Light some candles, draw yourself a bubble bath, open a box of chocolates, and indulge in a little romance this weekend. Sweet, sensual, historical or contemporary, no matter how you like your love story, you'll find it here!
Friday, February 13, 2015
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Thursday, February 12, 2015
What I Should Have Said About 50 Shades, Etc.
First a story, then a confession.
I'm a writer of love stories. So it's only fitting that I tell one here. It may sound familiar. But I swear it's original. I haven't borrowed the characters or the plot. They're all mine. So here goes.
Once upon a time, there was a man who lived all alone in a nice home in a prestigious neighborhood with a comfortable income from a highly respected profession. In the same city was a single mother living with her two small children in a low-income apartment complex, working full time at a minimum wage job, driving a run-down car, running out of options. Fate brought the two together and the man saw an opportunity to better both their lives. He approached the woman, stating his intention to marry her, take care of her and her children, give her the kind of life she'd never dared dream of. To convince her of his love, for he said he loved her at first sight, he showered her with gifts, practical things like groceries and car repairs, and luxurious things like clothes and lingerie and jewelry. He took her to fine restaurants and the theater, took her shopping for more clothes, and read her children bedtime stories, which was worth more than all the gifts he could ever give her. He also confessed to her how unhappy a man he was before she came along, how mistreated he'd been by his mother and his neurotic first wife and his disloyal children. Her heart went out to this sensitive, generous man and she vowed to make him as happy as was humanly possible, whatever it took. Because she loved him.
They were married, but not before the man revealed a quick temper. He even confessed that he'd hit his first wife a few times, but only to prevent an argument from escalating when she became hysterical. He was so sincere, this woman he was about to marry sympathized with his shame at resorting to such barbaric behavior. And married him anyway. Because he loved her now, and she loved him.
As soon as they were married, he began a course of instruction in everything she should do to be the perfect wife. How to dress, how to eat, how to keep house, how to discipline her children, how to satisfy his sexual needs. The right books to read, the kind of music to listen to, what to believe in. He showed her how foolish it was to waste time with her old friends, how her family resented him for giving her the things they hadn't, what she needed to do to prove her loyalty to him. If he sometimes became impatient with her progress, she understood the demands of his profession along with a new family were enough to try any man's patience and she worked harder to keep him happy. He loved her. He only wanted the best for her. He told her that so often, how could she doubt it? To prove how sorry he was for his little outbursts, there were always presents and lots of loving gestures. Life was good, until the next outburst.
People who saw them together remarked on how loving they were. It was sweet to see a couple show so much affection, to see two people so in tune with one another, who had the same tastes and shared the same opinions. Two halves of a whole. A real, modern-day romance in action.
Had those same people seen them at home, heard his tone of voice and seen her scurry to anticipate his needs, seen the children retreat to their rooms, felt the ever-present tension in the air, they might have thought differently. Or they might have said that no matter his demands or her submission, regardless of those ugly moments, never mind her isolation, theirs was a love story. They might have forgiven him, as she did, because of his sad past, and applauded her for adapting to meet the needs of a man she loved. They might have excused him for striking out at those closest to him, while putting such a good face on his professional persona, because a man had to let off a little steam somewhere.
As time passed he stopped trying to control his temper, declaring that was his personality and she should accept it, and she continued to believe if she worked harder, he'd be happier, or at least not so unhappy. Her love for him allowed her to live in denial, to make excuses, and defend his behavior. His love allowed him to tighten the control, increase the isolation, and escalate the violence of his outbursts. He'd go to any lengths to keep her. She was the light of his life, in fact his reason for living. Without her, he wouldn't be able to go on. She stayed, because she loved him, and she was terrified of what might happen to both of them if she tried to leave.
Gradually she came to the realization that a man who loves a woman doesn't control her, or change her, or criticize her, or demean her to prove his love. And a woman who loves a man shouldn't have to pretend he's never wrong, or defend his violent behavior, or choose between her husband and her family. Slowly, over a period of months, her eyes were opened to the possibility that life had more to offer than fear, and her self-respect began to return. She'd done her best. Loving him hadn't made his life better, while it had all but destroyed hers. Loving him was never going to sooth his anger or heal his old wounds. Loving him was going to kill her over time, if he didn't do it sooner. Leaving was a risk she was willing to take, once she understood the risk she took with every day she stayed. The end.
