I Want My HEA

I started reading romance novels as a freshman in high school. In retrospect, it probably wasn't my best move. Before I started dating and before anyone explained the facts of life to me (not the birds and the bees, but the realities of male/female interaction), I was influenced in by Fern Michaels, Kathleen E. Woodiwiss and Johanna Lindsey in this arena. Unfortunately, I took the lessons of these wonderful authors to heart and had an extremely warped view of romantic relationships and how romantic love should be expressed. I thought the fantasy was truth. And while you know I believe in truth in fantasy, I missed the memo in my teens and drank the Kool-Aid without any discernment or analysis at all (although I'm trying hard to make up for it now). It must be said that the historical romances I devoured in the 1980s didn't have much in common with the paranormal romances I enjoy today or anything in common with my favorite urban fantasy books. The historical romances I enjoyed featured ultra masculine heroes and beautifully feminine heroines who, according to the formula, don't like each other much and who work hard to fight their mutual attraction and overcome the many obstacles to their love, only to succumb to the inevitable and realize that they are soul mates as they achieve their happily ever after.

The power dynamic was always in favor of the male who always ends up rescuing the woman in some form or other—although, in the same way Julia Roberts assures Richard Gere that the beautiful princess at the end of the story turns around and saves the prince who first saved her—the female protagonist in my romance novels always succeeded in making her man a better person, a la Helen Hunt and the inappropriately older Jack Nicholson in As Good as It Gets. Given the mutual salvation, one could avoid thinking that these novels might have been written by Bobby Riggs. By the same token, no one would inadvertently credit their authorship to Billie Jean King, either.  

My love of reading brainwashed me at an early age to expect, erroneously,  that real men—the kind to whom a young woman like me would be attracted—didn't always want to acknowledge or act on their hidden love for the young woman in question. I also expected that there would be impediments to our love and that it was okay to be involved in relationships with extreme power imbalances where I was always in the weaker position.  I read it in bestselling books, after all.

I made some abysmally poor choices based partially on these romance-novel-inspired beliefs. But at least these books were straightforward and explicit in the messages they promulgated: women need men to save them or complete them and to just cuddle with them. No man = no happily ever after.  And I didn’t want my life to be a losing equation. Clearly, these authors were unaware of the new paradigm where a woman needs a man as much as a fish needs a bicycle. Apparently, those fish are in serious need of some pedal pushers.  

Fast forward to about six years ago, when I fist discovered Sookie Stackhouse in Charlaine Harris' Southern Vampire world. I fell in love with Sookie and her fierce independence. I loved that she didn't just melt at the feet of the first vampire who came a’ calling. She remained her own person and stayed true to her values and beliefs. Sookie was my hero.  Then I was introduced to Anita Blake, and while it may not have been love at first sight, our relationship grew into a strong and lasting one (at least on my side). Anita kicked butt and took names. She was glorious.

But there was one small problem—while Sookie and Anita were busy being themselves and resisting the temptation to become the willing love slaves of Vampire Bill and Eric Northman or Richard and Jean-Luc, I was berating my poor husband for not being more like my fantasy lovers—Bill, Eric, and Jean-Luc (I was never on Team Richard, sorry, he was way too conflicted—I have more than enough angst for all of us). Instead of internalizing the best way to maintain my own power in potentially imbalanced relationships, or how to be true to myself despite being head-over-heels in lust/love, or aspiring to strap knives to my wrists and thighs, I was pining for males who do not and cannot exist outside the pages of my next generation romances. Wow, I guess I missed the memo again. 

Not to mention that my husband got rightly and truly annoyed by my constant comparisons of him to males who aren't real.   He did not appreciate being forced to read Dark Lover by J.R. Ward and encouraged to take notes so that he could learn how I wanted to be treated (I still think that J.R. Ward, Kresley Cole, Thea Harrison and Nalini Singh should be required reading for all men with female partners, as I've written about here, but I digress). He reminded me, none too gently (although it's possible I may have deserved the brusque delivery), that it's easy to be perfect within the pages of a book, for the finite amount of time I will spend with my fantasy lover (which of course reminds me of the memorable novel, Fantasy Lover, by Sherilyn Kenyon, where the male protagonist literally comes to life from a book and exists only to pleasure the woman who called him forth—but we can talk about that later – during my husband’s next trip).

I know my husband is right though, and it seems impossible that these protagonists not only get their happily ever after, but that their HEAs last for hundreds or thousands of years, as all of these characters are immortal.  In my real marriage, with my real (and wonderfully amazing, saint-like) husband, it's been a challenge to keep the spark alive for only two decades. I cannot imagine the effort required within a monogamous relationship that last centuries. More power to 'em, but my expectations may have been just a tiny bit inflated by reading about these fabulous vampires, werewolves and faeries at such an impressionable age (like, say, 45).

So the take-away here is that perhaps I'm too susceptible to the truth in the fantasy books I read—or maybe it’s the fantasy I’m a sucker for. I certainly was when I was 15, and apparently I still am at 50. I'm a bit more self-aware these days, but I need to stay on my guard. Because I want my HEA, the hell with my MTV. 

True North

I've already written a bit about the series I'm reading, Bella Forrest’s A Shade of Vampire, and the sharp moral compass of the female protagonist, Sophia. For an 18-year-old, Sophia is incredibly self-possessed and oozes integrity.  These two characteristics, along with her certainty about who she wants to be in life, inform all of her decisions.  As I was reading about her, I couldn't help but wonder if this particular trope was more fantasy than truth. Do most people –especially those who are so young—have this absolute a moral compass? When we talk about doing the right thing, don't many of us need a burning bush to show us the way?  In a landscape of infinite grey, does black and white always stand out the way we think it should?  Could it be that we know the difference between right and wrong as clearly as Sophia — but that we don't always want to acknowledge it?

As I was getting into Sophia’s head—via the multiple first person accounts that Ms. Forrest uses in her novels—I was struck by how confident Sophia was about her views of right and wrong. Sure, she had moments of doubt, but they seemed to last only seconds, not the days or weeks of angst I'm used to when faced with difficult choices or moral quagmires. Morality and virtue are tricky things, and I think most people fall into one of two camps—absolutists or relativists.  In theory, I can posit a reality in which absolute truth exists, but in the non-theoretical version, I just can't see it.  Which makes knowing the difference between right and wrong more difficult to discern. Or admit.

When I was 21-years old, I went to Israel for a year. Through an unplanned series of events, I ended up working for a private detective agency as an undercover agent. Yes, really. My job was to pose as an American volunteer on various kibbutzim (collective living communes) and discover whether the residents, mostly younger members, were using and/or distributing narcotics. It was a pretty cool job, I thought, and I was sure it was right up my alley, as I'd grown up wanting to work for the CIA. Turns out, I was well suited to the task and good at the work. But something wasn't right.  Although it took longer than it should have to realize the problem —because I didn't really want the answer.

You see, in order to do my work, I had to lie to people I came to like and respect. And a couple of times, I had to betray their trust and report on illegal—although not necessarily immoral—activities. At first, I was conflicted and confused. But finally, I was able to ask myself a question young Sophia understood well before I did: who did I want to be? Did I want to be a liar, even if it was professionally sanctioned and lying meant I was just doing my job? Did I want to turn on people with whom I'd shared meals? People who confided in me and let me into their lives (although unwittingly under false pretenses)? The answer to all of these questions was a clear "no."  But that clarity took some time to manifest.

When we allow our desired identity to dictate our behavioral choices, we can usually achieve our moral goals. If we want to be women and men of integrity, by my definition, we must strive to be honest, generous, tolerant, compassionate and kind. We don't lie, cheat or steal. We are not mean. Our word is worthy. Our commitments have weight.  We do not cheapen ourselves by approaching life as a dilettante. We are clear about our own values and we live them. But none of this is easy. And often, it's not much fun.

As I’m reading about the scrupulous Sophia, I'm watching one of my sons struggle to figure out what Sophia is so sure of. He has a girlfriend he really likes, but I don’t. I think she’s throwing off his moral compass, because, from my (admittedly biased) perspective, her actions have led my son to do some things I wish he hadn't. So I asked him the same questions I ask myself with respect to all of my relationships:  do you like who you are in relation to this person? Are you happy with the choices you're making as a result of your involvement with him or her?

These are questions we all have to answer for ourselves. Honestly. Because it's one thing if my son decides to lie to me about this girlfriend and his relationship with her; it’s another issue entirely if he's lying to himself.  All of us lie to ourselves at times, but I’ve found I’ve become more self aware with age. I was all about the rationalizations when I was younger. I find it harder to fool myself these days.

All of us want what we want when we want it. And it's a major bummer when our moral codes interfere with our perceived pursuit of happiness. But one thing I've learned since I was 21 is that the pursuit of pleasure and instant gratification is not the same thing as happiness. I don't believe we can be truly happy when we are morally bankrupt, or even just deficit spending. And our underlying unhappiness comes out in all sorts of ways—including bad moods and self-destructive behavior. Somewhere, we know right from wrong, even when we don't admit it to ourselves. Even when the bush is merely smoking.

It would be great if all of us had internal moral compasses that pointed toward True North without fail. And if we demanded that our values align with our personal Polaris at all times. And if we agreed on common values. Alas, I've not encountered these conditions on this plane of existence. Maybe in the next world. Or an alternate Universe.

For today, I'll continue to admire paranormal fantasy heroines like Sophia, and continue to strive to make the best choices I can, based on the person I want to be. And I'll try to teach my children to do the same, although I understand that exhorting my son to be more like Sophia is not a winning parental strategy, so I’ll probably restrain myself. The truth is that we all stray sometimes from the moral straight and narrow because True North is not always visible.

A Bridge Too far

Some months ago I had the privilege of being asked to beta reader the second offering in the Bluebell Kildare series by Lilo J. Abernathy. It was a new experience for me, and one I enjoyed and hope to repeat. At the time, Lilo was primarily seeking comments on the plot progression and character development. One of the questions she asked her beta readers concerned how far she could take the actions of one of her characters before that character became too "unlikable" in the minds of her readers. It was a fascinating question--and an astute one. In contemplating the answer for Lilo, I was reminded about other books where this phenomenon occurred and how the authors handled it.

