It's Better to Be Lucky than Good

I'm still thinking about Hot Lead, Cold Iron, the first of the Mick Oberon "jobs" (books) in the series.  Mick is a member of the Fae, but he's in exile on Earth from Elphame (Faerie) for sins not yet disclosed. He’s busy making a living as a PI in 1930s Chicago and working his particular brand of magic. One of the original elements of this series and its world building is the specific nature of Mick's magic—the way he manipulates luck to his advantage and the disadvantage of his foes.  I've never read anything quite like it, and, of course, it got me to thinking, as I am wont to do. I've often heard the expression, "It's better to be lucky than good."  I've also heard that, "The harder I worked, the luckier I got."  And, finally, we have the admonition that luck is a backstabbing bitch, deserting us when we need her most. So, let's explore the concept of luck and the role that it plays in our lives. 

The way Mick works his magic is to gather small strands of luck around himself, adding to the probability that a plan will go his way, or he will be the victor in a fight. If the odds are against him, his magic will ensure that odds are “ever in his favor.” Think about how important it would be to ensure that at the moment we walk up to the stage, we don’t trip on our dress (like Jennifer Lawrence at the Oscars), or fall on our asses (like Madonna in concert). Manipulating luck would mean that our flies would never be open at a particularly inopportune time, nor would we have toilet paper stuck to our heels or lettuce in between our front teeth for the world to see. Being lucky means being in the right place at the right time to meet the man or woman of our dreams, to be spotted by the person who will make our career, or to be able to take advantage of an opportunity. Luck means clear skies for our Ireland vacation, even though it rains there most of the year, or seeing the top of the Arenal volcano in Costa Rica, even though we were only there for a couple of hours and some wait weeks to catch a glimpse of the summit. It’s good to be lucky.

But luck is not always with us. We anthropomorphize luck as a fickle woman, favoring us one moment and abandoning us the next, and there is some truth to the randomness of her affections. As an aside, I notice that we don’t imbue men with those characteristics (it’s always women who are fickle), but I digress. Regardless of the sexist nature of the personification of luck, it is true that luck doesn’t seem to be something we can count on, although it sure does seem to visit some more than others.

Some of us are born lucky. My husband is like that; my former fiancé was not. And that was something I considered in ending the engagement to one and going through with the marriage to the other. Not the only thing, mind you, but one conscious consideration. My husband seems to walk under a golden cloud. Almost everything he touches works out, and he has the best parking karma of anyone I’ve ever known. Of course, as I write this, I am stressing that in highlighting his luck, the woman in question will leave him flat, but I’m going to have some faith that she’ll continue to grace him with her presence. My former fiancé, on the other hand, couldn’t help but take the hard way home every single time. Life just seemed to come with difficulty for him. He was aware of his paucity of luck, and he worked hard to make sure that he was good enough to rise above any bad luck that came his way.

The other aspect of Mick’s magic is equally brilliant. By stealing the luck of his opponents, Mick doubly magnifies his chances for success. It’s a win-win, although this aspect of his luck smacks a bit of schadenfreude, and I’m not sure I am comfortable hoping for the same sort of ability for myself. Because while increasing my own luck seems like a neat trick, taking away the good fortune of others seems somewhat nasty to me, and if we believe in the karmic version of luck (which I haven’t seen so far in Mick’s case), then stealing others’ fortune will come back to bite us in the ass with a vengeance down the road. But if luck isn’t a zero sum game, then it might be just fine to amp up our own share and safeguard ourselves again trouble and strife. Or just make sure we get good parking whenever possible.  

Humanity without the Humans

I just finished Fashionably Dead and Wed and I not only couldn't put it down, but I laughed my ass off. Which was apparently wildly inappropriate while my husband was listening to QBVII on Audible in the car seat next to me. Oh, well. He's used to my sloppy hysterical giggles when I read my beloved books. That's one of the many reasons I love him. But my mad love for my honey is not the subject of this post, or at least not directly. The subject is humanity, a topic I've explored before; because nothing prompts me faster to ponder the essence of humanity than a bunch of Vampyres, Fairies and Demons. You know, the usual suspects in a Robyn Peterman novel.   In this particular outing, one of my favorite heroines, Astrid, a True Immortal and the personification of Compassion, wants to marry her vampire prince in homage to her human heritage. As she prepares for her nuptials, Astrid decides she's made a mistake, and that clinging to her mortal past will just make her less inclined to accept her eternal life with grace and serenity. She fears being one of those women who continue to wear mini skirts well past their prime, clinging to a youth that has gone the way of all flesh. Well, perhaps that isn't the best example, as Astrid will look young and hot forever, but she doesn't want to sour on her present existence by living in the past, especially as her current incarnation will last till the end of time, what with the whole True Immortal thing.

Astrid resolutely, if sadly, decides to turn her back on her humanity, which is being represented by this wedding in Hell (long story—read the book), but she is dissuaded from her chosen path by her grandfather, who is the personification of Wisdom. He advises that she cling with all she is worth to her humanity, as it is that which will make eternity not only bearable, but also joyful. It was interesting advice that deserves some unpacking.

I think what Astrid’s grandpa was telling her was that it’s neither frivolous nor foolish to wish to mark important occasions. Such occasions cause us to stop, pause and reflect on the passage of time, that which is important to us, and that which we want to share and declare to our families, friends and the world at large. For example, I attended the Bar Mitzvah of a close friend’s son this weekend. The experience was surprisingly emotional for me on a number of different levels. First was the inevitable reminder that time is slip sliding away and I haven’t figured out much of anything yet. The second was the gut-punch of loss that I felt that my friend’s mother wasn’t there, as she passed two years ago—and how I can’t believe it’s been two years already. Third, I felt regret that I had chosen to eschew the same celebrations for my own sons, mostly because I didn’t think it would be meaningful for me, as I’m not particularly observant. I think I was wrong. And yes, they can always choose to have the ceremony later, as adults, but it won’t be the same.

Similarly, I counsel anyone who will stand still long enough to listen to go on a honeymoon immediately after their wedding. There are some couples who choose to delay their “honeymoon” till months or even years after the wedding, which I think is a big mistake. Any sort of trip that doesn’t start when the marriage does is just a vacation. Never in our lives is there a time when we are first married, when our rings are super shiny (which is how everyone in Italy knew we were newlyweds on our honeymoon almost 21 years ago), and our love is erupting from our hearts. There is nothing like it when we refer to our spouse as our “husband” or “wife.” I’ve always said that the location of the honeymoon and the activities don’t matter, as long as the couple is away from their day-to-day lives and responsibilities for a little while to savor the moment.

And isn’t that what being human is all about? Astrid talks about the meaning of life being love, and that is true as far as it goes. But what is love, in some ways, that a magnifying glass for the present moment? The moment when are hearts are so full of feeling for others and for the lives we’ve been given that there is no room to live in the past or project into the future. What better way to enhance the present moment that to mark it with rites and rituals, ceremonies and celebrations? Such activities help us with our magic magnifying glasses, spinning the focus control so that we see only that which is in front of us and surrounding us.

When I was in graduate school, I planned to skip my graduation ceremony for my master’s degree. I was in a PhD program, and figured I would attend that service if I made it. My father had recently died, and his absence would be a gaping hole in my heart as I walked across the stage and accepted my diploma. What was the point? But my favorite professor, who was my advisor, employer, friend and mentor, urged me to reconsider. He, who was forty years my senior, said that we must take every opportunity to celebrate the joys of life, to recognize our own achievements and those of others, and stop time periodically to take stock of where we are, how we got there, and where we want to go from there. It was good advice. Such moments remind us of our humanity by plastering us to the present moment and forcing us to remember—or discover—that which is important to us and that which is not.

Unlike Astrid, we don’t have forever, and we need to make every moment count. In Astrid’s case, eternity without love and an appreciation for every moment would be worse than having a wedding in Hell (you know, where her Uncle Satan lives). For us, we will reach the end of this existence all too soon. Without clinging to our humanity with everything we’ve got, we’ll have missed the entire point of the exercise.

Of Signs and Symbols

I've started a new series, although I'm not quite sure where I found it. Hot Lead, Cold Iron by Ari Marmell is the first Mick Oberon "job" (story/book) and it's different enough to be intriguing. The book is an homage to the hard boiled dick novels of the early and mid-twentieth century coupled with faithful adherence to the traditional tropes of urban fantasy in the style of Jim Butcher and Kevin Hearne, with language from my favorite Star Trek episode, A Piece of the Action thrown in for good measure. What could be bad?  Turns out, nothing. The book is a delightful discovery and my only disappointment is that there are only three books so far in the series. I am also indebted to the author for highlighting an oversight in my understanding of magic, which I've discussed before. I've always said that the formula for magic was focus, energy and intention. What I forgot, and Mick Oberon reminded me, is that the language of magic is symbolism.   One of the reasons I forgot about symbolism is that it is a dying language, kind of like Latin (cognates of which are a favorite among wizards, druids and magical beings everywhere—expelliarmus!). But signs and symbols have always been a part of spell casting and magic generally. Think about salt circles, pentagram, ruins and the symbolism of the Tarot deck—any deck, really, although Rider-Waite is the classic and it is heavily symbolic. Symbols often mark a hidden path; think The DaVinci Code, cairns along twisted forest trail, or any treasure map worth its name.

