Not Another Bodice Ripper - The Case for Serious Romance Part One

THE INTRODUCTION
Romance in general has always prescribed to formulas. Ask any literary agent who religiously sticks to what sells, and any aspiring romance novelist that would like to change things up. Romance novel trends seem to hate change more than any other genre. It is ironic then that it is the category of fiction that needs a makeover the most. However not truly in style, just in the context this style is delivered and perceived.

THE ISSUE
Romance has always suffered from a fallacy of perception as the people who don't actually read the genre seem to have the most to say about their inefficiency as a viable form of fiction. Yet in their vaulted wisdom of what is literary genius, and what is the lowest common denomination of literary fair, I must broach some fallacies of logic. Most high brow fiction involves some version of a love affair. The difference is usually how sexual interactions are portrayed if they are even portrayed.

THE COMPETITION
I think of some proverbial heavyweights of fiction such as Charles Dickens, Earnest Hemingway, and even Jane Austen. In their stories they seem to have very austere, pre-described, and idealized versions of love being portrayed. This is in some terms a 'clean' ethereal based love that only leaves a mess of the tongue and not of the person in a literal sense. The characters generate more passion for misplaced ideas than they do for the presence of another. Is it this sense of high dungeon that produces literary excellence?

In some instances in Hemingway's work for example there are clear overtones of a consuming misogyny as women can be easily trapped in a box and label of a mother, or a whore. It's always painfully Freudian when they end up as both, and thus rendered perfect. Yet this somehow manages to always be observed as part of the literary genius. The analogous representation of the purity of story because of the personalization of sexuality that is hardly ever actually realized just theorized.

THE THEORY
In some ways I believe the bias towards romance is a much deeper seated issue of humanity's perception of itself. The baser instincts of mating that romance points out are seen as 'immature' and 'unrefined' for many. Physical desire is usually seen as an indication of a simple beast instead of a hallmark of one in tune with the nature of whom and what it actually is. Human beings are mammals, and in many situations that animal instinct and urge is much more reliable in choosing a mate than a pros and cons list. The feeling is that romance makes absurd assumptions about this level of attraction and magnetism. That this 'animal' urge cannot be the basis to eventually grow into a deep and abiding love because love is something of a human nature, and not an animal one.

People with pets will tell you how well animals know love. Better sometimes than other human beings. They don't go with logic that their love will be returned. They operate on instinct, sometimes presenting themselves to an owner unsolicited on the street. This is how they love. Why is the idea that human love can be similar so seemingly odd? Or maybe they just have issues with the sex.

To Be Continued

Make Mine a Heel Teaser

Banner sat straight up out of a dead sleep for no reason what so ever. She had her notepad and pen in hand; nothing new for her. Distractedly she dropped the pen and notepad, and reached into her purse to check her phone to set her alarm. 2:22 AM in the morning. She yawned, and got up to head to the bathroom. On the way back she heard noise coming from the viewing room. Not really thinking it through Banner headed for the door. At the door she heard the sound of muffled chatter. Confused she pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.

Keith was standing there pacing in front of the television. He was barefoot, and wearing a white wife beater with a pair of solid dark lounge pants. Staring blankly at the television he just continued walking back and forth.

“Keith, what are you doing up?” Banner asked before she could stop herself.

His eyes snapped to her, and stayed for a moment. Without looking away he paused the DVD that was playing. “Distracting myself. The real question is what are you doing up?” He started over towards her.

Banner told herself to move, but nothing happened. She just stared up into his dark green eyes as he moved closer to her. The next thing she knew he was looming over her just staring at her face. She could feel each part of her that his eyes glanced over. They started at her forehead, and then traveled over her cheekbones. Then her nose, her lips, her chin, and back up to her lips.

“I don’t have to tell you that you’re beautiful do I; you must know. Have to know.” His voice was low, and Banner stared up at him blankly. Her mind was dull not really processing what he was saying. His tone of voice was almost mesmerizing.

“I was hoping that you were sound asleep. I was for a few moments; my mind started to wonder. Then I started to dream. This ridiculous fantasy. . . I swear I’ve never . . .”, he fairly whispered, and stopped as if he said too much. “It made me. . curious.” His eyes swept her face again stopping at her lips. “I should’ve fought my mother, and gotten you out of arms reach.”

Something about the way he said the last made Banner put her hands against his chest. The intent was to push him away, but she felt the solid warmth of him, and forgot what she was going to do. The heat of his skin was almost burning, and solid as stone. As she stood there staring at her hands on his chest he moved closer. She could feel the heat of his face as he pushed his nose into her hair. His breath was on her cheek teasing her ear. Banner took a deep breath and slightly shuddered as her nails dug into his chest which offered no give whatsoever.

She tried to pull back finally, but it was too late. His hands were cupping her elbows holding her with no force she could feel, but she couldn’t pull away. Her eyes slid closed as she felt his lips softly brushing her cheek. Her nails dug into fabric as he pulled her closer bringing her body nearly flush with his. His lips roamed over her face like feathers against her skin. He brushed over her lips sweetly, and she gasped. Never had anyone touched her with that type of tenderness. She didn’t really think men were capable of such a thing.

The gasp caused him to press his lips to hers. They held like this for a moment, and she could feel the tip of his tongue brush her closed lips teasing the seam. Her back arched as he took one hand, and placed it at the small of it pushing in. Her lips parted letting him slowly push past them.