Another author who grapples explicitly with this question is Bella Forrest. Her series is not my usual fare, and is quite different in many respects from Lilo Abernathy’s series, but some of the central questions are the same. In the Shade of Vampire series, Derek, a 500-year-old vampire, struggles to contain his predatory nature and control his impulses to kill and destroy human lives for the sake of his beloved, Sophia—who is mortal. Another issue for the couple is the need to come to terms not only with his choices in the present day, but also with his past actions—the ones he cannot change, but which make Sophia cringe. Derek has done some horrible things over the course of his life--and he'd actually slept for the vast majority of his existence, so who knows how many more poor choices and dirty deeds he would have executed if he'd been awake for the whole time?

Sophia, our teenaged heroine, has a particularly well-developed moral compass for a such a young woman. She's in love with Derek, who has been nothing but wonderful to her, but she is fully aware of his darker vampire nature, and she is conflicted about all that he's done and still might do. She wonders if she's fallen for a monster. So do I. 

This is a common theme in much of paranormal fantasy. It's hard to posit a centuries-long lifespan and not include a history of misdeeds and callous choices. Life has not always been as easy as it is in twenty-first century developed countries and the arbiter of moral choices was likely different in the Middle Ages, before running water, electricity, and IPhones.  So, choices that were made when slavery was an accepted aspect of life (like, say, in Jesus' time), take on a different ethical timbre in light of the social mores and accepted practices of the era.

But what about more clearly defined moral choices?  As I'm reading A Shade of Vampire on my Kindle, I'm listening (still!) to J. R. Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood series on Audible. I'm up to Lover Avenged—Rehvenge's story. Rehvenge is a drug dealing bookie pimp--not to put too fine a point on it. He routinely engages in acts of depravity. How is Ms. Ward going to reconcile that with him getting his HEA? I won't spoil it for you, but you know he does, so it's an interesting question. One thing J. R. Ward does better than anyone, though, is to get into the heads of all her characters so we can identify with the humanity there, and relate to even the most morally challenging characters. Which is how she makes it work. Lilo Abernathy does an excellent job in this arena as well, making potentially unlikable characters—or at least characters who do unlikeable things—relatable.

Another example of this phenomenon is found in Kresley Cole's Immortals After Dark series. I had trouble with this one, because the actions of one of the villains Ms. Cole transforms into a romantic hero go over the line, even for me—and I'm inclined to forgive my fantasy characters quite a lot. As the series progresses, it turns out that one of the bad guys is the long-lost love of one of the heroines. As a result of their love, he comes to see the error of his ways, but those ways were horrific. I just couldn't go there, no matter how sorry he was or how much he loved his mate. I couldn't overcome my revulsion at what he'd done. 

But that was the exception, not the rule. Most of the time, if the female protagonist can forgive the tarnished hero, so can I. Mostly because I want to believe that love heals and changes people for the better. I also want to believe that when two people are committed to making it work, it usually does.

In others, the impropriety is a bridge too far, and there is no going back. These are the waters that authors must navigate between their own convictions and attachments to the characters they create and the need to garner empathy for their creations on the part of their readers. It can be tricky. For example, a lot of readers clearly prefer female characters with little or no previous sexual experience as mates for their über alpha males (most of whom have had plenty of willing women). This is a trope that burns my butt, but I'm guessing that these tendencies reflect the majority opinion out there about the relative acceptability of multiple partners for men and women. I've written about how I feel about that here, and once again, Kresley Cole is the exception to that rule.

In the end, the question of how bad is too bad and how far is too far is in the eye of the beholder. Most of the time, most authors get it right for most readers. But there is no such thing as making everyone happy all of the time. So accomplished authors, like Lilo Abernathy, will continue to grapple with these questions while they ply their craft and shape their drafts and work to find a way to walk the line between realistic fantasy and characters who behave in a morally acceptable manner. Tough stuff, for sure.

It's Not You, It's Me

I'm still thinking about the latest offering in Katie MacAlister's Dragon series, Dragon Fall. The title refers to the male protagonist, Kostya, a proud Black Dragon, and leader of his Sept, who's been used and abused by a former flame and has sworn off women in any sort of serious capacity. In other words, he's got commitment issues. So when our heroine, Aiofe (EE-fuh), falls for the Black Dragon, he is determined not to fall for her. This, of course, creates a challenge that many women couldn't resist. I know. I used to be one of them. 

"It's not you, it's me."  I don't know how many times I've heard that line, or some variation. Conversely, I can't count how many times I've used it to offer a nice but unsuitable guy a "soft landing" and the salvation of a bit of face. And because I've used the line so often, I know that everyone who uses those words has incredibly brown eyes. You know, from being mired in the shit. So when I've heard these syllables pass the lips of a man I liked and wanted, it's made me sad. And then it made me mad. And then it made me think. Uh oh. You know what that leads to...

Have any of you ever seen the 1958 film Indiscreet, with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman?  No?  Run, don't walk. A funny, charming and very entertaining movie. Anyway, the central tenet of the story is that Cary Grant is a bachelor who pretends to be married and unable to get a divorce. Why, you may ask. Because, he explains, if he were to tell women that he won't get married, they will simply redouble their efforts to ensnare him in matrimony. When he tells them he is married and can't possibly get a divorce, they don't even try. Sneaky, huh? It's not you, it's him. Sure it is. 

Why do women want men who don't want them? I am convinced that if my first fiancé hadn't refused to marry me for so many years we would have broken up much earlier and I could have spared myself years of suffering.  But no, he had been married once, it hadn't ended well, and he was determined to avoid making the same mistake twice. So what happened, you may wonder. Well, I'll tell you even if you don't: two months after we decided to get married (and I say it this way because he never actually asked me--he told our mothers that we were thinking of getting married later that year--and the whole thing kind of snowballed from there), I decided that I didn't want to marry him after all. In the end, I just wanted him to want to marry me. 

On the surface, this is not a story that speaks well of my character. But I wasn't a duplicitous or malicious person. I was simply (and sadly) clueless about myself, my wants and my needs.  At the time, I didn't know myself at all. I was quite lost. And while I didn't treat my fiancé too well, that probably made us even, so we'll chalk the whole thing up to interpersonal skills that were egregiously lacking on both sides. Takes two to tango, after all. 

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the one with commitment issues was me. So it was true, ironically enough, it really was me, not him. In that case. But, simultaneously, it was him and not me, too. There are lots of men who push women away, and there is no shortage of women who love them. There are books written on the subject, so it must happen quite a bit, and not just in fantasy novels. 

What does it say about a woman when she continually goes after men who are not available either emotionally or for other reasons?  Nothing good for her, that's for sure. Usually it indicates some serious deficiencies in the woman's self-esteem department. Women who pursue men who reject them often feel as if they (the women) don't deserve love and loyalty. We believe we aren't good enough to "get" a man, so we create self-fulfilling prophesies to ensure that we don't.   

Some women (but not me, thankfully) pursue (or accept) married men--perhaps on the grounds that they believe they don't deserve a man of their own, or they don't deserve to be the main event. Those situations are always tragic and rarely end well (I've never understood why a woman would want a man who's left another woman for her--if he can leave one woman, he can leave another--but I'm told by a good friend that I'm wrong about this--I hope so, for her sake). Falling in love with a married man is the epitome of becoming emotionally attached to someone who is unavailable at the most concrete level possible. Some of us are more subtle than that. Or more in denial, a concept with which I am well acquainted. 

For me, it was important--apparently--to believe that the commitment issues were all my boyfriends' problem--it took a long time for me to realize I was the one with the ring phobia--which was why I kept choosing men committed to staying uncommitted.  As long as I could blame someone else for my inability to make it down an aisle or to an altar, I could delude myself that I was desperate to be a wife and mother and assume the mantle of domestic goddess for the rest of my days and it was only that the men I picked wouldn't put a ring on it. 

In the end, it took finding and falling for the love of my life to smack some self awareness into my head and start to help me get over myself.  Love is a powerful motivator, and, as it was for Kostya in Katie MacAlister's fun tale, the stubborn are no match for true love. Dragons fall and so did I. Thankfully. 
 

Gal Pals and Other Necessities

I just spent a long weekend with one of my childhood friends to celebrate our 50th birthdays. Yes, I'm still celebrating and I don't want to hear any guff about it—and I'll tell you why. First, I respectfully disagree with another of my friends who believes that the mere fact of meeting this milestone as a privileged American female who's had every conceivable opportunity is not necessarily worth celebrating. It is. For me, it's more than important to mark and rejoice in every happy life event because, God knows, life delivers more than enough adversity to each of us. We should glom onto life’s joyful occasions like chocolate frosting clings to the tops of cupcakes. All that gooey goodness should be savored against the time when our mouths fill with the ashes of failure, loss and despair. Because the bad stuff will come, sure as the earth will continue to rotate on its axis and the sun will rise tomorrow.

 So, back to my weekend with an amazing woman who is literally changing the world. This was the last of my trips to spend quality time with my lifelong friends looking back on how far we've come, how much we've been through together and taking the time to appreciate the gift that these strong, lasting friendships are.  And because I'm me, I couldn't help but relate my band of ‘besties’ to the many tightly knit bands of brothers in the paranormal fantasy books that I love almost as much as my sisters of the heart. Except that my delightful daydream was disconcertingly interrupted by the realization that there are some disturbing differences between my reality and my fantasy books. 

One difference on my side of the fact/fiction divide is that I can't truthfully characterize my small group of friends as a pack. It's true that all of these women know each other, and most of us grew up together attending the same school for most of elementary and high school. And we've been through many of each other's life events together and they've all shared each of my major milestones where they are coerced into camaraderie for my sake,  including my wedding, baby shower and the funerals of my parents. None of these women actually like each other, however. Their only real common denominator is that they love me. So they tolerate each other for my benefit, but would never seek each other out as independent friends. This makes things hard for me, as there are no fun-filled collective gatherings. Which is sad for me, but I've long accepted the way it is.

But the other major difference between my experiences and those I read about in my beloved fantasy books is that almost without exception (the one stand-out being Kresley Cole's Immortals After Dark series), when my fantasy authors give us para-familial groups of vampires, werewolves and other supernatural creatures who live, love and fight together, providing support and strength to each other as my friends do for me, they are always male. Several examples spring to mind.