A powerful, wealthy, dominating man and a naive, submissive, loving woman. Sound familiar?It should. It's the plot for tens of thousands of popular novels. The phrase "I own you" has become interchangeable with "I love you" and a man who takes charge of a woman's life, whether she asks him to or not, has become a romantic ideal. The dark, damaged hero and the woman who'll give up everything to "heal" him works well with everything from billionaires to English lords to vampires. But in reality there's a risk to these tales. We can easily go too far under the guise of a love story, permitting dominance and abuse to be portrayed as loving. I'm not talking about BDSM, which I have no real knowledge of. I'm talking about one partner seizing power over the other in the name of love. Having lived that relationship, I can testify to just how unromantic it very quickly becomes.
Now it's confession time--As recently as last week, when I mentioned that Grey movie in a post here, I was still deluding myself about certain books and the frightening way they reflect our culture and our attitudes toward domestic abuse. Thanks to a number of articles, blog posts, and reviews I've seen since, not to mention the social media discussions making the rounds, I'm now off the fence. My indifference, my take or leave it, that's your opinion and I respect it, what harm can it do, it's just a movie I won't see based on a book I haven't read, no need to comment attitude is gone. What changed my mind? I finally recognized the striking similarities between that story and my own.
I would refer you to the post here titled "Why I Stayed" for more on my personal journey. For now, let me say I'm shocked and embarrassed that I failed to see sooner how closely my experience fits the genre of so many novels currently riding the wave of success E.L James achieved with her books. I did not read Fifty Shades of Grey, but I have read others with the same plot and fallen for the same premise I've heard stated by others--it's a love story. Yes, it is. But it's the kind of love story that, in real life, rarely if ever ends happily. Rarely does the woman change the man by staying, by surviving the manipulation, the disrespect, the domination and isolation. And rarely does the abusive behavior end because the man sees the error of his ways when faced with losing the woman he loves.
By the time I understood how my marriage must end, with me walking away and not looking back, I also understood that "I love you" is a relative phrase. At its purest, it expresses caring, support, respect and admiration. At its worst, it expresses ownership, denying the "beloved" the right to be themselves. That is not love, my friends. That is abuse. Whether it be physical or psychological, the end result is destruction of another human being through dominance. Romanticizing manipulation, pretending it represents the desire to nurture and protect, is sending a message to our sons that love means taking not giving, and our daughters that to be loved requires self-denial and submission. That message has taken generations to discredit. How can we justify promoting it under the guise of romance now?
I would never presume to tell anyone what they can write or what they can read. And I certainly have nothing to say to the choices consenting adults make in their most private lives. But please, for the love of women and men, don't ignore the converse reality of these beguiling fantasies. On paper, even on film, they may have a certain appeal, an innocent means to escape the daily grind. In reality, down the street or across the office from you right this minute, there's a woman who's suffered at the hand of a man she loves. Statistics tell us three in five women will meet with abuse from a man she knows. That's you, me and one other woman out of five in a room. I dare say most thought at some point they loved and were loved by that man. Until our eyes are opened, along with our minds, those numbers will remain unchanged. How can we be outraged by the sight of a man striking a woman in an elevator, and become aroused by a man inflicting pain on a woman in a "playroom?" That may sound harsh, but so is being on the receiving end of "punishment," wherever it takes place.
My apologies to anyone with whom I've discussed this subject if I failed to state my position. I missed an chance to express the need for a united voice against domestic abuse of every kind. As a woman, a writer, and a survivor, I know my position and my responsibility. Read what you like, see the film, engage in the fantasies. But please don't be deluded into believing these fictional relationships translate into real life love stories. Love does not control or punish. Love never manipulates or demands submission. Remember that except in the rarest of cases such as these, only fictional love will overcome the odds to reach that happily ever after.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
50 Shades and Other Gray Areas
I have this annoying backlog of thoughts and impressions telling me they'd like to become a post. Now seems as good a time as any, what with the film version of that Grey movie about to hit the screens, to inject a bit of color here--sorry, but pun definitely intended.