Currently Available on the Nook Or Kindle

Always w/love,
Sue

All The Parts

There are so many parts of us that should be seen to and kept
From the top of our heads to the tips of our toes with each aching breathe
The broad side of us against the narrow core of us
The breadth of us to the very shallow of us

All another piece that comes together to make the whole
From the memories we keep now and lose as we grow old

To the muscle that powers our moves
To the tissue that DNA provides and proves

So I must choose a keeper for my many parts
Is it possible to find just one to update so many charts

So one I choose to care for my body
With you thirst will be seen to whether pure or bawdy

Another I'll entrust with my mind to keep it young and fresh
Each day should be full of knowledge clean with wash and dress

So that leaves my heart for you to insure that it always beat
Fill my life with love that can be felt from head to feet

So that leaves just my soul that I can't seem to fit to a tutor
Perhaps that one is just for me to look after and succor

If there was just one keeper how idea would that be
Just one person to see to all the ends that make up me
It's a dream I can't fulfill, one that has no true match
So I'll try to see to the whole with one by one patch

But the thought always lingers that if there is but only one of me
And with all my parts gathered close to cause me to be
There must exist the other end that looks out with such disheart
Knowing that there must be one who can see to all the parts

Blog in Review Best of 2014 #2 9 Days - A Novella of Mythic Proportions

When I first started writing I knew I would delve into mythos because I find our myths and fairytales so fascinating.  They still have so much to offer on the nuances of human nature. One of the stories that has always fascinated me as many others is the tale of how Hades took himself a wife.. . literally.

 I'm a dark girl, literally and figuratively.  I'm always trying to dissect the so called bad guy, because I believe in there is the true answer to all of humanities ills. The first time I confronted the idea of reinventing this tale I thought to modernize it. That is woefully without though because of my misguided motivation. I was one of the believers of the hype.  I had painted Hades a villain that had the good fortune of his captive actually coming to love him. A little you know first edition Stockholm syndrome. I wanted to modernize it and have the human embodiments of the God and Goddess meet and he do it all proper like this time as they repent for their sins from the past. I felt Persephone deserved a proper courtship.

It took me a while of thinking in this way to understanding the math of all this just didn't add up the first time. Think about it. We aren't talking about a mortal woman.  As we all know mortal women got screwed coming and going in Greek mythology. If anyone deserves a happy ending tale its mostly someone like Cassandra. Persephone technically got hers. Yeah it had a rocky start but what if there are things that weren't told.  The desires of a woman not being adhered to by an overprotective mother seeing forever only a child. We're talking about a goddess, the daughter of Zeus and Demeter. Had she truly wanted to leave wouldn't it have been simpler?

I let the story simmer in the back of my head for months not sure how to do the story justice because there is no story.  Truly as many accounts place it, the story of what happens to Persephone is virtually unknown. What we are often told is the trials of Demeter and the suffering the world endured at the taking of Persephone.

As the story goes after the initial abduction of Persephone, Demeter roamed for 9 days looking for her child. On the 10th she was told by Hecate that she had been taken by Hades. Helios revealed that it was not an unsanctioned taking.  That her father Zeus had in fact given Persephone over to marriage to the dark lord of the underworld. The resulting tale speaks of a year of suffering as Demeter protested the absence of her child stricken to the Underworld.

While it would be customary to assume that it was the time spent with her husband in that year that made Persephone loose lipped when her mother's will was being considered, I would rather tell another story.

I would like to tell one that paints the Lord of the Underworld a little less dastardly.  Mostly because when compared to some of his siblings he actually kinda was less dastardly. He requested the marriage.  Zeus knowing Demeter was going to have a cow (its Demeter so that isn't just allegory [rimshot]) gave him one of his tried and true methods of girl getting. Just take her.

I realized that I would like to tell one where the Lord of the Underworld knew that he would have 9 days to woo his new bride for that was when it was agreed to that her whereabouts would be revealed to her mother. As they all knew Demeter would attempt to bring hell on earth with her to gain her beloved child back.

No matter how much lore you read the story remains the same.  The taking of Persephone is usually listed as a raping.  However there seemed to be no witnesses to an acutal rape, just of an abduction and her screams as she is being carted away on a golden chariot. I mean considering the time period, rape was just the assumed discourse because that's how gods rolled.

But the very interesting thing is that underworld activities were shrouded. There have never been many tales of who Hades actually is. Yet the method of how he acquired his wife and subsequent equal queen of the Underworld is one of the most prolific stories surrounding what I believe is the often very misunderstood lord of needful things such as death and the dead.

Thus 9 days.

Think of 9 days as the mythological version of 9 and a half weeks. A sheltered lovely child, a lord of darkness and the unveiling of who they both truly are.

I want this to feel like a tornado. A swift sweeping love story where no one was trying to fall in love, just trying to assert themselves in a difficult situation.  Which if we're honest, we love those best that make it necessary to do that.

Soon I will start this from day one.  I will write the first chapter titled 'The Abduction'. From there each day for the next 9 I will write another chapter and tell what happened on this day until all 9 days have past and we have a good sense that Seph (as I like to call her) ain't going anywhere.

I hope you'll choose to come with me ; )

Always w/love,

Sue

Blog in Review Best of 2014 #4 Unconditional Love, or What We Really Mean

"Wow look its a unicorn, how cool is that?"

I mean come on

This statement is the peak of a very important conversation I was having with my bestie last night about love. At the onset of the New Year I made a promise to myself in regards to my emotions and how I express them.  For as long as I can remember I've tried to make myself as unemotional as possible.  I saw it as weakness as a lack of discipline and self-control.  I thought it was base and beneath me. I dislike scenes and emotional outbursts but more than anything I disliked them on me. It was very simple. My emotions give people power over me. I will rob them of that power.

