Reviewish: Deepest, Darkest Eden

Deepest, Darkest Eden - ed. Cody Goodfellow, Miskatonic River Press


I've been sitting on writing this review for a while, because what I've been trying to mentally do is form my thoughts into a quippy blurb that would really -sell- this collection to people who were looking to the reviews to help them decide. I finally realized though, that while I could probably do so, it is a disservice to the authors in the text and to readers for me to try to spin my opinion. (Reviews are opinions, no matter how well-backed.) It is far better that I just lay out my experience & thoughts plainly.

In short, this is a pretty tasty collection of stories that execute the art of pastiche perfectly. (I'm a fan of pastiche for several reasons; chief among them is that a pastiche is what brought me to a love of Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes.) 

Full Cover art for Deepest, Darkest Eden

Revolving around, inspired by, progeny from frothy, dark, eldritch literary spawn of Clark Ashton Smith, these stories put out. Which is to say, they deliver exactly what's promised. Overall, each story (and poem - there are a couple) nails the atmospheric feeling of an ol' CAS tale. Details are heavy & rich and doom lingers. This is a great anthology if you're looking for something with that CAS flair. Or, if you've never experienced it. Be prepared, though - these stories (and their origin) come in a very particular flavor.

While I enjoyed the whole collection overall, there are a few worth note - both good and bad. I'll start with my primary candidates of best/worst:

"Daughter of The Elk Goddess" - Probably my favorite. In a way, the story was fairly predictable (after a while of reading, most stories are, aren't they?) - but the execution was so lovely that I couldn't help but love it. I enjoyed reading it the most, no doubt. Though I knew where things were going, I still reacted as though I hadn't. That's a mark of a good story teller; it took me to a destination, but the journey was the more worthy part.

"In Old Commoriom" - I enjoyed this story for the most part, but there were aspects of it that took away from the overall narrative. In places it seemed to drone, and then the ending tries for something clever and it really broke the build-up for me. In a couple places, the carefully wrought language seemed to slip into more contemporary parlance and that was a bit jarring. Not a bad story by any means, but one that had some "fridge moments" that didn't wait for me to put the story down to interrupt my enjoyment and make me ask "Wait, what?" Your mileage may vary.

That said, even if I considered "In Old Commoriom" one of the weakest stories in the book - it's STILL a 3 star story by itself (1=skip it, 3=decent enough to read, 5=o.m.g.read.it.now) and pretty interesting - not enough to bring down my estimation of the text by any means.

Honorable Mentions: "The Lost Archetype" and "The Door from Earth" and "Zolamin and the Mad God" (which I forgot to mention in my Amazon review). These three were great reads. "The Lost Archetype" was peculiarly fulfilling; the ending was suitable and there was a good bit of tension in the telling, but overall it was just /fun/. "The Door from Earth" tickled all of the places in me that require a particular sort of ending. I admit to giggling a little - though the story isn't "funny". Finally, "Zolamin and the Mad God" was another that just... satisfied. I can't put my finger on it, and maybe that's why it slipped my mind when I put up my Amazon review... but it was definitely satisfying. All three were solidly crafted and gave the sense of a completed tale. I imagine each of them could easily also be expanded into larger works - but there's no feel of a need for that.

Ultimately, I wouldn't feel the need to offer any caveats if I were to suggest this collection to a reader looking for something with that Clark Ashton Smith, Robert E. Howard, or H. P. Lovecraft sort of feel. Similarly, if you've ever enjoyed anything in the sword & sorcery realm, I think there's plenty tot tickle your fancy in this collection. It was an enjoyable and engrossing read. 

Reviewish: No Lasting Burial (The Zombie Bible)

Reviews of the arts are always going to be a very personal thing. What makes the difference (as I've mentioned many times in my real life, but maybe not here) is if a person has the self-awareness and analytical wherewithal to be able to adequately and accurately describe the WHY of their assertions. (Technical reviews of function tend to be a little less subjective - did a thing do the job it was supposed to do in the method in which it was supposed to do so?) I hope I can hold up to my own standards.

I start off with this sort-of disclaimer because I recently finished reading a book that I consider to be a great read because of its impact on me on that personal level.

