Author Archives: endurancemom

About endurancemom

Writer of fantasy and historical fantasy fiction, mother of 6, former nurse, Catholic convert, wife of 25 years, and general all-around geek. Warning: Do not attempt this at home.

Why Bad Books Matter (to Writers, anyway.)

. . . So, to tell you about bad books, I have to go back a little bit in history; I have to tell you a little about nursing school. Nursing school, you see, is as close to hell as you can get as a nominally free citizen– the hours are brutal, the respect is nil, the wages are zero, and you see many sights that Cannot Be Unseen. Really freaky stuff that messes with your head, too, dead people and surgical screw-ups and the vacant gazes of people who have decided they want to die and you’re just an inconvenient pause in their plans. Not to mention frequently running into patients who like to flick HIV-laden blood in your face and expose their shriveled manhoods to you and other indignities. It’s not fun.

I went through nursing school, the first semester, while heavily pregnant with my 4th child (not counting the stepson.) The second semester, I was a weepy postpartum mess trying to pump breastmilk in hostile conditions while maintaining a 4.0 GPA and raising a family. Yeah, not good. My baby turned sickly from being in daycare all day, which led to hospitalizations and drama, and I spent my second year in nursing school going to school all week and then working all weekend as a “nurse tech,” which is basically a technical term for “the bitch of every real nurse on the floor.” I also developed plantar fasciitis, which is about as much fun as having someone do a crucifixion on your feet every night before work.

During my preceptorship, I had to assist in delivering a dead baby girl. That messed me up, badly. I barely had the ability to finish my final project and walk the stage (although my grades were, annoyingly to everyone else, still at the top of the class, if not the actual top. I didn’t bother to check.) After I graduated, I was elated. I immediately got a job, a job with a staggering amount of personal responsibility that I had also heard had a high turnover rate (I should have been suspicious right then) but it was a real job! With a real wage! And, wonder of wonders, I didn’t have to go to school anymore! I could READ again!

So, being the more-than-slightly overly-ambitious woman that I have always been, I decided that what I needed to do was to read the Modern Library’s 100 Best Novels list.  I sunk a large amount of money into a stack of the books on the list (from Amazon, of course) and dove in. I started with “Henderson the Rain King”, which was a somewhat odd choice, but the cover looked really neat with the big lion on it and, hey, Saul Bellow. Real literature with a capital L, people.

And it was wonderful– Henderson the Rain King is a really great book, especially when you’re in your mid-30s and wondering if life has a point and, if so, WTF is it?

The job didn’t last long– my husband transferred to Florida and I gratefully handed in my resignation before management could find a way to pin me with some legal responsibility for the next screwup. And, given that all my stress was suddenly gone, the baby we’d been trying to conceive for the previous year decided that, yes, he’d immediately be conceived after all, so I never went back to work as a nurse.

But I kept trying to read, with the stated goal that I’d read all those darn books by the time I was 40. By the time I hit 39, with several major health problems along the road, my newest toddler with a rare disease, and yet another baby on the way, I decided that finishing wasn’t really the point. I wasn’t going to fail any huge existential crisis by not finishing by 40, after all.

And I’ve kept plugging along at it. At this point, today at the ripe age of 43, I have seven titles left out of 100– James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake” and “Ulysses,” “The Big Money” by John Dos Passos, “The Ambassadors” by Henry James, “Catch-22” by Joseph Heller, “The Studs Lonigan Trilogy” by James T. Farrell, and the ominously 12-volume “A Dance to the Music of Time” by Anthony Powell.

I’m basically down to the books that I am having to force myself through by sheer will. I have developed a fondness for Henry James, so he gets a pass, and I haven’t delved deep enough into the Dance to the Music of Time to even really get a feel for whether or not it’s a monstrosity or a delight, but the others . . . ohhhh. I loathe them. I hate them with a rare passion which could fill volumes.

And, yet, these are books which have been acknowledged, by thousands of people, to be true classics of Western Literature. How dare I, a humble little fantasy author, dare to say that they’re bad books? How, if they are bad books, do they get so much acclaim?

And there’s the secret right there, my dear readers: tastes vary. Some of these books on this list were written a long time ago, for very different audiences. Some of them have completely lost their cultural context– quick, tell me the relevance of all the people John Dos Passos includes in his character sketches, given that they’re a bunch of union rabble-rousers and Communists from the 1919-1940 period! Tell me how much “Tobacco Road” has ever mattered, considering what a schlocky piece of prejudicial crap it is, other than to give Yankees another reason to look down on Southerners. And please, find me a reason to respect VS Naipaul besides the fact that he comes from an underrepresented culture so we’re forced to swallow his bilge wholesale.

