Review: The Book of Lost Fragrances by M. J. Rose

It is the anniversary of Jac L'Etoile's mother's death and she puts flowers in the vase in the mausoleum, her mother's favorites. She sees her mother's ghost but refuses to talk to her for fear her old psychotic episodes will drag her back down into the abyss where the line between hallucination and reality will claim her forever.

Jac is surprised by her brother Robbie showing up. As much as Jac wanted Robbie there, she was certain he would not show. Robbie has brought flowers, but his main reason for coming was to get Jac to agree not to sell any of the L'Etoile house scents to cover the debts their father, in his growing dementia, ran up and ruin the company. He would rather have Jac's help deciphering the individual notes of a scent that is believed to be a memory tool, a tool that with one whiff can take a person back through previous incarnations, a scent that will save L'Etoile Parfumerie and their family's long legacy. Jac doesn't want to be involved. She doesn't believe in reincarnation and she fears Robbie is chasing a myth that will ensure the company's downfall.

Jac refuses Robbie, but soon finds herself in a race with time when Robbie disappears and she must find him and the reason he killed a man in their family workshop.

The Book of Lost Fragrances by M. J. Rose is part of her Reincarnation series and is my second foray into the world of history, denial, mystery, and madness. One thing I always find with Rose's work is complex characters with depth, warts and all. The story lines are always fascinating and contain a great deal of information, but not so much that the story takes a second place. Rose seamlessly weaves history, myth, and magic into each book and The Book of Lost Fragrances is no exception.

Whether you believe in reincarnation or not, Rose masterfully evokes both sides of the question and adds the spice and mystery of the past with a look into the fabled past with a deft hand. This time Cleopatra, perfume making, and the connections inherent with a family legacy is steeped in reality without sacrificing believability or the suspension of time. I was drawn into the story and into the intricacies of perfume making and the vast catacombs beneath Paris while being intrigued with the story of a young Chinese calligrapher venturing forth into the world for the first time. The Book of Lost Fragrances is at its worst dark and forbidding and at its best simply mesmerizing.

Review: Earth's Children by Jean M. Auel

I picked up Clan of the Cave Bear while standing in line at the checkout counter in K-Mart many years ago and was enchanted. I thought it was a stand-alone book and was quite happy with that, but when The Valley of Horses was featured as a book club selection, I had to get it too, and was equally enchanted. I could see myself living alone in a cave and hunting (hopefully with less fuss than Ayla had) and eventually living with a horse and a lion. The story was fascinating and the way it ended was satisfying. Next came The Mammoth Hunters and I still remember the way they burned bone in the hearths and how urine was collected and saved to be used to bleach animal hides to white. I read all the books many years ago but they were memorable and fascinating.

Jean Auel has a way of imparting so much information about the landscape and the flora and fauna that I didn't feel the books were bogged down by the elaborate descriptions. The descriptive passages helped me to see the world in which Ayla lived and hunted and how where she lived in part guided her actions. I was mesmerized -- and informed.

I recently discovered there were three more books in the series but wanted to go back and read the other three books to see if they were as good as I remembered. They were, although I feel that The Mammoth Hunters was weaker than the first two books. The Plains of Passage came next and Ayla and Jondalar traveled across the land between the Black Sea and France meeting more people and getting into some trouble, nothing that Ayla couldn't find a way to manage.

That's what I liked so much about the series. Earth's Children was a woman's journey, a woman of strength and ingenuity and power, and Jondalar neither over shadowed her or was afraid of what Ayla was and how much she could accomplish. He celebrated her independence and skills and loved her for it, even learning from her. Ayla was the star and Jondalar was quite comfortable being second string. It was her Journey after all.

The Plains of Passage took Jondalar back along the route he took with his brother Thonolan and was bittersweet for that reason alone. The movement was ever forward and often dangerous, but Ayla and Jondalar were equal to every danger.

The Shelters of Stone was a bit slow but gave the effect of Ayla finally settling down. She didn't have an easy time of it and gained some more enemies along the way, especially when she, being who she was, shone brighter than her enemies. She wasn't showy or looking for praise or applause, just being who she was meant to be, sharing her gifts with everyone and anyone --even her enemies. Ayla was still the star and Jondalar still content to be second string in spite of Shelters of Stone being set in his home cave.

In the final book, The Land of Painted Caves, Ayla comes into her own, but not without having to pay a price for everything she had gained. Jean Auel took Ayla on another journey to see the painted caves in France and along the western coast of Europe. The descriptions, as detailed as they were, didn't quite give as clear a sense of place and environment as in previous books and I think Auel was running out of literary gas at this point. The books span more than a decade of publishing time and several years of Ayla's life and journey, often skipping over a few years. The Land of Painted Caves is the weakest of the six books and repeats the same situation between Ayla and Jondalar that made up such a huge part of The Mammoth Hunters, and therein lies one of the major problems with the series: repetition.

Throughout all but the first book, Clan of the Cave Bear, Auel repeats much of Ayla's history, rape by Broud, and her experience at the Clan gathering when Creb, The Mog-ur, guided her through the memories of their origins in the sea and brought Ayla back from the formless black void, changing Ayla at some basic level and letting Creb see that the Clan were on a course to extinction. Ayla's son Durc would be the only future remaining for the Clan, the people the Neanderthals called Flatheads, who saw births of such mixed heritage abomination. While some repetition of the major points laid down in the first book is necessary, Auel repeats the same information several times in each book. That much back story is repetitious and bogs down the story.

Another repetitious point is the way Ayla speaks. At first, the difference in how she pronounces words was a minor variation, one that added to her uniqueness. Auel repeats this information so many times it becomes irritating, especially when Ayla's unusual way of pronouncing words becomes very noticeable and not, as when first mentioned, a slight difference. The difference is exaggerated more and more and is repeated so often that it is like a bit of seed stuck between the teeth that cannot be easily removed, and sometimes as irritating as fingernails on a blackboard. Ayla speaks differently because she lived the bulk of her early life with the Clan and spoken words were few and only for emphasis; we got it.

The Mother's song, which is the oral history handed down by the Neanderthals as their creation myth, is also repeated many more times than necessary. There are times when the whole "poem" is repeated and other times when large sections are repeated. It was unnecessary when referring to the poem to go through the whole thing again. The creation myth is important in the final book of the series, The Land of Painted Caves, but only when it is central to the story and not necessary every time it is mentioned. I got it. The Mother's song is important, but I don't need to read it every time it is mentioned. I skipped over those parts rather than read it again and again -- ad infinitum, ad nauseam. I began to wonder if Auel was using the repetitious sections of Ayla's time with the Clan, her unusual accent, and the Mother's song as a way to pad the books and make them longer. Take out those sections and nothing is lost from the narrative, which is a sign that an editor should have blue penciled much more of the books.

One thing I have learned as a writer is that when two characters' problems can be solved by talking to each other, it's not really a problem. No matter what justification Auel used for Ayla and Jondalar's emotional separation, the problem could have simply been solved by talking to each other. Of course, that would have meant a much quicker resolution of the central issue and a shorter book, but pages could have been added with new material and the bumps and potholes that normally crop up in any relationship between man and woman. Ayla and Jondalar are fully realized characters, but they are a bit tedious and somewhat ignorant for all the innovations that evolved from their willingness to try different methods, like using a horse to transport goods and food and learning to hunt and live with a wolf.

Despite the failings in Auel's writing and plotting, what she does well is evoke the time and the landscape of neolithic Europe during the glacial period. Descriptions of mammoths mating, the dynamics of herds and living in a cave dependent on each other for all needs, and the way Auel describes the relationships between families and their religious caste, the Zelandonia, is part of the charm and uniqueness that is central to the Earth's Children series.

Though much of what is contained in the series is conjecture as to when horses and wolves were domesticated and became part of the fabric of human existence and when and how the various weapons were used and improved, these facts ring true and demonstrate the difference between Cro-Magnons and Neanderthals. After all, history and archaeology are built on such conjecture and fitting disparate pieces of the fossil and pictorial records together to provide a somewhat homogenous picture of what life would have been like for humans and how they adapted.

I give Jean M. Auel kudos for her imagination and for the way she took the experience of seeing a man who was deformed, whose arm had been amputated, and creating a believable world full of mystery and majesty where a young girl could be orphaned and injured and become one of the most admirable and amazing female icons in modern times. The series is a remarkable achievement for all its flaws and Ayla a strong and wonderful female protagonist that I will always remember.

