Live Long and Prosper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Biology is a Benefit

Having recently revisited an old favorite, I decided to dive right into a new author and a new series. I first discovered Tima Maria Lacoba on Twitter over the past few months. She is an indie author from the other side of the world and her book, Bloodgifted, is the first in a series about the Dantonville vampires. In Tima's world, vampirism is a curse and the Brethren, as the vampires are known, are working to achieve the conditions to undo the curse and become human once again (well, at least some of the Brethren share this goal). Another interesting aspect of this world is that the central relationship depicts a mutually beneficial exchange wherein the Bloodgifted is destined to feed her guardian vampire and he is obligated to protect her from other Brethren in return (not to mention that her status confers significant anti-aging benefits as well, so that at 50, the main character looks about 25).  This takes the trope of vampires feeding off of humans and providing pleasure or other advantages (more robust health and immunity, slowed aging, etc.) one step farther and made me think.  Always a dangerous proposition.

I started to think about the centrality of the relationship in Bloodgifted as an example of the phenomenon of symbiosis and its various manifestations: mutualism; commensalism; and parasitism. Nature is a fascinating mother, isn't she? In my other incarnation as a traditional naturopath, I've learned all about the vital role that pre- and pro-biotics play in our digestive system. Kind of weird/gross to think that we have several pounds of bacteria living happily in our guts. And that is just one of many examples that nature provides of independent entities needing each other. I'm more interested in a less literal or scientific definition of this phenomenon, despite how compelling the example of gobie fish and shrimp can be.

When I started thinking about symbiosis, my first thought was of the parasitic variety. I know that in my own life, I've been the unhappy host to a number of parasitic entities, including several of my boyfriends in the past. And I've had to look hard at these experiences and acknowledge the fact that my status has been voluntarily entered into and maintained, sometimes even long after I realized I was being used. This was a sobering and fairly unwelcome thought. It is much more comforting to believe that any instances of playing hostess with the mostess was the result of trickery on the parasite's part, or sweet naïveté on my end. But the truth is much less flattering.  

If we are willing participants in a parasitic relationship does that transform the relationship to one of mutualism, where both parties are benefiting, even if the benefits are less than equal? Or perhaps more benignly, could the relationship be characterized as an example of commensalism, wherein only one participant benefits and the other is neither harmed nor helped?  When I stayed in abusive or destructive relationships (and this included familial relationships such as those I had with my mother and my brother), I needed to face the reality that I must have been getting something I wanted or needed. Even if that something was the perception of being absolved of responsibility for my life. If I'm the victim of bad actors, then it's not my fault that my life sucks. If my boyfriend treats me poorly, but I hold on in the belief that my love can save him and help him evolve into a caring and generous human who will be so grateful for my loyalty and steadfastness that he will reward me by becoming the best partner ever, then I am a wonderful person whose circumstances, which are not my fault, are less than ideal. Wow. What convoluted thinking. 

Of course, there's another mindset at work in situations like this as well:  we allow the dysfunction to continue in the misguided belief that we don't deserve any better and a parasitic relationship is better than no relationship at all. There is way too much of that going on as well in the world and I've certainly contributed as much or more than my fair share.

So what to do about all of this depressing contemplation?  Let's turn that frown upside down and think about relationships that work, symbiosis that is characterized by mutualism. These relationships exist in nature, too, and certainly in many of our lives. My beloved doggies, for example, live with our family in a wonderful example of mutualism that works. Moreover, I'm lucky enough now that my central relationship with my husband is most definitely mutually beneficial ( I can only speak for myself, of course, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that he is getting something from the deal as well.) And I've always been blessed with amazing friendships that have withstood the test of time in their mutual benefit.

As I examine every aspect of my life, I can honestly and gratefully say that each of the relationships I have today serves me well and that I'm committed to ensuring that I'm giving back in equal measure. This is true both professionally. and personally.  I no longer feel used or abused at work, which has been true in the past and I don't approach any of my social engagements with dread or indifference; if I do, I cancel, because life is just too short.

I spend my time, energy and attention on people, places and activities that benefit me, even as I work to ensure everything I touch is just a little better than when I found it. It is an excellent way to live and to practice authenticity. And I appreciate the reminder from Tima Maria Lacoba, whose book, Bloodgifted, and whose actions on social media, have benefited me greatly. So here's to symbiotic mutualism where everyone’s a winner. Win-win-win. 

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste

I'm taking my own FaceBook advice and rereading an old favorite before moving on to a new series. Today's selection is Dead Until Dark, the first in the Southern Vampire series by Charlaine Harris, on which the HBO True Blood series is based. I love this book. It is the book that started my fascination and love of all things vampire and shapeshifter and fae and witch. Charlaine Harris began her writing career with mysteries, so the book has a murder mystery as the central plot line, which helped ease me into the genre. Not that I needed much easing, mind you. In any case, in rereading Dead Until Dark, I was struck by a central tenet of the plot, the fact that the main character, Sookie Stackhouse, a barmaid in northern Louisiana, also happens to be telepathic. As in she can read people's thoughts as they are thinking them. And I began to wonder, what are people's minds full of?  Are they in fact mindful?  Or are thoughts leaking out their ears, leaving them empty-headed?  What about my own mind?

In the book, and then later in the series, Sookie makes a point of pointing out that most individuals' everyday, random thoughts are fairly pedestrian. Shopping lists, worry about finances, jobs, children, etc. And then there is the preoccupation with sex, sex, and more sex. I'm guessing she was talking more about the males of our species, but given the popularity of my favorite genre, not to mention your garden-variety romance novels, which is a billion-dollar business in this country, there must be quite a few women who are also filling their minds with lascivious contemplation. These days we all have sex on the brain, with the likes of the 50 Shades of Grey movie breaking box office records, and female pop stars practically fornicating on stage for the benefit of their audiences.

So it seems that our everyday thoughts aren't really of the lofty variety. And I'm as guilty as the next person, preoccupied as I am with my interminable to do lists and keeping the various aspects of my roles as wife, mother, friend, employer, employee, etc. straight and in their various compartments. And this is of course not to mention my plans for the future and my reminiscences of the past.

It would appear that my mind, like most, is quite full, even though I doubt anyone reading it would find anything of overwhelming interest or import going on between my ears. But am I mindful, in the expansive and philosophical sense of that concept?  In a word, no, I'm not. Although I'd like to be, and I strive to achieve little moments or even minutes of mindfulness in my daily life. I meditate. I practice yoga. I journal. In short, I make a conscious effort to take my brain off autopilot and bring it back to the present moment to appreciate the here and now and contemplate something more profound than my strategies for packing all my necessary errands into my workday while also stretching time to accommodate a couple of seconds of relaxation and vegetation.

Phew, just thinking of all the energy it takes to negotiate my day seems almost overwhelming. Not to mention boring for anyone bothering to climb into my skull and take a walk through the twisted pathways of my thought processes. As I think about it, I wonder at the mediocrity of that with which I choose to occupy my headspace. I'm thankful for these blog posts, which take me out of the banality of my daily musings and focus my attention on something bigger than myself and my petty pondering for at least a little while.

Apparently, I would not be much of a candidate for Sookie to tune into if she were looking for captivating entertainment, using her little gift, or disability, as she considers it. On the other hand, all of you reading my blogs get a bit of a glimpse into my grey matter, albeit while I'm actually trying to be engaging and entertaining. So, it occurs to me that through reading my blog, you get to approximate Sookie's experience. What do you think? Have I interrupted your own mundane thoughts and interjected a bit of true mindfulness, in the form of filling your mind with something worthwhile? I can only hope so. And I would certainly love to know, if you'd care to share your thoughts with me.

The Muddle of Love

I'm reading the final book in the Sanctum trilogy, The Prophecy. The series has gotten better with each installment, always a nice surprise. And I haven't finished it yet, so we'll have to see how Madhuri Blaylock sews it all up into a tidy bow for us, but I'm certainly enjoying the ride along the way to completion. Halfway through the book, however, the aspect that has struck me the most is the number of couples portrayed in the plot, and just how different each of their love stories is. Also quite unexpectedly, this fantasy series is not following the usual (and beloved, don't get me wrong) patterns of paranormal romance or even urban fantasy. There are many more than one set of lovers, and certainly not all of them are going to get a traditional HEA, or perhaps even any HEA at all. But, as I love surprises, this is all good and definitely provides lots of material for me to think about and write about. Yay me.

In the interest of not spoiling the book for anyone, as well as for the benefit of those who read my blog but not the books I write about (an audience I will be trying harder to reach over the coming weeks and months, so stay tuned for upcoming changes to my modus operandi), I won't tell you which specific characters I'm talking about as putter along here.

There are many of sets of complicated couples in this book. And because all of these characters are supernatural, many of them have lived and loved through many human lifetimes. Something I really can't imagine (my husband and I will celebrate twenty years of marriage this year and that seems like quite a long time to me--can't think what a two-hundred year celebration would look or feel like, but I digress).  For some of these characters, it also means they've been locked in passionate battles for centuries as well. Can you imagine engaging in the dynamics of a dysfunctional relationship over that many years?  Yikes! 