Some of the books, most of the books, on this list are amazing books. They’ve changed my heart, touched my soul, given me hope and strength, and allowed me to better navigate the tides of my life. And some of them have been crap, and I’ve read them wondering why I force myself through this. I’m not getting a grade– no one is giving me some kind of medal for reading these books. I’m not getting extra credit. So why, besides some kind of completionist obsession, would I force myself through something like “Catch-22” when it’s like listening to a long boring joke told by some tottery old uncle with no sense of humor?

As far as I can figure out, fumbling through these books on my own, the bad books have something to teach me as well. They may teach me something about a part of our history that I’m not too familiar with– Under the Volcano, Zulieka Dobson, and Angle of Repose all fit in that category. They may teach me about how to write truly repellent characters– for this one, all you have to read, really, is The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. They may teach me different writing techniques, they may teach me nothing that I can even discern at first, but just getting through them requires me, as a writer, to do the most difficult thing that any writer has to do:

I have to put myself into someone else’s head.

That’s never easy– so many of our characters are just us, different aspects of us, writ large and split into different people. My daughter, who is reading my novel “Dragon Venom” right now, sometimes comes up to me and points out a passage that sounds like some aspect of my personality, digs out a joke that sounds like something I would have made, or accuses me wholesale of excavating one aspect of my psyche and turning it into a character entire. Well, of course, I am the person I know best. Of course I mine myself for material. But I also have to examine other people, learn about them, predict what they would do, and make extrapolations from there. And that’s where these books that I loathe come in handy.

Because they are decidedly NOT me. I’d never have gotten myself into the mess that the protagonist let himself in for in The Magus. As much as I love DH Lawrence, I would have killed off every character in “The Rainbow” rather than have it end as it did. The House of Mirth made me hate weakness in myself as much as it made me hate the protagonist for her weak decadent fate. Some of the characters make so little sense to me (hello, JP Donleavy), that I can’t even begin to figure out what they’re thinking. And I don’t want to– they’re jerks.

But that’s been the only good part about all these bad books. Many people disagree that they’re bad in the first place– to say, publicly, that you hate James Joyce because he was playing the system doesn’t make you especially well-loved by people who admire him for masterfully playing the system. That’s an insolvable problem, there. I will always see him as a man obsessed by his own literary fame, and they will see him as a genius who struggled to make his vision clear to the world. We’ll just have to agree to disagree.

And I will, for these next two months, agree to force myself through it, no matter how bitter the taste. Maybe I will learn something. Maybe– the man had talent, that’s for sure, I just disagree about the uses he put it to. I’m halfway through “Catch 22” and “The Ambassadors”, just a long boring bath or two from finishing Studs Lonigan and The Big Money. The Dance to the Music of Time 12 book series? Seriously? I am having the hardest time with that one. So far, Book 1 has been a “British boys away at boarding school” thing and it’s giving me no particular thrills. I am hoping that it gets interesting quickly, because that’s the only stumbling block on my road to completion of this now-decades-long reading challenge that I saddled myself with.

I am hoping to learn something that I will need on this next novel-writing journey. Because my goal, dear readers, is not to just crank out another novel in a boring trilogy and pad out my word count. My goal, my eternal goal, is to get better with each book– I want you to care about my characters. I want you to cringe when they die, rejoice when they win, suffer with them when they’re in troubles and tribulations. I want them to be as real people as they can be, given that they’re characters in a book. I want the action to flow naturally and logically from the plot. I don’t want to shrink from making the big decisions– I want the bravery and the love to do the right thing, to write the book the right way, and to give you a book at the end of it which will make you happy to have read it.

And that is why bad books matter– they show you, better than anything else, what you don’t feel is true, what you don’t feel is right, and how not to do things.

Wish me luck in applying these lessons!

 

 

 

 


New Book Release!