Now before you get the wrong impression and either click off or find yourself disappointed, let me assure you of something. I'm not a prude. I can appreciate a shirtless male as much as the next woman who's lived six decades and seen her fair share in every shape, size and condition. I admire a handsome masculine face and form, a bit of swagger and attitude, whether it be dressed as Mr. Darcy, Thor or--well, not at all. Like many women of too many generations to count now, Michelangelo's David set the standard for me and nothing has topped it so far. All that said, there's a risk in too much of any good thing.
As a writer, I feel compelled to keep a close watch on the market, which if your genre is romance, involves cover art featuring a vast array of scantily clad individuals. A few decades back, the bodice-ripper Fabio-inspired cover was all the rage, so a hoard of buxom females and brawny males, their clothing in suggestive disarray, dominated the shelves of every bookstore. These days couples are still popular--couples embracing, couples in anatomically impossible positions unless they happen to be trained contortionists, couples caught in the act of disrobing, or just caught in the act. But when it comes to exposed flesh, the males lead the pack. There's nothing wrong, I repeat, with a nicely honed male torso, but it seems unfortunate that this has lead to a heck of a lot of covers featuring--not to put too fine a point on it--nipples.
Just browse for books in any romance sub-genre, and whether they be Highland warriors, Cowboys, Billionaires, any species of shape-shifter, even Regency era aristocrats, the prevailing image includes a nicely developed set of pectorals. Some covered in hair, some sporting tattoos, others dripping with what is presumably sweat but might indicate a recently interrupted shower or a brisk walk in the pouring rain. We don't get much clue as to the plot, other than the assurance that one of the male characters at some point in the story removes his shirt. Since in many cases we don't even get a glimpse of his face, we have to assume from what we can see that he might also have a nice smile or a piercing glance. Apparently all the publisher thinks we care about is how much time he spends in the gym.
My concern is this. How many gorgeous male bodies can we look at before we start reaching for enough shirts to cover at least a few of them? Given the current number of semi-naked cover models, we may be headed for a serious backlash. Already, thanks to Mr. Grey, we've been reprogrammed to recognize a starched shirt, custom-tailored suit and, of course, a necktie, as the supreme image of masculine eroticism. A successful businessman shooting his cuffs likewise implies his story will leave the reader panting for more. It seems fans of romance novels want it all exposed, or all covered up, but nothing in between.
Surely there are gray areas here, room for a bit of originality. Put a period-appropriate shirt on that Highland warrior, but allow him to show a bit of thigh. A form hugging T-shirt, maybe even one with a strategic tear ala Stanley Kowalski, or a classy, clinging cashmere sweater would suggest the wealth beneath without giving away too much. And in my humble opinion, there's nothing more intriguing than the view provided by an open shirtfront.
I confess that I don't expect this exploitation of male beauty to end any time soon. My real point here is simple. Everything in moderation, please. A little more suggestion, a bit of teasing temptation, a bit less exposure and a bit more left to the imagination. And never fear, every woman who believes in romance has a vivid imagination. It comes with the territory.
Now before you get the wrong impression and either click off or find yourself disappointed, let me assure you of something. I'm not a prude. I can appreciate a shirtless male as much as the next woman who's lived six decades and seen her fair share in every shape, size and condition. I admire a handsome masculine face and form, a bit of swagger and attitude, whether it be dressed as Mr. Darcy, Thor or--well, not at all. Like many women of too many generations to count now, Michelangelo's David set the standard for me and nothing has topped it so far. All that said, there's a risk in too much of any good thing.