 

Review: Scarlet by Marissa Meyer

Marissa Meyer's latest addition to Linh Cinder's Lunar tale is Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf. Predictably following the fair tale of the little girl who gets in trouble with a wolf, there the comparison ends. Meyer has given the wolf a whole new look and he's also a Lunar. With all the Lunars on Earth, both with Queen Levana's permission and without, especially in the case of Cinder, the cyborg mechanic, I wonder how many Lunars are left on the moon. Back to the story.

Scarlet Benoit is Red Riding Hood wearing a hoodie and not so little and the wolf is Wolf, the genetically manipulated Lunar crossed with wolf and controlled by a thaumaturge. Grandma, Michelle Benoit, is missing and Wolf knows where she is being held and promises to take Scarlet to her. How does this have anything to do with Princess Selene, AKA Cinder? Kidnapping Grandma was supposed to lead the Lunars to the princess so Queen Levana can kill her because the princess (Cinder) is more powerful than the queen and is also the rightful heir to the throne. Scarlet is a pawn in the game, seduced by Wolf's strength and a growing emotional connection, which has the added spice that heightens all relationships -- shared danger.

Meanwhile, back at the prison where Cinder is being held, Cinder breaks out of her cell using her Lunar glamouring gift and runs into Captain Thorne, who is really an American cadet who stole a space ship and has been caught and thrown in prison. Cinder has a brand new cyborg arm and leg that fit her. The arm has lots of neat gadgets and the chip implanted in Cinder's brain that kept her Lunar glamour from functioning is now gone and she has used it to glamour her way out of prison. She doesn't like what manipulating another person's mind does to her but she does find the gift useful.

Emperor Kaito is turning on the spit because Levana is furious Cinder has escaped and blames Kai for losing her. She threatens to unleash her army to devastate the Commonwealth. Kai has 48 hours to decide what to do.

Meyer packs a lot of action, emotion, and adventure into those 48 hours. Cinder must find Michelle Benoit who knows what happened to her from the time she arrived on Earth until she was placed with the Linh family and how and why she was turned into a cyborg. Years passed between Levana's coup and Cinder arriving in the Linh home.

More about the Levana's plans for taking over Earth and Cinder's life before becoming a cyborg mechanic is revealed. Cinder comes into her own and gains some powerful and resourceful allies along the way. She no longer wants to turn her back on her heritage or what she needs to do beat Levana. Kai's decision is Cinder's turning point and Scarlet is the cold water dashed in Cinder's face to wake her up to what is really important.

Once I got over the shock that Scarlet did not begin with Cinder and that she takes a back seat for a good portion of the second installment of the Lunar Chronicles, I found myself absorbed in Scarlet and Wolf's story and their journey to free Scarlet's grandmother. Cinder has her part to play and she grows up rather quickly in the 48 hours between the beginning and end of Scarlet. I would have wished for more insight into what was going on in Africa where Cinder must eventually go, but I was pleased to find Iko back online, although in a very different body, and the humor Iko injects into the situation.

Now that the second installment is done, I will find it difficult to wait for the third and final installment in what has proved to be an exciting fairy tale brought to life as science fiction with a bit of fantasy thrown in for good measure. Meyer's use of fairy tales to fuel her trilogy is refreshingly different -- and really quite good.

Review: OZ Reimagined

There is a vast variety of stories imagined and reinvented throughout Oz Reimagined, which was the intent. Some of the stories were sparkling gems, like A Tornado of Dorothys where people were sucked into a situation to replay the original story line over and over for The Great Wizard of Oz's view of the world, until a real Dorothy comes along.

Stories like Veiled Shanghai was a bit hard to grasp and I got lost on the other side of the veil wondering exactly what the point was. The story was good and moved well, but it was a little hard to keep together. I wonder if that was because the setting was China and the lifestyle quite foreign to me. That one I intend to read a few more times to grasp the meaning better. Stopping in the middle wasn't a good idea either as I lost the thread. Or maybe it wasn't me.

Emeralds to Emeralds, Dust to Dust, although it dealt with drug trafficking in OZ and a culture that marginalized crossovers, was a fascinating and even guilty pleasure -- in spite of the central theme of drug addiction and trafficking.

Oz Reimagined has many transformative stories and stories that are a joy to read, so much so that getting to the end of the book was a little sad. At least I can read them over again and again, which is what the editors and writers hoped. They did themselves proud in that tradition as I'm sure L. Frank Baum intended his stories to become childhood (and adult) favorites.

One flash fiction piece, Dorothy Dreams, was a bit too pat and too heavenly for my taste. The writing was good and the story believable -- up to a point. It seemed less like "All Dogs Go To Heaven" and more like Dorothy gets old and goes back to OZ and God. The religious tones were a bit too loud for my taste; others might find it exactly to their liking. I did, however, like the idea that Dorothy got to go back to a kinder and gentler OZ where she wasn't fighting witches and flying monkeys and being chased by Winkies. Then again, what would be the fun in that?

Each of the stories in OZ Reimagined is a gem of a different color and brightness. My choices may not be yours, but all of the gems are worth admiring for their brightness and beauty. There is a lot to choose from with veterans like Orson Scott Card, Jane Yolen, and Tad Williams, but also from (to me) relative newcomers like Rachel Swirsky, Kat Howard, and Theodora Goss.

Take Time to Consider

Posts about sensitivity towards people with incurable diseases abound today. People posting about how someone suggested an alternative method of treatment and not taking pharmacological remedies because they are poison made someone feel hurt and misunderstood. These people would be healthy if they could and they use those poison medicines because the alternative is death. We all want to live. We all want to be healthy. That's not going to happen.

We are a divided people, divided about politics, health care, gender, economics, race, color, creed, legal status, immigration, food . . . everything. The smaller this world grows the touchier become its people. Information that would have once taken weeks or months or even years to circulate now takes moments and the emotional backlash is even faster. We are connected by technology and disconnected from our humanity -- and our commonality. Tolerance is now merely a word and it is used like a sword to cleave Us from Them. We have lost the human touch in this dizzying drive of technological advances.

We see starving children with the click of a few keys and in real time or on video in seconds. We see the devastation of war and blood of rebels flowing red and real across the screen. The final moments of a terrorist's death as his shattered skull and brains like pink and gray pudding spill onto the ground can be seen everywhere and people all over the world rush to click and link to share the carnage. We live in Rome and the coliseum is on our laps and desk in hundreds of colors through our technological window on the world, but what have we gained? 

What we've lost is far more important. We have lost compassion and understanding. We have lost our humanity.

Cacti have nothing on us when it comes to prickles. Like cats backed into a corner, our back fur is up, the claws are out, and razor sharp teeth are bared. We go from placid to spitting fury in seconds. Like. Comment. Recriminate. Attack, attack, attack!

Life and learning are evolutionary processes. We change with everything we read and every time we interact with someone. With technologiy, slander is common. Libel even more so. Lies are difficult to unravel even with light speed communication. The nuances of facial expression, body language, and tone of voice are lost. Miscommunication is the order of the day and we are alwasy set to Defcon 1.

In a kinder, gentler world not far in the past, diseases like lupus, fibromyalgia, and other diseases that come from the degradation and breakdown of the immune system were rare; our understanding of such devastating diseases was limited. These diseases are commonplace and I defy anyone to tell me they don't know or haven't heard of at least one person of their acquaintance who is a victim.

It all comes down to victims. Where once the idea of being a victim was anathema, we embrace being a victim. After all, being a victim ensures attention -- a lot of attention -- in this computer linked world where people go from calm to emotional meltdown in 35 seconds flat. I wish I had a car that had that kind of pickup and go. Do I want that kind of emotional speed? Not so much. I find it difficult to reason or engage the thinking and analytic parts of my brain when that much emotion is in force.

Everyone wants to be a victim. Victims get perks like millions of dollars in lawsuits. Victims get sympathy and hundreds or even thousands of Likes and Shares on Facebook. Victims accrue more friends who will spend hours interacting and spreading the word on Twitter, Facebook, and tens of thousands of blogs. Some are lucky enough to have sufficient video skills to make and post live time evidence of their life -- their pain and often their suicidal wishes and deaths -- on YouTube and hundreds of other video sharing sites. Victims are celebrities that people will talk about for days -- even weeks. The Internet keeps old news new and circulating. Victims are special.

But they're not. Victims are a penny (while we still have the penny) a baker's dozen. There's always a new victim just down the page as you scroll. And yet those same people refuse to accept being victims of cancer. They are cancer survivors.