No Lasting Burial, by Stant Litore (The Kindle edition is on sale for $2 - if you don't have a Kindle, you can still read it through the PC Cloud Reader or through the Kindle App on other devices - and the paperback is just under $9. I recently won a hard copy in a contest and it is really a well-printed book.)

I'm going to endeavor to avoid spoilers.

I'll try to start with the more technical aspects:

The writing is lovely. While the bulk of textual entertainment can be referred to as "prose", I tend to save this word for particularly well-wrought and beautiful language. This is not experimental or high-brow stunting; Litore's prose is direct and 'simple' (but not simplistic) while also being complex and, at times, layering in more meaning.

The story is engaging and moves along at a very steady clip. I was surprised at the size of the print-copy of the text. (I read the Kindle version.) It is a hefty book! Originally released in episodes on Amazon, it does have pacing that allows you to step away at the end of each episode, but I found that I didn't really want to. Still, it was convenient when I needed to. In total, I finished reading the book in less than 6 hours total. (Despite its 360+ page length - in electronic and in print format.)

Good word use, great story crafting - there's not much more I can ask for in a text.

Here's where things get tricky, though - at least, as I've encountered in talking to people who've never heard of this book. This is part of a series called "The Zombie Bible". I know that for most people, this immediately summons up ideas of zombie-insertion fiction and a certain level of cheese, camp, and/or gore. While there is some gore (none I found gratuitous - and I have used that word to apply to blood/violence in a Tarantino film, for some context of my use of the word), this book was not cheesy or campy. The zombies, though, are not just zombies. These are The Dead; they are/were people and they have something to say to the reader, just as much as any of the other characters.

Then there's the matter of this being a story about Christ and his invitation to Shimon (Peter) (and others) to follow him. My relationship with religion and faith have always been fairly distant, if not strained or estranged. I came up through churches with a lot of conflicting views, a tendency to take all the wrong things literally, and a drive to snuff out questions. These experiences did not cultivate a lot of faith or trust in me. However, this portrayal of a figure I've known since childhood was (to continue to overuse a word) beautiful.

If you are of a particular mindset, this book will probably challenge you in some ways. I hope, if you choose to read this, you'll be open to that challenge to think and examine what you think and why. I did not, however, find anything about the rendering of this story to conflict with the broader message I've since extracted about Christianity (love one another, be excellent to each other, God will take care of the sorting - not my job).

I tried, just now, while talking to a friend and trying to figure out how to "sell" someone on the idea of a text that is called "The Zombie Bible", to read a passage to him and explain just why and how it moved me. I couldn't read it out loud. As soon as I tried, I started to sob.

 "My mother ... she told me once that our father did not promise a life without pain. ... Not without pain. Only that he would weep with us. Only that his heart would break. Only that he would take each moment of suffering, each death, each, and hold it in his hands, and ... and bring from it something, something even more beautiful than what was lost."

This book was a really personal experience for me and that's all manner of odd to admit "out loud" when you're talking about a book that includes zombies. But they aren't just zombies, and no other threat (packs of wild dogs, Romans, or tribbles) could replace them. The Dead are so much more than that. They are a symbol and a metaphor. They are a binding and a sundering. And Litore's treatment of Christ did not threaten or scare or offend me. (I'm not very easy to offend.) If anything, it brought a little spark of faith and hope back to my life. It brought some humanity to a figure that so much of my experience has painted as pretty flat. If THIS were the Jesus I experienced in my youth, if THESE were the words given to me from that pulpit-of-authority when I needed them? I think things would've been different. Maybe I'd be different. Those words, that quote, are something that could've soothed some hurts when I was younger. Far better than any attempts at therapy or self-medication to sort through hurt and anger.

I cannot and will not apologize for works that touch me.

I am not, however, trying to convince anyone else to read this book for that experience. What books touch us is a unique experience for every individual. We all have our own special texts that impact, brand, mark us for life.

What I am saying, though, is that this is an honestly good read if one can set aside assumptions and take it in on its own terms; a 'second world' retelling of a familiar tale, with some hungry Dead.

