Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall

There is something seriously wrong with me.  And no, it's not that I constantly digress when writing these blog posts. It's a much bigger problem:  I can't enjoy my down time unless I know with certainty that it's a choice. You know what I'm talking about: it's only fun to stay home on a Saturday night curled up with your latest fabulous fantasy novel (say, Thea Harrison's two new awesome offerings or Lara Adrian's just-published Midnight Breed novel, or the new Jeaniene Frost book, for example) if and only if I know I could be doing something else, and I just don't want to.  In the same way, I find that vacation is a lot more fun when my work is fulfilling and I'm making a decision to put it aside to go away somewhere and play. I like having options; life is so much more interesting when we are making affirmative choices, rather than letting life happen to us.  Being reactive is no fun.  It's all about being proactive, but proactivity requires a comparison between at least two alternatives. Choices create contrast.  And contrast creates the sharp relief and helps us to see our lives with true perspective.

So, I'm in an in-between place right now, but instead of enjoying my break and feeling grateful for the slow, end-of-summer pace, I'm totally stressed that there will be no end to my break and my life will unfold without purpose or meaning. Really?  Do they have a name for this kind of consistently-catastrophic-thinking- despite-all-evidence-to-the-contrary? Do I actually believe that this moment of down time signifies the end of all choices for all eternity?  Am I really that pathetic?  If I ponder long enough,  I'm sure I can think of a character this relates to—some sad sack minor character who acts as a foil highlighting what not to do for the main characters who would never think or behave in such a self-defeating way. Or if they behaved this stupidly, like Pia with her first dumb-ass boyfriend in Dragon Bound, for instance, they get over themselves quickly because this is such a silly way to be.

But I can't seem to help myself, unfortunately.  I'm between fantasy series, I'm between work projects, and, frankly, I'm between success and failure with respect to this blog (although you can certainly help me tip the scales toward success by reading, liking, commenting on and sharing my blog/website--pretty please?). I absolutely HATE the in-between. But, again, that is just a shortsighted attitude that discounts the long-term likelihood that nothing stays the same forever and neither will this.

It is also unrealistic to think a life of meaningful evolution is going to be a completely linear progression. Two steps forward and one step back. Or, less dramatically, two steps forward and then a bit of a break to recoup, recharge and reflect. This is a good thing, right? Yes, it is. But I'm the kind of person who believes that if I'm not moving forward then I must be moving backward. And while that may be true in theory, it is also true that while we are smack dab in the middle of everything, it can be difficult to judge our actual location on the path of life.  And, in reality, slowing down does not necessarily mean sliding the transmission into reverse. Neutral is a gear in which we can move forward as well as backward--or just stay in one place for a brief time.

Often, progress can only be perceived in the rearview mirror. Sometimes, when it seems like we're going nowhere or regressing, from the perspective of hindsight we can see that we were actually moving forward by leaps and bounds. Even if it doesn't feel that way in the moment.  We see this in books all the time, where an apparent set back turns out to be the set up for good things that come later. Pia and her penny are a perfect example of that. Or Elena being hired by Raphael, Sookie and the Rattrays, or Bella getting kidnapped by the Lessers. There are so many examples in fantasy, as there are in life.

So a bit of faith is probably justified that all will be well and that inspiration or at least an interesting project will arrive at my doorstep any time now. I can probably relax and enjoy this in-between time where there are few deadlines and demands.  I can sink into summertime for a little while longer and let the living be easy. I can probably stop waiting for the other shoe to fall and just put the damn things on already and walk away from this counterproductive activity.

Authentic Beauty

I recently stopped by to see a friend of mine, the New York Times best selling author, Laura Kaye. It was an unexpected visit, and when her husband ushered me in, Laura was sitting on the floor of her living room, in shorts and a t-shirt, wrapping gifts for her daughter's birthday. Her hair was scraped back from her face in a clip and she didn't have a speck of makeup on. And she looked amazing—a natural beauty. And I thought to myself, wow, I wish I looked like that with no enhancements or embellishments. But I don't. I need help to look merely acceptable.  And I wondered—to myself—at what point during the process of using artifice to appear more aesthetically pleasing do we cross the line from making the most of what we've got to projecting a completely false face (and body) to the world, undermining our efforts to be authentic and to live authentically?

As I contemplated these questions, I thought of one of my all-time favorite characters, Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse. Over the course of the series, Sookie is repeatedly given the opportunity to ingest vampire blood, which acts, among other things, to enhance physical beauty, including adding luster and body to hair, brightening skin, teeth and eyes, and generally serving to make humans look better. In the end, Sookie rejects these enhancements, feeling that they made her into someone she wasn't.