For my friends, and I have several, who have immune compromised diseases, stop and think about the person offering you a different way to deal with your disease. If they are friends or family, they likely hurt because you hurt and they want to find a way to end your pain. That they don't know how to offer their suggestions in a more compassionate way, chalk up to the sterility of technological communication. The words would be the same if they held your hand and sat next to you on the sofa, but the concern in their voice, the love and caring in their eyes, and their body language would explain more than their words can say. They love you. They care about you. They want to help you. They spent time looking at and reading information about how to help you on the Internet. That they cannot share their findings in person should not change the message or their emotional investment. They care.

The Internet provides a million cures and solutions for every problem we face. Sifting through all the information is a Herculean task more difficult than taking Atlas's place holding up the sky. That takes experience and time -- a lot of time. Everyone has a different slant and all the technology that permeates our lives planted the seed of need to return to a simpler time when herbs, roots, bark, and berries could solve all our health problems. The cures -- or at least the results -- would not be as dramatic as those modern medicine offers, but would doubtless be gentler. These caring people are offering you a kinder and gentler way to be whole and healthy.

As humans, reaching each higher level on the social and evolutionary ladder makes us long for the simple golden days of our youth or of past generations. It takes time to get used to every advance in knowledge and technology. Nowadays, we have no time to get used to the advances because everything happens so quickly we have barely enough time to get settled and get our heads around what is new.  Civilization took millions of years to get to this point, but at no time -- at least in recorded history -- have changes happened so swiftly. Such tectonic shifts are unsettling to mind and body as we can see if we look up from the computer screen long enough to glance around.

The problem is that with all the time we save through technology, we have no time -- and even less attention for the details, research, and painstaking information mining. The FDA approves drugs for the consumer market with a glacial pace by contrast.

What we miss is the human touch. Connected by technology, we are isolated by that same technology. We are frayed to the point of breaking. Is it any wonder we cannot see the intent or the people behind the words?

Take care before you go to Defcon 1 and fire an emotional missile. Take a moment and think about the person you're targeting with your barrage of angry words and hurt feelings before you take them off your friends list. Does that person care about you? Do they care enough to want you to feel better and be able to go out and have fun or visit or just move about as you once did? Would they take away your pain if they could? If you can answer yes to any of these questions, might it also be true that the person cares enough to have taken the time to read and send information that purportedly offers a cure for your ailment or something that would alleviate your pain and suffering? Maybe you should thank them for their concern and for their time and check out what they've sent. You can still take whatever modern medicine you're on without taking offense at your friend's or family member's concern.

Someone posted, "What don't you get about incurable disease?" Leukemia was once an incurable disease. Some people still die, but being diagnosed with leukemia is less often a death sentence. Spanish influenzae killed thousands in the wake of World War I, but not any more. Polio crippled and children born with Down syndrome were mentally retarded. Not any more. Hundreds, even thousands, of diseases once thought incurable have been cured -- are being cured every day. Incurable simply means we don't have the answer today.  There might be an answer tomorrow.

As I have said so many times, it is always about perspective. If your mind is made up that anyone who offers you an alternative treatment to your disease is insensitive and intends to hurt you, then you will believe they are insensitive and feel hurt. You choose to be hurt and you cast the other person into hell. It's the perspective. You perceive -- you see -- what you want to see and are not disappointed when you get it.  The technological marvel of instant communication makes certain you get from calm to frothing rage in 35 seconds flat. Sometimes even quicker. The other person's perspective is one of desiring to help. What about their perspective?

Consider the person, not yourself, but the other person. Think about what their intent really is and accept their suggestions or offers of help in the same spirit in which it is offered -- in compassion and caring -- and love. You can get from outrage to love in 3 seconds when you stop to consider the other person. I doubt your enemies or a villain would take the time to look for, read, and send you what they perceive as help if they intend to harm or hurt you.  There are quicker ways to cause harm. All you need do is go online and click the like button or offer a nasty comment. Frothing rage will be yours in 35 seconds.

Stop. Think. Err on the side of calm. Rage can wait.

Time and Perspective

There is something wonderful about finding a really good review of a book I've written and published, especially since it was my first self-published effort. I have had my share of awful reviews from people who "couldn't get into the book" and a few toilet reviews from people who didn't read the book at all, something that was obvious from what little they did write. After my shock and anger at the latter reviews and wanting to engage the reviewer in a discussion of what they hated so much about the book, I decided it was best not to publicize or even mention the awful reviews.

The urge to take on reviewers is strong. Writers want to prove that what they've written has value and the negative reviewer made a mistake. That kind of attitude serves no one, least of all the writer. All I need do is remember Anne Rice's meltdown when someone trashed one of her novels on Amazon, a review I saved and posted, to keep the dander down and the baser urges in check. Everyone is entitled to their opinions, even when the writer thinks the opinion is way off base and wrong.

Keep in mind that Dances with Wolves won several Oscars and I have never been able to get past the first 15-20 minutes of the movie without falling asleep. I like Kevin Costner (mostly) and I love movies about cowboys and indians, but didn't care for that particularly movie, though I rented it several times and slept through it every single time.

In a way, it's rather like wine. In my younger days, I preferred sweet white wines to deep, rich red wines. My tastes have changed and the reverse is now true. During those same younger days, I didn't like reading Robert A. Heinlein; I found him peurile and uninteresting. In my 30s, that changed to the opposite side of the spectrum. I love Heinlein's stories, especially Stranger in a Strange Land, and enjoy his writing, having devoured most of his books when I discovered how wonderful Heinlein was.

The same was true for Jane Austen. I couldn't get into her novels, mostly because of the language, which was rather like wading through hip deep sucking mud. Then I saw Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle and decided to give the books another shot. I was transported and found myself quoting passages to friends and family. I reread Austen's novels every year or two, including the unfinished Lady Susan. Too bad Austen didn't finish the novel, or at least the end of the novel hasn't been found and published. It is a meaty piece of domestic drama of fraud.

I do live in the hope that the same writers that have put their thumbs down to my novels will give them another try and change their minds. The one thing I won't do is fret about it.

I will, however, bask in the glow of the good reviews, especially the one I read this morning. The reviewer got what I was doing with my novel, Among Women, and, while she didn't like one aspect of the book at first, she kept reading "just one more chapter" until she was completely immersed in the experience. The review was short and the result was a definite thumb up for me, but what really pleased me was that she understood the theme and meaning behind the story. I did what I set out to do, connected with at least one reader -- one person -- at a fundamental level. That makes all the negative reviews, and there really haven't been many, fade into the background.

To borrow from Austen, there is a truth universally acknowledged that an author with a list of novels must be in want of readers and is the rightful prize of some reader or other. All I can suggest is to try again with a book you weren't able to get into 5 or 10 years ago. Time and experience may have seasoned you sufficiently to change your perspective and your views.

Don't Quote Me

Many people have the wrong idea about blogs, especially about personal blogs. Seeing their lives through someone else's eyes is seldom pleasant, especially when the view is unflattering.

Like paper journals where people keep secret thoughts, wrongs done, drama chronicled, life's dramas are kept like moments frozen in time. Pain and hurt and heart break color the words and seem to be an unreliable truth, but they are the writer's truth seen through their emotions and their experiences. Anyone looking from outside, especially those involved, would see things in a different light and perspective. Ask a villain and he will see himself as the hero and vice versa.

Relationships are complex. In her heart of hearts, Cinderella knew she was abused, but she looked for the small moments of happiness and was glad she was able to remain in her father's home, her family home, whatever the cost. She knew her stepmother was an evil woman and her stepsisters spoiled brats, but Cinderella was determined to find happiness wherever she could. It was a fairy tale after all.

Had Cinderella been a writer or kept journals, maybe she would have been more willing to put the truth -- her truth -- out there. Her stepsisters and stepmothers would have seen things in a different light. Cinderella was a burden they were stuck with because Cinderella was the only reason they were able to live in her father's home and waste her father's wealth. They couldn't get rid of her, so they mistreated her, abused her, made her their servant when they could no longer afford to pay the servants.

No doubt Kim Jong-il saw himself as the saviour of his people driving them toward an equal footing with the leading nations of the world. That he had to starve his people, take foreign aid and food for them and turn it into nuclear arms while he lived in luxury and splendor was of no importance as long as he got what he wanted. The rest of the world sees Kim Jong-il as a tyrant, a despot, a terrorist working hard to hold the rest of the world hostage with his nuclear capabilities, standing on the backs of his people and grinding them into the dirt. He is a villain. He sees himself as a hero.

As I've said many times, it's all about perspective. There may be a landfill at your feet, but if you live on the cliff above it and your view is a perfect unbroken vista of trees and cities and sky, you never see the landfill.

