Privilege

I finished Spellbinder by Thea Harrison, a number of weeks ago and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. This is the second in her Moonshadow series and it was compelling with a complex plot, characters I felt were old friends and themes that made me think. The story's heroine, Sidonie, a concert violinist, is kidnapped and taken to Avalon (King Arthur’s Avalon), where she is imprisoned and tortured. Eventually, Sid is discovered by a "Magic Man" (he is actually the masculine incarnation of Morgan Le Fey) who heals her and helps her, bringing her food and drink in her prison. In one especially poignant scene, Sid is eating the bread and grapes her savior has brought and she thinks to herself that "she had ever been so grateful for so little before."  And she realizes just how very privileged she'd been. I try to stay away from politics in this space, but the subject of privilege is all over the news, and I need to comment. I hope that many of you saw Tina Fey parodying herself as a privileged white liberal urging all of those outraged by the events in Charlottesville to take up "sheetcaking" as a coping mechanism and grassroots political movement.

In Spellbinder, Sidonie realizes that privilege wasn't something she thought about much. Which is, of course, the nature of privilege. Privilege is what we take for granted because we've never experienced life any other way. It's why there were those—on the left—who fundamentally didn't understand what Tina Fey did. Tina was so brilliant in her satire on privilege, that way too many privileged people had no idea she was engaging in satirical commentary, not political advice.

By any number of metrics, I was born privileged and remain firmly ensconced in the category. I'm white, educated, affluent. By these measures, I possess the social capital that many in this world do not. And that privilege has served me well. I've taken every advantage but I don't fool myself into thinking I "deserved” any of it. If any of us deserves privilege, all of us do. But just that recognition signifies that I'm able to, sometimes, "check my privilege," meaning I can see beyond my circumstances that perhaps my worldview isn't—quite—universal. 

While I'm all of the above, I'm also female and Jewish, two characteristics that topple me from the privilege pedestal and help me, on occasion, to check my privilege.

My husband shares neither my gender nor my religion. Because of this, there are things I know he simply doesn't understand. I don't hold it against him. Usually. But he will never have the experience of being mistaken, again and again, for the secretary in my early career, just because I was a young woman. And it didn't matter that I had three Ivy League degrees, or that I was an authority in my field. They saw two X chromosomes and decided that half my brain was missing. You know, the Y half.

My husband has never had to be hyper vigilant when walking at night. I suspect he thinks I'm a little silly because I won't park my car in a garage after dark and go get it myself. I don't think anyone is completely immune to fearing attack in bad neighborhoods, but men, unlike women, don't worry about sexual assault. They don't have to. Just like Christians don't understand antisemitism. They just don't.  

Sometimes, it feels good to be with others like me, and my husband doesn't belong in that group.  I've always thought he felt slightly uncomfortable, especially in our early years, at Passover Seders and at synagogue on High Holy days. He didn't belong there. Just like Jews feel excluded when people make insensitive remarks that they have no idea are insensitive. They forgot to check their privilege when they ask me what I think about Israel, or whether Jared Kushner is a good influence on his father-in-law (and for the record, no). Christians wouldn't think to ask each other these questions or that their fellow bacon lovers would have any sort of inside track on the answers.

Privilege can harm those who got the short straw in many ways. I'm indebted to Cecilia Tan for some of these ideas about privilege, including the list of potential harms that unequal privilege can create, including objectification, stereotyping, dehumanization, sexism, racism, ableism, and classism. And I know that many white, Christian males (and some females, too, God help them), roll their eyes so far back in their heads when they hear this sort of "drivel" that they resemble Brandon Stark when he's doing his Warg thing. But that doesn't make it any less true.

And I'm not advocating for safe spaces and trigger warnings—necessarily. But would it kill people to think about why some people believe we need them? If you've never experienced the degradation of prejudice, bigotry and willful ignorance, then stop rolling your fucking eyes. Open them. Pay attention next time a woman makes a suggestion and it's ignored and watch what happens when a man makes the same suggestion and he's Einstein. Really?! Really.