If you're even a little curious, I encourage you to give it a read. And, at $2 (at the time of this posting), what can it hurt?

2013, The Year

2013, The Year

In January, I got pretty sick. I'm almost sure that this was when I nearly had Scarlet Fever (strep throat gone too far). It was $200 out of pocket for the clinic visit, and then $200 for the generic antibiotic. I'm allergic to Amoxicillin and Erythromycin.

In April, I gave my second American Literature lecture at my local community college, as part of my Honors project for my American Literature Post-1865. It was open to the public. It was a little easier than my first one (December 2012), but I don't think it was any better or worse.

I graduated in May with my A.A. and a 4.0 GPA. Later in that month, I attended Denver's Second Annual ComicCon (I also went to the first), where I had an opportunity to meet Felicia Day. She was a sweet lady. I hate every picture of me. I saw these two cosplayers who made my whole day. I also decided I could not attend DCC in the future without two things happening:

I would need to lose weight.
They would have to manage the admission lines better.

I still have some foot pain that started during that event.

In June, despite my Anxiety, I drove into Downtown Denver to attend a signing event at the Tattered Cover. When it came to be my turn, I told someone rather famous that they were my unicorn. I immediately felt stupid and overwhelmed by that, despite the heart of truth in it, and started to cry, and then apologize for crying. Instead of reacting with awkwardness or any other number of reactions that I've come to expect (reactions for which I do not blame people, really), I got something I'd never have imagined -

Neil Gaiman hugged me.

A few days later, I lost my part-time job because the projects for which I'd been hired were finished.

In August, I turned 32.  A few weeks later, I realized I couldn't actually afford to start school in the Fall with the funds available to me, and that the school I'd selected would leave me in slightly more debt than I was comfortable accepting. I postponed starting my next 2 years of schooling. I applied to the Metropolitan State University of Denver, on the same campus. I was accepted.

September brought a severe haircut. It was the first time I'd had really short hair since I was 9 years old.  I was ready for change. I don't think I actually achieved it.

In October, I went to the 45th Annual MileHi Con where I finally met Cat Valente, a woman & writer I'd known online since 2000'ish when we started interacting on Livejournal, where we'd run a writing group together for a brief span of time. I met Seanan McGuire, Ian Tregillis, and many other wonderful authors - some from the previous year. I bought more books. I saw Molly Tanzer again, and because of my special kind of crazy, I was immensely touched that she remembered me.

November was National Novel Writing Month, and I participated again. I tripled my word-count from last year's attempt. I did pretty well at Writing Every Day. Midway through, I even did a putting-on-make-up girly day with a friend. Yes, I'm 32 - no, I had never done that before.

In December, I started removing people from my Facebook list who were no longer aligned with my way of thinking. Mind, that doesn't mean 'sharing my opinions', but instead a valuing of critical thinking and not making fallacious declarations. The sort of people who are generally inflammatory, thoughtless, and rude in sharing their opinions, which they seem to glean from public transportation station restroom walls. I decided there was no point in keeping up with people socially online who were only toxic. Christmas happened and I decided that I want to make up a calendar of my own holidays - leaving behind the events they've become and really investing in days that mean something to me. Also, I saw a dragon.

Overall, I did not write as much as I wanted - I have only myself to blame for that. I reconnected with more than a few old friends, I readjusted my emotional distance in both directions across the board. I made myself vulnerable, I buried myself deep. I contained multitudes.

I'm not quite there yet, but I'm working harder every day to be the person I want to be. It's not a New Year's resolution, it's a mindful goal for every day, all seasons. ...Also, I need to read more.

Reviewish: The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug

If you're worried about spoilers, just leave now.

I want to talk about The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug, but at the same time, I don't know how to talk about it. Perhaps the easiest way is to talk about the characters a little, as groups or individuals, and their interwoven stories. This is not about comparing the book to the movie (though there are times that is unavoidable), it is about weighing a film on its own merits.

Would I recommend seeing it? Yes, absolutely yes. But don't expect the text verbatim. Book:Film doesn't work that way.

It was a beautifully rendered movie. It was a beautifully acted movie. The writing, in places, was brilliant and not so much in others.