It’s a very authoritative idea of a ruling mind.  I believe astrologically it is a very masculine Pluto or Mars disposition. In women it is likened to the Eris, Lilith position which is of the Queen of the Underworld Persephone herself.  Robbed of her innocence a new embodiment is given. Let's just say the story has always felt. .  familiar.

Hades and Seph

I always told myself that my emotional disengagement was just a sign of advanced maturity. A hallmark of class and grace under pressure. Which it can be seen as. I believe those who have had to deal with me when I am in an emotional clinch call it something else. . . cold, icy, quite a bit frosty. And it is.  The statements are calm, and poetically polite. My face dead cold giving not an ounce of emotion and my manner dismissive.

It is the defense of a child robbed of innocence of being as emotional as she can be. It is the foolish attempt of one who feels deeply at mastering what can be an all-consuming opus. My emotions always felt like a cliff overlooking raging rapids that plunge into a waterfall that ends somewhere at the center of the earth.  The levels of emotional lost I could and still can experience are extreme.  So I've always practiced at being practical in regards to them because practicality is the last of their concerns.

In many ways my emotions are always battling my intellect, which is the heavy Mercurial influence in me. However being a highly instinctual person I realized that denying emotions was the first step in taking away my natural gifts. So balance had to be attained. Which meant I had to explore my extremes on both ends.  I'm just glad I survived it. It was a near thing.

So back to my new year's resolution. I told myself I was no longer going to stifle how I feel about anyone.  I in fact practiced this by sending very personal very gushing messages of love to my closest pals who in some way inspire me by doing nothing more than being who they are. The results were as I expected.  I got back some gushing replies and silence.  I knew who would do what. The gushers are just what they say they are.  The none gushers, the silent, were whelmed. You see all of these people feel as deeply as I do and I know what such a message would've done to me. I would've gushed back but first I would've needed to be silent.  And sometimes when you're silent you just are because "Wow look its a unicorn, how cool is that." Bask in the moment.

Me and my bestie in film

As my bestie and sister from another mister put it, all her life she had thought that family should respond and behave as I have with her and yet due to never really seeing it our having it, my acceptance of her became like walking into your living room and seeing a unicorn. In the message I sent was what it was always supposed to be but never quite was, forcing the person to truly believe deep in their soul that it cannot exist. And then holy smokes there it is.  It was a very pertinent explanation that stuck a chord with me and made an odd kind of sense. It led me to a thought process that became spoken that symbolizes most relationship troubles in this world.  If you walked into a room and saw a unicorn what would you really do?

The response tells us a lot about how we as individuals process love. But not just any love, Unconditional love; this facet of human emotion few of us experience and none of us feel worthy of. The truth is of course you don't deserve it, but look it’s a unicorn.  Its beautiful, wondrous, miraculous and most of all a gift. Would you shoo it away for its own good or would you keep and cherish it for as long as it would let itself be yours.  Most of us say we of course would choose the second option.  However the truth is many of us actually choose the first.

What they are made of

Let me explain. Relationship patterns are an interesting process because usually the person committing the pattern cannot see it.  In someone else eyes its so clear.  Oh you date the same fundamental type of person and are always surprised at the results? The person watching shakes their head and considers this a lost case and cause.  And it is but not for the reasons you may think.  Those people aren’t stupid; none of us are really stupid.  We love patterns. In general we choose what we know, what we want and what we expect. Dating the same type of person guarantees that every relationship ends the same way.  There is comfort in knowing where you'll be before you get there. And we humans are nothing if we aren't addicted to comfort.  Even if that comfort is pain.  The need is sometimes nothing more than to fulfill the pattern.

This is also a very sad declaration on the nature of love and how it seems to be increasingly viewed as a burden that takes away instead of as a gift that gives. Most of us choose to chase away the unicorn not for its sake but for our own. The specter of unconditional love is such a miracle blessing that many of us instinctively choose to avoid it due to a higher self-preserving fear of loss and potential rejection in regards to attaining our dreams. The irony is that I think most of us do believe in some part of ourselves that we really can’t have it all.   Living your career dreams leads to sacrificing your relationship ones.

Often I explain that I don't do something or haven't done something because I've had peak experiences of it and now can't be bothered by less.  The real reason could be that I honestly don't want to find anything that would make those past experiences less beautiful. I want them preserved as the peak to make the pain I experienced worth the effort in the long run. And I use them as a road map to attaining something similar thinking that this time it might work. It is an odd sense of displaced loyalty to a younger me that had the illusions of a child looking for pixie dust in every kiss while telling herself there is no such thing as pixie dust. When faced with pixie dust you will deny deny deny until you have no choice but to see that the weird horned horse is really a unicorn.  But if I were honest it didn’t look like a unicorn then, but somehow it looks like one now.  We either traumatize or romanticize our pasts.  Its human nature.  The bad relationship was really bad; the one that got away was so wonderful.  But it is the lackluster present that enables a dramatic past because if we’re honest the lackluster present is actually a lot more like the dramatic past than we like to admit.  The implication being we are still making the same mistakes and learning nothing from them.