And I haven't even touched on what it must be like for people of color. Or people with disabilities. Or people who are transgendered. Or whatever it is we are that we didn't choose to be and can't change. Many of us embrace our identities as being outside the privileged classes. And that's a great response because we accept ourselves and love ourselves just the way we are. But it's not like we could decide to wake up one day and be something else—one of the few, the proud, the privileged. It doesn't work like that.

So, I'm going to get myself some sheet cake and shove it in my mouth while reading my beloved Thea Harrison. Where I find many truths about timely topics, and where I can learn to become a more sensitive and grateful human.

The Pursuit of Happiness

I hate writing. I love having written. So said Ernest Hemingway, or maybe it was Mark Twain, I'm not entirely sure. Regardless, the sentiment is worth exploring. There are many activities we enjoy solely in hindsight, the point of which is only to reflect on their occurrence, rather than enjoy the process. Why am I thinking about happiness in the rearview mirror? Because I just finished the latest Iron Druid short story collection by Kevin Hearne, Besieged. Excellent as always, and I even got a signed copy when I went to see Mr. Hearne speak at a D.C. bookstore last month. I totally geeked out. It was awesome. But I digress. Although not really—see what I did there?  I told you about an experience that I had, partly so I could relive it and review the memory that I made by going to see a favorite author promote his work, and partly to inflate myself in your eyes. Adding to the considerable street cred I received as a result of my adventures, when I introduced myself to the Kev, he actually knew who I was and complimented my work!  I'd have died a happy woman on the way home from that talk. As long as I'd broadcast my brush with the celebrity who knew me before my untimely demise, that is.

What am I talking about, you may wonder? It's this: as Granuaile, the Iron Druid's beautiful protégé, observes while she and Atticus attend a traveling carnival looking to send some demons back to Hell, "There's no happiness here."  In fact, opined the lovely lass, we seem to pursue happiness even when it runs away from us. Sad but true, in both truth and fantasy.

What prompted these dystopian findings by the one who would come to be known as the "Fierce Druid?"  Granuaile noticed that:

People come here to be happy, but I bet they wind up in a fouler mood than when they walked in. Kids want plushies and rides and sugar, and parents want to hang on to their money and their kids. And everybody wants to go away without digestive problems, but that’s not gonna happen.

All too true. How many times have we gone to a concert, or a festival, or a party, convinced it will be fun, only to subject ourselves to the bitter disappointment of frustrated expectations?  We do it all the time, egged on by partners or sometimes pals, who assure us that we’ll have the time of our lives. I'm positive that no one has ever had the time of their life at the annual school auction. Mostly, we suck down drinks in the hope of becoming distracted enough to engage in the same chit chat with at least fifteen different people without vomiting into our mouths. Does anyone really care about the achievements of casual acquaintances' children?

And as we drive home from the event, whatever it is, my husband and I would bemoan the fact that we'd gone there instead of spending the evening at home. Sorting our spice rack. Or consolidating ketchup and mustard in the fridge. But then the next morning rolls around and the memory becomes fonder; we saw friends, shared laughs, were mutually relieved that we didn’t win the condo in Rome, as we had no plans to visit Italy any time soon. Yes, in retrospect, the night was enjoyable and, more importantly, we get to be part of the club with the rest of the parents who were roped into the ballroom with us.

And therein lies the true value of our actions. I hate writing. I love having written. I love the postpartum evidence of time well spent, or at least time I can build up to seem well spent. And if it's not writing, it's a night at the carnival with the kids, chasing happiness, finding it only when I'm able to post the pix of my sons riding the Ferris wheel and proudly displaying the plushy Dad won for them by strangling a bottle's neck with a rubber ring. On Facebook, or Instagram or shared texts and emails, the time spent frazzling my nerves and my digestive tract at the local fair is transformed into a Kodak moment to be displayed like jewels that prove our wealth. The wealth of a happy, perfect family. Look, look at us on a fun-filled outing! We're so blissful and so normal. Or not.

I've been suspicious of this chasing happiness phenomenon since I observed my mother "enjoying" her extended family. She'd worked hard to bring her two kids, their spouses and her grandchildren together to celebrate a milestone birthday. She twittered to all her biddies about how marvelous it was that everyone was coming to wish her well and be together—captured, of course, by the professional photographer who’d preserved it for posterity. Which was all fine and dandy. Except when I saw that my mother was hiding in the kitchen, failing to interact with said family, ignoring the grandchildren in favor of washing dishes the housekeepers were paid to clean.

