• Home
  • Library
  • Bio
  • Events
  • Blog
  • Contact
Heather Blackmore

Imagining Forgiveness

3/18/2018

0 Comments

 
[Reblogged from Women and Words]
There is a lyric in the song, “It’s Quiet Uptown,” from the musical Hamilton, that is so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, my eyes well up with tears nearly every time I hear it. Alexander Hamilton has been estranged from his wife, Eliza, because of his own poor choices. But in the face of monumental grief and despair because of their son’s death, Alexander pleads to Eliza to allow him to stay by her side. In one of the most touching moments produced onstage, Eliza takes Alexander’s hand while her sister and the chorus sing about forgiveness.
Forgiveness is such a difficult thing! It’s the people who are closest to us that wield the power to hurt us the deepest. For my friends and me, those people tend to be parents or spouses, but whoever they are, they’re in our inner circle, know our most private thoughts, and have earned our trust. So when they hurt our feelings, the pain can last for years or even decades.
“To be wronged is nothing,
unless you continue to remember it.”

— Confucius
Confucius is incredibly insightful. Those of us who have been hurt continue to harbor the pain, not the person who inflicted the wound. Think about this! You are the person harmed, yet by being unable to forgive, YOU are the one who is not at peace.

Forgiveness isn’t to be taken lightly. Things that don’t matter much don’t need to be forgiven. Our pain is authentic and trespasses can be significant. Those of us holding onto real emotional wounds need to evaluate whether to forgive, which is not the same as forgetting. There are no easy, one-size-fits-all answers. Philosophical questions surround the issue too, such as whether certain offenses are unforgiveable.
​

In my latest romance, It’s Not a Date, one of my main characters, Kadrienne Davenport, has suffered from guilt made worse by her father’s harsh words and actions. Part of her has never moved on; she’s never forgiven him. And this unresolved issue affects her relationship with Jennifer Spencer, the woman she’s falling for, because it impacts how she sees herself and how she measures her worthiness to be loved.

This weighty topic might not sound particularly romantic, but being able to open one’s heart is a requisite for falling in love.

Children tend to grow up believing that their parents are the ones who should provide guidance and answers, but in reality, many parents lack the emotional tools to meet their children’s needs. So if a parent emotionally hurts a child, the child can be left rudderless and confused.

This is the situation Kade faces. Kade’s father is not a paragon of fatherhood. Instead of waiting for him to be the father she needs him to be, Kade has to finally decide whether or not to forgive him, and she needs to turn inward to make that determination. Her ability to forgive is hers to control, not his. And if she can forgive him, then maybe—just maybe—she can find peace with him and with herself.

Jen helps Kade reevaluate her stance on her relationship with her father. Jen, a kind and tenacious woman, plants the seed for Kade to consider whether there’s a better alternative to her ongoing bitterness toward him that has never yielded fruit—one in which Kade might be able to let go of the pain and move on.

With respect to Hamilton, forgiveness is not about what Alexander deserves; it’s about what Eliza deserves. Forgiveness doesn’t require reconciliation, though Eliza and Alexander ultimately reconcile. Eliza is never going to forget what Alexander did. But she can forgive. And in doing so, she isn’t rewarding Alexander. She is rewarding herself by letting go of her resentment and anger.
0 Comments

Defying Convention

3/4/2018

0 Comments

 
[Reblogged from Women and Words]
Picture

“​If there’s a book that you want to read, 
but it hasn’t been written yet, 
then you must write it.”


~ Toni Morrison

Taking Toni Morrison’s lead, though girl-meets-girl is definitely the central aspect of my latest romance, It’s Not a Date, I hope to deliver something different than a formulaic love story. Other novels can follow a character who has decided not to open her heart again because she was hurt by love, or a serial seducer looking for a new conquest who has just met her match, etc. For me, as Toni said, since those aren’t the only books I want to read, I write.

I wanted to bring to life a character who’s stymied in her personal life because she’s the one who has hurt others and doesn’t want to continue the pattern.

I also wanted to incorporate some real-world issues many of us face: sexism in the workplace, challenges related to caring for an elderly relative with declining mental faculties, and whether or not to forgive someone for a great hurt they caused. I also wanted to cover the importance of being kind, which in this age of anonymous, mean-spirited Internet commentary, is more and more crucial.

Yes, we’re following the story of two people falling in love, but they’re also dealing with other life hurdles. We appreciate their journey all the more because of the humor and compassion they use to get through the rough times and eventually to each other, helped along by quick-witted friends who make them laugh along the way.

The Lesbian Reading Room said of my second novel, “This starts like any traditional romance; clashes, obstacles and differences to the fore. But as it progresses the characters deepen, the plot thickens and it becomes so much more than ‘just’ a romance.” That’s what I’m aiming for as well with It’s Not a Date, and you, dear reader, will have your own opinion as to whether I’ve succeeded.

Kade, one of my main characters in It’s Not a Date, is a smart and demanding business leader who requires strict adherence to punctuality as a result of traumatic events in her youth. She’s a planner who doesn’t cope well when things veer off schedule. She’s the one who fears that she will hurt the people she loves because she’s done it before.

Jen is a first-time CEO of a struggling startup that’s behind schedule and running out of cash. If she can’t quickly get the product where it needs to be, her company won’t be able to raise more money from investors and it will be forced to shut down. The company helps match caregivers with aging loved ones needing care, a problem Jen has experienced first-hand with her grandmother.

These women are ultimately compelled to work together to solve the problems facing Jen’s company, but when they first meet en route to a conference on Maui, they’re strangers, away from the demands of home and work, and their connection is immediate. Jen first spies Kade at the rental car counter after Kade’s efforts to procure transportation are foiled. From Chapter One:
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

As she signed where indicated and tried to take in the rest of his instructions, Jen heard snippets of the brunette’s increasingly voluble conversation with the other clerk. She gleaned that this was the last inbound flight of the night, no cars were available without a reservation, and that, yes, the woman could speak with her manager, but she’d have to return in the morning when he was on duty. The brunette said something about taxis and bum-fucked Egypt, then sliced her palm through the air as if to strike her outburst from the record. She left with a curt “thank you” and marched back toward the terminal.