I remember being struck by Sookie's choices and thinking—gee, if I could look like I'd been to the most exclusive hairdresser in town, and then to the best spa and the most exclusive cosmetic dentist and plastic surgeon in the world just by drinking a little vampire blood—straight from the vein of a gorgeous vampire who has the hots for me--I'd be all over that action like Bobby Flay on a grill. 

Without giving away all my secrets, I will admit to partaking of many of the services the beauty industry offers in this country. I certainly wear makeup more often than not if I'm going out of the house.  And I wouldn't want anyone to see me at the beauty salon with foil all over my head, doing an excellent imitation of someone trying to channel radio signals from outer space.

I haven't done it yet, but neither have I ruled out plastic surgery down the road if my neck becomes saggy and my jowls start to head south. I'm honestly not sure how far I would go to preserve my looks—not that I want to look 25 again, but I'm also not sure, when I get there, that I want to look like I'm a typical 50-year old, either. I don't think I want to walk gently into that good night of looking old when I certainly don’t feel old.

So what about Sookie's decision to accept the inevitable ravages of the years to live life as an authentic human? If we choose to fight the tide of time, are we choosing to live less than authentically?  As you know, living authentically is my purpose in life and exploring ways to do that and sharing my insights is my current life's work. If I want to inspire others to live authentically, how far can I go with respect to physical improvements that aren't "natural" and still make a claim to authenticity?

How much artificial enhancement is too much?  When do we become like fem-bots—plastic, perfect people without a hair out of place or a wrinkle on our foreheads? If you look at most celebrities these days, they all seem to look the same—identically symmetrical faces with absolutely no affect because all of their emotive expressions have been Botoxed out of existence. How much of a slippery slope is it from hair dye and facial moisturizers to lasers and scalpels and vacuum cleaners sucking the fat from our thighs and our abdomens?

Maybe we should all make like Sookie and just say no. Maybe we should allow ourselves to grow old gracefully, even if grace isn't always as pretty as holding back the onslaught of time across our faces and our bodies. That seems like such a leap of faith, though, to accept ourselves as we really are, and to eschew smoothing out the rough edges of our physical imperfections.

I wish I could take that leap. But I don't look as pretty as Laura Kaye without my makeup on and my hair done. So, I may have to allow this bit of inauthenticity to slip by the barricades that normally serve to weed out dishonesty and prevarication in my life—the boundaries that help me live a life of integrity.  At least for a while—just until I can accept myself as being beautiful with no adornments at all. I’m working on it. Really.  But I won't hold my breath just yet. I might turn blue.

Waiting for Life To Start

So, I’m reading book two of Katie MacAlister’s Dark Ones series.  This book follows the tormented vampire (Dark One), Christian, as he waits to find his Beloved, who is the only woman who can save him from the Hell on Earth he is living.  As we’ve discussed before click here, the idea of one specific woman for that special vampire or werewolf is a common theme in paranormal fiction.  It’s good, it works.  But, you need to ask yourself, does this whole idea of waiting for THE ONE reinforce the message that life doesn’t start until—fill  in the blank—occurs?  Does this specific example and so many like it set us up to hang out in that most depressing of destinations, Dr. Seuss’ The Waiting Place?

When I was young, I distinctly remember waiting (with great impatience) for my life to start.  When I graduated from high and got the hell out of my parents’ house, my life would start.  When I was able to leave my first university and transfer back to a New York school, my life would start. When I met the man of my dreams, when we got married, when we succeeded in having children, when I figured out my career, etc., etc., my life would start.

I finally figured out, very belatedly it’s true, that I was spending my life in the dreaded Waiting Place.   The one Dr. Seuss warned me about.

I knew better, I did.  I remember having this exact conversation with a therapist when I was 19-years-old (I lived in Manhattan in the 1980s--everyone was in therapy!) and my awesome therapist, Lynn, told me very clearly- “Anne, this is your life, so you need to live it.”  OK, good advice.  It caused me to pinch myself periodically and think, “This is my life, I’m living it”, which kind of worked a little bit, but not really.

Turns out that time passes in exactly the same manner in my fake life as it did in my real life, so whether I was living in one or the other, time continued slip-sliding away, in the immortal words of Paul Simon.  That was definitely not good at all.

Turns out, there were a lot of issues involved in actually embracing the whole “this is my life” proposition.  The biggest problem, of course, was that by waiting for my “real” life to start, which sometimes meant the end of a work day, or a work week, or the completion of a major project, or the end of my kids’ school year or soccer season, the holidays, etc.,  I was actually spending my time,  by definition, in an inauthentic way—as in not real.

