Ann Gimpel's Blogspot

Marketing: Every Writer's Bane Whether They'll Admit it or Not

2012-02-22T08:47:00.000-08:00

I'm ten months into this blogging adventure. I have to admit I was pretty ambivalent about it at the front end. I tend towards being a private person, so journaling--which is what blogging is--was heretofore a one-on-one effort. Just me and my collection of leather-bound journals that contain my dreams, hopes, disappointments and random thoughts.

In addition to starting this blog, over the last year I've also developed presences on Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, Goodreads, Linked-In and now there's Pinterest. I still remember getting my profile together on Google+. I'd gotten my name in there and a couple of other things when my hands crashed down on the keyboard and I screamed, "Nooooooo!" It actually took a couple of months to force myself to go back and finish that profile. It's all pretty overwhelming, really. And I've just scratched the surface. There are lots more social media sites where I could paste my picture and make pithy little comments throughout each day.

Problem, other than the obvious one that I feel really exposed, is there are only so many hours in any of those days. If I spend a couple of them keeping up with social media, that's time I'm not spending writing, or exercising, or playing with my dogs or whipping up something interesting in my kitchen. Then there's my long term marriage. I really like spending time with my husband. And listening to music and watching movies. Gee, I have wireless feed to a big, flat screen television and I think I've only watched two movies in the past six months.

Everything is a balance. My current "pact with the devil" (as I've come to view social media) is that I limit my time posting on various sites to 45 minutes a day; half early in the morning and half at night. Unless it's a day when I create a new blog post. Then you can add about 45 more minutes to that total. I do not have feeds from any of the sites routed to my phone. So far, that seems to be working. I think the technical term is detente. Where both sides maintain an edgy neutrality. So long as half a dozen new social media "must haves" don't crop up, I think I'll be okay.

Other aspects of marketing that are time consuming are researching sites to send books for reviews and attending science fiction and fantasy conventions. (Btw, the "cons" are really fun.) Then there are book blog tours. I'm just finishing my first one. It was hours of work at the front end creating a bunch of new blog posts and interviews, but it's paid off in sales. And I've learned a whole lot about web design, since I don't want to be dependent on someone else every time I want to change out something on my website.

All in all, the world of writing is fascinating. And not anything like I thought it would be during the months I was writing my first novel. I'm sure I'll continue to learn as time unfolds. Any thoughts on social media and marketing would be welcomed.

Are You Living the Life You Want??

2012-02-10T18:14:00.000-08:00

How many of us can answer "yes" to that question without stretching the truth just a bit? So much of what we do every day is for others, or for the future, or "because it's good for you--or someone else". Not that you can't be living the life you want as you do for others. Many of us find fulfillment in philanthropy. I suspect far more of us get mired down in a daily grind, though. It's hard to plan for a more fulfilling future when there's not enough time, money or personal resources to go round.

Another almost universal truth is that every silver lining has a cloud around it. I love writing. It nourishes me and fulfills me. But I discovered early on in the process that the thing that makes salable fiction is a combination of good writing and careful editing. I'm not nearly as fond of editing as I am of writing, but I take the time because my name is on what I write and I don't want people who read my stories to see me as lazy or slipshod.

I'm reading a NY Times Bestseller. It's genre fiction, which is my preference. I'm only about a third of the way through and so far the book is full of unnecessary uses of "that" and it uses lots of passive constructions that distance the reader from the story. I practically choked when I was reading last night (same book) and found several egregious point of view glitches. I suppose I could live with all the technical snafus, but the plot isn't very tightly woven. Sigh. I want whoever did the PR for that book on my team! If they could sell that, they could sell anything to anyone.

Like all trades, it's not necessarily what you know, but who you know. The above author was well connected. It worked for her. The reading public is picky, though. And opinions vary widely. All you have to do is follow threads on Goodreads or any literary commentary site to discover that.

A year or so ago, while on a backpacking trip, I had a single paperback book with me. The author was apparently a "close friend" of Terry Goodkind (at least that's what information on the cover inferred). That one was also a really poorly written book--but it had a great cover, which is what attracted me in the first place. I wouldn't have finished it, except I didn't have anything else to read. I fear the book in the previous paragraph will end up in the burn barrel. No need to finish that one since I have a house full of potential replacements for my nightly reading time.

I'm not sure writing has exactly ruined reading for me, but it's sure changed the way I look at fiction. Unfortunately, I now apply the same jaundiced eye that I look at my own stuff with to nearly everything else I read. So, what does this have to do with living the life I want? It's pretty simply, really. I enjoy being a writer. I'm not naive enough to believe any chosen path has only plusses. Life just isn't like that. If one of the downsides is that I edit manuscripts in my head as I read, I can live with that. Maybe it will improve my own writing on down the line.

I'll take the joy I get from the creative flow. It's a high in and of itself. If another down side is editing, well I've learned a whole lot about the structure of the language along the way. I feel lucky, really. It's not everyone who finds a career that can carry them through their middle years and beyond.

If you want to make some changes in your own life, pick one thing. Yup, just one. Figure out a single tweak, then put it into action. Give that tweak some time to percolate, then pick another. One thing's for sure, if you do nothing, well, then nothing will change. Change is always gradual--and not generally linear. By that I mean, there will be ups and downs along the way. Give yourself permission to shift gears if one of your tweaks isn't working out the way you'd like.

If you're kind to yourself and tolerant (something I struggle with all the time) you'll begin to see changes blossom around you. It takes two to make (or break) something. If you change what you bring to the table, others will need to alter their contribution as well.

What kinds of things would you like to change for 2012?

Why I Don’t Want to Grow Up—Not Ever

2012-02-01T09:18:00.000-08:00

This is a guest blog post I created for Heroines With Hearts back in October of last year. Thought I'd give it a bit more airtime!

Do you remember back to when you were really young? When the boogeyman lived under the bed, or in the back of the closet? And your mom told you he’d get you if you didn’t finish your peas. There was that little frisson of fear that would scuttle down your spine. Part of you knew things like boogeymen didn’t really exist—or did they? The possibility that they might added an edgy, exciting dimension to things.

I sometimes wonder if the box age (you know, the one that started with television and ended with computers and smartphones) hasn’t shifted that sense of wonder we who grew up in the fifties and sixties used to have. There were mysteries when I was a kid and no internet to race to in a hunt for answers. So, some mysteries remained just that. And that was fine. It was all right that some things had no answers; that you just sort of took it on faith that there were at least a few things that couldn’t be dissected into their component parts.

So, what does all this have to do with writing? Authors, really good ones, are able to transport you to another world. It doesn’t have to be a far-fetched science fiction or fantasy world like the ones I frequently write about, but it does have to have enough in the way of world-building to anchor you in the writer’s imaginal process. Reading is an escape and if the world inside the book isn’t sufficiently enticing, you’ll put it down and move on to something that captivates you.

As a sidebar, I’d like to say a couple of things about the imaginal world. Like, for example, what it is. On its simplest level, it’s where we go in our imaginations. For many artists though, this place can turn into a multi-faceted experience. Once they asked Nijinsky what was in his head as he danced. His response was, “I am sitting in the front row watching myself.”

What I think he meant by that was he was able to split his conscious mind into two parts: the part keeping his agile body balanced through the amazing, gravity-defying twirls and jumps he did on stage, and a more cognitive part choreographing his next moves. Because what he did had a physical element, the marriage of his physical and intellectual selves was his link to the imaginal world and the basis for his genius.

How does the imaginal world pan out for writers since it’s a far less physically demanding artistic pursuit? I can only speak for myself, but when I’m deep into a story, my head is so full it’s difficult to stop writing to come down to start dinner. And when I do, God help the poor, hapless family member who actually tries to talk to me because I’m not living in twenty-first century America at that moment. Nope, I’m running alongside my characters as they sketch out their next moves in a sort of parallel universe. Terry Brooks once said something like, “In this business, if you tell your muse to go away, you never know when you’ll see her again. Or if.”

I’ve been writing long enough now I trust the muse will return. It’s simply a matter of when. Problem is, if I skitter out of the imaginal world back to the other one, I get grumpy because it’s not where I want to be. I suppose I’m happiest when the story just keeps on unfolding and I find myself letting pretty much everything else go to hell as I spend hours and days at the keyboard before coming up for air. I’ve always been grateful for my tolerant family. They’re my first beta readers, my biggest critics and my greatest advocates. Long hours on the trail in the backcountry help too. I’ve written lots of short stories in my head on those journeys and gotten the underpinnings for novels as well. Solitude stokes my imagination. Doesn’t take much to bring me back to being a five or six year old kid wondering if tonight is the night the monster will spin out of the closet.

Which circles back to the title of this blog post. Children are born with wonderful imaginations that we set about drumming out of them practically from the time they can talk. There’s nothing wrong with something hiding in the closet, or a magical staircase rising up just there next to the window.

We live in an age that is antithetical to mystery, and because we want everything explained to within an inch of its life; it is also an age that is antithetical to imagination. Without imagination, it becomes progressively harder to lose oneself in books or anything else. I think the fix is to read more, especially to children. Teach them to love books. Let them regale you with fantastic tales about dragons and wizards. Read them The Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. Pull out the Narnia Chronicles. There’s something irresistible about a magic door in the back of a wardrobe leading to a whole other world. I just finished Lev Grossman’s Magician Kings and it has a definite C.S. Lewis feel about it. Probably why it was a best seller. They don’t access Fillory from a wardrobe, but one of the many routes into that magical land is through a grandfather clock.

This is getting too long, so I’ll wrap up. Find the Alice in Wonderland door in your own mind. Revel in the unexplained. Grab onto a dream and make it real for yourself. Take a couple of really deep breaths and tell your best friend how much you love them. Read to your kids and grandkids. And never lose your sense of wonder.

Liz Newman is a Winner!

2012-01-31T13:31:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to Liz. She won a copy of Psyche's Search by leaving a comment at http://cyberlaunchparty.blogspot.com/
Liz is an accomplished author in the romance genre. Her book, An Affinity for Shadows, is dynamite.
I'm still running my blog contest. As soon as I get ten new subscribers, I'll be giving away another book.

On Life and Death and Misery

2012-01-27T19:32:00.000-08:00

What a cheery title for a blog post, huh? We recently had something happen to our little town of 7,000 people that rocked it to its roots. Two well-respected men in their late forties, one an MD, the other a businessman, were charged with soliciting a young girl for sex. The allegations stated the girl was somewhere between 12 and 13 when the men started soliciting her. She just turned 15. Police had in excess of a thousand electronic communications as evidence against the two.

Needless to say, emotions are running high here. People are either firm in their belief that the accused had to be innocent or vocal in their denunciation of the supposed crimes. The two bailed out of jail about a week ago, bail having been reduced from $1M each to $750,000. Tuesday of this week, the doctor killed himself by lethal injection. Reading through the ingredients he used, it sounded a lot like what veterinarians use to euthanize animals.

The MD's attorney is up in arms. Says his client was innocent and that local assumptions of his guilt drove him to take his own life. I'm not so sure about that. The DA in Santa Barbara (where the victim lives) said some of the electronic communications alluded to a suicide pact between the doctor and the teenager. In today's paper, there was an outraged editorial from someone convinced of the doctor's innocence and a letter to the editor by someone equally convinced of his guilt.

I'm not here to be either Judge or jury. I do, however, understand human nature. The doctor had everything to lose. And he was losing his life in pieces. His hospital contract had been severed. He resigned from the local school board. If convicted, he would have lost his license to practice medicine. The DA alluded to even more charges forthcoming. I don't think the MD could deal with the shame of going from respected community member to suspected pedophile.

Because I spent years in a family practice residency training program as teaching faculty, I have a good understanding of MDs. They work amazingly hard to make it to the pinnacle of success in this country. And they create a closed society once they get there. They see themselves as special. And they are in lots of ways. But they're human, too.

I feel a great deal of compassion for the family the doctor left behind. I saw his wife Monday of this week. She looked terrible, even before her husband took his life the following day. I can only imagine what she's going through. And the two sons he left behind. I wish the doctor had been stronger. That he could have ridden out the vagaries of our justice system. Even if he'd spent a few years behind bars, at least his children would have had a father and his wife a husband.

As a therapist for so long it feels like forever, I've seen the fallout suicide wreaks in families. It's not pretty. I haven't even touched on the victim, but I'm worried about her, too. The doctor may have exited stage left to save his family the humiliation of what else might have surfaced by way of evidence. And to save them the financial burden of his legal defense. But the wreckage he left behind will do incalculable damage to those who loved him. It's actually hard to say which is worse: the humiliation he would have suffered living, or his suicide.