Symbolism is esoteric and implicit. It can be subtle and often requires thought and decoding to understand. We live in a world of instant gratification and spoon-fed opinions and entertainment. We have no patience for anything that isn't in-your-face obvious. It's supposed to be like that, otherwise, why use signs and symbols? The problem for the modern mind is that symbolism has depth and most of us think depth is overrated. 

Except, of course, it's not. Depth is there regardless of whether we choose to acknowledge it. Symbols and signs often constitute the pathway that leads us to our own depths, as well as deep places outside ourselves. And most esoteric spiritual and religious books and teachings use the language of symbols so that if a seeker really wants the knowledge, she has to work for it. Very little of what comes easily is valued. Those who illuminate an obscure path with symbolic clues know this.

Symbolism is the language of dreams and, as such, a gateway to our unconscious minds. When we dream about showing up naked to a test, it's not because we actually fear that we'll forget to dress. Those dreams are about vulnerability and exposure. The symbolism of dreams is so well documented, in fact, that one can read books (or Google) the symbolism of dreams. My mother-in-law taught a class on the subject some years ago. There is a lot there to explore in our dreams. And it's all about the symbols.  

Depth psychology is almost exclusively an illumination of symbols and what they point to in terms of our patterns and neuroses. By exposing that to which the symbols refer, we can begin to understand the motivations behind self-destructive or outwardly destructive behaviors. We peel the layers back one by one, digging deeper and deeper into the symbolism of the unconscious mind and this process is supposedly very healing to old wounds. 

Symbols are the language of both spirituality and religion. A cross is a symbol, the Star of David is a symbol, and a candle in a window is a symbol. We all know what they mean, although they can mean different things to different people. That's what makes them interesting and subtle and subject to interpretation. There is a great deal of symbolism in each of the western religions (I'm sure in the east as well, but I'm not as familiar with those traditions). The wafer in the mass, Elijah's cup, a Muslim woman's headscarf. These are all symbols of something else that point to the Divine and humanity's place in relation to the infinite. Fascinating stuff.

Symbols can stir deep emotions. Think about someone burning an American flag. It's just a piece of cloth. Except it's not. Think about Serrano's Immersion, otherwise known as the "Piss Christ." It's just a piece of plastic submerged in a cup of urine. Gross? Yes.  But unless we imbue that piece of plastic with some meaning beyond its constituent parts, it's not a big deal. If we see meaning beyond the explicit in that plastic crucifix, then yes, that changes the whole equation.

Finally, symbolism is the language of the imagination. Our creativity is fueled by signs and symbols. We draw and paint and write in symbols. My personal favorite, of course, is the writing part of creativity, and my very favorite thing to do is to write and read creative analogies, many of which involve symbolism and one thing pointing to another. In fact, I've always wanted to write a book with the best analogies and metaphors I've read in my many literary travels. Hot Lead, Cold Iron has oodles of them; I'm in analogy heaven, and my imagination is swirling.

I'm indebted to Ari Marmell for this imaginative, symbolic gambol through an alternate 1930s Chicago and some instruction on the necessary ingredients  of magic and mayhem. I love symbolism and I'm always looking for signs. I can find meaning in the random order of my iTunes playlist, completely sure I'm receiving messages from the Universe, as well as the specific positions of magazines in a doctor's waiting room. Needless to say, with this book, I'm in my element and having a rip-roaring good time. 

Healing the Past

I'm enjoying Jessie Donovan's Stonefire British Dragons series. The books are fun and flighty, and you know me and my dragons. Love. In the fourth installment, Healed by the Dragon, Arabella is a female dragon shifter who was captured and tortured by dragon hunters as a teen (they also killed her mother, so she has some major scars—and not just the ones on her face).  She hides away for a decade, afraid of her dragon and everyone else until the leader of a neighboring dragon clan swoops in to win her heart and give her an HEA.  The moral of the story, beyond that most paranormal fantasy usually ends with a happily ever after, is that everything we need to heal the past can be found in the present. According to Jessie Donovan (and me) it's not necessary to relive the past in order to heal it. The Universe gives us opportunities in the present to repair the damage – and, if we're willing to take the other steps necessary to move toward— freedom from the bondage of that which we cannot change.  

Because we can't.  We can't go back and either undo or redo the past—it's over.  And whatever happened there has made us who we are today, for better and for worse. Somehow, and in some way, we must come to terms with whatever trauma or loss or lack that we endured, and find a way to accept it. We must also accept that no matter what, there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.

There is a lot to do to heal our past. None of it, however, requires that we relive it over and over again. Instead, we must grieve. When we survive terrible experiences, whether they are physical, emotional or psychological (or all of the above), we must grieve the death of the person we were or could have been.

I look back now and wonder how much pain and suffering I could have avoided if my mother hadn't been a narcissist who was essentially incapable of loving me. Who could I have been with support and encouragement as a child—someone who experienced love and security and a sense that all was right in the world? I have no idea. I suspect that I would have been, could have been, should have been amazing. Happy.  Content. Compassionate (towards myself). I was none of those things then and for a long time afterward.

I've had to come to terms with the fact that I was a damaged, anxious, defensive, distrustful child, teen and new adult.  I had to accept that and grieve the person I coulda, shoulda, woulda been before I could rebuild a life for myself and experience all of those beautiful moments I missed growing up. I had to accept that this was my path—harder than those of some, infinitely easier than that of many.

The second requirement for healing the past in the present is forgiveness. We must forgive those who harmed us, and we must forgive ourselves for being harmed.  I know we're not supposed to blame the victim—especially when we are that victim—but we do, and we must stop. We blame the Other or the Universe for bad acts, but we blame ourselves for not avoiding them, or not getting through it all with less damage, or not getting over it quickly. All of this must be forgiven if we are to move forward. Tough stuff.

And lastly, if we are to have a real shot at healing the past, we need to take a leap of faith. It is my belief that for all of us who need to heal, there is an underlying belief that the past is the future. Somewhere deep inside we believe that the past is a predictor of the future. If it happened once it will happen again, and perhaps again after that. So unless we willingly suspend disbelief and trust that the present and the future need not be a repeat of the past, we will never be truly healed. No matter how good things get. Because we will be so hyper-vigilant watching for that other shoe, or Damocles' damn sword, or sharks falling out of tornados on top of us that we cannot truly enjoy any healing that might occur.

Once all of that work is done, then it's time to allow ourselves to be vulnerable again. This is the hardest part of all. Because, in truth, we are always vulnerable. But we deny this truth and instead seek to protect ourselves by bracing for and expecting the worst. In our damaged minds we believe that by hardening our hearts, they will never be broken again. But the truth is that we stayed broken because our hearts never healed and so we were never whole. If we can soften and open and receive, it's true that we might get hurt again, but the alternative is to stay hurt to the point where we convince ourselves we no longer feel the pain. This is a dangerous delusion.

Like Arabella in Healing the Dragon, the only way out is through. Through the fear and the potential suffering to the joy on the other side. That way through is what allows us to be open to the explore experiences that heal—to be the parents to our children that we never had. To be the loving partner that we always wanted to attract. To give our all to a worthy cause or take a leap towards a new career, lifestyle, location, whatever. But all of this must come after the grief, and the forgiveness and acceptance of our own vulnerability.

It's not enough to rewrite our present in words and scenes that salve our past wounds. That is necessary but not sufficient. In order to truly experience and benefit from the present healing the past, we must accept, grieve and forgive. And then open ourselves to new experiences that reorder our thinking and our lives for the better.  A tall order. But if the dragon can do it, so can I.

Love after Love

My new ambition is to be a writer who is so successful that my deleted scenes and alternate endings, middles and beginnings can be pulled from the trash and put together into a book that becomes a bestseller.  I want to be Jeaniene Frost. Her Outtakes from the Grave was not only interesting and exciting, but an original and brilliant concept. Here, Ms. Frost provides insights into a writer's mind and process. We see what she left out and why. Fascinating read, and it leads to the topic at hand, which is about second chances for love. In Outtakes from the Grave, the longest and most compelling section was an alternate plot line where the central couple, Cat and Bones (one of the great paranormal couples of all time), are challenged by his complete memory loss of her. Bones doesn't remember who Cat is, or that they are married and wildly in love. The scenes are excruciating to read—can you imagine your significant other forgetting you? Horrifying. And they also raise an interesting question: would we fall in love with the same person twice?  I wondered about this when I read a similar trope in Thea Harrison's novella, Pia Saves the Day, where her mate, Dragos, loses his memory. In both cases, these males fall in love with their mates all over again. I wonder how much truth there is in this particular fantasy.

What do you think?  Does our current partner have the ability to woo us a second time if we lost our memories of them and met them as strangers today?  Keep in mind that in this scenario we're not going back to who we were when we met; the question is whether if we were who we are right now, and we met our mate who they are right now without any historical knowledge of them or us would we fall in love a second time?

At this point in our lives, we are older and hopefully wiser. Would we gravitate toward good looks, knowing as we do now that such metrics are ephemeral?  Would we interrogate our erstwhile partner and determine their level of industry, responsibility and integrity?  Would we find them wanting?

Would we be attracted to the same things in our mate that we were then?  Have we learned that what we thought was there, wasn't? What was important to us at 25 might be quite different at 50. Have we changed sufficiently that we no longer share the same values and worldview?  Does this matter?  Would we take what we've had and determine that moving on with no harm, no foul is the way to go – knowing that the history is not shared?