In blogs, the writers use dialogue to dramatize an incident or a moment. It's not meant to be a direct quote, but the gist of a conversation. The writer isn't writing a factual article but dramatizing a bit of their life. The dialogue is accurate in what it says even if it's not a direct quote, or is a boiled down version of a quote. It's life. It's art. It's gossip. It's the aroma of life. It's drama.

Since the Internet offered a place to be heard, people rushed to put their perspectives and views out there. It reminds me of a book co-authored by Arthur C. Clarke, The Light of Other Days, in which young people were freed from social constraints by having wormholes installed in their heads. Young people had no qualms about having sex in public on benches and on the street, taking public displays to affection to a whole new level. Through the wormholes in their heads they could see everything: past, present, and future. There were no more secrets. All lies were laid bare for public consumption, so why hide the truth of their lives or their bodies? Young people walked around naked and lived their lives in the open. In a way, the Internet is similar, allowing people a public voice where they lay bare their secrets -- and their drama.

Enter indie publishing with instant access to programs that allow writers to get their books and dreams into print and out for sale at Amazon, Barnes & Noble (which has recently succumbed to financial pressure), Apple, and small presses. Writers don't need to slave over their words, put them into manuscript format, and send them to traditional publishers and agents while they wait for an answer, collecting rejections and rewriting endlessly until someone, anyone, in publishing gives them the nod. Access is available and writers, good, mediocre, and bad, are taking advantage.

Indie authors consider themselves heroes. Traditional publishers and agents see them as villains, as the enemy. Vanity publishing has become independent publishing/self-publishing and has gained credibility. The world is changing and we may not be far from Arthur C. Clarke's vision of the future -- without portable wormholes for now.

In the meantime, bloggers and writers will continue writing their truth no matter how many people cry foul. Their families and friends may not be pleased, but their voices will be heard -- are being heard -- have been heard -- and they will continue to write with and without direct quotes.

This is life as art and art as life.

Getting the Words Out

This past year has been difficult personally, but the biggest hurdle for me as a writer was losing my beta reader. We've been together through thick and thin, bleeding virtual red pencil over each other's stories and commenting, asking questions, and even hotly discussing different points. She was my partner in writing, but I didn't feel I could go to her any more since she was now a bona fide editor. I didn't want to take up her time, and that decision (mine alone) had a deleterious effect on my writing. I couldn't find the rhythm any more or was completely stalled.

It is difficult finding someone to work with, someone to trust completely, and someone I respected. She was that someone and I was bereft. Add in the death of my mother and my youngest grandson Connor and my year was pretty much shot. I seldom opened my files and wrote anything except for dribs and drabs here and there. After talking with her tonight, we are back in business. She's writing again and so am I. Best of all, I have my beta reader/editor back.

I often wonder what other writers consider necessary tools, aside from computer, typewriter, pen, pencil, or whatever instrument is used to put the words on the page -- virtual and paper. I never really thought about it until recently. For me at least, a good and trustworthy beta reader I respect is a necessity.

One other tool is not caring what anyone else says as long as what I put down on paper is my truth and my creation. I have worried far too much about reviews and ratings and social networking to the point that I have allowed such trivialities to hamper my writing.

For some reason, I began thinking about Roark from Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead and how Roark didn't care if he wasn't popular and his work was trashed in reviews and in the press. What was important was the work and the integrity of what he created. I've not had much integrity in my writing anywhere but in my paper journals and when I blog. I couldn't find the integrity in what I was writing because I was twisting myself into an emotional and creative pretzel, and the pretzel wasn't very creative at all. More than anything else, I need to remember that I write for myself above all. I write to please myself and say what I have to say without thought or regard for trends and social networks and how it might affect the way people see me.

Someone recently told me that I have to be the hero of my own life.  Who does not see themselves as the hero of their own life? How else could some people do the things they do? I'm not a criminal or a nut job or even someone who is unbalanced, but I do see myself as the hero of my own story, even when I fall down, make mistakes, or falter. Why should I not? After all, making someone else the hero of my life means I give them power to decide my life when that is not the best for me or the way to live life at all. If nothing else, I will be the hero, a flawed and fallible hero, but a hero all the same.

Or heroine as the case may be.

Integrity is what I need to be able to function and second guessing myself and my work is no way to be productive.

Today is my birthday. The one gift I gave myself was permission to write what I want regardless of who else approves or even likes it. I write for me in the same way I have been keeping journals for more than 20 years. That is the way I will get the words out -- of me -- and onto the page.

Whether you like what I write, disagree, agree, don't care, it isn't about you. It's about me. My voice. My vision. My words. Come along for the ride or stay behind. It doesn't really matter. Those who find my books and read and understand will continue to buy and read my books. The rest do not matter. At least not in the grand scheme of things.

Each person must find their own path. This is mine.

What is yours?

Danger! Cross Stitchers

I seldom complain, especially about the people I do business with, but there comes a time when something must be said, especially when there has been no communication from the seller and no resolution of the problem.

In October, I purchased a Sudberry House 10 x 10 inch tray to house the cross stitch design I did for a friend. It didn't come. I contacted the seller, Shamrock Rose Treasures and asked for a refund since I was able to buy the tray elsewhere and they delivered it on time. Three times I have contacted Laura, the owner and operator of the company, and each time I have received nothing in return, not a refund or a replacement of the item purchased.

I realize the cost isn't that great, $54.95 with shipping and handling from Ontario, Canada, but that is not the issue. The issue is that Laura has not responded and has not refunded my money. I cannot get a refund through my bank because I let the situation go on too long, but I can warn other potential buyers that this is not a reliable service and the owner does not deliver.

If you are a cross stitcher and come across Shamrock Rose Treasures, avoid them like the plague and spread the word. This business needs to be boycotted and the owner avoided at all costs. You might lose more money than I have.

http://www.shamrockrosetreasures.com/

Chocolate, Chocolate, Chocolate

 

 

I cut down (way down, think really low bass down) on sugar 3 months ago. I went through all the holidays without a single candy cane, pumpkin pie, chocolate mousse, chocolate coins, etc. without batting an eye. Since the physical changes wrought have been so remarkable I decided to celebrate with something sweet for Valentine's Day.

Did I mention, no ice cream or tiramisu?

I love dark chocolate covered cherries, Almond Roca, and anything chocolate from Godiva. As I looked at all the possibilities and tried to decide with decadent chocolate treat to celebrate with, I decided not to buy anything. I'll get through Valentine's Day without a sweet (as in sugar) treat, even if that Caribbean chocolate rum cake looks so good and, if memory serves, tasted like rum soaked chocolate heaven. No sense letting all this good work go to waste.

I need to cross stitch now to keep my hands busy and out of mischief. That's what I need. I can do this. I got through 2 months of holidays treats treatless. One day won't make a difference.

Just don't visit my house for at least a week after Valentine's Day. I might mistake you for a chocolate heart and bite your head off. I wouldn't be responsible; it's instinct.

V-Day is Coming

Most fairy tales begin with "once upon a time," but this is no fairy tale, unless you consider the idea behind it.

As a child I looked forward to Valentine's Day, not for the cards I would get but because I would be able to spend time picking out just the right card for the people in my class I liked. I had very few enemies, and they all disappeared on Valentine's Day when I spread out all the cards my parents and I bought and matched them up with the names on the class list. Each card had to say what I wanted to say to that person, even if it was only "happy Valentine's Day."

Married and dating, Valentine's days were different. I turned my attention to the person I was with at the time and made that person's day special. I hoped I would get something nice in return, but that seldom worked out past the first flush of infatuation or love. Men don't do Valentine's Day well or do it with a chip on their shoulders because they're not too comfortable with being thoughtful and loving, not unless thoughtful and loving comes with car parts and maintenance or mumbling, "Happy Valentine's Day."

I should say here that my taste in men is questionable. I've not been with a thoughtful man with a wide range of emotions, choosing instead men whose emotions were a limited multiple choice of no emotion to rage in about 20 seconds with an occasional deep well of happy that usually went along with seeing naked women in magazines or a cherry 1955 hard top convertible T-bird. But I digress.

For me, Valentine's Day is more about showing the people I care about how much I love and appreciate them. In fact, I had to take my valentines to the post office in a canvas bag to make sure I didn't forget or lose one along the way. Some of the valentines I sent were bulky and had charms and plastic/glass jewels and doodads on them. Each has a special meaning to me and, I hope, for the person who will receive it.

I do most holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries the same, taking time to make or buy something special for each person on my list, starting well ahead of the appointed day to make sure that I get everything done and get the right card, the best gift to send so it arrives on time.