I like to think, had he been just a bit stronger, he could have seen this thing through to whatever the natural conclusion might have been. As things stand, I'm just so sad--and angry, too. Waste always makes me angry. The doctor threw his life away because, among other things, he couldn't stand the suspicion or pity he thought he saw in people's eyes.

We're all simply human. We have our strengths and our weaknesses. My condolences to all whose lives are touched by this tragedy.

Comments anyone?

As January Draws to a Close

2012-01-25T18:10:00.000-08:00

This has been an interesting month for me. And a stressful one. What do you do when you see something you've given your heart and soul to heading for a disaster because others don't recognize its value? I've run a mental health program, not an assembly line turning out widgets. People's lives are at stake. While that might sound a touch dramatic, it's oh-so-true. Friends and family are urging me to walk away. To embrace my burgeoning life as a writer. In the end, I'm sure that's what will end up happening. In the meantime, I'm still working on budgets and cost reports and still seeing clients.

An old friend stopped by today while I was slogging through financial reports with a staff analyst. He just looked at me and asked, "Why are you still doing this?"

My answer was a simple one. "Because no one else knows how."

The heir apparent to my position was apparently chosen months ago. In all this time, she has failed to show even the slightest interest in what I do. There's been nary a phone call, or a visit. If the situation were reversed, I would have taken every advantage of picking the incumbent's brains to see what I could learn. Humility is the heart and soul of success. No one ever died from hearing something twice!

Maybe the new person thinks I sit around all day twiddling my thumbs. Maybe she believes she can do a job I spent years learning without any training. My prediction is she will run into difficulties, then blame me or one of my friends. That's how it often is in organizations. But ya know, you can only blame the last guy for a limited time.

Ah, but soon none of this will be my problem anymore. I've been intrigued that my private practice has been growing by leaps and bounds. I haven't advertised at all, and my phone's been ringing off the hook. I don't really want more than a handful of clients. Guess I need to brush up on those "just say no" skills I'm always recommending to others.

Wonder how I'll be feeling at this time next week? Freer? Maybe, but with a bittersweet edge. We don't always get what we want, though. Perhaps, like Mick Jagger said so long ago, "If I try real hard, I just might get what I need." And I am truly looking forward to no longer being responsible for a multi-million dollar program.

Has anyone ever had this type of experience? If so, please let me know about it.

My New Year’s Wishes For You

2012-01-11T20:27:00.000-08:00

To kick off the New Year just right, I have a number of wishes for each of you.

1. May you find true love. Or, if you already have it, may you cherish your partner. Make this the year they truly know you adore them.

2. May you find the beauty and uniqueness in your children. They are the magic that sows the seeds of the future. Take time for each child every day. It doesn’t have to be very long. After all, how long does it take to give a hug and a kiss, look a little face in the eyes and say, “I love you.”

3. May you find your perfect body. If you want to lose weight, start now. If you want to add regular exercise, there’s no time like the present. Start a special calendar and stick with it. Remember, the best food choices are minimally processed and the right portion fits into the palm of your hand.

If you want to gain weight, start slow. Strive for a realistic body image by asking people you trust for feedback.

4. May you find the job of your dreams. Or, if you already have it, may you find challenges to rise to over the coming year.

5. May you take risks. Nothing was ever gained from a position of absolute safety.

6. May you learn something new. Something you always wanted to know about. Take a class, ask an expert, expand your horizons.

7. May you find fulfillment by helping others. Remember the adage that was going around a while back about practicing random acts of kindness? Try to find something each day you can do for someone else.

Pick a project for each month. Outline it in advance and hit the ground with all fours. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Not much ever is, but you will feel amazing for having set goals and accomplished them.

Find time for you. If everything drains you and nothing fills you back up, life will begin to feel very hard. Even the busiest of us can snatch five minutes here and five minutes there. You’re worth it. Yes, you are. Put that five minute block in your calendar. It doesn’t matter if all you do is run to the bottom of the stairs in your office and back up again. That time was yours.

Modern life, especially in America, has turned into a major rat race. When I was young, people truly had leisure time. In the electronic age, we don’t anymore. Try to take vacations from the electronic wonderland you’re plugged into. Go out for a walk without your cell phone. There’s nothing so urgent it won’t wait for an hour. Better yet, take an entire vacation and only turn it on for a few minutes each day. I’m way too attached to my iPhone. I make myself leave it behind at least once every day. And I find I enjoy my gym workouts a whole lot more if part of my attention isn’t focused on all the engaging little sounds it makes. Ditto for meals. There’s nothing worse than trying to have a meal with a friend who’s paying more attention to her phone than to anything else.

I think my main goal this year will be adjusting to retirement. Without a set schedule, I find things slipping away. I lose myself in writing way too much. I need to balance the writing life with other things that fulfill me like my family.

What changes are you going to make in 2012? Shoot a few my way. I’d love to know.

Retrospective 2011

2011-12-29T15:49:00.000-08:00

As each year draws to a close, I like to take the time to look back at the twelve months that have just passed. I can't get them back. So, what went well? And what could have gone better? More than anything 2011 was a good writing year for me. I saw two novels into print and had seven short stories accepted for publication. I also made the discovery that I'm not any good at marketing. So that's something to focus on during 2012.

When I embarked on a writing life, I thought it would encompass, well, writing. And it does. It also includes lots of editing. I spend probably three times as long editing books as I do writing them. Then there's marketing. Oh yes, I already mentioned that. Back to editing. I'm fairly certain writing and editing come from vey different parts of the brain. One is creative process, the other nit-picky, niggling put this word here, ah no, put it there kinds of decisions. I find I can edit when I'm tired. I need to be fresh, though, to write.

Other than writing, 2011 was the year I retired--well, sort of since I'm still working. The experts--whoever they are--suggest a segue into retirement is smoother than an abrupt shift. What I've found is still having all the responsibility for something, with half the time to fulfill it, is downright scary. I'm hoping I get out of here with all my parts intact. Only another month or so to go, so it's looking better than it looked awhile back.

And then there's the weird weather pattern. The high passes in the Sierras weren't really open until late August, leaving about a six week window for serious backpacking. Now, here it is December and it feels like spring. In the meantime, the midwest is being slammed with blizzards. Sometimes I think the premise in many of my stories that we've terminally damaged our ecosystem isn't far off the mark.

2011 was also the year my last parent crossed the veil. It feels strange not being able to pick up the phone and call her. Mother was a lifetime reader. I'm sure my love of books and reading came from her. I am touched and humbled that the last book she read in this life was mine. I wish she could have lived to see the second one come out. I dedicated it to her. I'm really lucky in lots of ways. One of them was to have had a parent survive so far into my adult life. Many of my friends lost theirs decades ago.

Like all years, the one nearly gone was a mix of joys and sorrows. But that's a metaphor for life. Kahil Gibran said it's the selfsame vessel that contains both one's joy and one's sorrow. If you try to avoid one, you limit your ability to experience the other. Grateful for the lessons of 2011, I'm looking forward to what 2012 will bring.

Deck the Halls, Ho Ho Ho, Bah Humbug

2011-12-17T14:59:00.000-08:00

The end of December is rapidly approaching. It always does. While I'd love to do something to stave off that transition from holiday through New Year into the January blahs, I've discovered time marches on in spite of me. At the close of each year, I try to look back over the last twelve months to see what I accomplished and which tasks are still there to carry forward into the year to come. I'm sure it won't come as a big surprise that the, ahem, less desirable tasks seem to show up on my hit list year after year. Things like deep clean the house and finish up edits for a book I completed six months ago.

It's human nature to want to do the things where you can stand back and look at what you've accomplished. As a long time governmental administrator, there really aren't very many tasks like that. You know, the ones with a beginning, middle and end where you can actually see a difference. After a ten year argument, I finally got the county to agree to let me put opening windows in mental health's five thousand square foot office suite on the third floor. I think the propane leak last winter that practically killed all of us convinced them opening windows weren't frivolous. Now there's a project--albeit a very long term one--that makes me feel I've accomplished something. I was bragging to my husband about my open-up windows. Since I'm basically retired, he just looked at me and said something like, "That's nice, Frodo. You've saved Middle Earth, but not for you." Sigh, how true. Someone will enjoy those windows, but it won't be me.

Isn't that the way of things, though. You knock yourself out and someone else reaps the benefit of your blood, sweat and tears. I came to terms with that a long time ago. It's not important for someone else to give me an "atta girl" if I know in my secret heart I did the right thing. To me, that's at the very center of the holiday season. Doing the right thing regardless if anyone notices or not. Remember the O'Henry story where both halves of a couple sell their most prized possessions to get their loved one something for Christmas? She sells her hair and he sells his watch. Well, he buys her combs for her hair and she buys him a fob for his watch. Some might call that story stupid, but it's always warmed my heart.

Regardless of whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa or some pagan version of the Winter Solstice, I wish the the merriest of seasons. A time for contemplation, a time for joy and a time to regroup and find places to love in yourself and others.

How To Get Through The Holidays

2011-12-05T08:40:00.000-08:00

Having worked in the mental health field forever, I always breathe a silent prayer when January rolls around. The holidays are a tough time for a lot of us; although it's certainly not popular to complain. What tends to happen is everybody thinks they're the only ones not having the wonderful time all those smiling faces in the media are. So the fake smiles get deeper; as does the sense of failure and all those internal questions like: What's wrong with me?

Let's take a look at the holidays. For most of us, it means spending time with our families. We're supposed to love our families, right? No one ever talks about the alcoholics and addicts in the mix; or how they embarrass everyone year after year. No one ever talks about the childhood abuse. And it doesn't have to be blatant. Emotional abuse is present in many, many homes and takes nearly a severe a toll as other types since it makes us question our own self worth. It doesn't feel very good to be compared negatively with others; or to be ignored. Or yelled at.

While we're there, childhood abuse is shockingly common. A beta reader for a recent novel of mine commented that both male protagonists had grown up in houses where there was molest. She didn't think that likely. I beg to differ. There's nothing like being in a workshop with 2000 people (all with MDs, PhDs or Master's Degrees) and having the moderator ask everyone to answer three questions privately. One of those questions has to do with sexual abuse as a child. When the responses are tallied up, generally between forty and sixty percent of the participants admit to childhood sexual abuse. If you add in physical and emotional abuse, the total edges upwards to eighty-five percent. What that means is you can tack at least ten percent onto those totals since people tend to carry their denial into adulthood with them. It's protective; but it also keeps us from growing. Takes a lot of energy to hide secrets.

But this blog isn't about molest. It's about all the myriad unhappinesses we carry on our backs and in our hearts that tend to rear their ugly little heads when we are forced to spend time with our families of origin. Some really important things to remember are:
1. You can say no.
2. You can stand up for yourself.
3. You can get up and leave if you're uncomfortable.
4. You don't have to do things like they've been done since God was young. You can create new traditions that feel healthier.
5. You can make your expectations known ahead of time. For example. "Dad, I'll always love you, but it makes me really uncomfortable when you start drinking. So, if you do that, I'll quietly excuse myself from Christmas dinner." When you do this, you're giving the other person a choice in terms of their behavior. Yes, I know it doesn't feel very good when they choose alcohol over you. But they've probably been doing that all your life. And, it's NOT your fault. In fact, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with them.

While there's still a spot of time before Christmas (or whatever holiday you choose to celebrate), think a bit about what you'd like over the holidays. If you think your kids get way too many presents, do something else. If your partner works through every holiday, book a vacation somewhere. It doesn't have to be fancy. You can drive to a neighboring town.

It may take some experimentation, but try to come up with things that will fill you up during the holidays, rather than draining you. Don't be afraid to tell people what you need. No one is a mind reader.

Does anyone have any holiday wisdom they'd like to share?

Science Fiction and Other ODDysseys Reviews

2011-12-02T09:22:00.000-08:00

Psyche's Prophecy was reviewed on Ann Wilke's Science Fiction and Other Oddyssey's Blogspot by Clare Deming. Clare is a veterinarian and part of my online writers' group, Other World's Writer's Workshop. Please check out her site and my review.

http://sciencefictionmusings.blogspot.com/

Psyche's Search Is Available Now!

2011-12-01T19:01:00.000-08:00

The second book in the Transformation Series has just been released. The e versions are available as of today's date nearly everywhere ebooks are sold. The print version is at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Gypsy Shadow Publishing. Thanks to everyone who helped make Psyche's Prophecy, initial book in this series, a success and a contender for an EPIC 2012 Award.

Cover Blurb:

Born with the sight, Lara McInnis is ambivalent about her paranormal ability. Oh it’s useful enough some of the time with her psychotherapy patients. But mostly it’s an embarrassment and an inconvenience—especially when her visions drag her to other worlds. Or into Goblin dens. In spite of escalating violence, incipient food shortages and frequent power blackouts, Lara is still far too attached to the comfortable life she shares with her boyfriend, Trevor, a flight attendant who lost his job when aviation fuel got so expensive—and so scarce—his airline went out of business. Forced to seek assistance to hone her unusual abilities in Psyche’s Prophecy, Book I of this series, Lara is still quite the neophyte in terms of either summoning or bending her magic to do much of anything.