It hit me then, like halitosis from an enthusiastic ticket taker at the movies who leans in to wish me a good time. My mother wasn't interested in the actual experience of hosting her family, just the ability to tell all that she'd done so, to inspire envy, boat loads of it, amongst her blue haired set. High school athletes keep score by sexual conquests. Old mothers by how many times their families visit, young mothers by how often they take their children to the museum or the science center—and how well their photos show off the brilliance of their progeny. It's not the activity but the bragging rights that follow it that count.  The process of writing sucks.  But showing off those bright shiny words…. Well that’s so, so sweet –even if you only view them yourself.

I had a friend once whose husband admonished us for talking while the kids were outside on a cold winter's night in the hotel's hot tub. "Hurry, they're making memories," he gushed, grabbing his camera and rushing to the scene of the memory-in-the-making. I was confused. It was the kids making their own memories, which would be more memorable without the ‘rents horning in on the action. It was a perfect example of ruining the moment by trying to capture it. Happiness doesn't want to be found when it's chased. It comes when we enter the present and live there.

I love Atticus, the Iron Druid, and also Granuaile. What I love most about them is that I'm rarely more fully in the moment than when I'm wallowing between the pages of a captivating book, immersing myself in the world of a talented author's imagination. Those are some of the best moments to be had. Ironically, I love reading. I hate having read. 

No Matter What

I just finished Into the Fire by Jeaniene Frost; the continuation of Vlad (aka Dracula) and Leila's (modern, young wife) story. As is always the case when a centuries-old vampire falls hard for a sweet young thing, Leila has some special talents that recommend her to the ancient Impaler, so I guess it all makes sense. Yet I am haunted by the little voice in my head that questions why such an old, hardened creature like Vlad would fall irretrievably head-over-heels for a 25-year-old carnie. I questioned their supposedly unbreakable bond. And whether it could ever be true, and not just a fantasy, that couples can share a mutual mindset that says, "No matter what, we will work it out."  Which leads to questions about my own insecurities and trust issues, but let's not go there – at least just yet – shall we? As I was reading about Leila's unshakable conviction that nothing could threaten the connection to her beloved, I remembered an exchange with a colleague many moons ago. I wasn't even out of my teens when a slightly older office mate at the law firm where I worked started talking about a fight he'd had with his fiancée. It sounded like a doozy, and when I asked him with trepidation whether this conflagration signaled the end of the relationship, as it would have for any of mine at that time, he looked at me with incredulity and no small amount of pity. "We'll work it out," he assured me. 

"How can you be so certain?" I wondered. 

"Because we love each other. No matter what. We will work it out, whatever it is. No matter what," he responded with all the confidence of the Mooch in front of a presidential lectern. 

I was floored. I could not conceive of such faith. I had never experienced it. It awed me. To the point that I have never forgotten the conversation and have always aspired to a similar standard in my own relationships.

I realize that I have some serious abandonment issues.  I think that many of us do. Unlike a majority of urban dwellers, my colleague and his then-fiancée/now wife were of a similar heritage and shared a community, culture and religion. Perhaps that homogeneity contributed to their mutual certainty. Divorce was simply not an option for them.

I love authors like Jeaniene Frost and books like Into the Fire.  They portray immortal relationships between fiery supernatural types as tempestuous and passionate. What they are not is easy. Or tranquil. Or boring. But rock solid nonetheless. Once again, I like my fantasy with a healthy dose of reality. Because in both truth and fantasy relationships work when we work them. When we fight for them. When we refuse to go along to get along and when we don't back down when we have to remind our spouses again and again not to take us or the marriage for granted. When we acknowledge and accept that while we might want to do two separate things, the marriage demands that we do something together instead. When we accommodate our partner instead of doing it our way. When we compromise instead of doubling down on a position of, “My way or the highway.”

Relationships are fucking hard.

Sometimes, being in a marriage and working it out no matter what feels like a particularly convoluted game of Twister. We're sure the torsion in our spines will result in permanent scoliosis. Or the crick in our neck will leave us forever looking up and on a diagonal slant forever. But rarely is the contortion enduring.  Usually our efforts to bow and buckle with our partners result in the strengthening of our relationships and the knowledge that something we worked to achieve has great value. Imagine that:  we value what we work for. Each time we "work it out," we make our bond more precious. 