But the most compelling thing about Madhuri Blaylock's characters is the authenticity of the duality of love that she portrays for each of her couples. One couple accepts that the other will share as many beds as they want, but that that relationship between the two of them won't be affected. Talk about an open relationship. Maybe that’s the way to make centuries of love last. Expand your horizons, so to speak. For this pair, it seems to be the difference between lust and love; sex with others falls into the first category, but for the two of them together, it's making love. This would be a bridge too far for many, but would also embody the definition of to each their own. It doesn’t go quite as far as Laurrell Hamilton, but it goes too far for my apparently provincial tastes. I’d be interested in your thoughts on the matter.

Then there is the couple in The Prophecy who have loved each other across multiple lifetimes but who have chosen, each in their own way, to leave each other in this lifetime. Except they still yearn for each other. And mostly stay away from each other, but not entirely. Sucks to be them for sure. I don't believe I could deny myself to that extent, and, honestly, it’s all a little too much Brief Encounter for me, but I will say this for Ms. Blaylock:  she does an excellent job of describing the simultaneous holding of mutually exclusive realities, which is really what life is about, isn’t it?  It reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver, In Backwater Woods, which exhorts us to hold on as tightly as we can to love, even knowing that the objects of our love are mortal and will pass from this earth and from us.  It is hard to reconcile such diametrically opposed realities, and yet that is what life calls us to do all the time.  The couples portrayed in The Prophecy reflect this difficult experience.

Another pair in the book has loved each other over the years—the long years of immortal lifetimes—and for each the other is the one that they call home, the one that they feel compelled to come back to.  And yet despite this bond, this durable magnetism toward each other, one is betrayed by the other in an undeniable and unendurable way.  Elements of Greek tragedy all over the place here, and then the real heartbreak unfolds when the one betrayed must kill the beloved who transgressed.  The whole scene was absolutely gut wrenching. And then, in the aftermath of the murder, there is an attempted suicide that was a visceral reminder that love doesn’t die in the face of betrayal, but is transmuted into something aborted and distorted.  It left me wishing for the possibility of an off switch or a reset button, although neither exists in reality nor in the world of the Sanctum. But when I think about love betrayed and the pain that is engendered by feelings that no longer have a basis in purity or joy, I find myself slipping into fantasies of “if only.”

For yet another couple in this book, there is the confusion that accompanies love divided.  The author describes the lingering touch of first love combined with the futility of ill-fated lovers mixed in with the certainty of love in the present moment.  What a hot mess that whole thing is. And I do mean in every sense of the word. Hot as in passionate, angry, sexy, dangerous, damaging, and compelling. All at the same time.  Who wouldn’t be confused?

But the thing about love is that it comes in all of these shapes and sizes in the real world, and it’s always interesting, thought-provoking and inspiring to read about its various manifestation in my beloved books.  It’s only my love of books that is completely pure and uncomplicated.  All the rest is mostly a muddle. One we can’t, and wouldn’t want to live without, of course, but a muddle just the same.

There is No "I" in Team

I just finished the advanced reader copy of the second in the J'Amigos trilogy by Rose Montague. This book is Jane, which follows Jade (Jill will complete the trilogy sometime in the future), and will be available for purchase beginning next week. First let me say that I loved the experience of having an advance copy. I totally felt like I was in the cool kids club. I am in such awe of authors who write the kind of fiction I love to read that I always feel slightly star struck when any author notices me at all. To get this kind of attention feels like I won the jackpot!  I enjoyed this novel, which was written in the best tradition of a buddy story/road trip tale. Jade and Jill are in hot pursuit of a real badass and have lots of adventures along the way. All of which are a lot of fun. But the aspect of the book I liked the best, and which gave me the most food for thought, was the deep level of teamwork, a constructive division of labor and shared effort that the whole story embodies. Jade, Jane, Jill and all their friends and helpers are a wonderful example of people coming together to reach a common goal and achieve a united purpose. In this case the joint effort is to stop a bad guy and help a lot of people along the way.

I love the humanity—in the best sense of that word—of all of Rose Montague's supernatural characters. I love that in Rose's world, so many different types of supes are willing to work together and support each other (this doesn't apply to every singe one, of course, but most). I also loved the excellent example that the main characters portray in their willingness to ask for and accept help. I think these abilities—working together with individuals who are different culturally and socially than we are, asking for help in a way that is expansive and inclusive, rather than humiliating and defeatist, and accepting help graciously and with an intent to return the favor either specifically to those who helped, or more generally to others in need—are highly underrated and neither reported nor exalted in the way they should be or in the way that Rose Montague achieves so seamlessly that one might even miss its importance.

Her first feat in describing characters from different walks of supernatural life working together and accepting each other was interesting and compelling. In creating the character of Jade, who's both a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll, mixed in with blues, jazz, hip hop and rap along the way, Rose Montague has highlighted the direction in which our whole society is moving. It's getting to be that we're all mongrels who have bits of many nationalities, cultures, ethnicities and religions in our backgrounds. My children certainly got a mixed bag from me and my husband, whose backgrounds could not be more different (well, I guess they could if one of us were a blend of Basque and Aboriginal and the other were Mayan with a dash of Japanese and the Mongolian steppe thrown in, but still, we come from distinct ancestries). And these days, our identities are not only fluid, but the aspects of ourselves we choose to highlight may change over the course of our lives, depending on many factors, including who we choose to marry, as it did for Jade in Rose's book. The character of Jade is a unifying one, and the mission also serves to bring people together. It's a beautiful thing. 

Secondly, I was very intrigued by the ease and grace with which Rose Montague describes the way Jade and Jane, two very powerful beings in their own right, and even more so when they join forces, ask for help. It is as natural as rain for them to seek assistance when they need it without any of the angst or drama that attends mere mortals asking for help. We get so bent out of shape about it. We tell ourselves that a need for help tells everyone that we are insufficient in ourselves to get the job done. Like asking for help is the ultimate admission of powerlessness and failure. Why do we believe that and why can't we get over ourselves? I used to be as guilty as the next person of this silly, self-centered behavior, but I've definitely gotten over myself. Now, my attitude is, why should I struggle to go it alone when I can ask for help and share the load? It seems so simple, but I know from both experience and observation that it just isn't. So it's wonderful to see such a great example of asking for help in action in Jane.

Finally, asking for help and accepting it gracefully are also two different animals entirely. Sometimes, we ask for help but then turn around and resent the hell out of the person or persons who gave it to us. We don't want to need the help, and when someone actually provides it we feel embarrassed or inadequate or deficient in some way, which makes us defensive. And, as I've written about before here, what is the most common idea of a good defense? You got it, a good offense. So we go on the offensive against the very people who are trying to be helpful, loving and supportive. Sucks for all concerned. But not Jade and Jane. They are appreciative and generous with those who have offered to lend a hand in their quest to stop the evil that they are chasing. On several occasions in Jane, the two protagonists go out of their way to acknowledge and repay the generosity of their supporters. It's lovely to see and an excellent reminder of how I want to behave.

So I'm grateful to Rose Montague for both the opportunity to read her new book ahead of time and for the reminder that teamwork works, even among those with little in common, and asking for and accepting help can be done graciously and easily. And for a good read along the way. My favorite things, all together:  a great yarn, a good lesson, and a shining example to follow. Can't beat that with a metal baseball bat (to understand that reference you'll have to read Jane, which I suggest you do!)

Reading Deprivation

I'm on day five of my seven day retreat. And it's been a trip, even though I've barely left this tiny condo. I've climbed the mountain and reached the highest peak. I've flung myself right off that peak into the dark jaws of the abyss. I've dusted myself off and climbed right back up. And so on and so forth. It's been exhausting. It's been exhilarating. It's been transformative. But, I'm guessing you probably don't care too much about all that, so I will proceed to the topic at hand. Reading. Or the lack thereof. As I've mentioned, I decided to explore Julia Cameron's suggested week of reading deprivation to prime the pump of my creativity. According to her theory, words, for creatives like myself (and like you and everyone else in the world), are anesthetizing little pills that we consume to quash our own creativity as we internalize someone else's.  When I first read about this almost four years ago, I thought NFW. No way I'm giving up my books. I love them too much.

Then, last year, in another effort to find myself (I know that Tolkien said that not all who wander are lost, but I'm beginning to wonder about myself), I had decided to give the whole reading deprivation thing a try. I didn't end up doing it and, in fact, the act of NOT giving up my books last year is what led me to the realization that they were so much more for me than just the vehicles of my escape from reality.

What I realized last year was that I love my smut, and I wanted to share that love with anyone who cared to join me. So I did. My blog, Truth in Fantasy, was born, and all the words in my brain and my heart and my soul were able to spill out onto the page and travel through the ether to your computer or smart phone screen. And it was a glorious thing. 