Reluctantly roped into channeling her unpredictable psychic talents to help a detective who saved her from a psychopathic killer, Lara soon finds herself stranded in the murky underbelly of a world inhabited by demons. The Sidhe offer hope, but they are so high-handed Lara stubbornly resists their suggestions. Riots, death on all sides, a mysterious accident and one particular demon targeting her, push Lara to make some hard decisions. When all seems lost, the Dreaming, nestled in the heart of Celtic magic, calls out to her. Heeding its summons brings sorrow, while opening the gates to a new life.

All in a Day's Work

2011-11-23T20:04:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about my job lately. Mostly because I really and truly am getting much closer to walking away from it. After all, I technically retired almost four months ago. I've been working a couple of days a week on contract since August first to try to provide a bit of continuity until the county can find a replacement. But it is time to go. I feel it in my bones.

There's an old saying, "It's not what you know, but who you know." That's pretty important in county mental health with it's confusing welter of rules and regulations. There are a couple of attorneys I converse with from time to time. Their knowledge base is a godsend. And there are other mental health directors who've been friends for years. (More than twenty for some.) I appreciate knowing people I can call to discuss things with. Those linkages will leave when I do, unfortunately. And it will take a long time to build new ones for whomever comes next.

Those linkages are critical because there's always another agency trying to push mental health to do something about the crazy person cluttering up the streets or someone else's waiting room or the local market. The mentally ill tend to make people nervous. When something makes us nervous, we want it to go away. Since local mental health staff have the magic bullet that can get someone sent for a three-day involuntary stay at a psychiatric hospital, there's a lot of pressure. And many conversations that go something like this:
"Why can't you do something about that person?"
"Because they don't meet criteria?"
"Well, why don't they?"
"Because it's not against the law to be crazy . . ."

Nope. It's not against the law to be weird, or psychotic or delusional. We can only hospitalize folk involuntarily if they are an imminent risk of danger to self or others because of a mental illness. Not because they're drunk or an addict or a public nuisance or haven't had a bath in awhile. There is one other category: grave disability. This means someone is incapable of meeting their basic needs for food, clothing or shelter because of a mental disorder. We don't really see a whole lot of that. What we do see is people who are too drunk or addicted to take care of themselves, but the code sections don't apply to them.

And so it goes. In the past two days, I've untangled a few thorny legal issues, continued to work on a perennial problem with transport for mental patients, attended a politically charged meeting, provided support and consultation for clinical staff, pulled together an agenda and attachments for next week's Quality Improvement (a Medicaid requirement) meeting, and finessed the final stages of getting opening windows in our office suite--something I've been working on for a couple of years.

There are things I will miss when I go. Years ago a friend of mine who ran the Health and Human Services Departments in first Shasta, then Placer counties, told me he loved being in the thick of things when bullets were flying. I know it's metaphorical, since no one shoots at you these days with anything but words and documents, but I like that, too. I will miss solving the day-to-day problems at my workplace, which is probably why I'm still there.

On the other hand, so long as I'm hanging onto one personna, it means I don't really have the time I'd like to let the writerly side of myself blossom fully. There's something the Dalai Lama once said about some doors having to close fully before other ones can open. Makes sense.

As Thanksgiving draws closer, I am grateful for my long friendships in the mental health field. And ever so humbly grateful to have been able to provide support for a disenfranchised population that has little in the way of a voice.

We are all human beings. Black, white, brown, rich, poor, straight, gay, mentally ill or sane. John Donne said: "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in all mankind. Therefore never ask to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee."

It is never just about you, or about me. But about all of us. That's why I'm still at county mental health. Because it's a place where I can give something back. The challenge for me will be finding another way to do that after I leave.

Zen Musings

2011-11-17T19:29:00.000-08:00

Fall is fading. Winter will be here soon. Mornings I can feel her frosty breath tickling the back of my neck. It's a time for finishing things as another year draws to a close. And a time for new beginnings. 2011 was a pivotal year in many ways. Makes me curious what 2012 holds in store.

In spite of a heavy winter that was late to leave the Sierras, I got to take both planned eight-day backpack trips in the Sierra. Plus a few shorter ones. I suppose if I meandered down to Lake Isabella, I could still go backpacking, at least until winter gets here in earnest.

Mammoth Mountain opened last week with at least a few runs. The beta is that coverage isn't bad. So, skiing is an option once again. That's the wonder of the Eastern Sierra. It truly is nature's unparalleled playground. Shortly after I moved here, the woman who was the county Social Services Director told me I'd come to Mammoth Lakes for a reason and to never lose my sense of awe. Marilyn would be proud of me, since I never have. It's a rare day that goes by that I'm not grateful to live here, snow, hundred mile an hour winds and all.

Gratitude aside, I have to admit I'd kill for a Trader Joe's or a Whole Foods close by. I truly get tired of the one grocery store in town. Sometimes I have to gird myself to go in there. And after the tourists converge on Mammoth Mountain, shopping on weekends simply isn't an option. Lines extend down the aisles and it can take half an hour to go through a checkout stand. So, I find myself shopping at odd hours: like ten P.M. on a week night. Or even later than that. It's amazing. The later I shop, the drunker the other supermarket patrons look. Since I'm in charge of the county's Alcohol and Drug Program in addition to Mental Health, I try to keep a very low profile during these noctural shopping expeditions.

One of the challenges of being a therapist in an uber small town is running into clients outside of the office. Despite my very best efforts, someone usually tries to flag me down to talk no matter where I find myself. And so it goes. I suppose I should feel flattered. And I do have to admit, I'd feel much worse if they ran like hell when they saw me!

Back to winter and reflections on the year that's rapidly passing. There are so many things I'd like to get done this winter. Like cleaning out the desk drawers in my study. And making some sort of sense out of my husband's electronic shop. (Good luck with that one. Haven't told him about that project just yet!) Who knows? Maybe there will even be the wherewithal to clean out my closets. It's a closely guarded secret, but I still have clothes from thirty years ago. Maybe even forty. They all still fit and occasionally I'll pull something out and let it see the light of day again.

I'm looking forward to a good writing year. The last book in my Transformation Series will be published. And I hope to have a good start at the next series. Maybe a few more short stories will show up, too. In fact, there's one I'm working on right now that needs an ending. It will come to me. They always seem to in unusual ways.

It's cozy in my house tonight. Fire is buring cheerily in the woodstove. Wolves are curled up in three separate corners. Tomorrow is a free day for me. Wonder how I'll use it?

Where Did October Go??

2011-11-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

Just got back from a small climbing trip to the hinterlands of Nevada and, let me tell you, I don’t think there’s any state—including Alaska—that has quite the back-end-of-the-world feel Nevada does. You can drive for hours on paved roads and only see one or two other cars. It’s truly like the world ended and no one told you.

Interestingly, the back roads winding up fetching little canyons were chock full of hunters. Maybe that’s why there was no one on the macadam. As a climber, hordes of hunters make me a bit nervous. My husband remembers growing up in the forties and fifties in rural Montana. Every hunting season, there were hunters killed by “friendly fire”. So, I wear lots of bright colors and tie bandanas around the dogs’ necks. Sometimes I sing. Good thing there's no one to hear since I've never been able to carry a tune!

We managed to climb a couple of remote peaks; three to be precise. But two were twin peaks, so they really only count as one since I didn’t have to conquer a whole bunch more vertical to stand on top of something.

I realized as we pulled back into California yesterday that it was Halloween and ski season was only about twelve days away. Of course, Mammoth Mountain doesn’t have much in the way of snow. But I’ll bet they’re making it. It’s been cold enough at night. And, flurries are forecast for Thursday. Today, however, the sun is bright and the sky is the incredible blue that it only seems to get in the Eastern Sierra. I’ll enjoy an extended fall for as long as I can. When winter comes at eight thousand feet, it stays for a very long time.

Just before we left for Nevada, our central heat quit. And, because this is the Eastern Sierra and service isn’t easy to come by, it took several days before the one Carrier-certified guy in the region had time for us. We couldn’t have left town without the ability to set the thermostat to something low, but above freezing. If we had, we’d have risked frozen pipes. In any event, seems a hardy chipmunk had crawled up onto our roof. He was the curious sort because he managed to fall twenty-five feet down the exhaust pipe of our propane furnace to the ground floor where he blocked the air egress. Because the furnace is smarter than the chipmunk, it knew better than to start up. The good news is it only took the repair guy half an hour and we were good to go.

Even though we have heat again, I’m still sad to see an all-too-short summer fade into winter. It didn’t get warm here until early July. On a more positive note, I got in way more backpacking than I thought I would given the amount of snow blocking high passes in the Sierra. And, who knows? Perhaps this will be a low snow winter. We’re due after two winters with incredibly heavy snowfall. It still hasn’t sunk in that I’m partially retired and can go skiing during the week when the mountain looks about as empty as Nevada’s back roads. I’m sure that reality will come home to roost sometime in December. Assuming we get some snow that is. I've racked up many a ski early season on subterranean rocks.

Think I’ll circle back to psychological topics beginning with next week. We’ve had a rash of very unhappy folk through our clinic doors here of late. So, maybe I’ll blog about expectations and learning to value what we have instead of always wanting something different. If there are topics any of you are interested in, let me know. I can be fairly eclectic so long as the area has something to do with how people view/process their worlds.

America the Horrific: Just in time for Halloween!

2011-10-19T20:03:00.000-07:00

This anthology includes tales of true hauntings at a variety of places in America. Using sort of a Tales from the Crypt motif, a group of travelers are stranded when their bus breaks down. They chose to wile away the time telling scary tales. I was intrigued when I saw Bards and Sages call for submissions for this anthology and my story, The Benson Hut Ghost, seemed like a natural for a topic. Guess it was since they accepted it. I've had a chance to read the rest of the tales and they're really quite diverse. The Kindle version is only $2.99 and I'd encourage anyone to settle in with this hair-raising bunch of ghost stories. After all, it's nearly Halloween: a perfect time for that sort of thing. An excerpt from my story follows:

Billy Morton looked around him at a veritable sea of faces. They looked…predatory somehow. The silence was becoming uncomfortable and, indeed, someone poked him. “Oh, my turn, is it?” he responded, eyes fixed on the ground. Hearing a susurrus of affirmations rising and falling around him, a part of him—his courage—scurried deep inside. I can’t tell them about that, he thought. Shit, I’ve spent the past twenty years trying not to think about it…

But it’s the only true ghost story you know, another inner voice interrupted. And everybody else has been spilling their guts. Billy straightened his thin shoulders and ran bony big-knuckled fingers through his thinning gray-blonde hair. Hazel eyes brimming with trepidation, he agonized over how he should start his tale.

“I’m just going to run back to the bus for a second. Left my jacket in my seat,” he muttered, color staining his bearded cheeks at the half-lie. Oh, he’d left his jacket in the bus all right, but he didn’t really need it. Shoving his lanky six-foot frame past a couple of folk, apprehension practically choked him as he tried to use the five minutes he’d just bought himself wisely. But all too soon, he found himself back in his chair, down jacket in tow. In a macabre way, the storm screeching round the bus station, where he was stranded with his fellow travelers, was like eerie mood music for the story he was about to try to tell.

“S-see,” he stammered, “this whole thing, it happened just over twenty years ago. I was a young man then…or, younger anyways.” His voice ran down. He noticed the crowd had bent towards him and he reached up to claw at the neck of his shirt, suddenly feeling as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the smallish room.

“I used to be a mountain guide,” Billy said haltingly, still feeling like it was a struggle to suck air into his lungs. “That’s how I earned a living until about five years ago when I fell and broke my back. Learned to walk again, but couldn’t carry a heavy pack anymore. It wasn’t easy adjusting to a life that didn’t include long trips in the mountains. In fact, I had a hell of a time with it. Still do. Uh, sorry, got off track there for a minute.” He tried to gin up a half-smile, but the faces that stared back at him weren’t buying it.

“Okay. Okay.” He held up both hands in the universal gesture for surrender. “I give up. See, there’s this place a ways out of Truckee in northern California. It’s a ridge that goes from Mount Lincoln along a high escarpment to a hut on the flanks of Mount Andersen about six miles distant. Been a popular back-country ski route for years. Folk, they can go from Sugar Bowl resort to Squaw Valley in about a day on skis. And if things get rough, well, there’s this old two-storey cabin called the Benson Hut round about the mid-way point.