So if I was spending the majority of my time living an inauthentic life, my very authentic fear was that one day my time would be up and I would look back and realize that my fake life eclipsed any hope of having a real life, and now it was game over.

At this point, a pit stop and lane change were definitely in order.

First, the pit stop- this is the part where we duck and cover, stop and smell the roses, just breathe, make like a Talking Head and then you may ask yourselves “How did I get here?”

That’s a good question, but it’s a bit of the tail wagging the dog.  A better first question is, where the hell am I anyway? Seems like the answer to that would be obvious, but not so much.

Sometimes, we seem to be in one place, and really we’re clear across town, or across the country, or, in some extreme cases, not even inhabiting the same astral plane that we thought we were.  For example, I was married to the guy of my dreams, I had a blossoming career that was going gangbusters, we lived in a spectacular house and I had good friends and the time and money to have a lot of fun.  Seems like Nirvana, no?  Apparently not.  For some, it takes losing everything to bring what really matters into sharp focus.  For me, it took having it all to realize that something was decidedly –and devastatingly- missing.  What, you may ask, could possibly be missing?  And the answer, I’m sorry to say, was me.

The actress who played Princess Leia in the Star Wars trilogy, Carrie Fisher, once wrote, 'Having a Great Time, Wish I Were Here.” And that was me.  Because it turns out that while I was busy creating the life I thought I wanted, I forgot to create myself in the process.  For me, there was no there there, and it made for a gaping empty hole where my joy and fulfillment should be.

So what I finally learned, slowly and painfully, was that life really isn’t like my fantasy novels in this particular instance.  There’s nothing outside ourselves that can save us.  There’s no one—at least in my humble opinion—who can complete us, as Christian was waiting for.  There’s no accomplishment that will fulfill us if we’re hollow inside, having failed to do the work to uncover who we truly are and what we are truly here to do.  And if we’re waiting for that special someone to be our missing puzzle piece, or the accolade or award that’s going to convince us that we are worthy, we’re going to spend a long time in the Waiting Place. And who wants to disappoint Dr. Seuss?

Better to blow that particular popsicle stand and get on with the business of finding or making ourselves and then sharing that person with the world.  At which point the wonderful spouse and beautiful house can be fully enjoyed and appreciated, cause nothing attracts joy as much as truth.  And truth is something we live, not something we wait for.

What Women Want

I have often wondered-- to anyone who will listen-- why more men don't read women's romance novels to get some pointers. I mean, really, men are always complaining about how incomprehensible women are and how they never know what women are thinking or what women want. To that I say, "Poppycock!"  There is mountain of information out there for anyone who cares to look for it. And I'm not just talking about studies and scholarly works, although many of those exist as well. I'm talking about the myriad books written by women, for women about women. Women know what women want. And we are exceptionally willing to share that information with anyone willing to make the effort to pay attention.

An excellent, though fictional, example of a man who takes his research seriously and then applies it with heart-stopping efficacy is Judd Lauren in Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. His story is called Caressed by Ice (and yes, I totally realize that these ridiculous titles are a massive deterrent to men ever picking up these books!). But I loved the fact that although he was a virgin (most Psy are, as they have eschewed emotion and passion, so sex is definitely out of the equation) but he has taken the time to learn about how to pleasure a woman. I like that in a man. Diana Gabaldon once wrote in her Outlander series that virginity in men was underrated as what they lacked in experience or technique they more than made up for in enthusiasm. I've always remembered that reference and smiled. And I smiled even more when I read Judd's story. There is a lot of material in that book for men who are looking for useful tips.

Anyhoo, back to the subject at hand, what women want and why men are so generally reluctant or incapable of giving it to them. In my travels, I've spoken to hundreds of women, most of whom sing the same refrain-- their men are fairly clueless about how to make them happy-- romantically, sexually, domestically and even professionally. As far as I can tell, most men have no idea how to make love or seduce a woman.  Have men never wondered why so many women have learned to emulate Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally?  Why is this a necessary skill for savvy women?  For a couple of reasons, all of which have to do with protecting the male ego and/or ending the tedium of sex as soon as possible.

From my perspective, it is never OK to fake an orgasm, for a variety of sound reasons. Firstly, if you fake it, he'll never learn. Secondly, it rewards poor performance and who wants to do that?  And lastly, it is a big fat lie that corrodes intimacy between two people. So just say no, not, "Yes, yes, oh, God, yes," unless you really mean it. 

So what might men learn if they picked up the same books I love to read?  First, they will learn that Ms. Gabaldon was onto something when she extolled the virtues of enthusiasm. Every woman loves a man who is totally into her body with genuine enthusiasm-- defined as intense and eager enjoyment, interest and approval. Women want you to notice all of them--not just the high points. But those as well. And we'd like a little more specificity in your comments other than, "great rack."