I'd found a way to incorporate my reading of paranormal and urban fantasy into my intellectual life. I realized, with tremendous joy, that I had discovered a method by which I could make my favorite activity meaningful and purposeful for me, and hopefully others as well, so that I could indulge and know that I was doing more than just whiling away a few minutes or a few hours. I had alchemized my fantasy fiction habit into a productive, constructive pursuit and therefore justified the inordinate amount of time I spent with my beloved books. This felt like heaven on Earth to me. And writing my blog has been a gift of the creative gods; and it was good.

But, apparently, I still needed to inflict this week of reading deprivation on myself to see what it was all about. And it made some amount of sense, as I didn't want my retreat to turn into a vacation--it was supposed to be, and has been, something much more sacred, where I spend totally unstructured time completely alone to see what comes up. Plenty, let me tell you. I recommend this exercise to anyone whose life is busy and full (so pretty much all of us), particularly around a major life milestone or event (I'm hitting the half-century mark shortly). But, again, let me limit myself to talking about what I've learned by taking a fiction reading hiatus for five days now.

The first thing is that I miss my books. I truly do love them. There aren't any books in this condo, besides the ones I brought (I decided to interpret Julia Cameron's exhortation to put down the reading material as meaning only my beloved fiction, news, TV, movies, stuff that "distracts".  I have been reading inspirational and motivational books, including Ms. Cameron's The Right to Write, which has been revelatory). I love the way books feel surrounding me on bookshelves, on coffee tables and desks, in piles on the floor (can you imagine what my house looks like?!). I love the way books smell and feel. I love knowing that they are there for me to pick up and hold and read and touch. But I also love my Kindle. I'm on my third, maybe fourth, actually. And while I have the Kindle app on my phone and iPad, I love having an e-reader, dedicated to my books. I love knowing that I have hundreds of books at my fingertips to read whenever I want to. And when I travel, I just need to bring my Kindle with me to ensure I have access to all of my treasure trove of words, sentences, paragraphs and pages.

I love the fictional characters in my books. I think about them. I worry about them and hope they will get their HEA. I wonder what they would do, and sometimes I adjust my behavior accordingly. I strive to be more like Pia, Anita, Mac, Jane, Kat, Merry, Sookie, Elena, Rose, Bluebell, Jade, Mercy, Myst, Nix, Dev, Amy and even Betsy sometimes. These women inspire me. Their creators inspire me. They are my Muses and they are the source of my creativity. What I've learned is that I didn't need to put these books down to ignite my creative spark, I need to pick them up. What I've come to realize is that these books, these characters and these stories are the foil for my own imaginative ramblings. They are the mainspring of my thoughtful patter; the foundation on which I've been able to articulate my philosophy and therefore share it with the world.

I thought my blog would be a good excuse to read my smut. But I've come to find out that my smut has been the vehicle of my self expression, the path by which my ideas can become embodied so they have form and shape and dimension. These books have given me the ability to explore my interior world and mine for gold inside my own headspace.

What a gift this is. And I'm actually so grateful that I've also been given the ability to see with such clarity my own truths.  Many thanks to Ms. Cameron for helping to get to this point. It has been painful and wonderful by turns. And it has been worth every emotion it's pulled forth from me. 

I recommend a week of reading deprivation. I'm imagining the homecoming will be very sweet indeed. I'll return to my beloved books with even more appreciation than I had before. Almost hard to believe that could be, but there you have it. I guess, absence makes the heart grow fonder after all.

Retreat

I'm on retreat. Not with a group, and not as part of an organized event. I'm calling it a "self-directed" retreat. I spent some time preparing, gathering materials, including inspirational books, pads, notebooks, my favorite pens in multiple colors, candles, tarot cards, food, pillows, etc. I don't need to go anywhere except for walks to move my body and clear my mind.  I chose a spot near the beach in the off-season, so there would be few people, no noise, lots of peace. I eschewed Wi-Fi and told everyone I know that I was going to be unavailable. I decided to practice Julia Cameron's week of reading deprivation in order to open the channel to my creativity and allow the Muse to enter and breathe her inspiration into my essence. I wanted to be sure to honor the gift of time alone and away that my family had given me, particularly my husband, who becomes a single parent to two teenaged boys in my absence, no easy task.

It's been two days, out of a planned week. And I've learned some things. There were several objectives associated with this undertaking. A primary objective was to outline the book I want to write. The original plan was to turn my blog--this very one you are reading--into a book. I thought I was being so clever (I often do, and I'm often wrong, which would make you think that I would stop thinking I'm all that, but not so much). In any event, my original thinking was to marry my passion for smut with my penchant for proselytizing and write a blog and then a book that had a ready-made audience of people who read paranormal and urban fantasy. I carefully plotted my strategy of promoting myself through FaceBook and Twitter and presenting my work to authors who would reward my penetrating insights with recommendations to their readers to run, not walk to read my pearls of wisdom. And thus my audience would be built, and when I took my soon-to-be-written book to prospective publishers, they would jump at the chance to exploit the extensive readership I'd already created and I'd have a bidding war for who would give me the biggest advance. 

As you have probably guessed by this point, things have not really gone according to plan.  With several notable, wonderful exceptions, who are worth mentioning, paranormal and urban fantasy authors have not rushed to help me to promote my work and expand my audience. These exceptions are authors I've mentioned before, and they include Rose Montague, Lilo Abernathy,  Elle Boca and Madhuri Blaylock. These independent authors have gone way above and beyond to extend the hand of support and friendship by telling their readers about me and asking them to check out my work, like and tweet my blog posts, even when the posts are not about their work. They take the time to write comments and engage with me. And I am beyond appreciative.

But despite the best efforts of these amazing writers and my indefatigable assistant, Jamie, it's not really working, and hence one of the reasons for the retreat. A retreat can be a time to run from something, or to something. It can be a time to take stock, lick wounds, regroup, and gather forces for another attempt. A retreat can be strategic or tactical, methodical or more like a rout. A retreat can be temporary or final.

I'm not entirely sure yet what the nature of this retreat will end up being, or the outcomes. I do know that it would appear that my original plan was flawed and that only I and a small handful of others are interested in thinking and discussing deep thoughts we've had while reading vampire porn. Apparently, most of those who read these books just want to be entertained. Which is perfectly fine and totally valid. I want to be entertained as well. But my idea of fun includes navel gazing and philosophical discourse. At least sometimes. And I seem to be in the minority among the folks who ready fantasy.

And at this point it's not clear that there is enough of an audience for such musings so as to make this a viable subject for a book-length effort. This is not to say that I'm planning to stop writing Truth in Fantasy. I'm not. I enjoy it. But perhaps it is better as a blog rather than a book. Perhaps the book that is struggling to be born of my thoughts and feelings is related but not explicitly. I'm not sure yet, but I'll keep you posted.

In the interim, I'd like to express my sincere gratitude to those of you who do read these posts and who recommend them to your friends. And a special thank you, again, to Elle, Madhuri, Lilo and Rose. You ladies are the Shit, as Dani O'Malley would say.

The Sands of Time

Time.  In the end it’s all we have and what we lose when the final grain of sand slips from the hourglass of our lives. In my favorite quote of all time (and that’s saying a lot), J.R.R. Tolkien tells us that, “All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that we have.”  I believe it. I live by carpe diem.  I am appalled and terrified about the rate at which time is speeding up as I get older, whizzing by at an ever-increasing velocity by virtue of physical laws I neither understand nor wish to acknowledge.  But time doesn’t care.  It just keeps slip sliding away, and we are all one day closer to death. Wow, I’m seriously harshing my mellow right now. I’m still immersed in the Fever world of Karen Marie Moning.  I know, it’s been a while, but I’m not rushing the experience.  I’m enjoying it too much.  I’m choosing to spend my precious time with her compelling characters in a world I wouldn’t want to live in, but that I love visiting.  The book I’m currently reading, Iced, is focused on Dani, the 14-year old super-smart, super-strong, super-fast, superhero who says “dude” and “like” enough to set my teeth on edge.  But she is so alive, so vibrant, so full of…everything. She is making every single minute count.  She abhors wasted time.  I agree with her.

Time is a funny thing.  In our language we pass it, kill it, make it, do it, have it, fill it, use it, squander it.  I’ve never understood the concept of killing time.  Why the hell would we want to do that?  It’s killing us, dude! And we need to turn the other cheek, not retaliate, because that’s just another way that time kills us. On the other hand, I’ve always approved of the colloquialism of ‘doing time.’  Because that’s exactly what we demand of those who transgress the laws of our society—we extract that which is most precious to them, their time and the freedom to spend it as they choose. There is nothing more valuable we can take away. I know for a fact that I would never survive prison. The thought of all of that useless, lost time would weigh on me to the point where I’d lose my mind.

Many of us focus on stretching our years, months, weeks and minutes for as long as possible. We don’t seem to worry as much about quality as we do about quantity.  I couldn’t disagree more.  It’s all about the quality of the time that we spend. I hope I won’t have to put this speculation to the test, but I think I would choose an earlier death instead of living longer in the state of pain, fatigue and sickness that characterizes the hideous choices we offer to cancer patients and others suffering from chronic, fatal illness.  And I strenuously disagree with the American practice of spending the majority of our healthcare dollars on the last weeks and months of life. To what end?  The answer is, paradoxically, to the end.  For no discernable reason, as far as I can see.  I am forever grateful that neither of my parents lingered for any length of time before they passed.  They would have hated it, and it would have been an exercise in futility.  Which is, by definition, futile, and therefore incomprehensible at some level.

