Worth Fighting For

I just finished Jill Myles' Mirrorlight, a short story about time travel and uncontrollable lust. Gotta love it. And I love Ms. Myles, aka Jessica Sims, aka Jessica Clare. Talented lady and clearly a little schizophrenic. But I like that in an author. Never gets stale or boring when you get to read completely different kinds of stories with different characters. And sometimes I really like a good short story. Not too much commitment involved and anthologies are a wonderful way to meet and audition new authors. Or spend time with those I know I already enjoy. Like Ms. Clare/Sims/Myles. But, this is not the subject at hand. I know, you are shocked. Today I'm pondering a question raised by Ms. Myles' story, namely, what do we care enough to fight for?

As always, I will speak for myself and hope that you all will tell me how you feel about all this when you read this post. But as the heroine in Mirrorlight was being berated for her apathy and the lack of objection with which she faced the loss of her job and her fiancé when the going got just a smidge tough, I had to ask myself, what was I willing to go to any length to have or to keep?  And what does that even mean, anyway?

As a parent, I know I am willing to fight for my kids. Usually, though, that doesn't mean anything more strenuous than meeting with a teacher or another parent to defend one of my sons against an unjust accusation or unfair treatment. Recently, I got into it with my neighbor who claimed my kid had done something bad to his kid. But I'm not sure this counted as fighting for something.

Now, it is true that nothing I've ever let go of didn't have claw marks on it. I'm actually not so great at the whole letting go thing. I didn't even break up with my former fiancé until more than a year after we had "postponed" our wedding. And I've stayed in jobs way past the expiration date more times than I care to remember.

But it's not clear to me that any of that counts as fighting for something I felt passionately about. I think all of those instances were more about inertia and fear of moving on and doing something new. And why am I having such a hard time answering this question?

What do we fight for? Well, in the literal sense, as a society, we fight our enemies, terrorists, criminals, drugs, poverty and probably other things we are supposedly at war with. War requires fighting. And presumably, as a society, we believe that we need to fight these things. And for those in the armed forces, or law enforcement, or economic development or counterterrorism, there are front lines that are dangerous and that embody fighting in its most concrete form.

But what about the rest of us?  Do we fight for anything?  Does anything stir our passion?  Sadly, and maybe I'm just being very short sighted, but the only things I can think of that seem to stir up passion these days is hate. As a society, we seem to be passionate about hating the other, however the other, those who are not like us, is defined.

I don't think hate is what Ms. Myles had in mind with her question. I think she was asking us about our motivation to passion not based in hate or fear, but rather love and compassion and connection. What are we willing to fight for in that arena?

I was a bit saddened recently when one of my sons decided he wanted to ask a girl to homecoming.  Which was great. But he wasn't willing to ask her until he had received some assurances that she was going to say yes. He really wanted to go with her, but wasn't willing to fight for her, which in this particular instance could be defined as being willing to risk rejection. He wanted more of a sure thing. The equivalent of a fixed fight, where the outcome is assured ahead of time. I tried to dissuade him from his chosen path, but he was having none of it.

Aversion to risk does not equate to fighting for something we really want. To fight implies the possibility of loss, of failure. Which is why the choice to fight is so hard. None of us likes to risk failure. God only knows what might happen if we fail. So we don't fight. We throw in the towel before the referee has even blown the whistle. We walk away from the fray. If we don't fight, we can't lose. 

Except it doesn't work like that. Not really. If we don't fight, we lose for sure. With the only consolation being that we can tell ourselves that we might have won if we'd wanted to. We could have triumphed if we'd decided to engage. But we didn't. So we can tell ourselves the loss didn't count and protect our fragile egos from the reality of our cowardice. Unlike Ms. Myles' character in Mirrorlight, most of us don't have a fairy godmother hanging around offering to provide courage. Most of us rely on the liquid variety instead, which only serves to obscure reality and steal time away from us so that we don't pay attention to the losses.

So, I will continue to think about what I'm willing to fight for, and what that battle might look like in my current life. Because I'll be damned if I'm willing to give up on something important because I'm afraid my ego will take a little beating. I think I'm more afraid of surrender than of fighting.  But that is another post entirely, isn't it? So stay tuned. And until then, maybe we can let Ms. Myles play the role of fairy godmother for just a few minutes and encourage all of us to fight for what we want. Who knows, we might get it. And isn't that better than telling ourselves that we could have been a contender?  

Not All Who Wander Are Lost

When I was young, I was fairly lost.  I was lost in the sense that I didn’t really know who I was or what I liked or even what I cared about.  I was lost insofar as I had no real ability to stand up for myself except with friends who were even more lost than I was, and those relationships look fairly abusive and manipulative in hindsight.  Not pretty.  In my defense, no one ever told me how to find myself, nor was that an activity encouraged by my highly controlling mother.

But there are degrees of lost, and in retrospect, the place where I lost myself the most completely was in my romantic relationships.  Seemed like I couldn’t wait to hand over my personality and all of my free will to the man of the hour who I made my Svengali as I happily assumed the role of Galatea.  The theme of the dominant alpha male is one I continue to reexamine.  It intrigues me.  One question that I ponder with regularly is how to maintain my own identity in the context of a relationship in which I feel inferior in some way.  This is one of my favorite themes in paranormal fantasy, where the alpha males are often exaggerated and the women who love them need to figure out how to keep from being sucked into that event horizon.

Three of my very favorite books/series explore this theme with mastery (there are many others as well), but the ones that come immediately to mind are Thea Harrison’s Dragon Bound (Dragos and Pia), Nalini Singh’s Angel’s Blood (Raphael and Elena) and the Fever Books by Karen Marie Moning (Barrons And Mac).  I love, love, love these books, and I think the main reason is because these women succeed beautifully in maintaining themselves in relationships with men (beings, really- none of them are actually men) who are much, much older, more powerful and very used to the world accommodating itself to their desires and needs.  In each case, part of the attraction for the male is that their chosen woman does not back down in the face of their displeasure or even wrath.   And it takes some huge, brass, hairy stones to do that.  The fact that this sort of courage and intelligence comes in a beautiful, feminine package is a revelation for each of these males.

So let’s explore that “reality” further: that which attracts these males who exist at the very top of the food chain is that these women are most definitely not falling over themselves to people please or to give the big man everything he demands.  They have the intestinal fortitude to be who they are and stand their ground without succumbing to the pressure of acquiescing to everything their stranger, more powerful partner wants.

I absolutely love reading about women who embrace these relationships and then go on to thrive within them.  I can’t say I’ve seen a ton of that in real life, however.  It is such a difficult feat to stand in our own power without aggression or defiance or the need to try to dominate others ourselves.  But to be who we are and let the other be who he (or she) is and to negotiate a path where we can both stand together—together—that is quite the rare achievement.

And their achievement is a fluid one—a slippery little sucker as Julia Roberts described her escargot in Pretty Woman.  To stand together in mutual power while each maintains his or her own personal power over time is even more difficult.  It takes consciousness, respect, tolerance, patience, compassion, and strength.  And to be successful, both partners need to embody these superior personality characteristics and avoid the temptation to be petty, or controlling, or demeaning, or demanding, or inappropriately needy or aloof.  Oh my God, I’m exhausted just writing about the myriad requirements of a healthy, vibrant relationship. 

But, I adore reading about them because it provides me with some guidance, direction, and inspiration to achieve the same in my own life and relationships.

The dance of dominance in any relationship involves some fancy footwork for sure.  I know that in my own marriage we work very hard to compromise where we can, but to stand firm when an issue touches on a fundamental philosophy.  Of course, one hopes that when choosing a life partner we not only seek to look deeply into each other’s eyes, but that we are also looking for a partner who is looking out into the world in a similar fashion.  Holding complimentary world views is an important element of successful partnership.

Another important element is the ability—and the willingness—to learn from each other and to defer to each other’s strengths.  These are particularly poignant characteristics of the relationships depicted between my favorite fictional characters by Thea Harrison, Nalini Singh, and Karen Marie Moning.  Each of these amazing authors’ uber alpha males are willing to learn from their females and to be changed by their love.  And witnessing that evolution is the very best aspect of these amazing books.  I am able to come back to my marriage (and other relationships) enriched by the experience of spending time with these magnificent make believe characters.  And all of this reading is way cheaper than marriage counseling or psychotherapy, so I feel inspired and clever at the same time.

Truth or Dare

I just finished The Dreamshifter by Elle Boca. It is the very promising first novel in a series that boasts an interesting premise about a race of beings with superhuman capabilities. I'm already looking forward to the next one. But before I move on, I need to spend some quality time thinking about the deeper messages of the first book. On my mind today is a passage from the story where the main character, Amy, consults a fortuneteller who says that Amy's gentle and generous nature will make her a target for unscrupulous people seeking to take advantage of her. But, says the psychic, it doesn't matter, and she exhorts Amy to remain true to herself. I love, love, love this message, and it's not one we hear often enough, in my opinion.