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Available now on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited! “Momma Sang: Finding my Mother in her own words” is a collection of my mother’s short stories and articles which she wrote in her late 20’s. My mother, Theresa Melody Carter, passed away in 1990 from complications of leukemia, the same disease that took her own mother’s life thirty years before. These stories were written for her college literary magazine and newspaper, and they open the door on the mysteries of a mother that I lost much too soon. I’ve written a brief introduction for each of the 11 stories, but the real lyrical beauty is in my mother’s own words. Her descriptions of life in rural Arizona in the 1960s are like a glimpse into a lost world, a world of rattlesnakes and wild horses, faithful hound dogs and devastating losses. It’s a world where Waylon Jennings was just an unknown disc jockey in a nowhere Arizona town, and a red-headed Okie gal chopped cotton, tended bar, and sang songs to her children. Interspersed between these tales are her humorous takes on life as a housewife and citizen in Arizona in the 1980s.

15% of the proceeds from this book will be donated to research to cure rare diseases.


Dragon Venom On Sale Today!

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Just for today, my ebook, Dragon Venom, is on sale for 99 cents on Kindle! Get your copy today, the price goes up to 2.99 tomorrow!


The “more” to life part

Writing, it sometimes seems to non-writers, should happen no matter what else is going on in a writer’s life. If times are good, if times are bad, whatever the case may be, there doesn’t seem to be a compelling reason for someone NOT to be writing, they often think. But, of course, writing is not like that, not at all.

I know many writers who approach writing as “just a day job” and produce work every day, keeping regular work hours of the 9-5 variety, and pumping out book after book, article after article, much of it readable and enjoyable and quite good. And I know a few writers who only write when inspired, who only create when the muse is in residence and the iron is hot.

I used to be one of those “inspiration” writers, myself. It’s part and parcel of being a bipolar person– when you’re up, the writing flows out of you uncontrollably. When you’re down, you’re as dead inside as a stone and you’d get words out of one of those rocks just as easily as your depressed mind.

When I was working on my first novel, however, I discovered that it is possible to write in a businesslike way, day after day, whether you feel inspired or not, and even if you’re feeling depressed. I set myself a daily limit and, rain or shine, I wrote those words each day. It helped keep me stable, really, having that requirement waiting for me. It’s too easy to let depression win and stay inert. Having something you MUST do– taking a walk, writing a book, caring for a child, watering your plants– well, it helps to get you out of bed at least.

The only problem comes in when it’s outlining and creating time– you really HAVE to be inspired to sit down and come up with the bones of the story itself. Otherwise, you’re just staring at a blank page and cursing.

And all my inspiration this month has been spent on the surprise I was planning for my 25th anniversary. You see, my husband was suddenly sent to El Paso for a two week work trip, leaving me home alone with the kids. And, haha, alone with the bank account. I told him that I needed to spend some money, and he agreed. And I poured everything I had into a home redecoration project that ate up every second of those two weeks.

It was an ambitious project– I painted the walls and ceilings of the nursery bedroom and the gameroom area, stripped and painted two dressers, a bookshelf, and a coffee table, and gave the coffee table a tiled top with painted Mexican tiles. Then I had to polyurethane it all. My son welded, painted, and repaired our large birdcage so we could move the parakeet to larger digs. We bought new bedroom furniture for two bedrooms and assembled it (damn you, ikea directions), hung all this new art we bought, painted and painted and painted some more, cleaned, organized, and spent way more money than anticipated. (Photos of it are on my Facebook page, if you’re interested.)

And, frankly, it was exhausting. Each of the rooms had to be entirely emptied of the accumulated toys and junk that was shoved into closets and piled up in corners, the furniture had to be carried downstairs so it could be repaired and repainted, the walls had to be cleaned and patched before they could be painted, and since we don’t have a paint sprayer, it all had to be rolled or brushed by hand. All of the junk had to be gone through, item by item, and either put away or thrown away. I made multiple trips to hardware stores, tried all kinds of new home improvement techniques that I had never tried before (texturing and patching drywall is hell, FYI), and still had to care for children and feed them and all that jazz as well.

It left nothing for writing.

And, now that I am finally done with it all . ..  boom, another arthritis flare. Grrrr. Not what I had intended. Just typing this is making my finger joints ache miserably.

But, in the quiet moments, my characters are talking again. That sounds insane to non-writers, probably, but they do exist, living their separate little lives deep in the subconscious, making biting comments about each other and speculating about the plot-to-be. The plot is building, little pieces coming together to form the first outline, the structural “how-to” that will undoubtedly be unrecognizable by the time the novel is finally complete, but which is vital to actually getting the action moving. The first scene is burned into my mind, and the words keep coming to the surface, just waiting for me to write them down.