“Back in the seventies, two guys got lost on that ridge in a storm. One managed to find Benson hut. His buddy never made it. Not living, anyhow. The one who got to the hut spent a long night there writing his soul out, first on paper, then on the walls and floors of that hut. Good thing for him he had a wife who called the authorities when he didn’t show up on time. I…well, I was one of the rescue crew. And I saw what he’d done: guilt and pain and suffering scrawled on practically every surface. In fact, I came back there the next summer with a Sierra Club work crew to clean it up. But it seems I’m getting off track again.”

Shrugging apologetically, Billy cleared his throat. “The one who’d found the hut lost his boots hunting for his friend and ended up with really bad frostbite. It took us—there were six men and a dog in the Search and Rescue crew—a couple of days to find his buddy. The poor sap had frozen to death only about two hundred feet away. Storm was so bad he probably never even knew how close he’d been to shelter when he’d lain himself down in the snow and frozen to death. In the end it was the dog that found him in the six feet of snow that’d fallen.

“Blake, the survivor, just sort of lay on a bunk moaning the whole time we were working. ‘Course he couldn’t have helped since he didn’t have boots. We had to get a helicopter in there to get him out, but that’s another story. I heard Blake lost his mind. He kept thinking he heard his buddy calling out to him, even long after he was safe at home. People say that the one who died has haunted Benson Hut ever since. Off and on, there’ve been stories about odd sounds and falling objects. And folk who’d planned to spend the night there have sometimes ended up traveling by headlamp, or moonlight, to put some distance between themselves and that hut.

“There’ve been more in the way of avalanche-related deaths near the hut than there should’ve been, too. Fact, there were three just this spring.” Billy hesitated, head bent in thought, then he nodded to himself and added. “I, uh, understand about Blake because I had dreams about that dead man myself. Lots of dreams for a lot of years. When we found him, his eyes were open and his hands were stretched out over his body as if he’d been trying to keep the snow from burying him. Yeah, I had dreams, but I convinced myself they were nothing. Never been superstitious, see…”

From a Wolf’s Point of View

2011-10-08T14:14:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to imagine my life without the three canine life forces that are almost always milling around me. From time to time, I try to adopt their mindset to shed some light on how they think. For example, while making lunch today I dropped a single shrimp on the floor. Kua, the youngest of my three, swooped in and picked it up in his mouth. He then proceeded to drop it and try to roll in it. (It’s a pretty small shrimp, mind you, and this is a hundred pound wolf hybrid.) When that didn’t seem to work out for him, he simply lay there with the shrimp between his front legs and his head laid atop it. Since he obviously wasn’t going to do anything but guard the shrimp, I decided I’d try to give it to one of the other two. A sharp growl when I went after the prize told me Kua hadn’t given up on it. Sucking it back into his mouth, he tried to eat it again. But it just wasn’t right. This time, when he spit it out, it was in four pieces. Sigh… About an hour later, once he’d moseyed off to greener pastures, I surreptitiously picked up the pieces and tossed them.

Then there was the marmot they ganged up on during one of our long backpack trips this summer. Two of them killed it, then proceeded to play tug of war, growling and snarling at one another seconds after they’d tag teamed on a successful hunt. Go figure. One of the sayings around Mammoth Lakes is there are no friends on powder days, meaning everyone is on their own as we hunt down untracked powder stashes to annihilate. The wolf version of that must be there are no friends when there’s carrion to be eaten. That marmot got a lot of mileage, let me tell you. One of them dragged it the mile or so back to our camp. Another dragged it miles to our next camp. And the third, who’d had no hand at all in anything, simply waited. When the other two were exhausted from carting around what had to be a ten pound marmot, wolf number three closed in, took it and ate over half. The other two circled him the whole time he was eating. The second he made the mistake of getting up to go get a drink from a nearby stream, they took the carcass back and wiped it out down to the toenails. I was ever-so-grateful we didn’t run into anyone that day. Saved a lot of explanations. Like, “What’s that your dog is carrying?” Followed by the inevitable, “Ewwww—“

And then we have the food dish issue. My oldest hybrid is pushing eleven. Over the past couple of years, he’s decided he can’t eat when the kibble dish is next to the wall. So, he noses it till it’s in the middle of the room. Of course, this puts him in a direct line to the second dish and the water. No one can go round him without an unholy fuss. So, when Nikki is eating, the kitchen is off limits for the other two. One of the advantages of hybrids is I can free feed and they self-modulate their intake. But I just know Kua and Naia resent the hell out of Nikki’s progressively-lengthier meals. Sort of like with kids, though, it’s best if they can solve their own problems.

Okay, so my current crew are mildly neurotic. Doesn’t make them one whit less endearing. Someone whose name escapes me once said it's our flaws that make us loveable.

We had German shepherds for many years. And I loved them to tears. But they were a much more high-maintenance breed. Many of them are not fond of any humans outside their immediate family. Remember, they’re bred to be guard dogs. But, they’re also regal and beautiful. People like to pet shepherds they’ve never met before, often with less-than-optimal results. I used to be amazed at the responses I’d get when I’d tell a stranger not to pet my dog. They’d range from, “Why not?” to “Oh, it’ll be fine. Dogs really like me.” I heard this last more than once when the shepherd who was on heel next to me was growling with his hackles at half-mast. Why anyone would persist in wanting to sink their fingers into the ruff of a large, powerful animal that’s growling at them defies credibility.

I had a great German shepherd trainer in the Auburn area and I still remember her telling me this is a breed that has rules. She went on to say that responsible shepherd owners needed to figure out just what those rules were for each particular dog. I suppose at one level, it’s simply the application of psychology to the canine mind.

Maybe that’s why I’m so tolerant when my dog kids misbehave—because I assume I missed a critical cue somewhere along the way. A saying in our home is, “It’s never the dog’s fault. They’re just being dogs.” Late one night, I watched one of our shepherds in a Montana motel. It was just Bob, McKinley and I and the dog was restless. He circled the small room a couple of times and then lunged for a bagel Bob had sitting on a bakery bag. Once it was in his mouth, McKinley looked immensely pleased with himself, retired to a corner and proceeded to chew on his prize. I took it away from him (the ‘out’ command is useful), but you could see the wheels turning in his little doggie brain before he went for what he wanted. I figure he decided we’d be mad at him, but we wouldn’t kill him or kick him out of the pack, so the risk of displeasing us was worth the gain. He gambled and lost, but he didn’t lose much. He knew we’d still love him, and we did.

If any of you have dog stories, send 'em along! I'm a sucker for anything that's canine-related.

Contrasts

2011-09-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

One week ago at this time, I was walking through the Sierra High Country carrying my backpack and thinking about Mount Whitney, our next high pass objective. And, a truly high pass it is. At 13,700 feet, I think it’s safe to say it’s probably the highest pass in the continental U.S. There might be one or two higher in Colorado, but it doesn’t seem likely. Weather had been iffy the previous night. More than a little. I’d sat in my camp near Wright’s Creek and watched the Sierra Crest turn absolutely black as thunder and lightning storms rolled through for over three hours. Truth be told, I was worried the storm had been so bad it might have cut off our exit route over Whitney. That’s a narrow trail and I’d opted to leave my crampons home to save weight. My husband told me not to worry. Turned out he was right, as he so often is about mountain-lore.

Anyway, last Tuesday dawned bright and clear as we made our way to just below Guitar Lake. There was another electrical storm, but it didn’t dump on us, just made lots of noise. I think what I like best about backpacking is the sense of self-sufficiency. Between the 30 pounds of food and gear in my pack and the 40 pounds in Bob’s we can live for a week. It’s life at a pretty basic level, but I appreciate not being hounded by my iPhone’s constant dings. I pulled it out to look at it at the top of Forester Pass (13,200’) and was unaccountably thrilled to notice the battery had died.

Roll the clock forward to Wednesday night. Having conquered Whitney one more time and moved on down the 99 switchbacks from Trail Crest to Trail Camp, we’d decided to continue on down the mountain. Night found us stumbling into Outpost Camp at around 10,500’. I’d remembered Outpost Camp as a pretty dreary place, but it looked surprisingly like Nirvana last week and we decided to call it a day. Or, rather, a night. We’d been moving since 6:30 that morning and it was twelve hours later. For those of you who don’t know, there are only two allowable camping areas on the east side of Mount Whitney. Trail Camp and Outpost Camp. There have been serious cutbacks in the number of Rangers patrolling, but there are reasons why the Forest Service does things like that. Over 20,000 people visit Mount Whitney each year. There have to be some rules, or it would look like a garbage dump. As it is, I hauled out a respectable wad of other people’s trash.

By Thursday last week, we were in Lone Pine eating lunch. And by Thursday night we were home. Sometimes I feel like I have two lives: the uber-simple one in the mountains and the other one where I worry about whether or not the carpet needs vacuuming. (It almost always does; that’s the penalty for having three large, white dogs.)

And then Sunday I found out that Psyche’s Prophecy, my debut novel is a finalist in the annual 2012 EPIC e-book award contest. The awards ceremony will be aboard a cruise ship next March and I started thinking about what it might mean to go. Keeping in mind that any sort of cruise-based vacation is VERY low on my radar system, I started to really think about why other people seem drawn to cruises. What I came up with is that they are the ultimate pampering vacation where everything is done for you. Contrast that with backpacking—my favorite escape—where nothing is done for you, and you’ll understand my dilemma. It feels intrusive to me when I stay in a chi-chi hotel and the maid shows up to turn down my bed. If I’m in my room, I always send her away. Until I’m old and infirm, I can turn my own bed down, thank you very much.

So, I’m still trying to find reasons why I should go on the EPIcon cruise. I know it would be good for networking. And it might help my fledgling writing career. In any event, the jury is still deliberating. There seems to be lots of time—five months to be exact—for me to find a clear path.

In the meantime, I think there’s probably still time for at least one or two more trips in the High Sierra before winter closes in. Think I’ll take advantage of the wonderland in my back yard!

EPIC Annual E-Book Contest Finalist!

2011-09-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

Psyche's Prophecy is one of three finalists in the fantasy category for the 2012 Electronic Publishing Industry Coalition (EPIC) e-book award contest. Winners will be announced next March on the EPIcon cruise. Whether I win or not, it's quite an honor to be in the top three of this year's fantasy books submitted to this well-known contest. I'll blog more about this in the next few days once the wonderful news has had a chance to percolate

Chop Wood, Carry Water

2011-09-11T19:44:00.000-07:00

Looks like a Zen motif for this blog post! Maybe because I've been doing so much work around my house trying to prepare for the winter to come. That's sort of how it is when you live in the mountains though. The last gasp of every winter, people just sort of lay around congratulating themselves on having survived another one. Then, as the days warm, there's a flurry of activity. Shingles to repair, driveways to resurface, wood to gather (and split). Then there's that morning when you get up and it's cold outside. This morning, for example. It was chilly enough I was sorry I didn't have my gloves when I walked the dogs at 7.

A few hours later, had just barely finished raking and bagging combustible yard debris for the dump--a task that's dragged on for days here--when the first thunderclap of the day resounded. After that it rained almost all afternoon. Not just sprinkles either. It hailed a couple of times. Since I was on a roll, I washed the kitchen floor and did a bunch of laundry. As the light is leaching out the the day, I'm watching the first fire of the season blaze cheerily in the woodstove and am reminded of how simple--and pleasant and uncomplicated--life can be.

What a contrast to late last week when I spent three days at my "real" job, the one I'm trying to retire from. First there were budget hearings to prep for, then another department tried to steal, uh, sorry, that would be misappropriate, the snowblower I just bought last year, then there was an appraisal to deal with on some property we're trying to sell, a staff person in tears, then another one. And the beat goes on. What I became aware of through all that was the resurgence of a simmering undercurrent of irritation that's finally starting to fade as I spend more and more time away from the workplace. Try as I might last week, though, I simply couldn't lay hands on a peaceful place. Well, three days of back-breaking labor in my yard fixed all that. We'll see if it holds as I head back to my desk tomorrow. Fingers crossed that it will.

I suspect anything that narrows one's focus to essentials and pares down energy output to things where you can actually have an impact--as opposed to simply stewing about something--is conducive to inner peace. That's very Zen. Focus on the now. It's why people meditate. More pertinently, it's why I've meditated practically every day before work for years. Except I stopped once I officially retired. Seems that was an error in judgment.

It might have helped if I would have been a later born child in my family rather than an only child. I see that difference between myself and my husband (4th born). While I think I have to solve every problem, he's confident someone else will come along to solve things for him. Well, in his family that happened. In mine I just got nagged a lot. Heh! We truly are products of our origins.

