Blog Posts - Heather Blackmore

My Writing Process

5/24/2014

My cat chases things that don’t exist. Why not tap into that imagination?

Thanks to my friend Cindy Rizzo, one of the fabulous authors with whom I’m lucky enough to be shortlisted for a 2014 Goldie Award in the Debut Author category, for tagging me to contribute a blog post on my writing process as part of the blog tour called, shockingly, #mywritingprocess. Cindy wrote the enjoyable romance, “Exception to the Rule,” and its upcoming sequel (of sorts), “Love Is Enough,” which I can’t wait to read. http://cindyrizzo.wordpress.com/. Without further ado:

1.     What am I working on? I’m responding to questions for the blog tour #mywritingprocess. Oh, and I’m working on a romance that deals with some fairly heavy subject matter (a mass shooting and domestic violence). Okay, maybe not exactly a romance…

2.     How does my work differ from others in the same genre? Every author brings his or her own experience and emotion to their work, so mine will be different almost by definition. You’ll just have to read my work and those of my colleagues to find out how. Mwahaha.

3.     Why do I write what I do? Writers write what they know. For me, that’s spreadsheets. Unfortunately, Excel for Dummies had already been written, so I went with the next obvious choice: romance. Because, you know, those leading romantics Jane Eyre, Elizabeth Bennett, and Heather Blackmore are so often mentioned in the same sentence.

4.     How does my writing process work? I lock my cat in a closet with my laptop. Days pass. When I return, I review what’s on screen to see what I can divine from it. Kind of a great system. (Which is to say it’s a rather haphazard, erratic process occasionally involving hissing and scratching: mine.)

And now I get to tag two other authors: Ashley Bartlett and Clifford Henderson.

By her own admission, Ashley is an obnoxious, sarcastic, punk-ass. But her friends don’t hold that against her. She’s the author of the Dirty Trilogy and Sex & Skateboards. ashbartlett.com.

Award-winning author Clifford Henderson co-runs The Fun Institute, a school of improv and solo performance. Her novel Rest Home Runaways is due to be released August 2014. cliffordhenderson.net.

There Will Be Blood

3/18/2014

Reblogged from Bold Strokes Books Authors' Blog

Before you read the next sentence, first close your eyes and think of something romantic. (While much of this blog is female focused, it ultimately applies to everyone.)

What popped into your head? Sunset picnic? Moonlit walk on the beach? Shared bubble bath? Candle-lit dinner involving champagne and dark chocolate?

How about: blood?

No? Didn’t top the list?

Oh, come on, ladies. What gets you in the mood better than a diaper-size maxi pad between your legs, making you feel endlessly sexy?

Okay, that might be a stretch.

But I do want to talk about blood. Yours and mine.

Although I’m not a doctor or nurse, in my own tiny way I’ve tried to help people in the health care arena. How? By giving blood. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to do so recently. Last year I was turned down every time I tried to donate, due to low iron levels. Supplements didn’t help.

During that time, my already heavy periods became worse. I never realized just how bad they were because I never really talked about it with anyone until recently. When you have heavy periods from the get-go, you live with it. You’re only thinking how you’re single-handedly keeping Spray ‘N Wash in business, or how the “over a 4 month supply” promise on those jumbo Tampax boxes is false advertising.

Things progressed to a point where my entrepreneurial side kicked in. I mean, if I could improve the extraction, storage and sanitization methods, maybe I could:

-    Sell it for chum;
-    Sell it as an exotic drink (you’ve heard of the Sour Toe Cocktail, right? HERE);
-    Swim alongside Diana Nyad to divert sharks to me instead of her.

I started talking about it with some friends. One had such heavy periods that the blood clots she expelled were the size of small animals—her own red, drowned menagerie! Another opened her browser and showed me a host of products designed to deal with the issue. We laughed about some of our most embarrassing moments resulting from “that time of the month.” I never realized how raunchy and fun women could be when discussing menstruation.

Turns out that producing so much blood isn’t normal. I had an asteroid-size fibroid lodged in exactly the right place to give me the fire hose cycle. Because it could grow and increase the chances of iron-deficiency anemia that could have deleterious effects on my heart, I elected to have it removed.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to donate blood again, but I have high hopes I’ll be able to do so again later this year. In the meantime, I ask you to do what I cannot.