But I haven’t opened that Word file and named it yet. Because once I do, there’s no turning back. There won’t be time for decorating the house or making macrame plant hangers or finishing my daughter’s Halloween costume. Or even for finishing the memoir that I’m editing or the YA novel that I have in progress. Once the next novel begins, it’s a freight train that will run, day and night, for at least two or three months, a minimum of 2000 words per day, whether I feel the love or not.

And I’m not quite there yet, because I want to clear the decks. I honestly don’t know how some writers can do more than just work on their One Big Project. For me, it’s like a Big Novel that I’m in the process of reading. Sure, if I’m reading a few things that aren’t too compelling, I can read a few pages here, a chapter there, of half a dozen books at a time. But if I’m reading, say, War and Peace, there’s no room left in my mind for anything else. The big idea takes over and all I can do is live inside that space.

I also need to finish up these last few books in the Best 100 novels list before I begin, because I can’t read anything that anyone else has written when I’m working, or it starts to bleed into my style. I couldn’t even read anything over the past two weeks, I was just too exhausted by the entire project. Now I have a couple weeks where I can hurriedly finish up these last 6 titles I’m reading, finish this memoir and get it published, get the kids going on their homeschool curriculum, finish all the Halloween sewing, and try to grind through this YA novel really quick.

But Valerius is lounging on a chaise, his booted feet crossed, a glass of wine in his hand, and his eyebrow quirked at my tardiness. I know, I know, you want your screen time. And, I promise, it’s coming. I have October and November entirely blocked out for just writing “The Blood of the Queen.” That won’t be enough time, so it will have to start in September, probably mid-month, so I need to get going on this stuff fast.

But, anyway, that’s the “more to life than writing” part. I could just write, but it wouldn’t be much of a life, now would it? I don’t blame authors who complain that their readers are too demanding, because life happens and things don’t go according to plan. As a reader, though, I know how frustrating it is to start a trilogy and not have a second or third book to read for, oh, DECADES after the first book or two are done. And I don’t plan on that happening here. I really want to move on to Book 3 as soon as Christmas is over, but we will see what happens. As dicey as my health has been lately, it’s hard to promise anything to anyone. I have small children who’ve been desperately wanting to go to the lake, but that’s pretty much impossible for me when my arthritis is so bad that I can’t even get around the house.

If I have a wish for Christmas, I want to be healthy! I have so many things I want to do.


Game of Thrones Season 7 WTF moment

Honestly, the only thing we could think for the last ten minutes:

“Is she burning the supply train?”

“Wait! Isn’t that the food?”

“She’s burning the FOOD?”

“It’s WINTER you stupit #%$!! You don’t burn the FOOD! Now we’re all gonna starve!!!”

“Somebody better kill that idiot.”

 


My Take on Season 7 of Game of Thrones

“Previously on Game of Thrones . . ..”

You keep waiting for the recap to end, but, no, it just keeps leaping from event to event, without any semblance of cohesion or relationship between those events. Just bam, bam, bam, here’s your plot points. Forget conversations, forget travel time, forget anything but driving through this material as fast as possible just to get the darn thing over with.

That’s why I’m so bored of it already. It’s like an hour-long recap of episodes we didn’t get to see.


Winter is never coming, not really

So, yeah, Season 7 of Game of Thrones is on, I have paid for an HBO Go subscription, and it’s Thursday and I haven’t even bothered to watch Episode 2.

It didn’t help that GRRM was all being coy again, well we MIGHT have a Song of Ice and Fire book in 2018 and it MIGHT be The Winds of Winter, but it will probably be just another damned compilation of stories about kings and dragons whom we don’t give the first crap about.

Give it up, George. If you don’t want to finish the damned books, don’t finish them. But stop playing games about it. Just admit it– I’m having too much fun living my life, the series has become a huge pain in the ass, and I don’t enjoy sitting down to write it anymore. Fine. Hand it off to Brandon Sanderson, tell him what you originally wanted to happen, and he’ll pound out a few hundred thousand words like the very good methodical worker he is. And it will all be over.

And GRRM can do whatever the hell he likes without ever having to field a question about “WHEN” ever again.

Seriously. He doesn’t sound like a man who is writing from passion, he sounds like a harried man writing with a deadline he can never, ever, ever meet, and hearing the discontent growing around him. All the while, the television series spirals into the basic equivalent of such a bad fanfic that anyone with any genuine love for the characters in the novels has long since given up on even thinking of them as the same people.