Jen grabbed the proffered key and tugged her roller bag, practically running to catch up to the woman. “Excuse me,” she called twice, louder the second time, and the woman stopped and looked up from her phone.

“Yes?”

Oh, those eyes up close—intelligent and appraising, sparkling with flecks of forest and autumn. Jen struggled to catch her breath and blamed it on the forty-foot dash. “Would you like a ride?” Jen seemed to catch the woman off guard because she studied Jen as if she were trying to complete a puzzle. Jen replayed the past few moments and knew the woman spoke English, so she tried again. She dangled the key fob. “I’m happy to take you wherever you’re going, or at least drop you at a hotel where you can call a cab or have one meet you.”

“Why would you do that?”

It was Jen’s turn to be confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m a stranger you just met in an airport. I could be anyone,” the woman said, seeming aghast.

Jen laughed. “What are you going to do? Steal my underwear?”

The woman again looked perplexed. Then something shifted, and she smiled. “What kind of underwear?”

Oh my God. Jen wasn’t expecting that. Her cheeks heated. The woman could be playing off the idea of filching some fancy name-brand lingerie, or she could be flirting big-time. Jen extended her hand. “Jen Spencer.” They were similar in stature, and Jen realized it was the woman’s carriage that made her seem taller than her own five-nine.

The woman hiked her carry-on bag up on her shoulder before taking Jen’s hand. “Kade Delaney. And a ride would be great, thank you.” The greeting lasted several seconds longer than was customary, neither interested in ending the contact.

“You’re welcome. We’re this way.” Jen led them to the designated car.

As Jen adjusted the seat and mirrors, she asked, “Where to?”

Kade removed her laptop from its protective sleeve and flipped it open. “I’m at the Ritz-Carlton, but I’m happy to be dropped off wherever you’re going.”

“You’re not attending the Women in Tech conference there, are you?”

“I am. I take it you are too?”

“Which panel are you on?” With the confidence Kade projected, she probably wasn’t merely an attendee.

Kade turned her head and met Jen’s gaze. “I’m not on one. Are you?”

Jen put the car in drive. “Yes, and I’m trying not to freak out about it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Miranda McArthur’s on my panel.”

Kade eyed Jen and waited.

Jen filled her in. “CEO of HipSpot.”

“Right. And?”

“The fastest-growing online travel company in the world?”

“I know who she is, but I don’t see why that should freak you out.”

“She’s amazing.”

“And you’re not?”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Not true, Jen Spencer. I know you show kindness to strangers in airports, you’re in high tech, and you wear underwear. Or at least you pack it. Of course, I’d have to…see it, to know for sure.”

“On?” Jen posed the question to get a better idea of the signals she was reading.

“You’re in the driver’s seat.”

Jen stopped the car before they exited the parking lot. “You’re flirting with me.”

Kade raised her hands as if in surrender. “You’re the one who mentioned underwear. I was merely staying on theme.”

“Totally flirting.”

“Sorry. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.” Kade’s expression shuttered, returning to that of the woman who was told no cars were available.

Jen reached over and closed the lid of the laptop. “I rather prefer it.” She gently laid the device on the floor behind Kade.

The glint of playfulness immediately returned to Kade’s eyes. “I had planned on working during the ride.”

Jen grinned and turned onto the road. “How’s that working out for you?” Jen was pleased to see that Kade’s harrumph was for effect. Kade didn’t seem to be in any hurry to retake the computer.

“What’s the panel on?” Kade asked.

“Raising venture capital.”

Kade smiled wryly. “I hope they’ll be serving coffee beforehand.”

“I know, right? I’m only on it because I recently landed seed financing for my company and one of my investors recommended me. The panelists run the gamut of fund-raising experience, and I’m the newbie.”

“What time’s your panel?”

“Right before the keynote speech tomorrow. Seven, I think?”

“P.M.?”

Jen laughed at the surprise in Kade’s voice. “Yes. P.M. The agenda’s in my purse, if you want to grab it. Why?”

Kade snatched Jen’s purse from the backseat and immediately found the folded pamphlet. She indicated the light above her seat. “Will it bother you if I turn this on?”

“Not at all.”

Kade scanned the document. Then she started to shake her head. She returned the pages to Jen’s purse and turned off the light.

Jen could still see her shaking her head, her silhouette outlined by the streetlights. “What’s wrong?”

“My assistant misled me about the timing of some of these panels. I thought the main networking and conference events were in the morning, followed by breakout sessions. I thought I’d be on a plane by afternoon.”

“Time for a new assistant?” Jen suggested.

Kade laughed. “It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t accurate calendaring one of the basics of the job?”

“She thinks she’s looking out for me.”

“By screwing with your schedule?”

“By forcing me to take a day off. Now I have nothing on my plate until tomorrow night, my colleagues think I’m out-of-pocket so they won’t be pinging me, and I can’t turn around and go home in the meantime. Who knows? Maybe she thought I’d share a hotel shuttle and meet a new friend, or rent a car and go on an excursion. Make me wing it to see what shakes loose.”

“In her defense, it is Maui.” Jen heard Kade take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Is it really so bad, having a day to enjoy one of the most beautiful places on earth?”

“I like routine. Schedules. I’m not much of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of gal.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because I excel at spontaneity and can work with boundaries. How about this? If you’re not completely beat by the time we get to the Ritz, let’s grab a seat at one of the poolside bars, enjoy a cocktail, and, so that your assistant approves, talk about anything other than work. Then tomorrow morning, if you’re not already sick of me, we’ll meet for breakfast at a time you designate, and we’ll come up with a plan for the day that involves plenty of sunshine and beautiful women.”

“You’re not some sort of chaperone my assistant hired to keep me from working, are you?”

“Are you really that pathetic?”

“Guilty.”

“What kind of work do you do that you have to be constantly doing it? I mean, I’m a CEO and I take time off. Whole weekends, occasionally.”

“Not that I don’t want to delve deeper into the incredible laziness you just copped to—because, wow, weekends—but it might color what you think of me, and I’m enjoying my status as”—here Kade punctuated the air with her hands as if reading from a news scroll—“‘woman in technology who fails to use technology to read conference agenda.’ And by the way, how did you get a rental car?”

