Back to the Future

In one of the early Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris, Sookie talks about storing up memories to go over in her mind later. Before she starts hooking up with vampires, who have recently revealed their existence to an unsuspecting world, she lived a pretty uninteresting life as a bar maid in Northern Louisiana. Mind you, she’s a telepathic bar maid, but that’s why they call this genre “paranormal.”

So, Sookie hoards her little treats, the anomalies in her life to ponder and pick apart and re-live. And I have to say, I really couldn’t relate at all. I’m a future projector, not a past re-hasher. This is analogous to the vanilla dogs concept—the idea that some people (like me) prefer vanilla to chocolate and dogs to cats. In the same way, I think people break down into two groups—those who enjoy reliving the past, and those who prefer to fantasize about the future.

Personally, I’ve never really understood people who repeatedly go over the past in their heads again and again. It’s done. There’s no going back. Even if you think of the perfect come back to that idiot who put you down with impunity, the moment is gone and you are just wasting your time (like generals whose war plans reflect the last war and the TSA who consistently put ridiculous rules in place to thwart the last bomber). I don’t know about you, but it feels nasty to be disrobing next to a total stranger with a massive beer gut standing next to you in line for the full body scan (as if that weren’t creepy enough) and you have to worry about the horrors of catching a glimpse of butt crack when he takes off his belt.  Gah!

Is there a point to this exercise?  Does anyone really believe they are going to have an opportunity exactly like the last one where instead of saying “your mama” to the bozo who insulted you, you come back with the perfect bon mot and make him feel three inches tall with a tiny little pee pee?  Speaking of, have I ever told you about my foolproof technique for putting lecherous men in their place?  If a man can’t keep his eyes above neck level, I retaliate by glancing sideways at his crotch and making a very subtle “meh” expression with my face—as in, that don’t impress me much.  Works every time. But I digress—again.  Getting to be a problem for me.  Should probably have that looked at.  Nah.

The point is you can’t go back. The moment has passed.  The train has left the station.  That ship has sailed.  Pick your metaphor--the fat lady has done sung, my friend, and that’s all she wrote. 

So why the hell would we spend time looking back, re-living memories, oftentimes with modified narratives and definitely different endings?  Sure, I understand that many of us fantasize that way, but again, I have to ask, why? Why go backwards to a past that’s dead and gone (guess that reference!) when we can play it forward to a future that hasn’t yet occurred?  The truly glorious thing about the future is that we can play that reel in our minds and paint the canvas any way we choose (which reminds me of the awesome new book I just read, Jade, by Rose Montague—run, don’t walk to read it—very original premise and a heroine who understands completely about playing it forward!). Dream wedding in a month? Done.  Best job interview ever tomorrow?  Nailed it!  Catching that fly ball in the next game?  You got it.

And the beauty of future projection versus living in the past is that our future fantasies could actually come true! Unless they involve Vampire Bill, as they have for me, in which case I am SOL.  But I guess you never know.  Or maybe you do.

But, back to the future. The future is where we can be rich and famous and well preserved, if it takes a little longer than we’d hoped. In fact, both the scientific and non-scientific worlds have embraced the idea of future projections as a tool to build a desired reality. Athletes are well known for visualizing the move they want to master prior to execution. They see—in their mind’s eye—the club hitting the golf ball or the bat hitting the baseball or the perfect layup—and then their muscles follow the path their brains have already traveled. It works to enhance athletic performance and almost all elite athletes do it. It works in other areas as well, and most new-age types also follow this practice (and I mean absolutely no offense by that terminology—I proudly count myself among you—but I don’t know a better term—any suggestions?). Visualization is an important technique for those, like me, who want to co-create our destinies.  We visualize happiness, success, and, love, and then we execute.  It works. I know. It’s how I started writing this blog—my passion personified.

So, I have a pet peeve with those who talk about making memories.  Making memories presupposes a future where I’m sitting around thinking about my past. No, thanks. I’d rather make my destiny than make memories. But hey, live and let live, to each her own, different strokes for different folks. Vanilla dogs and all that. 

Excruciating Vulnerability

I’ve been previewing some of my blog posts with a few of my friends. It’s been an interesting experience in vulnerability, intimacy and pain.  When we put ourselves out there, we’re going to get hurt.  There’s no way around it.  The question is what are we going to do about it?  Retreat and lick our wounds and never try again, or tolerate the pain because it brings true rewards? My experience has reflected one of the themes in the Guild Hunter series by the inimitable Nalini Singh, Archangel’s Consort.  This book focuses on the Archangel Raphael and his now-consort, Elena, who was human (with a bit of a supernatural edge) but was made immortal through Raphael’s love. Great stuff. 

Because Elena is, for all intents and purposes, a baby immortal, she is still extremely vulnerable physically.  She needs time to grow in strength, and she needs to be kept safe while she does this. In her case, it’s not clear that she will be able to overcome her physical vulnerabilities and grow into her immortality in a safe environment.  That doesn’t means she won’t grow and progress.  Just that it will be a lot harder and hurt a lot more.

I can seriously relate to Elena’s situation (this has been true before—see my blog click here . Whenever we try something new, especially when we do it in front of a lot of people, the vulnerability is excruciating.  It can be almost too much to bear. I think that for many of us, it’s so uncomfortable, we rarely try.

Exposing ourselves is hard. When we are young, we are born open and trusting that the world will reciprocate our innocence.  I think we are born believing that everyone will be as guileless and delighted as we are.  Unfortunately, most of us quickly learn that the world is not as safe as we wish it to be, so we start to hide more and more of ourselves to avoid the pain of careless or deliberate assaults to the exposed parts.

If we are lucky enough to have loving and competent parents (the two don’t always go together and well-intentioned, but clueless parents can wreak havoc on a child’s developing psyche—just because we are doing our best does not mean we are doing it well), then our introduction to the casual cruelty of the world might be delayed.

But if our parents are malignant or inept, we might learn very early to build up our defenses against the pain that comes when we joyfully present ourselves to others, only to have said others respond badly. It hurts. It truly does.

So we become very adept at hiding the real parts of ourselves that we cannot risk exposing, because we believe we cannot survive the pain of being wounded there. But we’re not children anymore—small creatures with little ability to process that kind of pain. As adults, we are much more adept at using logic and reason to understand that feelings aren’t facts, and they won’t kill us.

Growth and evolution always involve pain.  Just ask Elena, who must spend months strengthening her new wings so that she will be able to fly.  Her work is physically painful and emotionally frightening because she knows her weakness means she is vulnerable to injury or death.  She is afraid for herself and for her consort, too, because his love for her represents a gaping hole in his defenses, the Achilles heel that could bring him down. Seems like a perfect metaphor for the rest of us.

When we grow and do new things, or take the first steps toward an intimacy that will create a gaping hole in our own defenses, it’s gonna hurt. And we’re going to be afraid. We will probably end up with bruises and maybe scars. But that’s not a reason not to do it.

Which leads me back to my blog, which feels like one great, big exposed nerve ending that I’ve presented to the world to nurture, ignore, or abuse as it sees fit. It’s especially painful when it comes from people I know and who I love and trust. I know they’re not trying to hurt me on purpose (it’s important to make that assumption—otherwise, it’s well past time to examine the viability of the relationship).

So, what to do? One option, of course, is to quit. Option two would be to ignore the pain and deny that it exists—until it comes out sideways, as it always will, and you end up having a fight about which movie to see and it ends up being the battle of the century and you have no idea why. Option three is the most difficult, and involves communicating the hurt to the other person—without making them wrong or defensive—and giving them an opportunity to apologize and make amends, and then moving on, even if we didn’t get exactly what we wanted from them.

This is all so difficult because we can’t get blood from a stone, and sometimes, we really, really need that blood.  But those we love can only give us what they have to give.  And because they are no more perfect than we are, sometimes it won’t be enough, or it won’t be the right thing.  And so we’ll hurt. But we will have grown, and so will the intimacy between us. Because we were willing to expose ourselves and tolerate the pain of the process.