Gandalf, as far as I am concerned, is the face-to-watch for the bits of the movie in which he appears. Sir Ian McKellen tells a lot of Gandalf's backstory with his eyes. Pay attention. If you think you see a soul burdened with thousands of years of stuff, you're right. He's seen things, man.

The dwarves were dwarfy. (I would like a Barrel Bombur action-figure please.) And since this is THEIR story (Bilbo's too), it could always use more dwarf.

Bilbo. He could've gotten a little more development time. I'm a little annoyed that there was no conversation about the Ring with Gandalf. It would've tied in so nicely to the stuff going down in Dol Guldur (which Jackson did NOT make up, by the way - that stuff is stuff Tolkien wrote).

Mirkwood:  Spiders - ew! Yay! but ew!  Elves. Yay! Elves. Sigh.

I accepted the changes that went down in regards to Azog & Bolg. I accepted that there would be an invented elf added to the story. I accepted that Legolas would be more than a cameo. I accepted a lot of things would be different from the texts; it is simply the way film works.

What I have difficulty accepting is poorly executed changes, whatever their intent. What I speak out against is poor storytelling.

Tauriel. Nevermind the lore-issues that could be discussed (red-headed elf).

What I won't excuse is the shoe-horning in of a female character who is used entirely as a plot device and an object (moreover, for a romantic subplot that was entirely unnecessary and in many places ruined the pacing of the story). Thanks for the gesture, but ultimately I found it to be a condescending and/or patronizing one.

You can tell me all day what a badass she is, you can tell me "But she's Captain of the Guard!"  So what? What elf with a name isn't a badass? And why does it matter if she's Captain of the Guard? It is pitched to me like that is some kind of achievement for a girl. And that is what makes it worse. "You should be happy there's an empowered female in the movie!" No, not really. Not when she's a walking cliche machine.

She comes off as a token female, and for me, that's worse than no female at all. (I'd actually have been fine with no female 'main character' because this is the story of the dwarves & their hobbit bro. Their story. There were plenty of opportunities to people the land with individuals - the whole "strong woman" issue is a whole other can o' worms not for this post...)


Ultimately I have two gripes and they don't take away from the movie overall, for me.

1 - The romantic subplot was:
unnecessary
poorly written
poorly developed
poorly executed


2 - This is really a result of the poor writing/execution of the unnecessary and poorly developed romantic subplot; the misuse/abuse of Morgul Blades. This is probably the closest I get to having an issue about divergence from the texts. Morgul Blades were Very Important in the Fellowship. In Desolation, they are this footnote, throwaway plot device to put Kili in danger and motivate the Love Interest to come save him.

If you know what a Morgul Blade is, then you know a random orc is NOT running around with arrows tipped with the stuff. It's just not happening. So, bad storytelling begets sloppy storytelling.

The End Again: National Novel Writing Month

Last year I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I was a bit cynical. As I struggled through the process, I learned a lot about MY process and a lot about the gaps in my writing toolbox. I only achieved half the goal for the month, but I like to think that what I learned (and the sheer amount of outlining and brainstorming that happened) made up a little bit for the lack of words on the page.

The truth is, nothing can make up for words that don't make it onto the page. Every word written is better than a word unwritten, and last year, I barely cleared 25,000 words. (And of those words, most of them were backstory for the world in which I thought I was writing. They weren't even ABOUT my main character, though they had some historical significance.)

This year, I decided to try a different approach and it seems to have worked out for me, though it didn't work as planned. (It never goes as-planned.)

I decided I wanted to write some specific types of short stories and based on average length estimates, I projected I could churn out 5-7 stories during the month of November.

I just can't seem to follow the rules though. (Incidentally, I have similar trouble when game-mastering and trying to use a module. I just can't do it.)

I started out working on a story about half of a set of twins and a graduation party. I finished that piece on the fourth day. At that juncture, I wasn't sure where to go, so I fell back on a character that'd been wandering around in my brain for a while. I started writing about her encounters. I thought it might be good for a couple of the projected stories. Then it got away from me and I just kept writing. So, the first 8956 words were on one project, but the rest were on this one character and her world of experience.