Which is why working it out, no matter what, becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy of fulfillment and happiness. Working through the tough times and coming out the other end is hard and commensurately rewarding. If it takes Vlad the Impaler to teach us lessons in perseverance and tenacity, then so be it. I'm down with that as I enjoy my lecture with a healthy dose of entertainment. Like Vlad, I will always work it out with my honey. No matter what. 

Trust, But Verified

I just finished The Accidental Sire, the latest in Molly Harper’s Half Moon Hollow series. In this installment, Meagan is a coed at the University of Kentucky when she is mortally wounded and subsequently turned into a vampire. Not her best day. And it gets worse. Meagan, in turn, accidentally turns her date, Ben, into a vampire like herself—a suped-up vampire special. As Meagan and Ben navigate the treacherous waters as newly risen vamps under the care and supervision of the Vampire Council, Meagan learns to trust herself, and, as a result, others.  Trust is a huge leitmotif in the romance genre generally and especially in paranormal romance; writing about vampires, werewolves and witches, allows authors to take their themes to extremes. Where else but in the paranormal universe could an orphan wake up, after an unfortunate incident involving ultimate frisbee played with a 45-pound weight, as a genetically modified vampire?  Nowhere, that's where. And when said orphan is farmed out to the local vampire council rep for observation and potential rehabilitation, such an orphan might have outsized trust issues. Ya think?

I know all about trust issues. I was raised, as you've heard before, by a narcissistic mother and a benignly neglectful father. I couldn't and didn't trust the people in the world on whom I was supposed to imprint. As a result, I didn't trust anyone, least of all myself. If, as children, we don't learn to trust our parents, when we reach adolescence and begin to individuate, we find we have no inkling of what it means to trust ourselves. This plays out in many unfortunate ways. 

Meagan shows us what it means not to trust ourselves and it's not pretty. We don't think we can do much of anything well. We don't believe we deserve a place at the table, or around the Christmas tree, or in other people's perfect lives, because we're sure everyone else is better and more worthy than we are. Others rate more love, devotion, loyalty and trust because they are inherently superior to our lowly selves. And this is a tape that plays on an endless, self-perpetuating loop. 

Meagan has new friends she loves and trusts, but her recent status as a vampire disrupts those budding relationships. She has no family and no roots. She accepts, with a minimum of protest, that she had to leave her dorm and college life to live in some backwoods part of Kentucky while someone decided whether and when she could return to a life of her own choosing (and it's true that she was threatened with living out her almost immortal life in the black cells of the vampire council, so she didn't have a lot of options, but still...). 

When we don't trust ourselves, we are reluctant to try new things. After all, we will likely fail, so what's the point? We accept defeat as our due, and rarely protest unfair or underhanded treatment. A failure to trust results in attachment disorder—an inability to cleave to people, ideas, or institutions. Why bother?  We won't be here long, just until "they" figure out we don't belong, or that we're a fraud, or that someone made a mistake letting us in to begin with. 

And this tragic cycle of distrust, self-sabotage and predictable betrayal continues until we see the error of our thinking (usually with the help of a good therapist), or someone forces us to examine our assumptions—usually by refusing to abandon us even when we tell them it's in their best interests. 

I spent years telling my husband he could do better. And he spent years telling me he had the best and to shut the fuck up. I urged him to rotate his stock. He informed me that farming wasn't his jam. I planned to leave him before he could leave me. He made it too hard to leave by being too wonderful —mostly. But it took me an inordinate amount of time to trust him and trust the relationship. In the end, it was only that—time—that allowed me to believe. 

We build trust, in ourselves and others, when we excel and then fail, and the other—be that a person or an organization or even an ideal—is still there. We're human. We're allowed, even expected, to be imperfect. It's only we sad sacks with the tragic pasts who think that perfection is what everyone requires lest we get kicked to the curb. Meagan had learned the hard way to lock up her heart and keep her suitcase packed. For the first six months of our relationship, I refused to leave a toothbrush or a change of panties at my then-boyfriend, now husband's, house. He cleared a drawer and half his closet for me. I had a sudden urge to bolt out the back door. 