Psych 101 students and probably a few psychiatrists and psychologists would say that my actions are those of someone who has been abused or tries to compensate for some inadequacy or lack in my life. It's no mystery. Not really. It's about showing people how special they are in your life. My fortunes determine the expense of the gift, but expense to me is just numbers. I buy or make what I can afford and never count the cost. The gift and the sentiment matter to me much more.

If Valentine's Day is all about someone showing how much you are loved, why not turn it around and make it about how much you love? Give your children a box of cards and a class list and help them choose which card to give to which kid in their classes -- even if the kid has been mean or arrogant or indifferent. Everyone appreciates a card and a smile, even if the smile is a tentative one.

No love in your life? Think of yourself. Go to your favorite restaurant, splash out a little, and treat yourself to chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better. Love yourself even though it seems no one loves you. Buy or make cards for your friends. Send them an e-card; those are usually free. Make a little gift or bread or cupcakes or whatever you do best and give them to friends and family or take them to a nursing home and share with those who are forgotten in the rush to buy chocolate and flowers and the usual Valentine's Day doodads and share Valentine's Day with them. Their smiles have a magic that will help you forget that your spouse or boyfriend or girlfriend or whoever forgot you -- or decided that an oil change or new power tool was the best way to celebrate this day of love.

Valentine's Day is not only about finding out how much someone loves you but how much you love.

I will not get any valentines from anyone. I've been single and unattached for a very long time. There are a lot of people I love and they will all find out how much when they go to the mailbox and get my sappy and silly cards. The same goes for my birthday, which is Sunday, February 17th. I will be momentarily sad, but it will pass. My granddaughter Sierra will be 3 on the 24th and I am putting together her birthday gift. I already bought the card and it has been signed and sealed and stamped and waits for the right time to send it so that it will arrive close to, if not on, her birthday.

Celebrate the love on Valentine's Day and include yourself if no one else remembers you. Somehow the smile and warmth will infect you and you will have a very happy Valentine's Day, too.

Review: Seduction by M. J. Rose

I usually have no trouble writing reviews for books I've read and enjoyed -- and even for books I've not enjoyed, but quantifying Seduction by M. J. Rose is difficult. There is much more to the story and what is right and wrong with the book than the usual issues.

The book begins with Victor Hugo just after he lost his daughter Didine to an accident. His daughter and her new husband were on a boat when it capsized and drowned both. Hugo was miles away with his mistress. Enter guilt and anguish and the first seduction by an entity that promises Hugo can have his daughter back -- for a price.

Seduction is filled with bargains and seductions from entities and from people caught in their own turmoil and that is what makes Rose's foray into this latest blend of historical and modern day fiction so surprising and delightful. It is not the seduction at the heart of Seduction that makes the book frustrating but the balance of story lines (there are four) and the timing and placement of clues, for this book is also a suspenseful mystery -- sometimes.

Any suspenseful novel must be able to keep the reader's attention and Seduction wears on the nerves and the fortitute of the reader by hinting at suspense and secrets and then going on to detail -- in beautiful and evocative language -- the history of the landscape and the people without getting to the heart of anything. The most important clues to the solution of the mystery that point the way to the climax do not happen until well past the midpoint of the book. One's breath can only be held so many times and for so long before giving out.

I have enjoyed every book I have read by M. J. Rose, and this one is enjoyable, but frustration with the author's methods and timing did lessen my enjoyment. I put Seduction down several times before deciding that it was more important to finish reading the story (stories).

One thing Rose does very well is surprise me with the solution to the mystery, and Seduction did surprise me in the end. Rose knows how to make the villains so sympathetic they appear to be heroes. The characters are complex as are their lives and motivations, which makes M. J. Rose's books worth reading. The rich language and lush details provide a background that is as much a character as the people inhabiting the book.

I recommend Seduction with the caveat that there are problems with the pacing and balance of the disparate elements and stories. Even so, some of these characters have more stories to tell and M. J. Rose uses them to good effect in subsequent novels.

Review: Orders from Berlin by Simon Tolkien

The name of Tolkien conjures elves, orcs, hobbits, and all things Middle Earth and magical. Simon Tolkien, grandson of J. R. R. Tolkien, does not write fantasy. He takes his themes from history and, in Orders from Berlin from the people and facts surrounding Hitler and World War II.

In London during the blitz, a British double agent, Charles Seaforth, is in contact with Heydrich, the head of the espionage branch of the SS. Hitler wants Britain out of the war because he feels there is enough world for British colonialism and for the thousand-year Reich to exist amicably side by side. Hitler's dream became ashes when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister and Britain became the biggest stumbling block to Hitler's plans. Goering's answer was to bomb Britain into submission and, in spite of air superiority and nighttime bombing raids that decimated most of the cities, London especially, the British bulldog was ready to fight.

Heydrich decided to throw the dice and have his top agent, Charles Seaforth, an up and coming operative in the British intelligence unit, assassinate Churchill. Get rid of Churchill and the British would stop fighting Hitler's Germany and the Nazi troops could move on Russia. The plan was set and Seaforth had access to Churchill. Britain was about to plunge into disaster.

This is the world of Simon Tolkien's Orders from Berlin and the very real assassination attempt against his life. The time is palpably real and the main characters finely drawn. At the heart of the plot is a man determined to destroy Churchill for his actions against his family during the first World War, a man obsessed with the destruction of Churchill even if it means destroying his own country.

What brings Tolkien's version of history to life are the tiny details. Add an embittered young woman shoved aside and wrapped up in the antique philosophy that women are to be protected from the world and from the truth, a doggedly determined junior inspector with Scotland Yard, a cunning double agent with a healthy dose of conceit, and a chief inspector of Scotland Yard who is certain of his ability to spot a criminal at first glance. Into this meat grinder, Tolkien throws a doctor with much to lose and time running out on his, his father-in-law who has more money than his daughter knows, and an operative in MI6 whose conflicted loyalties put him at odds with Churchill and in the way of Charles Seaforth, who remains polished and calm at all times.

Tolkien's look into the workings of Hitler's staff and his unpredictable tempers and the world of Winston Church's MI6 are detailed and evocative. Orders from Berlin reads like biography with the evocative details of a thriller. Although Tolkien tends towards florid descriptions in some areas, his prose is sharp and precise and the characters realistic.

It is unlikely Simon Tolkien will become a literary icon like his grandfather. His work, however, is solid, accurate, and human. I look forward to more of Simon Tolkien's novels.

Not Forgotten and Alone

While choosing the Valentines to send to friends and family this year, I began to think about Valentines past and when getting a valentine in the little pouch we made of construction paper in school was as much drama and pathos as pleasure. Charles M. Schultz did a few riffs with Charley Brown and his holiday woes and the woes were seldom far behind the pleasure at receiving a valentine at all.

I looked for the special handmade cards, and those were few and far between, and the cards with messages into which I would fit my dreams that a certain boy liked me as much as I liked him. Those were also few and far between until I got married and then were rarer than hen's teeth.

The package of cards we bought at the drug store or corner market were just like the cards most of the kids in school would get and I spent hours choosing the right card for everyone. I still choose carefully, but the cards are individual and don't come in boxes and have to be separated at the perforations or chosen from among the 30 or so cards, some of which would be duplicates. How I looked forward to Valentines Day and looking at my loot cards. There would be candy hearts with funny and sweet sayings on them and snacks from the teacher and the room was filled with excitement -- and a few tears carefully snuffled back while fitting a brittle smile on an otherwise brave face while tears glistened in the eyes. And there was envy of the cool kids who got candy AND cards, often handmade cards, while the rest of us got the dime store and corner store variety. Valentines Day, like most holidays, was a lesson in futility and how much love can hurt -- even when it's paper love on a store bought card. The expectations always outweighed the reality, and I learned to revel in the crumbs tossed my way with the rest of the rabble.

This morning, Ted Mitchell wrote about being in the boy scouts and not quite fitting in because he was shy and awkward and . . . different. I was always the new kid in school since Dad was in the Army and we moved a lot. The new kidness wore off pretty quickly when we were either transferred (3 times in one year) or fit into the groove and hidden hollows of school life. Valentines Day was the same everywhere -- and so were the scouts.

I was an odd duck, shy but not painfully so and tentative until I found my groove. I was quiet, except when it was time to answer questions, and often held back at group activities, even when I was really good at whatever was going on. One year, a few weeks after entering 6th grade at John Burroughs Elementary School, I tried out for the part in Jack and the Beanstalk. Rob Stokes had the part of the harp but didn't study his lines or know his song and so was taken out of the cast. I raised a shaky hand and took a deep and very shaky breath before launching into the harp's song. The longer I sang, the less shaky I seemed, my voice confident and musical, but my hands were a morass of sweat and left a wet slick on my desktop where I clutched the overhang at the top of the desk while I sang. I won the part but my insides had gone through a blender and still shuddered and shook as I bravely smiled and held back the bile burning the back of my throat. Rob was the cutest guy in class, and the rottenest in terms of behavior, and I had a crush on him. I had a more immediate crush from the moment I walked into the class my first day after Thanksgiving but he was even shyer than I was and wouldn't look at me at all. Rob was the safer bet since most of the girls had a crush on Rob.