There are still a LOT of things unwritten and the majority of them are purely the happenings in her personal life. While that may be compelling (or not), I feel like I need to observe her character arc and give her a story arc with which to interact. Or maybe not. I know for now I will keep writing. My "master document" tells me I have over 83k words, which includes a lot of notes and some outlining, while my solid word count - which does not include those outlines/notes - comes in at 55,372 words as of today. (Today was a small day, 522 words on an incomplete scene.)

Did you participate? Did you "win" (I still hate the win/lose dichotomy - if you learned something, if you produced something, you are winning at writing)?

Feel free to share your thoughts, your victories, your defeats. Or ask me questions about mine. I'm not a professional writer (using the definition of 'being published, making money at it'), but if I've learned anything from my time talking to writers, observing writers, and writing... it's that we are all on a journey together. It's not a destination, it is ALWAYS a journey... and everyone has something they can teach and learn.

Wells of Words: The Books We Come Back To

Recently, Stant Litore (The Zombie Bible) conceived of the notion to collect a library of sorts for his daughters River & Inara. I won't try to over-explain it, he does a fine job of saying just what it is over on his blog. (I encourage everyone to read through the contributions; it is beautiful.)

As I considered what quotes and what books I'd share in this particular light, I started to notice a trend in the sorts of books I quote.

First and foremost, whenever I am asked to offer a quote from a beloved book (we might take a moment to remember that I love books of all sorts) I come back to two particular texts without fail:

The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams

and

The Last Unicorn, by Peter S. Beagle

With The Velveteen Rabbit, it is always the same excerpt:

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

...once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. This sentiment is the reason songs like Iris (by the Goo Goo Dolls) speak so strongly to people. We are so afraid of being flawed, ugly, broken in the sight of the people around us that we forget we are always beautiful in the sight of those who love us - and that those who love us are the ones who matter most in this life.

On the other hand, with The Last Unicorn, I tend to pick and choose (there are SO MANY quotable bits in that book (many are maintained in the film)) to suit the audience doing the asking. In the case of Stant's Library, I offered the excerpt about heroes knowing the order of things - it is a testament to the Hero's Journey and the cyclic nature of our personal narratives, not just those of fictional personae. But in truth, it is Molly Grue when she meets the Unicorn... this is the true quote that lives carved into the inner walls of my heart:

“Where have you been?" she cried. "Damn you, where have you been?" She took a few steps toward Schmendrick, but she was looking beyond him, at the unicorn.

When she tried to get by, the magician stood in her way. "You don't talk like that," he told her, still uncertain that Molly had recognized the unicorn. "Don't you know how to behave, woman? You don't curtsy, either."

But Molly pushed him aside and went up to the unicorn, scolding her as though she were a strayed milk cow. "Where have you been?" Before the whiteness and the shining horn, Molly shrank to a shrilling beetle, but this time it was the unicorn's old dark eyes that looked down.

"I am here now," she said at last.

Molly laughed with her lips flat. "And what good is it to me that you're here now? Where where you twenty years ago, ten years ago? How dare you, how dare you come to me now, when I am this?" With a flap of her hand she summed herself up: barren face, desert eyes, and yellowing heart. "I wish you had never come. Why did you come now?" The tears began to slide down the sides of her nose.

The unicorn made no reply, and Schmendrick said, "She is the last. She is the last unicorn in the world."

"She would be." Molly sniffed. "It would be the last unicorn in the world to come to Molly Grue." She reached up then to lay her hand on the unicorn's cheek; but both of them flinched a little, and the touch came to rest on on the swift, shivering place under the jaw. Molly said, "It's all right. I forgive you.”

And really, of all of that, the only parts I needed to know were Molly's words, "Where have you been? ... How dare you, how dare you come to me now, when I am this?" All the weight of her life is in that simple four-letter word - this. I didn't need Mr. Beagle to explain what she meant (though he helpfully does for those who may not know/understand); at sixteen years old, wrung out from a childhood of particular abuses, strained family relationships, few friends, several upheavals, foster care, an orphanage, a new home or two every year, I already knew what Molly meant - and this is why her words are the true quote for me from all of that wonderful tome.