It is rare that someone tells us, “you will be hurt and you will be unfairly exploited and you won't necessarily get back the good you put out into to the world, but, hey, don't worry about it, and for God's sake, don't let it stop you from continuing to be kind and trusting and giving.”  I'm fairly certain that was not a lesson I was taught at home, at school, at work or by popular culture these days. I'm pretty sure Jesus said something about turning the other cheek, but who can hear His voice over the discussion about who's getting voted off the island this week or the other reality shows where cutthroat completion is king. Or over the thousand-decibel noise coming out of the football stadiums where men are getting their heads bashed in and their knees ripped apart to entertain us. Nope, letting other people exploit our perceived weaknesses is not a message commonly promulgated to the masses.

So, why should Amy in Elle Boca's book, or we, for that matter, listen to the psychic and stay open, loving, kind, generous, giving and trusting? What's in it for us? Quite a lot, as it turns out.  But in acknowledging that fact, I start to sound like a smarmy game show host telling everyone, "Be nice and win fabulous prizes" or some such nonsense like that. And that is not my intention at all. We shouldn't be open, trusting and generous as a means to an end. We should do it for the same reason the fortuneteller urges Amy to be that way; it is our nature. It is the end itself. 

Ostensibly, this blog is about learning to live authentically through the lessons learned from reading paranormal and urban fantasy. But I haven't spent too much time unpacking the box called authentic living and providing any sort of real definition for what I mean by that. So it’s high time to start.

I think that the most important aspect of living authentically is being true to ourselves. Sounds simple, or at least vague enough to be simplistic. Because how many of us really know who we are or what our real nature is? So many of us spend time trying to find ourselves when we were never lost in the first place. It's not a function of finding ourselves; it's a function of creating ourselves. Or, at the very least, co-creating ourselves.

In my world, we are all good, and generous and kind and loving. That is the true nature of all humans. Sometimes, we cover that up with all manner of garbage and we become who we are not, selfish and stingy and mean. But I don't believe we begin that way. We begin with the trust of the innocent and the rest of the nastiness is just learned behavior. And no, I'm not naive. I understand that evil exists and that some poor unfortunates can't help being “wrong” somehow or being a bad seed, and some of them are born that way. But those sad souls are damaged, not built according to the blueprint. And some of us, of course, choose a path of impairment and disease. But again, that is not who we are or who we were meant to be. 

Like Amy in The Dreamshifter, it is our nature to be giving and trusting. And it is the task of a lifetime to nurture that fragile flame and keep it burning against the strong winds of the world that would extinguish it.

It is so easy to give up on love and trust when we've been betrayed. It is so easy to extrapolate from the few to the many and decide that it is best to mount a good offense as an effective defensive strategy. Once we've been exploited, how easy is it to lash out at the world and strike first before anyone can hurt us? Or lock up our hearts to be sure that they never get stomped again. Too easy.

And that would be a mistake. Because being open, giving, trusting and loving is an end in itself. Its own reward, in essence. It just feels good to give, at least to me. I have always loved giving gifts and support and empowering people to be their best. And sometimes, my inclination toward generosity had resulted in my getting very, very burned. Betrayed. Made a fool of. It has definitely happened. And it does not feel good at all. And for a time, hopefully not too long, I might entertain fantasies of revenge and self defense. I might contemplate building a wall around my heart or around my wallet, depending on the nature of the betrayal.

But in the end, I've always decided against it. Revenge is bad for the soul. Getting back at someone hurts me a lot more than it hurts them. Retribution corrodes the heart and dulls the zest for life. No thank you, not for me.

Because, like Amy in The Dreamshifter, it is my nature to be open, loving, generous, kind, giving and trusting. Because, unlike Amy, I'm human. And that's how we roll. 

The Choices We Make

I have been thinking about choices lately. About how we perceive the choices we have and how we make the choices we do and how these choices define who we are, especially how we are seen by others. These thoughts have been inspired by Rose Montague, and her very interesting series opener, Jade, which I recently read a second time, as the plot had stayed with me, as had the character of Jade and I felt the need to spend some time with her again to help me clarify this line of thinking that has captured my attention so completely.

I think we all do the best we can with the information we have available at the time.  Jade is a prime example of this phenomenon. Because of her singular status and her ability to preposition herself pretty much any way she wanted, Jade had some interesting choices to make. Some of which had some interesting and unintended consequences. Kind of like the rest of us here in the real world. 

So once again we find truth in fantasy and quite a bit of food for thought along with a fun read. Two birds, one stone, which works for me every time. Because you've got to figure that if supernatural beings with supernatural abilities and supernatural choices can't seem to get it right, how the hell can we mere mortals expect to have any chance at all?

The problem with choices is that there is no such thing as perfect information. And there are so many choices to be made. Every day, day in and day out. Sometimes, the choices are big, or seem that way, and sometimes the choices are small, or at least appear so. And sometimes, the choices are so overwhelming we don't make any choices at all. Which is, of course, a choice in itself.

Why is it so hard to make choices, and why do we so often feel like we don't have any?  One thing I have learned slowly and with difficulty, is that there are always choices. We may not love any or all of the choices, but there's always a choice. I remember when I've been through some of the darkest periods in my life that the hardest part has always been the feeling of being cornered. Of having no options. Of shooting down every single suggestion and every single supposed way out as being impossible, or impractical or illegal (no, one cannot kill people who betray us or hurt us or mess us up in some way, more's the pity). That is one of the worst feelings in the world. Where there aren't any choices, or it feels that way, we lose hope. And without hope we fall into despair.

So choices are important. Good choices are even more important. So why do we so often make bad choices?  And then justify them, at least to ourselves, as doing the right thing?  I know I've been guilty of this on many more than one occasion. Like when I chose to stay with men who were clearly bad for me. Or to go to a party I knew would lead to trouble. I've written about this before click here about how we tell ourselves, "just this once" and make a choice we know is stupid. Have any of us have ever gotten behind the wheel even though we knew we might have had one too many?  Or made a choice to pass along juicy gossip even when we knew that it might not be true and even if it were, our only motivation in sharing it is our own pleasure of telling secrets or making ourselves feel better or bigger or more important by stepping on someone else? Or how about when we take the easier, softer way and put off till tomorrow or next week or next year a decision that only serves to kick the can down the road without resolving a damn thing?  Admit it, we all do it. We make less than the best decision in the name of expedience and tell ourselves we really didn't have a choice at all. 

And while our motives are usually pure--at least in our own minds, the truth is usually a bit more complex. I make choices every single day that are sometimes based in deep denial or wishful or magical thinking.  I think this is because most of us, in our heart of hearts, really want to be able to choose to do what we want, when we want how we want.  As a result we organize our perceptions in such a way that we convince ourselves that we have no other viable options other than the ones we wanted to pick all along.

The problem with this approach is that it doesn't take us down the path of authentic living. It takes us down the path of self-deception and bad choices—choices that do not reflect our highest, most authentic selves. When we are honest, at least with ourselves, about our motives and desires, we can at least make our choices based on self-awareness rather than self-deception. After all, we are the most gullible to dishonesty when it comes from within. Especially when we want something badly, or we are afraid of making difficult decisions.

So, what to do about these choices that life keeps forcing us to make?  For me, the answer is deceptively simple but very far from easy. I believe that our authentic selves, the purity of our souls underneath the fear and the ego and the wishful thinking we pile on top of it, knows exactly what the right choices are, given the available information. And when we make choices that come from our authentic being—that part of us that knows truth—and that part exists for all of us—then we always make good choices, even of the outcomes are not exactly what we expected.

I want my choices to reflect my highest, authentic self.  And sometimes, even often, they do. But not all the time. Because I am human, and I experience fear, anger, insecurity, jealousy, envy, greed, and all manner of less-than-attractive (or even downright unsavory) character traits. Sucks to be human some days. But that is who and what I am. And I can choose to accept that or make the inevitably doomed choice to try to be something other than the flawed creature that I am. Getting through my days. Doing my best. Making the smartest choices I can in any given moment. Being honest. At the very least with myself.

And I can take some inspiration, as I so often do, from my beloved fictional characters in my beloved fantasy books, like the inimitable Jade, and feel connected to her creator, Rose Montague, who clearly understands the complexity of choice and the dilemmas that it can cause for even those who aren't as human as the rest of us. And, for today, I can choose to keep reading my beloved books, which is always a good choice. 