And then there is the fact that many of us aren’t even spending the time that we have.  We are living so far from the present moment that we’re not experiencing life as we live it.  We’re thinking about yesterday—either about how horrible it was and how the world, our parents, the big boss, the school bully, etc. has done us wrong and needs to pay.  Or we’re thinking about the glory days that are now in the rearview mirror, and the best we can do is take a walk down memory lane and relieve the good times. Or, we’re projecting into the future, my preferred time killer here.  As Dani would say, gah!!  No matter how many wise people tell us about the power of now, so few of us choose to hang out there.  Partially because it’s hard to do, especially in a society that is so full of distractions from the now.  But also because we are constantly thinking about how much better it could be, or should be, or would be or will be.  I say again, gah!

And even though we are so concerned about longevity over peak experiences, so few of us are willing to do what it takes to add years to our lives and life to our years.  Have you worked out today?  Nah, me either.  Did you enjoy the Big Mac you just scarfed down?  I wouldn’t touch that crap, but I’m certainly not above enjoying my wine and chocolate beyond what could be considered true moderation.  I know I should move more frequently and eat extra greens, but I only do so occasionally.  Why?  Because we seem to think that sloth and gluttony are more fun than work and abstinence.  Go figure.

But it’s true.  For me, the repeated engagement in less-than-healthy behavior, physical and emotional, is something I tell myself enhances the quality of my life and counts as a worthy use of my time.  But that’s just my denial talking here.  I tell myself I don’t have time, and I have no choices, even when I know that’s total bullshit.  And then I hear about someone my age dropping dead of a heart attack, or I realize that I have fewer years ahead of me than there are behind me and I start to panic big time.  And I berate myself for the paucity of good choices I’m making with whatever time I have.  Tolkien would be very disappointed with me.  And I promise myself that I will make every second count.  And then I do, until the second comes that isn’t quite as perfect as I’d hoped or expected, and then I’m back to wanting to pass this moment, kill this minute, and get to the next one as fast as I can. Which at the rate I’m going, will be faster than Dani when she’s moving at super speed.

We don’t need to rush tomorrow.  It will come.  And it will go.  And so will we.  So, we need to ask ourselves, are we making good decisions with the time that we have? Am I?  Are you?

People Need Love Most When They Deserve It the Least

The Seahawks lost the Super Bowl last night. I can't say that it mattered to me one way or the other, as I don't enjoy football. But, man, it mattered to my husband, born and raised in Washington State, and to my two sons, who are their father's children. And, as I understand it, the loss was wholly preventable and the Seahawks snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, which made the whole enterprise that much more difficult to swallow. At this point you are probably asking yourself why you are still reading this seemingly irrelevant post. But please hang in, as there is a pony in here, I promise. The point is that my beloved men were not happy campers last night, despite the fact that we'd had a triumphant weekend preceding the devastation of Sunday night; my son had earned first place in a debate tournament, my husband had returned from an extremely productive work trip, and my boys' high school whupped their arch nemesis in basketball. None of that mattered, though, when the Seahawks lost. And my men had a hard time rising above it. They behaved badly in their disappointment. They took it out on me, albeit in a relatively restrained manner.  Nonetheless, I didn't appreciate it. But I've learned a thing or two from reading my beloved fantasy books. And one thing I’ve learned is not to kick a loved one when he’s down. I've learned to ride the wave of acting out and lashing out. Because, as Mac Lane, Dani O'Malley, Anita Blake, Jane Yellowrock and Mercy Thompson have taught me, people need love most when they deserve it the least. 

You don't have to know the characters of which I speak to know of what I speak. Think of the people closest to you. Hell, think of yourself. How well do you act towards others when you are sad or mad or frustrated or disappointed?  Well, if you’re me, not so well.  As my son pointed out last night, “Yeah, Mom, like you never take it out on us when you’re in a bad mood.”  Horrid child, that one.  Just kidding.  He was right, of course, and don’t think I thanked him for pointing out my own failings.  I didn’t. Shocking, I know.

But I think it’s instructive to explore the why of the bad behavior just a little bit for a moment.  Why do we lash out in anger or act out in frustrated hissy fits?  I have a theory about this (I pretty much have a theory about everything, and if you’ve read enough of my posts, you have been exposed to a lot of them). I think that it is much, much easier to be mad than sad. It’s easier to be annoyed than wounded. It’s more comfortable for most people to be offended rather than hurt. And while I know there are those out there who revel in the role of victim or martyr, I can’t say I spend a lot of time with those poor souls because I absolutely cannot relate at all to anyone who would willingly offload their self-determination to someone else and then blame them for their troubles.  I always blame myself—if it’s my fault, then I can do something to rectify it.  If it’s your fault, I’m SOL. And who wants to be SOL?  Not me, that’s who.

How many times have you experienced a major melt down of the shoe throwing variety because of a situation that has left you feeling devastated in one way or another?  When that happens to me, I know that the unwelcome tears are not far behind.  This is analogous to referred pain—like when your leg hurts and your doctor tells you it’s really your lower back.  When I’m gripped by a spasm of grief, the intensity of the sadness is almost always preceded by a bout of belligerence, usually aimed at my long-suffering husband (and yes, I realize that I called him on his bad behavior after the Super Bowl and expect him to put up with mine—but, seriously, are we really going to equate grief over the death of someone close to us to the loss of a freaking football game?!). The point here is that I am rarely behaving badly during the sad/hurt/vulnerable/crying phase of my emotional roller coaster. It’s only during the aggressive, bitchy prequel to the brokenhearted, inconsolable main event that I’m at less than my most loving, sensitive self.

So, if my theory is correct, and people behave badly because they are feeling sad and therefore vulnerable, what is the appropriate response?  Anger?  Annoyance? Irritation?  Impatience? No, no, no and, you guessed it, no. This behavior is usually a cry for help, a message that says, “hey, I’m feeling exposed and defenseless right now, and we all know that the best defense is a good offense, so please, instead of being angry with me, please, please, please, offer me a hug, a kiss and a little understanding that I’m going through a rough spot here and could really use some support.” At least that’s what I usually mean when I’m being testy. Most of the time.

But knowing this doesn’t make it easy.  After all, I knew my menfolk were sad last night. But because I didn’t really agree with the source of their sadness, I was prepared to discount it rather than honor it. Not cool, in retrospect. I need to remember that the Golden Rule is shiny for a reason.  People need love the most when they deserve it the least. Me most of all, so I’d better put up or shut up when it’s asked of me in return.

Apathetic Passion

So, I just finished the Fever bundle, by Karen Marie Moning, and I'm beginning to work my way through Iced in anticipation of reading Burned. I'm fairly certain it's going to be a quasi-religious experience for me. In the interim, I can't stop thinking about Mac and Barrons and the Unseelie King. I'm thinking about passion, joy, lust for life and an infinite amount of desire. I’m thinking about the objects of those desires, and what happens when desire is destructive rather than generative.  And I'm thinking about what it means when those feelings are missing. For me, the world seems divided—into those who know what their passion is and those who don’t have one. And I’m really only talking about passions that are contributory.  I’d much rather see passionate people like Mac who care about the world and the fate of humanity rather than the kind of lust for life that characterizes Barrons.  I love the guy, but he’s somewhat selfish. Which is a little like saying Kanye West is somewhat self-absorbed.

What do we lust for? Is our passion worthy?  What if what we are passionate about is the pursuit of pleasure? What if it turns out that what we care about, what we’re passionate about, is ourselves, and not really anyone else?  I feel like I see a lot of that out there. Obviously, there are those whose passion is for helping others—and we read about them in magazines and hear about them on the news.  But I have a nagging suspicion that we hear and read about these people because they are the exception, and not the rule. That there are more people for whom a lust for life looks more like eating a bowl of potato chips while watching the Superbowl than joining Doctors without Borders.

What happens when desire is thwarted?  What happens to those of us who find out that what we thought we wanted wasn’t? The Unseelie King pondered this problem for an eternity, but it’s not clear he came up with any answers. How many people do you know who spent years in school studying one thing, thinking they loved it, only to discover that they really weren’t that enamored after all? What if our purported passion doesn't feel like we thought it would?  What if it doesn't feel like passion, but instead feels like ashes? What happens when our desire turns into apathy? What happens when nothing inspires our desire?  Look around you. There are more people than not who just don't give a damn. Rhett Butler is all around us, and we don’t care about that, either.

What does all this mean? It means we live in a world where a lot of us either care passionately about only that which promotes our own agendas, or they don’t care at all.  Rock and a hard place, for sure. There is so much apathy in the world.  As well as misplaced passion. Which leads me to ask, how can we inspire engagement in those who have disengaged, and redirect those whose passions are turned inward? Again, I don’t have a lot of answers, just a lot of questions. For Mac and Barrons, there is purpose in rebuilding the world and passion flows from purpose.  So there is one answer—purpose produces passion. So does curiosity. And authentic connection. And gratitude. I guess I had some answers after all.

