The Viral Staircase

Published originally in 1995 in Columbus Alive! newspaper. This was the first article I wrote professionally and the first to be nationally syndicated.

Headlines scream the end of the world: Flesh-eating bacteria. Salmonella poisoning from homemade ice cream, raw eggs, cheese and undercooked meat.

Diseases once conquered are reappearing. They are resistant to the antibiotics and drugs created to protect us and our families.

In every headline is a germ of truth. Hundreds of thousands are dying. They are the very old, the very young, the sick, and the frail, those already grappling with other diseases and a growing population of millions whose immune systems are faltering. These are the ones who've always died from plague, pox and disease since the beginning of time.

We conquered tuberculosis, plague, smallpox, and childhood diseases-we thought.  Why are they coming back?

Cleanliness may be next to godliness but it can also lead to extinction, it appears. Cleanliness and the use of antibiotics and vaccines have combined possibly to change the course of human evolution.

We have massacred hundreds of billions of microbes, viruses and bacteria with antibiotics. A fever remained, evolved and came back in concentrated forms, creating a new, mutant, antibiotic-resistant monster refusing to succumb to our best efforts and obsession with cleanliness. Like Victor Frankenstein we created a creature bent on destruction.

Dr. Calvin Kunin, professor of medicine at the Ohio State University, compares the emergency of drug-resistant microbes to Darwinian evolution-survival of the fittest. "We are seeing accelerated evolution before our eyes," said Kunin, who is chairman of the Infectious Disease Society of America's committee on antibiotics.

Throughout our lives we encounter bacteria and viruses on virtually everything we touch, taste and smell. Most are harmless. They help tip off our immune systems  to potential danger, responding by marking and attacking invaders.

Bacteria have their benefits. "They manufacture nutrients-biotin, pantothenic acid, pyridoxine, vitamin B12-stimulate the immune system to recognize threatening microbes, and stake out a territory that might otherwise be occupied by pathogenic [disease-causing] organisms," says holly Ahem, a microbiologist at the State University of New York at Albany.

Ricki Lewis, science writer, in September 1992s's FDA Consumer, explained that "[Microbes are] found in predictable places where bends in the body create warm, moist pockets, and where the body is exposed to the outside. [They] inhabit our armpits and groins, our eyes and ears, the entrances to our respiratory tracts, and the exits from our urinary tracts ... [and] our colons. ...From between our fingers to between our toes, many microbes call the healthy human body home."

We are host to trillions of bacteria. At birth we pick up hitchhiking bacteria in the birth canal. Lewis tells how "within 12 hours, several species [of bacterial life] are present in the intestinal tract, transferred from the mother, from food, and from the baby's fist to his mouth."

Although not necessarily dangerous, the teeming microscopic life forms help to stimulate the baby's immune system.

Immunologist suspect a parent's instinctive kissing and nuzzling introduce bacteria that serve to kick the body's natural defenses into high gear. Without that initial introduction our bodies would be unable to fight against the simplest infections and we would die-or be confined to a plastic, germ-free bubble.

The bugs normally within us are kept from multiplying to infective levels. "These organisms are confined to an area that is theoretically outside the body (because they exit directly to the outside)," says Charles Schable, chief to he Diagnostic Serology Section, division HIV/AIDS at the national Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia.

Before Lister pioneered sanitary, hygienic conditions in hospitals and operating theaters, before Pasteur created his rabies vaccine, before modern science created antibiotics and changed the world, humans adapted to virulent diseases alone.

According to historians, in the past plagues efficiently controlled population growth, without respect to money, influence, position, or power. They treat all equally, cutting the frail and weak from the human herd, leaving only the strong to survive and pass their enhanced immune systems on to their children.

Christopher Columbus carried smallpox across the Atlantic Ocean to unsuspecting natives, where the population couldn't fight off plagues and childhood diseases commonplace to Europeans who had adapted over time and were largely resistant. Adventuring European sailors seeking wealth and spreading death mingled freely with the natives, unmindful of their recent illnesses, and sowed the seeds of destruction.