Defying Destiny

I’m totally taken with the title of Jeaniene Frost’s new series, Broken Destiny (not to mention being taken with the opening book itself, The Beautiful Ashes). The books are about Ivy and Adrian, the last of their lines descending from David and Judas, respectively.  Spoiler alert: just as Judas betrayed Jesus, Adrian is destined to betray Ivy, who is the key to ensuring the continuation of the human race and preventing the ascendance of Satan.  No biggie. Have I mentioned how much I love these books?  How could I not with such a great premise? But, back to the central concept of the series (well, I‘m making an educated guess about that, of course, as Ms. Frost has only written one book so far—and do consider this a plea for additional offerings, Jeaniene!) which is about resisting the inevitable.  On the other hand, is it inevitable if we resist?  I’m taking another wild stab here and predicting that, over time, Adrian will be able to fight fate and break his destiny and that he and Ivy will have their HEA.  Which is awesome for them.  But what about the rest of us?  Can we, too, defy destiny and change course to achieve more optimistic outcomes?  Can I abandon the alliteration already?  Seems not.

So, is there such a thing as destiny?  Do we know it when we see it?  And if such a thing exists, it is inexorable? Was Calvin correct and everything is already predetermined even as we are conceived?  For me, it can’t be.  I refuse to believe in predestination.  Because the whole argument behind it is a self-licking ice cream cone, in my opinion (with apologies to those who disagree, of course). The idea of an unbreakable destiny negates the concept of free will and that dog just won’t hunt in my world (OK—no more military metaphors—they drive my husband crazy and no one else gets them—I got it!).

I believe we can overcome our upbringings and our DNA, we can break vicious cycles, we can defy expectations and blow them away. We can also be less than and lower the bar for ourselves.  Anything is possible—or at least that’s one of the things I tell myself so that I can get through the day with some semblance of sanity.  Because, hell, we live the greatest country in the world where upward mobility and social and economic progress are integral tenets of the American Dream.  And I still believe, I do. In fact, I am the product of an American Dream that my father realized half a century ago.  He was an impoverished immigrant who came to this country with nothing but the clothes on his back and he parlayed hard work and grit into tremendous success.  Totally inspiring.  He defied his destiny that seemed to dictate that he would live, toil and die in poverty and obscurity to climb to the heights of personal and professional success.  No submission to the inevitable there.  No predestination for my Daddy, no way.  Thankfully for him, and for me and the rest of my family.

And what about all of us whose genetics incline us toward cardiovascular disease, cancer, Alzheimer’s and autoimmune disorders?  Must we plan on inevitable illness and decline because we lost the genetic lottery? I can’t believe that either, because if it’s true, I’d better get going on discharging the rest of my bucket list, because the end is nigh. My family members are genetic disasters in terms of sickness and degeneration—you name it, we have it in my genetic makeup, and it’s a scary thought for sure.  And, as a result of my DNA’s predispositions, I work hard to maintain my health and beat the odds—defy my destiny of ill health and early death through the choices I make every day to take care of myself.

I believe we are co-creators of our destiny. We make choices. And some choices are harder than others. But the right choice has to be harder. Otherwise it isn't a choice.  The issue of choice is complex, and I will write more about it later, so we won’t go into it here. Suffice it to say that defying destiny is not for the faint-hearted.  Just ask Adrian.  He’s working his ass off trying to break his destiny, and entertain us along the way.  And let me say right here and now that he is doing a truly bang-up job of all of it.

Sometimes, on the other hand, instead of defying our destiny, our task is to try to live up to it. In breaking his own destiny, for example, my father created a new destiny for me to uphold and honor with my own life and choices. Do I want to do less than my beloved father?  No way.  I want to make him proud, even if he’s not still with me here in this plane or on this planet anymore, I know he’s out there somewhere, wondering if I will overcome the obstacles in my path to shine as brightly as he did.  Because one can break one’s destiny in a negative way as well, when we do the Limbo dance and see how low we can go, instead of soaring higher and reaching farther.

So, whatever our destinies tell us should be in the cards for us, our lives and our futures, the question is whether we will create our own realities and define our own destinies so that we can either live up to previously-established high standards or blow low expectations out of the water with our stellar performances in life.  Because, as Ms. Frost so ably describes, it’s up to us.  It always was and it always will be. That is the nature of destiny, broken or otherwise.

Paying Attention

This is a second post about Laurell K. Hamilton’s new Meredith Gentry novel, A Shiver of Light.  The book has given me a lot of food for thought, and clearly more than one blog post.  Laurell Hamilton is one of my very favorite authors and the Anita Blake and Meredith Gentry series are some of the best I’ve ever read.  Her books are not for the faint-hearted, however.  The level of violence and very graphic, very alternative sex is off the charts, and a reader needs to be prepared for that.  I love it, of course. I love the action and the intensity and the vibrancy of the books. But lately, her books have become significantly more introspective and descriptive.  And, in truth, this has not been a trend I’ve appreciated.  But this time, as I read the new novel, I was called to consider why I was unhappy with the slower pace and increased introspection.  I was called to pay attention to how, why and to what I am inclined to pay attention and what these inclinations have to teach me.

I have always preferred action to scenery, plot progression to character development and movement to stasis.  I have always set my sights on the destination, the goal, the ending, the last page.  And while I’ve never been one to cheat and read the end before I get there, I’ve always enjoyed seeking signposts along the way that might tell me how it’s all going to work out in the end.  This has led me to spending time looking for foreshadowing (as I’ve mentioned, Charlaine Harris clearly broadcasts Sookie’s final choices and future path beginning in book 1 for those who were paying attention—why anyone was surprised, I’ll never understand).  It’s also given me a penchant for tarot and rune readings, and even led me to do some research on these channeling techniques myself.

So, I do pay attention.  The question at hand, however, involves that which captures and holds my attention, and whether I need to widen my aperture a bit, which I’m beginning to suspect I need to do.

In A Shiver of Light, the faerie princess Meredith spends a lot of time noticing a lot of what I would normally consider minutiae, that which would fall below the level of my notice in real life.

And as I read about the things that Meredith considered attention-worthy, my mind began to drift, and I noticed myself beginning to skim through whole paragraphs, rather than reading them all the way through.  And I felt compelled to stop and think about what I was doing.  Maybe I was missing something here.  Maybe I should go back and read more slowly, savor more sweetly, as it were. And then, the messages started coming fast and furious that, yes, indeed, I was missing quite a lot, in fact.

They say the devil is in the details, and who wants to dance with the devil?  Not me, of course, so I tended to gloss over the details of my life and stick to the major plot developments.  I’ve come to realize that this has possibly been a big mistake and a course correction is probably in order.

Merry notices the smallest things, using all her senses, so that we are treated to detailed descriptions of what she sees, hears, feels, tastes, and smells.  She notices minute changes in the eyes and expressions of the people she loves.  She notices when someone’s subtle body language shifts, and when a tone of voice indicates surprise, unhappiness or joy.  She attends to her environment, noticing the blessings of her Goddess in bringing life back to the land in all its smallest increments.  And as I experienced all of these events through the magic of reading, I’ve been reflecting on the misguided thinking that led me to conclude that attending to the small stuff meant that my life and my world were correspondingly restricted.

I’ve spent a lot of my life believing that I needed to keep my eyes on the prize, my head in the game, and avoid being distracted by the shiny objects that litter the periphery.  But I was dead wrong about all of that, I’ve come to believe.  I think the ability to be present for the small moments of life, to notice the really little things, is a blessing that many of us fail to recognize or embrace. 

Recently a friend highlighted this particular reality in a very visceral way.  This friend shares a gratitude list with me every night.  It is a wonderful gift to read about all that she finds in the world to be grateful for each day.  And her lists are not the usual “thanks for my family, my health, the roof over my head and the food on my plate” kinds of things.  No, my friend’s gratitudes include the baby woodpeckers that hatched in a nest in her back yard, and the opportunity to sit for a while with the sun on her face in the park, enjoying a view of the lake, and the pleasant exchange she had with the cashier at the grocery story.  Her lists point to what she attends to, and by extension, what she values, and it is a beautiful thing to receive each day.  Like Merry’s notice to the smallness of life, such attention actually points to a life lived large, a life of meaningful presence.

So, I don’t think the devil is in the details after all.  I think perhaps that’s where we can find God, or Goddess, or whatever points us toward the Divine in life.

Paying It Forward

So, I'm still thinking about Lilo Abernathy's awesome series opener, The Light Who Shines. The characters and plot have stayed with me and I find myself wondering what mysteries will be revealed in the next book. Today, I'm specifically thinking about the character of Jack Tanner, a Daylight Vampire who loves and protects the main protagonist, Blue, who is the Light Who Shines, even though we don't really know what that means yet. One of the fascinating aspects of Jack's character is his philanthropic activities. This is a man who puts his time and money toward many worthy charities and is clearly one of the good guys. And when Blue asks him about his charitable tendencies, he explains that he is paying it forward against the inevitable time when he, like all Vampires, will succumb to bloodlust and kill someone.