This brings me back to romance, one of my favorite subjects. Romance by one definition involves heroic or marvelous deeds.

And it’s where you come in.

Due to extreme winter weather that’s hit the East Coast, there’s a severe blood shortage across the U.S. Even without that added concern, both here and abroad, the need is ongoing and global.

Giving blood is one of those little yet extraordinary things we can do regularly that can really help someone in need. All it costs is about an hour of our time roughly every other month. Unless you’re a competitive athlete, you’ll be back up to full speed in 24 to 48 hours.

Some of us can’t give blood for various reasons and that’s okay. But if you can donate, please do. Consider:
-    Someone needs blood every two seconds.
-    About 1 in 7 people entering a hospital need blood.
-    One pint of blood can save up to three lives.

Romance novelists sometimes write about second chances. But we write fiction.

If you think about the second chance you might be giving to someone because you donated blood, you might just become the hero in someone else’s story. That’s real life, folks.

And you thought blood wasn’t romantic.

Find a blood drive near you: http://www.redcross.org/blood

After the Cigarette, Should we Talk About Sports? What Links Lesbians Aside from Sex (And How do we Write Those Stories)?

2/4/2014

I got a chance to chat with Ashley Bartlett (author of the Dirty Trilogy, and Sex and Skateboards) about commonalties lesbians share. It was an interesting and fun conversation, which I share below.

Reblogged from Women and Words.

Ashley Bartlett: The broad idea for our topic is that we have something in common aside from sex. But what is that commonality?

Heather Blackmore: One commonality is the absence of lesbians in the stories we see and hear.

Ashley: Yeah, that pervasive invisibility.

Heather: That’s changing bit by bit, but if I go to my local library and look for works where there are lesbian protagonists, I have about 3 choices, all great choices (Dorothy Allison, Jeanette Winterson, Sarah Waters), but 3 choices nonetheless. I’d love to find out how lesbians (and those who write about them in a positive way) can get the word out that there are actually stories by and about them, and that there are a growing number of those stories.

Ashley: But how do we tap into markets that are invisible? We have readership, but outside of that, how do we recruit new readers? Same with movies or music. I tried really hard to see Blue is the Warmest Color, but couldn’t find a showing anywhere.

Heather: Totally agree. Those are part of the stories we’re absent from. Tiny showings at tiny theaters. Same with plays. I don’t know the answer. It seems it’s a very slow growing thing.

Ashley: So aside from invisibility, what links us? What is that thing that makes us want to drink a beer surrounded by lesbians? Why do we adopt little baby dykes and feed them? Why do we want to see ourselves reflected by society when we have nothing in common besides a love of boobs? What else do we have in common?

Heather: We’re linked by our shared histories of being different by an accepted norm, having to maneuver through those differences with our families, friends and colleagues, and searching for ways to love ourselves and find peace with it. That sounded more down than I meant.

Ashley: What about with newer generations who don’t know our history and who don’t struggle with their families or friends? But who still very much want to tap into our culture because their mothers (despite loving them) don’t understand them?

Heather: I think it’s a matter of degrees. It may be easier now, but it’s not yet completely acceptable. Hell, look at the mess with these Sochi Winter Games.

Ashley: Yes, and explaining to kids that they shouldn’t watch the Games seems a difficult task because they say “oh no, that’s wrong, but my watching doesn’t endorse it.”

Heather: Ah, interesting. I don’t know that we shouldn’t watch the games. Athletes have worked all their lives to be good enough to attend. But I think you’re on to something about the education piece of it. Explaining to kids why there’s an issue, and why it’s wrong to be judged by your sexual orientation — that’s what we need to do. Teach. Learn. So in terms of who to have a beer with? We want to have a beer with someone who we relate to. We’re not just linked by sex, we’re linked by those commonalities of what it means to be a minority.

Ashley: So what is that thing? That moment when you walk into a room or make eye contact with someone and it’s like your gut is pulled forward. It’s not sexual or romantic. It’s like coming home.