Every woman I've ever met, even the least vain or self-absorbed ones, are proud or pleased with some part or parts of their bodies. We have studied ourselves in mirrors and inspected the parts we can see without one.  We want men to appreciate the parts of ourselves we think are pretty--or at least adequate. It could be our hair, our skin, our eyes, or our cheekbones, our shoulders or the way our hipbones meet our thighs. But there is something. Or more than one thing. And that's what we want you to notice and celebrate.

My beloved fantasy books also tell me that women want to be appreciated for more than their physical attributes. They want men to notice, comment on and engage them about their interests, accomplishments, aspirations and ambitions. Women want men to appreciate them for who they are in terms of the positive aspects of their personalities, and to feel confident that our men can tolerate and cope with the more challenging aspects that make up the complete, real woman—not some video game avatar or mail-order bride who submits to a man’s every whim.  Real women have imperfections, just like Gerry Bartlett’s vampires.  To communicate a willingness and ability to do this, however, men need to notice these things first. Which involves observation, analysis and research. We want you to ask questions. And actually listen to and process the answers.

Women want you to learn about their particular erogenous zones. In every single paranormal romance I read, the men lavish endless attention on necks, calves, hip bones, jaw lines and the small of a woman's back, among other places. I've not heard about a lot of real men who do the same, have you? Real men tend to go straight for the good stuff, so to speak. We want our bodies to be wonderlands for our men. Not amusement parks or the local drive through. 

Women want to feel like our men are barely hanging onto any semblance of control with us. Women want to live in Rihanna’s song that tells men we want you to make us feel like we're “the only girl in the world for you, like we're the only ones who you'll ever love, the only ones who know your heart, the only ones who make you feel like a man.” Getting the picture here?

We want men to act as if the passion they feel for us is threatening to overwhelm them at any moment. We women want to be responsible for driving our men absolutely wild. And when we don't, when sex becomes an exercise similar to watching the Karate Kid (wax on, wax off), or worse, wham, bam, thank you, ma'am, most of us start going over the grocery list while they finish up.

But men don't read these books, and therefore remain clueless about what women want. Silly boys, these tricks are most definitely not for kids.

Oh, the Humanity!

I’ve been encouraged recently—on a number of different fronts—to contemplate what it means to be human.  And what better way to engage in such contemplation than through the prism of those creatures that inhabit my beloved fantasy novels and who are most definitely not human. What does it mean to be human? Many have answered this question, and it’s not my intention to provide a survey of philosophical or spiritual or biological theories in this space.  I would like to follow a thread offered in the most recent Dark Ones book I’ve read by Katie MacAlister.

In these books, she explores the consequences of some of the Dark Ones (vampires) being born without a soul, and the quest of those so cursed to find their beloved, the one woman in the world who can redeem their souls for them. MacAllister describes the state of being soulless as an unrelenting torment of pain, loneliness and need.  It is this endless need to which the Beloved responds, because of her ability to assuage the pain and fill the emptiness.

In her book, Even Vampires Get the Blues, MacAlister adds a bit of a twist, and this time, it is the Beloved, who, after redeeming the soul of her Dark One, loses her own.   Because she had been human (or mostly, in this case) and because she had had a soul before she lost it, Sam knows exactly what she is missing and the pain is that much greater.  MacAllister explains, “A soul means different things to different cultures.  To most, it’s the thing that makes us more than just sentient, the part of us that lives on when our bodies fail and turn to dust… I came to realize another function of the soul—it connected us to humanity, made us a part of a common experience… [and without it] I felt detached.”  Sam wonders how her Dark One lived so long without a soul with his sanity intact.  He explains to her that that it was all he’d ever known, so it didn’t seem as bad as having had it and lost it.

I really love the idea of the soul as that which connects us to each other, and that it is the connection that makes us human.  It’s a particularly interesting thought in this age of digital detachment, with everyone tied to electronic experiences—living life through the lenses of our cell phone cameras.  Can we really be connected to our own lives—much less each other—if we are so dependent on our electronics that we cannot, by definition, be present in the moment?

I was recently at a school chorus concert in which my son was performing.  I was struck by how many parents we watching their children through their phones and tablets as they recorded the event.  I watch my own kids recording their lives through selfies and pictures of everything they do—including the food they eat, which then gets posted to Instagram for others to validate the experience with likes—or perhaps the reality will be that my kids’ experiences will be discounted or negated if no one “likes” their Instagram pictures.