I found this idea of paying it forward against future bad behavior to be fascinating. It reminded me a bit of the Leon Uris Classic, QB7, in which a pillar of the community is accused of Nazi war crimes. In that book (and excellent movie), no one can believe that this upstanding gentleman whose life is filled with good deeds could possibly be the monster portrayed in the trial. But in the end (spoiler alert!), it comes out beyond a shadow of a doubt that the man is, in fact, guilty of heinous crimes against humanity. And that his subsequent lifetime of altruism was undertaken in an effort to make up for his past sins.

I find this whole concept of balance in judgment to be arresting, as it were. Is it truly possible to make amends that negate a terrible act? Either ahead of time like Jack Tanner (I love that name, by the way), or after the fact, like the guy in QB7?  I think, as imperfect humans, we really need to believe it is possible. Our whole justice system is based on the notion of paying our debts to society when we transgress and behave in an antisocial manner. And if the debt is deemed too big, at least in some places, we kill people here in America to "make up" for wrongs they have committed. Apparently the whole "eye for an eye" thing is an enduring value for many people. Personally, I think such a philosophy has the potential to leave the whole world blind.  Just sayin'.

I much prefer the Jack Tanner approach. He's determined to do as much good as possible before his inevitable fall from grace. If we went with the retributive justice approach (an eye for an eye), Jack (and all the Daylight Vampires in Lilo Abernathy's world) would be put down like rabid dogs against the time when they would take human life. In such a world, the inevitability of their committing murder would guarantee them a preemptive execution at the hands of a terrified populace. Such action would preclude any good these Vampires might accomplish in the world before their descent to bestiality and mindless bloodlust. Would that be a fair trade?  What would the people who have benefitted from Jack's largesse and generosity think about this? Would they consider it a just exchange?

Ms. Abernathy doesn't explore these questions, and, of course it wouldn't advance her complex and interesting plot at all to do so. But we can certainly think about the implications of the issues she has raised.  For me, I need to believe that the good we do can outweigh the bad. I also believe that the bad weighs more than the good, so we need to make sure our good deeds seriously outnumber the bad ones, just like Jack does.

I find this concept important to remember when doling out praise and criticism and when balancing my gratitude against my complaints. The negative is heavier than the positive, so it's important to make sure it all balances out by doing more good than bad, being more grateful than dissasatisfied, and offering more accolades than corrections. As the saying goes, one "Oh, shit" trumps a hundred attaboys. Sad, but true.

So we need to take our cue from Jack Tanner and keep trudging the road of good deeds and positive thinking and acting against the inevitable time in the future (or perhaps as compensation for less-than-stellar past performances) when we don't hit the mark of right action. Which happens. Sometimes more than others.  

Doing the right thing is always the right thing. Especially in light of the fact that no one always does the right thing. Which makes doing the right thing the right thing to do to balance out the times when we stray and do the wrong thing.  Because you know it’s going to happen.  Today, tomorrow, or the next, we will fall, because that is what humans do.  It’s our nature.  Hopefully, we won’t kill anyone.  But there are lots of ways to transgress, and most of us will explore a wide variety of those activities.

So, let’s all pay it forward and perform as many good deeds and random acts of kindness as we can.  Let’s tip the scales in our favor, and enjoy the pleasure of doing well by doing good. Just like Jack. 
 

Life in the Zone

I’m enjoying Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series and I've been struck by one of the major themes running through all the entries. In each book, the protagonists, both Psy (who are cerebral beings conditioned not to feel emotions) and Changelings (shapeshifters who are very passionate and physical by nature) are called to leave their comfort zones again and again. Sometimes the foray outside the zone is incremental and sometimes it is exponential. But however they get there, and the how and why is what makes up the plot, of course, they all have to go. And the process is both fascinating and instructive.

What is our comfort zone?  I think most of us don't really know. I think we go through life living in it and avoiding going out because we experience leaving as discomfort. And who wants to be uncomfortable? Like when the doctor says, no it isn't going to hurt, it's just "uncomfortable".  Yeah, right. I've heard that before and it's a crock of you know what.

But sometimes, life forces us from our comfort zones, just like in Ms. Singh's entertaining novels. In most paranormal fantasy, the circumstances that require a foray beyond the zone usually involve life and death in a way that that leaves little room for decisions. In the current book, Hostage to Pleasure (OK, at this point I'm repeating the titles just as a hoot-- hostage to pleasure?  Really?!  I mean, hokey titles are fun, I guess, but we are really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, folks). Anyway, back to my comfort zone (actually, getting caught reading a book called "Hostage to Pleasure" would definitely take me out of my comfort zone--oh, wait-- everyone now knows I read smut, so it's OK!).

Now I'm really going to get back to the subject at hand—comfort. We all seek it and seek to avoid its opposite. In fact, human beings will go to great lengths to stay comfortable, including tolerating the devil you know, a concept I understand in theory, but not in reality. Why would you take certain hell for a possible reprieve?  Even if the possibility of worse also exists?  But we do, almost every time. Because, as a species, we are risk averse. We don't like to take chances. But it is in the chances that growth and progress can occur.

In the current book, Ashaya, a Psy, is called—repeatedly—to leave the comfort zone of shields and silence that have kept her safe her entire life and protected the son she loves. Her putative Changeling lover, Dorian, pushes her to creep ever-closer to experiences and emotions that are wholly new for her. She is terrified, excruciatingly uncomfortable and totally overwhelmed by his love and his hunger for her. We are meant to feel her conflict and her inevitable approach to the event horizon. And we do. Ms. Singh does an excellent job of conveying the contradictory arguments and counterarguments that take place in Ashaya's mind. We are right there with her as she contemplates her jump off the cliff. And we also get to feel vicariously the rewards of leaving the zone, which in her case are both sensual and practical.

I was certainly entertained. In many ways. And, as these books so often do, it made me think. And what I thought was, wow, Ashaya is so lucky. And not just because she has a lover who actually stopped to consider what it would take for a woman like her to be sexually satisfied (which, in her case, included engaging her intellect as well as her body). But also because there was someone to push her out of her comfort zone so she could become more of the person she was meant to be.

If you read the book, and I sincerely hope you will, as this series, like Ms. Singh's Guild Hunter series, is an outstanding example of paranormal fantasy, you might think to yourself that Ashaya is pushed too hard toward leaving the zone. And while it is fun to read about, it's not clear that many of us want to be pushed that hard. It could feel like the choice was being made for us. But we always have choices. For me, I am profoundly grateful that there is someone or even more than one someone who pushes me to be a better person. And not just my therapist.

I think we all need a push out of our comfort zones, and it is incumbent on us to find people to play that role in our lives. But we tend to shun people like that, or rebuff their efforts to help us grow. I'm definitely guilty of that. I prefer to be the one pushing people out of their Lazy-Boys, not the one with a heel firmly planted in her seat.

But there is another way to be inspired to move beyond easy street and out into the places that will challenge us to evolve:  we can read!!  As I have worked to share with my Facebook and Twitter followers, reading is where we to go to expand our minds, become more empathetic people, reduce stress and also to be inspired to change. Change involves leaving our comfort zones. No way around that. But I think it becomes easier to do after I read about it in my beloved fiction books. What do you think?

Pick up a book, call a friend for support, make an appointment with your therapist, but however it happens, it's time to move beyond the zone. Grow!  Change!  The devil you know is still a demonic bastard. Take a chance that there is an angel just around the next bend.

Post Modern Family

In A Shiver of Light, Laurell K. Hamilton writes about family; what it should be, and, as she notes, so seldom is. I’ve been traveling with my family again, spending time in California in places that we used to call home and no longer are. Ms. Hamilton (I have the strongest urge to call all of my beloved authors by their first names, partially because I feel like I know them, and partially because women are usually referred to by their first names while men are usually called by their last names—but I’ve digressed—again), or Laurell, also writes about the way home should be, but, like family, seldom is.

A Shiver of Light is part of the Meredith Gentry series, and in Merry’s world home and family are very, very complicated concepts and entities, involving relatives who want to kill you and multiple biological fathers of the same children (this is a paranormal world, after all).  Luckily, my life isn’t quite so complex, but the underlying concepts are still the same.  What is family supposed to be?  What does home mean?  Somewhere along the way, I basically gave up on the idea of the TV sitcom families, and accepted that I wasn’t going to be living with the Huxtables or even the Dumphries.  Maybe more like the Aadams Family.

When I was 14, my family took a trip to Europe.  By the beginning of the second week of a two-week trip, I remember having a major meltdown over something terribly important to me at the time,  with all the angst a teenager can muster (quite a bit, I assure you) and screaming at my parents, that I wanted to be a real family, not some dysfunctional imitation of the Cosbys.