Oh naughty black unicorn

It is the same for a person who continues to date those who can never really love them the way they need to be loved. But this is a different level of affliction I think. Addiction to love is a terrifying thing. It is a declaration that someone else has a level of control over your well-being that could potentially end your desire to exist without them. It is a lure and a trap that many find no solace or comfort in the idea of attaining.  They instead choose to forge temporary unions with tried and true results of interest, excitement and inevitable endings.  They tell themselves it will end differently this time.  Deep down inside however they realize that it’s too similar to previous relationships which are why they are preferred. At the core of this is the desire to win the heart of the one that started the mess to begin with. In every new person that holds the attraction the way the one before did, they try again expecting different outcomes.

The result is a declaration about self-worth and what you consider sacrifice to be.  Love is within itself a paradox, a selfless selfish thing. It gives and takes, it births it kills. It is all and none. The true fabric that holds this thing together because it can be everything and nothing at all. It fills in the empty spaces.  There are many people who lack the proper perception of their self-worth, mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It is a fundamentally human flaw and sometimes it takes viewing yourself from the eyes of others to temper it. But self-worth is a highly misunderstood concept.  It is a process of finding all parts of yourself worthy of care and love. It is why religion is so popular. Most religions are based on an idea that the human spirit that embodies a human body is worth unconditional love just by dent of being a creation of an all knowing all seeing all wise and powerful God.  It establishes the ultimate authority on loving yourself. But this is not really a love that can provide a true understanding of self worth.  For some religiously minded people they have done the work, the soul searching and the forgiveness. Some are just going with it.  But a true dialogue that defines self worth starts with self.  Its starts with looking at yourself under a harsh lens and being very critical. This is why people usually find self-worth through either successful or failed love. The successful lover loves your flaws to the point that you realize they aren’t that bad.  A failed love affair forces you to take those flaws to heart and may make you aware of them.  In the last is where self-worth is mostly lost, as some people don't hold the glass up to see what is worthy in them, just why they no longer have a lover.

Me and my bestie in our heads

In the core of that thought is sacrifice. The trick to the thing like all else lies in sacrifice. In order for my bestie to find that unicorn she had to sacrifice, thoughts of family, thoughts of herself, everything.  For people like me, my privacy, my truth must not be held in, it must be made public.  My hard fought for emotional self-control must be ripped to shreds at my feet. 

My favorite song about love is by Mumford & Sons. Its called White Blank Page.  Within this song is the pathway to the light. In this song is the greatest sacrifice.  As the singer finally understands a fundamental divinely uncontestable truth about love that the heartbroken hardly ever ask themselves. The thought centers around the idea, that you can be better, you can do something different and love will be the result. You can read articles about your attitude, consider new style trends.  All the things you can do to make yourself more lovable will not change one simple thing. Who you decide to love. In the end you might just need to date someone you would never date and consider a perspective you’ve never considered.  Sacrifice all of your thoughts about your fault in something and accept a truth about your inherit worth.  Accept that the person was never able to see it and no . . . that was not your fault.

I’ll leave you with the song. .

Blog in Review Best of 2014 #5 Inseparable

She could feel him all the time now.  She would catch a certain scent in the air and anxiety would rise in her belly. The whisper of a voice in the back of her mind. She closed her eyes, because she could almost feel breath tickle her ear. She inhaled deeply knowing this was the only way to manage it when they were connected like this. She opened her right hand in front of her staring at the lines and veins.  Warmth glided across the surface ever so lightly.  A fleeting thing feeling as it touched, touching as she felt. The sensation went up her arm, soaked her shoulder, then spread like wine staining carpet over her chest. She sighed in the feeling as her body was slowly being eaten away by his essence his aura. It warmed more in random spots like tiny starburst across her skin.  Tiny eruptions of warm sensations exploded softly all over. He called it sprinkle kisses.

The connection had always been there and visceral. It was like a train station that no one used. The tracks had been laid long ago.  When they first met it was pain.  It had dropped her to her knees the first time it poured through her. She had felt the sharp instant cut, the initial numbness and then she had nearly in slow motion dropped to her knees as the numbness faded for a dull aching that had no source yet could not be appeased. She had gasped loudly as if she had been hit in the stomach.  The sound of the gasp nearly lost in the sudden and hard release of air. She covered her heart with both hands as tears built in her eyes.  She stared dumbfounded to the heavens as they streaked brilliant salty trails down her cheeks. She vaguely felt them streaming down her neck to her chest.  Her skin dried some, her sweater caught the rest. She had stayed there for an eternity it seemed.  Nailed to her living room floor in pain, she had fallen to her back, eyes wide, tears streaming, mouth agape. The pain was acute, sustained.  Her first thought was his name and the pain doubled. This was a soul deep hurt that had survived and fed itself with his passions, ate his shattered dreams and drank of his broken heart. It fueled his nightmares, ignited his pessimism, and nurtured the hearth of his rage.

As she lay there unable to move, barely able to stand the pulsing burning fire that was both pain and rage she understood what true intimacy was.  It wasn't sexual at all, it was emotional.  It was living with someone else's pain inside you.  Bound to you in the core of your own soul. No closer mating could ever be attained. She wept as his despair raced through her.  Somehow she had always thought hopelessness was a passive emotion.  How utterly unrelentingly foolishly wrong she had been.  She saw now that hopelessness was a tidal wave. A raging ocean always building to overtake you. He was at war with it constantly. She was not fit for the fight.  For a moment she surrendered to it.  She let her mind drift into the darkness that only soul shattering pain could produce. She felt herself sinking through the carpet, through the floor, through the layers of dimensions that separated them.  She had retreated from this plane and was in a space she had never seen before.