Each European incursion brought religion, confining clothing and more disease. The natives had no resistance to the new diseases and millions succumbed before their immune systems could fight back.

In the Pacific, centuries later, the guileless Polynesians welcomed near- extinction with open arms. Measles, an inconvenient childhood illness in the Old World ravaged the islands of the New World. The islanders were unprepared. They had no immunological resistance to their visits' average diseases. Missionaries wrote in reports and diaries how Polynesians threw themselves into the surf to cool their fevers, jumped off cliffs onto the rocks, and hung themselves to relieve their suffering, leaving a mere one-third of the original population to carry on.

Since those first dire days, Indians and Polynesians have built up immunities to those catastrophic illnesses. They have adapted. Their bodies now contain minute traces of the bacteria that drove them to the verge of extinction, according to  the immunologists and biologists at the CDC. Future generations have been endowed with the ruin of the past.

In the early 20th century a new twist on conquering disease occurred with the discovery of antibiotics. No longer satisfied with vaccinations of weakened strains of infectious diseases, we set our sights on total annihilation.

Medicine forced nature to retaliate and preserve the status quo. Undaunted, scientists looked for other avenues and have found a potential answer among cockroaches, generally considered one of the lowest forms of life.

Dr. Richard Karp, University of Cincinnati professor of biological sciences explains, "When you're dealing with roaches, which can live up to four years, what really gets extended is its adult life. A roach is more like a higher animal that wants a little quality of life during its long adult phase."

To combat incursions of insects and bacteria in the past, we salted, pickled, dried and froze our food before cooking. Now we eat fresher, centrally processed produce and meats that contain hardier strains of Salmonella and E. coli, in addition to insect infestations.

Eggs sunny-side up, raw eggs, undercooked and barely cooked eggs once stirred out palates; now they prompt our digestion to revolt. Cheese, teeming with bacterial colonies, veined and aged to perfection, graced our tables with color and rich flavor; now they color our insides with infection. Homemade ice cream, hand cranked on the back porch on lazy summer evenings, a treat anticipated and cheered is now barely tasted. Even salad bars with their bright display of color and texture, must beviewed with concern; you never know who has touched it or how clean they were.

Not so many years ago, before the Food and Drug Administration raised its standards, higher contents of rodent hairs, droppings and filth found their way into our processed foods. FDA inspectors tell how English and European exports are required to scrutinize food sent to America with stricter standards than those reserved for their own consumers.

Just a century ago, most food was grown at home or purchased from local farmers. It was hastily washed and processed and few people felt any ill effects. Then scientists, government officials and doctors tampered with the prevailing conditions in the name of better health, all to help us live longer. Manufacturers followed suit by convincing consumers that cleaning their homes, food, utensils and bodies wasn't enough. We must sanitize, purify, deodorize and disinfect everything. Pictures of teeming microscopic germs are 9% exterminated before their eyes.

Madison Avenue cranks out billions of dollars worth of ads to promote continued health and safety from germs. Not satisfied with using the same dishcloth or sponge or dish mop over and over again, products are used once and thrown away. Terry cloth towels hanging in the kitchen or bathroom are thrown out in favor of sanitary disposable towels. Cloths are sanitized, not just washed.

The national Centers for Disease Control reports that "From 1976 through 1991, the proportion of reported Salmonella isolates in the United States that were SE [Salmonella enteritidis, which causes severe, bloody diarrhea] increased from 5 percent to 20 percent...and to 21 percent for the first half of 1993."  All from food prepared in our homes.

Authors Marguerite Neill, Michael Osterholm and David Swerdlow reported in the July 1994 issue of Patient Care magazine, "Centralized processing of food increases the potential for widespread contamination...[and m]any consumers are not experienced in the proper handling and preparation of food...more of their meals are prepared by other who may be careless."

To combat the fear of contamination, corporations manufacture antibacterial sprays, lotions and powders for kitchen counters, appliances and food preparer hygiene. Hands are purified with antibacterial soap. Pani-inducing tabloids and national newspaper headlines report our homes are no longer safe until they're sterilized and germ-free.