As often happens, I found truth that was very close to home in my beloved fantasy novels. I always expect Molly Harper to deliver and I was not disappointed. She, along with many of her fellow paranormal fantasy authors, have taught me to trust that I will always find truth in fantasy.

The One We Feed

I'm in the middle of the newest Shayne Silvers offering, Unchained, the first in the new Feathers and Fire series. In this book, we're introduced to Callie Penrose, a girl with a gift for magic and mayhem. As you know, I'm a fan of Nate Temple, Shayne Silvers' other series protagonist.  Nate shows up in this book as well, but Callie is the focus. Callie is complex, cool and compelling. She is a woman divided. She is being pulled in different directions. She must choose who she will be, which side will win. I can relate.  In the beginning of Unchained, Callie's mentor tells her the story of the two wolves. This is a favorite anecdote recounted in yoga classes all over the country. I've heard it a number of times. It goes like this:

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.” The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?” The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I love this story. I know these wolves. They are endlessly hungry, but not equally aggressive. The whining of the bad wolf is so much louder than the whimpers of the good wolf. And everyone knows about the squeaky wheel getting the grease. It's true. To the loudest goes the spoils. And I have my theories about why that evil lupine is so much more flamboyant than his beneficent brother. If the choice is free, then the right choice is the more difficult one to make, as I've written about before here.

It's harder to feed the good wolf. He eats the more expensive food and requires more costly care. The good wolf is high maintenance. The evil wolf is the easy houseguest. We can throw some sheets and towels his way and rest assured that he'll handle it. Until it's time to pay the piper. You know, when we've gained 30 pounds. Or smoked some poisonous weed. Or killed someone when we were driving under the influence. “But Officer, I only had a couple of cocktails...”

It's simple to make good choices. But it's not easy. In fact, it’s as hell. In Unchained, Callie has to make some choices about who she's going to be and for whom she's going to work. What will her life mean? Will she fight for justice or succumb to fear? These are fictional choices of a fictional character, but they reflect the truth that faces all of us. Who are we going to choose to be, based on our actions, our affiliations, our choices?

I don't know about you, but this shit is hard, especially when it's real. Will we be the enabler or the enforcer as parents? When no one is looking, will we leave a note on the windshield of the car we just side-swiped? Will we take that flirtation the next level while we rationalize that our spouse has already done the same or that it has no bearing on our marriage?

The examples are as endless as individuals who make these choices. It's hard. There's a war inside of us, just like the one raging in Callie Penrose. Which wolf will we feed?  Can we feed one and then the other in an endless see-saw of good versus evil? Can we, like the protagonist of QBVII, make up for our mistakes with good deeds?  Does the evil wolf, once indulged, slink off meekly into the sunset with his tail between his legs, never to be heard from again?  Or does he come back emboldened? What if he's a werewolf and not just a regular wolf?  Does that give him more power?

Who the fuck knows?  Not me. Maybe Callie. Or Nate Temple. Or Shayne Silvers. But definitely not me. I'm confused and fearful that I'm feeding the wrong wolf. I'm sure it won't get me where I want to be. But that just makes me like everyone else. Like Callie and Nate. Feeding the wolf who howls the loudest. Or maybe the wolf who's hungrier. The good wolf is always the one who's starving. Because the evil wolf is fat, dumb and deadly. 

Of Monsters and Men

John G. Hartness is comfortable writing about monsters and those who hunt them. In the latest Shadow Council novella, Angel Dance, Frankenstein's monster, aka Adam Franks, is hunting demons and zombie alligators in the Big Easy and environs. Helping him in his endeavors is a voodoo priestess, a militant nun, and the disembodied consciousness of a tech genius who was killed in the line of duty—monster hunting duty, that is. What could possibly go wrong? Because it's a novella and not a novel, fewer things go wrong than they otherwise would, but it's still a fun ride and the bad guys get theirs, which is always important in urban fantasy, not to mention the real world. The depth in this slim volume is to be found in the minds and hearts of the characters born of John Hartness’ imagination. I've written before about the monsters within and also about what makes us human, but I don't think I've contemplated humanity from the perspective of the monsters themselves and it's an interesting viewpoint. When we weigh the pros and cons of Frankenstein's monster as "human" to which category would he belong?