“It was the craziest thing. Are you ready? It’s called…” Jen took her time as if revealing a major secret. “A reservation. And nice deflection on the work question.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you really think it would change my mind about you if I knew what you did?”

“Does Miranda McArthur really intimidate you?”

“Oh, shit. You’re not Miranda McArthur, traveling under a pseudonym, are you?”

“You think I run a company that excels at helping consumers make travel plans, yet I can’t even rent a car?”

“Fair point. I don’t know what any of these business leaders look like. I know a lot of names, but if they’re not Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates, I wouldn’t know them from Adam. You’re making me nervous.”

“And you drive like my mother.”

“A woman who has obviously done a few things right, so I’ll accept that as a compliment, Miss Avoid the Subject.”

Kade pointed toward the pedals. “When she talks, she tends to pull her foot off the gas, like she has difficulty multitasking.”

“I do not take my foot off the…Wow, I totally do that.”

“That’s okay. It’s just that much longer until the cocktail you’ve promised me.”

“So you’re game even though having drinks with a stranger wasn’t on tonight’s agenda?” Jen was tempted to ask Kade for her assistant’s address, so she could send a thank-you note.

“I’m taking a walk on the wild side.”

Jen reached for Kade’s hand and squeezed it softly. “It looks good on you.”

“It’ll look better once you have a few drinks.”

Jen appreciated Kade’s self-deprecating humor. It gave her a kind of accessibility Jen wouldn’t have necessarily pegged her for when she first saw her strut to the rental-car line. “If I have a few drinks, I’ll be under the table.”

“Perfect. I like when people look up to me,” Kade quipped.

Jen glanced at Kade. “I appreciate your covert strategy to take my mind completely off my panel tomorrow.”

Kade grinned. “Let’s not limit ourselves. Your mind doesn’t have to be the only thing to be taken completely off. Should we return to the underwear conversation?”

Jen smiled and shook her head. “What panel?”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
​
It’s Not a Date is now available from Bold Strokes Books and will be available through Amazon and other distributors in mid-March.
https://www.boldstrokesbooks.com/books/its-not-a-date-by-heather-blackmore-2487-b
0 Comments

The Measure of an Author

11/12/2017

0 Comments

 
[Reblogged from Women and Words]
​

What does William Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure have to do with lesfic? I’m so glad you asked!

Measure for Measure is a hugely problematic play. (For some of the reasons behind my declaration, see the bottom of this blog.) I saw a production of it this summer, and while the company put in solid performances, there was no escaping the many issues with the script. Fantastic directors, actors, set designers, and other stage experts cannot fix structural problems in the material.

This brought to mind several lesfic reviewers I’ve read or learned about regarding a question to the effect of, “If the first book you’ve read by an author did not float your boat, do you give that author another chance?” Because sadly, their answer was, “No.”
What if Measure for Measure was a reviewer’s first experience with Shakespeare? Would the reviewer decide she’d seen/read enough and never give Shakespeare another chance? Presumably he’d already written such beloved plays as The Taming of the Shrew, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Hamlet, but Othello, King Lear, The Tempest, The Winter’s Tale, and Macbeth, among others, had not yet been penned.

I have read amazing debuts from authors whose later works I’ve found wanting. I have read mediocre novels yet been blown away by others from those same writers. As to authors with numerous titles, I’ve read some that I loved and some that missed the mark for me. (This occurs across genres. When I went through a mysteries phase several years ago, I remember enjoying certain books by Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, Patricia Cornwell, and Harlan Coben, yet failing to get into others.) I cannot think of one prolific author whose works I’ve found extraordinary 100% of the time.

This is not a bad thing. Some pieces resonate with us because they have more or less humor than we like, more or less tragedy than we like, more or less authenticity than we like, more or less sex than we like, etc. Some are delightfully new, some tell the same tale we’ve read a hundred times, some veer too close for comfort. Sometimes we read a novel and it greatly impacts us because of what we happen to be going through in our lives, and sometimes rereading that same novel barely holds our interest.

But if Measure for Measure taught me anything, it’s that even the greatest of writers pen works that might not appeal to us. Measure for Measure should caution us and reviewers against a “seen one, seen ’em all” approach to an author.

We all have limited budgets and time, and we want to give ourselves the best chance of reading solid, (ideally) exceptional material. So some of us look to reviews to help us decide what to read. But if a reviewer is essentially saying, “If I haven’t published a review or wrote a negative review on a book, you should consider it not being worth your time,” then is that the conclusion we should draw not only about that particular work, but across the author’s portfolio?

Keep in mind that such classics as The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, and Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, were panned by critics when first released. If a reviewer hasn’t published a review or gave a negative review doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy it. And just because reviewers tank one book from a particular author does not mean the author is deficient, subpar, or unworthy of your time.

Yes, read blurbs. Yes, read reviews. Read available excerpts/samples. You can get a pretty good idea of an author’s style for a particular piece by doing so. It’s not failsafe, but it can’t hurt and can often help.

My point: consider Measure for Measure the next time you’re thinking of writing off an author due to a review you read. You just might give yourself the chance to enjoy the next Othello or Macbeth.
​

For those interested in the many problems in Measure for Measure, here are a few: (i) why the benevolent Duke chooses to leave his government in the hands of the cruel Angelo in the first place, especially since we learn that the Duke knows how Angelo mistreated his former fiancée (over her lost dowry!); (ii) why the Duke, who has returned to his town pretending to be a friar, does not end the charade when a man’s life is at stake and he could easily halt the planned execution; (iii) why Isabella continued to care deeply for her brother when he admitted he’d prefer she be sexually violated on his behalf than that he be executed; (iv) why the Duke suddenly wants Isabella for himself by the end of the play; (v) why the Duke or audience should want Angelo’s former fiancée to be stuck with him, i.e. why this is a reasonable resolution; and (vi) how Angelo could have sex with his former fiancée yet believe he was having sex with Isabella. Really? Come on, no matter how dark one’s surroundings, wouldn’t this be clear?
0 Comments

Cliché Away

9/10/2017

0 Comments

 
[Reblogged from Women and Words]

​
“Most of my clichés aren’t original.”  –Chuck Knox

A word to the wise, dear authors: avoid clichés like the plague. I’m not going to beat around the bush. You’re overusing them. It might drive you up the wall to hear this, but each cliché is standing out like a sore thumb. So how do you minimize them? That’s the burning question. Comb through your manuscripts and wield your red pen to your heart’s content. Bite the bullet. I know it’s easier said than done, but I have faith in you. You’re a force to be reckoned with. You can hold your own. You got your feet wet with your debut novel, but now it’s time to go the extra mile. Think of your readers. If the shoe were on the other foot, would you want to keep seeing the same phrases over and over? It goes without saying that your readers will be happy as clams that you put your best foot forward. Mark my words, you’ll knock their socks off. Just my two cents.