All of this really brings me around to this question: What words, what books have etched their words into your heart and/or mind? When you're asked to offer up a favorite quote, from what well do you draw your bucket?

Narrative Responsibility: Women in Fiction (A Link)

I can't begin to tackle the (very) large idea of narrative responsibility, but today I read a post that resonated and managed to lay out one aspect of the narrative responsibility of storytellers that I feel compelled to share.

More and more we see writers or memes about writers telling us that the way they write strong female characters is by simply writing strong people, by viewing women as people, gender not impacting the equation of creating them as whole beings. 

Neil Gaiman says, "remember that the most important thing to do is to write people who feel like people and that women are people."

Joss Whedon had a lot of things to say at his 2006 Equality Now speech regarding the fact that he's constantly asked about his strong women characters, and he raises a good question. "Why aren't you asking a hundred other guys why they don’t write strong women characters?"

Even George R. R. Martin has been turned into an image that seems to have started on reddit from an interview with George Stroumboulopoulos when he answers the question of how he writes women so well:  "I've always considered women to be people."  (The question comes around 18:37 in the interview link.)

All of that leads up to me wanting to share THIS post with everyone. I encourage you to follow the link and read the whole thing. There is nothing I found there with which I disagree. We all know about subtext and how our stories say more than what they say just in words, and we should be aware of those things. 


"'We Have Always Fought': Challenging the 'Women, Cattle and Slaves' Narrative" by Kameron Hurley.

Stories tell us who we are. What we’re capable of. When we go out looking for stories we are, I think, in many ways going in search of ourselves, trying to find understanding of our lives, and the people around us.  Stories, and language tell us what’s important.

If women are “bitches” and “cunts” and “whores” and the people we’re killing are “gooks” and “japs” and “rag heads” then they aren’t really people, are they?  It makes them easier to erase. Easier to kill. To disregard. To un-see.

But the moment we re-imagine the world as a buzzing hive of individuals with a variety of genders and complicated sexes and unique, passionate narratives that have yet to be told – it makes them harder to ignore. They are no longer, “women and cattle and slaves” but active players in their own stories.

And ours.

Getting Back on the Horse

Getting Back on the Horse

I've always been curious about the phrase "getting back on the horse" and how it is used to describe the act of trying something again. Have you ever fallen off of a horse? That's probably the worst part, followed by the fear of falling off of it again. The expression sums up continuing on despite the fear of failure and pain in the future...

So what kind of phrase should one use when it's just that you have a hard time forming the kinds of habits you ought to be forming? Things like going to bed at a decent hour, maintaining your writing space, or writing every day? Or, in this very specific case, keeping an active blog?

It might be easier if it were something that provided more to me than a soapbox - I don't really like being on a soapbox, or a stage, or any focal point of attention. It might be easier if I were being paid (but I don't think I'd like that either). But, they also say things about easy and doing well...

Who are they?

In any case, this is me chiding myself aloud about falling off this blogging horse and promising that I will try to be a more consistent writer; both here and on my creative projects, which I hope I can share a little about here as well.

On my list of to-do's, I want to go back and revisit the Story Board videos at Geek & Sundry, the way I did with the first one (on Urban Fantasy).

Six Sentence Sunday, at least as a large group activity, disbanded shortly after I participated for the first time  -- I may adopt the idea as a way to share my creative work without posting it in full here.

And all the other things I've already talked about last year and didn't manage to follow through on.

I'm also open to suggestions, either submitted in the comments or sent via email.

The Cost of Kindness

This morning I woke up, read some more of Stephen King's "Full Dark, No Stars" and then went out for some errands. I've been in need of sundry bits and a couple of nice shirts that would be appropriate for more-than-casual appointments or potential interviews. After knocking out a couple of stops, I went to grab a sandwich for lunch from the nearby Subway.

As part of my own sort of self-therapy (and because I'd had a good morning of reading and thinking about my own writing), I tried to smile at strangers, to make at-least-polite eye-contact, and to just be as pleasant as humanly possible. The idea being that not only would this help me feel more comfortable, but it might actually improve someone else's day. This, unfortunately, has a pretty messy price. It leaves me feeling a little spent - it really is an effort to not simply shut down to all the strangers milling about in a store. But it also seems to create in others an expectation of who I am, of what I am to them.