Heather: Totally! Some “ah-ha” moment where you know you’re not alone.

Ashley: And within that minority, we have so many shades of color and age and gender, but it can reach across those boundaries (usually).

Heather: Yep, that’s why it’s so important for lesbians to think of the larger LGBTQ world when we talk about this stuff.

Ashley: It’s also that moment where you don’t have to explain why you dress like a boy. I don’t know if you do, obvi, but I do. Gender is rapidly becoming a part of that conversation. But the gender conversation has shifted a lot recently.

Heather: We need to be inclusive because so much of the world is still trying to exclude what is “other” or “different.”

Ashley: While we are celebrating being other or different.

Heather: I live in my baseball cap, but if I want to wear a dress at a wedding, I will.

Ashley: hahaha and did you?

Heather: Without the baseball cap on.

Ashley: My girlfriend has informed me that the baseball cap is coming to the wedding.

Heather: Sweet!

Heather: I agree on the celebrating part. It’s a bit like writing in that way. You have your little ego saying “you’re not good enough” for all these reasons, so you have to stop it and celebrate who you are and why you are good enough.

Ashley: It’s also realizing that being queer makes you happy. Not just that you enjoy it or have a community, but that you have something that sets you apart from other, more normative people.

Heather: I think getting to that part — the journey of getting to the realization that being queer makes you happy — can be a difficult journey. A friend just had a gay friend kill himself and she was concerned that was one of the things he just could never come to terms with. So while some of us realize being queer makes us happy, for others it’s a struggle to get to that understanding.

Ashley: How do we translate all of that to fiction?

Heather: We write about those journeys.

Ashley: Do we, though?

Heather: I think we do, yes. At least we’re starting to.

Ashley: I mean, yes twenty years ago, coming out stories and coming to terms stories were huge, but today that is becoming less relevant.

Heather: Did you read Jane Hoppen’s book, In Between?

Ashley: It’s on my list.

Heather: She writes of Sophie’s journey: a child born with male and female genitalia. That’s the kind of story we’re starting to write about. It’s the kind of book you wish you could give to your senators to get them to stop being so judgmental.

Ashley: Exactly. That conversation, of where people who don’t fall on the gender binary should and can exist, is becoming far more relevant.

Heather: Yes, we cannot be stuffed into little boxes of male or female. We need to understand there is “other”. I had a great experience in a blood bank where the guy asked me my gender, and I looked at him like he was crazy, but then I realized he was letting me answer for myself. I totally needed to be reminded that it is MY choice! My identity. Not what someone thinks they see and the box they want to put me in.

Ashley: Yeah, I saw that on your blog (I stalked you). And I loved the way you approached it. My students discuss this a lot. Their first question to a newcomer is “what is your PGP?” (Preferred Gender Pronoun)

Heather: I’ve read about it.

Ashley: It has become a joke, but a very serious and sincere joke, to them. Because they live in a world where that is your first question, but they realize that they are surrounded by people who don’t ever consider the answer.

Heather: That is a great lesson! Knowing “they are surrounded by people who don’t ever consider the answer.” You must work at a very progressive HS.

Ashley: No. Not remotely progressive. Red pocket in a blue state. But that’s why the kids struggle so much. They demand to be seen as they are.

Heather: They must look to you to help them with that. I bet you’re very good for them in that regard. Sincerely.

Ashley: I think I’m the first lesbian most of them have met. And I’m the only out faculty member the school has ever had. It’s empowering to show them that a world exists outside of their own. Also, they have been taught that being queer is about sex. It isn’t. Especially for a teenager who doesn’t consider sex as part of everyday life the way that we do.

Heather: That’s great that the students are open to hearing about people who are different, and then figuring out how they do and don’t relate to it. Without judging.

Ashley: Being able to show them that they have history and community and terminology is exciting. Maybe that is the answer to our question.

Heather: You’re a superstar! We’re done!

Ashley: Hahahaha!

Heather: I think seeing us as purely sexual is a problem. It’s exactly what happened during the AIDS crisis. So many people ignored what was happening because they felt gay men were too sexed up or something. Unbelievable.

Heather: But yeah, showing that being queer is about so much more than our sex lives. Getting that info out there is still not happening enough.