At the top of the heap we have JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood and Karen Marie Moning's mysterious Nine (not to mention the MacKeltars in the same Fever series). Then there are Lara Adrian's Midnight Breed warriors, Katie MacAlister's variously colored Dragons, Dragos' Sentinals in Thea Harrison's Elder Races series (there is a token female in the group, but she's a Harpy, which, by definition, makes her a bitch who holds herself aloof from the group of guys). I could go on, but I think you get the point.  

What I find somewhat surprising about these testosterone-fueled friendship fests is that in my experience it's women who pursue and nurture these kinds of relationships, not men. It's almost as if all of these authors, who are uniformly women, have transferred the intimacy and unwavering loyalty that I've seen among female friends to their groups of imaginary males. Now, it is true that men who fight together over time and live through intense circumstance form especially tight bonds, so it's not as if this phenomenon is unknown in the real world. So I don't have a problem, per se, that we are offered these groups of connected male characters who are tailor-made to form the basis for an ongoing series where each one in turn finds a life mate and whose journey to their HEA is the basis for the plot for the books in the series.

There is nothing wrong with highlighting male bonding. What's missing for me in this genre, at least as a gross generalization, is the dearth of comparable female relationships. In fact, much of the time in the series listed above, the poor female protagonists are forced to leave their previous lives behind to cleave to their supernatural soul mates and learn to make new friends among the mates of their boyfriend's brothers. Seems unfair. Not to mention an opportunity squandered to showcase the deep love and profound bonding that gal pals can achieve over a lifetime. Such lifelong friends could serve to anchor our female protagonists in their essential selves as they embark on the not inconsequential task of adjusting to having life as they know it irrevocably upended (usually by falling I love with an über alpha male who happens to belong to a paranormal species the woman had no idea existed prior to their meeting). Wouldn't it be nice if these ladies had their peeps behind them to catch them when they faint from shock? But no, the arms that usually catch our erstwhile heroines belong to their male loves—which makes these women all the more dependent on their men for support.

As much as I love and adore my husband of 20 years, who is not only my life partner, lover, co-parent and friend, I still need my girlfriends. These women nurture aspects of my being that would wither and die without their specific brand of love and support. Not to mention that I would hate to burden my husband with the care and feeding of all the different aspects of my personality and my soul that exist. That could overwhelm even my most devoted of mates.

So, all you writers who are my rock stars, perhaps you would consider illuminating this element of reality and injecting this truth into your fantasy. It might be worthwhile. It certainly makes my life richer and more fulfilling.
 

You Can't Fix Crazy

I've just finished the latest offering in Katie MacAlister's dragon shifter series, Dragon Fall. Sometimes it's hard to read a new book in a series when I read its predecessors a while ago, but it was fun nevertheless. A major plot element in this novel has to do with the female protagonist, Aoife (pronounced EE-fuh) being committed to an asylum because she claimed to witness a supernatural event (she did) Which she was told made her crazy and in need of treatment (which she wasn’t). Unfortunately, I could relate.  

In the past, I've questioned my own sanity. And had others question it as well. Not my best memories. The depth of this line of inquiry usually relates to our self-confidence, self-esteem, and the amount of influence those who believe that our mental hygiene could use a bath exert on us. This is not to say that authentic mental illness doesn't exist, or that anything bad happened to me as a result of being forced into therapy. I'm a big fan of therapy. However, benefiting from therapy and having people think you are a wing nut are two entirely different things. One is okay and one is definitely not okay. Poor Aiofe spends two years learning how to convince others that she isn’t crazy and can be trusted on the outside.  Being told you are crazy when you’re not can actually make you crazy. 

I'm pretty sure I've told you the story of my mother and the Christmas trees. In a nutshell, she claimed we'd had only one tree—ever. I remembered years' worth of trees. She insisted I was insane and that I made up stories. I insisted she was the whack job, but, in truth, there was a tiny worm of doubt in the back of my mind that whispered, ‘I could be wrong and she might be right’.  It was a very small voice, but despite the low decibels, it served to undermine my confidence—what little I had after being raised by a narcissist. So, flash forward about 30 years, and imagine my intense satisfaction at finding irrefutable photographic proof that completely vindicated me. Cue the happy dance.  

Above and beyond the pleasure I felt in besting my nemesis—I mean my mother—there was also the deep relief of being 100% positive that I hadn't lost my mind. This is always good to have confirmed. But this vindication led me to wonder why there are those who are bound and determined to convince others that they're nuts.  

Because, like Claude Rains and Ingrid Bergman in the movie classic Gaslight, and also in Katie MacAlister's Dragon Fall, when one person is trying to convince another that he or she is crazy, there's usually a reason. For Claude and Ingrid, it had to do with hidden treasure. With Aoife and her family, the reason was more benign, but the outcome was still devastating. For Mommie Dearest and me, it was all about power and control.

All of us like to be right. When we are right, we feel we're in control. And while control is a specious concept, humans continue to seek it like missiles seek the heat of engines. For some of us less secure folks, being right is often a zero sum game, so that our being right automatically makes someone else wrong. At which point the whole exercise degenerates into a power struggle, like when a parent catches a child (or even another adult) in an obvious lie and confronts the liar with impregnable logic at which point the liar starts hurling stories like spaghetti against a wall, hoping something will stick. It rarely does. But no matter how ridiculous and convoluted the liar’s blather is, no matter how red-handed they are caught, they give no quarter and will admit to no wrongdoing. It's something to behold. Frustrating as hell, in fact because we both know the truth, but only one will acknowledge it.

Some, like my mother, take this phenomenon to the extreme and actually begin to believe their own bullshit. This level of denial is just not pretty. But there are those ugly souls who prefer to offer up our sanity on the altar of their inability to admit they are wrong or apologize. Or even just acknowledge a mistake, forget the mea culpa. It's very difficult to deal with these people.  

And then there are those who will apologize, but not without doing an excellent imitation of having teeth pulled. Why?  What does it cost us to say—out loud—that we are wrong?  Or we didn't know?  Or we need freaking directions? What is up with men and directions anyway?  But I digress (I'm getting better about that—have you noticed?). Again, it all goes back to power and control and, honestly, how sad is that?

Personally, I pride myself on my willingness to admit to ‘asshatery’ (it really should be a word) early and often.  On the other hand, I've been known to be as guilty of digging in my heels as the next guy (and I do mean guy) when I feel threatened or insecure. In those situations I will go to great lengths to be right, channeling my inner Spock to defend my positions. Given my messed up upbringing, I expend far too much energy bolstering my arguments, dotting my I's and crossing my T's.  Just so I can claim the high ground of the righteous. But I can, and do, admit when I'm wrong. Most of the time.

So there you have it. When we have been the object of a Gaslight campaign, we are willing to pay a lot, figuratively, to ensure our ability to be unassailably correct. Because once our sanity has been questioned, we want to make sure it never happens again (either that or we're male and cannot tolerate being wrong). Any way you slice it, though, you can't fix crazy, so it's definitely something I don't want to be. And I guess I should thank Heaven for small favors that I was never committed to an institution to safeguard someone else's ideas of how things should be. It can always be worse, as Katie MacAlister’s Dragon Fall attests, in the best way possible.

 

 

 
 

Stop, Drop and Roll

I'm enjoying Hour of the Lion, the first of two shapeshifter books by Cherise Sinclair. I've read some of Ms. Sinclair's non-fantasy novels about alternative lifestyles, which are quite good (thank you, Laurell Hamilton. After reading your work I am always open to more variety in my literary life), and so far, her fantasy work does not disappoint.

 One of the central conflicts in Hour of the Lion is an ailing drug kingpin’s desire to co-opt the magic of shapeshifters to cure his degenerative illness. Because Ms. Sinclair's story involves a bad guy coercing magic from unwilling shapeshifters, I'm guessing that he won't get the his HEA, but we shall see. What struck me about this trope was the visceral fear and fundamental lack of acceptance by the drug kingpin of his inevitable decline and eventual demise. I find myself spending more and more time thinking the same type of thoughts, sadly—as the contemplation of deterioration and death is not the most productive or pleasant of pastimes. But I find it increasingly difficult to avoid reminders of sickness and mortality for a variety of disquieting reasons. And while I can certainly relate to his fear, and maybe even his desire for a magical solution to the problems of decreasing quality of life as we head toward the grave, I do know that I don't share the villain’s willingness to go to any length to avoid them. 

I don't watch much TV (too busy reading and writing!) and what I do watch is usually On Demand or recorded so that I can avoid or fast-forward through commercials. So I was surprised anew as I sat in my husband's office the other day and idly turned my attention to the TV screen where he keeps MSNBC on in the background throughout his day to stay informed about markets and world events. So many of the commercials were for medications to treat all manner of nasty diseases. Which got me thinking about other new developments in American life, including ubiquitous cancer centers, dialysis centers, medical imaging places and other evidence that we are far sicker than we used to be. I will forgo an exposition on my personal theories behind the rise of these phenomena—at least for now—and simply say these ads and about locations and medications to treat illness are a constant reminder that decrepitude is right around the corner. According to the commercials I saw,  my physical and cognitive health is in immediate danger of irreversible decline. And the hits just keep on coming.

 I watched my father's health decline as Lou Gherig's disease robbed him of life slowly and painfully. His eventual death was merciful, delivering him from the body that betrayed him. I was grateful that my mother died suddenly and quickly before the last of her dignity was stolen by an inability to live independently. I'm watching my mother's surviving, but rapidly aging, sisters as they progress through their own cycles of disease and decline. It's heartbreaking. I'm left with the unappealing choice of whether it is better for the body or the mind to go first. Sucks any way you think about it.

I want to live to a ripe old age, feeling good and thinking clearly until I drop dead – and I mean this literally, I want to stop, drop and roll belly up in my tracks.  Or, not wake up one morning (with apologies to  to my husband if he is the one trying to wake me). That kind of good life and quick death doesn't seem to happen very often nowadays. One can't go to the doctor without a new diagnosis for which there happens to be some innovative, grossly expensive medication or treatment. I'm not a fan. And all of these reminders – the commercials, the diagnoses, the proliferating hospitals—just feed our fear of our decline toward death—which is exactly what they are designed to do.

Why? Because fear leads to desperation that in turn leads to poor choices. Like the poor course of action the villain in Hour of the Lion initiates when he traps and tortures shapeshifters to learn the secret of their magic. A bad choice that I'm sure won't end well for him. But not too different from some of the choices we make to cling to life at any cost.  We subject ourselves to torturous treatment to stave off the effects of physical and cognitive decline. You don't get anything for nothing in this world (except sometimes love, which is wonderful), and most "healing" modalities come with a very steep price tag in the form of side effects and negative consequences.