Vulnerability is the potential for pain. But it is also the price of connection.  And connection is what feeds our souls.  So, I’m going to work to stay exposed.  No matter how much it hurts.  How about you?  Care to join me?

And It's No Sacrifice

Just a simple word, as Sir Elton so eloquently tells us. I've been inspired to think about the nature of sacrifice and what it means for us in modern society as I am reading Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter series. I've only just finished the first book in the series. There are a number of very interesting themes in the book that I anticipate Ms. Kenyon will continue to explore in later works (as an aside, I'm LOVING the new edition that has all the books in order all in one place-- what a fabulous idea--I'm hoping others will do the same!). Among these ideas is the concept of being loved for who we are, rather than what we represent or what we are (beautiful, famous, accomplished, rich, powerful, etc.). But that is a thought for another post. Stay tuned.

Back to sacrifice. And no, we're not talking about virgins to assuage an angry god. We're talking about the idea of being willing to give something up for a greater good. This can involve delayed gratification or complete denial of gratification to achieve a larger purpose.

I think a lot of us don’t want to confront the concept of sacrifice. We seem to be all about having our cake and eating it too. Which is an idea that is really more fantasy than reality.  In my beloved fantasy novels, however, the make-believe characters seem to grasp the reality of sacrifice a whole lot better than many of us here in the real world.

The concept of sacrifice entails forgoing something that we really want or love. Sacrifice connotes pain and loss. If you can take it or leave it and you give it up, that isn't a real sacrifice. In the dictionary, one definition of sacrifice means to give up something precious. I think that nails it. Another aspect of the definition involves a sacrifice that is offered to demonstrate loyalty and devotion to God. I'll just say this about that: the God I believe in does not require that kind of sacrifice. But let's not go too far down that rabbit hole.

Back to the idea of giving up something precious for a larger purpose. This is what both Julian and Grace are prepared to do for each other in the first Dark Hunter book, Fantasy Lover (we are going to need to have a serious discussion very soon about these ridiculous titles, by the way!). It's all very Gift of the Magi and quite romantic, of course. And because these are paranormal fantasy books not written by George R. R. Martin, everyone (except the bad guys) gets an HEA, so in the end, the sacrifice is not required.

But in reality, how often are we called to make a genuine sacrifice and if we are truly honest with ourselves, how willing would we be? I know this question smacks of "I'll cross that particular bridge when I get to it and because I most likely won't get to it, I won't worry about it," but I think it's actually an important question to ponder. What would we be willing to give up for love? Would we be willing to forgo a dream job because our love can't make the move? Would we be willing to give up a life of ease by marrying someone we know will never make a lot of money instead of waiting for a high earner? Would we be willing to forgo children that we thought we’d have/wanted because our love was either infertile or unwilling to be a parent? Would we be willing to live in a place we didn't like, or move around a lot if our love were in the military? Or live apart because of logistical reasons associated with professional realities? What are we willing to sacrifice for our children? These are situations that arise with some frequency.

And what happens after the sacrifice? Unfortunately, there are many instances of buyers' remorse when we decide in the moment to make a sacrifice and then come to regret it later. This is analogous to when kidnapping negotiators try to ensure that the ransom to return a kidnap victim doesn't bankrupt the family who wants to get its loved one back. If the ransom is too much, there are innumerable problems later when resentment sets in that the whole family had to sacrifice their lifestyle or retirement or schooling, etc., to save the life of one member, no matter how beloved.

When the consequences of a single sacrifice must be lived with day in and day out year after year--as they do when we decide to forgo children that we wanted to appease a partner who didn't, or retirement to support a struggling child, things can get tricky.  A sacrifice made in the name of love can morph into something quite the opposite of that. Resentment is a corrosively destructive emotion that can be the result of sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it is possible that a decision made for noble reasons that seem overwhelmingly positive in the moment may evolve into a very negative force in our lives. I've seen this a lot and it never fails to make me sad. I'm just not sure that most of us are built for sacrifice over the long term, but perhaps I am wrong.

In fantasy novels, it usually works out in the end. In life, that is not always the case. It is difficult to project into an indefinite future how we will feel about actions we take in the present moment. Sacrifices need to be thought through very carefully. Because the truth in this particular fantasy is that while characters in a book are often called on to demonstrate their willingness to make a sacrifice, they are not often called to actually go through with it. Something to think about as we decide whether to cross that particular bridge when we come to it.

On Being Human

In all of the paranormal fantasy I read, the existence of the supernatural serves as a foil to highlight what it means to be human. Currently, I’m reading Angel’s Blood in the Guild Hunter series by Nalini Singh. This is a particularly clever series with a very interesting world inhabited by angels, archangels, and vampires. Definitely different from many of the other series I’ve read. One of the best parts of this book is the description of the archangel Raphael, one of the major players in the series. To begin with, he’s inhumanly beautiful, of course. He’s also powerful and has a number of supernatural abilities, not the least of which is the gift of flight. He can also throw fireballs out of his hands. Not too shabby.   Oh, and he can shed angel dust that acts as an aphrodisiac. Orgasm on stick.

So, of course, he is wildly attractive to our heroine, Elena, who is a Vampire Hunter (in many of my favorite books, the female lead is a warrior, a strong and successful hunter, which is something I love and about which I will have a lot more to say in the future). But, Elena is quite hesitant to get involved with Rafael precisely because of his extraordinary attributes.   He is so clearly superhuman that it gives Elena pause.

The inter-species nature of this pairing certainly isn’t anything new in paranormal fiction. Often, when a supernatural being chooses to mate with a human, the human has a little something extra, like Sookie’s telepathy or Michaela’s fae- seeing ability in the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. In the book I’m now reading, Elena is ”Hunter-born,” with the ability to scent vampires, which comes in handy when hunting them. The message here is that it requires a little something-something to run with the big dogs, which is probably true in real life as well. 

Today, however, I’m interested in exploring the inhumanity of the archangels in the Guild Hunter series to see what it has to say about our own human condition. One of the effects of immortality, or near immortality (archangels can only be killed by other archangels), is that the older they get the less they can relate to what it’s like to be human or mortal. Apparently, being human is synonymous with caring, compassion, and empathy (I’m not sure about this, given the nightly news these days, but we’ll go with that premise, for now). Without exception, and in all of these fantasy books, inhumanity is equated with apathy, and it is almost always the price of immortality. Unless the supernatural beings can be saved by love– often the love of a human who shows them the path back from the brink—they are lost—monstrosities without conscience or sympathy.

In Angel’s Blood, Raphael asks himself, whether the humanity that Elena glimpses in him will be enough to save him. It’s an interesting concept isn’t it? It’s also a good question to ask ourselves: are we human enough to save ourselves? Have we nurtured that heart of connection and compassion that is the gift of our humanity? Or have we covered it up with anger and bitterness and a burning sense of the unfairness of the world? Humanity in this definition is the ability to think past ourselves. To put the needs of others ahead of our own.  To sacrifice our wants, desires, pleasure, and ease for a greater purpose. Because that is what immortals seem to lose over the course of their long lives: the ability to be unselfish, the concept that in selflessness we actually get more of what we really want and need in life.

Many of us forget this, myself included. For those of us who are partnered, we often begin the relationship with lots willingness to put our partner’s needs ahead of our own. We wake up first to bring our beloved coffee in bed; we remember to say thank you for the daily courtesies (which we actually practice); we are willing to engage in activities we otherwise wouldn’t, because our love enjoys them.

But then that changes over time, as if the passage of days dilutes our humanity, just like in my beloved books. The longer the relationship, the less inclined we are to be selfless and the more self-centered we become. We stop doing all of the little niceties in which we delighted during the courtship and honeymoon phases. We decide not to bother to make an extra stop after work to pick up our partner’s dry cleaning, reasoning that we’re tired and that they can do it themselves. We stop going to hockey games or romcom movies because, hey, we never liked them anyway. And in doing all this, we chip away at our humanity and give way to that which is less human, but nevertheless resides in all of us– our low selves, our animal natures, whatever we want to call it.