That Frankenstein's monster has a name is the first step on his road to humanity. He's got a name and not just a label. He's not 24601, he's more like Jean Valjean. Having a name humanizes us. It's the first gift our parents give us after they give us life. Naming ourselves is a key strategy if we're ever attacked by a serial killer—we're told to tell our tormentor our name to avoid being wholly objectified (what, you didn't read or see Silence of the Lambs? Get on that, it's good shit). It appears that Adam named himself (aka the first man) and adopted a modified version of his "father's" surname. Clever monster.

In addition to a name, Adam also has feelings—which he doesn't welcome because they come with pain (can't have one without the other, as I've also noted in a previous post). Adam seems somewhat indifferent to the emotional highs that feelings engender but is highly sensitive to the depths of despair to which grief can drive us. It doesn't feel like an equitable arrangement to Adam, and he would prefer to do without those pesky feelings. Which he can't. Too bad, so sad. He's got to feel along with the rest of us. Sometimes, he feels irritable about his feelings. Ironic that.

Mostly, Adam has feelings surrounding his friends. I think he's as bewildered as the rest of us that Frankenstein's monster has friends, but we can all probably think of people we know about whom we could say the same thing. But Adam does have friends who he cares about and who care about him. And those friendships create obligations that are potentially dangerous.  They also create opportunities for more, intense feelings. And eventually they require Adam to let go of the mortals who have touched his once dead heart, to return them to the depths of the earth on whose surface he continues to walk. Hmmm... sound familiar?  He's just like us. Or perhaps we're just like him. Beyond feelings, our monster is also developing a sense of humor as these stories progress. In the beginning, Adam is as humorless as my old algebra teacher, and equally literal in his thinking (have I ever mentioned how much I hated algebra? No?  Let me tell you... just kidding!  See, I have a wonderful sense of humor, but I digress). As we get to know Adam, he finds delight in teasing his fellow monster hunters and jerking their chains a bit. I'm not sure how funny it would be to have Frankenstein's monster punking me, in fact; I'd probably run away screaming, having lost my sense of humor completely, but that could just be me. With each joke and prank, Adam became more human to me and I become more invested in his fate.

Adam also has a moral compass, a directional aide I think most monsters eschew. For example, one of the criterion for Pinocchio to become a real boy was the development of his conscience, allowing Jiminy Cricket to take on other tasks. Unfortunately, I think if we make the possession of a conscience a requirement for humanity a lot of us would fade from this plane of existence. Having a working moral compass seems less and less prevalent in our society; the new normal feels like anarchy where truth is not just relative but alternate; a lack of basic human dignity and a sense of fairness is sorely lacking in our leadership. But I'll get off my soapbox now. The truth is I'd much rather have Frankenstein's creation in the White House than the monster currently in residence. But I digress. Again..

Another tantalizing clue in this story relates to the possibility that Adam has a soul, which is what distinguishes other monsters from men in several series that I've read. Adam had always assumed he was soul-less, but new information indicates that his assumptions are incorrect, as assumptions tend to be. I expect John Hartness will develop this line of inquiry in later novellas and I'm looking forward to it. In the interim, we'll put "having a soul" in the TBD category and count it neither for nor against Adam.

We are left with our judgment, then. Is Adam a monster or not?  Can we count him as human? Where should we draw the line? As I was writing it occurred to me that many of us human types would be found wanting if we applied these criteria to determine the validity of our own humanity. Maybe the line between monsters and men (and women) is more blurred than we'd like to admit. Maybe all of us have the potential to be monsters and all monsters have the potential to be redeemed. I'll wait for the next John Hartness novella and see what he thinks while I spend my time gazing at my navel, a decidedly human endeavor.