Where will it all end? Can we live germ-free forever?

The Journal of American Medical Association (JAMA) from 1991 to the present has documented cases of viruses jumping from apes, horses and dogs to humans and causing severe illness and death. A new strain of pneumonia or localized infection of soft tissues has been documented as transferring from horse to human, and an illness  similar to Rocky Mountain spotted fever has jumped over from man's best friend, according to JAMA.

HIV, AIDS, and other previously unknown diseases such as Ebola fever, which is more than 97% fatal, baffle medical science. There is no cure. Killer viruses and bacteria, unfazed by antiseptic conditions, adapt faster than they can be documented, classified, studied, decontaminated and killed.

From Africa, birthplace of the AIDS virus, come whispering reports of prostitutes, and a scattering of anonymous people, resistant to infection - without the intervention of science or medicine. They are adapting - alone - in the questionable cleanliness of the Dark Continent's rural communities.

 

Review: The Host by Stephenie Meyer

I am not a fan of sparkly vampires, but I am a fan of books and giving second chances. Any writer can turn out a good book, even after some pretty bad books, or in spite of them. With this in mind, I approached The Host with no expectations, other than wanting to read a good science fiction novel.

The first thing I noticed from reading the synopsis of The Host was that it was very similar to Robert A. Heinlein's The Puppetmasters. Alien race uses humans as hosts and lives and acts through the host body. I have to say up front, Heinlein did it better.

Although Meyer does set up an interesting premise of the parasite--in this case the silver beings that name themselves souls, or centipedes as the humans call them--being unable to completely eradicate the host personality and bonding sufficiently to turn rebel to her own species. The Wanderer is a female, though she has had more hosts than any other of her species, and capable of birthing a thousand of her kind, something she fears to do because it will mean her final death. No more hosts, only a thousand offspring born from the individual cells of the Wanderer's body, essentially tearing her apart. That is something to be feared, not like the more transient pain of a human giving birth.

Meyer describes the souls in their natural form as beautiful silver ribbons with hundreds of tendrils implanted at the base of the human brain where the tendrils, or tentacles, connect with the spinal cord and brain, using 278 connections, more than in any other species the souls have taken over among all the worlds they have colonized. Nothing like scary and beautiful in the same breath.

Because the Wanderer is having trouble quieting her host's voice and mind, she seeks help in order to figure out why and fix the problem. Unfortunately, a Seeker, the enforcers of the souls, is onto Wanderer and tells her that either Wanderer gets the information about the rebels the host Melanie is part of or the Seeker will be implanted into Melanie's brain and the Wanderer will get a new, more tractable, less difficult host. That sends Wanderer on a drive from San Diego where she is an honorary history professor (history of the souls and her own hosts) to Tucson where Wanderer expects to get help.

Along the way, Melanie recognizes one of the landmarks that leads to a rebel sanctuary and off Wanderer and Melanie go into the Arizona desert. Nearly dead, they are found by the rebels, taken hostage, and held in the lava tubes of a vast underground system Melanie's Uncle Jed has fashioned into a sanctuary for himself and 35 other rebels.

Most of The Host is about how the rebels react to the parasite and how Wanderer and Melanie interact and become a part of the community.

Once again, Meyer has created a protagonist that is weak and emotionally frail, a victim that does not show any real grit or determination until nearly the end of the book. The first two-thirds of the novel is slow and tedious without much action. Despite there being thirty-seven rebels purportedly in the caves, barely half of them are never heard or seen. One or two characters pops in and out and there is very little connection to Wanderer or Melanie except as props for the change in sentiment. All the characters are Meyer's stock in trade -- either irritating or whiny, ineffective females and stereotypical male characters chosen from the usual suspects: strong and silent, strong and obnoxious, irascible with a good heart, weepy and ill, and just plain invisible until someone needs to die or be killed to move things along.