Okay, so that was me playing around, stuffing as many clichés as I could into one paragraph. I was inspired to write about them because I recently finished a romance where the characters turned or spun on their heels so often, I wondered if I’d accidentally purchased a book on dance lessons.

Not all clichés are bad or an indication of laziness. Some are purposeful and efficiently express an idea. Writers often want to take readers on a journey grounded in the familiar, and the occasional cliché does just that. For example, saying someone is a “broken record” succinctly conveys that the person’s constant repetition of a statement or idea is annoying.

But others slip past us because they’re so natural. (Heck, if I’m not careful, my characters would “lean in” more than Sheryl Sandberg.) These are the ones to be mindful of. They’re like crazy Uncle Gus who always seems to duck unnoticed into family gatherings and inevitably passes out on the couch, snoring after imbibing too much Pabst Blue Ribbon. We love Gus, but he needs to be put out to Pabsture.

Since I read a lot of lesbian romance, what I really wanted to do was have fun incorporating as many clichés that are specific to the genre as I could into a tiny story snippet. It’s a mini celebration of sorts, a Vanna White wave to the phrases we see so often that they’ve become old friends. My guess is this story fragment will sound familiar simply because you see these expressions as frequently as I do. Feel free to add your favorites in the Comments. Better yet, share your own snippet!
_________________________________________________________________________________________


Emma had been investigating Rotham City’s superhero, Sly Owl, for over two years. Unbelievably, all paths seemed to lead to her friend, Tori, whom she’d had a major crush on for what seemed like forever. Having finally confronted Tori about her findings, Tori’s only response was to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“It’s why you’ve never admitted what’s between us, isn’t it?” Emma asked.

Tori reached for Emma’s hand. When their fingers touched, Emma felt a shiver run through her. Her breath caught as Tori pulled her close, their bodies fitting perfectly together.

“If anyone finds out how I feel about you, they might…” Tori tucked a strand of Emma’s hair behind her ear and dropped her gaze to Emma’s mouth. “I can’t let anything happen to you,” Tori murmured. The electricity between them was almost palpable, and Emma wanted nothing more than Tori’s full lips on hers. Just as Tori closed the distance between them, the distress signal projecting a flying owl symbol lit up the Rotham City skies.

Tori dropped her hand, and Emma instantly felt the loss of the touch. With a shy smile, Tori said, “We have a lot to talk about.” She turned on her heel and was gone in the flap of a wing.
0 Comments

Wine Makes Everything Better (AKA Fighting the Social Media Blues)

10/9/2016

0 Comments

 
[Reblogged from Women and Words]
​
There’s a strange but well-documented phenomenon that happens to many artists. It’s the unhelpful artist’s math that says if one gets 99 positive vs. 1 negative review, we know which one will stick, at least for most of us. (Why, oh why, does the math work that way?)

Artists know that not everyone will like our work. It’s a fool’s errand to try to please everyone. This is why some actors and writers don’t read reviews. All we can do is produce our best work and keep moving forward.

Yet despite good advice and our best efforts, negativity can still creep in. It can still hurt. As one writer friend told me, it’s “puzzlingly hard” that we can be discouraged even when we know we shouldn’t be. Do I think about the overwhelmingly positive reviews of my books, or do I torment myself over the one or two that sneaked past my defenses and lodged in me like a kidney stone, to the point where my spouse filters them for me?

And it’s not just artists. Whether we’re chefs, nurses, managers, business owners, teachers—anyone who can be personally reviewed online—we know better than to let the negativity in. My terrific doctor told me about a review that devastated her. She cares deeply for her patients and tries so hard to do right by them, but medicine isn’t going to work in every case. Out of the many reviews she’s gotten—most of which are amazing—guess which one she remembers verbatim?

Yes, we should all follow the great advice about stopping ourselves from giving criticism power it doesn’t deserve. It’s just that sometimes, our best intentions to remain unaffected fail.

But I want to look at this more broadly, because criticism is a drop in the ocean in terms of things that can get to us. We can feel down for numerous reasons, and sometimes for seemingly no reason.

My question: what happens then? Where can we go when we’re feeling down, besides the wine rack?

Let’s face it. On a personal front, we contact friends via text message or online nowadays. We rarely pick up the phone anymore, and we’re certainly not mailing letters. On a professional front, artists are expected to have a social media presence. Thus, collectively, a “natural” outlet for our feeling blue—regardless of cause—is social media.

This means we immediately run up against the unspoken rule in social media that we’re supposed to stay (or pretend we’re) upbeat. For many, that means depicting interesting jobs, charming families, and ideal spouses. For artists, it means this is a business and we should be cultivating a certain image. Even if we’re feeling out of sorts, we’re supposed to post pictures of our pets or something clever.

That feels terribly inauthentic to me. My gosh, if we were all so very happy, would we be spending so much time on Facebook in the first place? Do friends, fans, and readers really require us to be some sunny, always-on, perversely positive caricature of ourselves? At some point, are we crossing a line in our desire to present ourselves in an always-positive light? In our attempts to be forever perky and funny, do we ultimately end up instilling hopelessness in people because they’ll never be the Wonder Women we’re (falsely) presenting to them?

How can we be authentic in a world that’s so often about crafted self-presentation and self-promotion? When we’re always supposed to put on a smiley face? (Yes, this one :-)
)
Jessica Spaulding, the lead character in my latest romance, For Money or Love, is a woman who, for various reasons, presents herself as something she’s not. We come to understand why she’s doing it, but we also see what it’s costing her. Ultimately, when Jess is put to the test, she chooses against a false presentation of herself. She chooses authenticity.