The Redemption of Self Love

I flew through Robyn Peterman’s latest Magic and Mayhem novel, A Tale of Two Witches. I was delirious as I turned the pages and sorry to read the final sentence.  Robyn Peterman is unique in her ability to write about Marsupial Demon Slayers together with serious themes of despair and redemption and make it work and show us, once again, that there is ground truth in fun, fantasy fiction. This installment tells the story of Sassy, Zelda's slightly dim, but loyal and well-meaning BFF. Sassy is a mass of seething insecurity covered by a thick layer of self-doubt and self-hatred. She's convinced she can't do much of anything right, and sure that the kangaroo shifter of her dreams, Jeeves, will see through her external beauty to the ugliness she's positive it hides. She lives in fear of the other shoe dropping (about which I wrote here) and has accepted that any happiness or goodness in her life must be a mistake. Her parents, needless to say, did a number on her and she's lived with the consequences her whole life. On the plus side, Sassy has a best friend, a romantic partner, adopted children and a Goddess, all of whom are willing to love her into loving herself.

This is a story about redemption—and one to which I could relate. We've talked about it here before: careless, malicious parents make Jack and Jill fucked up for life—or at least until serious therapy and a bit of luck and grace can, sometimes, turn things around.  It worked for Sassy and it worked for me.  It's a formula for success: find people who love us fiercely and let them love us until we can love ourselves – so simple, yet so true.

In A Tale of Two Witches, Sassy is just staying until she gets the boot, at least in her own mind. She knows that she isn't a good or valuable person, but she's hoping some of her man's good nature will rub off on her via osmosis as she cleaves to him in love until he scrapes her off like a barnacle on the bottom of a boat. He can't convince her he doesn't feel that way, but vows to stay until she believes. She's dubious, but grateful for the reprieve -- while it lasts, of course.

Evidence of Sassy's worth abounds, but she is blind to it. Does any of this sound familiar to anyone but me?  For much of my life I felt like a total fraud, convinced that if people knew the real me, no one would ever love me. My heart melted for Sassy as her loved ones tried valiantly to convince her she was lovable, to no avail. Sassy's self- loathing was deep and seemingly wise. Of course, as this is fiction, Sassy finds self-love rather quickly, which results in her HEA. In fact, one of the best things about this book is that the heroine's HEA is all about learning to love herself, rather than finding a man to love her. Sassy starts the book with the love of her mate, but it's only by the end that she believes in it.

Because this blog is called "Truth in Fantasy," we can be sure that Sassy's tale has something to teach the rest of us living in the real world. Sassy finds self-love through paying attention to all that she is and all that she does. She also finally realizes that if so many awesome people love her, there must be more to her than she knows.

I have a friend about whom I've spoken before, who has grown and evolved exponentially in the past few years through a daily practice of listing her gratitudes and successes. Every single day for the past four and a half years, this woman has sat down to take note of what she did well that day and what she's grateful for. I think it takes her about fifteen or so minutes each night and she treats the task like a holy obligation. And, as a result of her acknowledging that she does many things well each and every day, over the years the denigrating voices that have attacked her from childhood have slowly softened to the point where she barely hears them nowadays. And when she does, she's able to banish those voices to the depths of Hell from whence they came. Yes, those voices, the ones that tell us we're not lovable are just plain wrong. The ones that drown out those who give us ‘atta boys’ and backslaps, even when the praise is external to us and the nastiness is self- inflicted. This is because, in the immortal words of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, the bad stuff is easier to hear. Why is that?  Another question to ask God if I ever get to meet Her. I have no blessed clue. But I know it's true. Which is why I've worked so hard to say positive things to my own children. But they have their insecurities too, and I don't think I put them there, so maybe this shit is hard wired into our cells as part of the human condition. Or at least it is for most of us. It is the rare human who believes in their own goodness and innate worth. I haven't met a lot of these people, but they are wildly attractive to the rest of us because we want what they have. Like Sassy with Jeeves. Those who are truly humble, embracing their own gifts and talents without hubris or any pretenses of perfection, are few and far between. I've always wanted to be like that, and I'm working hard to get there.

Like Sassy, I have a partner who loves me and a BFF who couldn't be more supportive or loving. I have kids who adore me and devoted friends. All of this, plus some heavy-duty therapy and other kinds of help have shifted my self-hate toward something more resembling self-acceptance. I'm working toward self-love and I mean to get there. Maybe by the time I'm a purple and red hat-wearing grandmother, I'll have achieved the holy grail of self-love and feel the sparkly stuff in my insides described by Sassy when she finally loves herself as much as everyone else does.