It says something when I explain that I know when someone is about to ask me for money. As I came out of the shop with my sandwich, I made brief eye contact with a slight smile and then went for my car. I wasn't worried that this person was going to do anything harmful to me, but I could see the shift in his body language and he altered his path to intercept mine. I was closer to my car however and had determined that I just wanted to leave. I was pulling out of my parking space when he entered my field of view again, this time in front of my car. I had no choice but to stop.

Of course, he approached and told me his story. This one was simple. He was 50 cents short for bus fare, if I had some change or could help him out, he'd be very appreciative. I didn't have any cash. I looked in my change tray. I had two brand new pennies that weren't superglued (by goodness knows what) to my console, so I was apologetic and offered them to him. He said something I couldn't quite understand and I said, "I'm sorry?"

At this point, he wasn't aggressive and I am not sure he was actually talking to me anymore.  He'd completely dismissed me now that he'd gotten the change I had and there was no further use for me. I didn't even get to wish him luck or give him a "God bless you" which is the standard exchange I'm used to with strangers who approach me for money in parking lots. But I could tell he's annoyed.

Did I want to avoid him? Yes. Did I want to leave as quickly as possible? Yes. Did I want to do it because I thought anything negative about him? Not particularly. It had everything to do with me being a means to an end, with knowing I would be wedged into a situation where MORE kindness would be asked/required from me than I could give at that time. And my deep-seated dislike of disappointing people. It also happens frequently enough that I've learned to recognize that it's going to happen - this means it happens a lot.

I find myself with very real justifications for the patterns of social behavior I'm trying to correct. Situations like this feed my anxiety and encourage me to close up and pretend other people don't exist.

"Kindness doesn't cost a thing." 

For those who struggle with anxiety, this is so far from true. Kindness given by an unwanted or unwelcome encounter feels essentially forced. It doesn't reciprocate, it doesn't feel good at all.

On top of that, every person that approaches me for monetary help brings back with them every person I've met in that way. The homeless man I spent 15 minutes talking to one day about surgery and the infection on his leg, the parolee whose family wouldn't take him in, the man who ran out of gas, the woman with three kids leaving an abusive husband, another parolee trying to keep himself in school, and a few others whose stories blend together. Sure, some of them could've been - probably were - cons. I knew that the moment they engaged me, and I decided that there was no way for me to know and that I would give them all the benefit of the doubt.

With all these stories though comes the emotional battery that some of us experience when taking on the burden of another person's tragic story. If I am to have faith in these people, I have to believe their stories. If I believe their stories, I cannot help but empathize, or at least sympathize, with every one of them. Their stories become my stories and that is what guides me to help them - tempered with keeping my own well being and means in mind.

Today I could only give the man 2 cents from my console and he did give a quick thanks, but then he was done with me. Obviously, I'm still carrying some of him. I hope he got the change he needed to get the bus he needed and that he got where he needed to go. I hope all of them did.

I don't remember where I was going with this other than to say that we bandy about the idea that kindness doesn't cost a thing, but it does for those of us who really consider what it means to treat others the way we would want to be treated. How do we know how we'd like to be treated unless we can slip on the other person's shoes to consider how we might like to be treated in their place?

Neil Gaiman & the Shared Love of things

Tonight, Neil Gaiman came through Denver on his "Final U.S. Book Tour" and did a 1000 ticket signing at the Tattered Cover bookstore. It is the only bookstore on the tour as the requirements for those wanting to host the tour (per a conversation I wandered into with an employee) was that they'd have to rent a hall capable of seating 2000 and have it rented into the tiny hours of the morning. The Tattered Cover couldn't do it, so had to pass. Per the story I heard, Neil intervened because he had fond memories of the place and wanted to include it in his last signing tour. (In his Reading and Q&A prior to the signing, he told a story about two previous signings - at the first, he signed someone's arm. At the second, he saw his signature tattooed onto that person's arm and swore to write legibly on flesh from that day on.)