Another question is whether compatibility is more important than shared interests. Many people commit to each other based on similar resumes.  They work and/or play in the same arenas and conclude that this is enough to build a life. I've never believed that, and my own marriage bears this out; my husband and I share few interests or hobbies (although we both love to travel together, which has created a powerful bond and allowed us to make many beautiful memories together).  What we do have, and what has been a backbone of our longevity, is an uncanny compatibility and the ability to divvy up responsibilities in an equitable and mutually satisfying manner. So, I picked correctly the first time—compatibility over shared interests—and I would do it again.

If we had it to do over again and we were in a position to accept or reject our current partner in an alternate universe where they no longer knew us, would we follow the adage that birds of a feather flock together or that opposites attract? That is a harder question for me. I went with "opposites attract," and while it's been a good move in many ways, it's also been the source of many marital issues. So, having had no experience with a partner whose feathers are like mine, I'm not sure what I would do, but probably stick with the one that brung me. I'm a little afraid that if I had a mate who was much like me, it would quickly go nuclear.

Another question along these lines is whether this reasoning applies to friends as well as lovers/life partners?  If our friends forgot us, would we still want to be friends with them? I've often contemplated that my oldest, closest friends—my sisters by choice not blood—could not be more different from each other and from me. We were thrust together as small children and we grew up together, but beyond many shared formative experiences, we don't have much in common, nor are we particularly compatible. So if one of us lost the memory of the other, it could totally sink the relationship. Which would be utterly devastating. These women are my rocks in the turbulent sea of life. So I will be like Scarlett O'Hara and just not think about that today.

This particular thought experiment had one more related and relevant question: if it is true that we would fall in love with the same person again and even again, is it possible to achieve that without the dramatic loss of memory, or the threat of a total loss through illness, injury, death or betrayal?  In other words, when the thrill is gone and the honeymoon is over, when the hard work of building careers and raising families is done, can two people rekindle the chemistry that brought them together in the first place? Is it possible to fall head over heels in love with our partners long after the bloom is off the rose? I think the answer is yes and that with time, effort and persistent focus, we can all remember that love after love is possible and magical even within a single union.

Presence Is the Best Present

I recently finished Man in Black by John G. Hartness. The series is getting better and better and I read it in one sitting. In this installment, our boy, Jimmy Black, is now the top vampire in Charlotte, NC. He's come a long way, baby. Jimmy has had to grow up in a hurry and figure out how to get serious about his new responsibilities. It's not easy being the head honcho in the first place, but on top of that, no one is taking him seriously. Not the other vampires, and not even the very human crime boss of Charlotte, Marcus Owen, despite his own deficiencies in the paranormal department.  And while Jimmy feels confident in his inherent superiority to a mere mortal, he is not prepared for the effect of Owen's outsized presence. When Jimmy meets Owen for the first time, he is surprisingly overwhelmed. As Jimmy learned, presence is an interesting attribute. One either has it or they don't. And while it might be possible to dampen one's presence for effect or necessity and grow in presence over time, one cannot amplify a quality that isn't … present.

But man, oh, man, when it’s there, presence is a force of nature. Have you ever seen Bill Clinton in person?  He electrifies a place. President Obama has his fair share as well. Many politicians do.  Preachers too. Rock stars and A-list actors may have it more than anyone.  When we meet someone with the gift of presence, we know it. They are the ones towards whom all heads turn when they enter a room.  Sometimes it's a function of physical beauty, like Marilyn Monroe or James Dean (if you're an old movie buff, as I am—think Margot Robbie or Chris Pine if not). But even when the person with presence is beautiful, it's something more than that. Personally, I think it's chemical—even when you haven't actually seen this kind of individual walk into a room, you know they're there because your lizard brain senses it. And if we become the object of such a person's attention? Oh, Nelly, things get hot.  These people have power.

Power is itself an attribute or sign of presence. Powerful people often feel like they also have great presence. The issue is, which came first, the chicken or the egg? Did Nelson Mandela have presence before he acquired power?  Did Elvis Presley? What about Anna Wintour?  If we looked at their high school yearbooks, would all of these folks have "Most Likely to Succeed" labels under their awkward teenaged photos (and yes, I understand that Nelson Mandela likely didn't have a yearbook photo). I suspect that presence of the inherent, chemical variety is a prerequisite for presence of the powerful variety and that the second enhances the first—but can't necessarily make it stick.  Look at Bill Gates; not much presence there, just s geeky guy with enough smarts to change the world.  His achievements confer power, and the power bestows a titch of presence, but not really. Bill Gates just doesn’t have it, despite his smarts, his wealth and his power. That’s a great trifecta, but it’s not the same as having presence. Ask Hillary Clinton, who hasn't "caught" any presence from her husband, which is a shame, because she could use it against Trump, who, unfortunately, has quite a bit of presence.

Presence conveys an illusion of competence, trustworthiness and strength (there could be truth below the illusion, but not necessarily). When a man or woman of presence tells us something, we are apt to believe it. It's almost like being mesmerized by a vampire.  We want to believe this incredible creature who is telling us things with great confidence and weight. We yearn to believe.  In fact, depending on the level of personal presence someone has, and the degree to which we consciously or unconsciously want to give up our will, we do believe. It’s an authority and obedience thing.

Presence conveys authority. Which is scary. I remember going to a Michael Jackson concert in the 1980s at a huge stadium in Florida. And as I was looking around at all of the delirious fans, I had the unpleasant thought that if Michael asked his fans to jump up and down squealing like pigs, they would. If he asked them to turn to the person next to them and land a sucker punch, my fear was that way too many would jump on that bandwagon, just because Michael asked. The authority of presence can certainly be abused. We’ve seen that too, all too often.

Presence is a quirky concept. Like pornography, we know it when we see and feel it, but we may not be able to describe it. But it’s hard to ignore when it’s there. I suspect that as overwhelmed as Jimmy was by Marcus Owens' presence, and as underwhelmed as Marcus was by Jimmy's, Jimmy Black, Master of Charlotte will grow in presence as he settles into his powerful job. And if that happens, the seeds of that presence were always there. I guess that John Hartness has been waiting quite some time to let Jimmy's inner badass out. And I also suspect that we will all take notice.  Because it's a big deal when Elvis has left the building.

The Gift of Desperation

As I mentioned last week, I'm reading a new-to-me series by Jessie Donovan about the Stonefire British Dragons. Interestingly, I found this series through Facebook ads, so in case anyone was wondering, they work. I'm always willing to give a new author a whirl around the dance floor, especially when they write about dragons. The original premise of this series, and the title of the first book, is that human women are Sacrificed to the Dragon. In a clever twist on the trope of virgins being slaughtered for the sake of appeasing horrific monsters (and gods), in this version, willing human women (not virgins) who have been found to be compatible with dragonmen for the purpose of procreation, trade their bodies as baby-making entities in exchange for dragon blood, which has miraculous healing properties. Now, one cannot look too closely at this premise, as it has holes bigger than a Mac truck, or maybe a dragon, but if we gloss over that caveat, then it works. In the second book, Seducing the Dragon, the female protagonist seeks protection against dragon hunters who want to kill her in exchange for becoming a dragon-shifter's mate.  Again, the construct is rickety, but if we go with it, the book is fun and sexy. These plots inspired me to think about what we humans are willing to do when we're desperate. I know I'm not giving anything away when I tell you that both of these women, one a sacrifice and one a seductress, end up getting their HEAs with their hunky dragonmen. But what got them there in the first place was the gift of desperation, one desperate to save her dying brother and the other desperate to save herself.

In the 12-step Rooms (as the meeting places for Alcoholics Anonymous and all of its spin-offs are called), they talk about the "gift of desperation."  This refers to the (usually horrible) circumstances that lead an addict to contemplate the need for recovery. In many (although not all) cases, folks who stumble or crawl into the Rooms have hit "rock bottom," and are aware—somewhere in their addled brains—that if they don't change their ways, the only outcome is insanity or death. J.R. Ward describes this phenomenon through the character of Phury, who is a drug addict. Phury spirals downward, slowly and then faster and faster as he circles the hole in the toilet, contemplating the event horizon from which he will not return. Spoiler alert—Phury gets help and gets his shit together but only thanks to utter desperation.

It seems paradoxical to call desperation a gift. Desperate people aren’t stable. Nor are they rational. Desperate people get that way because they have lost something, like a lover, a job, their homes, their families, their wealth and/or their health. Desperate people understand what it is to look in a mirror and feel such self loathing that it makes the hatred between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump seem blasé. Desperate people don't believe there is a way out of the mess they are in, whether it's one of their own making or a situation that fate has foisted upon them. And desperate people, as a result of their desperation, do desperate things.  

Desperate deeds can be described as something we would never contemplate doing if we were in our right minds. Like signing up to be sacrificed to a dragon we've never met and having his dragon baby. Or not drinking when we can't really imagine life without alcohol. Or maybe telling someone how we really feel, because we figure we have nothing left to lose. Or, in the best cases, surrendering the fight because we just can't fight anymore, and accepting the reality in which we are living, which is the first step toward meaningful change.

That last desperate act—accepting a reality that does not conform to our fantasies—is probably the hardest, most desperate thing we can do. It's the moment we accept that our mate isn't as smart, or capable, or attractive or interesting as we thought—or at least hoped. We've all been there when the honeymoon is over, and we are left with the realization that our better half is actually no better than we are, but equally imperfect and damaged by living our lives. And then there is the equally horrifying moment when we realize that they feel exactly the same way. But from there, lasting relationships can be by built on a solid foundation.