Go to Bali, George. Hand the stupid series over to Sanderson or one of those guys you actually trained and just let it go. You’ll be infinitely happier, and as long as they hit the basic touchpoints, you’ll have done what you hoped to accomplish.

And we can stop pretending that this ridiculous television version has any basis in human behavior, plot, or common sense.

 


Ye Olde Women Punished for Enjoying Sex Theme (This time in Iceland!)

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(This post will include spoilers for the first four episodes of the Icelandic television show “Trapped” (2015) that is currently being streamed on Amazon Prime. If you haven’t watched the show and plan to, you might want to skip this post entirely. It may also mention scenes from other films or television shows. If you don’t care for frank discussions of sex, you may want to drop out about now, too. Sure, the monks in my novel are celibate, but they’re monks, lol.)

 

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***Spoiler space

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Women have a hard time of it when it comes to sexual enjoyment. No, that’s not a pun, sorry, it’s just a statement of fact. If you’re a woman and you’re having fun in bed on television or in the movies, something bad is bound to happen to you. It’s like writers have this inner script in their heads that’s been based mostly off of teenage slasher films. Sex means death!! Well, for chicks anyway.

I am always hopeful that we’ll get more media presentations of women enjoying a spot of cunnilingus without it having to be somehow twisted into something awful, but so far I have been disappointed in the mainstream media. (Note here, I don’t watch shows that are AIMED at lesbians, they may be an exception but I don’t know. And that’s beside the point, anyway. Women on women isn’t where the, ah, meat of the problem is. The problem is the depiction of men doing something which is primarily aimed at pleasuring a woman. The media has a problem with that aspect of it.)

“Trapped,” the Icelandic detective show, is a show very much in the vein of other recent and popular mysteries– Fortitude, Broadchurch, Vera, Shetland, True Detective, etc. Things aren’t always as they seem, everyone’s probably involved in some sort of extramarital hanky-panky, and there may or may not be fantastic elements. Or it could all be explained by the normal weirdness of humanity, who knows. Trapped has the benefit of being set in Iceland, which is currently a travel destination hotspot, and also the benefit of starring a bearishly adorable and sexy lead actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson. The muscle from Game of Thrones, Hafþór Júlíus “Thor” Björnsson, has some new competition for the most cuddlesome Icelandic guy these days.

There’s also an attractive young actor, Baltasar Breki Samper, who reminds one of a younger version of Viggo Mortensen. In the opening scene of Season 1, Episode 1, his charachter, Hjörtur, is shown blazing along on his motorcycle with the beautiful young Dagný, played by Rán Ísóld Eysteinsdóttir, clinging to the back. They’re young, they’re in love, they’re being reckless and wild. There’s no real presentiment of doom unless you’re expecting this to be a slasher film, they could just stumble upon a dead body or something, right? So we follow them into a building, it looks like a converted warehouse with a loft, and up to bed.

And here’s where it gets interesting. Ahem. They get naked, and we’re shown a lingering shot of the guy, Hjörtur, making his way down her body, trailing kisses, then a glance up as he begins, ah, his work. The shot cuts back to her face and breasts as she obviously enjoys his attentions.

And then, while she’s having a post-coital snooze, he goes downstairs to take a leak and the whole damned building goes up in flames. Hjörtur tries to get back up the staircase to save her, but it’s too late. He’s badly burned, things explode, and the beautiful young woman is burned to death. Boom, that’s the end of poor Dagný. You let someone go down on you, you die in a fire. sigh.

The havoc that this death wreaks in the community is a big theme in the next few episodes, leading to suspicions and hatred and confusion, which is all to the good in a modern mystery show. But it still seems pretty harsh that the golden-light bathed young woman, being given such attentions, is then punished by a truly brutal death. They could have just shown them going at it in the usual way, there was no particular reason to show the sex in this way. Well, Hjörtur was devoted to the girl, and her death pretty much wrecks his life. I suppose it’s the way they chose to show that he REALLY loved her.