The Host doesn't really get interesting and moving until the last third of the story when time is running out and much needs to be done before Meyer can write the end. There are moments when Wanderer and Melanie and her brother Jamie move out of the mundane plod, but too few to hold the story together. I had hopes in the beginning that Melanie would be a force to be reckoned with, but trapped in her own head by Wanderer, that did not happen. There is nothing like an alien genetically incapable of violence giving up an Eden of plenty and happiness to be a pathetic pawn who finally finds the strength to determine her own fate in the last few pages of a 600-page novel.

While the elements of a real page-turner are there, Meyer fails to put them together. The beginning of the novel is like slogging through thick mud until the last third when the pace picks up and the stakes are high. I usually read novels of this length in a couple of days, especially good novels that I promise myself I will read just one more chapter -- and one more -- and one more until I am finished. Not so with The Host, which took me nearly two weeks to get through the bulk of novel before I became engaged sufficiently to keep turning the pages. I will not even go into the usual tirade of poor writing and poorer editing that abound in the book.

Suffice it to say, that The Host is a moderately successful novel in the last third of the novel. The rest is a poor warmup for what could have and should have been really good science fiction. Best I can give The Host by Stephenie Meyer is 3 out of 5, and that's only because of the last third of the book when it really took off.

No Shoe Polish

I didn’t really want to date. Divorced less than a year raising three children alone, I didn’t have the time and certainly wasn’t ready, but I let my girlfriends talk me into going out on my birthday and that’s when the fun began. I knew there was a reason I didn’t like dating. It was the men.

 

“It’s your turn to get the drinks, birthday girl.” Debbie nudged Connie. “That guy over there has been watching you all night.”

I rolled my eyes, asked what they wanted and headed to the bar. A hairy-chested guy in a powder blue suit with his Saturday Night Fever shiny polyester shirt open to his navel and sporting almost as many necklaces as Mr. T attempted what I’m sure he thought was a smile. I ordered the drinks and waited, trying not to notice the stench of Mr. Saturday Night Fever’s cologne. “How ‘bout I get those for you,” he wheezed in my ear. Must be his idea of sexy, but it wasn’t mine.

 “Thank you, but I can manage.” I picked up the drinks and headed back to my friends while they made faces at me and pointed. I knew he was there; I felt his hot breath on my neck. I should have worn my hair down.

 As I set down the drinks and stepped back, I bumped into him. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know anyone was there.” His hand was warm on my elbow.

 “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry for acting like a jerk. I didn’t know how to get your attention.”

 “It worked.” I managed a weak smile. He wasn’t bad looking if you ignored the long Elvis sideburns and concentrated on his thick, curly black hair. Outside of the hideous clothes and the overwhelming amount of gold he wore, he might be a nice guy.

 “Would you like to dance?”

 My girlfriends huddled together and nodded, giggling and urging me to say yes. I was outnumbered and it was only one dance. “Okay.” He took my hand and led me to the dance floor just as a slow song started.

 When he pulled me close, I fought the urge to sneeze. I finally recognized the cologne he bathed in; it was Polo. It smelled better in the bottle. I was fine as long as I held my breath, at least until I passed out. He pulled me closer and pressed his cheek against mine. He was a good dancer, but I was uncomfortable. I fought the urge to sneeze and needing to breathe, as the black spots in front of me grew bigger. I stepped on his foot, pulled away, and turned my head to take another deep breath when, suddenly, the song was over. I thanked him for the dance.

 “See you tomorrow at work,” he said as he kissed my cheek and left.

 I looked at my friends, but they looked everywhere but at me. “What’s going on?”

 Darlene shifted in her seat as if she had ants in her pants. “Didn’t you recognize him?”

 “No. Who is he?”

 “You should take a break once in a while, look around, pay attention to the cleaning staff.”

 “Shelby cleans our office.”

 “Carlos is her boss.”

 “Some friends you are.”

 They hadn’t set me up, but Carlos was in the break room when they discussed how to get me to agree to go out on my birthday. He’d noticed me. Since I seldom got up from my desk, he didn’t know how to get close enough to ask me out. He’d suggested meeting us at the Blarney Stone and they agreed. “You need to get out more. Go on a date.”

 “I don’t want to date.”

 “You’re too young to close up shop,” Debbie said. Darlene and Connie agreed. “He’s not so bad. Owns a cleaning company.”