I think it’s okay to admit not everything is perfect 100% of the time. No one likes a constant complainer either, but can’t we give each other license to acknowledge when things aren’t hunky dory? How many articles on functional depression and loneliness do we have to read before we strive for a more balanced approach to self-presentation than the highlight reels of our lives?

Artists push through the difficult times—when their Muses abandon them, when they feel disconnected from their art, when negative comments are the only ones they absorb. They aren’t easy times.

But it’s not just artists. All of us go through ups and downs. We’re human. We get laid off, fired, divorced, evicted, etc. We feel joy and sorrow, happiness and discouragement.

I don’t have all the answers. I can’t promise I won’t post pics of cute animals or wise quotes—hell, sometimes a Corgi or sea otter pup photo will actually lift my spirits in a way that I need just then.

What I can tell you is that when you’re down, you’re not alone.

If you’ve been figuratively knocked down or have fallen recently, please know it’s okay to admit it. And if you need some time before you’re yourself again, take it.

When this happens, how about we give each other a hand instead of a :-) ? Pull each other up? 

0 Comments

The Master of Romance

9/18/2016

0 Comments

 
Reblogged from Women and Words.

To celebrate this week’s general release of my second romance, For Money or Love—now available at Amazon, Bold Strokes Books and other fine book stores, yippee!!!—I want to talk about the Master of Romance.
 
Forget Danielle Steel, Jackie Collins, Nora Roberts, and Nicholas Sparks. The undisputed master of romance is, of course:
 
Bernie Madoff.
 
No? The biggest financial swindler of all time isn’t on your romance radar? Perhaps he should be.
 
You’re thinking, “This Heather Blackmore person is nuttier than a jar of Jif.”
 
Undoubtedly. But I digress.
 
For those of you unfamiliar with Bernie, he was arrested in 2008 after admitting to one of the largest investor frauds in world history—a Ponzi scheme of $65 billion.
 
One definition of romance is, “to invent or relate romances; indulge in fanciful or extravagant stories or daydreams.” Think Don Quixote.
                                                                                                                                                      
Bernie Madoff concocted an extravagant story for the ages. And investors bought it.
 
Yet before I get into details about this key piece of inspiration for my novel, let me dispel any hearsay: For Money or Love is a love story, not a financial thriller.
 
It’s a story of two women from diverse backgrounds, each coming to terms with who she wants to be versus who she is, because the woman she’s falling for makes her strive to be a better person.
 
In the 270 page paperback, there are 3 pages—spread over multiple scenes—devoted to the characters’ difficulties in understanding the finances of Magnate, the fictional Madoff-like investment firm.
 
Those few pages of financial-speak are an important aspect of the story. The Madoff-like character has perpetrated a massive fraud extending nearly two decades (not unlike Madoff). How it’s finally discovered, the reasons it’s flown under the radar for so long, and the complete devastation it leaves in its wake are critical elements of the novel.
 
But it’s secondary to the romance. And thus only 3 pages.
 
And now back to Mr. Madoff.
 
Bernie lived the dream. According to an attorney for several Madoff victims, Bernie “moved in some of the best social circles in New York. He worked the best country clubs. He was utterly charming. He was a master at meeting people” and creating a near-superhero aura. He literally charmed people out of billions of dollars.


Picture
There’s something very compelling about sweet-talking, charismatic, wealthy people. Just look at our multi-billion dollar celebrity news industry. Madoff ruined many lives and nonprofits due to his boundless greed, yet something about him made people look the other way, decide not to look too closely—SEC employees included.
 
For Money or Love is not a story of Mr. Madoff, yet it includes a fictional account of a woman who could almost have been his daughter.
 
My thinking went something like this:
What would it be like to have your entire life upended because you learned your parent was a criminal of the worst kind? What if the father or mother who tended your scraped knees, helped you with your homework, clapped proudly at your graduation, and hugged you when your first love broke your heart turned out to be an outrageous thief and liar?
 
What if you were the person who discovered and informed law enforcement of your parent’s scheme? (Madoff’s sons Mark and Andrew informed the feds as soon as they heard their father’s confession.) Would anyone believe you could be so ignorant, especially if you enjoyed the trappings of wealth enabled by the deception? Did anyone truly believe Ruth Madoff had no inkling of her husband’s treachery? How many folks thought Madoff’s sons acted nobly vs. selfishly to save their own hides? (Even Madoff’s former secretary—and they always know, right?—claimed no knowledge of his artifice despite 25 years of working for him.) How many of you believe that Ruth, Mark, and Andrew were just as duped as the rest of the world?
 
The Madoff family lost their fortune, friends, and reputation as a result of Bernie’s actions that affected, and in a number of cases ruined, thousands of businesses, charities, and individuals. Mark hanged himself with a dog leash on the second anniversary of his father's arrest. Andrew believed the stress caused by his father's actions opened the door for his cancer’s return (it later killed him). He said, “I will never forgive him for what he did. He's already dead to me.”
 
Madoff wove a fanciful tale of generating good, consistent returns—a romantic story of billion-dollar proportions. And unsuspecting investors bought into his mystique. Unfortunately, his fiction didn’t yield a happily-ever-after for anyone caught in his web of lies.
 
Although I’m already giving too much away by mentioning how Madoff influenced me, I want to share an excerpt from early in the book. TJ Blake recounts the disastrous first day of her internship to her teenage sister, Kara, which went awry when TJ and Jessica Spaulding (wealthy daughter of the firm’s founder) had lunch:

TJ didn’t require too much family time except for dinner, and typically Kara would immediately head to her room afterward. Tonight she lingered, rimming her water glass with her finger.

“How’d it go today?” Kara asked.

TJ spoke over her shoulder as she scrubbed the plates. “Fine, I suppose.”

“Must’ve been pretty bad for you to leave early.”

“The person I’ve been assigned to isn’t exactly…I’m not sure I can learn from her.”

“So, like, Mr. Ferris?” Kara’s freshman-year foreign-language teacher had been as helpful to the students learning Spanish as whistling to communicate with birds. Kara had complained, suggesting she’d learn more from Spanish language audiobooks than attending his class. TJ had agreed, and instead of suffering in his class each day, Kara went to the school library and followed the lessons. She was now in Spanish AP.