To my way of thinking, much of the time, the cure is worse than the disease. And the thought that someone is going to have to change my diapers and feed me to keep me alive – technically at least - is horrifying. The idea that I won't be able to think clearly or express myself anymore is also beyond depressing. Being aware of the slow deterioration of my faculties seems like a fate worse than death. And death seems pretty undesirable too. A no-win situation if ever there was one.

Getting old is not for the fainthearted, but it beats the alternative under certain circumstances.  One way to ruin it call is to suck the joy right out of the present moment by thinking about all the ways that future moments might suck. So, best to just say ‘no’ to the negativity and naysayers. And stop watching commercials. Or reading magazines.  Or looking out the window at a landscape pockmarked by medical facilities. Perhaps spending time in gratitude that such is not my current reality and having some faith that I'll have the wherewithal to deal with whatever gets thrown my way might be the best way to face my (likely) path to infirmity. Without resort to desperate measures or trying to highjack someone else's magic.

 
 

Taking Out the Trash

I'm still enjoying Dead Ice, the latest offering in the Anita Blake series by the inimitable Laurell K. Hamilton. As always, Ms. Hamilton provides a ton of material for my blog. One of Anita's most endearing qualities is her willingness to examine her own stuff and to strive to improve. She has been one of my most insightful teachers because she is willing to look at the ugliness most of us like to avoid. Granted, she can get all up in her head to an annoying degree, but how else can we learn, if not through genuine introspection?  There is some utility to navel-gazing. As we've discussed recently, Anita has killed a lot of bad guys and seen a lot of bad shit. And it's all left its mark on her, both physically and emotionally. She struggles to overcome the trauma that she's survived, and she works hard to avoid taking her troubles out on her loved ones. Anita spends a lot of time sorting through her moods to make sure any anger or irritation is both warranted and aimed at the correct target. She is ruthless about dissecting her own motivations and making midcourse corrections when she realizes that her annoyance at something that seems fairly straightforward is actually masking deeper pain or fury that she doesn't feel safe expressing. Her willingness--and ability--to do this is a mature, sophisticated social and emotional skill set.  I don't know many people who can pull it off, including, most of the time, me. 

The more common truth is ‘misery loves company’.  At least my misery does. I learned this lesson early at the knee of my narcissistic mother who insisted that the rest of the family's moods reflect hers. She had absolutely no boundaries and couldn't discern where she ended and the rest of us began. My mother took the aphorism, "When mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" to new heights…  or depths as the rest of us experienced it.

 I also remember when I caught chicken pox at ten, which is considered late by childhood disease standards. It was intensely uncomfortable, and my mother put the fear of God into me that if I scratched the scabs I'd be disfigured for life. So I coated myself in calamine lotion and cornstarch. I was simply miserable. At night, I crept into my parents' room and slept on a blanket on their floor. When my father asked my mother why I was there, she said, "No one wants to be alone when they are hurting.  Misery loves company." I definitely learned that "lesson."

It was and is true. It's why, when we are in a bad mood, we want to spew our unhappy venom on those around us, as if their good mood was an offense to our black one. Maybe it is. Perhaps our bad moods resent the happiness of others, and we simply want to bring others down to our level. Or is it that making others feel bad makes us feel better.? That is not a pretty truth, but experience lends credence to the theory. Could it be that we simply like to lash out when we are in pain or distress?

I'm not sure what the mechanism is, but anyone who's been around teenagers knows the drill all too well. The teen gets in a mood. Then he notices that no one else is sharing his mood of the moment, and instead they have the unmitigated gaul  of enjoying a good time and not paying homage to the sullen teen. Then said teen goes about working  to change everyone else's mood. Usually, the teen is successful. I'm not sure if the teen is happier, but everyone around him is usually less joyful than they had been.   Sharing the wealth, as it were.

When teenagers leak all over everyone else, it's usually a lack of impulse control. It's a sign of immaturity and signals a dearth of graciousness on someone's part. If the ‘negative emoter’ is older, in my mind, it's an indicator that the person, if they are a grown adult, is selfish. Which is why it is so unfortunate that I, myself, suck so badly in this area. A friend of mine recently told me about an event where she was decidedly unhappy--with the situation and everyone around her. As there was nothing to be done about it, however, she explained to me that she was careful not to spread her bad cheer. She told me, "No one needed to know how upset I was."  And I thought to myself, "Why ever not?"  But I didn't say that, as my friend obviously thought she had done the right thing by protecting those around her from herself. Clearly, this was a philosophy to contemplate.

It turns out there is a lot to be said for restraint of tongue and pen. Who knew? Not me. I not only wear my heart on my sleeve, but I apparently am generous to a fault in this regard as I believe that everyone is entitled to participate in whatever is going on in my head. Self-centered much?  Nah. Really, I think it is just a lack of impulse control. Kind of sad at fifty, but hey it gives me something to work on.   I want to be pleasant. I don't want to ruin events for others or make them  uncomfortable. I don't want to be the bad mood equivalent of sexual harassment--creating a hostile environment for all the unfortunate souls around me.

I don't want to be the one picking fights, being critical, negative, snarky, sarcastic or mean just because I'm irritated or annoyed. Which I am.  A lot. It's tough to be me. But maybe it's tougher to be near me? I want to be like Anita who carries her own bad mood baggage solo.  Or at least she tries to.

And then there is my struggle and striving toward authenticity in all aspects of my life. Hiding my bad moods behind a smile that doesn't reach my eyes and an insincere, "No really, I'm fine!" seems inauthentic and lame. On the other hand, punishing someone for another's crimes (as when I'm annoyed by something at work and take it out on my family at home) is equally unacceptable.

I have no idea how to reconcile this. I guess I'll have to get all up in my head (even more than I am) and poke and prod at my motives to ensure I'm lashing out appropriately versus inappropriately. Seems exhausting. But if Anita can do it, maybe I can too.

The Color of Truth

I'm enjoying the latest Anita Blake book, Dead Ice. Once again, Laurell Hamilton provides me with a trove of topics to think and write about. I am less than 20% into the book, and my mind is already churning. These novels are as much psychological thrillers as paranormal fantasies, and Ms. Hamilton imbues her characters with enough insights to fill several textbooks, although the "education" is delivered in a truly entertaining way. Today's thought experiment is the contemplation of the claim that, "Almost no one is all bad... There are so few true villains, just other screwed-up people who pass the damage on."  Hmmmm... Truth or Fantasy?  That is the question of the day.

I find that Laurell Hamilton always writes truth. I know she's been criticized (by me, in fact) because her books have become increasingly interior, instead of keeping the action on the outside, where we can read about extreme sex and violence, thanks to the paranormal nature of the genre but there is drama in her exploration of her character’s interior/character. Now, no one should diminish the joy of reading about paranormal-level sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. But Laurell Hamilton also explores the psychological ramifications of all that extreme sex and violence. I guess when you've written 28 books about a set of characters, it's impossible to just say, "And then they lived happily ever after."  She asks the question, what does it do to her characters when they kill the bad guys and love the good guys? It all leaves its mark, just as it does with humans.  And it's those scars that she pokes and prods and exposes to satisfy her readers' curiosity – and provide me with a lot of fodder for blog posts. 

Anita Blake is a complicated character; her psyche is a labyrinth. In the interest of addressing the topic du jour, I will oversimplify and simply say that she is an uber-alpha-warrior of the highest order, with extraordinary and varied paranormal superpowers that she acquires as the series progresses.

Anita worries that the evil she combats is rubbing off on her and that she's becoming one of the monsters she hunts. Her loved ones assure her that it's not true and she spends a lot of time trying to reassure herself  she has done only what is necessary.  It comforts her to think that she only kills bad guys. But, as the series evolves, it gets harder and harder to identify the bad guys and pinpoint, what, exactly, caused them to cross that invisible line from good to evil. It's hard for Anita to hear that there are no true villains, but one of Anita's defining characteristics is her militant insistence on facing unpleasant truths, so she takes this unpalatable fact and tackles it head on.

Because it's true: no one is all good or all bad. The ubiquitous "they" talk about how Hitler loved babies and Himmler loved to dance. These facts humanize our villains, and we don't like that. It is human nature to dehumanize our enemies. In fact, the military does this on purpose, so that soldiers will be able to do their jobs and kill enemy combatants if and when it becomes necessary.

For humans without a personality disorder, killing in cold blood is something that needs to be taught. Killers must be made. Soldiers need to learn to overcome their natural altruistic instincts. One effective way to accomplish this is to erase the shades of grey and leave only the parts that are black or white. I have a friend who used to do that:  when someone betrayed or disappointed her, and it was time to move on, whether in romance, friendship or even more professional relationships, she would need to psyche herself up to make the move by demonizing the other person. It was actually hard to watch her take white out (I'm dating myself again here--look it up!) to all the good in a relationship or a person so that all that was left from her viewpoint was the bad stuff. But I understood why she did it, and I never pointed out the incongruity of her new perspective with the love and affection she felt in the past for those who'd fallen from her grace. She has since learned to temper this tendency of hers, but it's still her go-to defense mechanism.  

We don't want the people we hate to have understandable reasons/motives for their bad behavior. Blaming them for not having the tools to not ‘pass the damage along’ is so much easier than being compassionate about their inability to break the cycle. I don't want to feel sorry for my tormentor. I don't want to believe they are doing the best they can. This actually begs the question of evil, which is a topic for another post. If those we don't like can be classified as evil, we can be justified in ignoring or actively hurting them back. As Anita Blake would say, it's pretty to think so. But the truth is uglier and more complicated.

I never wanted to understand that my mother's serious deficiencies as a parent weren't her fault. Well-meaning friends and relatives repeatedly told me that she couldn't help herself. But my question was always, "Why not?"  Why couldn't she help being an undermining bitch?  I do. A narcissist raised me, but I've managed not to pass the damage along. I’ve broken that cycle with my own children. If I can do it, why can't everyone?  I know,  that is an obnoxious question. 
 