So, we must ask our own reflections, are we human enough to save ourselves from the fate of the immortals? Can we nurture our humanity and fan the flames of our passions? I don’t know, to be honest. It is so hard to keep humanity alive amidst the daily demands of the march of days. But we need to try. We need not to go gentle into that good night. We need to hold onto the parts that make us human. Which includes an inexorable drive towards death, reminding us that time is fleeting, and we may not have tomorrow. Now is the time to embrace our humanity and save ourselves.  Because none of us is going to live forever.  And who would want to act like we were, anyway?

See and Be Seen

One of the things I loved about Costa Rica was that it was definitely not the place to see and be seen. Women weren’t dressed to the nines and dripping with diamonds. The men didn’t feel compelled to hide their protruding bellies under bespoke suits. It was extremely refreshing to be in a luxury environment where everyone wasn’t trying to one up everyone else in terms of perfect highlights and the most noticeable designer labels—not that this is the only way to see and be seen, of course, but it’s certainly prominent almost everywhere you go.

My husband, Michael, gets mad at me for staring at high-end cars as they drive down the road—invariably by a middle-aged or older man who is usually bald. Michael tells me that I’m giving them exactly what they want with my attention, and that I shouldn’t reward such blatant efforts to be seen by looking. It’s an interesting idea. I have a very close friend who dated a guy with a Porsche 911 that had a license plate that said, “Not True.” Apparently he wasn’t lying, but you have to ask yourself why he felt compelled to tell everyone. But I digress. Again.

There are lots of ways we fulfill what appears to be a basic human desire to be seen, and to be recognized. I was talking to my boss, the high-level Defense Department guy, about some women we saw walking down the street in Las Vegas wearing not very much. He wondered why they dressed that way (apparently, he really didn’t understand—sigh).  I explained that I used to dress that way when I was younger because I wanted men to look at me (women too, but for different reasons). He seemed perplexed by that, probably because he’s never really seen that side of me. Many of us dress to impress—it’s the only reason for short skirts and sky-high pumps. Not to mention wife beaters.  On the other hand, as the great costume designer, Edith Head noted, if it’s not pretty, cover it up. Unfortunately, there are way too may folks out there who really don’t understand this concept. As Karen Marie Moning would say, muffin top and camel toe—Gah!! In addition to all the posturing we undertake to be noticed, there’s a whole range of sexually stimulating practices that progress from voyeurism to exhibitionism. These tendencies are explored by Gwenvael and Dagmar from G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin series. They both like to watch. And, it turns out, they both like the potential danger of discovery to add a dash of spice to already white-hot sex. The multimillion dollar porn industry is a testament to how deeply the voyeuristic current runs beneath our culture. Hey, our fascination Miley’s twerking ass is a monument to our willingness to watch, and enjoy—although sometimes we put a fig leaf of self-righteous anger over our enjoyment, lest anyone suspect the naked hunger with which we participate in these voyeuristic daydreams. And I’ll definitely cop to the other side of that coin and admit to engaging in a few public displays of affection, if you know what I mean. I’ll skip the specific longitude and latitude, in case anyone was inclined to show up and actually watch, but my husband and I have been known to frolic occasionally in some very public places. Except for the need for some uncomfortable contortions, it can be quite fun.

And all of this looking and being looked at (like switching the view on my iPhone camera) is all around us now. Instagram and Snapchat allow us to document our lives and watch the progression of those of our friends in living color. I’m not sure what it means that we have become both the subjects and the objects of our own voyeuristic exhibitionist fantasies--but I’m sure I’ll explore that in another post (kind of brings to mind the man from Nantucket—who needs anyone else?)

We cry out for attention—look at me, look at me--and then we act like the dog that caught the car and go into full on-retreat, because we don’t actually want anyone to see us. No way. Not if we’re going to bare ourselves completely. So, we want to see and be seen, but only the parts we’ve deemed acceptable for public viewing, as a friend of mine once described her new, surgically improved mid-section. So we go back to hiding our true selves and projecting only what we want people to see.

And that’s assuming anyone is even looking. Because what these new opportunities for exhibitionism are doing is significantly diluting the view. There’s so much to see these days that we are forced to go to extremes to get anyone’s attention. And I don’t care if no one ever pays attention to me again; I’m not wearing a dress made out of bacon.

All of this voyeurism and exhibitionism leads to thinking about the kinds of looks and lookers we’re attracting. When we resort to hyperbole to catch the light, it’s only the sparkle of a cubic zirconia. Not real.  Inauthentic. Not for me, thanks. I’m interested in the light that reflects off real diamonds—brilliant, white-hot, and mesmerizing. That’s how I want to see and be seen. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

The real me

I’m back from my vacation and attempting to “re-enter” my life.  Not an easy task, I’ll tell you that.  A lot of the usual work and chores seem harder because I only want to write my blog and read my books, dontcha know? But I did sneak in a few minutes of reading this morning- I’m back to (re)reading the Dragon Kin series and today I was struck by what happens when the persona we project isn’t actually the one we wanted out there representing us to the world.  Sometimes, as they say, no one can hear us over the noise of our actions. 

Have you ever had the experience where someone calls you on your stuff, and it doesn’t make you angry, but genuinely hurt?  What do you mean, I’m no fun? What do you mean I have no idea how to play? Are you saying I’m a stuffed shirt?! I’ve had this said to me on more than one occasion, and it stings.  Inside, I think of myself as a fun- loving, tripping-the-light-fantastic kind of girl.  I danced on the speakers of Studio 54, for the love of Pete (granted I was a mere babe at the time- literally and figuratively, so don’t spend too much time doing the math)!  I’m fun! I am.

But, it’s possible that not too many people these days (or even for more than the past few days, truth be told) really see that side of me anymore.  And, to answer the question definitively, if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, it doesn’t make any noise.

If all of my crazy fun-filled antics are taking place in the privacy of my mind or when I’m alone in my kitchen rocking out to loud eighties music, it doesn’t count.

Turns out, while I’m busy thinking of myself from the perspective of my rich inner life, everyone else is basing their perceptions of me from the view they get outside of my head.  Put another way, while I am busy defining myself by my thoughts, others are defining me by my deeds— and only the ones they know about.  As Joan Cusack says in the classic movie Working Girl, just because I like to sing in my underwear doesn’t make me Madonna.

In The Dragon Who Loved Me, Gwenvael the Handsome is so sad that no one can see the real him—the serious, dedicated soul who gets the job done.  Others only see his drinking and womanizing and therefore don’t take him seriously.  This wounds him.  But poor Gwenvael’s experience makes me think about my own.  Maybe I should pay attention to how others see me and ask myself if the view from outside of me might not be more accurate than the one from inside my head.

Maybe I could stand to rouse my inner disco queen again and spend some time dancing somewhere other than alone in my kitchen.  Maybe a little less work and a little more play will make Anne a less of a dull girl.  Maybe I need to lighten the hell up already. Intensity is highly overrated. 

Maybe “the real me” needs to be excavated a little and let out a bit.  Maybe I’m making a mess inside and nobody even bothered to put down pee-pee pads.

Maybe I need to think more about what I do and less about what I think.

I’ll let you know when I get home from the disco.

Warts and all

I’ve been reading the Dragon Kin series by G.A. Aiken. This is one of my favorites (there are quite a few—maybe 15 or so series make my top ten list—I never was much good at numbers). This is my second time through this series, and I’m only on Book 2 right now.  One of the fun things about reading these books for the second, third or even fourth times is that once I know how everything works out in terms of the plot, I can pay more attention to the deeper elements of the story: the characters, the themes of each book/series/author, etc. (and yes, I get that most of the time, the girl gets the boy or vice versa, the bad guy gets what’s coming to him and all the secondary characters fade cheerfully into the sunset or get set up as the protagonist of the next installment—unless you are George R.R. Martin, in which case all bets are off).

One recurring theme in these books of shape-shifting dragons (one of my absolute favorite kind of shapeshifters—but more about dragons in another post) is the idea that there is someone out there for everyone—no matter how seemingly unlovable, irritating or nasty they seem.