 “He’s single,” Connie said.

 “Well, he’s not so bad once you get past the gold and the polyester and the cologne. Not bad at all, as long as I don’t breathe.” I smiled and my friends laughed. “There is that,” they chorused.

 “But before you do anything else,” Connie said, “maybe you should check your lipstick.” She offered me her compact and pointed to her right cheek.

 There were black specks like coal dust down the side of my right cheek where Carlos’s cheek touched mine. “His face didn’t look dirty.”

 “Not his face, his sideburns,” Darlene said. “It’s shoe polish.”

 “What?”

 “To hide the gray.”

 Just my luck. “What’s next, a safety pin to hold his zipper closed?” We all laughed.

 The next night at work, I bumped into Carlos in the lobby. He wore a gray polyester suit with a plain white shirt and red silk tie. He smelled of soap and fresh air. “I forgot to wish you a happy birthday.” He held out a small box wrapped in silver and gold. His smile transformed him into something approaching a nice guy, all the bravado and attitude gone.

 I opened the package. It was a small leather bound copy of “Pride and Prejudice” with gilded edges.

 “I noticed you like her books.”

 “Thank you, but I can’t accept this.”

 “It’s bad luck to refuse a birthday gift. Please take it.”

 “Thanks.” A blush warmed my cheeks.

 “Would you like to go out to dinner this weekend?”

 “I have to work.”

 “You have to eat. Let me buy you dinner.”

 I said yes and before the month was out we had dinner together three times. One night, when it was too cold to walk across the parking lot to the diner, he brought a picnic basket full of food he’d made. As I got up to go back to work, Carlos touched my arm. “Would you like to go to a movie this weekend? We can take your kids.”

 I had so little time with the boys as it was and I didn’t think they were ready to see me with someone other than their father. Carlos was a nice guy with a chivalrous heart. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to my boys and give you an answer tomorrow.”

  “No gold chains, no safety pins, no cologne.” Carlos grinned. “And no shoe polish. I promise.”

 My cheeks got hot. “How…?”

 He winked and pointed to my three friends peeking through the window in the break room door.

 Carlos wasn’t perfect, but he had a generous soul and I suddenly realized I wanted to get to know him better. I guess I wanted to date after all.

Review: The Reincarnationist by M. J. Rose

Since I had already read The Book of Lost Fragrances and Seduction of the series, I decided to read The Reincarnationist which is the first book in the Reincarnationist series. There were surprises (good and bad), more about reincarnation, and a really good story. This is what books should be -- satisfying.

John Ryder has been having what he calls lurches for over a year. They started when he was caught in a bomb blast in Rome. The lurches put him in ancient Rome in the body of a priest named Julius who is in love with a Vestal, The Vestal, and having an intimate relationship. Since the vestals served for 30 years and were chaste or they died by being buried alive to suffocate, having both Julius and Sabina, the Vestal, were committing a capital crime. Julius would also die if he was found out to be Sabina's lover.

Coincidentally, the Phoenix Club, which has been invested in proving reincarnation, financed a dig in Rome to find an ancient memory tool of powerful significance -- the Memory Stones. Josh is on site and in the grave of what has proven to be a Vestal holding a fruitwood box that may contain the Memory Stones. One of the archaeologists is murdered and the Memory Stones stolen and Josh is the only witness. The fun is just beginning as the threads that have bound him with the other players in this drama are connected to him by threads that span centuries.

I was immediately intrigued by the story M. J. Rose spins in The Reincarnationist and was more comfortable with the switches between time periods, which were less jarring than in Seduction and quite fascinating. The details of all the times depicted are well researched and amazingly accurate (I'm a study of history and archaeology) and left me breathless with anticipation for the next occurrence.

Part of the fun of The Reincarnationist is figuring out how different people are related and which one is the mind behind the murders and the thefts. I was wrong. There were, however, some questions that remained unanswered at the end, but the ending was satisfying and fit the context of the central theme and the tone of the story that unfolded.

Some of the characters made my skin crawl and others broke my heart, but all were fully realized. I love when that happens.