Well, that is the $64,000 question isn’t it? I don’t have the answer, although I've asked the question many times before. I don't think that Laurell Hamilton is trying to suggest that bad guys aren't bad or that they don't deserve to be punished; they are and they do, and Anita is certainly a vehicle of retribution. I think Ms. Hamilton is trying to say something more nuanced; that even the dark can be illuminated to some extent.  It's still dark, but the streaks of light make for a more interesting palette. Grey is the color of truth, even in fantasy.

 
 

Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

I've just finished the latest installment in Thea Harrison's Elder Races series, Midnight's Kiss. The publication of the book gave me an excuse--not that I really needed one--to re-read the entire series back to back, and it is stellar -  almost unbearably so. I love these characters and their world so much!  Midnight's Kiss is about Julian, the King of the Vampyres, and Melisande, a Faerie Princess. This pairing leads me to fantasize about what would happen if Laurell Hamilton's worlds were to collide, and Jean-Claude were to get together with Merry Gentry? Wouldn't that be something?!  But I digress, predictably.

 Anyway, Julian and Melisande's story is one of perceived betrayal, enduring love and the ability to forgive – otherwise known as personal growth, which, Julian comes to realize, takes time. But, as a Vampyre who was turned– reborn as a vampire – over two thousand years ago, Julian has had quite a bit of time to evolve. So his failure to thrive, emotionally, that is, wasn't a dearth of hours in the day. The missing, magical ingredient in our ability to grow and change--hopefully in a positive direction--is willingness.

Julian has had centuries to grow, but before he fell in love with Melisande, he lacked the motivation to do the hard work to get there.  There is a reason bookstore shelves, both real and virtual, are chock full of self help books. Many of us want to help ourselves, but have no idea how to go about doing it. The first clue we need to heed is that it takes more than reading a book. As an avid reader, I wish it were that easy. It takes a willingness to go against our basic natures, which seek pleasure and avoid pain at almost any cost. That’s why we eat the ice cream out of the container—oh, did I say that out loud?  It’s also why personal growth is so hard. If it were that easy, everyone would do it.  

The inclination and eventual ability to buck our predispositions is a topic I've explored before. It's something I think about all the time as I strive to improve myself, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I've asked why some of us achieve the drive toward evolution and some of us are never able to rise above our circumstances. I've wondered why our efforts are sometimes successful, and at other times not, without any discernible explanation. I believe that the key components are willingness plus time, but, as Julian demonstrates, the determination must come first, and we must be willing over and over again, day after day. Only then can we achieve personal growth of any sort.

Change is hard. We humans resist change. Apparently, so do Vampyres. I think there are two schools of thought about our ability to change; the creationist view that says a leopard doesn't change its spots, and the Darwinian school, which believes that with persistent effort, change is possible. I'm with Charles on this one. I have a friend who told me about a fight with her husband where they agreed that things between them needed to change. He didn't believe change was possible and told her so. She responded that if people didn't change, she would have died long before, a victim of extreme self-destruction. Needless to say, that marriage didn't last--how could it when only one partner was willing to evolve?  But happily, my friend, whose whole life is a testament to the human ability to grow and evolve, given willingness, work and time, is enjoying a wonderful relationship with a man who appreciates her and is growing along with her.

Humans resist change because they believe the aphorism "better the devil you know," even when the satanic bastard is you. I say, better to exorcise those demons and become the angel you've always wanted to be. When the Dark Lord asks to introduce himself, I tend to run screaming from the room.

Change will not kill us. Discomfort will not kill us. The pain of vulnerability, even when it results in betrayal, will not kill us. What does kill us is a refusal to be open,  and to accept that love inevitably comes with pain, and that stretching beyond our comfort zone results in the deep sensation that lets us know we are alive,  which is way my yoga instructor describes the soreness that follows a good practice.

Making the decision to tolerate such "deep sensations" is what allows us to become our highest self. We must tolerate discomfort to grow.  And such tolerance is a learned behavior. I have only to look toward my 15-year-old twin boys to see how "natural" it is to choose the proximate good over the more temporally distant better. Without help, support and encouragement -- with metaphorical carrots and sticks -- it's all but impossible for them to choose to delay gratification, even if they understand, intellectually, that it is the right decision.

But that is true for me as well. Without assistance, it's just as hard for me to make good decisions that help me evolve, even though I'm an adult. Just ask Julian, the two-thousand-year-old Vampyre, about it. He'll tell you that time alone can’t get the job done. He needed Melisande to help him learn to grow. He needed her to show him that it was something he wanted to do. Desire was the first step toward growth.

So, to recap today's truth in fantasy, change is hard and we need help to find the desire to be willing, and then to make the effort over time to affect positive change and personal growth. Thanks, Thea, for these insights. It's always a pleasure to learn from my favorite authors--much more entertaining, and effective, than a whole shelf of self-help books.
 

The Secrets That We Keep

Even though it may seem like my life is an open book to those of you who read my blog, I have a few skeletons in my closet. No, nothing really deep, dark and mysterious, just your garden-variety embarrassments and lapses in judgment that come with a typically misspent youth.  We all have secrets. Not the kind that would make us good blackmail subjects, hopefully, but stuff we'd rather not have broadcast to friends and family indiscriminately. And if we are very lucky, we have one or two friends who know all of our secrets. I know I do. And thank God for that. If I know anything it is that we're only as sick as our secrets. And, in truth, I don't have any. Not really. There isn't anything about me that at least one other person on this planet doesn't know. And how awesome is that?  There are people out there that have seen me in the most unflattering light possible and still love me. For a long time, even.  In the words of Pia Cuelebre of Thea Harrison's Elder Races fame, I am so, so lucky.

Why am I contemplating secrets and friends right now?  Because I'm just about finished with Cleo Peitsche's Sharkshifter paranormal romance series (five novella-length books), which has been the most perfect vacation reading ever, by the way--light and hot and not too demanding-- but thought-provoking nonetheless. And Ms. Peitsche has highlighted an important aspect of a truly wonderful life-- friends who will keep our secrets safe and who we can trust with our very selves. No matter what.  

In the Sharkshifter series, Koenraad is a guy with secrets. And not just that he can shape shift into a 20-foot Great White Shark (which is pretty cool--I haven't come across the whole shark shifter sub-genre of paranormal fantasy before, and I'll be on the lookout for others in this category). No, Koenraad has many more secrets than that-- the kind of secrets that would get him into hot water with the Shark shifter ruling council and could cause his son to be summarily executed. Koenraad labors under many burdens, but the good news is that he has a best friend, Spencer, to stand by him and keep his secrets, no matter what.

As you all know by now, I don't have a ton of friends, but the ones I have mean the world to me. I've known some of them for the vast majority of my life (since I was two, four and six, respectively). When someone has known you that long, they know everything. I don't have sisters, but I imagine it's like having a sister you've chosen. We don't have to stay close, but we want to. These women are the sisters of my heart. As I've written about before, they knew me before I knew myself. There is absolutely no hiding from them. And it is such a blessing to be known for exactly who I am and the multiplicity of thoughts, words and deeds that make me tick.

 In the series, the most notable aspect of Koenraad's and Spencer's friendship is Koenraad's unshakable faith that Spencer will stand by him, and keep his secrets. No matter what. There is no fear of betrayal, no doubts, just the certain knowledge that this friend of his heart has his back, even when it's uncomfortable for him to stand firm. It's the most amazing feeling in the world. In the paranormal genre, the situations are exaggerated, of course, to make a point, so the situation with Spencer and Koenraad is life and death, but it makes the feelings between them crystal clear.

 Recently, I was given an opportunity to realize just how valuable and fundamental to my existence these relationships are to me, and how much that unshakable faith defines my identity. While I was away on vacation, I got a text from my oldest friend. She asked me to contact her immediately, which was unusual, so I dropped everything and called her. She was almost inarticulately upset (and she is incredibly articulate), asking me why I betrayed her. Then it was my turn to become inarticulate. In the end, it turned out to be a major misunderstanding/miscommunication that was resolved relatively quickly. But the pain from the phantom limb lingered.

I was shocked at how much my world tilted in an awful roller-coaster kind of way when I thought my friend believed I'd betrayed her trust and broken the sacred girlfriend code of silence (the Mafia has nothing on lifelong friendships among women). Thou shalt not mention youthful indiscretions, old boyfriends, embarrassing anecdotes that involve heavy drinking, or anything having to do with quasi-illegal activity.  The girlfriend code covers all. No exceptions. I was horrified to think she thought I'd broken the rules. She was horrified to think I had. We both had trouble wrapping our heads around any of it--hence the nonsensical babbling that erupted from both our mouths.  It rocked our worlds in a way that said a lot about our friendship and also who we are as people--we are women who have the ability to trust another person so completely that the possibility of betrayal basically scrambled our brains. That says a lot about both of us. It also meant that we immediately looked for alternative explanations for the snafu, which we found.

In Cleo Peitsche's Sharkshifter series, her depiction of the relationship between two old friends who would do anything for the other ranks as deep truth in fantasy fiction, which is my favorite paradox, wrapped up in a bow just for me. For you, too, whether these books inspire us to contemplate true friendship or aspire to it, the stories make us better people. And I'm grateful for the reminder. Not to mention the fun story and provocative erotica. A trifecta of goodness.

 

 

 
 

The Wizard of Id

 One of the things I love most about paranormal and urban fantasy is that there isn't a subject related to human behavior that isn't covered somewhere in the genre. I've written before that reading about supernatural species like vampires, shifters, the Fae and other creatures seems to bring humanity into sharp focus. What does it mean to be human? What separates our human nature from our animal natures? I've contemplated the existence of the soul and the reality of mortality as discriminators. One aspect I haven't touched on is instinct, which will be the subject of another post. Closely related to instinct, however, is compulsion--things we do that we cannot seem to control. When our compulsive behavior crosses a certain line--and I'm not quite sure where that is, just that, like pornography, I know it when I see it, compulsive behavior becomes addiction, the most lethal of all self destructive paths. Addiction pops up all over my beloved paranormal fantasy books, and it is a subject with which I have more familiarity than I would like.

The author who clearly knows the most about addiction, I'm guessing from personal experience, is JR Ward. In the world of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, it's my man (vampire) Phury who's the hard-core addict and when we get inside his head, it's a dangerous place to be.  In Lover Enshrined, we are introduced to the Wizard, who is the nasty, undermining, devastatingly effective voice in Phury's head, the one constantly telling Phury what a piece of shit he is. More unfortunately, the Wizard is also there to keep the focus squarely on Phury's deeds, misdeeds and missed deeds, enslaving Phury in the bondage of a self-created prison. It is a terrible place to be, relieved only by relying on "red smoke," a narcotic somewhere between marijuana and an opiate. Phury smokes his "blunts" --hand rolled-- which then, appropriately, blunt his experience of the world at large, anesthetizing him against the pain of existence.