Have you ever known a couple who appear (at least to others), to work extremely well—meaning they seem content with each other and well-suited, but you think to yourself, I can’t believe he/she can stand him/her?  I’ve known couples like that where the guy is rude, crude and socially unacceptable, but the woman seems totally devoted, or vice versa. When that happens, I create all sorts of scenarios in my head where she had an abusive upbringing and is wildly insecure and was willing to settle for whomever she could get so that she wouldn’t have to be alone.  And yes, I have an overactive imagination, I know.  But back to Felix and Oscar (you remember The Odd Couple, or am I dating myself?  Look it up—hilarious stuff). In reading about Annwyl and Fearghus or Talaith and Briec (as an aside, do you ever wonder where these authors come up with the names they use?  I mean, how perfect is Voldemort or Khaleesi, which I now understand is a popular baby girl’s name in the US!  But I digress--again).

Anyway, these dragons-who-can-assume-human form and the women who love them turn out to be made for each other.  I mean, come on, Fearghus the Destroyer and Annwyl the Bloody?  You’ve got to love that.  And Talaith is a “harpy” according to the author, and Briec’s ego is so large his head barely fits through the door.  And they delight in calling each other “rude bitch” and “arrogant bastard” as terms of endearment.  I’m thinking that might not fly in my house.  How about yours?  But they adored each other in the book, and there are other couples like them in real life, so it must work for at least some folks.

Another of my favorite series, Thea Harrison’s Elder Races, has a later entry called Kinked, in which the two lovers’ romantic and sexual proclivities match extremely well (I’ll give you a minute to let your imaginations roam on the way in which a book called Kinked explicates complementary practices).  And then there is another, stand-alone book by one of my very favorite authors, Kresley Cole, called The Professional.  This book was published in three parts, which was a bit frustrating at the time, but ultimately satisfying, as it made the good parts easier to find on my Kindle (and, no, I’m not above re-reading certain scenes again and again like they’re Penthouse Forum stories—just sayin’).  In The Professional, the two main characters are literally made for each other (and we know this early on because they have the same kinds of “toys”)—and one of the reasons I love these kinds of books is the endlessly imaginative ways that the authors find to engineer the plot developments so that the story not only holds together, but the specific character traits of the protagonists actually contribute to the advancement of the plot.  Very clever stuff, that.

But back to the idea that there is someone for everyone. Not despite their personality peccadilloes, but because of them.  I have a strong personality, for example, and I need someone who not only appreciates that, but loves me because of it, all the while not letting me steamroll over their personality. I can be a bossy bitch, a demanding princess, and a very particular perfectionist, and my husband (usually) sees me as being a decisive woman who knows what I want and need (so that he doesn’t have to guess), who is also ambitious, and competent to do what needs to be done.  Someone else, not so much.  Which is why I’m married to my husband and not someone else. How about you?

I love the idea personified in so many of these books that we don’t have to be someone we’re not just to attract a mate.  And in fact, in being who we are, instead of who we think we should be, to ensure that we don’t die alone and childless (as one of my friends used to express her greatest fear) is a wonderful idea that too many of us don't actually believe.  We can attract the right mate—the one who sees the and all aspects of our characters and not just the warts, when we are our authentic selves, and not the person we think someone else might want.

Because in the right circumstances, stubbornness becomes perseverance and recklessness becomes courage—right?  But sometimes we all need help reframing our perceptions, even about ourselves—or especially about ourselves.  So, it’s OK to be who we are.  In fact, it’s better than OK.  Because no matter who we are, there will be those out there—be they friends or lovers—who love and appreciate all of us. Warts and all.

Anne and the no good, horrible, very bad day

Yesterday wasn’t a very good day. First, I was disappointed by some one’s greed, when I thought he was a lot more altruistic. Then, I had a series of meetings that made me feel like a total failure at work, capped off by a dinner during which my discomfort manifested itself as diarrhea of the mouth.  I was mortified. I’m thinking of moving to Australia.

So today I feel like I have an emotional hangover and I have close to zero desire to get out of bed and face my day. I’m feeling pretty certain it will suck as badly as yesterday, and probably my hair won’t cooperate, and I will have nothing to contribute to my work meetings, and I’ll get spinach in my teeth and no one will tell me for an hour. Yup, best to stay in bed and finish Archangel’s Kiss, by Nalini Singh. But wait, if I’m going to read I’m going to think. What would Elena do in my situation? Would she stay in bed and let her disappointment dictate her behavior? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure she wouldn’t. She would get up and charge into her day, not letting herself be distracted by the negative naysayers in her head. I really need to channel my inner Elena right about now.

It really is easy to get discouraged and throw in the towel. Some days, it seems so much more seductive to give up than to go on– even when the choice is less dramatic than life and death and just involves suiting up and showing up to the reality of our lives.

Right now, my brain is playing an endless loop of my pathetic performance at last night’s dinner. If I had put my foot in my mouth any more often, I would have died of starvation because I wouldn’t have had any room for the food they served– prepared by a private chef, no less. I felt outclassed and uncomfortable, and my go-to tic is to talk too much.

Again, I’m thinking of Elena, a newly-Made angel just joining an exclusive club whose members have been together for centuries.  Talk about feeling like a fish out of water. But that feeling doesn’t discount her own sense of self-worth– or at least not enough to back down from taking her place among them – no matter how out of place it feels.

That didn’t happen for me yesterday. I really felt out of step the entire day, and today that displacement is coloring my entire perspective. It’s both uncomfortable and unpleasant and I just want it all to go away. And, of course, it will. Probably quite soon. That’s what Elena and her determination and drive have to teach me. Even when we feel like frauds because we don’t feel like we deserve our space amidst the angels– or even among those two didn’t totally screw up yesterday– we can I feel like we’ve earned our position—just by continuing to show up even when we don’t want to. Elena keeps coming back for more, bruised and battered, maybe, but getting stronger for having taken the hits and not letting them keep her down.

Can I do the same? I’m not really feeling it right now, I’ve got to say. But I keep telling myself that feelings are not facts, and I can certainly fake it till I make it today. So what if I’m not feeling it? Does it really matter? Do I need to make that relevant in my decision to take action? No I don’t. Once again, as frequently seems to be the case for me, a little perspective—complements of my favorite fantasy novels—is in order. Yesterday is over and today is a new day. I made some mistakes and I endured some disappointments. Life will go on. I can get up and do what I need to do today. Because moving to Australia is probably going to involve too much paperwork.

Fantasy in Truth

It’s Sunday morning and I am home again after a truly glorious vacation in paradise.  And my first thought, I hate to admit, is that reality bites.  We arrived late, both my husband and one of my sons are feeling like they are getting the flu (although we’re all grateful that the symptoms manifested on the flight home instead of on the way there), and our three dogs woke me up at 6:30 AM as usual (yes, we could train them, but my whole family agrees that we don’t want to “break their spirits”- and yes, I am fully aware of how completely wrongheaded this attitude is, but there you have it).  It’s also cold, and after being warm for a week, the cold is a serious buzz kill. 

Ok, I think I’m done whining, at least for now, although I reserve the right to pick it up later if I want to.  Underneath all of the annoyances and inconveniences of my reality, as I finish yet another installment the Black Dagger Brotherhood, (I re-read Zsadits’s stories, Lover Awakened and Father Mine after finishing The King), it occurs to me that perhaps I need to turn my premise on its head.  This space is devoted to truth in fantasy, but I’m thinking I would be very well served to also look for fantasy in reality.  After all, these books are based on underlying truths, so my reality probably reflects elements of fantasy, right?

Zsadist’s story is full of drama and trauma, and much of it is is sad and disturbing.  Kind of like life, except the elements of this narrative are exaggerated both to entertain and to make a point.  Zsadist is perceived as ruined, not broken, the implication being that broken can sometimes be fixed, but ruined is destroyed forever.   I think that if you live for long enough, or even if you are young, there are moments (or maybe times measured in larger units) when each of us feels irreparably broken—ruined.  These moments of despair can be fleeting, or they might be lasting.  Hopefully, though, they are never permanent, although for some I know they are.