We need the good kind of passion.  Without it, we are lost, and when the Fae apocalypse occurs (I prefer it to the Zombie apocalypse, so we’ll go with that) we’ll be hard pressed to rouse ourselves from our food comas, rampant consumerism and prurient voyeurism to give a shit.  And this is an issue, because, as my favorite philosopher, Dr. Seuss, tells us, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not.”  We need to give a shit. And we need to do it with passion. Let's get on that, shall we?

About Last Night

Among the many blessings in my life, I have amazing friends. In fact, I could write an entire post about the joys of friendship, and I probably will, but for today, I want to mention a friend of mine who hosts salons. Not the kind where you get your hair cut and your nails painted, but the kind where intellectually-minded folks gather (the original meaning of salon) in someone’s living room to discuss the issues of the day or other erudite topics for the sheer joy of exercising their brains. How cool is that? I’ve long admired her commitment to furthering the cerebral pursuits of her friends and acquaintances. Anyway, before I go too far afield, the reason I’m telling you about this is because the speaker at yesterday’s salon was none other than yours truly!  And the reason I want to tell you about my experience speaking to a group of folks who don’t read paranormal and urban fantasy (except for our host, my friend, who is an avid fan), is because the experience intensified my mission to spread the word about our favorite genre to as many people as possible. 

The format of this salon involves a speaker, me, in this case, pontificating for about 30 minutes or so, and then engaging in a group discussion about the subject at hand.  I began my talk with an abbreviated curriculum vitae—just to assure everyone that I could hold my own among the incredibly accomplished company attending this event in Washington DC.  Once I had established my bona fides, I told them about my deep happiness in reading fantasy and I explained why it was so compelling for me.  There was skepticism, for sure.  But I think I was able to win a number of them over to the dark side by explaining all the intellectual reasons to read these books (if you need a reason beyond hot, steamy vampire sex—boo-yah!),

My first hook, so to speak, was the concept of world building.  World building interests me for many reasons. The quality of the world building is usually indicative of the quality of the writing.  A fertile imagination can conjure complex and fascinating rules for whether vampires can come out at night, or reproduce, or eat food, or have bodily functions.  World building may also involve the description of exotic, paranormal locales, such as the pockets of Otherland in Thea Harrison’s Elder Races series (Thea is a master of finding beautiful pictures and photos that could be Otherworld locations that she posts on her Facebook page, which are amazing).  World building includes descriptions of the creatures that inhabit these worlds as well as the details of their societies, customs, habits, etc., such as the social mores of shifter cultures, for example, or the anthropological evolution of the opposing courts of the Fae.  Authors who construct worlds get to write their own creation stories, which appeals to the theologian in me.

But the most amazing aspect of world building in fantasy novels is the analogy to our normal, as opposed to paranormal, lives, where, if we are both lucky and good, we are able to build our own worlds and, at a minimum, co-create our own lives.  We are all the authors of our destinies, and the worlds that are built in my beloved books remind me that I am the author of my own creation. It pays to be reminded of that.

Another aspect of paranormal fiction that I discussed at some length at this salon was the trope involving illusion and glamour that is so common in these books.  I’ve written about this before here, and I’m intrigued by the concept of illusion and the ability to see through it—or even the desire to see through it. Not everyone is interested in seeing what is true.  A lot of us prefer to have our truths adorned with lies to make them more palatable.  Mac, in the Fever world of Karen Marie Moning, claims she would rather live a hard life of fact than a sweet life of lies, but I think she’s the exception that proves the rule.  Most of us like our illusions because they feed our denial—another topic I’ve explored in this space here.  And there is nothing that holds a mirror up to our own predilection for deceit than a fantasy world where nothing is as it seems and everyone is peddling their own self-serving versions of the truth.  In many cases, truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

But the most compelling aspect of these books for me, and for my audience last night as well, is the exploration of mortality that the world of immortals allows us to access.  I have found it nothing short of mind blowing to read about the consequences of immortality—none of which are pleasant or desirable—that help me to value the poignancy of our own mortal coil.  In one of my favorite songs, Queen asks, “Who wants to live forever?”  And the answer, especially after reading enough paranormal fiction in which immortal beings become jaded beyond apathy, cruel with the continual need to up the ante, or simply insane as a result of the passage of eons, is not me.  If time is of no consequence, there is no urgency to do anything, and nothing has value because for those who cannot die, tomorrow is always another day.  For the rest of us, we could have an appointment with Death that no one bothered to pencil into our calendars.  The uncertainty and fragility of existence, the inexorable progress toward the end of life as we know it, is and should be the flame under our asses motivating us to pack as much as we can into our brief sojourn as possible. We aren’t going to live forever, and therefore we have an absolute imperative to seize the day. For all of these reasons, I urged my audience last night to check out my “Favorites” page and take a dive into the deep end of these remarkable books.  Because vampire porn is fun and educational.  And not just to learn better technique from those who’ve been perfecting theirs for millennia. After all, everything I know I learned from reading smut.  And you can too.

Hope and Fear

Hope strengthens, fear kills. This is the mantra and philosophy of MacKayla Lane, the heroine of Karen Marie Moning's Fever series. I can't tell you how often I've thought these words to myself. They are so true. And it took a paranormal fantasy series to explain it to me. I probably always understood this concept, but I couldn't have articulated it so articulately. Hope strengthens. Fear kills.

Without hope, there is despair. Despair, is the absence of hope. It is the thought that nothing will get better and that whatever hell we are experiencing will go on without end. I've been there. I know. It is the most awful place to be. What’s the point?  It doesn’t matter.  Whatever. I don’t care.  Lack of hope is the ultimate apathy, and, as my favorite guru, Danielle LaPorte, tells us, lack of passion is fatal.

But the opposite is true as well. Hope is the wellspring of strength. When we have hope, we have the power to fight on, to continue through hell, knowing it will end, believing there is something better yet to come. I've often felt that any pain or discomfort or inconvenience is tolerable when I know that it will end and, preferably, when it will end. Hope is a promise. It is unfulfilled potential. It is a projection of optimism that all will be well and maybe even better than before.

But I don't think hope springs eternal. I think we want hope to spring eternal, but it doesn't, always. Sometimes, hope fails us. And while maybe in theory where there is life there is hope, life ceases when hope dies, just as hope ceases when life ends. Life and hope are inexorably bound. Without hope, fear has a chance to come in, put its feet up, and take over our minds.

And we know without a doubt that fear kills. Think about panic--the absence of rational thought, the inability to think our way out of a bad situation so that it subsumes us. I will never forget my first experience of panic. When I was young I was swimming in a pool and someone threw a rubber boat into the water. I'm afraid of the water. I was under the boat, and when I went to come up and breathe, I couldn't lift the boat, even though it didn’t weigh much. The bottom had created a suction seal against the surface of the water. I panicked. I tried and tried to lift it, to no avail. I tried to outswim it, but I couldn’t. Finally, when I was seeing grey spots in front of my eyes, it occurred to me to swim around it. In retrospect, it was almost inconceivable that I could have drowned because I couldn't think through the panic to swim around the boat. But it’s true. Fear kills.

And there is another side to fear and hope. Fear motivates. Hope inspires. Both will get our asses in gear and cause us to take action. But it's been my experience that action motivated by fear is much less successful than that inspired by hope. It is so much more pleasant to be inspired by hope than motivated by fear too. Fear causes us to run from things. Hope causes us to run to things. It is more desirable to run toward something than away from it, if for no other reason than it is hard to outrun ourselves, which is most often what we run from.

Inspiration comes from within. Motivation comes from outside. One feels effortless. The other can feel like a burden. We are motivated to earn money, achieve professional and social success, accomplish goals and objectives. These aren't bad things, of course, but they are the reflections of others that give substance to our lives. On the other hand, we are inspired to be of service, to love, to be useful, to connect with each other and with something bigger than ourselves. We are inspired to create: art, music, books, excellence in all areas. Inspiration is generative. Motivation is productive. There is a difference. Like my favorite story of the three bricklayers building the cathedral. Look it up. It's something of a Rorschach test. What you get from the story probably says something about your attitude and ability to see beyond yourself and something about whether you are called to action through the motivation of fear or the inspiration of hope.

Hope strengthens. Fear kills. Hope inspires. Fear motivates. I ask myself often where I am on the spectrum between the two.  I work to discern whether I’m being motivated by fear or inspired by hope. Sometimes I can’t actually tell the difference, which seems odd, but I know it’s true.  Fear has a way of making us rationalize decisions that do not serve us. One way to tell is by the fruits—does a decision or action make us feel happy, or just relieved? Are we filled with passion and joy, or just the absence of pain, uncertainty and doubt? Are we living in the wreckage of our futures, or the glory of what we hope will manifest for us?