Ashley: Exactly! And a lot of that has faded, but it is still present. Part of the fade is due to social shifts, but we are also surrounded by people who essentially choose to not remember AIDS. As if it didn’t happen because it wasn’t about them or their community.

Heather: But you’re making a difference in the classroom, which is a start.

Ashley: Don’t give me too much credit. My sphere of influence is about 15 teenagers.

Heather: We’re making progress, but sometimes it feels like baby steps. That gets us back to the question of how we get our stories out there. Rather, how we increase the audience.

Ashley: I don’t know. I think we have to rely on some things we can’t control, like public opinion, to make us more visible. But we can change public opinion by coming out to everyone, everywhere, everyday. And by talking to our friends and family and informing them. That way we, as a larger community, become more mainstream in that entertainment and media are about us. And about celebrating our difference the way that we do, not in some stereotypical manifestation.

Heather: Yep, which is why we each need to be involved in sharing our stories. Because we’re all different, we have different histories and imaginations.

Ashley: Which (cue hippie music) is why we have such a rich culture.

Heather: We’re lucky in that respect that we live in America. It’s no longer assumed that because someone is gay, s/he is a sex offender — unlike the propaganda Putin is spewing ahead of the Sochi games. (I’m going to be eliminated after this post.) Rather, our high court aimed to do away with the inequality built into Federal law with DOMA. Hallelujah.

Ashley: Amen, brother.

Love Conquers All

12/10/2013

Reblogged from Women and Words.

Publish under a pseudonym, or not? Seems like an easy question, but it’s not necessarily so simple. Like Jazz is a lesbian romance. While that doesn’t mean the author is gay, in my case it’s true. There are considerations. I’m in a conservative profession. There are members of my extended family I’m not even out to (although in this age of social media, I guess I am now). But most importantly, by putting my name on this book, I feel I’m somehow bringing my mother into the equation.

After I came out to my parents in the early 90’s, we struggled with it for years. I grew up Catholic in a very politically conservative home. (I talked a little about this a few weeks ago on the Bold Strokes Books Authors’ blog, “Voluptuous Catholic Paramours.” Read that HERE.) Especially for my mom, having a lesbian for a daughter was a terribly cruel thing, disappointing and shameful. Part of it was that she worried about my physical safety (think Matthew Shepard); part of it was that she was embarrassed by, and angry with me for (what she felt was) making her seem like a bad mother in front of her family and friends—as if I was gay by some failing on her part; part of it was wrong in her religious view. She told me never to say anything to certain family members because they would disown me.

We fell into a kind of “don’t ask, don’t tell” routine for years. It worked more or less, but not without consequences. How sad to say I didn’t even tell my parents when I got married in 2003—one of the most important days of my life.

My mom died unexpectedly in 2004. We never got a chance to fully heal together, to forgive and let go.

But we’d made progress. Took baby steps. She knew about my “roommate” though we never acknowledged the obvious. Mom even invited her over for Thanksgiving. My parents made a trip to visit us after we purchased our first home together, about seven months before Mom died.

Funny thing. At Mom’s celebration of life, one of my cousins—Mom’s niece—told me to come visit and to bring Shelly. My cousin was telling me she knew very well that Shelly wasn’t just my roommate, and she was welcoming me—us—with open arms. That same afternoon, her father (Mom’s brother) told me the same thing: come visit, bring Shelly. I get tearful remembering how wonderful it felt to have these family members—Mom’s family—love and embrace me unconditionally, mere days after Mom would never be able to see or hear it.

None of my family has disowned me. They’ve accepted and loved me. Even if they don’t all get it, they’ve met Shelly and know what a great person I’ve married.

In an interesting parallel, my wife’s experience has been similar to mine. She grew up in a conservative Catholic home, and her relationship with her mother survived via “don’t ask, don’t tell” for years. Over time, the fact that Shelly and I are together has become of less and less consequence. Our siblings and their spouses have helped reduce the friction with our parents, since it’s just not a big deal to them. The majority of U.S. society has come to receive same-sex relationships. Shelly’s mother, who has always treated me with kindness, has come to accept me. She invites me to family gatherings and goes out of her way to make me feel welcome. I do.