For me, and here’s where I can relate to Zsadist, a centuries-old warrior vampire who is illiterate and seriously psychologically and physically damaged, fighting back from that brink takes effort and courage.  And the person who wrote about Zsadist’s struggles, the brilliant J.R. Ward, understands that reality, which tells me I am not alone.

So, in truth, reality does sometimes bite badly.  But waking up early with no coffee and no warm tropical breezes does not constitute true suckage.  A little perspective, compliments of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, has certainly been welcome this first morning back from my vacation.  But I’m thinking that with a little more reflection, I can find some fantasy in my reality to add a chaser of real appreciation to my perspective.

Fantasy, in common understanding, is something that seems ideal and idealized, something that fires up the pleasure receptors in our brains, and often reflects an enhanced reality or sometimes a complete foray into the totally impossible but radically appealing.  So I have to ask myself as I survey my current situation—any of that going on here? And my answer must be a resounding, unequivocal, and undeniable “YES!”

Those dogs that woke me up at the crack of dawn? Nothing and no one’s gonna love you like your dogs- that unconditional devotion is something not even a mother (of the good variety- not like mine) can offer.  And the chill in the air? The better to snuggle under the covers with my (currently sick) husband, when I crawl back to bed after I’ve let the dogs out and fed them.  No coffee, no problem- good excuse to take the boys out for brunch this morning and have some extra family time.  Ideal? Idealized? You betcha.

So, it’s at least partially a matter of how you look at your reality.  Is life always going to be a bed of roses? No, it’s not.  Sometimes there’s almost no fantasy to be found unless we turn to the paper of our favorite fiction.  But sometimes that same book can be a beacon illuminating the larger truth in our own personal reality, highlighting the precious parts, the little glimmers of brilliance to be found within the daily grind.  Even if there’s no daily grind to be had in my morning coffee pot. 

Self, Multiplied

I’m sitting in an airplane flying to Costa Rica.  How cool is that?  And I’ve just finished reading the latest People and Us magazines. Highly redundant, I know, but I really enjoy getting both versions of truth/fantasy and reading all about the celebrities.  Why? I mean, I get the gossip and schadenfreude aspects, of course. I read earlier in The Week (my favorite news magazine) that there are some who believe that Gwyneth Paltrow is even using her “superior divorce” to lord it over mere mortals who have never heard of “conscious un-coupling.”  Really?!  Or really?  Can they do it without bitterness and acrimony?  What happens when one or the other decides to date or get serious about someone? How does this self-proclaimed lifestyle guru talk about the failure of her marriage as she touts the perfection of her existence and exhorts us to be just like her (by buying her stuff, of course)?

And here’s where we get back to my smut reading, per se (although I actually think that People and Us count as being in the same category—fantasy porn—only not as good as the fiction I read). For many of these celebrities (and who are we kidding—for ourselves too—Facebook whitewash anyone?) the image we project out into the world is really only one aspect of ourselves.  Yes, my family is traveling to exotic locales for Spring Break where we plan to have a series of awesome adventures (zip lining, riding ATVs, surfing for the first time, wildlife tours, sunset cruises).  All of that is true.  But it’s only part of the truth—the fantasy part—because we are totally blessed and living the dream—and who wouldn’t fantasize about that?

But it’s not the whole truth. In the complete version—not just the sizzle reel—our twin 14-year-old boys will bicker endlessly, I’ll scream at them, my husband and I will squabble over what to do for dinner or whose turn it is on the iPad (we only brought one), someone will inevitably get sunburned badly, someone will lose one of their electronic devices, and all of us will complain at one point or another about the food, the activities, each other, and. . .   you get the picture. The complete picture, not just the parts I want you to see.

So, that’s the reality. But it doesn’t discount the truth in the fantasy. The truth is still there.  Even if Gwyneth and Chris are getting divorced, they are still two talented artists and gifted individuals with a contribution to make to the world.  Just like me.  And you.

In fact, there is a standard section in Us magazine called, “Stars—They’re Just Like Us,” and it captures pictures of actors feeding the meter or balancing multiple Starbucks cups, or squeezing the produce.

Because that is another truth about fantasy—we all yearn to believe that underneath it all, we are all the same, and we are all connected in our humanity.  And we want to know that the spark of specialness resides in all of us, and maybe we can someday be rich, or famous, or loved or successful—just like them, because they are just like us.

We all want to know that the beautiful princess sometimes shape-shifts into a rumpled, puffy, stinky mess with dragon breath to boot—just like us.  That’s one of the reasons I brake for shapeshifters in my beloved smut.  Sure, they might be hunky heartthrobs who look like Joe Manganiello and Sam Trammell, but hey, when the moon is full, watch out, they turn into real animals—right down to the dog breath, and not just when they wake up in the morning.

The truth in shapeshifting fantasy romance is that we all have different aspects of ourselves—the ones we show to new romantic partners (before they see us without makeup or before we’ve shaved, or find out that our favorite nightgown would look right at home on Betty White, or that we sleep in ripped sweats), the ones we post on Facebook and Instagram, and then the other parts that might be a bit closer to our animal natures (like how we inhale our food when no one is looking, or sniff the armpits of a shirt we wore yesterday before we decide to throw it on to go somewhere where no one knows what we wore yesterday).

The most wonderful part of my favorite books is that all of these various aspects are integrated—like multiple personalities—and we get positive role models for our two-natured (or more) selves. And that, my friends, is worth the price of the paperback.  Accepting ourselves as being both/and instead of either/or is a blessing. Learning to hold multiple realities simultaneously is the work of a lifetime. As is understanding that the more negative or less attractive aspects of ourselves do nothing to discount the more positive and pretty parts we prefer to ponder (have I mentioned that I love alliteration?).  Reading fantasy helped me to make those connections, and that has been a gift that keeps on giving long after I put the books away and got back to “real life.”  Whatever that is. 

Find the beach, not the rocks

We’re going home today after an incredible week in a tropical paradise.  I hadn’t wanted to come on this trip, actually.  Costa Rica was on my husband’s bucket list, but Central America was pretty far down on my list of places to see before I die.  But, he’d been wanting to go for so long, and I didn’t have any good reasons to oppose him except that the rain forest sounded like a scary place and engaging in adventure activities in developing nations seemed about as smart and as safe as going on the rides at the local county fair.  But he promised me a nice place to stay on the beach with a pool and someone to serve me cocktails with umbrellas and at that point I couldn’t say no. 

Turns out that my preconceptions are entirely unfounded (not an infrequent occurrence, a fact you’d think might register with my gray matter, but not so much).  Costa Rica is a magical place (and we all know how much I love magic).  It is spectacularly beautiful and completely unpretentious, even at a high-end resort.  The people we met were very open and friendly, and everyone seemed to be content with life, generally speaking.  I had looked up the weather before we arrived and was nervous about what appeared to be extreme heat, but turned out to be a non-problem with the ocean breeze and a perfect level of humidity--and I was warm for the first time since November, which was such a gift.

But all that will be over in a few hours, as we finish packing and head inexorably back to our real lives, something I find I’m not that excited to do, which is unusual.  I’m almost always itching to get back to work and friends and hustle and bustle and the happy busyness of my life in Maryland.  Not to mention our doggies, whom we haven’t seen for a week.  But this time, I’m in no hurry and would stay, at least a little longer, if I could.  I have been so relaxed here, and sleeping well and feeling so productive, all at the same time.  It’s been like a fantasy.

So my question is, what does this fantasy have to tell me about my reality that I need to know?  First off, and something I’ve known for quite a while—I’ve got to get out of the cold.  I hate east coast winters, but summers in the swamp aren’t a whole lot better, with humidity you can cut with a knife that coats your skin like nasty sunscreen.  So, I need to make a plan to move.  Check—we’ve got that going on, although not until our kids graduate from high school.  Second, my week in paradise has taught me the value of quiet space to think and to write—apparently, I have a lot to say—and taking the time and effort to excavate all of this from my psyche has been exceptionally worthwhile.  I hadn’t really stopped long enough to make the space to let myself—my true self—flow in, like the tide.