Right now, I’m feeling wonderfully inspired by Mac and Barrons’ story to grab life by the horns and proceed full throttle—hopeful that not only is this not as good as it gets, but that the best is definitely ahead of me.

Where are you in this moment?  

With Great Power

Life is good.  I’m still reading the Fever series bundle in anticipation of the release of Burned on January 20 (tomorrow!!).  I’ve determined that Karen Marie Moning is a genius and I want to be her when I grow up.  Oops, I am grown up and I haven’t been able to come up with anything like what she’s created.  I’m burning with envy that the Muse hasn’t visited me the way it’s inhabited Karen Moning.  There is so much in these books to think about it’s a bit overwhelming. It’s a whole philosophical system/unique worldview rolled up into a compelling story with characters who literally invade my dreams.  I almost don’t know where to start. So, I’m just going to jump in with a thought train that left the station as I read Mac’s story. One of the coolest things about these books is that they raise a number of interesting questions to ponder—and then they don’t give you answers tied up into a neat bow.  I know I said that I liked that—and I do in my paranormal and urban fantasy sometimes—but in this case, because she has inspired so much furious thinking on my part, I’ll forgive Ms. Moning her trespasses, as I’ll hope she’ll forgive any I make in writing about her work. The dilemma du jour is about obligation and responsibility.  I’ve come across this question before, in Charlaine Harris’ Sookie Stackhouse character. The question is, just because you can do something, are you required to do it?  Does capability engender obligation? In the world of the Fever series, Mac struggles with the issue of whether her special sidhe powers—powers that might mean saving the world—necessitate that she has to use them to do so, even at the expense of her own life and joy.  Sookie ponders whether it is selfish and wrong of her to hide her ability to identify accident survivors after a catastrophe, or not to use her telepathy to solve crimes—knowing that if she doesn’t, innocent people will be hurt and guilty ones will go free.  Tough stuff, for sure.  Makes me happy that I can’t read minds or sense Fae objects of power—I would have the same dilemma as Mac and Sookie.  But wait—I already do—and so do you, actually.  We all have something we can do that would make at least someone else’s life better than it is.  Does that mean we have to do it? What does it make us if we don’t?

This leads to other, maybe even thornier questions. Do we need to always give money to beggars on the street? Must we help out a friend—every friend? Every time? Lend our talents to the military, the intelligence community, the police, first responders? Help a colleague? Do we do what's in front of us to do or do we go looking for people to save and help? What is our moral obligation? To ourselves? To others?

How do we square the circle at the intersection of “not my job” and the concept that with great power comes great responsibility?  I have no idea.  Do we behave like Sookie and go back to our lives, rather than sacrifice ourselves to the greater good?  Or do we do like Mac and decide to go all in, despite the risks and potential sacrifices?  This is a very personal decision and it goes beyond the question of whether to save the world just because you can.  How much should we sacrifice for others?  Should Bill Gates give all his money away, or just much of it, as he does? Should doctors treat patients for free in all circumstances?  There is a line, somewhere between Ayn Rand and Karl Marx, but hell if I know exactly where it is.  There is an art to saying no, of course, but for me, there is an even bigger art to avoiding the guilt that comes afterward.  I know, rationally, that I probably can’t save the world, although I do have a postcard above my desk that reads, "I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara, I could save the world."

But I can’t always help.  At least not without giving something up that I don’t want to give, including my time, my energy, my money and my reputation. And I’ve learned to say no and to live with it somewhat comfortably, at least much of the time.  But damn, it’s hard.  I used to believe that when someone asked me for something, the request itself created an obligation for me to fulfill it.  Even worse, I had a bad case of “if I spot it, I got it,” and I don’t the idea of seeing our own character defects in others and being all high and mighty about it (OMG—did you see how catty she is? I ask my BFF—in a decidedly feline manner).  What I mean is that if I saw something that I knew I could make better—even if no one else recognized this reality—something in my brain made me want to take up the cause and volunteer (in the military they teach you not to do that, ever). And then subsequently, when I was slaving away at midnight or later, seething with resentment, I had no one to blame but myself.

So, I don’t pretend to have the answers here, but I know these are important questions to ask, and I’m grateful to Ms. Moning and Ms. Harris for sparking my thoughts in this direction. There may be no right answer for everyone, and the answer may change with the situation and the time in one’s life, or even whether we’re just feeling generous or stingy that day—but now I’ve gone and given myself away, with my niggling suspicion that if I don’t do absolutely everything there is to do to help humanity and improve the world, I’m a selfish bitch. I’m thinking that’s not true, but I guess I need to work on my internal dialogue a bit.  I’ll need to switch off between Sookie and Mac and try to find some balance in my life. Wish me luck.

A Day Like Any Other

It's that time. I'm returning to the scene of the crime, the place where it all began. The latest installment of Karen Marie Moning's Fever series will be released on January 20, and I've started to reread the whole series in anticipation. These books, particularly Shadowfever, the last in the Mac and Barrons story thus far, fundamentally changed the way I read paranormal fantasy and how I think of these books and how they affect my life. And while I didn't know it at the time, these extraordinary books held the seeds of my blog and, hopefully, my soon-to-be-written book between their magical pages. It was with the Fever series that I began to see the truth and wisdom that is offered by paranormal and urban fantasy. And just like that, I realized that these works were inspiring deep and meaningful thoughts about life, love and how to do it all with as much truth and integrity as possible.

And so, because these books mark a demarcation line between Before the Fever series and After, today's post is a reflection on how quickly life can change from one moment to the next, much in the same way that MacKayla's life changes when she learns of her sister's death in the beginning of the first book in the series, Darkfever. Mac thinks of the phone call that upended her world and her life as a "line of demarcation" and so it was. She also observes that "it began as most things begin, not on a dark and stormy night... It began small and innocuously, as most catastrophes do."  All of this hit me hard with the truth of what she said. An extraordinary day can begin as a day like any other.

Life can turn on a dime, and it often does. I think back to almost every specific day when I received unexpected news (usually bad, but this would apply to good news as well) or when I realized something important had occurred and my life might be unalterably changed as a result. Days, or really moments, like this are always preserved in my memory with incredible clarity and detail. And in those moments I always have the thought that, wow, there was absolutely nothing in this day that could possibly be interpreted as a portent of the bad thing (or good thing) to come. It seemed like such an ordinary day, during an ordinary week, embedded in an ordinary month. Have you ever experienced this?  This phenomenon has always intrigued me.

I was also intrigued by the time warp aspect of MacKayla's experience. A detail of the story involves her dropping her cellphone into the pool several days before she learns of her sister's death from the authorities in Dublin. When she finally gets a new one and listens to her messages, there's one from her sister, Alina, who is highly distraught. Alina dies very soon afterward and MacKayla realizes that while Alina was being killed and then lay dead for two days in an alley, Mac was sunning herself and swimming in her pool and chillaxing her days away. I don't know why it is always such a shock to find out that something awful happened and in the time between the event and our learning of it, life goes on as it was.

I experienced a similar situation upon the deaths of both my parents. They died, or, more accurately, suffered soon-to-be-fatal heart attacks, while I was unreachable for a time. So, while they were dying, I was getting on with my life as if nothing were amiss. Because, of course, ignorance is bliss. What we don't know won't hurt us. It is only later that we realize that the universe had shifted and we hadn’t known. I’ve always thought that when something bad happens to someone I love and am connected to, I would know it.  There are some people who claim that they do, but I’m not one of these.  I’ve experienced no premonitions of doom—or joy, in fact. I had no idea, for example, on the day I met my husband on a blind date that was supposed to be with someone else that such a lovely event would occur.  Nor did I have any clue, many years later that he’d been in an accident on his bike on a day where I actually wasn’t worried about that happening (ironic, I know). Lines of demarcation, before and after.

Occasionally, life-changing events occur and we aren’t aware.  Like when I went to see one of the deans at my college to try to sort out some academic issues and he ended up helping me avoid failing out of school, a fact I didn’t discern until the crisis had already passed.  Or when we look back at our lives and see, in hindsight, that an event or situation was a line of demarcation, as Mac calls it.  I think that there may be more of these than we think, but that it’s often easier to identify them in hindsight than when we are living through it, because life-changing events can overwhelm us very quickly.  Of course, an unexpected (or even an expected) death is usually a very clear line of demarcation. But, as I know Mac will discover as she progresses through the story of the Fever series, there are others, and sometimes they come very fast, while at other times, these lines make themselves known more slowly.  And how we handle the accrual of these lines within our own world determines how we’ll live our lives.

These lines of demarcation can become prison bars, and keep us stuck in one place.  Or they can become the markings on the road we continue to travel, providing guidance and direction. It’s up to us how we respond to life-changing events.  We can cling to the past and wish it weren’t so.  Or we can embrace the new reality and adjust ourselves to it. As Barrons would remind us, it’s our choice.