It's wonderful that someone wrote a paranormal romance about learning to love ourselves and made it hot and sexy, fun and fabulous, while paying homage to the fact that all true romance begins at home in our very own hearts.

Figuring It Out

I'm enjoying the many pleasures of Kresley Cole. Her Immortals After Dark series is fast, fun and hot, hot, hot. What's not to love?  Her latest offering, Wicked Abyss, follows the unlikely adventures of a fairy princess, Lila, and the King of Hell, Sian. What could possibly go wrong?  Absolutely everything, of course, and that's why I'm such a Kresley Cole fan girl. And while I love all her female protagonists, Lila is something extra special. Her grit, resourcefulness and sass won me over from the get-go, and I'm cheering wildly for her to get her HEA. Luckily, I'm pretty confident that she will overcome all obstacles to find true love and save herself and her realm. Her eventual success, I'm betting, will be the result of Lila's life's motto: "Figure it the fuck out."  FITFO for short. I love FITFO. I've lived a goodly portion of my life under the assumption that absolutely everything is figure-out-able, in the immortal words of my favorite business guru, Marie Forleo. As you all know, I'm pretty confident in my intellectual capacity and I'm usually sure that with a combination of applied brainpower and a bit of creativity, I can always figure it the fuck out.

In college, I decided I needed to get out of Dodge and find a geographic cure for all my problems. My parents were less than supportive and my bank account was pretty flimsy. So, how to go abroad and have someone pay me to do it?  I figured it out; I talked my way into a post-college program and convinced them that even though I hadn't graduated, I would be an asset to their organization. My parents were less than pleased that their financial obstacles had been worked around. Oh, well. At least I waved to them as the plane took off.

I've had to figure out how to navigate new jobs, difficult bosses, stupid administrative rules, mean girls, queen bees and wannabes. How to get my kids the resources they need. How to get out of my own way to marry the man of my dreams, and how to age gracefully (or, at least, that’s what I tell myself).  I've figured out legal problems that have stumped lawyers, insurance issues that caused grown actuaries to cry, and esoteric graduation requirements. No matter the situation, I'm always confident that there's a solution if only I'm smart enough, determined enough and savvy enough to find it. FITFO has been an excellent strategy throughout most of my life. It's gotten me out of many a dark place and over many a high mountain. My superlative ability to figure it the fuck out has led to what some might call intellectual arrogance.  I just call it "justified.”

But there is a downside to all this stellar brain activity of mine: it leads to the sometimes erroneous conclusion that just about everything is subject to being figured out. And if I haven't figured it out, it must be because I haven't tried hard enough or long enough or smartly enough. At which point I double down on my efforts and wait for solutions to rain down upon me because I'm just that good—roadblocks should disappear before me as quickly as the bag of M&M's I promised myself would last the week.

And therein lies the rub: the one thing that doesn't seem subject to the rules of FITFO is... me. Sadly, when it comes to myself and my bad habits, character defects and addictive behaviors, I simply cannot figure it the fuck out. And neither can any of the rest of us, if the prevalence of both self-help books and the people who continue to need them are any indication. One doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to know that eating too much and moving too little will result in more flab than fitness. Nor does one need an Ivy League degree to understand that spending more money than one makes will result in debt. Or that excessive gambling usually doesn't end well. Or that heavy drinking leads to miserable hangovers. We don't really need self-help books to tell us that being successful means leaving our comfort zone, getting our fat asses off the couch, working hard and daring to take risks. We don't need expert advice to figure out that relationships fail when we keep score, believe our partners should read our minds, put ourselves first all the time and expect our other half to actually be our other half.  And yet we continue to read how-to books to figure out how to live. And then we continue to live badly. Or at least not as well as we could.

Because FITFO doesn't apply to us. I can figure out your life easily. And you can probably figure out mine. But we are more limited when it comes to helping ourselves. It sucks. But it is what it is, and if we know this, maybe, sometimes, we can figure out ways around our own blind spots and inadequacies. If not, we can continue to read self-help books instead of actually helping ourselves. I'm not sure, but I'm going to keep reading about Lila in Wicked Abyss while I figure it the fuck out.