The space was dark, wet and cold.  She was surrounded by walls. Black dirty walls, the ceiling was too high.  Several stories over her head it loomed.  The smell was lacking in life.  Despite the moisture it seemed nothing could live in this space.  The walls and the floor seamlessly bent from one to the other.  She walked gingerly down the hallway.  It had to be, it was no bigger than 4 feet wide. She passed a mirror and stopped to observe herself. She was bathed in light, and that was all. Her dusky skin nearly glowed with an iridescent pearl gleam that was blue and purple. Her eyes glittered as if set alive by flames. Her hair a curly long orange red mane that drifted to some space right past her ass.

Startled she stepped forward to touch the mirror.  Lightly she placed her fingers right above where her heart would in the image. She heard the tinkling of glass.  The mirror contracted at her touch, seemed to take a deep quick breath then shattered.  Instinctively she covered her face waiting for the additional pain of the cutting glass.  Instead she felt a fine mist.  She dropped her arms and stared at them as the dust left red and gold speckles on her skin, fine and iridescent. She glanced up quickly at the spot the mirror came from and she saw a door.

The door wasn't like anything else in the hallway. It was carved wood, deep brown with hints of red. On it was a tower.  It was long and tall, a perfect cylinder of brick and mortar rising from the middle of the ocean it seemed. The top of the tower had a lookout much like a lighthouse. In the window there was the clear figure of a young boy staring out. Dragons circled overhead their tails blending as they formed a ring around the top of the tower. Snakes slithered from the water inching up the base of the tower. The ocean raged and crashed beneath them. The scene was framed with thorny vines braided outside of the main image.

That's when she noticed the door had no knob.  She walked up to it and traced a wave.  The wood was cool and smooth to the touch. She traced up to a snake to the tower and continued to inch upward. She touched the face of the boy briefly on the cheek. She couldn't tell if the door had whelped or if she had.  The touch had spiked the pain for a second forcing the sound. Instinct only made her lean in closer and press her lips to the boy's forehead. Her closed eyes didn't see what happened because in the next moment she was kissing air.

It was a small room before her. Just a rustic setting. A lovely rug on the wooden floor, a fireplace in the corner lit and blazing.  A comfortable chair with armrests and a high back with velvet red coverings. The fact that there were no windows and the walls were bare was a bit odd.  However it was not nearly as odd as seeing him kneeling in front of the chair putting makeup on what was clearly a dead woman. Her skin was blue. The unnatural hue of someone who has long passed. Her hair was a grey stringy mop falling to her threadbare shoulders.  The white gown was dingy with bits of makeup mistakenly dropped on spots. Her lifeless form stared with eyes dark cold and dead. The hallows of her skull were apparent in her cheeks and mouth.  She was propped in the chair with her arms on the rests and her legs pulled closed, feet planted, makeup in her lap.

He would place makeup on a spot on her face that made her look flesh colored. As he would move on to another area the makeup would slowly disappear. He would notice when the spot he was working on was done and then go back to reapply. She slowly walked over to where he fussed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"She's not gone you know." he whispered in a well-rehearsed way. "Any minute now she'll be back and this time she'll love me."

She didn't say anything. She knew what this was and she knew who she was. She took has hand away from her face.  She was surprised that he offered no resistance.  She removed the make up sponge from his hand and placed it in the lap of the woman where the rest was. He just stared at the face of the woman as she went blue. In a matter of moments she faded to gray and then dissolved into ash.

The low keening moan that came from him managed to come through her as well as they watched this happen. He sat back on the floor.  She knelt beside him and pulled his head against her chest. She sifted her fingers through his short brown hair enjoying the solid feel of him. He was cold though. Her other hand soothingly rubbed the back of his neck. He let her hold him as he tried to quiet the storm within him. She closed her eyes and held him closer.  She took slow deep breaths and focused herself. When she inhaled she focused on his pain, when she exhaled she focused on soothing. It didn't take long before they were breathing together and the pain storm was subsiding. Slowly his arms crept up and wrapped around her waist.

She jolted up and was in her living room again. As long as she lived she would never forget that day.  That had been the beginning of their unique odyssey.

Blog in Review the Rundown

So I'm starting something new in case you haven't noticed. Its a year in review. I wanted to find the posts that got the most views and garnered the most attention.  Here they are the top 5:

# 5 Inseparable
Her first thought was his name and the pain doubled. This was a soul deep hurt that had survived and fed itself with his passions, ate his shattered dreams and drank of his broken heart. It fueled his nightmares, ignited his pessimism, and nurtured the hearth of his rage.. . 

#4 Unconditional Love, or What We Really Mean
So back to my new year's resolution. I told myself I was no longer going to stifle how I feel about anyone.  I in fact practiced this by sending very personal very gushing messages of love to my closest pals who in some way inspire me by doing nothing more than being who they are. The results were as I expected.  I got back some gushing replies and silence.  I knew who would do what. The gushers are just what they say they are.  The none gushers, the silent, were whelmed. You see all of these people feel as deeply as I do and I know what such a message would've done to me. I would've gushed back but first I would've needed to be silent.  And sometimes when you're silent you just are because "Wow look its a unicorn, how cool is that." Bask in the moment.

#3 Manpaper: The Originals
Now this latest version of manpaper is by no means all there is. Below are the originators.