Which says an uncomfortable lot about the way sex is both portrayed and lived in these days. I have a pretty good understanding of the numbers behind Tinder and Hinge and Bumble and all those dating apps, and the numbers are depressing. Women are participating in all this sex, but they’re not actually getting the big O from it with much regularity. That’s not just guesswork, it’s actual research, which I am way too lazy to go look up at the moment to link for you. (It’s been a long week already). So, people are hooking up, the guys are getting what they want out of the equation, and women are getting . . . what? Not oral, not usually. And not even orgasms as often as one would hope. If you’re going to all the trouble of exposing yourself to someone else’s diseases and DNA, you’d at least hope for real pleasure out of it. But that, it seems, is too much to ask.

Or, I guess, just a function of female anatomy. In television land, we apparently still live in that fantasy world where strictly penetrative sex can light off the fireworks for women, even though that’s been shown to be about 15% of us females, at best. These rare diversions into showing cunnilingus, then, should be a lot more normative, you’d think. The numbers show that the vast majority of women WANT that from a man. The majority of men claim to enjoy it and to perform it. So why is it that, on television, we can’t seem to just give it a wink and a nod and assume it’s going down (sorry, that WAS a pun)– we have to find some way to make it dreadful.

If you’ve read my previous post about this in the show “Hemlock Grove”, you’ll know that this was a huge problem in that show, too. Every incidence of a male orally stimulating a female was plagued by so many problems that it basically became its own horror subtext in the show.

In “Trapped,” so far, the only other sex we’re shown is problematic, too. One implied act of sexual exploitation of a trafficked woman, and one act of infidelity ala Mrs Robinson, with the wife of one of the civic leaders getting it on with a much younger boy who is, presumably, a student at the school she works at. Yeah, it’s not looking so good for good sex in this show right now. Is it asking too much for sex acts between people who are in love, for it to be non-coercive, non-exploitative, and not punished by being blown to smithereens?

I’ll keep watching the show, as it’s pretty good and the cuddlesome cop lead is so cuddlesome, but I’m not holding out much hope. I will, however, report back if some woman is actually able to experience that terrible power-shifting sexual experience that our television writers are so scared of leaving unpunished.


Suicide Kings

My heart is broken yet again. Another singer has killed himself, killed himself in the ultimate abnegation of his own vocal skills– hanging, a psychological end to the voice and breath itself. And I am angry. And hurt. And very very sad.

Chester Bennington wasn’t my favorite musician ever. Chris Cornell, yes, he was. But Chester was yet another tormented and talented soul, a man with a family and things to live for, an artist who was still producing new works, a human being who deserved better than a solitary end.

I don’t even have words for how frustrating this is– I know how it feels to be that alone, to feel that desperate, and to take those steps towards making the pain cease. Luckily for me, someone had my six and was able to pull me back from the brink, twice. But this is an ongoing problem for people who have suicidal impulses. I have fought my own fight with depression since 12, and with suicidal thoughts since I was seventeen. Goodness knows how long Chester fought, but judging from his lyrics and his life history, he’d been fighting the same demons since his early teens at least. And Chris Cornell, too– another artist, another life history that begins with severe mental problems in their early teens. In both cases, these talented beautiful humans lost their battle, and it isn’t right.

We need people to be able to ask those hard questions, every damned day if you have to. “How are you feeling?” “How are the bad feelings today?” “Do you feel like hurting yourself?” “Can I help you somehow?” “Do you need meds/rest/food/help?” “What can I do to make things better?”

Even if they aren’t able to vocalize a really good response, you need to ask them. For someone who you know has suicidal impulses, you need to watch their behavior. And, no, it isn’t fair. Yes, it’s a hell of a burden. But it’s what you do when you love someone who has these problems. You lock up the guns, you lock up the pills, and if they’re really low, you check them into a hospital as an inpatient so they can get the help they need.

We need to stop acting like it’s somehow shameful or embarrassing for people to struggle with suicidal ideation. We don’t bury suicides at the crossroads anymore, people. If someone you love is fighting this fight, you need to be on their side, not just helplessly standing on the sidelines.

Yes, sometimes people do this “out of the blue.” I am not discounting that. But for someone who has a lifelong history of mental problems, they can be just one sudden shift to serious depression away from an attempt upon their own lives. Even when everything else was going okay, even when they seemed at the top. All it takes is one thing going to hell in a handbasket, and that can be enough of a trigger.

Because suicide, by its nature, is not a rational act. People do this when they are hurting out of all proportion to what they feel they can endure. We will never know the full story of why these two men decided to do this thing. But they were certainly full of pain. I’m sure their families and their fans all wish they could just go back in time, say the things, find the fix. Sometimes, you know, there isn’t a way to stop someone. But we can try. We SHOULD try. We should fight suicide like we fight cancer, with all our guts and love and anger and determination. There is a cure out there somewhere, but no one seems to be looking. We need to find that cure.