Trying to plan one last week in the Sierras before winter sets in in earnest. Had planned to leave Wednesday, but will probably not head out till Thursday or Friday. I'm waiting with baited breath to see what our local real estate guru cum weather maven has to say about the week after the ten days of thunderstorms. He's usually right on.

Sierra Ramblings

2011-09-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

Just got back from an idyllic week in the Sierra backcountry. Saw a lot of beautiful country and had quiet time to think about the world and my place within it. I think that's what I like best about long backpacking trips: the solitude. We have friends who want to turn every backcountry expedition into a social event. They're certainly stronger than I am since they usually show up at the previously-agreed-upon campsite at least an hour ahead of me, but when I do get there, they're in their tent. I only spend time in my tent at night. The rest of the time I much prefer to be outside looking at things, taking pictures or simply communing with the natural world. (Unless it's pouring, then I too prefer shelter.) But, different strokes make the world go round. And the wonderful thing about the wilderness is that it meets people's needs in different ways.

As I type this, big, fluffy clouds are rolling past reminding me that summer is fleeing. Gee, it only got here about six weeks ago. The wood pile in front of the house has an asbestos tarp over it and my husband is doing the final shingle repairs on our roof. Mammoth Mountain sent out reminders that they'll be open here in just sixty days or so. And so it goes. The seasons roll past and life is what you make of it.

I am hoping to get in at least one more week in the Sierras before winter closes in. There's a self-sufficiency to backpacking that's reassuring. By that I think I mean it makes me feel good to know I can get by with what's on my back for at least a period of time. And, I've gotten more and more spartan as the years have passed. I have one set of day clothes and a pair of long johns for night time. If I get cold during the day, I can layer those under the day clothes, zip my shell over everything and be pretty cozy. Sure things get dirty, but Americans are uber-obsessed with everything being pristine. I find I have two standards: one for home and the other for the trail. Not that one is better or worse than the other, they're simply different.

One of the surprises last week was the number of wildflowers that are still in full bloom. It's September and there are still flowers. Of course, there are still mosquitoes too, but they weren't all that bad. Ray Jardine, a pioneer of minimalist long range backpacking used to claim that if you meditated effectively, the bugs wouldn't bite. I tried that this trip and it seemed to work. Of course, there was that day when I cheated and sprayed my legs with Naturpel. It was hot and I really wanted to zip off the bottoms of my convertible pants! I can certainly see, though, if every ounce counts, that you might be tempted to skip the bug spray.

There's a timeless element to the mountains. They feel like old friends as I visit them, and visit them again. There's nothing like standing on a remote pass where I've been before and seeing that the vista is unchanged. Or on an equally remote peak. Mountains are the bones of the world. They'll prevail long after all of us are dust. It feels honest and humbling to share space with them. I hope I'm blessed with many more years to wander the local landscape. The memories are incomparable. They warm me and help me believe there will be something left after the politicians in Washington get done tearing the country to shreds. Sometimes it's better to be conciliatory, to work for the benefit of everyone (not just one's constituency) and to hold a sense of peace. Of something greater than ourselves. Mountains have always been my way of doing that. What's yours?

You Can’t Go Home Again

2011-08-29T19:30:00.000-07:00

Since we had to be in North Lake Tahoe on Sunday, my husband and I decided to go backpacking in the Tahoe area this last weekend. We lived in Auburn for many years and spent untold hours in the backcountry around Donner Summit. “It’ll be nostalgic,” I insisted. Bob just rolled his eyes at me. Turns out he was right, as he so often is.

Got a late start on Thursday, mostly because I was working on a short story and also because I had to work at my real job that morning. Yeah, I know I’m supposed to be retired and by next backpacking season I will be, but for now I’m still plugging away a couple of days each week. It was past six when we got to Incline Village. Stopped and had a wretchedly mediocre dinner at a Thai restaurant. If we hadn’t been so hungry, the food would have been inedible.

Moving right along, we got to the Castle Pass road around eight. Fortunately the gate was open. Less fortunately, the meadow where we’d planned on car camping that first night still had a snow slope on its northern aspect and a bumper crop of mosquitoes. To add insult to injury, I’m trying to get the tent set up, batting at bugs and a voice out of the wilderness shouts, “Hello, hello, hellooooo…” Immediately after the voice, a man materializes carrying a lead rope. He’s this wizened old dude and he really likes to talk.

Turns out he’s lost his horse. After listening to him for half an hour—and lending him a flashlight so he could find his headlamp—I, cynical soul that I am, figured the horse was nothing but a delusion and the guy was nuts. I didn’t sleep terribly well because I was wondering if he was a zombie—or worse, an ax murderer. (Hey, writers have vivid imaginations. It’s how we come up with our stories…)

Next morning, we were up with the dawn. I’d planned on backpacking from where we’d parked, but given the new development with the stranger, and all the times my car has been hacked into at trailheads, I told my husband we needed to drive up the road a piece. So we did, but we didn’t escape the campsite without our intrepid sidekick catching up to our moving vehicle, telling us his name and the names of friends in Nevada City. He wanted us to call them, tell them Nikko (the horse) was missing, etc.

Roll the clock forward half an hour. We’re headed up towards Castle Pass having skipped breakfast. It’s still respectably early, say around 7:30. Well, we hadn’t walked for ten minutes when a horse materialized. Bob looked at me and I looked at him and we just laughed, backtracked to the car and loaded up the dogs. The plan was for me to stay with the horse—who’d happily adopted the five of us—while Bob drove down to look for Ed.

Turned out we met Ed walking up the road with his lead rope. So, all’s not only well that ends well, but I looked Ed up on the internet and it turns out that all his fantastic yarns were true. He really is a 75 year old endurance rider who’s completed the PCT on horseback. I gave my cynical self a good, swift kick in the backside and we moved on with our day.

The mosquitoes in the area between Castle Pass and Mount Lola must have taken steroids. I’ve never seen them so thick. We camped on high, waterless ridges to avoid them; and still got bitten. They seemed to thrive on Naturpel. After a day-and-a-half where you couldn’t even stop for a snack without setting up the tent and crawling inside, we gave up and backtracked to the car. Saturday afternoon, we climbed from the Sugar Bowl parking lot to the top of Mount Lincoln. Great view out towards Benson Hut. I would have liked to have had a bit more time since my Benson Hut ghost story will be out soon, but it was closing on dark when we got back to the car as it was.

So, our nostalgic return to Lake Tahoe was really a lesson. Things generally look different ten years down the line and the High Sierra has spoiled me. The mountains are higher and the crowds smaller. I’m humbly grateful to live where I do. And, when you get right down to it, a good working definition of happy is being satisfied with what you have.

Thoughts on the World Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention

2011-08-20T18:47:00.000-07:00

I admit I am quite the novice in terms of going to "cons". For those of you who might not know (since I sure didn't) "con" is short for convention. There are lots of science fiction and fantasy conventions all around the country. And internationally, too. And, they are quite the extravaganza. There's something for everyone. Fans show up dressed like their favorite characters, or series. There's always a masquerade ball and this con had a Regency ball in addition. Because this is Worldcon, just about every well known SF/F author in creation (at least those who are still alive) are here. They host book signings and coffee klatches where you can sign up to meet with them in small groups and chat. All the major SF/F publishers are here as well. There are workshops on just about every imaginable topic. And there's a Dealer's Room where you can buy anything from a medieval costume to a broad sword.

Now that I've gone to two of these and listened to quite a few authors discuss the future of publishing, I wonder about the current trend of tossing up cheap titles on Amazon or Smashwords. One of the reasons we have publishers (and this includes small presses) is to sort through the slush pile for you, the reader. How many of you are going to keep on buying 99 cent titles, find them unreadable, and reach for another one? Not many, I'll bet. One of the other "problems" with Amazon is that Madame Unknown Author can rustle up a bunch of her friends to write reviews. Of course, they'll all say her prose glows and her characters are scintillating. Except they rarely are.

In traditional publishing, better than 90% of submissions are rejected by publishing houses. And for the best of reasons. The writing is terrible, the characters vapid and the plot either non-existent or so complex you need a notebook to keep track of what's going on. The fact that the traditional "gatekeepers" have been subverted by "do-it-yourselfers" has not helped the state of American literature. At least not in my humble opinion. I still think authors need a publisher standing behind them, be it a small press or a major house, to provide editorial guidance and support.

I do not think that epublishing will ever totally replace books. Currently, if what I heard yesterday is true, one out of three Americans is NOT online. And, the publishing houses I listened to all said that only about 20% of their sales come from ebooks. That actually makes me glad since I love real books. I own a Kindle and I download ebooks, but I still buy real books too. I love how they smell and how they feel in my hands. Plus, an author needs real books to send out review copies to reputable reviewers.

Watching how the next twenty years unfolds should be fascinating. I will be an old woman at the end of that time span. Hopefully still alive, but one never knows. I'm grateful people still love to read, though. So long as they do, there will be a venue for those like me who write because we love to, because the stories roam around in our heads and because we get grumpy if we're away from our word processors for too long.

Personality Dimensions

2011-08-14T17:55:00.000-07:00

While hiking this weekend in the High Sierra, my conscience nagged me about this badly neglected blog. Oh, I could blame a whole lot of things; but I won't. The very best thing I can do is get back to it and post something new each week.

Jung stratified personality along four dimensions:
Introvert-Extravert
Intuitive-Sensate
Thinking-Feeling
Perceiving-Judging

Well, actually, Jung only came up with the first three. The fourth dimension was added by Katharine Cook Briggs and her daughter Isabel Briggs Meyers. Katharine and Isabel began working on what has become the modern Meyers-Briggs instrument during World War II. It's original use was to help women conscripted into both military and civilian support for the war find jobs they'd be comfortable with. Needless to say this personality inventory has changed substantively in the past seventy years. I find it useful in determining how my clients see the world. There aren't any "right" or "wrong" personality profiles. But, the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator contains a wealth of information that can help determine, for example, whether two individuals will be able to work with one another. Thus, it has been widely used in industry.

Taking a quick look at the four dimensions, they are not quite what they appear. For example, introverts gather information about the world from within themselves, while extraverts gather data from the world around them. Intuitives also look within first, while sensates use body-knowledge to guide them. A standing joke in most Jungian Institutes is that there is scarcely anyone with much in the way of sensate ability. What this means is that if something breaks, a handyman from outside the Institute must be called to fix it. Sensates can see how things fit together. They have spatial ability, like most engineers. Intuitives have a hard time caring how mechanical things work. So, you see, one isn't better than the other, they are simply different.

Thinking and feeling are self explanatory. Thinkers lead with their minds, feelers with their hearts. And perceivers are the data gatherers of the world, while judgers prefer to pick a path and see if it will work for them.

There are many permutations and combinations of these four dimensions. In Jungian work, one tries to boost one's non-dominant functions to become more balanced. It is rare to find someone who is at the end of the continuum along any of the dimensions. Using myself for an example, I tend to be an introverted intuitive. What this means is that I'm a dreamer and very happy alone for long hours at a time. Work on myself has included work on my sensate--or physical--side. So, I learned to fly airplanes and climb mountains and spend days in the backcountry with a pack on my back. Of course, my time in the backcountry feeds my "loner" tendencies as well. And, unfortunately, my intuitive bent has meant that it has taken me twice as long as a more sensate soul to develop physically-based skills like mountaineering. Or letting the flight instructor out of the airplane. I think my first solo flight was the most terrifying moment of my life. But, talking to other private pilots, most of them longed to kick the instructor out of that plane. Not me!

We are all different. Reveling in those difference and in what makes us human is a gift! With that in mind, I truly hope I can get this weekly blog back on track!

From the Heart of A Sierra Summer

2011-07-18T21:00:00.000-07:00

Somehow I can’t seem to force myself back to the personality disorders, so I’m giving up—at least for now. I’m sure this all has something to do with my imminent retirement from a job that I’ve had, in one iteration or another, for the past thirty years or so. Hmmmm…if I do a better job of counting, it’s more like thirty-five, or even (gasp) thirty-seven. Oh, there were a few years when I worked in the private sector, and not for the government, but my professional focus has always been on some aspect of Psychology.

So who will I be next? I suppose I’ll always be a psychologist. But, does it count if I’m not using those skills to earn a living? Hell, do I count once I’m retired? There’s a niggling little voice telling me that I have to do something, to keep on giving back to the community. And then there’s another voice that just comes up with a heart-rending sigh and says I’ve done enough. That it’s time to focus on myself for a change. I suppose I’ll keep on having that inner dialogue until I come up with some answers. That’s how Psyche works. She keeps on sending us material until we can decide on a course of action we can live with.