Since our mothers were on a similar path, I like to think that my mom would have gotten to the same place as my wife’s mother. Dad would have probably helped. A few months ago during a phone call, he asked, “And how is your beloved?” Thanks, Dad.

I’m proud of Like Jazz. I don’t know what Mom would think of it or my decision to publish under my real name, but I’m taking cues from my father and mother-in-law. Both want to read the book, and my dad pre-ordered it in support of me.

Mom would be upset with me for this blog, telling private things to a bunch of strangers. I get that. But the point of saying where we started from is to show how far we’ve come—or would have come, if given a little more time. It’s actually a perfect theme for a Romance: “Love conquers all.” It does, or in our case, it would have. I’m certain of it.

Mothers are amazing creatures. My mother-in-law’s love for her children is an astounding, powerful, resilient thing. Ditto for my mom. Mom loved me. Somehow, from somewhere, she still does…

Even if she might have preferred that Like Jazz be written under the nom de plume of, say, Heather Whiteless.

A Warm Embrace

12/3/2013

Reblogged from Bold Strokes Books Authors' Blog:

Hugs are underrated, beautiful, healing things. They can act like a life preserver when you’re caught adrift in life’s turmoil. They can ground you, reset you, free you just enough from whatever’s bothering you to make you want to lift your head and keep going. They can say, silently, but quite powerfully: You mean something, you’re important.

Great hugs are intimate things—and by that I don’t mean romantic things.

My novel, Like Jazz, is a romance, so of course there are some hugs between the main characters that portend of something beyond friendship. But the most important ones are those that say: “I care. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

One of the most memorable hugs of my life came from someone outside my normal circle of friends, yet with whom I’ve always shared an easy rapport: my sister-in-law. My father, brother and I were in a hospital waiting room, and she was with us. Two doctors had just informed us that my mother’s brain had gone too long without oxygen—the damage she suffered was extensive. Moreover, two of her other major organs (heart and kidneys) were permanently damaged as well. When we asked the doctors for guidance, they said they would not continue to keep her on life support. My dad, brother and I made the heart-wrenching decision to turn off the machines keeping my mom alive.

It was the most devastating experience of my life. Losing Mom so quickly, so unexpectedly, easily surpasses all other painful things I’ve known.

As soon as the doctors left us alone, I nearly buckled. I sobbed uncontrollably. My brother and father seemed shell-shocked. My analytical dad has never been big on expressing emotion or comfortable consoling others, so I couldn’t turn to him for solace. It was my sister-in-law who gave me exactly what I needed at that moment. She crossed the room, pulled me into a hug, and held on. Held me and let me cry. Held me through my pain. It’s been nearly ten years, yet tears threaten as a write this. As I remember. Mom.

Yet memorable hugs aren’t just about helping you get through the tough times. One of my best friends in high school was a very physically affectionate person. I wasn’t. I’ve become more so over the years, but back then I’d shrink from embarrassment when she’d hug me. And she’d do it in front of other people! So mortifying. Of course, my obvious discomfort with it only fueled her desire to keep doing it.

The thing was: I needed it. I needed a friend to say all those things that only a really great hug can: “You matter. I care.” I’d been taught not to tell family secrets to anyone, but keeping in family problems—especially when you’re in high school and everything seems like a bigger deal than it does in any other time of your life—took its toll. In a way that no one before her seemed to be able to, this friend would usually end up coaxing out of me whatever was bothering me. She’d give me her shoulder to cry on, and I’d allow myself to be held. It always helped.

One of the most pivotal scenes in Like Jazz revolves around a hug. Such a simple thing. Pure. Precious. Receiving an embrace when you need it, even if you don’t think you do, can be a soul-healing experience. For one of my characters, it was transformational to know someone cared. For the other, giving it wasn’t optional. It was such a fundamental aspect of her nature to comfort a friend in pain or distress.

But we don’t have to wait until someone’s upset in order to embrace them. We can do it anytime. When I was growing up, I remember a public service ad that asked, “Have you hugged your kid today?” It’s worth remembering and expanding upon. Have you hugged—really hugged—your child, spouse, parent, partner, or friend (including the 4-legged furry variety) lately? Maybe it’s cheesy, but guess what? Hugs are free and unlimited. They’re important and worthwhile.