Even more desperate is the act of accepting ourselves. For those of us of a certain age, there comes a time when we realize that we haven't yet changed the world, and given the lateness of the hour, it may never happen. We must accept the reality that our bodies are bigger, slower and less energetic than they used to be.  And when we butt up against that reality, some of us do desperate things to negate a reality we don't want. Like buying a muscle car and having an affair with a younger woman, which really reeks of desperation like nothing else.

But the gift of desperation can also lead us toward the light—not the one we will supposedly see when we finally depart this mortal plain, but the one at the end of a long, dark and lonely tunnel that isn’t a freight train. When we are willing to contemplate actions that seemed anathema before we were desperate, we just might find absolution, or relief, or freedom from the bondage of self. The man who changed his terrible eating habits because of a heart attack might discover that clean eating feels amazing. The woman who takes up exercise to lose dangerous belly fat might learn that a runner's high is better than that second glass of wine at dinner. We might find out we are stronger and more courageous than we knew, more creative than we hoped, and more attractive when we live authentically instead of projecting a persona we believed others would want.

Desperation is indeed a gift, although we may only be able to acknowledge that in hindsight. While we're feeling it, desperation can be desperately uncomfortable.  And it would certainly be nice if we didn't have to go to such lengths to do things that turn out to be the best things we could do, but often, that's what it takes. So like Jessie Donovan's sacrifice and seductress, I will be grateful for the gift of desperation. And for authors who write about dragons. Because dragons are always a gift.

Sticks and Stones

I took a chance on a new author based on John Hartness’ Facebook recommendation. It was a novella, so I figured if I didn't like it, I could stop reading, secure in the knowledge that I hadn't missed anything (sometimes with a novel-length book I become convinced that goodness is lurking just beyond the next scene, even though that is often not the case, but the triumph of hope over experience is hard to extinguish). Of Lips and Tongues, by A. G. Carpenter, is a southern gothic horror story, and none of these descriptors would normally make it past the moat dragons guarding entry to my Kindle. But an endorsement from a favored author circumvents my normal skepticism any day, and I’m so glad. Of Lips and Tongues was mesmerizing—in much the same way as the protagonist’s original "magic of the tongue."  Delaney’s magic is subtle and unique. This is a story about how sticks and stones may break our bones, but words can break our world. In Delaney's reality, evil can be conjured with malicious intent and unfortunate utterances. Here, a golem capable of great harm is created by "the sum of everything dark in the human spirit—envy, fear, guilt, spite—all stuck together with the bitter magic of unkind tongues." For Delaney, there is "magic in our words. Evil in our whispers." Words create reality in this plane. How terrifying.

As is often the case, this fantasy story reflects some deep truths. Words can definitely hurt. Words can create the embodiment of our guilt and shame and fear and precipitate all resulting bad behavior. One look at our current political arena is enough to convince anyone that ugly words and whispers have the power to distort the past, shape the present and manipulate the future.

The characters in A. G. Carpenter's novella (the first of a trilogy, happily) talk about how guilt can lead us toward rationalization and justification, especially when we use our words to hide our feelings. Guilt arises when we knowingly do wrong, and then we contort into all kinds of twisted shapes to salve our affronted conscience. It's the teacher we malign after she gives us a well-deserved "F."  It's the ex-friend we belittle because she dumped us for talking smack behind her back. It's the colleague we mercilessly torment because he works harder than we do and we wouldn't want him to seem too good. Or the boss we gossip about, passing speculation off as ground truth to make ourselves feel important for disseminating salacious information.

There is magic in our words, evil in our whispers.  Words have power. Ask "Crooked Hillary" or "Lying Ted."  Ask Ryan Lochte how much his "misrepresentations" cost him. I can't imagine he doesn't believe in the power of the spoken word any more. Perhaps he'll be more judicious with his future utterings. And I'm sure The Donald will continue to wield his weapon of choice; after all, continuous repetition of untruths creates its own reality as the repeated words carve neural pathways in our brains until we can no longer distinguish between truth and fantasy. I read it in the newspaper or I saw it online, so it must be true. A candidate for president of the United States keeps saying it, and where there is smoke, there is fire.

Words hurt.  Ask the victims who've been bullied. Ask the kid being teased on the playground whether name calling is a harmless pastime. Ask anyone who's ever been falsely accused of a crime; it's hard to come back from that, even if one's innocence has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Someone made an accusation, so there could be something to it. There must be something to it. There is something to it. It must be true. Such a slippery slope.

But A. G. Carpenter only tells half the story here (it's a novella, after all). As much as words can make evil, they can also do great good. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I would rather read those thousand words, and "see" the pictures they create in my imagination. And while I love photography, I prefer to read and re-read a book instead of looking repeatedly at a picture. Because the vision created by the words in my mind's eye is different every time I read a passage; I might add a slightly different tone to the color of the heroine's hair, or tweak the way I hear her voice in my head. Words have that power, and it is good.

I'm indebted to John Hartness for turning me on to A.G. Carpenter and her compelling words. She writes about the evil that we do with our lips and tongues, but where there is evil, there is the potential for goodness.  And while Ms. Carpenter writes about the evil that we speak and the pain it can cause, her words on the page point to the beauty of words and the pleasure that they can bring.

To Write or Not To Write

I'm reading a new series. It has dragons. Enough said. I also just read a post by John Hartness (author of some of my favorite urban fantasy novels), which talked about how to become a good writer. It involves writing. And reading. And getting better at same. How do these disparate thoughts connect?  Well, I'm on the third book of Jessie Donovan's Stonefire Dragons series, and it's getting better.  Clearly, the first two books, Sacrificed to the Dragon and Seducing the Dragon, were good enough to ensure I kept reading through to this book, Revealing the Dragons. The writing is getting better, the plotting is getting better and the series is getting better.  Ditto for Mr. Hartness, so I guess he's taking his own advice. Encouraging. And all of this thinking is in keeping with my topic of the week—maybe of the year:  how to improve myself. It's the whole talent versus work question. Nature versus nurture. And I'm confused. And scared. And depressed. And hopeful. And did I mention confused? Today's post is all about me (I'll try to bring my personal angst back to a larger application by the end of the post, so bear with me, please). I'm at a crossroads: should I keep writing this blog, hoping to maybe turn it into a book, and possibly make this the prelude to writing fiction? Which I have no idea how to write. So maybe this is all an exercise in futility (clearly my pity party of last week isn't quite over).

So here is the dilemma: I'm not a natural fiction writer, despite my teenaged attempts to write a novel (stranded island, threesome, no plot beyond they crashed, they survived, they eventually got rescued—highly episodic and predictable). Yet I yearn to write fiction. But I have neither stories nor characters rolling around in my head, clamoring to be let out. I have oodles of desire, but no discernible ability to translate that into action. Or none that has manifested itself thus far.

According to John Hartness, fuck me—till I faint, as one of my bosses used to say to me (who, while vulgar, was supportive, helpful, instructive and all-around wonderful, so I'm repeating his favorite adage with affection and respect—truly). Anyhoo, as I was saying, I think I'm screwed. I think maybe I don't want this enough, I'm too lazy, too stupid, too disorganized, too ADD, too little, too late. I have a quote from Laurell Hamilton above my desk, "How bad do you want it?  That's the first question. Once you've answered it, you can get to work or give up. But you'll know which it is."  And my deepest fear is that I've already answered that question. 'Cause if I wanted it badly enough, I would have already done what it takes to do it.

On top of that, I saw a cartoon on Facebook earlier that made fun of someone who thinks people still read blogs – as in they’re passé. Which freaked me the fuck out (clearly, I'm also slipping in my commitment to keep the bad language to a minimum). All of this feels futile.

But, back to John Hartness’ counsel to, "Suck it up, buttercup."  If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. He notes that most writers write a lot of stuff that will never see the light of someone else's Kindle. Nor should it. Most of what beginning writers write is shit not fit for human consumption. So we need to keep writing. And then keep writing some more. I was feeling pretty good about the 250,000 words I've already written for this blog. But John talked about writing a million words before anyone wanted to publish them.  My neighbor, a best-selling author, writes more than 10,000 words a day. Every day (well, maybe she takes weekends off…).

And while John Hartness would say that work is all that is needed – which should be good news for me, as we can all control how much we work, but not how much talent we have, I still believe inspiration has a place in creative writing. As in it requires creativity, which, in turn, necessitates a visit from my Muse, who is a fickle bitch and hasn't stopped by my place to visit in quite a while.

But I think John would say, "Fuck your Muse!  We don't need no stinking muses to get shit done!  Because a good work ethic, and grit, and hard work trumps inspiration. Every. Single. Time."  Or, at least, that's what I imagine he would say. He might ask me what I'm doing today to make my dreams a reality.  Do I have an action plan? Am I willing to give up sleep and my social life (or at least some of it) and other ways I spend my time (like on Facebook)?  Am I willing to put my money where my mouth is and take some fucking action?  And no, not just writing this blog and occasionally reading about how to write. Just doing it already, knowing that the first several hundred thousand words are going to be dog meat?

To write or not to write?  That is the question. Or, at least, it’s my question. I’m sure many of you have a similar question rattling around in your brain, although perhaps it pertains to getting married, or having kids, or changing jobs, or pursuing your own passion. I don't have any answers, just lots of questions today. Any thoughts would be most appreciated.