When I was 14, I doubt I had any idea of what I meant by a “real family,” and it’s not clear that time has sharpened that picture very much. But what I think I meant, and what Laurell Hamilton alludes to, is a feeling of connection, of belonging, of being part of a team whose members all have your back and who will defend and support you no matter what.

Like Meredith Gentry, I didn’t come from a family like that.  And while no one was out to kill me, the name of the game in my family of origin was never show any weakness that could be exploited—because it would be.  There was no emotional support and no achievement was ever good enough.  Such a damaging way to grow up, and in her earlier Meredith Gentry books, Hamilton absolutely nails the devastation that this causes, earning her my undying devotion.  No on was interested in knowing who I was, or what I liked or dreamed of.  The members of my family of origin had very specific ideas about who I was supposed to be and what I was supposed to do.  And if I didn’t live up to their ideas of me, then I had failed and I was punished.

I always figure if someone writes a book about experiences I’ve had, especially the painful ones, it’s because I’m not so different from other people out there and we have a virtual community of dysfunction.  And while that may not sound so positive, I have always felt that it is.  It’s good to know not everyone grew up with the Brady Bunch or the Cleavers (as in “Leave it to…”).

I always dreamed of family gatherings like those of the Kennedys (and see how well that family turned out).  Or like the wealthy family in The Wedding Crashers.  In my family, it was different; my mother or my aunts would cook for three days at the holidays, we’d scarf it all down in ten minutes, and then my cousins or my brother would start telling puerile, vulgar jokes.  Everyone would get hammered, and often someone would end up in tears.  Sounds fun, huh? It wasn't.

If it was just my parents and my brother, we’d all sit around staring at each other with nothing to say and then bolting from the table as soon as possible.

So, if all of this tells us what home and family should not be, how does Merry help us understand what family should be?  To begin with, of course, it’s necessary for at least most of us to see past the polyamorous lifestyle that all of Laurell Hamilton’s heroines seem to embrace.  I cannot imagine having to negotiate sex and parenting with more than one partner.  It’s hard enough to agree with one guy about when, where, how often, and how to be intimate; can you imagine that conversation among five or six?  And then imagine what a smart and resourceful child could do in terms of playing one parent against the other, and the next, and the next.  I would have had an absolute field day with that, as a teen, that's for sure.

But if we look beyond that, what Merry shows us are relationships filled with love, respect, deep acceptance of differences and deformities, and forgiveness of transgressions.  In fact, it’s an excellent model of what family should involve—patience, tolerance, gracious compromise, happiness for others, and a willingness to give everyone his or her time in the spotlight.  Definitely something for everyone to aspire to and to emulate.

And perhaps it takes the kind of dysfunctional background that I and Merry grew up with to appreciate the gift of a family that embodies the loving, positive aspects of home and family that Merry (and I) are trying to create, given the choice and the willingness.  Cue the rose petals dropping from the sky now.

Message in a Bottle

I'm in a dry spell. I'm between books. I hate that. As I've noted previously here, I could opt for a retread or look for new blood. I'm just not in the mood for any of my old favorites right now, and I'm having trouble finding a new love to settle down with. So I'm on the market. I'm dating. Thank God for the Internet, too, because it makes meeting new authors so much easier, although it's important not to discount the joys of bookstore browsing. And there are so many ways to look for love these days:  I can speed date by downloading a number of samples onto my Kindle (or read the opening pages of hard copy books at the brick and mortar stores); I can find lists and reviews of paranormal fantasy and romance all over the internet; I can spend some quality time with my favorite book blog, Maryse.net, and although she's moved further toward contemporary fiction than I would like, she's still awesome and I couldn't live without her series reading order feature; I can ask friends for recommendations (although mostly my friends ask me); I can ask my Face Book and Twitter followers (thanks, guys!! I love you all!!); and I can ask all of you--what are your favorites?

So, plenty of options, but the hard fact is that there is just no guarantee that I won't have to kiss a lot of frogs before I find my prince. And then there's the fear that there are no more princes left out there, and I'll need to abandon the genre because I've read all the good offerings.

But I'm going to back away from the abyss and assume that I haven't exhausted the supply of great paranormal and urban fantasy that exists in the world. I'm going to choose to believe that there's someone new out there for me to discover and that I'm going to go wild with excitement that I've found new love.

Sometimes it's good to visualize our goals, so what would I like to see in these new books with which I want to fall madly, passionately in love?  Well, for one, they definitely need to have mad, passionate love, of both the physical and emotional varieties. Preferably with lots of detailed descriptions. Oh no, did I just say that out loud?!  Next, the characters must be attractive in the metaphysical sense (although I always like it when the female protagonist isn't too beautiful  in the physical sense because it gives hope to the rest of us). But they need to be people I can both relate to and root for, in the cheerleading sense of the word. I want to want them to get their HEA. I don't want to feel apathetic about whether they find happiness and fulfillment or worse, not like them enough to feel actively hostile toward them.

And then there is the plot. So many of these novels could elevate themselves into the pantheon of great reads of all times just by having a more interesting plot. A little plausibility (within the bounds of paranormal "reality" of course) goes a long way toward making a plot line compelling. There is a fine line between believable and are you freaking kidding me?!  Kind of like the line between a wild time and a flat line.  But perhaps less life threatening.

I want a real page-turner. I want the characters' personalities and personal histories to contribute to the development of the story.  J. R. Ward is a master of this, as are Karen Marie Moning, Thea Harrison and Nalini Singh. Others aren't quite as good, but are good enough and make up for slightly less-than-stellar-plots with amazing characters.

And then there are those, who shall remain nameless, whose plots really fall down six, eight or ten books into the series and the author is clearly resting on her laurels. That is always a true heartbreaker. The sense of betrayal I've experienced when I've invested countless hours with an author and a series, only to have it go absolutely nowhere can be overwhelming.  It is such a disappointment when there is no resolution but only increasingly silly, implausible, or, worst of all, boring new installments. The horror!  And I'm not a fan of horror, thank you very much.  I've always admired J.K. Rowling for her backward planning in terms of plot. I know there were plenty of folks who criticized Rowling for the neat and tidy way she wrapped everything up, but personally, I want my fantasy fiction to have more closure than real life usually does. That's why I read fiction. If I want to be depressed, I'll read the newspaper. Or George Martin, who defies all genre conventions. I think you are probably getting the picture here. So help me!  Please send me your suggestions. I'm sending out an SOS and looking for message in a bottle. Please help me find an oasis in this desert. Or I'll continue to mangle my metaphors and then where will we be?

Bad Boys-Whatcha Gonna Do?

So, I've been reading and I've been wondering, as I often do. Why is it that we are so attracted to the bad boys?  We know they are no good for us and that they will likely betray us and break our hearts.  We know we should take the late, great Maya Angelou's advice and when they tell us they aren't good at commitment or even at hanging around till morning, we should believe them. But we don't. Or maybe I should just speak for myself--I didn't. Past tense, mind you, as I've been happily married to a nice boy (with an edge, of course, because God knows I could never do straight nice) for a good long while now. But back to those compelling bad boys who I've been contemplating, compliments or Darynda Jones, whose boy embodies ultimate badness--as in son of Satan bad. Can't get much badder than that, can you?

And this is exactly why I love paranormal and urban fantasy--you want a bad boy, then I'll give you bad boys in spades--or in Hades as the case may be.  Reyes Farrow in Jones' fun and addictive  Charley Davidson series is the spawn of Hell, forged in the furnace of the underworld and sent to Earth to betray the one woman who holds the key to saving humanity. Hyperbole much?  You betcha and I live for it.  Who wouldn’t want to redeem this ultimate bad boy?  I know I would—or would have, past tense, of course.

So, why is Darynda Jones'  heroine, Charley, so drawn to this tarnished hero?  Well, I'm fairly certain his smoking hot looks and laser-like focus on Charley had something to do with it. Have you ever noticed that all the bad boys seem to be gorgeous?  Not to mention the chemistry generated by the whole "I was created to love you" shtick and the compulsion created by the irresistible forbidden fruit aspect.  No, that's not attractive at all--kind of like a black hole doesn't draw matter inexorably to its inky depths. Yeah, like that. Resistance is futile. Surrender, Dorothy (which reminds me, I wanted to have both those phrases stenciled on our bedroom wall, but my husband was opposed. Wonder why?  But I've gone fairly far off the reservation here and I'd better rein it in).

Back to those luscious bad boys and the women who love them. I have to say that I feel less like a freak when I read about paranormal heroines who fall for this cliché along with the rest of us. On the other hand, Charley belongs in the same category as Queen Betsy, so I'm so not sure we are too alike in that way, but that is another issue entirely. And, of course, Charley is the daughter of the light (similar to Blue in The Light Who Shines), so I'm not sure there's much similarity there either.