Have we created a world where authenticity is equated with the stamp of external approval and life doesn’t count if no one watches us—from the rear view mirror that a photo or video necessarily depicts (even if it’s nominally “real time”).  Have we willingly relinquished our souls—that which connects us—to a series of machines that we allow to control our experiences? Are we losing the ability to connect as one human to another?

Are we voluntarily forfeiting our souls for the illusion of immortality that a digital record presents for posterity? Do we get to live forever—young and vibrant—in pictures and sound waves with the only cost being never really having lived it in the first place?

I don’t have the answers to these questions.  In fact, I’m just scratching the surface of these questions and thoughts.  But, as I sit with my pen and notebook and practice connecting my hand with the paper, I am thinking about connection, and having a soul, and what we’re giving up in exchange for the convenience and experiences we can only get with mechanical assistance.

I’m not ready to denounce this age of digital dominance.  But, like a Dark One born without a soul, I’m wondering if our children, who will grow up never having known any other way to be, will even know what they are missing by adding an electronic filter to all of their experiences.  Perhaps they will never seek to redeem themselves and claim their souls because digital detachment is the new normal and they’ll see no need to fix that which they don’t consider broken  I hope that’s not the case.  I still believe it’s the connection that keeps me human. 

Old Familiar Places

As you all know, I get so sad when I come to the end of a series.  Truly, I dread the time when I know I have nothing left to read in a particular set of books because I’ve spent so much time with the characters and become so invested in their stories that I just don’t want the party to end.  But end it does, as my wishes rarely have a terribly significant impact on reality, which is a shame.  Anyway—the end of a series leaves me with two choices—spend some time researching a new author and a new cast of characters in a fantasy world I’d want to inhabit for a time, or go back to an old favorite and console myself with the comfort of familiarity and proven enjoyment as I recover from the end of a beautiful relationship.

I’ve been known to do both, in fact, and it occurs to me that my habits are not so far off from what happens in real life when a love relationship ends.  How many of us have scrolled through our contacts (back in my day it was an address book, but same concept) looking for someone we can call for some uncomplicated love?  I know I’ve been guilty of that more than once (before my marriage, of course).  When a relationship ends, it sometimes seems like too much trouble to get to know someone new.  It’s a daunting task to endure the inevitable awkwardness and uncertainty of “will it work or not” that occurs when we audition a new prospect for the role of dream lover or even potential life partner –or both- if we’re very, very lucky.  Sometimes the thought of starting all over again seems like losing those last ten pounds, climbing Mt. Everest and getting a 1600 on the SATs all at the same time.  No can do.  At least not when I’m still raw from the end of a particularly wonderful series.

And that’s when a retread is just the thing.  It’s familiar.  It’s predictable.  It’s comfortable and comforting.  At least in terms of revisiting books.  Because if we take my analogy a bit further, it doesn’t hold up so well in the real world. In the real world, moving backwards and rekindling old flames can sometimes mean opening a can of exceptionally unpleasant worms. For example, we might know that a toddle down memory lane with an old lover is an extremely bad idea, but how many of us actually listen to that insistent little voice in our heads saying “Danger, Will Robinson”? Not me, I’ll tell you.  Nah, I used to barrel forward heedless of the danger, knowing that the old familiar road seemed a lot less scary than forging a new path.  Sometimes, the road less traveled just looks isolated and foreboding and definitely best avoided.  After all, I’m from New York where I learned that if a neighborhood park or street is deserted, then what the hell are you thinking by being there? Asking for big trouble, that’s what.

And who wants big trouble, right? But that’s the fear talking, not the part of us that embraces new experiences, trusting that expanding our horizons is (almost) always for the good and an endeavor to be pursued.  So, the good news is that after a few repeat performances with someone we’ve danced with before, and the realization that it doesn’t work any better now than it did then, we feel ready to move onto new adventures.

Luckily for me –and for you, too, there is significantly less angst involved in transitioning between fantasy novels than there is in romantic relationships.  The really good news in that there’s always a lot less baggage and fewer bad memories associated with revisiting a particular fantasy series that we’ve loved and lost.  We we reread books, there’s no resentment or anger or heartache (unless you are one of the folks who’s still mad at Charlaine Harris for how she ended the Sookie Stackhouse series—come on, guys, she foreshadowed that particular plot twist beginning in the very first book and then kept dropping hints like bread crumbs for Hansel and Gretel to follow! Get over it, already!).  Oops, did I digress again?

Back to the issue at hand, revisiting well-loved books or even whole series.  Personally, I reread Sookie’s story at least once a year, and also the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. I pick up Dragon Bound by Thea Harrison when nothing and no one else can elevate my mood from the pits of despair, just cause I love it so much. I frolic with G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin when I want to smile, and laugh out loud with MaryJanice Davidson’s Queen Betsy when I really need a belly-full.