As a writer, I feel compelled to keep a close watch on the market, which if your genre is romance, involves cover art featuring a vast array of scantily clad individuals. A few decades back, the bodice-ripper Fabio-inspired cover was all the rage, so a hoard of buxom females and brawny males, their clothing in suggestive disarray, dominated the shelves of every bookstore. These days couples are still popular--couples embracing, couples in anatomically impossible positions unless they happen to be trained contortionists, couples caught in the act of disrobing, or just caught in the act. But when it comes to exposed flesh, the males lead the pack. There's nothing wrong, I repeat, with a nicely honed male torso, but it seems unfortunate that this has lead to a heck of a lot of covers featuring--not to put too fine a point on it--nipples.
Just browse for books in any romance sub-genre, and whether they be Highland warriors, Cowboys, Billionaires, any species of shape-shifter, even Regency era aristocrats, the prevailing image includes a nicely developed set of pectorals. Some covered in hair, some sporting tattoos, others dripping with what is presumably sweat but might indicate a recently interrupted shower or a brisk walk in the pouring rain. We don't get much clue as to the plot, other than the assurance that one of the male characters at some point in the story removes his shirt. Since in many cases we don't even get a glimpse of his face, we have to assume from what we can see that he might also have a nice smile or a piercing glance. Apparently all the publisher thinks we care about is how much time he spends in the gym.
My concern is this. How many gorgeous male bodies can we look at before we start reaching for enough shirts to cover at least a few of them? Given the current number of semi-naked cover models, we may be headed for a serious backlash. Already, thanks to Mr. Grey, we've been reprogrammed to recognize a starched shirt, custom-tailored suit and, of course, a necktie, as the supreme image of masculine eroticism. A successful businessman shooting his cuffs likewise implies his story will leave the reader panting for more. It seems fans of romance novels want it all exposed, or all covered up, but nothing in between.
Surely there are gray areas here, room for a bit of originality. Put a period-appropriate shirt on that Highland warrior, but allow him to show a bit of thigh. A form hugging T-shirt, maybe even one with a strategic tear ala Stanley Kowalski, or a classy, clinging cashmere sweater would suggest the wealth beneath without giving away too much. And in my humble opinion, there's nothing more intriguing than the view provided by an open shirtfront.
I confess that I don't expect this exploitation of male beauty to end any time soon. My real point here is simple. Everything in moderation, please. A little more suggestion, a bit of teasing temptation, a bit less exposure and a bit more left to the imagination. And never fear, every woman who believes in romance has a vivid imagination. It comes with the territory.
Friday, January 23, 2015
Looking for Love?
Hard to realize it's been three years since I first hit "Publish" and Hearts Unfold was launched into the Vast Unknown of Kindle Readership. It's been through several revisions--one of which turned it into two volumes--and become the entry point for a series I never saw coming. I've lost count of the number of free copies currently residing in ereaders waiting to be read, but the numbers for the rest of the Miracle at Valley Rise series tell me how many folks have gone on to purchase the complete saga starring British Classical music superstar Stani Moss, and Emily Haynes, the Virginia farm girl who saves his life and claims his heart. I'm thrilled by the warm response these two, along with their eclectic circle of friends, have received. To know they've touched so many lives with their unlikely romance far exceeds anything I ever hoped to accomplish in telling their story.
When I started this journey with Stani and Emily, I was fulfilling a lifelong dream of my own. I was finally a writer, but where that might lead, I hadn't a clue. I never for a moment imagined their story would travel so far, or take me with it! I never anticipated meeting so many generous people along the way, or finding the inspiration for more and more stories. And yet, three years later, here we are--seven books, two series, an audiobook, and the surprises keep coming!
So once again, Hearts Unfold is FREE for Kindle this weekend. Not only is this month the anniversary of its initial publication, but this weekend, two of my granddaughters are celebrating their birthdays! There couldn't be a better time to share this "very special love story." Please help yourself to a copy and be sure to tell any of your friends who love a good, old-fashioned romance.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Audiobook Adventure--Part Eight AUDIOBOOK GIVEAWAY!
This is really very simple. I have a pile of FREE audiobooks to give away. All you have to do is leave a message here with a way to reach you--email, FB, etc. I'll give you a code to download your FREE copy. You'll get to listen to the incredibly talented Matthew Lloyd Davies reading Shannon's Daughter for FREE! According to the readers quoted below, you'll be glad you did!