I did a lot of group facilitation back in the nineteen-eighties (when it was more popular than it is today). One activity was to describe yourself without saying a thing about your family or your career. Go ahead. Try it. It’s harder than it seems it should be. What you end up with is a list of attributes. And, if you were really squeakily honest, there are some traits on that list that make you cringe. Oh, you missed your shadow side? Well, go back and try again. After all, this list is only for you. You can shred it later on. The point isn’t to annihilate your shadow, but to draw at least part of it out towards the light of day. It actually looks better there than it does stuffed in a closet.

I suppose this is relevant because we all have a shadow side. The parts that are a bit less, shall we say, socially acceptable. We all get angry and we all say things we shouldn’t and apologize later on—or not. Most of us gossip and all of us have done things we wish no one would ever find out about. Thank god for the sanctity of our thoughts!

Crikey, as one of my story characters would say in his impeccable British accent. I just read over what I wrote and started to laugh sitting here at my keyboard. Guess I’ll never not be a psychologist. It seems to be imbued right past the marrow of my bones. I see it in how I look at myself and in how I interpret what others bring to me. And it’s embossed all over my world view and part and parcel of my combination of liberal and conservative politics.

So, thanks Psyche. Didn’t have to wait long for that answer to pop up out of the ether. I’m certain other professions view the world through their own particular set of tinted glasses. I worked closely with M.D.s for years at a residency training program. They have a definite set of perceptual filters that morph over time.

Bear with me as I generalize. Most newly minted M.D.s have hopes and dreams about helping to improve people’s lives. Over the years of residency and subsequent practice, too many non-compliant patients, coupled with droves of the drug-seeking, are enough to sour any doctor’s idealism. Yet some remain buoyant and optimistic. What is it about them that sets them apart from their fellow practitioners who drift into less patient-intensive specialties as a shield against their unhappiness?

You guessed right. It’s basic personality structure. Some of us have more resilience than others and an almost magical ability to look at something that’s gone wrong and not label it a personal failure. Some of that comes from genetics and some from family. It’s a fortunate child whose family matches up well with his/her needs. And recognizes that they’re special just like they are. (Shades of Sesame Street!) None of that, “Why can’t you be more like your sibling? Or, Timmy next door?”

Once upon a time someone said that in order to get any good ideas, you had to get a lot of ideas. Well, to keep coming up with possibilities in the face of ones that didn’t work out requires ego strength. Which is a fancy way of saying that someone believes in themselves. That the self and the ego are not at odds with one another. That we’ve seen our shadow side and can coexist with it.

I think that’s about enough. But, I’m humbled and gratified that the next several blog posts are already taking shape in my head from this one.

Random Thoughts, Part II

2011-07-02T08:02:00.001-07:00

Since writing last week’s entry, my wonderful mother found her way to the other side of the veil. I am sad and grateful all at the same time; and humbled by the presence of something beyond us all. For me it is a goddess presence; for others it’s the godhead. I’m not sure it matters much what you call it. Simply the knowledge that there’s more out there than is immediately accessible through one’s five senses is both comforting and a bit unnerving.

One of the many things I’ve been thinking about since the mortuary called to tell me they had my mother is the close-to-hundred years that spanned her life and how much things have changed in that time. Born in 1916, the baby in a family of seven children, mother grew up in a small town in Indiana where there were more horse-drawn carriages than cars. The iceman brought blocks of ice to her home; thus the old term “icebox”. Those of you who are old enough might remember the space in a cold box where you put the ice. When it melted, it was replaced by another chunk. During the summer months, people used sawdust to insulate the ice and help it to last longer.

Mother grew up in a huge old house with hidden staircases, a library with floor to ceiling bookshelves on every wall and rats in the cellar (with resident cats to control them). I remember both bats and birds in the fourth floor attic, although my Uncle Bill, an MD who moved into the family home when he returned from the European theater after World War II, worked far harder to control the pest population than my grandparents ever did.

Commercial radio came into being around the time mother was four. She lived through part of World War I, all of World War II, the Korean War, and all the more modern conflagrations as well. People used manual typewriters when she went to college and went to the library to do research. She saw the dawn of commercial air transportation, television and the computer age—and marveled at each of them. Modern medicine came into being during her lifetime as well with the advent of antibiotics and greatly improved surgical techniques, not to mention the proliferation of our pharmacopeia.

By comparison, they had computers when I was in college, but they were the old Univacs that took up entire floors in university buildings. Data had to be transcribed onto cards and fed into them. Personal computers didn’t really emerge as consumer items until I was in my early to mid thirties. Mother never liked computers. She tried to learn to use them, but there was something about the impersonal nature of the electronics that gave her the creeps. After a time, I stopped trying to sell her on the wonders of email and instant-gratification pictures, not to mention the ability to check her stock portfolio online.

Seventh born of seven children, mother moved from her home to a college dorm and from there to live with one of her sisters until she married my father at the age of twenty-eight. Not surprisingly, she never liked being alone. In fact, it made her extremely uncomfortable. She and I talked about that. I, naturally, suggested she spend some time in therapy to try to come to terms with whatever was going on. She, however, looked at psychotherapy as one step up from witchcraft. Somehow it was different if the “therapy” came from me. More palatable. So, I kept doing what I was doing and we simply sidestepped calling it anything other than our biweekly telephone conversation.

Appearances were very important to Mom. How you looked, being able to set a nice table and addressing others with the proper level of deference were all critical. Everybody was “Mr.” and “Mrs.” when I was growing up. Much of that societal structure has broken down in the last fifty years. And, I’m not sure we haven’t lost something precious. If nothing is worthy of our respect, we cease to respect ourselves as well. And, when I look at some of today’s youth, dressed in ripped clothing that clearly needed a visit to the washing machine last week, I wonder where their parents are. And, I am ever-so-grateful for both of mine. For their old-school insistence on doing the right thing, even if it inconvenienced me. For the values they inculcated into me. I never have to stop to figure out the right thing to do. That path is usually crystal clear. It’s just setting foot on it that takes a level of moral fortitude. So, thanks Mom—and Dad, too—wherever you are. Thanks a million times over.

Random Thoughts

2011-06-23T20:09:00.000-07:00

I know I said I'd polish off the last two personality disorders this week, but I'm in Sacramento, which is not necessarily an impediment in and of itself, but I've been thinking a lot about the ephemeral nature of life and that's far more front and center than psychiatric diagnoses right now.

My own life will be changing soon since I plan to retire from my lengthy career in mental health; and my mother is terminally ill. She's had an incredible life. At 95, she has every right to fade out of life. Nonetheless, there's something about having a parent standing between you and the void. The inescapable message, once one's parents are gone, is that you'll be next. Or, more pertinently, I will be since it's not your mother who's dying.

In addition to life, I've been thinking about "stuff". Mom had lots of it. I know because I just got through clearing fifty years worth of accumulation out of her home. When I was done, it was just four walls and a roof and I was struck by how little it takes to dismantle someone's life. Oh, don't get me wrong. I worked like a mad thing for a couple of weeks. But, that's not very long, really, to dispose of a long life's worth of things. They won't do her any good in the nursing home. And, they assuredly wouldn't have been able to follow her to whatever comes next. So, in the final analysis, it's just "stuff". Once the dust settles, I think I'd like to clear out some of my own.

When we moved to Mammoth Lakes ten years ago, I did a pretty thorough job sorting since we paid the movers by the pound. But, it's amazing how much new "stuff" a couple of active adults can gather in a ten year span. We have a three thousand square foot house that's full. Oh, I suppose it could hold a tad more. But, why? As it is, I brought things back from Mom's house that probably should have gone to the Goodwill. And so it goes. I listened to Mom for years as she talked about how she should really clean out her closets. Well, she was right. She should have. At least then she'd have had some say about the disposition of everything. As things stand, she's way too demented to weigh in on much of anything.

Which brings me to another topic: modern medicine. We have increcible interventions. When I used to work for a Family Medicine residency training program, the standing black-humor joke was that we live in America where death has become optional. Well, that's not so far from the truth. Mom develops infections that could easily sweep her away, but the MDs keep bringing her back, despite the fact that she has advanced directives telling them not to. All I can do, since I'm so far away, is sit back and grind my teeth. I got into an incredible argument with one of the hospital intensivists a couple of months ago. After the perky little doctor insisted she could save Mom, I asked "What for?", following that up with, "She has no quality of life." Well, the MD didn't have an answer for me. But, she pulled Mom through anyway. In spite of me? Because of me? Hard to say . . .

Truth be told, I'd far prefer it if my mother was still hale and hearty. But, she's not. In fact, she's so miserable, it breaks my heart. We euthanize animals. Yet, we let people suffer. It makes little to no sense. Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox.

Today's blog was far more personal than usual. Promise I'll get back to business as usual next week.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part VIII

2011-06-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

I finally have time to get back to this weekly blog. I’ve actually missed doing it as it gave me an opportunity to think about how psychiatric diagnoses have helped me build story characters.

Starting off with Borderline Personality Disorder, I think it’s safe to say that this is one of the most challenging diagnoses for any clinician. Borderlines are characterized by a severe and pervasive fear of abandonment; they’ll stop at nothing to ensure that the people in their lives stay connected. About 75% of persons with this disorder are female. Self mutilation and multiple suicide attempts, that are more attention-getting gestures than true suicide attempts, are common. Despite the fact that the Borderline doesn’t really want to die, they often miscalculate; thus, this group suicides at a rate roughly ten times greater than the general population. Medications are fairly ineffective treating this disorder. There are some newer, highly structured, psychotherapeutic interventions that have shown some promise, though.

The most distinctive characteristic of persons with BPD is their hypersensitivity to rejection and their preoccupation with abandonment. Unfortunately, their perception of whether or not another cares for them involves unrealistic levels of availability and validation. So, the individual with BPD alternatively idealizes, then devalues, others. In storybook land, this could be a supporting character who is uber–demanding, constantly upping the emotional ante to get their needs met.

As a personal aside, the very few suicides I’ve had in my practice over the years have all carried this diagnosis. They are difficult to treat because they do not trust easily, so the development and maintenance of a therapeutic alliance is a perpetual challenge.

Narcissistic Personality Disorders aren’t any easier to treat than Borderlines, but at least they lack the lethal element. Narcissists actually make great antagonists. They’re the ones with an elevated sense of their own importance, a sense of entitlement, and fantasies of unlimited success/power/brilliance. They can be haughty and arrogant. They also tend to be interpersonally exploitive, lack empathy and are envious of others. I can think of lots of storybook antagonists who fit that bill: Joffrey in the Fire and Ice Series, Saruman in LOTR, Ambrose in Rothfuss’s Name of the Wind, to name but a few.

Narcissists hardly ever come into psychotherapy. The idea that they would even need to consider fixing anything about themselves is anathema to them. Underneath the bravado, though, is brittleness. In depth work, they train practitioners to be wary of too much confrontation with this disorder (assuming you’d ever see one in your practice!) because the theory is once you’ve pulled their covers, there’s no ego strength beneath to shore them up.

Another thing to keep in mind is that the personality disorders rarely occur singly. Generally individuals have traits from more than one of these disorders. So, Joffrey was also an antisocial personality disorder, as was Saruman. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (we’re on the fourth edition at the moment) defines a personality disorder as “an enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior that deviates markedly from the expectation of the individual’s culture, is pervasive and inflexible, has an onset in adolescence or early adulthood, is stable over time, and leads to distress or impairment”.

In plain speak, what this means is that personality disorders see the world in a way that diverges from most of the rest of us. The more severe disorders have their roots in very early childhood (age 0-3). And, clinicians (who often do not agree on much) agree that all of these disorders begin prior to age 5.

Today’s blog is getting too long to finish the last two disorders. However, I’d be more than glad to entertain any questions about this series so far.

Contest Winner!!

2011-06-15T19:24:00.000-07:00

Ken Schneyer is the winner of a signed print copy of Psyche's Prophecy. Thanks for signing up for my blog. It's much appreciated.
I'll be running another contest as soon as Psyche's Search becomes available.

On the Road . . .

2011-06-02T10:11:00.000-07:00

Traveling this week, so my usual Friday blog post will be a few days late. Stay tuned though, I plan to polish off the personality disorders next time. So, that will include schizotypal, borderline, narcissistic and avoidant.

I've always loved the myth about Narcissus. Remember him? He was a hunter who was so taken by his reflection in a still pond that he simply sat there admiring himself till he died. The earlier part of that story includes Echo, a nymph who was in love with Narcissus. Spurned by him, she, too, wasted away till there was nothing left of her but her voice. It always seemed fitting to me that Narcissus met his end the same way Echo did, by self induced starvation.

Maybe when I'm done with the personality disorders, I'll segue into mythology. There are lots of amazing stories that haven't lost a thing despite the fact their roots are thousands of years old.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part VII

2011-05-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

Back to the personality disorders. There are seven more of them and I’ll try to cover three today. In week-before-last’s blog, I discussed antisocial, histrionic and obsessive compulsive personality disorders. This week, I think I’ll focus on dependent, paranoid and schizoid, trying to see how each might fit into a fictional character.