And the best part is that there’s absolutely no downside to indulging in my desire to make everything old new again with my reading and plumb the depths of these beautiful books to get a new insight or remind myself of a profound truth. Rereading books is nothing, in fact, like revisiting an old lover who might have picked up something nasty since the last interlude.  So, stick with books for your retreads rather than last year’s boyfriend or girlfriend. Because we can’t find truth in fantasy everywhere, just between the pages of our beloved books. And after we've finished revisiting books we've read before, we can move on to something new and marvelous.

Cold as Ice

I've returned to reading Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. I'm reading the third installment, Caressed by Ice (really?!  Can we not come up with less cheesy titles, please?). I love these books, almost as much as the author's Guild Hunter series, which are among my all-time favorites. The premise of the Psy-Changeling books, like the premise of the Guild Hunters series, is extremely original and the plots are interesting and unpredictable (not how things end, of course, as these books follow a formula that results in an inevitable HEA. But that is not only OK, it's one of the reasons I and so many like me love this genre--we want happy endings. We enjoy the illusion of control that these novels represent. If you've been reading my Facebook page--and please, please do and tell your friends--then you know I scour the web for articles that explain that reading reduces stress and relaxes us.) OK, I've digressed quite a bit from the subject at hand. More so than usual. Forgive me and please keep reading about the very fascinating Psy-Changeling world. To summarize, the Psy are masters of their own minds, having developed their mental and intellectual capacities to the fullest extent possible. These folks are masters of their domain and totally in control.  Unfortunately, what they figured out was that all of this mental might came with a hefty price tag for a significant portion of the population: insanity. And when super-smart people start losing their marbles, the result is dangerous for everyone. The solution was to turn everyone into a Vulcan and condition all the emotions out of existence--and therefor the potential for madness (or at least most of the potential, except for those pesky sociopaths).  So what you are left with are cold, calm, calculating people whose judgment is never clouded by emotion and whose women are never bothered by PMS, apparently. 

On the other hand, we have the Changelings, who have gone in the opposite direction and embraced their animal natures to the point that they become animals-- they are, in fact, shapeshifters. These folks are physicality personified, and they are filled with emotion and passion, which they express through their bodies--changelings crave touch while Psy avoid it like the plague.

So, pretty interesting stuff. And when they get together, unwillingly of course, it kind of reminds me of Amok Time run amok (stop rolling your eyes-- that was a pretty clever Star Trek reference). And the books explore the mutual impact both species have on each other as they come together in love and self-interest.

I really love  these books, and I think a part of my fascination is that I am acutely uncomfortable with--and therefore attracted to--people who don't show their emotions. This is because I'm most definitely a wear your heart on your sleeve kind of gal. You know the type--I almost never hold back. As my mother would say, if it's on my lung, it's on my tongue. I have a hard time practicing verbal restraint. I have no poker face. My eyebrows are constantly encroaching on my hairline and I do a mean imitation of Edvard Munch's The Scream--as in OMG, NFW, LMFAO. 

So, when I am confronted by people who keep their thoughts and emotions much closer to the chest, it kind of makes me crazy. Perhaps not Jack Nicholson in The Shining crazy, but not too far off.  I hate not knowing what people are thinking and feeling. It makes me nuts when these ice queens and kings adopt a supercilious attitude of "aren't you the cute little out of control psycho?"  Their lack of affect seems to scream at me, "I'm so much better than you because you can't even get a grip on yourself much less anyone or anything else."

I find myself fantasizing about stabbing Mr. and Ms. Spock with a fork to see if they bleed green blood. Figuratively, of course. Have you ever felt that way?  Don't you sometimes wonder what it would take to make someone like this get excited?  Or even slightly agitated?  I'm sure this is the allure behind the prim and proper librarian whipping off her glasses and letting down her hair to become a sexually voracious hellion.   We who are more emotional want to entice these Stepford wives to lose control  Utterly and completely. 

And sometimes I'm really not a very nice person and I become deliberately provocative to see if I can't shatter the wall of ice that seems to be rising in front of me like I should expect to see Jon Snow at any moment.  Just to see if I can. Usually, I can.  Not something I am terribly proud of, but there you have it. 

Because restrained emotions can be interpreted as a lack of feeling, which is hurtful and feels like rejection. And who wants to feel rejected?  Not me, that's who.  And while I can tell myself intellectually that the other feels as strongly as I do, it just doesn't seem that way.  And it is so unfair that as I am busy expressing and emoting all over the place so that others are never in doubt about my feelings, but I’m not getting any of that in return.

