I'm Friends with the Monster

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Life's Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarcasm R Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acceptance Is Key

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Projecting Personas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Immortality of Dogs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Betrayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Force Multiplier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live Long and Prosper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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