Change Yourself

I'm still thinking about Arcana Rising, the latest offering from Kresley Cole in her Tarot-card based series, The Arcana Chronicles. In this original world, each card of the Major Arcana has been incarnated as a young person with paranormal powers. In Arcana Rising, we are introduced to the idea that some of the Minor Arcana cards may also be incarnated and what that might mean for our protagonists.  The Minor Arcana roughly correlates to a deck of cards someone might use to play rummy; there are four suits with numbers from one to ten and four face cards (one more than in a regular deck, actually, but one can still "read" Tarot from a regular deck, if one is so inclined). In a Tarot reading, the significance of a card is dependent on its placement in the spread, but regardless of position in a particular reading, some cards of the Minor Arcana are more ominous than others. One of the worst cards to draw is the Ten of Swords (equivalent to the ten of spades). In the most popular version of the Tarot deck, the Rider-Whaite Tarot, the Ten of Swords depicts a person lying facedown on the ground with ten swords sticking out of his back. The imagery is explicit and disturbing. In Arcana Rising, the female protagonist, Evie, who is the Empress card (these books are easier to understand if you have some basic knowledge of Tarot to begin with; because it’s always been an interest of mine, I particularly love these books), is talking to her grandmother about how to proceed in the "Game," in which she is supposed to fight the other incarnate cards until only one wins. Evie's grandmother teaches her the most important lesson of life, that, "When you can't change your situation, you must change yourself. You must rise and walk, despite the ten swords in your back."  

I've always heard variations on this theme: you can't control what happens to you, just how you react to it and you can't change others; we have no control over outcomes. And I get it—but what if I'm not strong enough to change myself or accept the outcome, even if I hate it? What if I can't do it—whatever "it" is—without a crutch?  Or at all?

We have so many crutches from which to choose. We can get drunk, or engage in better living through chemistry, or numb out to the TV, or the computer/iPad or even—gasp—books. We can shop—online or in stores—and engage in retail therapy. We can have too much sex or gamble to excess or become workaholics or overeaters. I'm painfully aware of the myriad of ways we can anesthetize ourselves so that we can't feel the swords in our back—or anything else, for that matter. And the swords are still there.  Not good.

What to do? What does it mean to change ourselves? After all, it's hard to function while being impaled by ten swords. And maybe the bad situation is temporary, or at least the acute phase is temporary—like an illness or injury, or even if we are grieving a death. But maybe the situation is our new normal, and we rebel against this evolving reality, denying its truth so that we don't need to deal with its consequences.

I've had a small taste of that just this week. I had a boating accident and damaged my knee. A severe MCL sprain and a medial meniscus tear. Big time owie. And just like that, life changed for me. Routine tasks, like, say, getting out of a chair or turning over in bed went from automatic to excruciating. My plans for yoga teacher training were now in jeopardy. Getting to my bedroom on the third floor was now a major undertaking. Would I need surgery? How long would this breathtaking pain last? Would I regain full function without having to favor the leg? Who has time for this? Why me? Am I getting old and decrepit?  This was my second muscle/ligament tear in two months. Am I falling apart?

I'm a bit embarrassed to say that all of this precipitated a pretty significant pity party to which I invited my nearest and dearest. Shockingly, while everyone came to say ‘hello’, no one wanted to stay at my sorry soirée. Actually, neither did I. Boh -ring. So I decided to get up off the pity pot and take matters into my own hands, getting some effective help (beyond the advice to elevate and ice and stay off my leg and take painkillers). And while the swords haven't moved–I still have a bum knee, and I'm still in pain—my attitude about it is totally changed.  Hope is on the horizon and action is the watchword of the day. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started to look on the bright side and do something to ameliorate my suffering.

So maybe that is what Evie's grandmother meant by rising and walking, despite the swords in our back—awareness, acceptance, action—the A-Team of growth and change. But, in reality, dealing with a bad knee is one thing, dealing with the rest of my reality is something else again.

There are so many things about myself I want to change.  I would like to be less reactive with my children. I would like to be more disciplined with exercise and food. I would like to develop and stick to a writing schedule and get my fiction work off the ground.  I would like to be more positive and persistent. I would like to have more faith in a benevolent universe and the trustworthiness of people.  I would like to be less fearful.

I get that meaningful change must come from within, although it took a while to get with that particular program. I think that I have finally—finally— accepted that it's me, and not everyone and everything else. I've given up the fantasy that life would be perfect if only…fill in the blank… the kids would behave, my husband would appreciate me more, I would never have to deal with another idiot driver (not that those things wouldn't be awesome), etc. etc. etc.  But life isn't perfect and sometimes we have ten swords sticking out of our backs, which can really ruin one's day.

The life lesson here that Evie's grandmother was trying to convey is simple:  pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. We have control over our internal landscape and not much else. No matter what the situation is, we can always rise and walk, even with ten swords in our backs. We may be riding and walking to our just rewards, our final journey, but even death can be approached with dignity and fearlessness rather than martyrdom and abdication of responsibility for ourselves. These are indeed tough lessons, but I'm indebted to Evie and her grandmother for the good and necessary reminders to rise and walk, regardless of whatever swords are protruding from us.

Presentation Is Everything

I just finished Kresley Cole's Arcana Rising. I have no idea how this author puts out amazing paranormal romance, intelligent YA post-apocalyptic books, and adult erotica that will sizzle your skivvies—and all in one year! As you know, I don't normally like young adult or post-apocalyptic fiction, and I usually stay away from love triangles. However, The Arcana series has all three, and I can't seem to get enough. The series offers a very interesting premise about the incarnation of the the Major Arcana of the Tarot deck, and the battle for dominance a la The Hunger Games and Highlander—in the end, there can be only one.  Each of the major characters is one of the Tarot cards—Evie, the heroine, is the Empress, and one of her love interests is the Death card. Other cards appear as well and in this book we get to know Sol, the Sun card. Sol is a "layered" character (his description), and while he loves to watch people battle to the death in gladiatorial games, and he's allied himself with the bad guys, he's also got some compassion and a moral compass that can flicker towards true north. When Evie spends time with Sol, she is struck by the pageantry of his set up and the way he interacts with his followers.  Sol has fashioned himself a God, and looks for worship from his adoring crowds.  When Evie comments on the grandiosity of the display, Sol tells her, "Presentation is everything."  He has a point. There is a lot to be said about the power of presentation, and also its unsavory underbelly.

Sol models his organization on Ancient Rome, because, in his view, those guys knew how to throw a party—or a dictatorship. He could have chosen Louis XIV or the Catholic Church. Hell, Sol could have pointed to Donald Trump as a man who understands that presentation is paramount. Versailles, the Vatican and Trump Tower are all designed to elevate the builder.  Kind of reminds me of Lord Farquaad from the movie Shrek—his very large, very phallic looking palace had nothing to do with insecurity about his statur—according to him. And there is NO PRBLEM with The Donald's manly man-parts. Yeah, right.

Compensation aside, however, there is something to be said for putting on the Ritz and making a good impression. I think I've told the story of how I wore blue jeans and red suede elf shoes (complete with pointy toes)to my Harvard interview, confident that my superior intellect would outweigh my disrespectful outward appearance.  No dice. And no Harvard. Presentation counts. How we present ourselves will influence how people see us. I used to counsel young women starting out in the national security field to be careful with their wardrobe. Rocking our femininity is fine, but being valued for how we look instead of our professional performance was a sure way to forfeit promotions. Presentation counts.

And because a good presentation can definitely hide the void below, being able to see past the staging is an important skill. It's vital to be able to see the veneer beneath the veneer, as one of my friends puts it. Because sometimes there is no there there, but we're too hypnotized by the razzle dazzle to notice. In my experience, most of us could use a little help with our ability to penetrate the presentation and see the reality underneath.

By the same token, it's equally important to be able to see the potential of something without all its window dressing.  Not everyone has the capacity to "see" how something will look when it's been "prettied up."  It's why those with vision can see a major "fixer-upper" house and project an image of how it will look with new paint and maybe a new bay window and a custom kitchen. Others among us can't imagine how it will look, and so they need to see a prospective house already finished and furnished before they can even think about buying it.

And sometimes, a good presentation isn't just hiding emptiness or superficiality. Sometimes a pretty exterior is shielding an ugly interior. Form over function doesn't work when the form is masking something dysfunctional. After all, putting lipstick on a pig just gives you a slightly better-looking pig. In the final analysis, it's still a pig and you're not gonna want to kiss it. Similarly, I’ve never been particularly interested in an asshat with nice external packaging. Not worth it. A pig is a pig underneath the nice lips.

Sol’s role in Arcana Rising is important. Evie, like the rest of us, needs to be reminded that putting on a good show can serve a useful purpose. But it’s also vital to avoid judging a book by its cover. Discernment and depth are key components to success, as Evie will have to learn if she is going to win the “game.” For the rest of us, as long as we’re not hiding something dark underneath our light, like Sol, then we should be able to do good and look good at the same time.

Speakers of Truth

I'm behind in my blogging for a worthy cause; I've read so many good books lately and had so many ideas for blog posts that I'm writing faster than I can post. Which is a wonderful problem to have. Today's post features the amazing new offering by Faith Hunter, Blood of the Earth. This is a spin-off series that takes place in the world of Jane Yellowrock, but focuses on a new heroine, Nell Ingram. Nell is a complex character with paranormal powers.  We learn about Nell’s evolving abilities right along with her. In addition to all of that, she is a survivor of a cult that married her off to an older man at 15, and now she's a 23-year old widow.   There is a lot to this book. I can't recommend it enough. But I digress. As the book progresses, Nell discovers a talent for speaking truth to power. This is a heady ability, and its importance is highlighted when Nell is recruited by the Feds to gather information from her former cult cohorts, who are suspected of collaboration with a militant racist group call Human Speakers of Truth. Needless to say, these asshats aren't speaking much truth at all. But Nell most certainly is. Faith Hunter uses this clever play on words to illuminate the path she wants her readers to follow.