Unfortunately, I've found that it is the most Pyrrhic of victories to succeed in provoking such self-contained people to overflow their carefully constructed barriers. No good ever comes of it, unless you are living in a Nalini Singh novel, in which case breaking through the ice cold obstacles to reveal the passionate and possessive nature below always works out well for her protagonists. 

For the rest of us, I think the thing to do is remember that we are all different but that we all share the same humanity.  Just because we don't all express ourselves in the same way doesn't mean that we don't all feel the same things. I think we probably do. Still waters run deep and all of that.

And, as I continue to read the Psy-Changeling series, I think I will continue to enjoy the virtual victory of watching these arctic individuals thaw. I can live vicariously through the Changelings as they do something in the pages of my beloved books that doesn't necessarily work as well in real life. Because I've learned to dig and pick and poke and prod only at my peril. I've also learned to take people as they are and to let them share with me in a way that works for them. Most of the time. When that doesn't work, I read Nalini’s Singh’s books and learn to live with disappointment.  Or, I play Foreigner loudly on my wireless speaker and hope someone takes the hint.  

Winning the Lottery

In the book, Jade, a very promising first novel by Rose Montague, the main character has the ability to pick and choose the best of the best in terms of attributes and accessories. When this aspect of the plot was finally revealed, it was a question I couldn't stop pondering:  if I could pick anything to be and to have, what would I choose?  Why?  And what might these choices say about me?

Do I get to choose with the wisdom of all my decades on the planet? Or do I need to make my choices ahead of time with no real context for decisions or a clear understanding of consequences, intended or otherwise, as Jade does?  While it was very entertaining to read about Jade and her escapades, let's assume for argument's sake that I get to choose with the knowledge and understanding of my current self, and then I get to go back in time and rewind my life to my early 20s, just because (because this is my blog and my fantasy and because I'm hoping you will be able to find your own truths in my fantasy this time).

So, what would I choose first?  I have one voice in my head arguing for looks (and that voice sounds a lot like my mother's) and another urging me toward intelligence and wisdom. I'll choose door number two, in this instance.  After all, looks fade and learning is forever. On the other hand (and, unfortunately, there always seems to be another hand, until I feel like an octopus, sometimes), I don't know of a lot of normal, happy geniuses. With great intelligence seems to come great weirdness. So maybe being super smart is not all it's cracked up to be. I heard it said once about a self-help program that there was no one too stupid to go through it, but plenty who proved too smart for their own good. So, onto door number one, now, because, I've got to say, beauty would be a very close second on my list.

Like many of us, I've always wished my--fill in the blank--were: bigger/smaller/flatter/rounder/firmer/thicker/thinner, you name it. Sound familiar?  And while we are obsessing over the imperfections, sometimes with OCD intensity, no one else really notices. I read recently that Shakira said that she doesn't dwell on her figure flaws (does she have any?) because men find confidence so much more attractive than any particular physical attribute or lack thereof.

So, instead of beauty, which is fleeting, maybe I should go for confidence, which can last a lifetime. Hmmm.

And then, onto door number three, where to go next?  I'm thinking wealth. Fabulous wealth. Sounds good, yes?  But wait, there's more (said in my best QVC voice). There are some issues with wealth, at least as far as I've observed, which also has some scientific support. Being wealthy does not seem to translate into being happy or content (which I think is the point of this particular fantasy sport). There are lots of wealthy people I know and read about who seem fairly miserable, in fact. And what's more, these folks' wealth provides an endless supply of diversion and distraction that only serves to delay any positive action they might otherwise take to ameliorate their personal circumstances to make them more supportive of happiness. It is hard to buckle down and do the difficult work to walk through fear, insecurity and anxieties when you can just buy another outfit or go on another fabulous vacation.  It sounds good, sure, but putting off the need to confront reality only goes so far. Look at the mess most famous people make of their lives, despite the wealth, or, in some cases, maybe because of it. And there are studies that show that people who win the lottery are actually less happy afterwards than they were before.

So, ix-nay on the ealth-way, I think. And that brings me to a screeching halt on this exercise in mental masturbation. Because I don't think I'm going to get any satisfaction at all here. Every time I think about rearranging the hand I was actually dealt, I can come up with reasons why I shouldn't.  I read in one of my beloved fantasy novels (but I can't remember which one!  An occupational hazard, I guess), that if each of is threw all our problems in a big heap in the middle of the floor, none of us would choose to pick up the problems of another.