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Walking the Tracks--the Work in Progress
As a child, I lived in a tiny village beside a railway line. One of my grandfather's frequent walks--he was an avid walker, though nothing intentionally aerobic--was along the railroad tracks, and many times, I tagged along. He was one of my favorite people and I sensed I was one of his. As a recently bereaved child, I found enormous comfort in his quiet, solid presence and in the years I lived with my grandparents, he and I spent countless hours simply sharing the same space. Those spaces are places I revisit as I get older, the walks, the bag lunches beneath shade trees, the brisk treks through the woods in search of Christmas greens, all comfort food for the soul. But it is the railroad walks that come to mind as I grapple with the current work in progress.
On those walks, as my grandfather stepped easily from tie to tie, I was determined to match his long stride, more often than not failing. To avoid the gravel in between ties, I tried walking the rails, balancing like a tightrope artist, or leaping across the gravel like a ballet dancer, even jumping two-footed as in a game of leap frog, but most of the time, my short legs failed to span the space and I suffered the bruising impact of the rocks. Beside me, my grandfather never discouraged me from trying, never told me I couldn't do it. He just walked beside me, allowing me to find my way.
As I write the next story in the Walnut Lodge series, I'm doing much the same thing, attempting to tell the story while avoiding its bruising emotional impact . It makes for a very tough walk.
If you've been here before, you know most of my writing is character driven. With this story I have two lovely characters to work with--Jeff Anders, former PK (preacher's kid) and journalist, now primary caregiver to a parent with dementia and working as the night auditor at Walnut Lodge, and Connie Mitchell Monroe, single mother, divorced from her Major League Baseball fallen star husband and struggling to build a new life for herself and her daughter. These details were outlined in Katie Lost and Found, the first of the Walnut Lodge stories. We know how Jeff and Connie's story ends, but what we don't know is how they reached that ending. Thus the plot of this story has a beginning and an end already in place. That should make my work easier, right? It does. But there are other issues, admittedly, my own, slowing my progress.
In the first book, we're told that Connie's marriage was a "fast lane to disaster." I knew what I wanted that to mean from the beginning. I had the scenario in mind before domestic abuse became the biggest story in major league sports last year. My personal experience with the subject is something I've known I would eventually incorporate in one of my stories. I've put it off because I suspected it might not be a walk in the park to live with this subject again, even in a fictional plot. My suspicions were correct. It isn't.
Each time I open the file for this story, I brace myself. Unlike the eagerness with which I normally write, I force myself to get down to work. Little by little, the words--which have been in my head for months--fall onto the page. I probably measure them more carefully than I normally would. They need to say so much without saying too much. They need to tell Connie's story and reveal Jeff's response. They don't tell my story, but they are certainly colored by my experience, even though the details are very different.
In writing Connie's story, while the fictional circumstances may be different, the feelings involved are the same. I can only write so much before I'm forced to step back, to separate from her pain. It would be easy to give up, to take a different approach, less costly for me and far more expeditious. But I know I won't. As difficult and time-consuming as it may be, this story needs to be told. I need to tell it.
As I remember, at the end of those long ago walks, my feet might have been sore, but I was glad I'd tagged along, maybe because of striving to if not quite reaching the goal, maybe because the companionship had been so rewarding. As with those walks, while writing this story, I have to accept that as I find my way, I'll feel bruised, sometimes even angry at the sharp memories that continue to inflict pain. I can't avoid them, anymore than I could leap to the next tie. If I am to complete this walk--this book--I have to keep my sights on the end. I'm not sure yet what the reward will be. Maybe finally crossing off that square, writing about domestic abuse, or maybe I'll learn that one reader found a message in the pages, something to take them a step further along their journey. I won't know until I hit "Publish," will I? Until then, it's one determined step--one word--at a time.