But, I'm a seeker of truth in fantasy, as you know, and there is a lot to be had in this particular trope.  Lots of good women love bad men. I suspect it's because many of us have a savior complex, and most of us believe in the transformative power of true love (kind of like the Princess Bride). But in seeking to save these bad boys from themselves and their demons, many women fall into dangerous habits. Like tolerating bad or abusive behavior. Or doing things we normally would never consider, like waiting for the phone to ring when we could be out with friends or saying yes to an obvious booty call when we are looking for romance and relationship.

I don't know about you, but I was guilty more than once of believing that I was the woman who was going to tame that wild man. I was going to become as necessary to him as breathing and he was going to realize he could not live without me. And I would accomplish this Herculean feat through anticipating his every whim and fulfilling his every need. So, any guesses as to how that worked out for me?  I'll give you a hint:  not so well.

Because in reality, sons of Satan really are not nice guys underneath it all. And we aren't going to get them to change, as a rule. We're just going to get our hearts stomped along the way. Because another name for those bad boys is "player" and most of us are looking for "keepers."  These are rarely one and the same guy.

And so it never really seemed to work out as well as it does in my beloved fantasy novels. Unfortunately, this is one instance where life doesn't really imitate art. Bad boys tend to be bad people in general. They don't often have a heart of gold underneath a gruff exterior. They don't usually settle down with one woman and stick around for the long haul. Even if a woman manages to get her guy to the altar, many of those bad boys seem to forget the part of the marriage vows where they promised to forsake all others. Sons of Satan, or their real-life counterparts, are best dealt with at arms length. Because they really are compelling and it's hard not to act like a moth to an open flame. But try to remember what happens to those poor moths. There's a reason your mother told you not to touch the stove. It hurts.

Living in the Now

I have always had a strong aversion to books written in the present tense. In fact, I have been known to completely avoid books I would otherwise love to read because the author chose a first or third person present tense POV. And I remember being royally pissed off upon discovering that a book I was really looking forward to reading was off the list because of what I've always thought of as an annoying pretentiousness on the part of the author. Once again, however, I've had to reexamine the stories I tell myself to preserve my own self-righteousness. This is one of those occasions. First came the Hunger Games trilogy, which I felt compelled to read so that I could join the conversation about this cultural phenom. Now it's Lilo J. Abernathy's The Light Who Shines that has grabbed my attention and won't let go. And as I felt the compulsion to keep reading the book, despite its grammatical gaffe (at least in my view), I started to think about why this literary device bothered me so much.  As they say, when we are distressed or annoyed or angry with someone or something, we need to look to ourselves for the causes and solutions to the problem.  I seriously hate when “they” are right. It makes me seriously distressed, annoyed and angry.  On the other hand, I’m guessing no one really cares about that, so onward and upward. Hoo-ha!  

OK—back to the subject at hand, after my little departure from my usual laser-like focus.  Well, maybe that is a teensy exaggeration. Maybe my focus is more like a defective laser. So, the question on the table is, why is it so hard to live in the present? I'm not sure, truth be told, although I've thought about it a lot.

Apparently, there are more compelling things to do besides live in the moment, and I’ve written about this phenomenon before. Instead of living in the moment, I can sit at a red light and wish it were green, thinking about how much faster I would get there if it were. I can read catalogues and fantasize about what a particular dress would look like if I wore it out to dinner, or how a new couch would look in my living room. I can even remove myself one more step from the reality of the present moment and think about what that dress would look like on me if I lost ten pounds or about how that new couch would look in my new house.

What do all of these examples have in common?  They imagine a reality that doesn't exist--and in this projected reality, my imagined life is better in some ways than my actual life. It may be as seemingly benign as wishing the traffic light were a different color. But it's not. And I don't weigh ten pounds less, at least in this moment, and I live in my present house, not some future fantasy version. At least right now.  Which is all we have, really. Right now.  The present tense. Just like Lilo Abernathy.  Damn.

Because that seems to be the rub, right?  I spend precious time projecting into an imagined future in which everything is arranged exactly as I think I want it to be. At which point, I tell myself, I will be content to live in that moment, because then it will be perfect and I won't have to project any more. Right?

There is an alternative, and very popular, method for escaping the present tense that is actually reflected in most novels--we can superimpose an idealized past onto our present moment. So instead of thinking about an alternative future, I can sit at that red light and think about how it was green last week when I drove through it, and wasn't that so much better than this stinking present moment. Or I can remember when I was ten pounds lighter and sigh with regret that the best days are behind me.

Either way, I'm absolutely not living in the present moment. Because the moment I am living now is somehow defective. It's not working for me. It's not quite good enough for me to spend my time here. When I'm at work, I'd rather be home. When I'm at home, I'd rather be on vacation. When I'm eating at a certain restaurant, I think about whether it would be better elsewhere.

Clearly, I don't do this all the time. I do spend time in the present moment. I can get caught up in what I'm doing (like right now, as this blog flows out of me like my hand is being chased across the page).  In fact, I seek out experiences and activities that motivate me to be in the moment, and so do many others. It's why roller coasters and extreme sports are so popular. It's why people take mind-altering substances--alcohol and drugs tend to focus the mind, or make us lose so much focus and mental function we can't go anywhere but where we are.

So, we flee from the present when we are perfectly capable of embracing it, and drug ourselves to prevent our escape from reality, which paradoxically serves to ensure our escape from reality. So confusing. We're all pretty screwed up. Or maybe it's just me. I'll speak for myself here and let you do the same.  Am I the only one who likes to time travel? 

So, maybe I will seek out more books written in the present tense to remind me to be where I am, not in my future or in my past. If all such books are as good as Ms. Abernathy's, it will be a joy, not a hardship. 

Taming Our Inner Ugly

I just finished Jessica Sims' (aka Jessica Clare) latest Midnight Liaisons novel, Wanted: Wild Things (I wonder: is there someone whose job it is to sit in a room and think up silly book titles?  Must be). I really enjoy the books in this series--light, funny, and quick to read, they feel like a frothy confection one might consume at the end of a heavy meal. But underneath Ms. Clare's meringue peaks are some fairly deep themes, if one cares to look for them. Kind of like the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. In this latest offering, about a faery Changling and her primordial lover (as in large hairy male who shape shifts into a saber tooth cat), Clare explores the concept of self-hatred and its effect on relationships and the psyche. As always in the world of fantasy, the circumstances can be manipulated to amplify whichever reality the author wants to explore. In this case, the female protagonist turns into a hideous monster with ugly scales and horns any time she feels attraction to a man and he touches her in any way. Tell me you can't relate to that in a metaphorical way?

I certainly can. The whole idea that I immediately began to feel unworthy and unattractive (hey, that could be the name of MaryJanice Davidson's next book!) when in the company of a guy I liked is very familiar territory. My first thoughts after meeting someone (back when I was dating many moons ago) were all about what was wrong with me. And if I actually thought about what was right with me, it mostly had to do with appealing to a man's more base needs--the ones that could be satisfied by any woman with a pulse.

Where do these attack thoughts come from?  Why do so many of us turn into ugly monsters, at least in our heads, and then behave accordingly by either running away as fast as we can or behaving in a manner that pushes the guy right out the door?  What's up with that?  And I know it's not just me. So many of us do that.

But not all of us, certainly. I was talking to a woman just the other day who seemed not to suffer at all from this self-inflicted wound. She was large and in charge, weighing in at a minimum of 350 and she clearly loved herself, loved her shape and told me in no uncertain terms that she was hotter than the steamy Maryland day we were both "enjoying."  She had some health concerns about her weight, but absolutely no issues about her self-image or inherent attractiveness. I remember thinking to myself that her mother did a much better job than mine in giving her daughter self-confidence. Then again, most mothers did a better job in pretty much all ways than mine, but that is a subject for another blog post.

Why do some women look in the mirror and feel content--no matter what is looking back at them--and others see only our flaws?  I know I've written about this before, but it takes up a lot of my head space, not to mention my time in attending to my self-perceived deficiencies. Why else do we wear makeup and color our hair and shave our legs and stuff our feet into hideously uncomfortable shoes to make our calf muscles look more shapely and our midriffs look more streamlined?  Why do we spend time looking for the perfect skirt or dress that does wonders for our derrières?  Because we feel like we need to look better than we do without those activities and accouterments.

So this whole undermining phenomenon is largely self-imposed. We can't seem to help our transformation into something twisted and unattractive when confronted by a man we might find interesting because we can't seem to get out of our own way. In the novel that sparked the trip down this particular rabbit hole, Ryder, the Changeling protagonist, works to control her inner ugly creature, largely to no avail. Again, a metaphor for real life.