What I have learned from watching my view out the window here in Costa Rica is that the water comes toward the shore, no matter what.  As the saying goes, time and tide wait for no one.  This is certainly true.  But, in different places, the shore has different characteristics.  In front of where we’re staying, the beach is sandy, with a gentle slope towards the water.  A little further down the shore, however, there is a large outcropping of rocks that the waves hit with a certain level of force and crash over and around.

Kind of like how my authentic self has been trying to get some bandwidth in my mind so that I can be aware of who I really am and what I really want.  Up until fairly recently, the huge waves of my true self have been repeatedly been hitting the rocks of the persona I’ve created because I thought I was supposed to or because I didn’t have enough self-esteem/respect/confidence to do things differently.  These elements of my persona, the face I created to show the world (and myself) how fabulous, smart, and together I was, were so many rocks on the shore of my inner reality- blocking important elements of my authentic self from having access to the soft, sandy beach (I’m really not sure this metaphor is working, so just go with me on this one, will you?)

Turns out, I like to have a bit of time to sit and read and write.  I prefer, at least more than I thought I did, to be casual and un-made-up rather than wearing my power wardrobe every day.  I prefer walking on the beach to using an elliptical.  Turns out I’m a lot more of a human being instead of a human doing than I thought I was.  Revelation.

And, most importantly, at least for this little space and my current activity, I’ve had some time to interpret and process the idea that I can build an identity on my previously hidden and guilty pleasure—reading smut.  And how cool is that?  I’ve been practicing telling people (who I’ll likely never see again, granted) that I write a blog on finding authenticity in vampire porn.  And yes, they look at me a little funny, but I’m okay with that.

Because, for once, they are looking at me—revealed in a very visceral way, not the me I usually choose to show everyone except those few who are part of my very limited circle (all of whom look at me funny pretty much all the time).

So, I’m finding truth in fantasy all over the place, not to mention all over the world.  I‘ve learned it is everywhere, and I plan to keep searching and sharing.  I truly hope you’ll come along for the ride.  

Endings and transitions

Endings are difficult.  And sad. And anxiety-producing.  When something ends, it means change.  Today is our last real day of vacation- we are going home tomorrow and leaving this tropical paradise behind.  Cue the depressing music.  But even more tragic is the fact that I finished the latest entry in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series by JR Ward, The King.  And I am truly bereft.

These days, I do all of my reading on my Kindle, which has got to be the greatest invention since paranormal romance novels.  Put the two together and I can have hundreds or even thousands of books at my fingertips at any given time.  And while it took a bit of time to get used to reading on an e-reader as opposed to feeling, seeing, and smelling the pages of hardcopy books in my hands, it has been totally worth it.  For one, it really is less expensive, especially if you read a lot.  Secondly, an e-reader seriously cuts down on clutter around the house from having all the books piling up around you.  Yes, one can certainly borrow books from the library or do a book exchange or purchase used books or giveaway your books.  I know. But I’m a little weird, and I have a little problem with a book-buying addiction.  I like to own my books. I like to know they’re there somewhere should I ever want to re-read or reference them (something I have never actually done until I started thinking about writing this blog).  Interestingly, with absolutely everything else, I am a big time tosser.  I recycle everything.  I’m a believer that if I haven’t used it or accessed it within the past year, I am morally bound to pass it along to someone who might get some use out of it.  In fact, I’m fairly obsessive about this rule.

Except when it comes to books. And then I’m obsessive in the opposite direction.  I’ve got books from grade school, high school, college, and various stints in graduate school.  You can trace my whole life’s history by taking a tour through my book collection. 

So the move to an e-reader was a very conscious decision for me. It was mostly prompted by the reality that I was traveling to Europe a fair amount for my job at the time, and bringing three or six paperbacks per trip was taking up too much space in my luggage and adding too much weight once the 50lb rule started to be enforced.  And God help me if one of them was a hardcover.  That was just not good.  On top of that, there was the not inconsequential issue of having my boss, the 3-star general equivalent with whom I was traveling- who is a very proper gentleman- reading the back of my Meredith Gentry novel by Laurell K. Hamilton about how Merry needed to produce an heir to the throne and that therefore she needed to have sex with her cadre of bodyguards.  As in plural.  I very clearly remember my boss asking me very pointedly, “Multiple bodyguards?” and then trying to scan the page I was reading.  Which, of course, included a very graphic sex scene (with Laurell K. Hamilton, I do mean graphic- and awesome, I might add).  I was fairly well mortified and if I could have walked away, I would have.  Except that we were on an airplane at 35,000 feet and there was really nowhere to go.

But back to endings and transitions.  The point I was trying to get to about the Kindle, although I’ve certainly taken a circuitous route, is that there is a cool feature of the Kindle that measures your reading speed and estimates the time remaining in the book.  It’s kind of a countdown to doom, as I know exactly how long I have until I won’t have any more of my story left to read.  It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, however, as it also tells me how long I have until I can find out how all the plot twists are resolved, which has a sort of calming effect on me when I’m feeling out of control (more on that aspect of storytelling as an anti-anxiety remedy in another post).

So, last night I was reading in bed before I went to sleep, and I knew that I only had 30 minutes left till the end of the book (and the end of the series at this point until JR Ward writes another installment).  Then comes the calculation on whether to finish before sleep or upon waking, but it really wasn’t much of a contest.  There was a lot of action toward the end, and I really couldn’t wait.  And it was good.  And I went to sleep thinking about Wrath and Beth and the brothers and wishing JR Ward would hurry the hell up! Unreasonable, I know, as she is fairly prolific and relatively quick.

But it is a petite morte (coincidentally, just like an orgasm) when a book ends and I need to say goodbye, at least for now, to make believe people who have become very important to me.  And as I contemplate The King and mine the story for the lessons it has to teach me, I am forever grateful that these books exist to entertain, inspire, instruct, and comfort me.  And I know that with books, as with life, when one door closes, another opens somewhere.  There are new books to read, new adventures to be had, new challenges to face.  And endings are required for beginnings.  As I read in a Cosmo article once, the girl who suffers from a breakup today is free to fall in love again tomorrow.  And new love is a wonderful feeling.  So, I’ll be sad today and look forward to becoming totally involved in another story tomorrow.  That works for me. 

The Wanted

“Glad You Came” by The Wanted is one of my favorite songs.  I love the clever lyrics of the refrain where the last word of the previous line becomes the first word of the next line.  It also has a compelling rhythm to it that pounds out in a very demanding way.  The whole thing kind of reminds me of sex where one thing leads inexorably, but a bit unexpectedly, to another—all accompanied by a strong and steady beat.  All good here.

 I was reminded of the name of the group as I read The King by J.R. Ward.  One of the elements in her world building is the idea of the bonded male (world building is an important element of fantasy writing where the lay of the land is explicated and the laws are set out- and it’s really important for an author to be consistent- so that there are no incongruous deus ex machina moments—like when Batman is always able to pull exactly the right tool or device out of his utility belt to solve the problem of the hour—that always annoyed me), because nothing will cause a fan backlash faster than when a writer colors outside of the lines with respect to the rules he or she has developed.  So, for example, it would be the height of illegitimacy for one of J.R. Ward’s vampires to be able to go out during the day (unless they are half human) or for Sookie Stackhouse, who reads minds, to suddenly become telekinetic when that was not one of her stated abilities.  Being consistent in world building is important for verisimilitude—which is a critical characteristic of good fantasy, ironically.  But I’ve digressed quite a bit.

Back to “The Wanted” and how it relates to The Black Dagger Brotherhood series.  As part of the internal rules, each vampire male bonds with a specific female who becomes his mate.  And when a male becomes bonded, it’s for life.  And while it doesn’t seem to work quite that way for females, it always seems to work out such that the bonded male woos and wins the female he desires, and she, in turn, becomes totally devoted to him.

