it lately, writers are my rock stars and Robyn Peterman is the Big Dipper. 

Follow the Leader

I'm almost finished with Grimm, the next book in Shayne Silvers’ Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller series. It's exciting. A lot of bad things happen to our protagonist, billionaire wizard Nate Temple. How he gets out of these messes is still to be revealed and I was hard pressed to put the book down and write this blog. But deadlines are deadlines and here we are. Today I'd like to explore the concept of leadership, what it means, what it requires and its various manifestations. And like Joseph Campbell's hero, when the call comes, many refuse at first. But destiny rarely takes "no" for an answer, and eventually, we answer the call or get kicked to the curb. Nate is a reluctant hero, but when it becomes obvious that he cannot avoid his fate, he steps up to become the leader we hoped he would be at the start of the series. You know I love protagonists who evolve in meaningful ways, who grow up despite desires to the contrary, and who end up ‘adulting’ with the best of them. Nate is such a character. He rises to the occasion to protect his friends and loved ones with little thought or care about the cost to himself.

When I was younger, influenced by a patriarchal society and a mother for whom mature males were the apotheosis of authority figures, I thought all legitimate leaders were old white men. As my horizons expanded, my ideas of leadership morphed to include men and women of all ages and races. Leaders, I came to believe, were serious folks who were appropriately somber when seeking any sort of following. 

I was wrong about leaders and many other notions I've entertained over the years. With respect to leadership, I've learned that there are many styles and approaches, some serious and others more light hearted. And while places like the military and business schools claim that leadership can be taught, I've never found that to be true. I believe leaders are born, not made. And while not all leaders will find opportunities to exploit their talents, there are many in positions of leadership who can fake it all they want, but they will never make it.

Leadership is something you have or you don't. Nate Temple has it. The ability to inspire others to follow him, willingly and enthusiastically. Those who follow know instinctively that their leader will put the cause or the mission, whatever it is—for good or ill—ahead of his or her own needs and desires. A real leader thinks of him or herself as a servant, not a master. Even in the Master Temple's case. In this book, he lives up to his title in the most ironic sense of the word.

And therein lies the rub. Many bad leaders believe that they have been elevated because they are better than those who serve them. Nothing could be further from the truth. A real leader never asks anyone to do something they would not do willingly. A real leader distributes scarce supplies to others instead of keeping them. A real leader fights at the front of their troops, not from the rear. Real leaders are willing to sacrifice themselves for those they lead, both literally and figuratively.

Leadership is sometimes about explicit charisma, but not always. Many leaders are physically gifted as well, with height or beauty or just an aura of power. But this is not always the case, as with spiritual leaders, who are often self-effacing, or unlikely leaders, such as those who rise out of adversity during oppression or war, like Nelson Mandela.

I think there are many of us who fancy ourselves leaders. Perhaps I should only speak for myself here, because I know I think of myself as a leader of men (and women), if only on a small scale. And maybe that is a distinction as well:  leaders both large and limited. I don't see myself as president or as a military general, but I know that I am more likely to be at the head of the pack than at the back. Moreover, I don't follow so well, which places me firmly in the category of chief, not Indian. 

But wouldn't most of us rather ride in the front of the roller coaster?  Or maybe I'm just projecting my own desires on the rest of humanity and assuming everyone is just like me—I am painfully aware that this is far from true. Because the cold reality is that the vast majority of humans live to follow. They follow charlatans and false prophets as easily and often as true leaders because they would rather not have to think for themselves or engage in the often messy business of figuring it out as they go along. Most of humanity takes the road more traveled, by definition. 

Not that I'm judgmental or anything. Of course I am. I am more than willing to follow a worthy leader, but I don't have much respect for those who fall for facile answers and appeals to fear (a certain president comes to mind). I have no empathy for sheep. Or those who feel victimized by their own lack of fortitude. But I digress. We were talking about leaders, real and imagined. I prefer the real kind. Even when they are fictional, as in the case of Nate Temple. Once again, I'm finding truth in fantasy in all the best places.