So, what to do about this whole issue?  In Ryder's case, true love trumps her feelings of insecurity and inadequacy. And that is certainly a recipe for success for the rest of us. I know that meeting and marrying my amazing husband has done wonders for my self-esteem and self-confidence. But I still wonder sometimes how he saw through the mountains of crap that low self-esteem had piled onto my actual personality down to who I really was so that he could fall in love with me. Clearly, he had some sort of X-Ray vision, able to cut through my ineffective defenses to see beneath them to my soul and recognize the match with his. And I thank my lucky stars every day that he was able to do this, because in keeping with my usual MO, I did my level best to push him away when we first got together. But he persevered and stuck around.

But what happens if we don't meet a man of such far-sightedness and dedication?  I think the answer, as always, is that we need to learn to save ourselves and either just say "no, thank you, I'm not listening" to our negative voices, or ignore them and act as if they don't exist. Either way, we need to run away from the negativity, not from possible partners.

Like Ryder, we need to come to terms with our inner beasts and embrace the totality of who were are so we can get on with our lives as fully realized humans. Even if we're not supernatural, we are all superstars and we need remember that.

Love at First Sight

I’ve always believed in love at first sight.  More importantly, I’ve always wanted to believe in it.  I love the idea of love, of being swept off my feet with the deep knowledge of the rightness of someone for me.  I love the idea of my highly rational and intellectually-oriented self being overcome with emotion so that I have no choice but to feel, rather than think.  Phew—is it warm in here or am I having a power surge? Don’t mind me, I’m losing myself in the fantasy of falling hard and falling fast.  It’s heady stuff. I should know- I remember the night I met my husband (in a bar, I might add). After ditching our friends for a dinner á deux followed by some steamy necking in the car, I raced home to call my best friend to say- “I’ve met someone.”  As in someone who really lights my fire, curls my toes and inspires my feet to do a happy dance, despite my sky-high pumps (we’ve discussed those, I know).

And while I might not describe it as a Godfather-like lightning bolt, I was definitely aware I was in the presence of something potentially very special.  It’s not tally clear my beloved reciprocated those feelings (it did take him more than nine months to tell me he loved me, even though he’d cleared out half his closet for my stuff by our second date. So maybe he did know and his mouth took a bit of time to catch up to his heart—he is a man, after all).

So I’m absolutely into love at first sight, and I never discount it in my beloved fantasy books—as long as the author captures the wonder and joy and the stomach-dropping, fear-laced excitement of it all in describing it.  I’m currently reading a new series (The Dark Ones) by an author whose work I’ve enjoyed before, Katie MacAlister.  And this first book in a longer series (hooray for long series with lots and lots of books!) includes a love at first sight trope between Joy and Raphael.  And Katie MacAlister does a really good job of evoking the headiness and compulsion of love at first sight. Joy battles realistically with her better judgment about diving headfirst into a relationship with a tall, dark and hunky mystery man who has a shady pasty and secrets to keep.  But she can’t help herself, can she, cause she’s smitten but good.

And, and as I read this first offering in a series I’m hoping will become one of my growing list of favorites, I find myself wishing I, too, had fallen head-over-heels in love from the very first page.

But I didn’t.  Not really.  Sure, I could see the potential, and I have really high hopes for this series, but I’ve got to say, this is where I have to put my big girl panties on and settle in for some delayed gratification like adults are supposed to do.  But my inner five-year-old is totally bemoaning the fact that I have to wait for the author to lay all of the foundation for her specific world, its rules and attributes, etc., not to mention character development and long-term plot exposition for what is clearly envisioned as a lengthy series.  Still—I want that loving feeling—right from the get-go.  Like it was with my husband all those years ago.

So, while this book is really good and it’s definitely keeping my interest, I’m not head-over-heels, but I know I can look forward to a deepening relationship with these characters and this world over time, and that is truly awesome. And I really am doing a happy dance in anticipation of having my gratification met in a most satisfying manner as I frolic with the rest of the series.  But there is a tiny little part of me that is disappointed that I didn’t get to feel my tummy drop with the thrill of love at first sight.  This time. Of course, tomorrow is another day, luckily.  And I did get to read about love at first site in the words of a very talented author, which is almost as good.

Fixing Humpty Dumpty

I've written before about how events in my life seem to be eerily reflected in the books I am reading. You have to admit, this is quite strange. In fact, there might even be a story idea here; woman predicts the future through reading novels whose plots come true in her life. This is a bit like the YA fantasy series, Inkheart, which I read with my children some years ago, but not really.  Anyhoo, I must say that I'm not so excited that life is imitating art these days. In this particular instance, I can relate all too closely with Thea Harrison's more recent Elder Races novella, Pia Saves the Day. In this installment of the epic tale of Dragos and Pia, there is an accident and Dragos is injured and loses his memory. Pia must think fast and do what needs to be done to bring him back to his senses and to her. Now, don't get me wrong. You all know how much I love Pia and Dragos, but this book made me distinctly uncomfortable. Because the expected HEA didn't really look like I expected. Which makes Harrison an excellent writer, but kind of threw me for a loop.

And then I started to feel like I was riding the Anaconda at King's Dominion when the loops kept coming fast and furious. My husband and I had a fight. It was one of those types of fights that make you go down to the basement to check the foundation for cracks afterward. And there were some cracks. Which was frightening. And in the aftermath of the earthquake, when the repairs are being made, you have to wonder if the repairs will make the structure stronger or weaker.  I'm pretty sure it will be stronger. But only time will tell. And living with uncertainty (which we all do every minute of every day, in reality, although we don't always acknowledge it), is even more frightening. But I can take some inspiration, as I always do, from my beloved fantasy books, and look to Pia and Dragos for my example.

When I read the exchanges between Pia and Dragos after the accident when he doesn't remember her, I was immediately transported to that awful place when I'm fighting with my husband and it feels like any connection we once had has been irreparably severed. Now, I'm told that not everyone feels this way during fights, but I come from a very dysfunctional family of origin where being cut—completely—was the SOP for my mother when she was angry. And that feeling of having the rug pulled out from under me when the most important person in the world is mad or unhappy with me is devastating to this day.

And that is exactly what happened to Pia when Dragos doesn't remember her. The coldness with which he regards her is glacial and so different from the heat they normally generate together. Devastating. She feels like someone stabbed her in the heart. I could relate, though I wish I could not. But she is lucky (which she reminds herself about quite often, which Iove about her). Her troubles were no one's fault--just a freak accident. Mine were of our own making, where the vast differences in my and my husband's personalities had come home to roost and cause all manner of issues.

The details are neither important nor interesting to anyone but my spouse and me. But the unfolding of events and their aftermath follow a pattern that will be familiar to anyone who’s ever had a long-term relationship. I did something that made him unhappy. He did something that both hurt and angered me. Both of us were too raw to talk about it, so we retreated to excruciating courtesy (much like the Elven High Lord and his consort in another Elder Races book, Lord's Fall) lest we exacerbate an already volatile situation.

But, just like Pia with Dragos, those carefully choreographed interactions were absolutely miserable. Because that is not the way it’s supposed to be between people who are in love and who have built a life together. We are the ones who can be free and uninhibited with each other. We can be ourselves with no fear of reprisal or rejection. At least that is the way it’s supposed to be. And when it’s not, the world tilts on its axis and everything is skewed. Nothing feels right when my primary relationship is off kilter. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and I know he feels the same.

But sometimes, like with Pia and Dragos, it takes more than a penny to make things right. It takes time and work to put the pieces back together. And sometimes, some of the pieces might be missing, or damaged. Sometimes, we need to create new pieces to make things whole again. And the hope is that the new edifice will be even better and stronger than the original, and that it will be enhanced by all the extra work.

But the fear is that one or the other builder won't be up to the task, that one or the other of us won't have the skill or willingness to do what must be done or that the contractor simply won't show up for work one day.  Or that a hairline fracture that didn't seem to be very relevant will turn out to be major defect in a load-bearing wall. And the fear can be corrosive in itself, whispering in my ear that it will all fall apart, so I'd better make contingency plans. But when it comes to relationships that are important to me, I don't believe in contingency plans. I believe in making like Lindbergh and not planning for failure.  I believe in assuming success and doing what it takes to achieve it.  And I believe in having faith that my partner will do the same.

That doesn't eliminate the fear, but I've always loved the axiom that says courage is fear that has said its prayers. Being afraid doesn’t mean being paralyzed. So I'll take another cue from Dragos and Pia and take one step at a time in putting it all back together again after Humpty Dumpty has fallen. And because this is a paranormal fairy tale, where everyone gets their HEA, the ending will be different this time, and all the king's horses and all the king's men will get the job done.

Ask and You Shall Receive. . . Sometimes

This morning, I was thinking about how much easier it is these days to ask for what I want—from my husband, my friends, my professional relationships—even strangers, such as when I have a particularly complex food or beverage order (thank you, Starbucks).  Nowadays, it’s OK to make like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, and be as particular as we want in the precision of our preferences.  Today, it feels a lot safer to be picky, and for some of us, it’s even a badge of honor, or a symbol of recognition and secretly-nurtured special status when the barista remembers that we like a half-caf skinny latte with four pumps and whip cream (not really, but I’ve heard others order such things. My taste in coffee, like clothes, runs more toward basic black).