After I won his part, he treated me worse than ever, and I still looked on him with adoring eyes. That should have alerted me to my major failure when choosing guys to crush -- I had the worst taste in men. I wanted the ones that did not want me and ended up with the broken winged birds that were not even close to being in my league. It's why I'm still single these days and likely to stay there. I cannot be trusted with love -- not of the opposite sex and definitely not with someone my own age and not one of my progeny -- their progeny.

Valentines Day brings up feelings of bright hope and shyness. I worry over which card is the best for which person -- grandkids are easy -- and what message I am sending. Valentines are just words on pretty paper with funny sayings and hopeful wishes for love -- or at least tolerance.

I have never really fit in, although I have been welcome to many different groups and cliques -- probably because of my oddness. People can't quite figure me out, but figure since I'm nice and willing to sit and be quiet (most of the time) then I am welcome to come (and go) as I please. I seek out the underdogs, the other people who don't fit in, coaxing them out of corners and from the fringes of the group, and do my best to make them feel welcome, even when I'm new to the area and don't know anyone either. I'm used to being the new kid and wise in the ways of valentines and hope. What I cannot have for myself, I am willing to get for other loners and odd ducks and broken winged birds. Someone should benefit -- even if it's a store bought paper valentine with a sappy saying and sappier wishes for a moment of belonging and a small smile of belonging.

Taxes, Dues, and Money

Just finished filing my taxes for 2012. I use TurboTax, so it's fairly easy, except for putting in the information. I also discovered I reviewed fewer books last year than in previous years, but I pretty much knew that. So few that I don't even warrant a 1099 for last year. That is disheartening and a little bit nice. It's not that I like reviewing fewer books. I certainly miss the money; however, I do like having time to read books I want to read rather than have to read to review. After 10 years this August of reviewing for Authorlink, I am disappointed that I don't rate the kinds of books I request to read. The newer, lower paid, reviewers often get what I've chosen from the list, and I think I should have first choice since I am the senior reviewer. Guess not. Money rules even in reviewing.

Speaking of reviewing, I was asked by the owner and managing editor of The Celebrity Cafe if I would take on reviewing CDs and books for them. I seldom listen to music, although that is changing, and don't feel qualified to review new music. I did explain that I wouldn't mind helping out with book reviews if he'd like to send me the list for me to choose from, and then I quoted the price I get for reviewing books from Authorlink. I haven't heard another word since then.

It isn't that I don't appreciate the extra attention from writing for their site, but as a professional I do expect to be paid, especially when the online entertainment magazine is getting all kinds of advertising and the regular staff is paid, and when they even pay interns $500 a month. I should be paid. I'm not some teenager or twenty-something wannabe writer anxious to write for anyone for free just for the experience. I have tons of experience, but I still cannot support myself on writing alone. To borrow a quote, This writer cannot live on exposure and experience alone. My creditors expect real dollars for their goods and services and I'd be out from under this brand new roof it took me 4 years to get in a heartbeat if I paid the rent with anything less than legal tender. I mean, really.

Any going concern lauded for their look, style, and publication that gets paid by advertisers and pays their regular staff can certainly pay me for my contributions, especially when they beg and plead for me to write for them all the time. I have a full time job, a review gig, a writing business, and my own projects I like to get done from time to time, not to mention a house to maintain and a mail carrier to fight with. I don't have the time. It's not like I toss off an article in 15 minutes; I research, write, edit, and add all kinds of little doodads and videos and links, and that takes time.

For instance, I wrote a top ten list of what people were Googling most in 2012, complete with doodads, videos, research, and links. The whole article took about 4 hours of my precious time. I enjoyed doing it and it was in response to a request from one of the paid editors to help fill their pages after the first of the year. They didn't pay me and the article went live after some adjustments on their end (they didn't tell me all they wanted me to do with it) and they benefited from the article since it was the most read piece in the whole magazine during that week. They benefited with advertising dollars, but I didn't benefit from anything by the byline. No pay. No thank you. No nothing -- unless you count them coming back and asking for more. Considering what I put into that article, I don't think so, especially not with everything already on my plate.

Oh, well, c'est la vie -- or in actuality -- telle est la vie d'écriture (such is the life of a writer).

The thing about writing is that there are so many amateurs and wannabes and hacks out there begging to be read that editors and owners of magazines, newspapers, etc. who need content will take advantage of anyone -- often without their permission -- and never pay the writers. That's fine for a kid still being supported by their parents or wannabe and amateur writers willing to work for free to get the experience, but I'm no amateur, wannabe, or hack, and I'm certainly not that anxious for exposure without being paid. I expect to get paid. I've paid my dues, now pay me, especially when you benefit from my hard work and experience. Quid pro quo -- or in more common terms -- Where's my money? Even the garbage man gets paid.

It's one thing to be inched out by lower paid writers at a business that I have worked for since 2003 and another to be used and abused while making money from my toil. I have begun to believe the way Harlan Ellison believes. A writer should be paid. I am a professional writer and I'm tired of editors begging me to write for them for the experience and exposure. At 57 years of age, I have experience and I've been exposed sufficiently for a while.

Well, I didn't mean to turn this into a rant, but it has turned out that way. When writers work for free they undermine the bedrock upon which we all stand. Write for free for magazines that have advertisers and circulation and cost money to get and you undercut the professional writer who expects to be paid for their work. The editors will dress up your words and make them look professional, but you still won't get paid, and you less the chance of professional writers who would have been paid.

Writing for free is the equivalent of corporations and businesses outsourcing jobs, and writing is a job. People who were willing to work for free or break through picket lines are called scabs by unions, and I can't say they're wrong. I understand that people will do anything for virtually nothing if they're hungry and desperate enough, and they don't care about the people who should be paid for their work -- or at least were being paid until management decided to walk away from negotiation tables. Still, I'm not asking for time and a half, cheap health insurance, more vacation and holidays, or even a chicken in my new crockpot. I'm asking for what I deserve and have worked for most of my life -- to be paid for my work. Four hours in the life of a working writer with a full time job (actually 2 full time jobs when you count writing novels), is a lot of time and should be compensated. Honestly, I don't know how The Huffington Post gets away with getting professionals to write for free while Ariana Huffington rakes in the bucks. Something is definitely rotten in Denmark -- and here in America when working professionals cannot get paid.

Well, some working professionals do get paid. Prostitutes always get the money up front.

Romance or Pornography?

I have been reading Jean M. Auel's Earth Children series, beginning with Clan of the Cave Bear and continuing through all the books, now that they are out. I am halfway through The Stone Shelters and had to put it down to read a couple of books for review. I am anxious to get back to it.

Recently, I found a taped interview with Jean Auel about the series and some of the research she did for the book. I listened with rapt attention as she described the painted caves of Lascaux and various archeological digs she had been on. What really caught my attention was the skeleton she saw and on which she based the beginning of what was originally supposed to be a short story, a story that ran to 450,000 words the first time out. That is when Auel knew she had to write a series of books to tell Ayla's story.

The skeleton had an amputated arm (not torn off or a birth defect, but an arm that had been cut off by someone with medical knowledge), was obviously blind (the eye was gone) and looked like Creb, the way Auel imagined him. Creb, The Mog-ur of the Clan of the Cave Bear, the most powerful magician of the Neanderthal world and the man whose hearth Ayla was adopted into when his sister Iza, the first Medicine Woman among the Clan, found and took care of a child of the Others (Cro-Magnons) whose family (and probably her people) had been killed in the same earthquake that had dispossessed Brun's (Creb and Iza's brother) group.

Auel always knew that the main character, Ayla, would be a strong and independent woman, and that Creb would be a part of the story, a very important part as it turned out. Ayla would not need to be protected or rescued and she would be a survivor -- and Ayla is a survivor still since the series is mainly about her life and journey .

During the interview the host took calls and one caller asked why Auel had put so much sex in the books. The caller obviously did not like the sex and had not allowed her daughter to read the second book, or any of the books following, because of the sex scenes. The caller's voice sounded disapproving, but she also sounded disgusted and felt the sex scenes brought down the tone and readability of Auel's series. The caller was downright vehement.