Delusions and Denial

You know what it is. You know you've experienced it. Maybe. For sure you know lots of other people who suffer from this particular malady. I'm talking about denial. That state of being that isn't just a river in Egypt. The worst thing about denial is that it is the one mental weakness or deficiency or defect, or whatever you want to call it, that works hard to convince us that it isn't real, or, at least, doesn't apply to us. Kind of like the fact that Americans hate Congress but like their own Congressman. It makes no sense, of course, for so many of us to feel that way. But we do. Cause we're all living in denial.  Denial is all about the stories we tell ourselves until we believe our own bullshit. I was reminded about how powerful a force denial can be when I read the continuation of Jim and Dali's story in Night Shifts, one of the best anthologies I've read in a long time. Jim and Dali live in the world of Kate Daniels, who, in turn, is the creation of the very talented Ilona Andrews. In the story, Dali, a shapeshifter who transforms into a white tiger, is in love with Jim, the Alpha of the cat clan. Dali has convinced herself that Jim would never consider her a suitable mate because she is not a good fighter. She's convinced herself that it could never work because of her gentle nature and aversion to violence. She spends a large part of the story repeating this supposed truth from a number of different angles.  She did a good job of convincing me.

But then we find out—spoiler alert—that her view of herself is colored so deeply by denial that her perspective is wholly alien to Jim's. He doesn't see her as a liability. He sees her strength and determination. He also sees a big-ass cat that can do more damage to an opponent just by sitting on him than a more aggressive, but smaller and weaker cat could ever hope to achieve. Moreover, where Dali sees her magic as useless, Jim believes it's a game changer. Again, Dali is so blinded by denial she can't see the forest for the ocean. Cause there is no ocean—it's a figment of her denial and the stories she's told herself for so long that they have become ground truth.

My favorite story about the stories we tell ourselves involves my mother (and I love this story so much that all my friends and family are thoroughly tired of hearing it!). For years and years my mother maintained that we had a Christmas tree for only one year during my growing up. She claimed that she tried it once and then she felt her Jewish mother rolling in her grave and never got another tree. This story was in direct conflict with my memories of many years of beautifully decorated trees. One of us was clearly lying to ourselves. My mother worked assiduously to convince me that I was crazy. She almost succeeded. I definitely doubted myself. I almost caved and began to believe her and not my own memories. Have you ever seen the movie "Gaslight"? Anyway, the glorious end to this story is that we discovered a huge trove of photos we didn't realize we had. Guess what the pictures showed—in denial-proof full-color prints?  Years and years of my brother and I posing in front of our Christmas trees—with him and me getting older and taller every year.  You can't imagine how validating that was for me. I wasn't the one telling myself crazy stories that had no bearing on reality, she was. Yippee!! On the other hand, I’m sure that I was busy telling myself other stories.

We've all been in denial to some degree or another at some point or points in our lives. It happens to some of us perhaps less than others, but absolutely no one is immune.  Here's the thing about denial, though, that actually makes me quite nervous:  how do we know we're in denial when we're in denial?  This is something I think about a lot. Clearly, we don't know what we don't know. And we don't know that we're in denial about until we wipe the sand out of our eyes. So I worry that I may think I'm a queen bee, but really I'm a wannabe. I worry that I think this blog is good and worthwhile and it really will take off eventually, but maybe I'm just fooling myself.  I worry that I believe I can write a book that someone will want to publish and that more than one someone wants to read, but maybe I'm living in Egypt after all. 

How can we know whether the stories we tell ourselves are total crap or not?  How do we know if we're full of shit? We get invested in a story and then we don't want to let it go, even if it's a bad story. We cherry pick and choose the facts that fit our fantasy lives. We tell ourselves the same things so often that we come to believe them. We ridicule others (in our heads) whose realities don't conform to ours. We accept the unacceptable by telling ourselves that we have no choice, which is just another story we tell ourselves. We rationalize and we justify. We create whole worlds in our heads that have absolutely no resemblance to reality.

Denial is an insidious problem.  We need to be vigilant in guarding against it and rooting it out.  If we’re lucky, someone will help us to see the error of our ways and we will come to accept reality. Then, we are able to see past our delusions and understand a more objective reality-- i.e. one that others can subscribe to as well. Like when Dali is finally able to see herself through Jim's eyes and realize that the stories she'd been telling herself about herself were completely inaccurate.  As I often find, there is a lot of truth in fantasy, and there are some fascinating shapeshifters out there who are only too happy to teach us. So, let’s all try to take our heads out of the sand and stick them in a book instead. 

I See You

I feel like Christopher Columbus.  Or Galileo.  OK, maybe not so much, but I feel like shrieking “Eureka!” Although I don’t plan to run screaming from my bathtub in the altogether. To what do I owe my happiness?  I’ve discovered a new author.  And I love her already.  She’s funny and clever and the premise is original—just when I started to think that there was nothing new under the sun, no new worlds that someone else has built that I can explore.  But there is, and there are.  And Lisa Shearin is a real find.  The first book in a series I can’t wait to read (the second book, The Dragon Conspiracy comes out in two weeks, the first book is The Grendel Affair, and I saw on her website that she’s promising a third entry by the end of 2015!) The heroine of Ms. Shearin’s world is Makenna Fraser.  Yes, another Mac to know and love.  She isn’t really anything like MacKayla Lane, except that she is spunky and real, and that is OK.  Oh, she shares one other trait with MacKayla Lane—she’s a seer.  MacKayla Lane is a sidhe-seer, and Mackenna Fraser is more of a pan-being seer, but they both see.  And this got me to thinking.  Always a dicey proposition, I know.

So, what I was thinking is, what does it mean to be a seer?  What does it mean to see someone or something? Seeing is a powerful phenomenon.  We have so many adages related to sight and seeing.  “Seeing is believing.”  “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” “Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.” “What we see depends mainly on what we look for.”  I could go on, but I won’t, as you can probably see what I’m saying (pun intended).  So this idea of Makenna Fraser (and the other Mac, too), being able to “see” behind the glamours (mask/veils) that supernatural beings adopt to hide themselves from others, is very interesting.

What would it be like for someone to see through what we don't want people to see-- through make up, clothes, the attitudes we mask ourselves with, and through the personas we adopt, depending on who we are with, or who we want to be in a given situation?  I don’t think I’d like that at all. For example, when I’m rocking my tough businesswoman persona, I would hate to think that the person I am meeting with could see through my hard-nosed confidence to the part of me that wonders whether I can really pull this off. And God forbid the world at large should see me without my makeup—I feel naked when I run out of the house without it.  And we’ve all heard the saying that “clothes make the man.” Clothes make a woman, too, not to mention accessories. We wear our jewelry and our designer handbags as symbols of status and wealth.  We put together our outfits with the express purpose of creating an impression in those who see us.  We want people to see our outsides—not the stuff they are covering up.

And what about the opposite phenomenon?  Don’t we want people to see in us the things we see in ourselves that make us proud.? But so often, no one seems to see the quiet heroism that it takes to just get out of bed in the morning and face another day. They don’t see the casual generosity and the quotidian kindnesses that we leave behind us in our wake.  Or worse, maybe they do see, but it doesn’t register, and all of our qualities are just so much white noise. That may be the hardest thing.

Has anyone ever said to you, “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you?”  Usually, although certainly not always, that is a compliment.  Because oftentimes, the way we see ourselves is so very skewed.  There is even a clinical name for this—dysmorphia—when the image we see reflected back at us is so distorted as to be unrecognizable. It can be so hard for some of us to see our own beauty, and value and intrinsic worth.  We don’t see the success, just the failure.  We don’t see the good, just the bad. We don’t see the sufficiency, just the deficiency.  This is why we need people who love and care for us—to act as mirrors that reflect back their loving image to us, and help us to see ourselves in their eyes.

Is there a such a thing as a seer in reality?  I think so, yes. There are people out there who have the gift of sight.  We’ve all met them—the person who seems to see into our souls when we first meet; the person who looks into our eyes and we know, instantaneously, that they’ve been able to pierce our glamours, like Mac does in Lisa Shearnin’s books, and see beyond the masks we present to the world.

And the existence of seers in reality begs the question of whether we all have the potential to be seers at some level or another. Can we all make the effort to really look and really see? Yes, I believe so.  So, why don’t we?  Are we afraid of what we will see?  Are we afraid of the intimacy involved when we truly see one another? Have you ever tried to spend quality time looking into someone else’s eyes?  It’s actually quite hard, and the urge to look away is almost overwhelming.  But it’s a worthwhile endeavor—to look, to see, to have vision. It’s better to go through life with eyes wide open, rather than eyes wide shut. It’s better to aspire to being like Mac—both of them—and to see, rather than to remain shrouded in darkness.  Go ahead.  I see you.

Practice Makes Perfect

New Year’s is a time to make resolutions, or, for me, to set intentions. It is a time of new beginnings and of endless possibilities. Most of these have to do with accomplishing a goal, like writing a book (my goal for 2015!), or losing weight, or finding love, or getting a degree.  And many have to do with adopting good habits. Which begs the question, why are good habits so hard to have and to hold onto?  For me, it's a function of being able (or not) to design and maintain routines and practices. Some people enjoy routine and the control it brings. Others prefer spontaneity, adventure and serendipity (otherwise known as surprises). I’m a spontaneous kind of gal, as you may have guessed, and I have a majorly rebellious streak when it comes to routine and persistent practices. I hate doing what is expected of me.  Even when the expectations are generated by none other than yours truly.