They make a difference.

We always think we’ll have many tomorrows in which to tell someone we love them, we care. Losing my mom taught me that sometimes we run out of tomorrows. If you remember one thing from the many hundreds of messages/ad impressions you’ll see this day, I hope you’ll take advantage of today to make a difference to someone you love. Give ‘em a hug.

My debut novel, Like Jazz, is now available from Bold Strokes Books.

Vocabulary Lessons

11/12/2013

Formerly titled: "Voluptuous Catholic Paramours" (changed May 24, 2014)

Reblogged from Bold Strokes Books Authors' Blog:

I love learning new words. Nearly every word I know I learned in some unremarkable, unmemorable fashion. There have been some standouts, however. I thought I’d share a few.

A popular teacher of mine in high school was preparing us for an upcoming vocabulary test. When he got to the word “voluptuous,” he blushed and stammered, clearly thinking of it in a particularly private manner. He gestured by loosely cupping his palms in front of his chest, as if he meant, but couldn’t say, “Characterized by large breasts.” In response, as if playing charades, one of my classmates called out, “Big hands!” It stuck. Since then, I know what folks think when they see a voluptuous woman: look at those hands.

In my early twenties, I fell in love for the first time. Moored by that committed relationship, I came out to my parents. My mother sent me a letter in response. In it, she said something like, “You are our daughter. You will always be welcome here. Your paramours will not.”

Okay, maybe coming out hadn’t gone over super well.

But I learned a new word. Paramour. It made me sound intriguing and dangerous, like, wow, little old me has an illicit lover! How Anna Karenina of me! And by at least one definition, my mother’s meaning was entirely accurate. My girlfriend and I weren’t married, and we were living together. Still, we weren’t being adulterous, and Mom had previously welcomed most of my boyfriends, so this edict was new. Safe to say that for my Catholic mom, I was not living the dream. Thus began a long road ahead, one filled with hurt and healing. And somehow, always: love. (I’ll be blogging separately about this.)

Fast forward two decades.

My 80+ year-old, politically conservative father has preordered my first novel, Like Jazz. I’m certain he’d have ordered my book even if he hadn’t needed something to get him over the free-super-saver-shipping threshold. He’s supporting my writing, and I’m thrilled. At the same time, I’m a little uncomfortable.

I’ve hinted to him several times about the topic of Like Jazz. “You do realize, Dad, that this is a romance, right? Where the main characters—two women, remember—you know…hug? And sometimes…kiss? And, um…you know, that sort of thing?”

“I like to think I have very catholic tastes,” he said.

I grew up Catholic. Most of my extended family is Catholic. They’re a fairly easygoing group. They don’t walk around quoting Scripture—which isn’t to say that Jesus Christ doesn’t come up a lot, particularly when the Vikings are losing. But when the conversation relates to your nuclear family, trust me, it’s different. “I know, Dad. That’s the thing. Probably not up your alley.”

“You do know what catholic means, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well, I know what I think Catholic means, and based on that, this isn’t necessarily the book for you.”

“Catholic means having wide-ranging tastes. Being broad-minded.”

Are you freaking kidding me? Well, if any being has a sense of humor, it’s God. “It does? Huh.” The capital C version I grew up with meant something vastly different from this lower case c. I immediately grabbed my dictionary. Oh my God. Dad’s definition was the first entry. Mine was last. “You’re right, Dad.”

Like I said, I love learning new words. Or new takes on old ones.

So…for all good catholic folk everywhere, I offer you Like Jazz. Enjoy!

My debut novel, Like Jazz, will be available
from the Bold Strokes Bookstore on December 1, 2013.

Notice of Deficiency

9/18/2013

I used to think the most beautiful words I'd ever read were those from famous literary novels. Perhaps something from Dickens, Dostoevsky, Joyce, Kafka, Poe, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Woolf, etc. Untrue.

Turns out, the most treasured of all words come from the Department of Treasury, specifically, the Internal Revenue Service: "Your 20XX Form 1040 inquiry is closed. Amount due: $0.00." Phew.