#2 9 Days - A Novella of Mythic Proportions
But the very interesting thing is that underworld activities were shrouded. There have never been many tales of who Hades actually is. Yet the method of how he acquired his wife and subsequent equal queen of the Underworld is one of the most prolific stories surrounding what I believe is the often very misunderstood lord of needful things such as death and the dead.

Thus 9 days.

Think of 9 days as the mythological version of 9 and a half weeks. A sheltered lovely child, a lord of darkness and the unveiling of who they both truly are.

#1 Missing Love Stories
As a dark woman I've always taken those images with a grain of salt as I much preferred getting lost in a book as opposed to an unrealistic impersonation of who I was supposed to be. The irony is that you tell yourself it’s not that bad. You actually try to accept some of it as truth because the alternative is too much to bear, which is the evidence of others denying you and those like you the very basic staples of humanity.

I was Persephone this past Halloween

Well that has been my year and I hope to have more lovely profound flights of fancy and stunning realizations and always. . keep writing.

Have a LOVEly year,

Always w/love,
Sue

The Bechdel Test and Romance Novels

The Bechdel test is a fascinating subject. It calls forth ideas about understanding the nature of the society we have created and what that means for all of us as a species. It highlights many of our social development faults.

Bechdel

The rules of the Bechdel Test for a piece of media are as follows:

1. It has to have at least two women in it

2. Who talk to each other

3. About something besides a man

The test identifies a few obvious trends in modern art and storytelling. It points to the idea that only male characters carry weight in these worlds. Often in many storytelling instances women have little to no autonomy due to their purpose being only to further the ends and identification of the male character and protagonist. While this is an interesting and expected trend in most media and art in general, the most interesting idea is that women themselves have been conditioned to some degree to expect less female autonomy in all stories, including those that play specifically to the female fantasy of love.

Romance to be very specific is usually a media that features love. The women are usually very good people but for some strange reason alone and out of fashion. Usually the author comments on looks, or on responsibilities that fall into traditional roles that are favorable for female characters.

The challenge of any fantasy is to make unbelievable instances take shape. Yet within the framework of believability. It’s called the suspension of disbelief in professional wrestling, magic shows and visual entertainment in general. This is a parody. Play act that facilitates a story about growth, love and passion.

This is exceedingly difficult to do when the author can’t even seem to identify the female characters in the story as people. It is unsurprising yet astounding in this day and age when that happens. I recall one of the complaints I’ve had about my female characters is that they are not likable. I casually and caustically explained after the critique was given to my female character without thought for the male who carried many of the same traits that she wasn’t supposed to be likable. She’s supposed to be human. She is to be accepted as she is, just as the male of the story is.

Ladies, let’s be honest, our romance heroes are not super romantic.  Most of them are grade A assholes that for some reason cannot get enough of the girl most unlikely to matter to them. We respect them because they are not embarrassed or ashamed of who they are. We call that an Alpha male in this genre and most readers would be hard pressed to enjoy a book that didn’t feature one. I find it daunting that every time I write a woman the same way, editors and agents find her ‘unlikable’. Because of course in the court of love and respectability politics you dare not propose love for a girl who is “gasp’ unlikable.

Taming

I think to Shakespeares’ Taming of the Shrew. Which in essence is a stage play from centuries ago completely about respectability politics and how they affect the acceptable level of aggression a female is allowed to have and still be able to have a successful relationship with a man. The play was written by a man and yet he seemed to grasp the idea of well if you want this much woman you need to be this much man and accept a true partner that many female authors abandon for canned preapproved agency drivel.

I could almost buy the argument that this is because I may have unintentionally excluded ‘feminine’ traits from them. I prefer to err on the side that by dent of being a woman whatever she does IS feminine. However this seems to be our impasse. Which is why this test is so important. If there is a definitive aspect of how I write a character that is considered a female thing when sex isn’t being discussed, then I’m writing all of my characters wrong.

Humanity goes beyond discernable genitalia. Humanity involves spirit, heart, essence, a fiber a soul. All of these attributes should be portrayed without a sex, because they are. These things are embodiments of the human condition. I will relent and say yes some characters will express these motivations and desires differently, but let me be clear, they will not or ever be along sexual divides. I consider it to be lazy writing.

Producing characters driven by clothes because they like to look pretty is lazy writing. I seek to create unique stories about unique people which I find to be the reality of the world. My characters are driven by the impression they seek to make in those clothes. The inherent comfort or discomfort of those clothes. The decisions are sometimes frivolous but are met equally by hard thought out and followed through on choices that have little to do with a male or female perspective and more to do with a basic human one.

Brave and Rightly So

The complexity of humanity is a daunting task to write about. It intimidates me every time I plot a major twist because in that moment the people I love can betray me. Every writer understands what I just wrote. It’s the complexity of humanity that makes these characters live beyond us, outside of us, desiring their own peaks and valleys. My characters, male or female, don’t want the easy answers. They don’t want the cop outs and the maybes. They want their tragedies and they want their triumphs. They want to be the lowest speck of humanity while being the brightest. No chromosomal switch turn at the last stages of development determines whether they want or need that more or less. Yes they come across individuals that don’t agree and they are pitied for what they choose to give up.

I see the Bechdel as more than just checking for equality. It’s a call to arms for artists to be the change they should want to see.

Opened Doors

"Don't you remember you told me you loved me baby."  

She hummed softly to the melody as the song blazed through the room.  Always she kept the stereo just too loud.  When it was just too loud, it drowned out all else. Even thought.  "Said you'd be coming' . . . But this song, reminded her of everything.