And because every attribute comes with its own set of issues, some more numerous than National Geographic, as Molly Harper would say, I think I'll stick with my own set of perks and flaws, at least for today.  And while I’m at it, I’ll go back to reading and contemplating the wisdom and entertainment of Jade.

But if someone offers me the winning lottery ticket tomorrow, I might have to rethink this whole thing again.

Enter the Dragon

I feel like I'm cheating. I'm completely taken with a man who is not my husband.  It's happened before, I'm embarrassed to say. First, it was Vampire Bill. Then it was Jean-Claude. And I might have dallied a bit with Jericho Barrons and Raphael. But this is different. This is lasting. This is obsession. The object of my obsession, you may wonder?  None other than Dragos Cuelebre, the Great Beast of Thea Harrison's Elder Races series. Why Dragos?  Why does he stand out in the pantheon of hot alpha males that populate my beloved fantasy novels? Why do I replay the scenes of the novels and stories in my mind long after I've put my Kindle away? Why do I analyze and dissect his thought processes and his evolution and search for clues about my own life and proclivities and potential growth through the prism of this particular character?  Why is this fictional fantasy so compelling that I'm genuinely sad that such a magnificent creature doesn't actually exist?

Well, we must give credit where credit is due, and celebrate the genius of Thea Harrison in creating such an amazing avatar.  Jay Gatsby has nothing on Dragos (yeah, you heard me, I'm comparing Thea Harrison to F. Scott Fitzgerald and I don't want to hear any lip about it!).  Dragos is incredibly complex but straightforward at the same time. As the author notes on several occasions, Dragos is Powerful as shit and older than dirt. He was born with the cosmos and his evolution is beyond the imagining of mere humans. He can shift forms from the ultimate alpha male--bigger, stronger and faster than even Steve Austin (and worth well over six million dollars to boot) to become the one and only dragon in the universe. He is singular and without peer. He has been considered a god. Perhaps he is a god. In other words, he is utterly one of a kind.

But here's the thing: given all that he has been and all that he is and all that he can become, he remains teachable, with some level of authentic humility underneath that seemingly impenetrable autocratic and invulnerable exterior. He can learn and grow and change. And he can feel with some level of emotional depth. He wants to evolve. He wants to grow and to become a better man for his mate. Is your heart palpitating yet?  Do you have the vapors?  Cause I sure do. Who wouldn't fall for that?  If you are immune, my hat is off to you. But then I've got to ask why?  Why would you even want to resist such magnificence?  Well, I can think of a couple of reasons, actually. First, it's hard to admit to wanting something you don't believe exists in reality. Second, even if you concede the possible existence of such a creature, few of us willingly bang our heads against a wall of certain deprivation. If we know for a fact we could never be with someone like that, either because we believe we could never attract him or because we believe we could never maintain a relationship with him, then there is little point in pining. Unrequited love is only noble and marginally interesting in fiction (and not even there, for me; Madame Bovary bored me to tears—get over him already!). Those kinds of issues are a different kettle of fish entirely, and the subject for another post.

But now I want to talk about looking underneath that amazing exterior--beyond the power and the wealth and the smoking hot looks. What is there that transcends the dragon shapeshifter aspect, or even the billionaire elite-athlete-cum-rocket scientist-supermodel aspect of Dragos?  What are some of the more authentic (not to mention realistic and obtainable) elements of who Dragos is that command our deep respect and draw us in like moths to smoking hot flames?  Qualities like strength of character, comfort in one's own skin, fundamental competence and confidence?  And then, like the cherry on the top of the sundae, is a burning ambition to continually strive to be a better man, to want to become more patient, and tolerant, giving and generous.  Not to mention so hot for his mate that spontaneous combustion occurs when they come together.

Could you get behind that action?  There was a time where I probably could not but those days are in the past, thankfully. Now I wake up to that every day. Which is awesome for me, definitely. But, in truth, it took me a very long time to be able to look beyond the superficial of good looks, good prospects, and the casual arrogance of a man who knows he's got it going on (as my husband does). Because that is definitely not enough, as Dragos so ably demonstrates.

The pull that Dragos exerts on my psyche is below the surface. He's more than the ultimate alpha male. Because in reality, alpha males come with some fairly insurmountable obstacles, at least to my way of thinking. Alpha males want control of everything. But Dragos is willing to consider that control precludes partnership and friendship. Control puts the controller in the one up position.  And for a guy used to being one up for eons, not just multiple millennia, Dragos is irresistibly willing to consider that being one up means your “partner” is one down. And the one down position makes partnership impossible. He is seductively prepared to ponder the proposition that he doesn't know it all or how to do it all. He's eager to pursue additional evolution to the next level of existence. For his woman. To be a better man for her. And that makes him just about perfect for me.