The Stereotype Stops Here

8/14/2013

Sometimes life’s loudest lessons prevail in the silences.

I tried to donate blood last week, but was turned down. (My iron levels are always borderline: sometimes I can donate, sometimes I can’t.) But I went through the rigmarole and walked out with a reminder that fighting stereotypes starts with me.

The technician was a matter-of-fact guy who didn't greet me or smile. He’d ask a question with his fingers hovering over the keyboard, I’d respond, and he’d type. The highlights:

Him: Photo I.D.?

I handed it to him.

Him: (placing the ID on his keyboard) Everything current?

Me: Yes.

Him: What’s your address?

Me: (silently) Did we not just cover the part about the information being current?

Hands hovered over the keyboard.

Me: (I provided my address.)

Him: (typing away) Would you care to give your gender?

Me: Sure.

Hands hovered over the keyboard.

Me: (silently) Granted, I’m in my baseball cap instead of my diamond tiara, but…

Still no tapping.

Me: Female.

Him: (typing away) Would you care to give your race?

Me: Sure.

No tapping.

Me: Caucasian.

Him: (typing away)…

I couldn’t help but smile at this exchange. By allowing him the chance to respond for me, I enabled stereotypes to continue. By not presuming to know my answers, he stripped away my (cisgender and white) privilege and required me to be present.

What a refreshing reminder that my gender is my private sense of how I identify, and not how others perceive my biological sex—which may differ from my gender or be ambiguous. And that my race, while by definition relates to grouping people by physical characteristics, has evolved into more of a social construct than anything. All living humans belong to the same species and subspecies; we should look closely at our practice of classification (for gender and race) and the injustice it promotes.

I wasn’t able to give blood, but I was able to reflect, and by doing so, do better.

“Without reflection, we go blindly on our way, creating more unintended consequences, and failing to achieve anything useful.” - Margaret J. Wheatley

866-LVGirls

6/14/2013

I recently stopped in Las Vegas for a night after a short vacation in southern Utah, hiking in Zion and Snow Canyon. On many street corners folks were wearing T-shirts like the guy in the photo I snapped here.

Just pick up the phone, and within 20 minutes, voila! A woman delivered to your door faster than a pizza.

Hmm.

There's a complexity to prostitution that contradicts sweeping generalizations. I bring it up not to get into the diverse opinions on the topic. Instead, I think of the novel I'm writing and editing: Like Jazz.

We read romance novels for many reasons. Some of us want to feel as if we're the only woman in the world, the only person who can hold the interest of our beloved. Some of us want to feel, period--to have a few hours away from the numbness of chores, work and noise in our lives. Some of us want the adventure and excitement a good storyteller can provide. Some of us want to identify with an intelligent and courageous woman who wishes to feel safe when allowing herself to be vulnerable, and bold when daring herself to take what she wants.

A romance novel celebrates falling in love: of feeling scared, thrilled, tongue-tied, daring, found. It revels in the emotion.

The investment will take more than 20+ minutes and cost far less than a visit from a Vegas call girl, but I'd like to think my readers will be able to connect with my characters in ways that make them feel valued and valuable, hopeful and maybe a little happy--emotions you can't order from a toll-free number.

But, hey, if that fails, there's always 866-LVGirls.

Mile 7

4/26/2013

I don’t run. Not unless someone’s chasing me.

When running is hidden as part of a sport, such as tennis or basketball, it’s fine. I don’t really notice it. But going for a run just for the sake of running? Ick. When have you ever passed a runner who wasn’t grimacing as if in pain? Ever passed one who was actually smiling? I rest my case.

Yet in a recent lapse of judgment, I put myself on a strict run-18-miles-a-week plan and have stuck to it for over 6 weeks. I have no plans to do a marathon or anything crazy, and will experience my own brand of shock-and-awe if it continues much longer.

But where’s the high, people?

I was complaining to my brother-in-law about this, explaining that I’d recently completed a 6-mile run—my first—and wanted the promised euphoria, which didn’t occur. I mean, come on, why else do this?

With a grin, he said, “Oh. That happens in mile 7.”