On the less satisfying side were the numerous editing glitches, repeated words, and words out of context. For a major publishing house like Mira, I was definitely not happy, especially when I had to stop my headlong rush through the book to figure out what was supposed to be written. The only other incident was Josh's description of the soul, which was exactly the same as the description used in a movie about finding the reincarnated Dalai Lama. The use of the cup and the water was nearly word for word from the movie, a movie I happen to like and remember clearly. It may be that Rose is simply using the Buddhist explanation and that it's rather like repeating a funny story or an explanation of reincarnation. I can let that go, although it did stand out.

In the end, it is the story and the way the character move through their fictional universe that matters. In this, M. J. Rose does an excellent job of putting all the pieces of a very intricate puzzle together in an entertaining and thought provoking manner. The Reincarnationist is a wonderful story inhabited by believable 3-dimensional characters that shock, amaze, and fascinate from beginning to end, so much so I stayed up late a couple of nights to finish the book.

Review: Letters to Juliet

What do I do on Saturdays when catching up on sleep lost during the week? I watch movies, drifting in and out of REM sleep.

Last weekend I watched Letters to Juliet with Amanda Seyfried. I remember her as the frothy blonde daughter of Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia, which is a review for another time, and decided to watch the movie. I had nothing better to do. Right?

Sophie is a fact checker for The New Yorker magazine and she wants to write feature stories but she's afraid to ask her boss. She is also engaged to a budding restauranteur named Victor who is all about the restaurant -- even on their pre-honeymoon honeymoon in Verona, Italy where romance hungry Sophie wants to spend time with her fiance in a romantic spot while Victor just wants to check out the local ingredients and wines for his Italian restaurant. Not a good way to spend a honeymoon. Victor goes his way and Sophie ends up at the wall of Juliet Capulet's home looking at women writing letters and putting them on the wall asking Juliet for advice on their love lives.

Sophie is intrigued when she sees women pulling down the letters and taking them away in a huge basket. They are Juliet's secretaries and they answer the lovelorn and heart broken women's letters. Victor's still traveling the countryside and going to wine auctions, so Sophie is free to do as she pleases. She pleases to help the women answer the letters to Juliet, which is where the story becomes interesting. Up to this point, the plot is thin and the story pretty pedestrian. Hopeful young bride-to-be is far down her fiance's to do list and looks for something to fill her time.

When Sophie finds a letter 50 years old stuck between the bricks of Juliet's wall, that's when things get interesting, and the story moves along a bit faster.

Charlie Smith is the grandson of Claire Smith who wrote the letter to Juliet when she was 15 and longing to know if she should be with Lorenzo Bartolini or follow her family's plans for her and return to England. Claire got Sophie's answer and has come to Verona to find her Lorenzo, much to Charlie's dismay. He doesn't approve and he tells Sophie so. Claire is determined to find her Lorenzo and apologize for being such a coward. Charlie doesn't approve. Sophie loves the idea and sees their journey as the heart of a story she wants to write. And the journey is on.

Amanda Seyfried is lovely and bubbly and hopelessly romantic, but there is a bit of acid in her bite as Sophie, especially when dealing with Charlie. She is less assertive when dealing with her absent fiance or her boss at The New Yorker.

Gael Garcia Bernal as Victor is enthusiastic and completely unaware of Sophie during their pre-honeymoon honeymoon, although he does urge her to talk to her editor at the magazine and tell him she wants to write not just check facts.

Christopher Egan is gorgeous and blond and very definitely an angry and put out Charlie defending his aging grandmother's feelings. He is equally convincing arguing with Sophie as he is falling for Sophies prickly charms.

The real gem of Letters to Juliet is the very real love story of Vanessa Redgrave (Claire) and Franco Nero (Lorenzo Bartolini). So real is their first sight of each other that no mere theatricality could compare.