If you go to conventions or signings or any event really, you learn to recognize a line, even if it's scattered through stacks, or zigzagged around tables. The signing today was no different.

I arrived at 4pm but was not near enough to the front of the line to get seating in the 300-person event hall. The whole thing was wired, however, so that there was a single projection and sound on the entire second floor. I shared a divan with 4 other people, not including the 3 that used the headrest for leaning support from the floor. No one complained, no one said anything rude, no one made judgy faces. We were all there because we loved something.

We all shared a love of some piece of Neil Gaiman which he's given to us in his creative works.

I didn't exactly break bread with strangers, but we moved from a loose social bond in the line to sharing a table and a common space. We had conversations almost like friends. People and books all over the place, and a common feeling.se

(I also played spot-the-(local)-author. Saw Stant Litore (The Zombie Bible), Stephen Graham Jones (The Last Final Girl), and Gary Jonas (Modern Sorcery).)


When I finally decided to find a place on the floor to sit for a while, I couldn't read. I ended up next to two younger individuals. A comment was made about how friendly people were, and how many strangers were ebbing and flowing through conversations. I was candid, I wasn't nervous, I wasn't shy. I told them this;

"There's a kind of connection at geeky events like this. Conventions, signings, and the like. This is the only kind of event where I talk to strangers. Not at the grocery store, not usually in a classroom, only here."

What I didn't say out loud, what I ran out of words to say was that... these are the places where we feel the least judged for our loves. No one was there who would say "Why would anyone stand in line for HOURS just to meet some author?" or worse, they wouldn't ask "Who?" or question the joy on my face at the prospect.

When it was time, I struggled with myself in the line. I swiped away tears, I told myself I could do this - I could be coherent, I wouldn't cry, I would say what I wanted to say and I knew he would understand what I was trying to communicate.

I took a breath, opened my mouth and I said "You're my unicorn."

Let's take a little time out to talk about social & generalized anxiety, and the little hateful voices that so many of us are cultivated to have. Immediately, I hear the screaming in my head, "What did you just say? Do you know how stupid that sounded? You're a stalker, you're a weirdo! Why would you say that! Why can't you just be normal?"

Why can't you just be normal.

Why can't you just be normal.

It's a mantra that devours so much confidence, so much energy, and so much good-will. It takes and takes, and what it gives back is nothing you want to have.

I stumbled over the words, tears choking my voice. I wanted to explain to him that I struggle with social & general anxiety disorders. That I drove into an unknown place, alone. I parked underground (I'm a little claustrophobic). I walked alone. I talked to authority strangers (the first security person when I pulled into the wrong place, the second when I lost my sense of direction). I was far away from all areas of comfort (so I believed earlier in the day - turns out I'm at home even in 'strange' bookstores) and I was totally alone. I had only myself to depend on - and sometimes my Self is not very reliable for me.

I managed to say something about my anxiety but I was already in tears. There was no stopping them.

"Come here for a hug."

I wasn't sure I heard right, but the assistants around the table ushered me around and Neil Gaiman gave me a hug. A firm, warm, comfortable hug. He told me he was proud of me. I told him I was sorry, I didn't want to cry on him. He told me it was okay, to go ahead and cry. I did, though I held in most of it. I had permission, but I did not want to cry in his hair, on his shoulder - he has a long night ahead of him and is due in another city by tomorrow evening.

It was because he took a moment to say, "I'm proud of you." For coming out despite my anxiety, for showing up, for being there. No one has ever, ever validated my efforts to overcome this hurdle before. And I realize how pathetic that sounds.

I cried all the way home. I'm still crying as I write this.

It all spun by so fast.


Not that I imagine he'll see this here, but:

Neil Gaiman - thank you. From the depths of my heart and the deeper places. Thank you for the works you share with us, the love you engender in your fans - the love of your works, for yourself, and for each other. But also thank you for taking a moment for a kind gesture and words that really do mean more than just the letters or the sounds. Thank you for drowning out those terrible little demons with simple words and real feeling.

I fought and was wounded, but ultimately defeated beasts just for a chance to simply see one of my metaphorical unicorns tonight. My efforts were repaid more than I dared to hope.