I think Stephanie Meyers in the Twilight series said it best: when a male is totally focused on a female, when he loves her beyond reason and would do anything to see her happy and content and always puts her needs before his own, why wouldn’t she respond with reciprocal feelings?  Well, there’s the stalker angle, where that kind of devotion could be a little creepy, depending on who the guy was.  But, in these books the guy is always super-hot, smart, competent, and successful.  So what’s not to love? It’s a dream come true, at least for most women, I would guess (but let me know your thoughts on that, for sure).

And there’s the rub: it’s all a dream—just a fantasy.  But, as this is a space devoted to finding truth in fiction, let’s delve a littler deeper to find out what this trope actually means and why it’s repeated so often (Kresley Cole’s Immortal After Dark series, Thea Harrison’s Elder Races series, and G.A. Aiken’s Dragon Kin series, to name just a few, all contain variations on the theme of the bonded or mated male and his singular female).

Because in truth, don’t we all want to be wanted with that kind of intensity? I know I do.  And I figure I’m not terminally unique, more’s the pity, so I must have a lot of company at this particular party.  Being wanted is heady stuff. Being wanted elevates us, makes us feel desirable and enhanced (unless we pull a Woody Allen and decide we’d never want to join a club that would accept us as members- but that is a different problem altogether and a subject for another post).  Don’t we all dream of being pursued- with intent and persistence?  Of being chosen over all others and recognized as being special—at least to one among our species (it’s not quite the same to generate such dedication from our dog).  Doesn’t it play right into our deepest desires to be singled out with laser-like focus as the object of someone’s undying love? Wouldn’t such an event validate us in a way that we long to experience? I will only speak for myself here, but my answer is a resounding “Hell yes! Where do I sign up for that?!”

To be so decisively, definitively, demonstrably loved and wanted, that is the ideal, and that’s what these books are reflecting—our deepest desire to belong, to be a part of something bigger than ourselves—to be half of a consuming love for the ages.

And, I believe some of us do get that, but they are the lucky few, and it’s not clear to me that these chosen few share any particular characteristics or physical traits; I’ve met some really physically unattractive women whose husbands are utterly and completely besotted with them, so it’s not about external beauty, for sure, and I’ve met some men who seem like total jerks, and their wives kiss the ground they walk on, so it’s not a personality contest, either.

But mostly, the ideal is a fantasy—a perfection toward which we strive while recognizing the simple underlying truth that we all just want you to want me, like the old Cheap Trick song says.  And even if it’s not perfect, it’s still deeply satisfying when we feel way, even just a little.  And the ideal, as represented in these awesome reads, reminds us that because this is our world, and we get to do at least some of the world building, the need to be the wanted is as compelling for men as it is for women, and women would do well to remember the Golden Rule in these situations. When we offer the status of the wanted to another, it’s a good bet that those feelings will be reciprocated, just like Stephanie Meyers says.  Score another for truth in fantasy!  

What scares the monsters?

What does it mean to be brave?  What does courage look like? One way to explore these questions is to look at what scares the monsters in our fantasy novels.  When you are a six-and-a half-foot, 270-pound vampire/ dragon-in-human-form/werewolf/or powerful mage (they all seem to be physically large, have you noticed?) is there really anything that scares you?  Apparently, yes.  Even though that which scares the monsters may not be what scares you and me. But it’s worth looking at to see what inhabits their nightmares to understand how it might illuminate our own.

One of the things I’ve learned from my books is that scary things, like preferences, are extremely personal and particular. Some people prefer dogs to cats and vanilla to chocolate. Some like beef, while others like chicken. Standard stuff, for sure. But what about our fears? One of my close friends becomes paralyzed at the idea of public speaking, while for me it is something I look forward to. I woke up once and the space heater in my room was on fire, the smoke so thick, I actually couldn’t really see the fire. I very calmly threw a blanket on it, picked it up and dropped it in a tiled shower, turned on the water, put out the fire, opened the bedroom window and went back to sleep. No problem. But when my husband I and I took out a sea kayak yesterday on completely calm waters, I panicked as soon as we got twenty feet beyond the surf and insisted we go back.  I’m afraid of water, but not fire. For someone else, it might be the opposite.

Seems there is no accounting for tastes or fears.  And it doesn’t seem like we have much say in how it’s all going to go down.  I’m currently reading the latest in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series (BDB, for those in the know) by J.R. Ward. This one is focused mainly on Wrath, son of Wrath, the king of the vampires, and definitely one badass dude.  Turns out Wrath can throw a billiard table across the room, but the idea of anything happening to his wife turns his bowels watery (one thing I like about the BDB books is that its characters use the potty—and believe it or not, that is always one of my metrics for relatability, which is an element that makes a good book great, and the BDB books consistently make the top ten paranormal series on all the lists I’ve seen, including mine).

Back to Wrath’s fears.  He is afraid of his inability/incompetence when it comes to navigating emotional depths with both his wife and his brothers in arms, the other massive, powerful, scary males who constitute the Black Dagger Brotherhood.  When you are good at kicking ass and taking names, the touchy-feely stuff is scary as hell. That’s probably true for most men, even if they don’t fight bad guys for a living or keep the world safe from the real monsters.

Another one of my favorite characters is Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter, created by Laurel K. Hamilton. Anita is an extraordinarily complex character, and I’ll be talking about her in great detail in other posts, but for today, I want to focus on a recurring theme in her books.  For Anita, killing monsters and saving the world is part of her daily grind and all of that doesn’t really phase her (although she does worry quite a bit about straddling the line past which hunting and killing the monsters makes you one of them, another interesting thought for later posts). What really gets Anita’s adrenaline pumping, though, is dealing with others’ emotional pain—bearing witness to it and attempting to help those in pain by simply sharing space with them.

Anita might come back from an incredibly difficult night of fighting crime and confronting truly frightening creatures (can you say “Mother of All Darkness”? Makes your blood run cold), and then get all foot-dragging and hesitant about visiting a friend and his family in a hospital room in order to offer support and comfort.

For me, all of this highlights the fact that I spend a lot of time in denial, thinking I am actually being brave. I’m the kind of person who never avoids a confrontation when it’s necessary.  I don’t seek them out (contrary to popular belief), but I don’t fear them, either. I’m willing to say the hard things to people—the stuff that is difficult to say and harder to hear—like “we don’t want you on our team anymore, we have to let you go.”  Or, “We’re sorry, but we just don’t have a spot for you with us.  You aren’t really what we are looking for.”  Or, “I know you wrote this and you think it’s really good, but, unfortunately, it’s really not, and it’s better you hear it from me than from someone else.”  I’m also the one who will always tell you (even if you’re a complete stranger) that you have lipstick on your teeth or if your fly is open.

Because of this, a lot of people think I’m brave. And sometimes, so do I.  But true bravery, as Wrath and Anita show us, is when we do the things that are actually hard for us, not for someone else. It’s not a big deal for me to say the hard thing to someone, but boy, do I hate being on the receiving end of that dialogue.  Doing the hard thing for me, being brave, is accepting criticism or rejection with grace and dignity and trying to learn something about myself from the experience, rather than blowing off the message by discounting the messenger, as I am wont to do (well, she’s a total bitch anyway, so why should I care what she says?.  Oh, my husband is being a jerk, so I won’t process the underlying truth he’s trying to communicate to me but that I don’t want to hear).

See—denial—it’s not just a river in Egypt (I know, I know, that is so old and so clichéd, but I never get tired of it). And Wrath and Anita, in working through their own difficulties, help me get a better picture of my own.  It’s like being able to see something in your peripheral vision that disappears when you look at it directly.

The other awesome thing about all of this self-reflection through reading fantasy is that it’s cheaper than therapy and you can progress at your own pace.  Because sometimes facing your own shit is the hardest thing you’ll do today, and maybe it’s even OK to wait and be brave tomorrow. Me and Scarlett. 