Speaking truth to power—and even to regular folks who might not want to hear it—is a rare and valuable skill. In fact, I built my entire national security career on just that ability. Speaking truth involves courage, resolve, strength, sensitivity and a willingness to sacrifice oneself for the greater good. It is not for the faint-hearted. Nell is far from faint-hearted. She is a wonderful character, full of fear and vulnerability, but with a spine of steel and a will of iron. She is admirable and inspirational.

Most of us don't want to hear unpleasant facts or negative opinions. We eschew criticism, even when it's constructive. When someone tells us things we don't want to hear, we tend to edge away from that someone. This tendency is not necessarily good, but we do it anyway, like so many other things that constitute poor choices. And our unwillingness to hear unpleasantries is reinforced by the equally strong desire in most of us to please people or avoid confrontation. Taken together, these traits mean that many of us live in a bubble with others who perpetuate our delusions of grandeur and competence.

This unfortunate situation is even more pronounced in professional organizations and in the corridors of government and corporate power. Many of those at the top (and I've found men to be more susceptible to this than women as a gross generalization), prefer that their positive self perceptions be reflected by those who serve and support them. So what ends up happening is the Fox News syndrome —where only supportive opinions are expressed. Truth? Truth becomes what we want it to be, rather than a reflection of reality. Denial? Nope. Don't even know I am lying if everyone around me is doing it as well.

Penetrating that defensive wall of denial is difficult and daunting. I've been thrown out of many an office for pointing out that the emperor is buck ass naked. But I'm happy to say that I've also been escorted to some of the highest offices in the land because over the years my reputation for brutal honesty and objectivity has been valued. Turns out there are some powerful people who realize that surrounding ourselves with bobble-headed yes-men (and women) is the best way to fail.

But it takes courage to say things others won't.  It's scary and the consequences can be quite negative, as both Nell and I can tell you. Speaking truth, especially to power, means risking rejection and ridicule. It means being disliked and being relegated to the unpopular kids' lunch table.  For those of us who spent way too much time at that table in grade school, it's particularly unpleasant.

But it's important. Someone has to tell the emperor his new clothes are non-existent. Someone needs to point out the obvious and the not-so-obvious.  It's possible no one will listen to us. And it's possible we might get pink-slipped as a result of our willingness to say what no one wants to hear. It's possible we'll be like Cassandra, accurately predicting doom and gloom without anyone believing us. And then becoming the object of revulsion because we were right. Speaking truth to power often sucks.

So why do we do it? Why does Nell take on the establishment and defy her cult to highlight that they’re going down an ill-advised path?  Sometimes we do it because we can no longer stay silent or agreeable. Sometimes, the truth is so powerful that we cannot deny it. For me, it felt like a calling; I was able to see the writing on the wall and withstand the negative consequences of speaking truth to power, so I felt a responsibility to do so. Much of these kinds of truths relate to improving areas where things are deteriorating, or urging repairs when things are broken.  Sometimes, the truth involves pushing others to be and do more when they are content to rest on their laurels or don't want to be bothered to do the right thing because it's hard, or costly, or just inconvenient.

Reading about Nell inspired me to remember why it's important to speak truth to power and all the good that it can do. I've found a kindred spirit in Nell, and I've found more truth in fantasy than can often be found in reality.

Worst Case Scenario

I just finished Molly Harper's hilarious new novel, Where the Wild Things Bite. Another laugh out loud experience with the denizens of Half Moon Hollow, Kentucky, a fictional southern town I'd love to visit, right after I get to Bon Temps, Louisiana. The vast majority of the book takes place in a wilderness with just two people, Anna, a human and Finn, a vampire. They've been in a plane crash and they are trying to get back to civilization.  What makes this book work so well—especially for me—is the absolute accuracy with which Ms. Harper has captured the behaviors and thinking patterns of the human sub-species called homo neurotico. Anna is such a familiar character to me that I'm sure I need to worry about my mental health. More than I already do, that is.  Anna is the product of a highly controlling mother and an absent father.  Sound familiar? As a result of the fear Anna learns at her mother's feet, the world is a very, very scary place for Anna, and she hardly gets out.  After all, when we engage in the world, we risk germs that lead to disease, rape and assault, getting ripped off or having our identities stolen, getting into an accident involving an automobile, train, boat or plane, coming down with food poisoning, or getting attacked by rabid bats. We must always be prepared for worst-case scenarios, including having a section of the bridge we're on collapse under us, the walls of the tunnel we're traversing come crashing down on top of us, earthquakes, tsunamis, tornados, hurricanes and stadium stampedes. We need to know what to do if the elevator cable snaps, or we contract gangrene from a rusty nail, or giardia from contaminated water. We must be ready for sudden catastrophe around every corner and know the statistical risks of something going wrong in every conceivable situation.  Forewarned is forearmed. 

Who thinks like this, you may wonder?  Well, Anna, for starters. And me for seconds. And I have at least one friend who's worse than I am with the catastrophizing. And as amusing as it is to read about, it's not all that fun to live with. 

But beyond the private misery that such thoughts produce for the thinker and anyone with whom she shares them, is the concept of the law of attraction. The law of attraction states that like attracts like, and by focusing on positive or negative thoughts we attract those kinds of experiences into our lives. You may think this is a load of shit, but I'm a believer. There is something to be said for the power of positive thinking and the nonsense of negative thinking. Mike Dooley, who created a popular subscription service called "Notes from the Universe" says, "Thoughts become things. Choose the good ones."  Good thinking.

Unfortunately, there was a time I could relate to Anna 1.0 (before she came through her harrowing experience with flying colors) to an uncomfortable degree.  Thankfully, I now have more in common with Anna 2.0, after she survives her own personal worst case scenario and realizes she is much stronger than she thought. Which of course reminds me of my very favorite A.A. Milne quote from Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh, "you're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."  This is largely true, but we are not aware of our own reality.

We are often made of sterner stuff than we previously thought, but we have no idea about it because we avoid situations where our true colors can come shining through. It's kind of like the Army putting its soldiers through the hell of basic training; it makes men and women out of boys and girls when they are able to accomplish great feats of mental and physical difficulty—and know what they are capable of achieving. If we never put ourselves in situations that stretch us and demonstrate our ability to move beyond our comfort zones, we may believe our own press that we aren't capable of doing much of anything. We might end up like Anna 1.0, hiding out in our houses and interacting with the world only through the safety of a computer screen.

As Henry Ford said, "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right."  So, if you think you will end up as fodder for mass shooters, or the victim of the many con artists out there just waiting to take advantage, you might be right. If you think you can meet whatever challenges life has in store without assuming a fetal position on the floor of a darkened room, then you probably can. Jus

After all, what's the worst that could happen?

Superman and Wonder Woman

Like many of you, I've been watching the Olympics. It’s been a blast to watch the United States win gold medal after gold medal. We're on fire this time around.  And that got me to thinking about elite athletes, and then about the elite of the elite, like Michael Phelps, Katie Ledecky and Simone Biles. I mean, it's gotta suck to be any of their teammates, because despite being incredible athletes in their own rights, they can't get noticed behind the shadow of their more decorated fellows. There is no comparison. This got me to thinking about how the elite compare with the rest of us. How can we make sense of a universe where there are such disparities within one species? This led me to contemplate the Black Dagger Brotherhood—don't you immediately contemplate vampires in the face of extraordinary human achievement? No? Well, I couldn't help wondering if Michael and Katie and Simone might actually be vampires, or some kind of comic book superhero, different in kind and not just degree. In the BDB world, there are different strata of society. The royal family includes the King, the Queen and their baby son, who are at the top.  Below them are the Brothers, all of whom used to be genetically bred as Brothers, but whose ranks have recently been joined by civilians who have proven themselves worthy. There is even one woman, with the promise of more on the way. Next is the aristocracy, who seem to be a group with a very large stick up their collective asses.  The aristocracy is a birth-based class system and is not overly permeable, similar to the English aristocracy. Lastly are the civilians, the working Joes who make the world function. There is also a class of servants about whom I've written before.

What does any of this have to do with our reality?  Well, I'm still contemplating elites and elitism. Unlike in the world of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, or colonial Britain, it used to be here in the good old U.S of A, that everyone believed they could rise to the level of their betters (in a socioeconomic sense of that word, not in a white supremacist sense). That was the beauty of the great American Dream. My whole life, in fact, is the product of that dream: my father was a Russian immigrant who fled the pogroms and his father’s murder to come to this land of opportunity. My father spoke no English, and only managed to get through ninth grade before his mother died and he was left with the care of his two younger brothers. Through hard work, intelligence, perseverance and some good luck, my father lived out the American Dream, making money and moving on up to the East Side, to a deluxe apartment in the sky, just like the Jeffersons. He raised his children on Park Avenue in New York City, and sent them to elite universities. The point here is that it was possible for an orphan from Russia to make it big and join the American upper class.

And that is amazing and wonderful and inspiring. And while there was a reasonable expectation that a similar trajectory was available to any whose wits, and grit and talent make them able to climb the societal ladders to a station well above where they started, all things were possible. When that was true, the U.S. could accommodate an elite class whose ranks were sufficiently accessible so that at least the illusion of social mobility existed for all.