“I don’t know if she’s that bad, but we definitely don’t see eye to eye.”

“About what?”

TJ didn’t want to talk to Kara about her exchange with Jess. But it was rare these days for Kara to be so unguarded, and TJ didn’t want their time together to end. When their mom had died—which to TJ was far too passive a way to describe it—TJ had been forced into a guardianship for which she was ill prepared. Kara blamed herself for the loss while TJ blamed their mother. As Kara grew older, she retreated into her games, growing more sullen and standoffish.

Cars were the only thing these days that pulled Kara out of her doldrums, a subject that often put the two of them at odds. Their relationship had morphed into a bifurcated not-parent, not-sibling thing TJ couldn’t describe. Now, their closeness was sporadic. She didn’t know how much of Kara’s moodiness was due to normal teenage angst or to feeling worthless.

For several months after their mother’s passing, Kara, twelve at the time, had often cried that she wasn’t good enough—wasn’t enough, period—to keep her mother interested in this life. Since then, Kara never talked about their mother. And neither did TJ.

TJ set down the glass she was cleaning and dried her hands. Two chocolate muffins had been warming in the oven, which she tossed into two bowls. She dropped a dollop of ice cream onto each one and sat next to her sister, who immediately began to eat.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about something she said.” TJ interpreted Kara’s full-mouthed mumbled question as only a sibling could. “Scary I understood that.” TJ sucked on a small bite of the mint chocolate chip. “She asked if I weed out prospective dates based on income.”

“You talked with your boss about dating? On the first day?”

“Not talked about it, exactly. It came up.”

“Did she hit on you?”

“No! God, she’s straight as a pole.”

“Paulina Zeilinski just transferred from Warsaw, and she’s anything but.”

TJ pushed her sister’s shoulder. “Smart aleck. Fine. Straight as an arrow. Broom. Line.”

“How do you know she’s straight?”

“She wore a sign.”

Kara returned the shoulder push. “Do you?”

“Do I wear a sign?”

“Weed out prospective dates based on income?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like women come up to me and say, ‘Hi, I made two million last year and here’s a copy of my 1040. Want to have dinner?’”

“Probably not a great pick-up line.”

“For a lot of women, it would be.”

“Gross.”

“I know. But part of me thinks she’s right. What if I judge people based on how they live? More specifically, their earnings? How does that make me any different from people who judge me based on the sex of the person I prefer in my bed?”

Kara grinned and waggled her eyebrows. “Sex and bed. You never talk sex and bed.” She scooped another spoonful of ice cream and muffin into her mouth.

“Never mind.”

“She rich?”

“As Croesus.”

“Who?”

“Iranian Bill Gates, sixth century BC.” Unless a history lesson related to automobiles, Kara lost interest, so TJ often modernized and packaged historical facts into sound bites to keep their conversations on track.

“She hot?”

“What does that have to do…were you not here for the part about the arrows and lines?”

“What if…what if a beautiful, bright heiress worth bazillions asked you to dinner?”

“How could I enjoy the meal? How could I ever pay her back? I’d sit there and think of all the ways I’d fall short and how I couldn’t remotely give her anything she’s used to.”

“Why would you need to pay her back? Dude. Pretty—”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Don’t interrupt. Pretty, smart heiress is—”

TJ scoffed. “You can scrap smart.”

“Goes without saying if someone asks you out. But dimwitted heiress is asking you on a date, not pulling out her little black bookie book to track who owes who.”

“Who owes whom. And I can’t accept something for nothing.”

“I’m speaking colloquially, Grammar Police. She wouldn’t be asking you to. She’d be asking you to respond with, like, part of you, not part of your checkbook. She’s surrounded by people who could do that, but she asked you. What if you’re the antidote to her having to deal with all the Class As trying to get into her pants because they paid for some fancy dinner?”

Class As were assholes. TJ didn’t allow Kara to swear. When either wanted to call someone a nasty name, they were Class As.

“I don’t know that I could prevent them from trying.”

“If she knew you were by her side, she wouldn’t care that they did.”

“Fake heiress in said fake situation sounds intriguing, but don’t you have some homework to finish?”

“So she’s hot.”

“Homework.”

0 Comments

Because Mom

9/6/2016

0 Comments

 
Reblogged from the Bold Strokes Books Author Blog
If you had to describe what a romance novel is about using only one word, what would you use?

Love.


Easy answer. And in the context of romance, it’s a certain kind of love: intimate, sexual, consensual, chivalrous, grand, consuming.


But who taught you to love so fiercely?


I don’t want to get into anything Freudian, but I’d argue that your mother may have had something to do with it.


Maybe it’s odd that I dedicated my second romance, For Money or Love, to my mom. But when I think of the love I’ve experienced, she stands front and center.


In my early 20s, I fell in love with a woman, which didn’t go over well with Mom. It caused significant strain between us, which I’ve blogged about: http://www.heatherblackmore.com/blog/category/love-conquers-all. And since Mom died unexpectedly, we never got a chance to completely mend together. I believe without question that we would have, especially given the parallels between her and my mother-in-law and the latter’s shift over time to acceptance and inclusion because of her unyielding love for her daughter.
​

But I’ve never once doubted that my mom loved me. She was the quintessential mama bear, defending my brother and me unreservedly, teaching us right from wrong, being there for us every single day. Her laugh was full and infectious, her temper fiery, her work ethic strong.
Picture
[Here’s Mom celebrating a new bedside reading lamp. She was a voracious reader. Mysteries were her favorite.]

An extrovert, Mom always conversed easily with strangers, never embarrassed to ask for a recipe or offer an opinion. She was a loyal friend and had so many that the church liaison had to accommodate the number somehow when scheduling her memorial service, though I don’t remember the details.


The worst day of my life—12 years ago yet I cannot write this without tearing up—was the day we decided to halt Mom’s life support machines.


I’m not a tremendously visual person, but the last image I have of my mom—the one that’s indelibly carved into my memory and I see frequently in my mind’s eye—isn’t a happy one. I see her through a large window to a separate room where, alone, she lies on a gurney on her back under a white sheet, only her head showing. When the crematorium’s representative asked Dad and me who would make this final identification, I volunteered. To this day I’m not sure whether I regret it, but I hadn’t wanted my father to have to see Mom like that again. Part of me also wanted to say a final goodbye.