Anyway, back to asking for—and sometimes getting—what we want.  This used to be an activity fraught with danger and anxiety for me.  There were so many levels to my fears and lack of confidence that I believed I neither deserved nor could remotely expect to have my desires honored, so much so that I was loathe to even ask.  Asking for something specific, or even simply acknowledging my preferences was a very risky business for me.  In my family, having opinions other than my mother’s or preferences she didn’t share was a complete non-starter.  So I learned not to express my renegade thoughts, and eventually, I wasn’t even aware I had them anymore.  Tough stuff. Reminds me a bit of the conditioning of the Psy into Silence in Nalini Singh’s Psy-Changeling series.  But, I’m straying off the path again.  Need to snap that rubber band around my wrist, apparently.

So, asking for what I want and need by no means comes naturally to me.  In fact, it took years to excavate first the fact that I might actually want different things than those who loved me (“love” being a subjective term in this case, but we can discuss the consequences of toxic “love” at another time), and then even longer to have the courage to tell anyone about it.

And, interestingly, all of these fairly deep ruminations were dredged up as I read about Elena and Raphael in the Guild Hunter Series by Nalini Singh.  One of the reasons I love these books is the way Singh develops the relationship between a mortal woman and a millennia-old archangel who basically rules the world.  The books are essentially about the power of authentic love to transform us, and what that transformation looks like.  So that is one very thought-provoking element that we’ll explore later.  The other part of this, though, is how well Singh is able to illustrate the strength it takes to fight for ourselves in a relationship that threatens to overwhelm us.  And the courage that is reflected in the risks we take to stand our ground in asking for—repeatedly if necessary—what we need and what we want to make a relationship work.

As it often is in fiction, this situation is magnified by the circumstances in the novel so that we can better examine it.  In the case of Elena and Raphael, we are watching two inherently unequal beings trying to forge a partnership based on mutual respect, mutual sacrifice, and mutual benefit.  That is a fairly tall order in this situation.  Raphael has never been human.  He is thousands of years old, and he is one of the ten most powerful beings in the world.  This is not a guy used to hearing the word “no”.  This is a common theme in paranormal fiction, where the concept of the alpha male who is powerful, rich, highly intelligent and gorgeous is redefined by supernatural abilities, including flight, superhuman strength, mind reading, mesmerizing, etc., which enhance the package.

How would it be possible for a woman to hold her own in such a relationship? How can she stand up to someone when a part of her just wants to melt into him completely? How does the person who is, or feels, one down in the relationship stand eye to eye with the other?

I don’t know about you, but I can totally relate to this.  There have been so many occasions where I looked over at the person next to me, or across from me—and this includes friends, lovers, and professional colleague—and thought to myself, “I am totally outclassed. This person is way out of my league,” at which point, every instinct I have urges me to make myself small and insignificant and to elevate this other person to Godhood so that I can merely follow his or her every lead.  Disagree? Point out that he or she is wrong about something? Ask for something I need that this individual has not deigned to give me unbidden? Are you nuts? And risk becoming an object of pity, derision or wrath?  Or, most frightening of all, of becoming completely and totally invisible and ignored? NFW. Not happening.  What if the person thinks I’m stupid, or crazy or too demanding or simply too much trouble? What if he decides that I’m too annoying, like a fly that repeatedly lands on your arm.  We tend to swat flies away, or kill them outright.  Who would want to be that fly? Not me, that’s for sure.

Given all of these painful perceptions (that may or may not reflect reality in any way, mind you) the thought of standing up for myself in certain relationships inspired tremendous fear.  Especially in love relationships.  Because what happens if we ask for something and we don’t get it? Do we leave? Do we threaten to leave? Do we stay and nurture a resentment? It is in the asking that we take the leap.  Which is hard enough.  But, as I’ve quoted elsewhere, in the inimitable words of J.R. Ward, the leap isn’t the hard part, it’s the fall that will kill you.

What if we fall? Will we be irreparably broken? Will the relationship that we risked ruining by asking for what we want or need be damaged for good? And what happens then?

This is hard shit.  Don’t kid yourself.  And sometimes, it’s a leap too far.  But it’s important to ask ourselves, what is it we really want or desperately need that we’re too afraid to ask for? Even if we’re just asking ourselves, it’s still a scary question.

Something for Nothing

I just finished the first book in what promises to be an outstanding new series, The Light Who Shines by the fabulously named Lilo J. Abernathy. I read this book because I discovered Lilo on Twitter (along with Rose Montague, whose first book, Jade, was also quite compelling). Both Lilo and Rose were very generous to a just-starting-out blogger and social media neophyte, and I wanted to give their books a chance. I'd done this with a few other new authors, but with less happy results (in other words, the books were not that good, unfortunately). Anyway, I've digressed before I've even begun. The point here is that I loved the book and it has given me significant food for thought and inspired several blog posts. In Lilo's world, there are three types of humans; Normals (like you and me); the Gifted, who have some sort of magical capability (like controlling fire, or seeing souls or auras, or being able to portal from one place to another as if Scotty were beaming them around); and the Vampires, who come in two varieties, Dark Vampires, who are evil, and Daylight Vampires, who have not yet given into bloodlust and become Dark. There are many interesting aspects to this world, and the world building is particularly good in the book, which bodes extremely well for the series. But the part I want to focus on today is the existence of the Gifted.

In this world, the Gifted are largely reviled and persecuted by many of the Norms.  Which is paradoxical at best and suicidal at worst, because the Gifted help protect the Norms from the Dark Vampires, who kill indiscriminately--and for whom normal humans are essentially a Happy Meal--easy, fast and convenient to eat.

But prejudice is rampant in this world, and the Gifted suffer for their gifts. Which made me think about the adage that there is no such thing as a free lunch. I believe this to be true and I think that the pursuit of something for nothing and your kicks for free is one of the major scourges of the human condition.

After all, who wouldn't want free swag?  I don't know anyone who wouldn't. Including me. And I also know that plenty of us, maybe all of us "Norms" have done some pretty silly things to game the system and put one over on Fate.  And the examples of our persistent, but futile efforts are legion, in small and large ways.

When we look for "deals" we are looking for a free lunch--when we buy one/get one free, does anyone really believe that the store didn't inflate the price so they could run the sale?  When we read about--or buy--magic weight loss pills or products (vibrating belts, anyone?), aren't we just practicing the triumph of hope over experience?  Of course we are. There is no such thing as a free lunch. 

That awesome prescription that takes your pain away?  It has nasty side effects, including addiciton. The incredible stain remover that is guaranteed to clean red wine off a white dress?  Not so much. Improve your memory while you sleep?  Forget about it. Enhance your sexual stamina even though you are well past your prime?  A sucker's bet.

But we all do it, some of us more than others. We don't want to put in the work. Or, equally likely, we didn't believe Baretta when he warned us not to do the crime if we can't do the time. No free lunch.

What I loved about The Light Who Shines is that Ms. Abernathy gets this reality, and like all my favorite books, there is a lot of truth in fantasy here.  She explores at length the costs of being Gifted in her world and the consequences of those costs. Moreover, Ms. Abernathy also highlights the price of receiving gifts--what it means when the gifts we give engender resentment, fear and rejection. And the concomitant confusion and grief on the part of the giver whose gifts are accepted, but with barely concealed distaste and as much distance as possible.

I've always felt this is a strange phenomenon, but I can also understand its origins. No one likes to feel beholden, or dependent, or both. In fact, the creation of this kind of dependency through ill-advised generosity is more common than one might think. My family is a great example, where my brother ended up hating my mother, who helped him financially for his entire adult life. In the end, she did neither herself nor her son any favors by failing to wean him away from living on more than he could earn. No free lunch, remember?  My mother wanted gratitude and admiration for her handouts and my brother wanted independence and self-sufficiency, but couldn't give up the extra income. The result was misery all around. I always understood that my mother's help came with a hefty price tag, and I was never willing to pay. Thankfully.

This is not to say that I always took the high road. If you've read my bio you know I spent many years as an active bulimic. Which was all about having my cake and eating it too. Literally and figuratively. Didn't work out so well for me. Never does.

So maybe reading about the price of being Gifted and the costs of giving might help all of us to remember that no one is getting something for nothing. No one. We should stop pursuing that particular pipe dream. It might just turn out to be a bomb. Better to accept the downside to every upside and understand that if we accept a gift, we owe the giver, and we should be gracious about that. And grateful. Nothing in life worth having comes easy.  As Ms. Abernathy so ably illuminates, no free lunch.

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.