And in the meantime, use your love, use every ounce of it, to hold on to the ones you hold dear. God bless.

 


Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 1

Here there be spoilers. You’ve been warned.

Well, well, well, we’re off to a . . . stunningly slow start. Sure, the Arya-gorefest was, uhh, disturbing, but it wasn’t exactly edge-of-your-seat television. Then we went to the Citadel for . . . manual labor. Lots of it. Hey, I know CGI is expensive, but couldn’t you have given us a glimpse of a direwolf or, really, ANYTHING except the endless parade of turds in bowls that we were treated to during this season opener? And, seriously, how delicate of a stomach could Sam possibly have? If you’re emptying that many chamberpots, you’re going to have to man up at some point. Or, at least you’d think so . . ..

(Shoutout for Jim Broadbent! Yay!! All the love, Jim.)

My daughter and I were discussing the lack of “pornification” that has gradually been evolving. It’s a good thing, mostly, no more gratuitous shots of naked women that make no sense other than titillation. However, we have finally discovered the secret of how all those brothel workers kept such immaculately shaved lady parts and man-scaped genital regions– the Ancient Valyrian Steel Razor. Washed in wine in between uses, this remarkable weapon has been combating pubic hair since the time of Bran the Builder. I’m sure we’ll see it in use again, they can’t have an entire season without naked people.

This episode, however, was filled with clothing that was Making Martial Statements. People mean BUSINESS, people. Chain linked leather dresses, enough wolf fur to animate an entire pack of direwolves, and very Serious Heels on Daenerys. Honestly, they looked way too sensible, like something Hilary Clinton would wear. But maybe that’s the statement they wanted to make– she’s seriously walking across that sand. (And, yeah, she’s short and needs the boost.)

The winner of the episode, for me, was Euron the not-so-Crow-Eyed. The shirt was awesome, the reckless panache with which he wore it, the cutting remarks about Jaime and his presumed uselessness, it was all win. Sure, he’s not quite the psychotic magician of the novels, but he holds promise. The fleet, which he must have used magic to create, since the Iron Islands famously don’t have much in the way of forests, was impressive, too. I am really enjoying Euron. Right now, he’s the only character that seems to have any sense of humor.

In the North, well, Jon was slow out of the gate, but he did The Right Thing, as he so famously tries to do all the time, and it worked out well so far. I’m sure it will come back to bite him in the ass later. Ghost was still a complete no-show, which breaks my heart, since Ghost pretty much IS Jon’s heart. Budgetary reasons, my left foot. Anyway, Sansa was remarkably . . . dumb. I mean, she overplayed her hand in the clumsiest and most ridiculous way possible. I guess she really did only learn her political lessons from Cersei (and we know how well Cersei plays the game, hah. Subtle is not her gift.) The lovely young Lady of Bear Island made Sansa look like an idiot as she effortlessly supported Jon’s idea of arming girls, stripped the objection from the guy who was objecting, and did it all while looking in-control, intelligent, and truly the essence of a Northern girl. Sansa needs to take notes.

The rest of the episode was pretty snoozy. The Hound saw a vision in the flames, which again we couldn’t see because “oh, no budget for it”, Ed Sheeran sang a song around a campfire but the other guys in the party of soldiers got all the good lines, all the people around Daenerys had to stand around looking uncomfortable and saying nothing while examining a curiously-rotted castle that was occupied as of just a few months ago.

Me, I am not very hopeful yet. There’s way too much IMPORTANCE stamped on every line, and way too few lines that are just people interacting. You can see where the characters are being stampeded, and it’s frustrating me to see how things are falling into patterns that I had hoped would be avoided. I mean, at this point, are we really holding out any hope that Jon and Daenerys WON’T have sex? I don’t want them to, I think they’re a match made in hell, but it sure looks like the pathways are converging with that outcome in mind.

Ah well. Time for me to get busy writing my own Book 2, where I can promise that no cousins will have sex under any circumstances.

In the meantime, yeah, if you want to read another book about dragons, except one where it’s a lot more like the Night’s Watch meets dragons and less like the Dorne disaster, buy my book, now available on Kindle, Dragon Venom.

DragonHeadd