The thing is, you really can’t say goodbye to your mom. At least not one like mine.
Picture
[Me with my Dumb and Dumber bangs looking at Mom as if she were the most amazing person on the planet. She’s doing a crossword puzzle—something she always loved—and while she was probably wishing I’d let her get back to it, she always made time for me.]

In my new romance, For Money or Love, both main characters have lost their mothers. Jessica Spaulding’s mother died when she was young, and her stepmother leaves much to be desired. TJ Blake’s mother lost her husband and subsequently her will to live, leaving behind two daughters.

And while there is so much more going on in the book than these women dealing with life without mom, it’s a subject I know all too well, one that I’d much rather have written purely from imagination.


In For Money or Love, each woman’s loss is not in the foreground of her life. But every single day, their lives are impacted by their mother’s death. Jessica sacrifices part of who she is in order to placate her stepmom; TJ sacrifices what might otherwise be carefree college years in order to rear her much younger sister, Kara. I go through days without thinking of Mom, but then sometimes I miss her so severely that I nearly break down.


Mom is forever with me. I don’t know what it is about a mother-daughter bond, but it’s strong. For me, unbreakable.


If I have any strength, I got it from my mom. If I have any courage, I got it from my mom. If I have anything to give, I am able to give it because of my mom.


​So it stands to reason that if I’m going to write about love, I’m going to do it well. And if I’m going to dedicate a novel to her, it’s going to be a damn good one. Because Mom.
0 Comments

Upping my Game

9/4/2016

0 Comments

 
Picture
Reblogged from Women and Words.

I had one overarching goal for my second romance novel: improve my craft. If I’m going to try to compete for readers’ hard-earned book budget dollars, I need to constantly work on upping my game.
​
Not that I meant it as a competition in any way vs. my debut. My first romance, Like Jazz, was an anomalous offering my Muse dropped into my lap during a week on Kauai. En route, I jotted ideas in a notebook and took my sweetheart through the plot during our initial walk on the island. I unexpectedly turned that vacation (sorry, honey!) into a writing retreat, spending my days on our lanai overlooking the majestic Pacific Ocean, typing on my laptop, my fingers acting as a conduit to a story that wouldn’t leave my head. Like a gift, the words flowed, and I wrote 8,000-9,000 words per day—every day—that week! 


Picture

While I did end up spending the better part of a year reworking and editing that book, I knew out of the gate that my second novel wasn’t going to come to me quite so readily. Trust me when I tell you my Kauai word count is *not* how it usually works.

But just because it would be harder didn’t mean it would be better. How would I improve upon my debut? I knew I had to set the bar high. After all, I was a debut author finalist for the Goldie and Rainbow Awards, and contemporary lesbian fiction runner-up for the Rainbow Awards for Like Jazz.

Here’s how: I focused on increasing the stakes as well as adding important secondary characters and (ideally) even more humor. I put into practice the suggestions my editor, Shelley Thrasher, gave me during the editing process for my first book. None of that was easy, especially as the stakes in Like Jazz get pretty high, with the protagonist’s life in jeopardy.

Where did I end up? Well, in addition to the story’s romance, For Money or Love explores treachery, class differences, and parental loss. Bernie Madoff, of all people, inspired this key aspect of the novel:

What if you discover that the parent you love and admire has engaged in such deceit that your entire world—your career, your home, your family, your social life, your fledgling relationship—will be destroyed if you turn your parent in, and the life of the woman you’re falling for will be destroyed as well? Yet if you maintain the façade your parent has created, your lack of integrity would render your new relationship and your ability to live with yourself impossible.

I believed this was a sufficiently sticky wicket to throw at my main character, though that wasn’t all I saddled her with.

What steps did I take to develop my skills? Though I’ve been a playwright for years, I read guides on how to structure a romance storyline—beats, stakes, turning points, crisis, resolution, etc. These are things many of us know, yet are good to keep top of mind. While such guidance helped, perspective was equally important: following my gut and the advice of friends who are writers and editors in their own right. Also, though I’d read over a hundred lesbian romance novels before writing Like Jazz, I’ve read hundreds more since, homing in on my own likes and dislikes.

Once I was nearly finished, I had a final chapter that worked well as an ending but didn’t bring all the pieces together the way I wished. It took months for the right idea to take shape and stick, and I’m proud of how it turned out. I had a similar issue with Like Jazz, which was the hardest part of that book to figure out and I worked through long after Kauai.

Ultimately, Like Jazz and For Money or Love are so different that it’s not easy to know if I succeeded in my goal of improving my craft. Helping muddy the waters is a different POV: Like Jazz was written in first person whereas FMOL is in third person.

What I do know is that I’m extremely gratified by how For Money or Love turned out. I didn’t force myself into complying with a deadline that might have compromised the outcome. There was no rush, no concessions. Deadlines work really well for many authors but not for me.

You may feel overwhelmed by the number of books that strike your fancy—your heart says BUY but your wallet says NSF (which, to my sweetie, means “not so fast!”). Here’s what I suggest:

Take advantage of free excerpts available at boldstrokesbooks.com or other publishers’ websites, or download samples via Amazon. Pretend you’re in a See’s Candies store. Try before you buy, and savor each bite along the way. There’s high quality stuff out there, as well as some curious what-the-heck-is-in-that-soft-center bites. Excerpts allow us to check out someone’s style and learn about the type of story we’re in for, without risk.

Hopefully you’ll be pulled into Jess and TJ’s story as much as I was when writing it. It has all the elements I hoped to bring to it. But as to whether it works for you? Only you, dear reader, can decide.
​
To whet your appetite, below is the first scene of For Money or Love:

                                                            Chapter One

“Jessica, I want you to help get our intern acclimated to the firm.”

The Diet Coke Jess was sipping shot up through her nose, drops of it landing on her silk Chanel blouse. She should have opted for the sparkling water.

As the burning sensation ebbed, she stared at her father in disbelief, silently ticking off the reasons she must have misheard. One, this was so not her thing. She was the head of marketing, not a babysitter. Two, her father rarely asked her to perform any actual work and never held her responsible for anything. Why her, why now? Three, intern? Derrick Spaulding was worth billions—with a B. His investment advisory firm was small but highly respected, with billions of assets under management. Interns should occupy as much space in his head as sunlight.