I've never read such a realistic account of the horrible, insistent, and consistent muttering inside my skull that was my addiction goading me to do that which I swore I wouldn't do anymore. Thankfully, for me it wasn't narcotics or alcohol. But active addiction will kill you one way or another.  It will kill you quickly, like with drinking and drugging, or slowly, messily, and painfully, like cutting your wrists with an emery board, which is how food addiction will kill you. But, dead is dead, in the end, no matter how long it takes go get there. What nightmares are made of, truly. 

And JR Ward gets it, as always. So many well-meaning, but misguided souls assume that if the addict would just "pick themselves up by their bootstraps," then they could "just say no."  It doesn't work like that. As Phury demonstrates, if we could we would. Non-addicts often assume we who are on the other side of that line lack willpower. In fact, addicts are among the most strong-willed people on the planet. That's not the issue. The issue is the nature of addiction.

As always, I need state the caveat that I am not any sort of licensed professional and my opinions are just that. But in my experience, and after contemplating the essence of addiction, I'm going to have to take issue with both Ms. Ward and even with Alcoholics Anonymous, which, for the record, I believe to be an organization that works miracles on a daily basis. But in anthropomorphizing addiction, either as the “Wizard" or according to AA's "disease" model, we view addiction as something outside ourselves, rather than that which is inherent to our nature. The Wizard doesn't live on Oz, down a yellow brick road; he lives in us, in our id, inflating our egos and causing our self-will to run riot. I believe anyone can cross the line from occasional, compulsive behavior to full-blown addiction. In the United States we need only look around at all of those who share my particular brand of addiction.  

So, in my mind, we can all go there. It can be as innocuous as biting our nails or being unable to pass up a deal. It can be more obvious, like smoking or chewing tobacco (or vaping--a new way to enslave the next generation). It can be more insidious, like telling ourselves that we don't need to drink every night, we just like to put a cap on the day, or being "unwilling" but not unable to leave our electronic devices at home for a day, or even an hour. Addiction is all around us, and for me, there is a spectrum. We tend not to do anything about our little habits unless they begin to negatively affect our quality of life.

The Wizard lives in all of us. Sometimes his voice is loud--or maybe it's a whisper saying all those unpleasant things in our heads: "Don't try, you won't succeed. You're fat; you're ugly, that outfit looks awful on you. You are way too stupid to make that work. You are not competent, creative, strong, funny, sexy, clever, or confident enough".

 In the shorthand version of Wizard-speak we hear simply "you are not enough and never will be." Sometimes, the voice might mix it up and say instead, "there isn't enough, and you won't get your share, so give it up."  Such a vicious little voice. We don't like that voice, so we use our substances or compulsive behaviors to soothe and smooth out the edges of a reality we don't feel like facing and to stifle that insufferable voice. But that voice is part of us, not separate. For years I blamed my mother for the obnoxious troll living rent-free in my brain. Then someone pointed out that I was the only one capable of plugging my ears, and saying, "Thanks for sharing, I don't choose to listen to you today."  

Phury learns to stop listening to the Wizard eventually. It's not an easy path, even for characters in paranormal fantasy novels. The path for each of us to do the same is unique.  My path involved putting down my drug of choice and facing my reality squarely, with honesty, openness and willingness to change. Tough stuff. Worthwhile. But my Wizard didn't leave the building. He can't. He's me. But there's more to me than that.

 

 

 
 

BBW WTF

There is something seriously wrong with us. I thought it was a western world kind of problem, but I'm now convinced the contagion is limited only to the United States. I've been traveling in Spain for the past week. Absolutely spectacular country--my new favorite European destination. We've gone from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic via the Pyrenees and the land and seascapes are magnificent. I'm in awe. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the beaches, and, more specifically, the women on the beaches. They come in all shapes and sizes, and, almost without exception, they are gloriously, confidently, beautifully comfortable in their own skins. Practically no one wears a one piece, and I've yet to see a tankini. All the girls and women sport bikinis, some with tops and some without. I've seen bodies of every conceivable age and variety. And no one seems remotely self conscious.

Let's contrast that with how I felt walking down the beach. I'm fifty years old, and I've given birth to twins. I don't exercise as much as I should, and I don't eat as well as I could. Despite all of that, I know I don't look bad, for a middle aged woman with kids who works for a living and doesn't attend to my appearance like it's my job. But, having said that, I am painfully aware that my skin isn't nearly as tight over what muscles I have left, and, as my son told me a number of years ago (and the trend is not going in a good direction), my midsection is "squishy."  In other words, I won't be gracing any magazine covers or be mistaken for a trophy wife any time soon. I was completely self conscious walking on a beach in Barcelona until I noticed that no one else was.

It was true. I saw stretch marks, surgical scars, melting wax thighs, sagging boobs and women blithely bending without a thought to the rolled flesh on their bellies looking like stacked sausages. No one cared. It was a revelation. And I wondered what was wrong with me that I couldn't share that degree of insouciance.

All of which led me to think about finding answers in the current series I'm reading by Cleo Peitsche called the Sharkshifter Paranormal Romance series. The author was recommended to me by a friend, and I'm enjoying the series, which is light and entertaining with incredibly hot sex scenes. I'm in, of course. But as I was searching Amazon to buy the rest of the series after reading the first book, I noticed that the books were described as "BBW Paranormal Erotic Romance". Curious, I looked up "BBW."  And learned that we are totally screwed. And not in a good, erotic, paranormal way.

The good news is that I had no idea what "BBW" stood for because that aspect wasn't highlighted in the novel itself. The bad news was that the publishers, or Amazon, or maybe the author felt the need to warn/entice/inform me that I was about to read a book where the heroine--the object of lust and love in this erotic romance--was a Big Beautiful Woman. It's as if they were telling me, "Danger--larger women having sex--don't freak out or get disgusted."  WTF?!

I wasn't sure what to think, except that maybe I was being given a hint that I should be happy that women who don't wear a size two and have full C cups to go with their petite asses can also find happiness in love. I haven't been a size two in a long time and I've never had large breasts, so, good to know, I guess. But how incredibly, unbelievably outrageous that I'd need to know ahead of time that Monroe, the leading lady of the shark shifter books, was "big" (which I really didn't get from the novel itself; she is described as having "generous curves"--nothing wrong or "big" about that).

So, now I understand a little better why my not-size-two (but definitely normal-size, healthy BMI) body is a cause for self consciousness, especially when a lot of it is on display--even at anonymous beaches in Europe. How can I not feel inadequate because my tummy isn't taut and my thighs jiggle a bit?  I'm being told--all over the place, in fact--that not being tight and small is an occasion to comment--and again, not  in a good way. Wow. Sucks to be me. Actually, sucks to be all of us.

I'd much rather be one of the beautiful Spanish women, strutting my stuff on the sands near the sea, confident of my allure and easy in my body, no matter what it looks like. I'm not quite sure how to accomplish that without moving to the Mediterranean, but I'll give it some thought. I may have to stop reading "BBW" paranormal fantasy for a while, and avoid books like Gerry Bartlett's Glory St. Clair series, where Glory is always going on about her weight (real vampires have curves, dontcha know?) I need to spend more time remembering that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and comfort and confidence in our bodies is the most attractive thing in the world. We are so critical about ourselves and there is absolutely no need. At least that's what I'll keep telling myself as I strive to feel beautiful regardless of what Madison Avenue, MTV, and publishers of BBW romance novels tell me.

Marking Time

As you all know by now, time and its inexorable march is one of my favorite subjects. Today, I'm interested in exploring the myriad of way we note its passage. I went to the dentist today for my semiannual visit. Even though it's been six months since my last visit, it seems like a lot less. Same goes for the gynecologist, eye doctor, annual physical (I believe in prevention and taking full advantage of my expensive insurance). The time between visits feels faster than normal. But it isn't. And what's actually happening is that time is just plodding along, or racing by, and these various medical appointments serve to remind me of the lockstep of life moving forward apace. There are also the quotidian rituals we all observe (hopefully) that also serve to mark the passage of time. We get up and brush our teeth, take a shower, and perform other necessary ablutions. We eat at regular intervals. We buy groceries, put fuel in our gas tanks and visit the toilet regularly. I don't know about you, but I can get highly annoyed when pressure on my bladder forces me to stop what I'm doing to relieve myself. At other times, I resent the need to eat when my head starts to pound and I realize that I've got to stop and fill my stomach, even though I'm absorbed in a task that commands my full attention.

And then there's the requirement to find or prepare actual food, not the fast Frankenfood with which so many Americans stuff their faces. It's difficult to eat healthy, whole food, and I fall down on that job more often than I'd like just because there aren't enough hours in the day to do a better job. Not to mention the need to exercise, meditate, spend time with family and friends. I've got to say, that I often wish I had Hermione Granger's Time Turner, just to be able to cram more, more, more into my day. Never enough time, right?  

Which leads to the next paradox of time: the more we rush to fill our minutes and hours with productive, contributory, worthwhile activities, the faster the time goes by. Spike the adrenaline, please. There's something to be said for taking it down a notch, stopping to smell the roses and not the coffee, and being mindful and present in our lives. Speed and busyness tend to take us out of the moment and catapult us into warp drive, as the minutes stream by like so many oncoming headlights in our windshield, blurring together to become a smear on the road.

When we slow down, so does time. When we do less and take more time to be and enjoy, time elongates, at least in my experience. When it is not filled to the brim, our time seems to expand. The occupation of every minute makes time contract. So does time passed in misery. What does any of this have to do with paranormal fantasy?  Well, as I read my books it seems that so many of my favorite types of paranormal creatures don't need to worry about human bodily functions like eating, sleeping, and eliminating. They don't menstruate and they don't need to worry about age-related wear and tear on the body. Without the normal milestones of life, it is impossible to mark the passage of time appropriately. Which may be a moot point, of course, given the whole immortality thing, but almost none of the characters in my beloved books are truly immortal. They can die, just not very easily.