I do understand how she feels, coming from a family where sex is a taboo topic and anyone who talks about sex or in any way condones promiscuous sexual behavior is as much a whore as the person committing the breach of morals. I agreed with the caller for about a minute before I asked myself why sex should be dirty or bring the tone of a good book, or series of books, down. I don't know about anyone else, but I do know how I feel -- or rather felt. Embarrassed.

My embarrassment comes from two sources: my upbringing and my discomfort with explicit sex, no matter how it is rendered. I did laugh from time to time when Auel described Jondalar's penis as his manhood and his organ, but what really got to me was the description of the sexual details as though the act was romantic, which it was.

For some reason, many people react as though they are teenagers and sex is the mysterious wonder that their parents will not discuss openly in front of them or hide, like their father hiding his Penthouse and Playboy magazines, tittering over anatomic pictures in medical books and dictionaries. Some people thoroughly enjoy sex in their books and makes no bones about it and the rest are shocked by the filth that some writers will put in their books. "How can decent people write such stuff?" they ask, even though the writer has gone to great pains to use more euphemistic terms (manhood or organ). It all reminds me of She-Devil with Meryl Streep when she is sitting at a table outdoors trying out different words for clitoris (love . . .). I am sure Streep's author also used safer words for penis, vagina, clitoris, scrotum, etc. After all, she was writing soft porn for housewives, as one interviewer said.

There is sex everywhere in our modern world. Men objectify women, although often tastefully, to sell cars, fencing, John Deere harvesters, and so many other things that have nothing at all to do with sex, and the public buys it. The prudish sector of the public decries such blatant pandering and likens the women (and often young teenagers) posing for such ads as whore, tramps, and worse.

Shows like Queer as Folk  and Mike & Molly that treat sex as a biological function that everyone should enjoy are cited as pornographic. I still do not get what is pornographic about two consenting adults coming together to make love or even to pull off a quickie in a bath house or restroom stall so pornographic, especially since no penises were in evidence, and more's the pity. But that's just my preference. I figure if the media can expose women from top to bottom and full frontal then men should be treated the same way. Equal rights -- for the viewing public. I am still miffed that The Full Monty did not show anyone's full Monty. They were men and penises, hard or soft, are the enemy. Right! Tell me another one.

While sex is vilified in the strongest terms by the religious types who save sex for marriage and always behind closed doors, eschewing the possibilities of sex on the kitchen table or the living room floor, violence is front and center and few people complain. Oh, there are complaints, like teenagers not old enough to see violence in movies, though they are exposed daily to graphic violence in books and on the news every day, and the pacifists among us complain that violence is unnecessary. No one is more vocal or condemns quicker than the anti-gun supporters while they are standing in line to see Stallone, Schwarzenegger, and Daniel Craig at their violent best in the movies.

When you come right down to it, there is no easy answer why the sensitive, and graphic, love scenes in Jean Auel's books will upset people more than the latest Tom Cruise testosterone fest as he plays super spy in his most recent action packed gun and bomb fest.

I think it all comes down to modern religion. It cannot be the ancient religions when sex was permissible anywhere and as often as possible between consenting adults (adults being women who had reached the age of menstruation -- usually about 10-12 years old -- and men who had been tasting the Mother's gifts ever since they began having wet dreams and spent time with the local woman who taught young men what women want). Sex was a biological urge and it was not hidden from young children, but celebrated and engaged in while children were present. After all, there is only so much you can hide behind a ring of rocks or drapes and room dividers. Sounds carry and children are curious enough to peek.

Part of the reason is likely also because people understand that babies are not a gift of the gods, or the Great Earth Mother, but the product of sexual relations between men and women. As Ayla describes it, babies come from the essence of a man when enjoying Pleasures with his mate or any woman he has shared Pleasures with. When men discovered they were part of the process, I am certain they decided that making sure a woman had sex only with them to ensure their fatherhood of the progeny and began to see sex not as a pleasurable activity that honored the life giving force, but a possession. As long as they could continue to enjoy Pleasures with any woman that would have them, they would still make sure that the only man their mates had was them. Enter patriarchal prerogative and women as possessions instead of thinking, intelligent beings in their own right who also happen to have cornered the market on nurturing life in their bodies.

Before this becomes an anti-patriarchal diatribe, I should also explain that this is conjecture. I am pretty sure of my theses, but I am also certain that men will be offended by being cast as promiscuous sexaholics more than willing to chain and lock up their wives' and girlfriends' sexual options.

What it all comes down to is conditioning. We have been conditioned to think of sex as private and naughty unless it is between consenting adults, and preferably married adults. I know I was. Too bad I did not follow the training forced on me, as evidenced by my oldest son who is the product of a 7-month marriage.

It is no wonder people view sex in books and movies and in actual fact as something dirty (sometimes a little bit and sometimes sin city), and that is not only because of sexually transmitted diseases. As one friend often reminds me, life is a terminal sexually transmitted disease.

I no longer skim the sex scenes in Jean Auel's books. I enjoy them. I am no longer titillated but I do feel a little nostalgic and a bit deprived. I see each sex scene as evidence of the deepening relationship between Ayla and Jondalar and essential to the plot, as proof that their relationship is loving and how the bonds between the Stone Age pair are forged.

Jean Auel reminded the outraged caller that there was a brutal rape in Clan of the Cave Bear when Broud forces Ayla to "...assume the position" to satisfy his urges. Although she was taught to be subservient to the men in her world, she knew deep in her soul that Broud's sudden interest in her had more to do with control and violence than in sharing what should be a romantic moment. The caller never did respond. Like so many of us, the caller was more comfortable with the rape scene than with the sex scenes in subsequent books. What does that say about the caller -- and indeed about the rest of us?

Earth's Children is not soft pornography or pornography of any kind. The sex scenes are not dirty, although they are a bit funny in the use of substitutes for anatomical body parts; the sex scenes are most definitely romantic.

When I was growing up I was taught that my curiosity about and interest in boys (kissing, holding hands, etc.) was unnatural and I was not a nice girl. Nice girls waited to have sex because it was special and the first time should be with someone I loved. While I agree that the first time should be special and with someone I cared for or was attracted to, I do not agree that sex is only permissible within the confines of marriage. Given a choice, I would prefer to be initiated by someone experienced in sharing Pleasures in a world where sex is a biological act that is pleasurable and to be desired. That is most definitely not pornography but romance, and it is and should be romantic, even if I decide not to marry (or mate) my sexual partner.

Save Me From Myself

Once upon a time, about 1998, I began volunteering as an editor for The Rose & Thorn, an ezine that began on Jasmin Randick's, the original owner, AOL page. That was back in the days of dial-up and my own limited experience with websites and the Internet. I had a computer that I used mostly for work and writing. I still have the hard drive from that computer, but it has long since gone to the computer graveyard in my office closet, along with the many keyboards I have used to death, old hard drives, floppy disks, and other computer equipment. There is also a bit of ham radio equipment in that closet, like the blind key that an old friend made for me to help me learn Morse code. I found it's easier for me to learn by doing than just by memorizing. It helped me to pass my Morse code test with a good score when I went for my redo test and the final test for my current Amateur Extra license. So much knowledge, so little time, but that's another story altogether.

When the R&T (Rose & Thorn) became the sole property of the co-managing editor and finally decided to move from those AOL pages to world wide distribution of its own domain, I offered to take over as webmaster and redesigned the ezine. On the books, since I signed up for and owned the domain name, I was also co-owner of R&T. It was a sharp learning curve for me to code all those old pages, freshen the links and create new pages, but I succeeded in bring R&T to the Internet in its own domain. I redesigned the web pages and the whole look of the ezine and garnered quite a few awards during my tenure, a job which I gave up with some misgivings, in 2004 with the last edition I put together in Spring 2004.

R&T went on alone and got another redesign, using my basic templates, which I had left for the new webmaster, and he did me one better, cutting out all the stuff I originally dumped and was told to put back in. The R&T now inhabits a new URL and is called Rose and Thorn Journal in its own domain and is about to yet again move to the precipice over the abyss after the spring 2013 edition.

Ever since I found out the news I have been bothered by the demise of an ezine that has stood the test of time (and a few owners) and showcased some of the best and brightest fiction, commentary, poetry, and art of the 20th and 21st centuries. I was proud to be associated with R&T.

Last night, I woke in the middle of the night, voided, and went back to bed unable to sleep. The R&T was on my mind. Thoughts kept swirling around in my head and I knew that I had to make a serous attempt to save R&T. I knew if I didn't I would regret now and for a very long time to come. That's why, this morning, I emailed the current owners and asked if they would be willing to hand over the reins -- to me. A part of me is still screaming, "NO! NO! NO!" and a part of me feels like now I could sleep, except that I have about 2 hours until I have to start work, so no joy now, but maybe tonight.