It wasn’t possible she’d heard him correctly.

“You expect me to believe you’re interested in an intern’s first day?”

“I’m interested in her project. As you should be. She’ll be doing a case study on the firm, and if it goes the way Philip intends, it will be taught at some of this country’s best universities.”

Philip Ridge and her father had been college roommates. He was the dean of Griffin University’s business school, where the two had met as undergraduates.

“Have Gary handle it,” Jess said. Gary Treanor was the firm’s chief operating officer, her father’s right-hand man and stepson. Unlike Jess, he was a fixture at the office.

“I don’t want her to focus on the side of the business Gary handles. I want you to show her other aspects.”

“Such as?”

“How you and Brooke manage to bring in so many new clients.”

Of course. Brooke. This was Derrick-speak for her sister’s ability to sell anything to anyone, but he was being kind enough to include her. Brooke could sell sand to Saudis and portable heaters to Algerians.

“If she’s doing a case study on the business, shouldn’t she spend her time with the investment managers?”

“I want to her focus on sales and marketing, without which we’d have a sliver of the assets under management that we have.”

It was as close to a compliment as Jess had ever received from him in a business context, and she took to it like gum to a shoe. “I’ll help in any way I can. What do we know about her?”

“According to Philip, she was the impetus behind the program.” The Derrick Spaulding MBA program was a sixteen-month accelerated curriculum that included a two-year nonprofit-sector service requirement post-graduation. It was Ridge who ensured that if Derrick made a sufficiently large contribution to their alma mater, he’d work his magic to get the program named for Derrick. Jess was well associated with it because Derrick’s donations were one of the things she adored most about him and one of the reasons she worked so hard, albeit surreptitiously, on Magnate’s behalf. The higher Magnate’s profits, the more Derrick gave to various causes. Prospective investors interested in learning the character of the firm’s founder found an extensive bio on the corporate website, much of which related to Derrick’s philanthropic interests.

Jess closed her eyes and placed two fingers against each temple as if channeling an otherworldly entity. “Okay. I’m getting brainy, dull, and single-minded. Am I close?”

Derrick offered his winning smile. “Once you’re through with her? Not a chance.” He winked.

Another compliment. Apparently this internship was a bigger deal than she anticipated. “You haven’t met her?”

Her father shook his head.

“Do we know if she has more than the social grace of a hyena?”

“Except for her chronic halitosis and unseemly body hair, I imagine she’ll be fine.”

Jess loved it when her father bantered. At home—at least when her stepmother was out and she dropped by—he proved a great foil, engaging her with humor and interest. Work was another story, where he scarcely acted as though they were related. She could probably unicycle in front of him wearing a gold-lamé bodysuit that shot sparklers out of her bustier, and he wouldn’t notice. She treasured these unguarded moments, wishing desperately they could share more of them. But she’d take what she could get.

“Bring a little Listerine and some tweezers?” she asked.

“And a brush for the dandruff.”

“I’ll put it in my purse.”

“My little Girl Scout. Always prepared.”

Jess kissed her father on the cheek. “For you? Anything.”
Click here for a longer excerpt (takes you to boldstrokesbooks.com).
0 Comments

Dolly Madison’s promiscuous younger sister, Ashley.

8/20/2015

1 Comment

 
Picture
Married and want to have an affair? Go for it. Here’s how.

In the wake of the Ashley Madison scandal in which roughly 37 million users pursue its slogan, “Life is Short, Have an Affair,” I offer some advice on how to do it. It’s very simple. There are only two rules:

End your marriage or get your spouse’s blessing.

Falling for a friend? Looking for a younger, sexier, richer thang? Want to hook up to your heart’s content? No problem. Just talk to your spouse first.

Damn, Heather. Where’s the fun in that? That totally takes the rush and excitement out of having an affair!

Look. Your spouse deserves your honesty and fidelity. If you can’t give that to him or her anymore, you need to tell him or her and end things. You do not go a website to find ways of actively cheating.

Want to remain married and sleep around? Okay. Talk to your spouse. If you’re both looking to spice things up, maybe you’ll decide to try having an open relationship. It works for some.

Here’s what doesn’t work: cheating and lying about it. Yes, it’s hard to have a conversation about why your marriage isn’t working. But you know what’s harder? Being cheated on.

I fell in love for the first time in my early 20s. Somewhere around the two-year mark, I found out my then live-in girlfriend was cheating on me. Folks, let me tell you, there are few things in life that hurt as much. And we weren’t even married. No vows before God or family, just empty promises.

That was in the days before social media. Imagine the extra pain heaped onto an already incredibly hurtful experience because your spouse’s affair made headlines. Wow.

You say you love your spouse and don’t want to hurt him or her by revealing you’re unsatisfied? Grow a pair. Put on your big girl panties. You’re married. You voluntarily vowed to work together to traverse that path. Demonstrate your love by initiating some hard conversations. You never know where it will lead. It may turn things around in your marriage. Yet if it leaves you divorced, now can go after that friend or thang and know you had the integrity to do right by the person you claim to love.

1 Comment

Writing Secrets Revealed!

4/28/2015

0 Comments

 
Picture
Learn how to write a New York Times bestselling romance in 3 easy steps! The magic formula guaranteed to catapult you into the top echelon of...oh, wait, none of that's true. Well, what is true is I’m super excited to be the first interviewee for Marion Dries’ new podcast series at Women and Words! Whether you're a writer or a reader, take a few minutes to learn what it's really like behind the scenes. Listen in!
http://womenwords.org/2015/04/28/voices-of-lesbian-literature-heather-blackmore/



0 Comments
<<Previous

    Archives

    March 2018
    November 2017
    September 2017
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2015
    April 2015
    May 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    June 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013

    RSS Feed

    Favorites

    All
    After The Cigarette
    A Warm Embrace
    Love Conquers All
    The Stereotype Stops Here

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.
Photos used under Creative Commons from hapinachu, r.nial.bradshaw, Phillie Casablanca, star5112, Faint Sanity, kouk, lululemon athletica, that one doood