Dependent personality disorders, as the name suggests, won’t make good protagonists because they’re so submissive, clingy and have a desperate need to be taken care of. They can make good supporting characters, though, since they tend to partner with the more dominant personality disorders like antisocial. These are the abused women (or men—less common, but it does happen) of the world, either overtly (physically abused) or in more subtle ways that include emotional putdowns and being made fun of. For those of you who read my post from May 13^th, you’ll recall that the personality disorders are ego syntonic which is a fancy way of saying that they are a comfort zone for a person. So, from a treatment perspective, it’s very difficult to get a personality-disordered individual to make any significant changes. This is why a woman married to an abusive alcoholic may divorce that person only to go on to find someone else just like their first partner. They need to play the submissive, clingy role and there are only certain other personality disorders who will tolerate a spouse like that.

As an aside, yes the personality disorders do tend to be attracted to one another romantically. It’s rare to find someone with one of the personality disorders partnered up with someone who doesn’t have one of the other ones.

Paranoid personality disorders are just that: paranoid. This is a mental health problem that runs the gamut from mild paranoia that the individual enjoys (there’s that ego syntonic thing again) to a delusional disorder with paranoid features to paranoid schizophrenia. Well, what’s the difference? It’s a matter of degree. Paranoid personality disorders are able to function. It’s just that they interpret other’s motives as malevolent and lead out with suspicion. Paranoid schizophrenics who are not medicated have a very hard time functioning. For example, they can’t hold down a job or maintain interpersonal relationships because their distrust of others holds such a front-and-center place in their minds. Also, they tend to have carefully wrought delusional systems that include fanstastical elements like the Nazis being spirited out of Germany in space ships after World War II, taken to South America and they’re now in communication with the individual. (Someone actually told me that one.) Mild paranoids make great antagonists since they view the world in a skewed manner. Think the Dark King in Tolkien or Cersei in the Fire and Ice series, especially round about book four.

Schizoids are the night watchmen of the world. They have very low socialization needs. And, in fact, they prefer to be alone. They never have any relationships with someone who isn’t a first degree relative and those are generally limited to only one or two. They also are extremely restricted in their emotional responsivity. But, theirs is not the criminal detachment of the antisocial personality. They simply live in their own little worlds and prefer to be left alone…by everyone. Not surprisingly, this is a personality disorder that is hardly ever seen in psychotherapy. They would never want to come in on their own and they don’t have close friends/significant others dragging them in. Schizophrenics isolate as well, but they are delusional. Schizoids are not.

Hopefully, from the above, coupled with the blog post from two weeks ago, some patterns are emerging for you. The mental illnesses frequently have certain traits in common. It is how much of those traits and how they present in an individual that gives a clinician what they need to make an accurate diagnosis. Certainly dealing with story people is way different than dealing with psychotherapy clients. So, you have lots of latitude as an author to mix and match. Just make sure the process yields someone who feels real to you.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part VI

2011-05-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

I was going to continue with the personality disorders this week, but I figure those will keep. Instead, I think I’ll blog about a couple of old-fashioned concepts like honor and integrity. It’s easy to behave in an honorable fashion when things are going well. Really it is. And, it’s also easy to hold up that integrity banner, smile pretty and pretend your principles are bulletproof.

How about when the going gets tough, though? Are you (or your characters) able to do the right thing in the face of unfavorable odds? When they don't do the right thing, have you built in enough by way of explanation for how they're operating in the world? Nothing grates quite so much as a one dimensional antagonist.

I had an unsettling experience this week that’s driving this blog post. I suppose I’ve had such good luck soliciting services over the internet, I simply assumed everyone I found through that venue would be a decent sort. Ya know, truth, justice and the American way and all that tripe. Heh! I feel like a bit of a rube admitting that. But, yes, I’ve always tried to be honest and forthright. I do what I say I will, even if it inconveniences me and I expect the same from others.

Well, hey, I hired someone. I did my part. I paid them. Told them what I wanted. They promised me a sample of their work so I could have input along the way. Never got that sample. Nope. Got a finished product that was way off the mark. Not very close at all to what I’d requested. I asked for changes and was told I didn’t know what I wanted, that they knew better than I, etc. "No changes," I was told. "Take it or leave it."

My honor is intact. My trust in the universe is sorely shaken, however.

Shamelessly, I’ve been trying to see what sort of story person I could build out of the aggressive soul who took advantage of me. Since character is the name of the game here, the person was opportunistic. And, on top of that, I think they’ve been far more successful in years past than currently. However, they could be living off past glories and have an inflated—if not narcissistic—view of their skills and abilities. That’s why I got the “I know better than you lecture”, because they truly believe it.

All really good authors (and I’m certainly not saying I am one) are able to get inside their characters sufficiently to build convincing motives for how the characters behave. If I’m correct and the one who screwed me over really is captain of a wagon that’s rolling down the hill, that would explain a lot. Like how they thought because they gave me a “price break” I should bow down and be happy with whatever they gave me. If they’re used to commanding a much higher price for their work, they would feel that way.

All righty, then. We have the underpinnings for a credible story character. They’re maybe in their forties, or perhaps even fifties.. Old enough to have had a successful career. Unfortunately, that career was tied to an industry that’s fallen on hard times here of late. Since I just got back from a conference where I listened sadly while some of my favorite authors shared about how they can’t make a living anymore, I’m guessing that could be a key element in someone who’s turned into an angry, bitter curmudgeon. Anyway, without too much work here, I’ve managed to come up with a sketch for a character I’m sure I’ll use sometime. What makes your characters click? What’s the grit in the oyster that creates that pearl otherwise known as personality?

As an aside, men often tie their self worth to their careers, women to their families. Bottom line is our self concept needs to link to us. To who we are independent of families and careers. One exercise I’ve often had groups do is to turn to the person next door and describe oneself without mentioning anything about one’s family or what one does to earn a living. That tends to stop people cold. Who are you when you strip away wife, mother, son, engineer, doctor, lawyer, teacher? Go ahead, try it. See what you come up with.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part V

2011-05-13T16:01:00.000-07:00

I started to write this segment about another fictional character, Katniss Everdeen, from Suzanne Collin’s Hunger Games, but it was looking more like a book review, so I hit delete and switched gears.

What I think I’d like to do is start looking at the various personality disorders. All good antagonists are personality disordered in some way. And, it’s important to understand each of these disorders to be able to build a story-person who’s characterized by one of them. Unlike the primary mental health disorders that are ego dystonic (in other words, they create discomfort within the person experiencing the symptoms), personality disorders are ego syntonic. You guessed it. Just the opposite. The traits are a comfort zone, so there’s little motivation for change.

Guess I’ll start rolling with our old friend, the antisocial personality disorder (ASP). These are the people who torture animals as children, set fires, steal, and even murder. All without much emotional reactivity. The DSM calls it “blatant disregard for the rights of others”. This character type has seen a lot of play in novels. Most antagonists who kill willy-nilly and race off into the night howling with glee are caricatures of ASPs. The part that usually gets left out is that this personality disorder almost always had a childhood right out of Little Shop of Horrors. As kids, they were beaten, molested, starved, burned and neglected. There’s the odd exception, but ninety-nine percent of ASPs had perfectly wretched childhoods, so they grow up without the ability to feel remorse as a result of their actions. That’s something an author can use to parlay sympathy for even the most hardened antagonist. There’s scarcely an early life scenario that you might dream up that wouldn’t fit the bill. They might have been forced to take part in the Bataan Death March, or sold into slavery as a child prostitute. Virtually any grisly set of circumstances will fit the bill.

Moving right along to my next favorite: obsessive compulsive personality disorder (OCPD). These guys can actually make fairly decent protags as well. Though it shares most of the name, this is nothing like the obsessive compulsive disorder that’s characterized by repetitive hand washing (think Lady MacBeth), cleaning and other rituals like hoarding. OCPD is a preoccupation with perfectionism, orderliness and control at the expense of any flexibility. These are the guys who alphabetize the canned goods and have their drawers and closets arranged in neat little rows with all the same colored clothes next to one another. Any time an item is moved out of order is cause for significant anxiety and concern until the item is “properly” replaced. I saw a T-shirt at a conference I was at recently that said something like, I have CDO. That’s OCD with the letters arranged in alphabetical order like they should be. That's something someone with OCPD would say. It would never occur to someone with OCD, which is one of the, ah, problems with pop psychology. Everybody fancies themselves an expert. An author can have a lot of fun with this personality disorder. It makes for some intriguing characters.

Let’s do one more and then that will be it for this week’s blog. Let’s look at histrionic personality disorder (HPD). Again, antagonist or protagonist, your choice. This disorder is hyper-emotional with lots of attention-seeking behavior. Frequent major appearance shifts are common like new hair color, plastic surgery and a wide-ranging seductive wardrobe. Think the fourteen year old who dresses like Lady Gaga with lots of exposed skin and thick make-up. Except they’re forty and never quite got over that phase. HPDs really need to be the center of attention all of the time. No matter where they are. If attention slides away from them, they just keep on upping the ante until they get it back. They’ll tell outrageous lies, engage in excessive public displays of emotion and seem as if they’re always on stage. You can see how much fun they’d be to be in a relationship with. These guys would drain the patience of a saint. But, if you’ve got a protag who’s into high drama, this just might fit the bill.

Remember, all personality traits exist on a continuum. You can borrow heavily from the personality disorders, tone them done just a shred and have a flamboyant, but interesting story character.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part IV

2011-05-06T16:56:00.000-07:00

Today I thought I’d do a bit of compare and contrast between two fictional characters: Jacqueline Carey’s Imriel de la Courcel and Patrick Rothfuss’s Kote/Kvothe. Granted I have a lot more material on Imriel, having followed him through the six books of the “Kushiel” series, but I think some of the things I have to say will generalize.

When we first meet Imriel, he is a child; and a child subjected to very adult torture at that. Through Carey’s skillful storytelling, we get to follow him through young adulthood amidst many trials and tribulations that shape the development of his character. Stigmatized as the son of Terre D’Ange’s greatest traitor, he manages to prove his worth beyond measure and is rewarded with marriage to his one true love, the Dauphine of the realm. Carey’s story is part romance, part adventure, part fantasy. Throughout all of it, Imriel’s personality shines through. We watch him morph from a brooding child into an uncertain adolescent turning away from others’ scorn. The journey from there to becoming a self-possessed adult, sure of himself and the power of his love for Sidonie, is a long one. Imriel is challenged again and again. His response to those challenges is both poignant and totally congruent. He never did anything where I sat back, scratched my head and asked myself, “He did that??? Why?”

In contrast, we have Kvothe, the main character in Rothfuss’s books. At the beginning of book one, Kvothe is a long-past-grown-up innkeeper, rather dull and just a bit mysterious. As he tells his life’s tale to a scribe, we see him as a child and youth in a very long flashback that makes up the bulk of the book. Well, Kvothe as a child and adolescent is interesting! He has a personality that shines through. He is bright, enterprising, and quite the risk-taker. The problem, at least in my opinion, is a lack of consistency between the protagonist as a youth and as an adult. They seem like two different people. I really liked the adolescent, but found the adult somewhat less-than-engaging. If more of book one had focussed on Kvothe as an adult, I'd never have bought book two.

To be honest, I have not finished book two. In fact, I’ve barely scratched the surface. Chapter One had a badly misplaced comma; but far worse than that, it had a description of bread making that made me feel very sure the author has not only never made bread in his life, but hadn’t bothered to go to the trouble to look up a recipe for how one might go about such a simple endeavor. That’s not exactly high level research. Flour, sugar, salt and a chunk of starter won’t buy you much if you don’t bother to add water. And, you don’t make loaves, then punch them down. You leave the dough in a single round, let it rise, punch it down and then form it into loaves… Maybe book two gets better. I assume, since it started with almost exactly the same prologue as book one (yes, nearly word for word; another nitpick), it will be a rehash that will pick up the threads of Kvothe’s young life where book one left off. I further assume (and I hope I’m wrong since I paid Amazon $14.99 for the Kindle version) that since the adult Kvothe is the same at the beginning of the novel, there will be the same discrepancy between the old and young versions of this primary character.

In a number of ways, I suppose writing has not exactly ruined reading for me; but it’s sure made me a whole lot pickier about details. I want characters who feel like they could live next door. Okay, okay, so I live in a fantasy world part of the time. But, I’d welcome a witch or a Sidhe if they happened to move in. Or any of the Celtic or Greco-Roman gods or goddesses. Really, I would. It would be fascinating to have a touch of the old magic in the neighborhood.