Like everyone else, she had heard the stories about the groupies, the women who follow and chase bands and celebrities.  She hadn't been one of those women.  She stretched her back at an awkward angle and continued the task of washing dishes in the sink that was never big enough.  In the kitchen that left her wanting for more, in the house that seemed to never hold enough space to be comfortable.  She stayed because it was hers, and no one else's.

"Baby, baby, ohhh, baby, I love you."

The floral skirt she was wearing dusted the floor, leaving only a sliver of her naked foot barren before toying with the hard tile.  As she swayed to the music it danced with her, gilding her moves like an echo, ruffling the air trying to remain still around.  The black tank she wore was nearly threadbare from repeated washings.  One of those items of clothing she would wear till it fell from her form.  As most of her clothes were.  

The tears came quickly, as they always did, not unexpected, they never were unexpected.  Most days saw at least one outburst of misery from her soul as it cried out the unfair fate that was forcing her to be so very strong.

The heartbreak wasn't a normal one.  She didn't cry from bitterness of being abandoned.  She cried for having tasted just enough joy to make her long for it for the rest of her life. He hadn't lied, never made one false promise.  So the song actually didn't fit her situation.  But it made it all the worse in truth. He hadn't cared enough to tell her pretty lies.  So unimportant to what he desired in the grand scheme of things she had been that he hadn't bothered to tell her anything.  Not a hello, not a goodbye.  No baby this, baby that, one day soons, or when I come back. Not a don't wait for me, we end here, this was a mistake, or never agains.

For six days and seven nights he had filled her with all that he was.  For three of those nights, she had held onto herself, the fourth she pretended that she was still whole, on the fifth she had stopped lying, and the sixth and seventh opened up another door.

As she discovered the real problem with opened doors wasn't in getting them open.  That had been almost too easy.  It was the closing that proved to give the fit.  Silly waitress in a bar was all she had been.  A foolish girl that had no idea of who he was.  No man had ever made her  . . .feel.  That was who he had become.  Nothing more, nothing less.  

More than just touch, words, expressions, the color of his eyes, the length of his hair.  She knew where he was in the room at all times, as he did with her.  The melting promise of joy would hum through her when she knew he was near.  Damn that opened door.

"Long ago. . ."

She didn't count how much time had passed in years, they seemed insufficient when the number was tallied. Instead she felt his absence in moments.  As the sun slid to rest.  Heavy footsteps approaching. The feel of freshly washed sheets.  Morning dew falling from leaves onto her skin.  Phrases that matched his cadence. Catching musky scents in the air.  Accidental contact with a stranger.  Fresh strawberries against her lips.  And songs bemoaning loving an entertainer.

What he had left was possibility without hope.  She didn't wonder if he would come for her, never dared dream that he still even thought of her.  He ruled her waking thoughts and dreaming nights. Soon it became insanity to pretend that this wasn't the case. She knew that this door in her was wide open now and oh so hard to fill.  A few brave had tried, only to be told, "That damned door only seems to be the right size for one man."

". . . .I thought it was you, it was only the radio."

The dishes were done, the kitchen finally clean.  The baby was sound asleep and the song filled the space.  She turned and held up her arms as if holding onto a partner.  With great confidence she began to move slowly to the soft strings of the song playing. Gazing upward fondly she smiled, sweetly, softly beautifully.  "I love being in your arms", she whispered to the sound pulsing air around her.

Those With Sight

Book one of the Life Goes On series Arc One The Artists Book One "Those With Sight" Shuttered Vision

“What are you doing here?”  She snapped.

He smiled at the little beauty, she felt him as soon as he showed up this time.  She was getting better and better at it. He loved her dress.  It looked like it was patched together like a quilt. All those lovely loud and soft colors that did wonders for her dark skin. It fit her like a glove. She was shorter than him by five or six inches.  She wasn’t a very slender woman. Not fat by any means but she wasn’t one of those super slender super model skinny numbers he had gotten used to in Hollywood.  She had full breasts a slim waist, ample hips and thighs.  He was willing to bet the backside was as well thought out as the front. Her blue black hair fell in soft wavy curls to her shoulders thick and full. Those amazing gray eyes were on him.  She was furious.

“Mad at me for the stolen kiss?” he teased her.

“No I was mad at you for interrupting me with my father.”

“Your father, so you were talking to somebody.  Here I thought you were nuts.”

“You’re in my dream, I’m not the one that’s nuts.”

He laughed at the matter of fact way she said it. “How is that possible huh?  I can be in your dream but you can’t be in mine? I think you have that wrong.”

She just stared at him confused.  He tried to imagine her near him again.  It worked all of two seconds and then she stopped and stared at him.

“Stop that. If you want me to come over there, ask don’t demand.”

It was something about the way she said it made him ask instead. “Would you, if I asked?”

“Why don’t you find out?”

Seemed simple enough. “Will you stand closer to me?”

“How much closer, be specific.”

His hands itched, his mouth watered. “Close enough to touch.”

He watched spellbound as she shifted her hips stepping lightly and smoothly walking over to him.  The motion of her hips was distracting him.  She flowed like water, well set music.  He felt himself respond to her.

“Will you listen to what I have to say to you?” she asked.

“Why do women always need to talk, we have nothing to talk about.” He placed his hand on her face cupping her cheek, it felt like the smoothest silk. “Touching, that’s what we need to do.”

She cupped his hand in hers as she looked him in the eye. “Why are you here?”