On those walks, as my grandfather stepped easily from tie to tie, I was determined to match his long stride, more often than not failing. To avoid the gravel in between ties, I tried walking the rails, balancing like a tightrope artist, or leaping across the gravel like a ballet dancer, even jumping two-footed as in a game of leap frog, but most of the time, my short legs failed to span the space and I suffered the bruising impact of the rocks. Beside me, my grandfather never discouraged me from trying, never told me I couldn't do it. He just walked beside me, allowing me to find my way.
As I write the next story in the Walnut Lodge series, I'm doing much the same thing, attempting to tell the story while avoiding its bruising emotional impact . It makes for a very tough walk.
If you've been here before, you know most of my writing is character driven. With this story I have two lovely characters to work with--Jeff Anders, former PK (preacher's kid) and journalist, now primary caregiver to a parent with dementia and working as the night auditor at Walnut Lodge, and Connie Mitchell Monroe, single mother, divorced from her Major League Baseball fallen star husband and struggling to build a new life for herself and her daughter. These details were outlined in Katie Lost and Found, the first of the Walnut Lodge stories. We know how Jeff and Connie's story ends, but what we don't know is how they reached that ending. Thus the plot of this story has a beginning and an end already in place. That should make my work easier, right? It does. But there are other issues, admittedly, my own, slowing my progress.In the first book, we're told that Connie's marriage was a "fast lane to disaster." I knew what I wanted that to mean from the beginning. I had the scenario in mind before domestic abuse became the biggest story in major league sports last year. My personal experience with the subject is something I've known I would eventually incorporate in one of my stories. I've put it off because I suspected it might not be a walk in the park to live with this subject again, even in a fictional plot. My suspicions were correct. It isn't.
Each time I open the file for this story, I brace myself. Unlike the eagerness with which I normally write, I force myself to get down to work. Little by little, the words--which have been in my head for months--fall onto the page. I probably measure them more carefully than I normally would. They need to say so much without saying too much. They need to tell Connie's story and reveal Jeff's response. They don't tell my story, but they are certainly colored by my experience, even though the details are very different.
In writing Connie's story, while the fictional circumstances may be different, the feelings involved are the same. I can only write so much before I'm forced to step back, to separate from her pain. It would be easy to give up, to take a different approach, less costly for me and far more expeditious. But I know I won't. As difficult and time-consuming as it may be, this story needs to be told. I need to tell it.
As I remember, at the end of those long ago walks, my feet might have been sore, but I was glad I'd tagged along, maybe because of striving to if not quite reaching the goal, maybe because the companionship had been so rewarding. As with those walks, while writing this story, I have to accept that as I find my way, I'll feel bruised, sometimes even angry at the sharp memories that continue to inflict pain. I can't avoid them, anymore than I could leap to the next tie. If I am to complete this walk--this book--I have to keep my sights on the end. I'm not sure yet what the reward will be. Maybe finally crossing off that square, writing about domestic abuse, or maybe I'll learn that one reader found a message in the pages, something to take them a step further along their journey. I won't know until I hit "Publish," will I? Until then, it's one determined step--one word--at a time.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Audiobook Adventure Part Seven--It's Live!!!
The big day has finally arrived! Oddly enough, I emailed ACX this morning asking about a release date because the time frame given originally had ended. Then as if by magic, the email announcing the wondrous news appeared in my box! I love results like that, don't you?
So here is the link to the Audible site. If you're not familiar with Audible, all the information is there on the site for you to check out. I'm assured that in a few more days the audiobook will be available on Amazon and iTunes as well.
My thanks again to Matthew Lloyd Davies for bringing my story to life with such expertise. When you hear his narration, you'll be amazed at the way each character steps off the page into the spotlight.
More later as this experience moves forward, but I couldn't wait to get the word out to you since you've been following this adventure from the start.
Happy New Year!!
http://www.audible.com/pd/Fiction/Shannons-Daughter-Audiobook/B00RM40QOC/ref=a_search_c4_1_1_srTtl?qid=1420060745&sr=1-1
http://www.amazon.com/Shannons-Daughter/dp/B00RNA3I2C/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1420129084&sr=1-2&keywords=Shannon%27s+Daughter+audiobook
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