It seems to me that it is no longer possible to maintain that particular fiction. As in the Black Dagger Brotherhood (at least before the last couple of books where the situation appears to be evolving, albeit slowly), being part of the elite is now a matter more of birth than of talent or indefatigable determination. In our current society, the children of the elite go to the good schools and are given the choicest opportunities. And as the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, the availability of the American Dream for all but the most talented and the most fortunate, is decreasing. We're getting to the point where only the Michael Phelpses and Simone Biles of this world can rise to the level of the elite (and we’re still not sure they’re actually human). Because the discrepancy between them and everyone else is getting bigger and bigger, and it’s getting harder and harder to ascend.

It seems to me that young people all over the U.S. are figuring out tragically early that the good stuff isn't for them, that they will never reach the brass ring, and that they will never get the chance to rise to the top—unless their talent or intellect is of Phelpsian or Jobsian proportions. And most of us know by the time we're 15 whether we have any chance of being the next Michael Phelps or Steve Jobs. Most of us have a greater chance of being struck by lightning. Twice.

So where does that leave us?  Pretty much in the mess we're in, with lots of simmering anger that flares up periodically. And what I really can't understand is that we've all seen this movie before and it doesn't end well for those elites who close their doors to ensure their exclusivity.  Invasion (Rome), revolution (France) or collapsing under its own weight (the Soviet Union) is the denouement of all of these societies.

Why can't we be more like the Black Dagger Brotherhood?  If centuries-old vampires are capable of change and evolution when the writing is so clearly on the wall, why can’t we embrace populism by ensuring the potential for anyone to be elevated to the elite? And I know I am not addressing the very serious and very real issue of a level playing field for all (regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation or identity, etc.) which is a ginormous problem.  But, given that (huge) caveat, our society can only work when there is a real possibility that anyone willing to work hard, be persistent and show initiative can move on up. Which is how elitism can survive. Otherwise, it's just not going to work. Superman and Wonder Woman only exist in fantasy, not truth.

It's a Kind of Magic

If I say, “I’ll take ‘Magic’ for $400, please, Alex,” what was the question? If you guessed, “What do Quincy Harker, The Book of Mormon and Freddie Mercury have in common?” you would be a Paranormal Jeaopardy rock star. If you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, read on, dear reader, read on. I'm still thinking about Heaven Sent, by John G. Hartness. His writing is getting more fluid, and the snark factor more elegant (and yes, there is such a thing as elegant snark, and John Hartness is a master). Beyond the snark are some interesting musings. Today's cogitations involve the way magic works. I believe we can and do make magic every day. It involves focus and energy. And maybe a little something extra. Apparently, John Hartness agrees with me.

In the Quincy Harker novella series, Q is not quite human; he's faster, stronger and lives longer than mere mortals. He's also a powerful mage, or wizard, depending on your nomenclature. He can make shit happen that may elude the rest of us.  Interestingly, he has learned, through trial and error presumably, that when he casts relatively straightforward spells (like repairing broken doors), it doesn't matter which words he uses. Latin or Pig Latin, it's all the same, as long as the intent and focus are there; summonings and more elaborate spells require more precision in elocution. Or so we’re told. But let's stick with the original premise here, which is that intent is more important than content. This interesting idea is somewhat nuanced, and is therefore likely to be bastardized, but we’ll give it a go.

And here we get to the connection with The Book of Mormon. If you haven't seen the play, run, don't walk. Peed my pants laughing: the musical lived up to its hype. Beyond that, however, the plot is deep; it involves the slow realization by the lead LDS characters that the intention behind religious views is more important than the content. This is a truth I've always believed. God/The Universe/Krishna/Buddha/etc. doesn't care what the sign on the door says. Dogma is dumb, and love is all. When we exclude, judge, shun, and shame in the name of religious purity, you've lost me, as well as any God that I believe exists. I know this is not what most folks who self identify as "religious" versus "spiritual" would say, and maybe that's the difference right there. But if the content of our beliefs is more important than the intention behind our actions, we're not worshipping the same God.

And intent over content is also how John Hartness explains magic, mostly. As in mostly, all it takes is focus, intention and energy. Which makes a lot of sense.  But it's still definitely a kind of magic. Which explains why sometimes it works better than others. For example, when I've failed at something, or done less than my best, or the outcome wasn't what I'd hoped, I stop to think about where the magic went wrong. Was it my level of commitment? Was it a paucity of purity in my intention? Was it a lack of energy or focus (I usually misplace my focus before my energy, but that's what makes me so joyfully ADHD)?

But magic is not solely mundane, either in truth or in fantasy. It exists, no question about it, and we can all make it—without consciously casting spells. And we don’t need the suped-up DNA that Quincy sports from his parents, both of whom served as snacks for Dracula (kind of like how a bite from a radioactive spider can do a number on one's genes). But all magic, in addition to intention, focus and energy, has some fairy dust added to it. We might call it the hand of fate, or God's grace, good luck or whatever, but it's often there, just under the surface, of all we do. It's a kind of magic, in the truest sense of that concept, which is how we get to my favorite queen, Freddie M.

At least that's how it works for me. But, as Quincy notes, it’s magic, so who really knows? All I know is that I can make it. When I think of some of my achievements, and some of my defeats that really weren’t, I know that there must have been some supernatural mojo behind the outcomes of my life. I should have died 100 times during my misspent youth. And I should have ended up sad, lonely and stupidly neurotic, wandering the streets of New York as a truly lost soul, if we all got what we deserve. But I think my heart is fairly pure and my destructive tendencies are mostly self-directed, so perhaps my better-than-I-deserve existence does have a lot to do with intent instead of content (but we’ll only know for sure after I go the way of all flesh whether I I end up taking the elevator up or down).

On the other hand, and this is where the nuance comes in, we all know about the pavers that constitute the road to Hell. Good intentions don't trump bad or evil outcomes. Sure, it matters that we mean well, as I’ve written about before, and if it's a first offense, then that makes even more of a difference. But just because we didn't mean to break the mirror, doesn't mean we aren't going to suffer from seven years of bad luck. So, intent is important, but all things being equal, content has an important role to play as well.  Even when we're making magic.

So, thank you – Freddy Mercury, Book of Mormon and dear Q for adding some magic to my day. I hope that this post has added a tiny bit of fairy dust to yours.

Free Willie

I just spent a couple of very pleasant hours with John Hartness' new Quincy Harker novella, Heaven Sent. The plot describes how Quincy first met his guardian angel, Glory; in fact, he hadn't been aware he had a guardian angel in the first place. Turns out those GAs are pretty handy to have around, and not just because they can stop bullets on your behalf. On a less convenient note, however, Quincy (whom Glory christens "Q") learns that guardian angels can only intervene in very specific circumstances, and that they kind of suck at information sharing. When Q takes issue with Glory's failure to communicate—not to mention help him when he asked for help—she informs him that angels do not have free will—they cannot help themselves from following "Orders from upstairs."  That stopped me cold. Slavery in heaven? Apparently so. It also got me thinking about one of my favorite topics, free will and making good choices.  We all want to make good choices, right? But free will ensures that we often miss the mark. Why is this the case?  I suspect I won't know for sure until I shuffle off this mortal coil. In the interim, I can speculate. Or navel gaze. Your call. What is free will, anyway?  For me, free will is the potential to make poor choices and engage in serious self-destruction. I'd like to have a more positive outlook about one of the defining characteristics of humanity, but in looking around me, and also inside the recesses of my own dark corners, it's hard to be optimistic. Free will ensures that even when we know—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that option A is a better choice than option B, most of us choose B anyway, particularly if it involves chocolate. Perhaps I should only speak for myself. And not to sound like a broken record, but 66% overweight and obese Americans, almost 20 million alcoholics, and the many millions who support Donald Trump all point to the fact that we aren't so good at making good choices with all this free will we have. 

And then we can ask ourselves, why is free will a defining characteristic of humanity? Why not have us all be angels, who apparently can't make a poor choice (explains the whole halo thing for sure, by the way)?  Wouldn't that be nice?  Always making good choices, always doing the right thing? Always marching in lock step with the Big Guy Upstairs? Oh, wait, maybe that last thing isn't such a great idea. We'd all be Stepford Wives and mental slaves and where would be the fun in that?  In fact, if I pull this string a bit more, without free will, nothing makes any sense at all. There would be no search for truth (we'd all agree on what it is), no striving toward excellence (because it would be a universal imperative, not an aspirational construct), no winners and losers, because competition wouldn't be an option. Sounds pretty boring, not to mention pointless. 

But if we believe in free will, as I do with every atom of my being, what does our free will have to say about topics like predestination, divination, destiny, etc.? It's another interesting mental puzzle. I love my Tarot cards, which I use mostly for guidance, but sometimes to sneak a peek at what might be just around the next temporal bend, just beyond my line of sight. I also believe in destiny to some extent. But even with those beliefs, I still believe we can make a mess of things if we want to. I figure it's kind of like genetic expression: my family has a genetic predisposition towards lethal heart disease.  I know this, and it colors the health choices I make. So, I could let history play out again and again and go to an early grave following a massive heart attack, like so many of my relatives. Or, I can take care of my heart and avoid that particular destiny. I'm going with the second option on that one. But not all of my cousins have made similar choices and they are currently six feet under.  Free will.