Vanessa and Franco were lovers following the filming of Camelot where she played Guinevere and he played Lancelot du Lac, the complication in King Arthur's idyllic reign. Vanessa and Franco parted and met again a few decades later only to fall in love again and have remained together. Their real life romance was the perfect complement to the feel good quality of this predictable romantic movie (that's chick flick to the guys). Franco Nero riding into the vineyard on a horse and Vanessa Redgrave pale with fear becaise she is no longer 15 years old and Lorenzo won't recognize her is the stuff of dreams. The sparks and the romance colaesce into a beautiful romantic dream that makes Letters to Juliet so much better.

Letters to Juliet is predictable and a bit formulaic with moments of pure romance that make this movie a winner. Definitely two thumbs up. Now I have to get the book and read it.

One Person's Opinion

Good, bad, indifferent, and sometimes just plain nasty. Book reviews come in all flavors and how authors deal with them is important -- and sometimes crucial -- to how the author is viewed. I'd like to say there are rules, but there aren't. It would be nice if readers and authors could agree to disagree, but that isn't going to happen often enough to make a difference. It certainly isn't going to boost the author's reputation to engage in a battle of words publicly since that bit of histrionic theatricality will likely result in a few moments of rancor and name-calling between reader and writer and the writer will end up branded as a nut at best.

Who can forget Anne Rice's meltdown when she tried to defend her writing and her work on Amazon? I still have the original meltdown saved in case I ever forget how not to act.

And there was the author of an indie romance novel with a bad title who took on a whole group of writers defending her bad grammar and poor quality editing. That was a comment battle that went on for pages -- and a few days.

I know how it feels when a reader "just can't get into" my book or another reader who didn't read more than the first few pages and tossed the book aside (or deleted it from their eReader) and wrote a scathing review that seemed to have been about someone else's book. I have had my books rated with 1 star because of private and personal differences and because the reader just didn't get my book. Readers come in all shapes and sizes, and not all are polite or cannot keep their opinions to themselves. Unfortunately, the latter type of reader feels the need to spread their negativity and scorn all over the internet. I try to ignore them no matter how high my blood pressure rises or how much I'd like to sit down and quiz them on what they read to prove they hadn't read my book at all.

The fact is that there will be bad reviews no matter how much the critics or the public like your book. Get used to the idea because being a writer isn't for wimps. Writers with thin skin had better get thicker skin and writers with hair trigger tempers should avoid reading reviews at all.

Reviews are on my mind this morning because I decided to check whether or not anyone had recently reviewed my last novel, Among Women. I didn't expect any movement since I'm not writing about dragons or fairies or mortals in love with vampires and werewolves. I'm not a celebrated literary writer nor am I a celebrity a publisher hired to write a book about my expereinces on reality TV so I can pretend I'm a writer. I'm the kind of writer who slogs through a 5-foot stack of books to be reviewed and then has to write about the 10 things you should know about what to buy Mom on Mothers Day or what not to get Dad for Fathers Day.

This morning I got a nice surprise. Three reviews had been added since I last checked a couple of months ago and all three readers got what I was writing about. They really read my book and they understood what I was writing. They didn't think Pearl was boring or that she was a hero, just an individual caught in a criminal justice system where there is no justice at the mercy of her own prejudices and fears. They felt what Pearl went through and saw the world through Pearl's eyes. Those are the reviews I live for and the readers I want to reach. The rest are not important, and that is what I remind myself every time some reader looking for titillation and cheap thrills reads a few pages and writes a bad review with a plethora of spelling errors and a complete lack of knowledge of grammar and sentence structure while chiding me about mistakes in editing.

I could be obsessive and go through the book one more time to catch all those errors or I could just let the book stand and move on to the next book.

Unlike authors getting  $3000 a day sales and multi-million dollar multi-book contracts from a big name publisher, I'm a midlist writer (for now) putting one word after another on the page between working 2 full time jobs while I avoid checking sales and review statistics just one more time today.

I remind myself that one opinion will not make or break my book, not even the good ones, and that if I want to make a career out of writing, I must keep writing, must keep putting word after word on the page every day. It's an uphill battle, but the alternative is silence and I've never been good at that.

Roger Ebert said that a review is one person's opinion. I keep that in mind when I review books -- or read a review on one of my books. It's just one opinion.

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.