He stared at her oddly as the question vibrated in his head like an echo.  Her eyes expanded and started to glow a bit.  He saw a part of her, like a shadow or illusion of her shift away from her and fly into him. He could feel her in his head starting to tear around.  His childhood flashed briefly in his mind and was passed on to his first sexual experience.  He was in his bedroom when he was 17, Janet Tully taking him into her hand for the first time.  He has his first realization about Hollywood as two skinny blondes with fake tits offer him cocaine on their exposed breasts.  The strips of his mind peeling away as he started to lose control of his motorfunctionality lying in the middle of his gameroom.

“No.” Colan sat straight up in bed naked sweating, breathing hard.  

He dropped his head into his hands, the dream vivid in his mind.  The feelings of helplessness and vulnerability were stark in his person. He threw himself back down on the bed with a thud, then gave a disgusted look at his sheet tenting over his erect penis.

“Well good to know you still work in moments of crisis.” He muttered.

He couldn’t blame it, she was gorgeous, that creature he had dreamed about constantly for months now.   Really it was the dreams before that had eventually led to her. It had started sometime after his nervous breakdown.  He would be sleeping and have the most horrific nightmares.  He was in hell and all around him were roaming beasts and fire breathing creatures.  And always some new lamb for the slaughter would drop from the sky and be unmercifully eaten.  He had tried to defeat the beasts and they would come back stronger, more evolved.  After months of these dreams he had resorted to trying to escape.  One night he had gotten to the top where people were dropped in and he had heard singing.

He closed his eyes and recalled the dream.  She had been singing Amazing Grace.  Simple lovely and it had actually sounded like salvation.  He had waited till she finished and then pulled himself up and he had been in that odd field.  She hadn’t seen him.  Just continued about her way.  She would lay in that field humming to herself.  She would do such odd things there as if she was somewhere else seeing something else.  It was like this odd form of pantomime. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago she had sensed him and now they actually spoke to each other.

He got out of bed to start his day.  It was such a silly foolish thing, his dream woman.  Everything about her was completely different from what he usually looked for in a woman.  She was a dark skinned brunette he usually went for pale blondes.  She didn’t mince words, his women where usually cunningly coy.  She stood up to him, he hadn’t had a women tell him no in a little over a decade.  The oddest part of the whole thing was that every once in awhile he had to work very hard to convince himself that what happened in his dreams wasn’t real.  That she wasn’t real.  He had done all kinds of research on it.  Dreams were just an extension of repressed desires.  Really he wanted something different from what he was and where he was and she represented it.

He stood in the shower letting the hot water fall over him.  He dropped his head and felt it running through his hair down his neck and shoulders. She was an interesting creation he had to admit. She was black from what he could tell, but those eyes and her hair, the black women back home had never looked like that, not women of any of the races he had grown up around.   There were things that were still considered taboo in Oklahoma, especially in the country.  Dating someone not of your same color was one of them.

Honestly he hadn’t ever really thought about it.  His mother hadn’t raised him to care.  But the people surrounding you always ingrained it in your make-up.  White privilege is what it was called by people who studied it.  This whole dichotomy of entitlement and empowerment. He knew about the theories, those with power and all that. He also knew that they were one hundred percent true.  This had been part and parcel to his breakdown.

All his life he had told himself that he wasn’t a racist.  That deep down inside he wanted equal rights for all people.  But the world was the way that it was and nothing could change that.  Such a scapegoat that was created with that one thought.  Colan knew better, he made movies, he created and recreated the world everyday, every week every hour as a new person was exposed to what he was directly responsible for creating.  

The world is not the way that it was because it just was, it was the way the people in power created it to be.  Through all open forms of media, radio, television and film Americans are being told what to do, how to do it and most importantly who to do it too.  It wasn’t too long until books and magazines converted and now you even had to second guess what you read in the newspaper.  Then the internet came along and changed the face of the game.  There was information out there for those willing to look for it about the true face of things in the media and the world.

Colan realized that he had gotten lost in his thoughts but like a well trained automaton had dressed himself, drank his morning health shake and was firmly seated behind the wheel of his jaguar.

Coming June 2015

When Did This Start?

Did you always look at me like that or have I not noticed
Yesterday you looked at my lips as if you felt they needed to be kissed
Did you always smile at me like I was the very reason for it
The other day you flashed it at me like the most entertaining thing in the world was my wit

Did my heart always speed up when I see you or did that just start happening
When it did it last night it felt just so natural like that’s the way it’s always been
Did my mind always drift to you at the most unexpected times or is that new
It struck me a second ago that I don’t seem to think of much else that doesn’t relate to you

Was it before or after we met my ideas on life became drastically different
Now I think the world is beautiful, life is rather nice, and all things are heaven sent
Was it before or after our first conversation that I noticed how underrated talking is
The more I hear your voice, the more of you I discover, the more I wonder when we’ll have our first kiss

Was it before or after I noticed how adorable you are that other men have seemed lacking
I know that it makes me not need their backing
Was it before or after I started to fantasize about us together that I forgot the promises I’d already made before
Just when I thought that every part of my life was determined and set I feel like now you’ve shown me another door
I’m starting to believe that all those changes in me are recent
And I think what I see in you isn’t imagination but a persuasive hint

I’m starting to accept my need to understand you
And I think that you can cope with what you’re starting to feel too
I don’t want to keep on trying to figure out how this started in the past
I just want to concentrate and put my mind to trying to make it last

So I’ll stop sitting around and trying to pinpoint the events by the exact days
I think now I want to set aside the befores and afters and take you by the hand and shoot for always