Free will also trumps Divine omnipotence in my philosophy of life. In other words, the Big Guy (or Gal) upstairs cannot save us from ourselves, no matter how badly most Christian theologians have mangled the whole salvation through Christ concept. God isn't some sort of everyday Santa Claus, dispensing get out of jail, or the hospital free cards on demand, even if we've been very good girls and boys. For me, God is limited by His/Her own rulebook: humans have free will and they get to choose. And in order to be a sporting kind of God, God makes sure to make the right choice slightly more difficult, or uncomfortable, or less pleasant than the wrong choice. Otherwise, as I've written about before, it wouldn't be a real choice. If it were easy, we'd all be angels. 

But it's not and we're not, and that is the reality of life. And it's OK, actually.  Having to work to do the right thing and make good choices tempers us in the crucible of living, forming our characters and making us who we are.  It gives us the work of a lifetime, provides structure to our days and purpose to our existence.  I think free will is necessary to all of that and that the Big Guy/Gal was pretty clever when this system was put in place.  After all, as Quincy tells us, balance must be maintained. So where the angels can't help but do good, the demons can't help but do bad. And we humans are somewhere in the middle, trying to muddle through. So I'll pull out my "Free Willie" t-shirt (I loved that movie), and I'll have my little inside joke, and offer my support to whatever God put all of these pieces in motion in the first place.

The Office

I just finished Elle Boca's Weeia on My Mind. Excellent read. I found myself turning pages quickly to see how it all got resolved. But what really struck me about the book was Ms. Boca's remarkable attention to detail and her close, totally on-point observations. Particularly with respect to a topic I thought I'd forgotten, but which came rushing back like the tide at full moon when I was reading this novel. Ms. Boca has perfectly captured the ins and outs of office life. I'm not sure if it's depressing or inspiring to know that even a race of superhumans struggles with the office two-step, dancing quickly to climb the corporate ladder, keep others from flinging us down and avoid getting stepped on.  Weeia on My Mind is written from the perspective of young Danni Metreaux, a Weeia law enforcement officer recently transferred to Paris, her requested posting. Once she gets there, however, she is confronted with several familiar figures in offices across the globe and across time:  the long-standing, do-nothing bureaucrat who resents the presence of personnel who actually want to work and the obstructionist assistant/secretary/office manger who makes life as difficult as possible for those same folk who are just trying to get shit done.  Anyone who's ever worked in an office knows who I'm taking about. These characters and the situations they create were drawn so faithfully that the lines between truth and fantasy were very blurred, as they often are in my beloved genre.

In the book, Danni desperately wants to seem professional and knowledgeable. She wants to make her mark. Like all of us who've been newbies in a corporate environment, we know, like Danni, that appearances count, that our behavior is being scrutinized and commented on, and that everything we do is being analyzed by an electron microscope. All of which makes it brutally difficult to fit in while simultaneously standing out. Which is the name of the game in The Office, no matter where it is or what it does or makes.

Like the rest of us, Danni struggles to juggle the requirements, explicit and implicit, of the chain of command.  We need to make our bosses look good. But we can't show them up. We need to ensure that we're asking for permission before we go off half cocked, thinking we know what to do, but we need to demonstrate independent thinking and initiative.  We need to first, do no harm, but also do what needs to be done. It's exhausting.

Then there is the problem of our place in the hierarchy. Offices are the most structured, hierarchical environments in the universe. Submarines have nothing on a well-established office. With this hierarchy comes a need to understand how to behave with superiors, subordinates and colleagues alike. Forgetting our place is a mortal sin in The Office.  We're expected to be graciously subservient to those above us; firm but fair with those below us; and we need to be overtly friendly while hiding the sub rosa machinations going on as we try to outshine our competitors, otherwise known as our peers. Totally draining. 

And what about what happens when work relationships become personal–as in friendships and romances?  If we're working 60-70 hours a week, we're spending more time with our fellow workers than with anyone else. Relationships happen, whether we want them to or not, and whether they are permitted or not. I was frankly shocked that Danni didn't develop a more-than-professional interest in her new protégé. Sebastian is smart, hot, and rich. They do become friends, which is nice, and predictable insofar as the real world is concerned. It could have gone the other way, which leads to all sorts of contortions while people try to hide their forbidden office romances. I've kept more of these kinds of secrets than any other. And I worked in a classified environment for twenty years. 

And finally, Danni has to deal with the "We-Be's," a particularly nasty sub-species of office dwellers who will screw you up every time. These are the folks with the lovely attitude that says, "We be here when you come and we be here when you go.  Ain't nothing you can do to us or for us, so fuck off."  I'm pretty sure that is a direct quote. These troglodytes are in the trenches, and it's almost impossible to extricate them. And they can make our lives a living hell, if they so desire. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. 

There are others from Satan's headquarters who can make life fairly toasty as well. I'm talking about bosses from hell, including the ragers, the gropers, the mouth-breathers and the tyrants.  There is nothing worse than a bad boss.  I've been blessed in my professional life; mostly, I've had bosses from Heaven. The only one from Down Under eventually came around and joined the side of the angels—and we became good friends. I would have lost that bet. 

And all of these memories of my corporate life as a national security contractor came pouring in as I read Elle Boca's latest offering. These are bittersweet memories, as I don't really miss office life, but I do sometimes miss the intensity, the structure, the shared sense of purpose and responsibility and the camaraderie of working in an office environment. But I think I will stroll down memory lane with my beloved books, rather than in real life. Truth is sometimes more palatable in fantasy than in reality. Thanks, Elle Boca, for the great read and the fun ride.

All in the Family

It was Christmas in July! I finally found and read A Fashionably Dead Christmas by Robyn Peterman.  And I laughed my ass off. These books tackle some serious issues with laugh-out-loud humor. Ms. Peterman has inspired posts about mothers from Hell, and also about how I want a fast fix for all my personality disorders. Today, she’s the inspiration for a blog about family holidays and all their imperfections. Astrid, the heroine of the Fashionably Dead series, is the granddaughter of Mother Nature and the niece of both God and Satan (who are brothers). Cousin Jesus is also in the picture, as are the cousins on her Uncle Satan's side, the Seven Deadly Sins (who are not very nice girls, I might add). And I thought my family was bad. Anyone who reads this blog is aware that my family of origin was not The Waltons.  It was closer to the Bunkers and then some. My mother was a narcissistic mess and my father embodied the concept of "benign neglect," which means that his kids rarely saw him. Both of them were significantly flawed and blithely unaware of how they were playing out all of their fears, insecurities and character defects on the tabula rasas of their children's unformed psyches.  Living through it was the source of nightmares.

My early childhood was in the 1970s, and I was enamored of my TV shows. I've written of my intense love for David Cassidy in all his Keith Partridge glory (I was ten, but my feelings were deep). I wished my parents would get divorced so I could live like the Brady Bunch. These families were having fun. Sure, they went through hard times (when Peter's voice changed, for example, they needed to rearrange who they were and what they wanted to be). But they always made it look easy.

My family life was anything but easy. My mother and I fought incessantly. My brother and I fought incessantly (although we had an unusually strong bond as a result of our common maternal enemy). My father was MIA. None of my friends wanted to come over because they didn't want to deal with my mother. If she answered the phone, they hung up. It was like living in an alcoholic environment without any of the good time.

Holidays were another circle of hell. Like Astrid, my mother wanted to make all of her holidays picture perfect.  We celebrated Christmas (despite being Jewish—kind of weird, actually), and my mother had a gorgeous tree when I was little (I've written about the whole Christmas tree Gaslight situation), and she set the table with the best linen, china, silver and stemware.  My mother had a talent for wrapping gifts, and the presents under the tree were so beautiful.  On the surface, everything looked perfect. Underneath it all, well… not so much.

What I loved about A Fashionably Dead Christmas was that Robyn Peterman turned the whole perfect holiday trope on its head. You know, once Uncle Satan shows up and "enhances" the Christmas decorations, the whole thing went from a shit show to a clusterfuck. As Astrid contemplated her formerly lovely tree, and her gifts and all the trimmings, she was initially devastated. She quickly realized, however, that underneath the imperfections was a family whose warmth and love embodied the reason for the season.

In my family of origin, we had all the glitz and none of the gestalt. I knew that as soon as I opened my gifts, they would become something else to take away from me when I was punished, which was often. I knew that I would get chastised for eating too much of the beautiful food and getting too excited about all there was to be excited about.

And I remember how desperately I wanted our family to be "normal." I wanted the Kennedy family photos of touch football in the yard on Thanksgiving. But I guess things didn't work out so well for them, either. I wanted to be the Huxstables.  Without the pervy dad, behind the curtain, of course. I wanted to live “One Day at a Time”, but with a dad (Ann Romano was divorced). So, as I go through this catalogue, I guess those TV families weren’t so perfect after all.

These days, we don't need to watch TV to see perfection. The quintessential “Modern Family” is flawed.  And other TV families are just “Shameless”. But we can visit Facebook where all families look Waltonian. All we're missing is a voiceover of "Goodnight, John Boy.  Goodnight Jimbob."  

So, while my childhood was far from perfect, Robyn Peterman assures us that, "Perfection is boring."  So perhaps I should be grateful for all of the imperfection in my early life. Hopefully, it's made me more engaging – and a better parent. While the perfect parent doesn’t exist – to err is human after all – I'm hopefully giving my kids an interesting and (mostly) joyful upbringing. And I'll remember to stop comparing my insides to others' outsides. We can't Photoshop our Christmas dinners let alone our internal landscape.  Just the pics we post on Facebook.