Recognizing Destiny

It occurred to me this morning while overlooking the beach from my villa in Costa Rica—and how awesome is that, the truth in my fantasy of world travel—that sometimes, or even often or most of the time, I don’t recognize something important—like a legitimate interest or a passion or a life direction—because it didn’t look like I expected.

The way this blog started was that I had recently decided that despite my abiding passion for my beloved fantasy novels, I needed to stop reading them—give them up—because they were distracting me from discovering my true life’s purpose/the right direction in which to travel/getting on with my “real” work to improve the world and leave my mark upon it, etc., etc., etc.

I had remembered that when I was in graduate school at the aforementioned Ivy League University, I only allowed myself to read magazines during the school semester.  I saved all of my novels for breaks because there was so much work I had to do for school—hundreds of pages a week—and it was just too hard to put down a novel (assuming it was good) and do the work I was supposed to do. I would either fall behind in my schoolwork or fall behind in my sleep from staying up too late reading fiction.  Either way, I was behind in something vital, leaving me scrambling to catch up, which sucked.

Therefore, as virtuously, and sanctimoniously as only an Ivy League student can, I sacrificed my beloved books on the altar of scholastic achievement.  This was a lesson I remembered recently as I noticed that I was spending quite a bit of time reading smut as opposed to living my life. And I was forced to ask myself, why am I spending so much time escaping my reality, if, in fact, that was what I was doing?

My reality is pretty sweet. I have a husband who loves me completely and who is my best friend and extremely compatible life partner. We have two exceptional 14-year-old twin boys who are healthy and happy. We have considerable abundance in our lives to the point where we rarely have to make significant financial trade-offs.  I am finally healthy after years of debilitating and depressing illness, and I do work that changes people’s lives for the better and makes a significant contribution to national security.  This is really not to brag, but rather to acknowledge my many blessings and to own my gifts and talents (more about that process in another post).

So, why was I spending so much time escaping a reality that would constitute so many others’ fantasies? My first thought was that this was my addictive nature rearing its ugly head (I consider myself a food addict after almost two decades of suffering with an extreme eating disorder, which is currently quiet, thankfully). In my view, once an addict, always an addict, and what is addiction, really, except escape from reality, as the Queen song says (and I’m guessing those boys knew a thing or two about addiction)?

Anyway, back to my efforts to classify my reading hobby as a destructive habit that needed to be overcome. I was influenced in this thought by Julia Cameron, the author of The Artist’s Way (one of my favorite books of all time, and one I highly commend to anyone who feels stuck or unfulfilled).  She recommends, among many other things, that we take a week off reading and watching TV, just to see what comes up.   I had gone through the entire Artist’s Way process some time ago, but had decided to skip that part—not because I didn’t think it had value, but because I absolutely dreaded giving up my books.

I clearly needed to pay attention to that dread.  It was pointing to an important truth, although it wasn’t the truth I thought it was. I had a work trip coming up to Las Vegas (yes, I know, rough life when my work travel takes me to Sin City).  I knew that usually I didn’t have a lot of down time in Vegas, given my work schedule, so I thought it would be a good time to abstain.  Instead of reading smut, I decided to spend my time journaling and doing the exercises in my newest favorite motivational workbook, The Fire Starter Sessions (which I highly, highly recommend, by the way). Danielle Laporte, the genius author of the book, asks, what would your life be like if you only did what was easy?  Very interesting question. She also asks what we think about all the time and what we could stay up all night talking about.

And do you know what came to mind when contemplating those questions (I’m guessing you may have a fairly good idea by this point, am I right?)? What came to me is that I am passionate about my smut—but not because I use it to escape my reality (OK—not only because it sometimes serves as a release from the stresses of daily life), but because these books make me think—they make me ponder, they inspire me to see the world and specific situations with new eyes.  These fantasies expand my perceptions of reality and open my mind and my heart (and occasionally even my body) to new possibilities. And that is the opposite of escapism—it’s embracing reality, diving in headfirst, learning, exploring, understanding, growing, and progressing.

These books excite my enthusiasm and my passion. They motivate and stimulate. They are an integral part of my destiny—but because my destiny didn’t look like I expected, I didn’t recognize it. So you’ve gotta ask yourself, what else doesn’t look like you expected?  A soul mate, who may be blond when you always go for dark hair? The greatness of your kids, because they never voluntarily pick up a book and reading is your passion (guilty as charged here!)? Your dream job, because how can managing an office be anyone’s dream-come-true?

I’m sure there are lots of examples of failure to recognize something important because it didn’t look like we thought it should. Maybe our fantasies can help illuminate our true reality, not just the ones we think we should want. Maybe Billy Joel was right all along, and sometimes a fantasy is all you need.

Lives of the saints (and sinners)

Have you ever heard the word “hagiography”?  As I understand, it is the Christian concept of reading or telling the story of saints or holy men and women—describing their lives and activities and the ways in which they answer the call of their God to go beyond themselves to serve a greater purpose. The idea is that if we hear or read about these extraordinary people, we will be inspired to behave in a similar manner.  We become elevated by their example.

We do exactly the same thing in secular culture.  We read the biographies of great men and women, as told by others, and we read their autobiographies and memoirs with even more enthusiasm.  We somehow think that if we can do like they did or say what they said, we’ll be more like they are.  And I think this is fundamentally true.

However, I vastly prefer to take as my examples the heroes and heroines of my fantasy smut novels.  For one thing, their sex lives are way better, and they are willing to tell me all about it, which is just awesome.  Secondly, for some reason which I’m sure I’ll get around to exploring one of these days, I’m a lot more interested in make believe people than in the real deal.  I’m sure there’s a deep psychological explanation for this, but we’ll let that go for now.

In the event, I think it’s a much more Herculean feat to walk away from Vampire Bill if you’re Sookie Stackhouse than it would have been—and was—to tell some badboy treating me poorly to go pound sand. In the past, I was fairly inclined to accept bad behavior because I was afraid no one would want me or have me, or some such insecure drivel that seemed critical al the time.

But Sookie, of True Blood fame, one of the greatest protagonists ever created by the tremendously talented Charlaine Harris, Sookie, who’d been a virgin before her vampire lover, was able to walk away.  Even though, as a vampire, Bill was sexually tireless, endlessly creative and had a bite that could send women over the cliff of a world-stopping orgasm.  Even though she wasn’t certain she’d ever have another lover whose mind she couldn’t read (it’s a real mood killer, Sookie explains, to stay in the sexual moment when your partner is thinking that your rear end is a tad too big for his taste—totally!). When you look at it like that, my own fears and insecurities pale by comparison and her strength of character, her integrity and the power of her will are truly inspiring.

I’d be lying if I told you that I never thought about Sookie doing the hard thing and walking away from Bill after she decides she needs some time to figure out whether the relationship is good for her or just intensely pleasurable (and no, I’ve learned, those aren’t the same things). Wouldn’t we all have done well at certain points in our lives to have asked ourselves the same question, and, more importantly, acted on it?

I also think about Sookie breaking her blood bond to the white-hot Viking vampire, Eric (and doesn’t that description just do it for you?!) because she wants to make sure her feelings are real and her own, rather than being magically altered or enhanced.  In truth, I must admit that I questioned Sookie’s sanity just a bit with that one—after all, who really cares whether you get butterflies in your stomach and damp down below when confronted by a blond Adonis who claims to love you because he put a spell on you?  At first glance, not me, I can tell you that much.  But I like Sookie and I admire her, so her actions made me think—maybe her decision to cut the blood bond makes sense if living in reality rather than fantasy is the goal.

And isn’t that interesting--a fictional character whose premium on authenticity makes me question my own blithe discounting of the same. Maybe I have something to learn from Ms. Stackhouse after all—someone who is not real—about that which is real and a better way of negotiating it.

The bottom line here is that reading about Sookie’s life and getting into her head through a first-person narrative, makes me want to be a better person who makes superior decisions and behaves with integrity.

Kind of like the concept of I started with—hagiography. But instead of reading about the saints, I get to read about the sinners. Way more fun, if you ask me.