With nothing anchoring them to the here and now and nothing driving a need to do much of anything, how do my precious paranormal characters distinguish their days? Do they pay attention to the seasons?  What if they live in Florida or Southern California where there are no seasons?   They don't see doctors cause they don't get sick. They don't divide their day by mealtimes and bathroom runs and beauty rest. How do they organize their time?  I have no idea. This is one of the reasons I prefer paranormal peeps who poop. No, really. I much prefer when characters eat, sleep and use the bathroom. It makes them much more "normal" and also more relatable. Dragos may be a dragon, but he eats and pees just like the rest of us. Also, it seems to me that if paranormal males can get erections, why wouldn't they have the rest of the bodily functions that bind the rest of us to time?  I like the way JR Ward does it (I like the way she does everything, pretty much). Her vampires eat, drink and make whoopee—and they also pee, vomit and need to sleep regularly too. Woo-hoo.

Far from being just annoying, the daily, weekly, monthly and yearly activities that tether us to this mortal coil are actually the activities that make us mortal. Mortality is the inescapable passage—and eventual ending—of time for us. I figure if it's going to end, I'd like some billboards along the way, letting me know that I'm coming up toward the finish line. I was recently in Ireland where we did a great deal of driving all around that gorgeous, green island. They way they mark exits off the highway is smart and effective:  when one is a fair distance from the exit, there is a sign with three diagonal lines. A little closer is a sign with two lines. And when you are almost upon the ramp off the main road, there is a sign with just one slash, to let you know that time is almost up. It's good to mark time. It's good to be able to speed it up and slow it down, depending on how we manage the hours in our days. Steady, present, mindful and deliberate gets us more time. Rushing, cramming, projecting to our next event makes time pass more quickly, which may be what we want, and allows us to experience as much as possible at the cost of experiencing our lives at warp speed. My problem with the whole thing is that many of us do what we do without thought or planning. We notice the signposts of life slide by, or we don't, and the seconds tick toward their inevitable stop. For me, I'm going to pay more attention to that which marks time in my life and simultaneously reminds me of my humanity. I will not begrudge my dentist his due, nor diss the demands of my stomach for food. I will be more respectful of the seasons, but also of my daily doses of hygiene and disease prevention.  I will mark my time on this earth with all due respect and hope to make the most of my minutes. I'm not immortal—vampire, fae or otherwise. Marking time reminds me of that every day.

When Dreams Die

I've been dreaming lately. Daydreaming, eyes becoming unfocused and the world softening around the edges. It's a pleasant way to spend some time on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Often, I find myself thinking and dreaming about the characters in my favorite books. Today, though, I'm thinking about the nature of dreams themselves. We talk about daring to dream, and I think that is an accurate depiction of the risks involved in making an emotional investment in desiring a certain outcome. When we admit to wanting something, we also subject ourselves to the possibility of disappointment, which leads inevitably to pain. Because most of us avoid pain and even discomfort at all costs, assuming the necessary burden of vulnerability isn't the path of least resistance that most of us prefer to travel. The ability to dream is the engine of great achievement and advances. Dreams inspire and motivate us to work hard and make sacrifices on the altar of delayed gratification. Dreams are the manifestation of our hope. 

And all of that is well and good when our dreams come true and we get what we want, or perhaps even more than we imagined possible. It's even good right up until the time when we are forced to admit that it's just not gonna happen. That is the downside of dreaming, the part where we have to either acknowledge that a train we were desperate to board has left the station without us, or contort into Twister positions to convince ourselves (erroneously) that we might still make it. Because not all dreams come true, despite what we've been told by well-meaning parents, teachers and Walt Disney. There are no magic wands waving to any discernible effect in this plane of reality. And we can't always get what we want, more's the pity.

I'm talking about when we need to acknowledge the mortality of our deepest desires, which, coincidentally, coincides with the mortality of our bodies as they march toward death. For those of us leaving middle age in our dusty wake, there are dreams that we've been forced to abandon, whether we like it or not. Only the most cognitively challenged among us could persist in denying that the dream of everlasting love dies with divorce, or even early death. Some of us must give up dreams of parenthood or athletic achievement as the inevitability of biology robs us of opportunities open only to the young.

When I think about my beloved immortals and the "fact" that they need not attend to the physical indignities of growing older, it occurs to me that they are not immune to other effects of dying dreams. In Mate Claimed, by Jennifer Ashley, part of the Shifter Unbound series, Eric must acknowledge the death of his dreams of a single mating when he falls in love with Iona. Sookie Stackhouse of True Blood fame, while not immortal, mourns her status as a one-man woman when she takes a second lover.  And it is so sad when Mac Lane must acknowledge the demise of her dreams of getting married in her small southern town, raising her children alongside her beloved sister and growing old together because her sister was murdered.

Laurell K. Hamilton offers one of the best-written depictions of this phenomenon in the Anita Blake series. Over the course of almost 20 books, Anita grows and evolves and we see her hold onto and then begin to let go of a specific self image, which is the dream we all share, and which most of us must abandon sooner or later. For Anita, she must grieve the woman she thought she was and wanted to be, someone who would marry and live in a nice house and maybe raise a few kids. Yes, she might raise a few zombies while she was at it, but hey, she saw herself in as conventional a role as possible, given her status as a necromancer.

But Anita, like many of us, saw that dream die. It was hard for her as it is for all of us, and paranormal fantasy works best when it reflects our shared reality (and then adds a little something extra). I've had to let go of many dreams.  I've had to acknowledge the death of my dreams of a beautiful pregnancy and my visions of being a carefree young mother, happily attached to her baby, bonding and seeing the world through new eyes, etc., etc. That particular dream was incredibly well developed, as I'd had many years of infertility to hone its edges to a killing point. And when that dream dissipated like so much steam over a pot of boiling water, the sharpness of the blade just about killed me. That particular dream died very, very hard. And it left scars, much in the same way that the death of a loved one leaves marks on our soul to remind us of our love and our loss.

Perhaps my daydreams are a little weird. That's OK, I'm proud to fly my freak flag high, as I've told you before. Hopefully my rumination on the ruins of my dreams will help others bury their own dead and embrace the reality that lives. All my favorite paranormal characters do it, and so can we. 

Saving Blue

I'm still thinking about Lilo Abernathy's The Light Who Binds. I really love this series and my only complaint is that there aren't more books to read! Bluebell Kildare is an unlikely savior, at least in her own mind, but she has many characteristics that make her a perfect candidate to wield great power responsibly and effectively. She doesn't see herself in this light, but her ability to accomplish what destiny has decreed for her is independent of her own self-image. Which is part of her charm and also one of the reasons why she is the right choice to fulfill the prophesy of delivering the vampires of her world from an agonizing afterlife. Who wants a savior so full of herself she can't she beyond her own fascination with the image in the mirror? No one, that’s for sure. There's nothing more off-putting than a narcissistic hero. Happily, Blue is in no danger of becoming a narcissist. By definition, she could never succumb because her magical Gift, the attribute that sets her apart from human "Norms" who hate her for her abilities, is that she is an Empath. And I've been thinking about what that means, especially as I listen simultaneously to Lover Enshrined, which offers new information about a variety of vampire in the world of the Black Dagger Brotherhood called Sympaths.  Sympaths feed off the misery of others. Empaths are just miserable at others’ misery. Big difference. I'd rather be saved by an Empath than a Sympath.  An interesting contrast between the two and more food for the green beast who lives in my breast who is torn between intense admiration for these imaginative authors and despair that I will never feel so inspired. But that is fodder for another post.

Back to Blue and her Empath abilities. In the series, Blue is a law enforcement officer who is routinely subject to horrific crime scenes where murder and mayhem have occurred. As an Empath, Blue is able to feel the terror and agony of crime victims as they experience their last moments on earth. I can't even imagine. Nor would I want to. It is horrific and heartbreaking to think that poor Blue must go through what these unfortunates endured to help ensure the perpetrators are brought to justice. But that's kind of the point of the exercise. Blue feels what they feel and that helps her catch the criminals—murderers, arsonists, rapists, etc.

I've often wondered how mental health professionals do what they do--listen to their patients recount terrible experiences in the hopes of exorcizing the demons from their minds. Some level of transference must occur between doctor and patient so that the patient's loss is the doctor's gain—and in this case, finders don't want to be keepers. No one wants that mess. But head doctors do it all the time so they can help and heal. Blue is the same way, and her Empath abilities are part of what make her an excellent investigator and also what ensure her unending compassion. That compassion, in turn, will keep her away—permanently—from any danger of grandiosity or narcissism. 

But how does it keep her from insanity or despair? For years I worked in the counterterrorism business (I know, that sounds weird—but it is a field of study and work, just like being a lawyer or a plumber). My colleagues and I thought about ways that terrorists do to could hurt or damage our population and our infrastructure and then about ways to thwart their ill intent.  It was important, challenging and engaging work. I was proud of my efforts and our accomplishments. I was good at my job and grateful I could make a difference. But, over time, the contemplation of Armageddon took its toll on my soul and dimmed the light of my own spirit so that others’ spirits could continue to shine. Fighting the transference of evil from those we would oppose to my own aura was an exhausting fight and took a huge amount of effort to resist the urge to give up at the never-ending nature of the battle and the increasingly overwhelming sense of the futility of it all. If we are hell bent on destroying each other and our world, I thought with increasing frequency, we deserve what we get. 

Clearly, it was time to get out. Which I did. More or less. At least I got away from waking halls filled with workaholics who competed with each other to see who could work longer hours and become privy to the most exclusive clubs.  If I never see another pocket protector again it will be too soon. The hardest part of working among those who think about the unthinkable, besides the unrelenting fluorescent lights that is, is the ubiquitous expectation that it's only a matter of when, not if. Soul sucking is what it is. 

So I'm not sure how Blue and all of those like her do it day after day, subjecting themselves to the worst that human nature has to offer our fellow humans. I don't know how doctors do it either, or the Angels who work in hospice care, the heroic men and women who tend the poorest of the poor and the sickest of the sick. I thank God that there are those who can perform such vital functions without losing their minds, although certainly not all escape intact or unscathed. 

To be empathetic is the highest expression of our humanity, putting ourselves in another's shoes and feel what they feel, the good, the bad and the ugly. Empathy gives us the ability to step back from the brink of our own selfish desires and assess how they might affect others. Empty is the "stop" button on the universal remote that controls our behavior. We might think about doing or saying something, but the knowledge that empathy gives us that we would hurt another through our actions gives us the necessary pause to avoid causing pain. Empathy is why we help when we don't have to, and why we care even when something does not impact us directly. 