Taking over as owner and managing editor (again, but this time for real) is terrifying and exhilarating. I can delegate much of the work but I would like to add a new twist to the combination of art and story/poetry by enticing artists to lend their work to the words and work with the poets and writers. Many of the writers have been nominated and won Pushcart prizes and I'd like to see at least one, and preferably more, winners of the Pulitzer and a few other prizes awarded for the talented writers and poets that are showcased on Rose and Thorn. It's a lot of work, but I know it's worth it.

Okay, I'm out of my mind. As if I don't have enough on my plate right now. Some things need to be preserved and R and T is one of them. I can probably coax, cajole, and coerce much of the staff to remain. They don't want to see the end of Rose and Thorn either. Cross your fingers, not for my impending and incipient insanity, but for R and T to rise from the ashes once again -- new, brighter, and better than ever.

Are You a Real Writer?

I've been a writer for decades, quite a few decades, but one person kept telling me that no matter how much I published, how much I wrote, I wasn't a REAL writer because I didn't have my name on the spine of a novel. The 15 anthologies didn't count and neither did the hundreds, even thousands, of articles I had written. Not even the shelves of journals I had been writing for decades counted as me being a writer. None of the speeches and PR work I'd done counted as writing and certainly not the stories and books I'd written as a child when I dreamed of being a writer.

I should thank the person who kept upping the stakes because out of need to prove myself a REAL writer I wrote more stories for more anthologies and several books, the first of which was picked up by a publisher and made it to the book shelves with my name on the spine. I have since ended my contract with the publisher and am getting ready to self-publish the book (with appropriate additions) and written and published another novel, the sequel of which comes out this year -- at last. I also have several other books nearly ready to publish that will be released one at a time this year to help raise my author profile, but . . .

I have always been a writer since I picked up that pencil and wrote my first book as a child of 8 about a girl who is lost in the jungles in Central America and stumbles into a lost city. I was a writer every time I penned a story or wrote an essay that was published or won awards, and there are quite a few of those. Mom kept them all.

So, what has me going back over this old chestnut? An article by Kristen Lamb: Lies That Can Poison Your Dreams: Don't Eat the Butt. It's a funny article, but it's also very serious about writing and what being a writer means, as well as when you have the right to call yourself a writer.

I am always reminded of Emily Dickinson who never published a poem during her lifetime. She wrote poetry all her life and kept them from view in a trunk in the attic of her home. She also carried on a tremendous correspondence and critiqued other poets' work. She was a poet, not after she died and her work was found and published, but when she put pen to the paper and wrote the first words that became a poem.

There is no doubt that my great great grandmother Amanda was a writer, though she never had anything published. She too carried on a large correspondence and bred in her children the desire to be more than immigrant farmers from eastern Europe and end up breeding more farmers and food animals. We need farmers, but we also need dreamers and writers and Amanda was both. I wrote about Amanda a very long time ago. I wrote about the letter I was given that sparked the essay that was published in A Cup of Comfort for Adoptive Families. The essay was originally called Anna's Seeds but was changed to Amanda's Seeds for publication -- the third time.

Colleen Sell, the editor of the Cup of Comfort series, read the essay I sent her many years ago and she kept it because she knew there would come a time when the right book would come together. Colleen wanted the essay to be featured in a different anthology than the one I submitted the essay for: A Cup of Comfort for Writers. She finally found a place for it and contacted me for permission to use the essay. I say yes, of course. I was a writer even before the essay's inclusion in the anthology.

I am a real writer. Every time I put fingers to keyboard or pen/pencil to paper and write, I am a real writer. I make no apologies for my dreams or for the results of my dreams, most of which can be found in the Library of Congress. I need never look the person in the eye who kept raising the bar and challenged me to prove myself. I need never have listened to her, but I did and the results are there for everyone to read, in anthologies, novels, and magazines . . . and here on Red Room. I am a real writer and I have been for nearly 50 years, ever since I picked up a pencil and wrote a story about a girl lost in the jungle.

J M Cornwell, Writer

We Are What We Eat

The first new year's resolution on most people's lists is lose weight. James Strauss made a connection between the growing problem of obesity in the United States and the use of growth hormones and antibiotics in the food chain. I don't know why no one else has asked that question, but it is a good one.

A quick Google search provided me with some interesting information. Enhancing animal and poultry farms with growth hormones has been going on since the 1960s and factory farming really took off about the 1980s to become a widespread business, pushing out generations of farmers that worked the same land for decades, and even a couple of centuries in some cases. Fewer animals fed growth hormones to get the most meat, dairy products, eggs, and poultry out of the fewest animals. It sounds like a good idea unless you begin to connect the dots. Add antibiotics to the mix and the growth of antibiotic resistant strains of bacteria, like MRSA and MSSA, and a picture begins to form that no one, except James Strauss on one of his rants this morning, seems to have seen.

MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus) and MSSA (Methicillin-sensitive Staphylococcus aureus) are of nearly epidemic proportions in the U.S. and in the world, and no one is immune. Once these bacteria get into your system, treating the disease assumes the proportions of stopping a wildfire with bucket and shovel. And these are just two of the super bugs that have been spawned in recent decades.

I have read that these bugs and bugs like them are the result of the indiscriminate use of antibiotics. I think the problem goes deeper, right back to our food sources. Evidently, Europeans feel the same way because they have banned the use of growth hormones and antibiotics in food animals, but what about the effect on humans.

According to the studies I read this morning -- and I didn't get to all of them, there are just too many -- the amount of hormones and antibiotics remaining in tissue after it has been processed is negligible. First, I'd like to know what constitutes a negligible amount and, secondly, I want to know if there have been any studies connecting hormones to the current problem of obesity in humans.

I have seen photos of dairy cows with massive udders and pigs, chicken, beef, and lamb twice and even 3x the size of the same types of animals just a few decades ago. The animals are bigger and have more meat on their bones, and a considerable amount of fat. The animals eat less but their bodies grow and fill out faster, which means less money in feed for more meat on the hoof. That must make those corporate farming bean counters very happy. Unfortunately, it also seems to have a direct effect on humans.

Haven't you see children at the age of 5 or 6 that are bigger than 10- and 12-year-olds 30 or 40 years ago? I have, and it's frightening. More and more people point to sedentary lifestyles and eating more fast food, but I'm beginning to see a very different picture emerging. Sometimes it takes just one question in the right place to set the wheels in motion.

What I see is factory farmed animals and the eggs and dairy products from factory farmed animals full of growth hormones at the heart of the obesity problem facing most Americans. Some people seem to be more resistant to the growth hormones, but there are other additives in their causing equal problems, additives like steroids. Ever hear of 'roid rage? I'll bet there is a connection between steroid use in factory farming and the increase of violence and road rage in the past 30 or so years.

I eat less now than I ever have and weigh more than I ever have. I don't think it's the yo-yo diet syndrome, although I have been down that road a few times. I mostly eat organic, but spent too many years eating the same things everyone else eats, and I didn't spend a lot of money on fast food. Once upon a time, I ate more sugar, more fat, and a considerable amount of food, but I stayed in the plump region. Now I eat less and eat as healthy as my budget allows, but I keep gaining weight. It's not about how much I'm eating but what I'm eating, and the damage done to my body by factory farmed food. The weight increase has become worse in the past 20-30 years than it ever has been before, and I didn't have a weight problem until then. (I don't count baby weight as the problem I'm currently struggling with.)

It all goes back to one maxim. We are what we eat.

Look closer and more problems begin to shake out. The increase of autism, immune deficiency disorders, multiple sclerosis (MS), fibromyalgia, lupus, etc. Chronic diseases that were statistically rare in the population now affect more and more people every year. Add to that, the over use of antibiotics and the increase of super bugs and we probably need look no farther than the factory farms that produce the food we eat for the root cause of most of our modern ills.

We can give up eating fast food, go vegetarian, work out like we're planning to compete in bodybuilding competitions, and eat only organic, but the damage has already been done. It may take another generation before the tide is turned and the damage begins to heal.

Factory farms are profitable, but we were all healthier when our food came from family farms and not corporate farms focusing on making more money. I'm not saying that farms shouldn't be profitable. What I am saying is that profit should not be the only reason for a farm to exist. We need to ban the use of growth hormones, steroids, and antibiotics in the food chain and get back to the basics. Corporate farms may go the way of the dodo, and good riddance, but at least we won't be poisoning the well any more.

We are what we eat.

Think about it.