This dichotomy between routine and spontaneity was illustrated in the latest Dragon Kin book, Light My Fire.  G.A. Aiken is a master of characterization, and even minor characters are well drawn.  Light My Fire introduces two relatively minor (so far) characters, Brother Magnus and Talan, the half-human, half-dragon Prince of the Southlands. When the book begins, Magnus is slogging through the mind-numbing, soul-sucking routine of being a cloistered monk in a remote monastery. Boh-ring! And then he spies his friend, Talan, who has been a fellow monk for years, slipping out the side door of the monastery. When Talan tells Magnus that he's leaving, never to return, and invites Magnus to join him in his adventures, Magnus hesitates only a moment and then he's all in. Magnus can't wait to get the hell out of Dodge and embrace the exhilaration of uncharted waters. Made me think about how much I like to shake it up and shake it off, despite my antipathy for Ms. Swift.

So, what can we make of these disparate, though related thoughts?  Plenty, that's for sure.  Routine is boring. Doing the same thing day after day, year after year is difficult, if not impossible. It's monotonous and makes me, like Magnus, run screaming from the room. I totally get it. In fact, when I was in my early twenties, I left a boyfriend almost exclusively because I knew my life with him would be filled with the drudgery of routine and horrors of habit and that my life would be one, seemingly-endless recurring loop till the day I died—Tuesday lunch with the ladies, Friday bridge or Mah Jong, yearly vacations to the same exact places, monthly dinners with the same exact friends, season tickets every season. You can see why I ran screaming from that relationship?  

Well, maybe you can't.  I’m told that there are some folks who actually like it when life is the same day in and day out.  Grocery shopping on Saturdays, house cleaning on Sundays, hamburgers on Tuesdays and family game night on Thursdays. Okie dokey—whatever floats your boat is fine with me. Because for some, a life of secure predictability sounds like heaven. But not for me and Magnus and Talan.

So, here I was, feeling pretty righteous in my preferences and the company I was keeping (Talan is a prince, after all), when I was brought up short by a priestly sermon, no less.  I was at church (not a place you’ll often find me, as I’m not a Christian, but I was with my in-laws who appreciate that I attend), when I heard the preacher talking about rituals leading us to God.  He talked about how tiring it is to be persistent and to do the same things again and again.  The priest made a virtue of monotony and talked about needing strength to not get tired and give up.  He suggested that persistence in the face of sameness is celestial. He had a point.

It takes strength to do whatever it is that we don’t do naturally or comfortably.  If you’re like me and find elation in the unexpected, then routine is challenging. If you prefer the serenity of the mundane, then flexibility is the more demanding task for you. But no matter how much one craves certainty, everyone likes a break in the tedium, a departure from the daily grind.  And that is exactly when we need to remember our resolutions, or intentions. Because good intentions require a commitment to repetition, and a willingness to endure tedium.  All worthwhile practices, like exercise, or journaling, or learning a musical instrument or a new language demand putting in the hours.  I believe it was 10,000 hours to achieve mastery.  10,000—that’s a big number. Way too big for me to contemplate doing more than one at a time.

So, I’ll learn a little from Brother Magnus and Prince Talan and a bit more from the priest’s sermon. I’ll set my New Year’s intentions and hope I can persist in my practices to the point where I see some results for my labors. I’ll stare at that blank page day after day, hoping some words will magically appear in the white space and become my book.  I am reminded of the oft-quoted phrase that writing is more about hard work than inspiration. Personally, I wish the Muse would show up, possess me and be done with it. In the meantime, I’ll try to tame my inner Talan and tolerate the tedium.  Because practice makes perfect. Or something like that.

The Kindness of Strangers

In A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche DuBois declares that she’s always depended on the kindness of strangers.  This is a line my mother enjoyed repeating, and, therefore, it’s a line I’ve pondered over time.  I’m not really sure what Blanche meant, or maybe I am.  But I think I understand what my mother meant. And for the record, I don’t agree.  Shocked, you are, I’m sure.  But it’s an interesting concept, actually, and one I’ve been thinking about a lot recently. And I’m going to digress in the next few paragraphs (more shock, I know), but I promise I’m going to get back to this concept toward the end.

As I continue to look back over the past year, I’ve been thinking about the books I’ve read.  I’ve read some amazing books by well-established authors who I love, love, love, and about whom I’ve written extensively.  And I’ve also read some memorable books by new authors who are less well known. There are four books (or series) in this latter category in particular that I want to talk about: The Light Who Shines, by Lilo Abernathy; Jade, by Rose Montague; The Sanctum Trilogy (The Girl and The Boy, so far), by Madhuri Blaylock; and The Unelmoija series by Elle Boca (including The Dreamshifter and The Mindshifter, which are the two of the four that I have read so far).  All of these books have at least one common theme, despite many differences in the specifics of plot, characterization and world building.

The theme at hand is decency and generosity.  Each of the main characters in each of these books/series confronts adversity and reversals with open hearts, minds and hands.  And the openness of their beings is an important element in defining who they are.  I’ve written about this aspect of these works specifically twice here and here  and more obliquely elsewhere here; here; here; and here .  But now I want to say more about these books and their authors.

I have always assumed that individuals write what they know, on one level or another.  Thus, I believe that Thea Harrison and Nalini Singh know a thing or two about how to have successful relationships between strong-willed individuals. I’ve assumed that Laurell Hamilton understands, in a visceral and meaningful way, what family is, or should be, and what it means to find meaning in the minutiae of life. And I think Charlaine Harris, Jeaniene Frost, and Faith Hunter appreciate the soft underbelly of strong women, that which makes them human, even when they aren’t.  Perhaps I’m wrong about these amazing authors, but I don’t think so, and here’s why.

Over the course of the past nine months, since I began writing this blog, I’ve gotten to know Lilo, Rose, Madhuri and Elle a little bit through social media.  Sounds a little shallow, I know, and I might have thought that myself prior to my recent experiences, but it’s not. When I began my very tentative foray into Twitter, last summer, I made a commitment to putting out one tweet a day. No sooner than I’d started my very basic and bland one tweet a day with my brand new Twitter account (@truthinfantasy), I was discovered by Lilo, who added me to some sort of retweet list, and, boom, my Twitter life was launched in earnest. Shortly thereafter, Rose found me and promoted me to her followers, followed in short order by Madhuri and Elle, who also added me to their inner Twitter circles, retweeting me and favoriting my tweets and blogs, and in doing so, ensuring my success in the Twitterverse.

And the truth is, this was all about what these amazing authors write about:  paying it forward, turning the other cheek, offering the hand of friendship with no expectation of compensation.  These women are just like the characters and themes they write about, and this is why, based on my highly unscientific sampling of four, I am sure I am right about the other others I have read and loved.

I don’t think it’s possible to write books this good and talk the talk so authentically without walking the walk in one’s personal life.  I mean, after all, does it make sense to you that someone like Lilo, Rose, Elle and Madhuri would write about being compassionate in the face of hate, giving in the face of stinginess, and tolerance in the face of close-mindedness if these authors didn’t reflect these higher characteristics of the human condition in their own lives?  Even if these characters and characteristics are aspirational rather than descriptive, I applaud their intentions. I can only hope mine are as pure.

So, back to the kindness of strangers (I promised, didn’t I??)  For Blanche and my mother, the kindness of strangers meant in relying on the intimacy of the one night stand over the intimacy of a long term relationship. It meant the freedom to say and do things you would not otherwise do because there were no consequences of having to face the other person at another time. The kindness of strangers, for Blanche and my mom, was the ability to be all in--for a very finite period of time with no fear of repercussions later because there was no later. There was no disappointment because there were no expectations. There was no betrayal because there was absolutely no context. There was no tuning out because it cost so little to tune in temporarily. So, that is certainly one way to look at it—and then look what happened to Blanche.  Not so pretty (my mom, too, but that is the subject of another post).

But then contrast that with what I mean by the kindness of strangers.  I mean the ability to be generous because it elevates us.  The ability to be open and real because it feeds our souls.  And if we get something back, that’s the icing on the cake. But we don’t need the icing, because we’ve filled up on the spongy, vanilla goodness (I like vanilla better than chocolate, remember?  Here.  My faith in humanity has been validated again by the knowledge that these authors really are like the characters they write about.  And how awesome, amazing and lovely is that?

So, the kindness of strangers is a real thing, not another irony in a sad and pathetic life.  Depending on how you look at it, of course.  And I’m a half full kind of gal, dontcha know? Thank you Lilo, Rose, Elle, and Madhuri.  Write more, please, so I can continue to grow and learn through your work.  And thank you for reaching out the hand of friendship to someone you don’t even know—just because that’s the kind of women you are. Thanks for helping to make 2014 a banner year for me, and I look forward to even better things in 2015. Life is good.