I love that Blue's gift is Empathy, of the paranormal variety. I love that it makes her a feeling hero, and that her Empathy keeps her forever humble. Because that is the other consequence of empathy—when we can feel what others feel, we cannot get so full of ourselves that we have no room for thoughts of anyone else. This is a good thing, by the way. So while the talented Ms. Abernathy has not finished Blue's story yet, I'm putting my money on the prediction that the vampires will be delivered by a savior who is perfect for the part. 

Quiet Desperation

I've been noticing a lot of unhappy people lately. People living lives of quiet desperation, in the words of Henry David Thoreau. And this makes me sad. For a long time, I didn't understand. I'm still not sure that I do, but, as always, my beloved paranormal fantasy novels are helping to explain reality to me in ways that my brain can grasp. I'm still thinking deeply about Phury in JR Ward's Lover Enshrined. For the majority of the Black Dagger Brotherhood series up to this point, Phury has been unhappy, surviving his extended existence in a state of quiet desperation that is growing increasingly loud as he begins to devolve. For Phury, like the rest of us, the world isn't much fun when your whole life is "have to." I am not naive, nor am I willfully delusional. I understand that life is more about fate and circumstance than it is about choice. I know that sometimes the only options we have are about the attitude we bring to a bad situation. Having said that, however, we do have some choices, and sometimes, we need to just say "no." I find myself saying "no" a lot. When I was young and unable to fit into the mold I thought I wanted to fit, I decided to say no to all the kids who were saying no to me. I figured if I couldn't be popular or part of the A-crowd, then they could kiss my large round petunia, as Mac Lane would say. Saying no to those who rejected me first gave me the freedom to break out of the mold of the privileged uptown girl I was born to be and look for greener pastures outside my geographic and demographic comfort zone. One of the best moves I ever made. 

Later, at my first professional job, I said no to the idea that I was too young and too female to take on more responsibility, and successfully sat for a state exam that my older, male colleagues had previously failed. I said no to the idea that I couldn't call off a wedding that was already planned and paid for. I said no to the idea that just because something hadn't been done before didn't mean I couldn't do it. I said no to my friends and family when they—with undoubtedly good intentions—told me it was making a mistake to go abroad for a year and try something totally different—granted, undercover private investigator was a bit of a stretch, but I said no to everyone who thought I was crazy and was rewarded with the experience of a lifetime. 

Saying no to doing what you don't want to do and yes to doing what you do want to do is the antidote to quiet desperation. This is the truth that Phury, of Black Dagger Brotherhood fame, eventually learns, to his everlasting happiness. Honoring our inner arbiter of yes and no, good and bad is the path to our personal HEAs. Rejecting the should's and have to's is the road to redemption. 

We have to stop listening when others tell us how it has to be. Yes, of course it's important to meet our obligations and commitments. But it's equally important to make sure we are not fulfilling our duty at the expense of our ability to thrive. We need to be resourceful and creative about doing what we need to do so that we have the time and wherewithal to do what we want to do.

So many of us feel like we have no choices, or that we are stuck forever with choices we made before but which no longer serve us. I know so many people who stay in marriages they no longer want, or who care for children in a way that transmutes joy into drudgery. We seem to feel like we have to be there for every football game, even if we hate football. Not me. My son knows I don't enjoy football and have absolutely no idea what is going on in the game (many have tried to teach me, but, honestly, I can't bring myself to care). He also knows that my lack of love for football in no way impacts my abundance of love for him.  We share many things. Just not football. So, I don't have to make myself miserable balancing my butt on a cold, uncomfortable bleacher seat while pretending I’d rather not be reading my book instead of watching his game. I've given him the respect of being honest with him, and he rewards me with the intimacy of authenticity in return. Win-win. 

I was with my aunt recently, my mother's youngest sister. She observed that my husband really "puts up with a lot" because I travel so much apart from my family—for work and to visit friends around the country. What can I say, I'm a peripatetic soul; it feeds something in me to travel and change my environment with some regularity. And I value my friendships and believe in taking the time to nurture them. My family understands this about me and respects my needs. They don't spend a lot of time worrying about how a wife and mother "should" behave, and neither do I. As a result, we are all quite happy as a family, each of us respecting each other's individual needs. It works.

Sometimes I have to pinch myself to believe that this is my life. I've worked hard to create a life I love. It is not perfect, of course, but in the areas where there is room for improvement, I'm always looking for innovative ways to advance the ball. We only get one bite at the apple, and I want to stuff as much in my mouth as I possibly can. I truly do not care how other people think life should be done. I don't even pay much attention to what I think I can or cannot do. I believe in going for it, even when it seems the chances for success are few and far between. I don't mind failing, and each attempt teaches me something new that I can use to tinker at the margins of my life to make it even better. Sometimes I don't just stick to the margins--I make gigantic leaps and hope for a soft landing. This blog is a great example of that.

Like Phury in the end, I reject quiet desperation. I'm all about loud and boisterous joy and exultation. If it's not working for us, we can change it. If we don't like something, we can try something else. If we are spending too many days in a row in the dumps, we can do something radical to shake it up. We have nothing to lose but our misery. And we can always get that back if we really miss it. 

Words Matter

I remember being seventeen and listening to Letty Cottin Pogrebin, a leader of the early feminist movement, talk about the vocabulary we use and the differences it makes. I don't remember the whole lecture, but what stuck with me was her observation that the word "history" was a meshing of two words, "his" and "story."  “What about ‘her’ story,” Pogrebin asked. Being the self-absorbed teenager I was I hadn't given that a lot (or any) thought, but she brought me up short, and began my contemplation of words and how we use them. Words are powerful. Words matter. What you say and how you say it are the stock in trade of all writers, of course, and a profound love of words, phrases, analogies and thoughts expressed as lines on a page is one of the reasons I write—and read. But words can be misinterpreted—either the meaning or the intent.

I was reminded of this truth when a friend recently sent me a HuffPost article on "The Most Ridiculous Sexual Phrases from Romance Novels."  The article had lists of "hilarious" euphemisms for the penis, vagina and sex. I think the author missed the point entirely. Words matter. Particularly when reading sex scenes in my favorite paranormal fantasy books.

Sticks and stone may break my bones... But words can always get me hot. And bothered. I've written before about what women want, and what they want is erotica that isn't crude, rude and in-your-face pornographic. While I have nothing against dirty talk—there is definitely a time and place where such language and suggestions are titillating rather than offensive and off-putting—I usually don't want to read about it in my romance novels. I love the euphemistic language that describes love in paranormal fantasy and romance books. I love the soft focus lens that such vocabulary imparts on the images described in these novels. If you really think about it, sex is an awkward, messy business that is wonderful when you're doing it, but can seem tawdry and a little sad when it's a spectator sport. To me, the rounded edges that the more suggestive language offers is more evocative than more explicit descriptions would be.

There must be something to this, because the romance genre is booming. Historical, contemporary and paranormal romances are all the rage. It's also been suggested that the advent of the electronic reader has given a boost to the chick lit market and made the classic "bodice-ripper" more acceptable fare than before we could hide the exact nature of our reading choices from curious eyes on the bus, train, plane or park bench. I've told the story before about my straight-laced boss sitting on a plane next to me, grabbing the latest Meredith Gentry novel out of my hands to read the back cover. Awkward!! These days, no one knows what I'm reading unless I tell them-- although, of course, I'm done with being embarrassed about my reading choices and have used this blog to announce my love of smut to the world.

Except it isn't smut, is it?  Sex in romance books, including the paranormal variety, is so far from smutty that it's like calling a unicorn a horse. It's not. It's an entirely different animal. These characters aren't rutting mindlessly. They are making mad, passionate love after a well-written build-up of will they/won't they. They are soul mates, bonded couples, lovers for life—and if it's a paranormal book, that life could be hundreds, if not thousands of years long. Talk about commitment! But the sex these fictional folks are having is idealized for women--written by women, for women and, usually, from the female perspective. Let’s just say here that nice guys finish last, and they are all nice guys in these books--our heroines wouldn’t have it any other way.

So how these wonderful authors communicate all of this powerful emotion and intense physical and spiritual connection counts. I can't imagine it's easy to write an effective sex scene in romance literature. So my hat is off to those authors who do it well. Not too long ago, I was privileged to be asked to be a beta reader for one of the indie authors I follow. The book was very good, but I did have a number of suggestions (many of which were incorporated into the final version, I'm delighted to say). One question the author asked was whether we, the beta readers, liked the sex scenes and specifically whether we agreed with the vocabulary she used. Perspicacious question.  In the event, I didn't like the specific terms she'd used. I felt they were too clinical. On the other hand, I also dislike Penthouse Forum-type language that tends to focus attention on only the physical aspects of the event and highlight the more salacious perspectives, which always makes me feel like a slightly pervy voyeur. 

Instead, I love the well-written sex scenes that allow me to feel like I'm in the scene itself. I want to imagine myself as the woman within the pages, experiencing the transcendence of the moment. Because, in fact, that transcendent element is exactly what separates the good sex scenes from the cringe-worthy ones, and the pornographic from the erotic and romantic. l love the scenes where the two partners are taken out of themselves and are so into each other that the rest of the world melts away.   And, yes, there are the Laurell Hamilton sex scenes that involve more than two partners, but Laurell is in a class by herself and she can make scenes that can only be described as hard-core pornography work from an erotic/romantic/loving perspective—but she is the only one I've read who can do that. And then, of course, there is the inimitable Kresley Cole who writes in three different genres, including adult erotica. Those books are smoking hot—and could also be characterized as more traditionally- focused pornography, but again, she makes it work from a woman's perspective. One of the things I love about Kresley Cole, and which I've written about before here, is that she celebrates women's healthy and enthusiastic sexuality. Which is awesome. Women like sex as much as men do. The difference is that women like good sex. Men just like sex. 

So, please, all of your writers who are my rock stars (Mick Jagger has nothing on Kresly Cole, Laurell K. Hamilton, JR Ward, Thea Harrison, Nalini Singh, Karen Marie Moning, Charlaine Harris, etc.), please keep watching your language and conveying your descriptions artfully and beautifully.  Women want sex to be beautiful, and that includes the words used to describe every, single, minute detail.