This has been way more of a rant than I meant it to be. Guess I'm feeling gypped since I finally ponied up the money to buy the Rothfuss book and Chapter One was just such a disappointment. Undaunted, I shall try to get my beak into Chapter Two tonight.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part III

2011-04-30T18:17:00.000-07:00

If you’re an author, your characters are all different parts of you, right? Wellllll not exactly… Yes, they all emerged from the depths of your subconscious, but they are not you. If they were, all your characters would be so alike there’d be no tension in your stories. And not much in the way of interest either.

There’s a technique used in Jungian dream analysis where the dreamer writes down the major elements of the dream, free associates to each and then engages his/her psyche in something called active imagination—something like a spirited discussion with one’s soul. Jung used to have out-loud dialogues with a projection he’d named Philemon. They even wrote letters back and forth to one another. Yes, yes, I know. Today he would have been labeled certifiably insane. But, in his day, he was seen as a visionary. And, he still is by those of us who embraced his philosophies which were not only years ahead of his time, but also timeless.

Jung tapped into the imaginal world when he and Philemon had conversations. Writers also tap into the imaginal world to bring stories to life. Sometimes, when I’m hot and heavy into the midst of a novel—or even a short story—my head is so full it’s hard to re-focus on the “real” world. But, who’s to say my imaginal world is any less “real” than the one where I see clients, push paper about on my desk and am both wife and mother?

It’s odd, but those two worlds co-exist nicely—at least for the most part. I do think you need to have a life outside of writing to be a writer. Otherwise, where would your ideas come from? Oh, there would be a few, but they wouldn’t carry you very far. The very best writers write from a richness of experience. At least in my opinion, you need to keep refreshing that experiential base to have grist for the authorial mill.

Back to characters. I’ve been thinking a lot about George RR Martin lately, probably because the long-promised fifth (or is it the sixth?) book in his Fire and Ice series is once again supposed to come out very soon. And, along with George, I’ve been thinking about his character Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion is an antagonist, or is he? He certainly has a host of, ahem, unsavory character traits. But, along with them, he has empathy and compassion. Because he is a dwarf, he has been the butt of other’s jokes ever since he was born. He manages the bitterness this ongoing derision has engendered with a quick wit and a self-deprecating sense of humor. The bitterness is why (and how) he murders his jerk of a father. The compassion is why he doesn’t force his child-bride, Sansa Stark, to consummate their marriage and one of the reasons he doesn’t try harder to find her after she flees. Of course, the other is because he is imprisoned, accused of the murder of Joffrey Baratheon.

Joffrey is one of Martin’s rare characters who is truly one dimensional. He is a bastard in more ways than one. Product of an incestuous liaison between Cersei and Jaime Lannister while Cersei is married to the King, Robert Baratheon, Joffrey doesn’t have even one saving grace. I figure Martin killed him off because Joffrey had become an embarrassment and an inconvenience and Martin didn’t know what else to do with him. As a reader, all I felt was relief when Joffrey was finally out of the picture. Of course, he was out of the picture too late to save Sansa Stark…

Regardless of the glitch with Joffrey, the magic in Martin’s writing is he’s able to build characters his readers care about. He does that by making them each unique and by giving them impossible responsibilities that tax their personalities to the max. It is struggle and resolution that make for fine story-telling. And, Martin is a master at recognizing each of his character’s abilities and shortcomings. So, for example, Catelyn Stark’s efforts, after her husband Ned is murdered, are limited by her own particular set of weaknesses. And, it is those weaknesses that are her eventual undoing, binding her to a half-life as revenge annihilates her.

The Psychology of Character Development, Part II

2011-04-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

What makes a character believable? Well, what makes you believable? There are actually several things. Probably the most important is a constellation of personality traits that make sense together, that are consistent over time and that are congruent with your thoughts and actions. Humans tend to be predictable. So do characters. And, since it is humans who are doing the writing and creation of characters in literature, it is not accidental that every protagonist (and antagonist) in fiction is made up of human traits.

One of the frequent tricks of science fiction writers is to focus on one trait, giving the rest of them short shrift. Spock in Star Trek comes to mind. He was certainly Mr. Rational, but he had rare flashes of emotion, too. The series creator, Gene Roddenberry, used a similar motif for all his alien creatures. Klingons were violent, Vulcans were “reasonable” (and supposedly emotionless), AIs were logical, etc. The thing about the Star Trek characters is that they were consistent and predictable. In that way, fans came to love the series. I still remember the aliens who tunneled into rocky caverns, killing the crew of the Starship if they got too close. Turned out those tunnels were their nests and they were protecting their young. Again, an all-too-human motivation. And one that viewers could be sympathetic to.

So, what does that mean to writers? At the front end, it means giving some thought to the primary characters in one’s book or short story. Who are they? What do they look like? Where did they come from? What kind of educational and experiential background do they have and are they embracing it or running away from it? What does their emotional make-up look like? Are they warm? Funny? Cold? Calculating? Loving? Jaded? To put a finer point on it, all of us are combinations of things. The trick to building a believable fictional character is to pick constellations of traits that go together. And then to have whatever that character does be congruent with his/her personality traits. It’s fine if there’s, for example, a shy, retiring character who begins by dreaming of glory and ends by actually engaging in an act of heroism. That’s congruent. What’s not is the same reticent character who, out of the blue, dives in front of a speeding train to pull a child to safety. We love characters we can relate to. And we relate to characters who feel real.

One of the primary errors many authors make—at least in my opinion—is that the antagonists in their stories either one or two dimensional. Even the hardest of hardened criminals has a soft spot or two. And, if a reader is going to feel anything when the bad guy goes down in flames, they will need to have experienced at least a flash or two of empathy for him/her.

That’s what successful writing is all about. Feelings. It’s also what makes readers want to buy books. Books are entertainment. They make us feel things. Happy. Sad. Worried. Curious. If you look at the most successful authors, their work brings up all those feelings, and more as well. Those are the books we remember; that we drag about in our heads: the ones with characters who haunt us. It takes very little for me to cull up an image of Scarlett O’Hara raising her fist in the field back behind Tara and saying she’ll never be hungry again.

Think about the fictional characters who have stayed with you. They did because they resonated in some way with your internal landscape.

Part Three of the Psychology of Character Development will follow next week.

Excerpt From Daddy's Girl

2011-04-24T19:59:00.000-07:00

While part 2 of the psychology of character development is percolating in my head, I thought I'd post the first few pages of my short story Daddy's Girl. It was just released by Misanthrope Press in their Title Goes Here quarterly anthology, Issue 7. If you like it, you can find the rest at http://www.titlegoeshereonline.com/pages/blog-article?r=M7WZSYAF67

Daddy’s Girl

Ann Gimpel

“Marni, get yourself down here. Your supper’s nigh onto stone cold.” Mom’s voice drifted up to me from downstairs, her West Virginia accent tinged with irritation. She was right, though; I had been holed up in my room for quite awhile…hours maybe. Feeling the need to hurry, my fingers flew over the computer keys as I worked on getting just the right combination of white balance and contrast into the photo I was working on. It was of the small pond in the woods behind our house. I’d caught it yesterday, right as the sun had been going down. Orange rays practically bounced off its surface making the prosaic little body of water look almost magical. A starburst of a sun flirted with the horizon and the forest seemed alive with possibilities.

“In a minute, Mom.” My voice raised to carry down to the kitchen, I hastily added a smidge of warmth. Nope, too much. Moving the slider back the other way, I cocked my head to the side surveying the results. Ah, just the tiniest of tweaks… There! Exhaling loudly through pursed lips, I shut my eyes. Photo editing was an intense process. Some said it was cheating to use the computer-based programs to make your pictures better; but all the really good photographers did it. And, that was what I wanted to be more than anything. A good photographer. I smiled, eyes still closed, as I corrected that thought. No, what I wanted to be was a great photographer. It was what I dreamed of. I’d saved every dime of my babysitting money since I’d been twelve to buy my digital SLR camera, along with a rich assortment of lenses and filters.

“Marni!”

Oh-oh, Mom was royally pissed now. “Be right there. Really!” Narrowing my eyes in concentration, I looked again at my photo before punching the save button. And then I looked again. Where had that come from? In the bottom corner of the picture, curled up by the base of a young sycamore tree, was something that looked an awful lot like a wolf. How the hell had that gotten there? Why hadn’t I seen it before? Had I been so intent on the sunset, and getting the color balance just right on the computer, that I’d just not noticed? I closed my eyes, scrunched them tight, rubbed at them with my fists, then opened them again. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat because there was no wolf this time round. With hands that were suddenly less-than-steady I saved my work, then saved it again to an external hard drive. I found I couldn’t think about what must have been a hallucination. I sort of tried to, but my mind just danced away from the subject as if it knew better than to examine it too closely.

“Maybe I do need to eat,” I muttered to myself as I pushed wearily up from my chair, gathering my long blonde hair into a rough pony tail so it wouldn’t fall into my food. As I passed through the door that went into the upstairs hall, I plucked a rubber band off the door knob, securing the pony tail, before tromping down the wooden risers.

“Well, it’s about time.” Mother looked up from her sewing, her blue eyes rheumy from the fine work. A few stray hairs, blonde going gray, escaped from the severe bun she always wore. “Your supper’s in the oven. I put foil over it so’s it’d stay warm.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I bent to peck her on the cheek. It had been just the two of us for as long as I could remember. Dad had died in the Gulf War. I’d only been five when he’d left and he’d never come home. For whatever reason, Mom had never remarried. Hell, she’d never even dated that I knew of. But, she and I didn’t talk about things like that. We talked about me and my future and about the weather and the myriad of things we had to do—like growing vegetables and canning—for us to get by. I guess I take after my Dad. At least it seems that way when I see his old photographs scattered around our house. I have the same hazel eyes and square jaw. And the same tall, lanky build, all bones and broad shoulders. Mom is shorter. And her features far more delicate. She was really beautiful when she was young. When I was little, I used to think she was like some exotic fairy hovering over my bed at night. Now, she just looked tired. And sad.

I gathered up a hot pad and pulled my dinner from the still-warm oven. Pouring myself a glass of goat’s milk from the old, cracked blue pitcher in the fridge, I scootched a chair up close to her. “Is something wrong?” I asked as I started eating, the wolf-mirage in my photo almost, but not quite, forgotten.

Mom sighed. Then she reached out and patted my cheek. “No, Marni. Nothin’s wrong. Just eat your supper. Then you probably need to get on to bed. School time will come early tomorrow.”

“But I only have another week left and then I’ll be done with school.” I was talking around a mouthful of vegetable casserole. Swallowing, I added, “Probably wouldn’t be the end of the world if I missed a day at this point. My grades are all turned in and I passed everything.”

“You still wantin’ to go to that fancy photography school?” she asked, an odd tone in her voice, mouth half-curved into a smile.

“Well, uh, sure. Of course. But, Mom, we don’t have the money for that. I’ll just go to the JC here in town. They have photography classes, and I can get a two-year degree.” I kept shoveling food into my mouth as I talked. Now that I was eating I realized how hungry I’d been. That must have been what had happened upstairs. I’d been light-headed and just imagined that there was something in that photo…

“I could sell this place.” Mom’s voice broke into my thoughts, and I looked up, shocked. I opened my mouth, but she held up a hand. “No, Marni. Let me finish. It’s a lot of work here. That it is.”

“But I’d still be here to help you,” I interrupted.

“Not forever you wouldn’t.” There was that same bittersweet smile again. “Ah, baby girl. We haven’t done so badly, you and I, but it’s time for you to move on out into the world; and I can’t handle the work here all by myself.” She was still sewing, glancing down from time to time to ensure a straight seam. “Well, maybe I could do it for awhile more, but surely not ten years from now. I’ll be close to seventy then. I’ve given this a lot of thought; and it seems to me like you could use money now, not when you’re closin’ on thirty.” Sitting back, she looked right at me as if daring me to contradict her.

I just sat there dumbstruck, fork mid-way between my plate and my mouth. “But…but, I couldn’t let you do that, Mom. This place…” I set my fork down and gulped some milk. “Dad left us this place. You can’t sell it. It’s all we have left of him.” Where had those words come from? It was like someone else was talking through me. My recently consumed supper began to curdle in my stomach. Out of nowhere, I was suspiciously close to tears. I hadn’t really thought about Dad in months, maybe not in years. I didn’t understand why I was feeling so upset—he’d been dead for thirteen years after all—but an unfamiliar inner voice was broadcasting that this house, and the acre of land it sat on, anchored our family together: Mom, me and our dead husband and father. Shaking my head briskly, more to unseat whatever had taken up residence in my head than anything else; I turned back to Mom since she’d started talking again.

“…maybe that’s why it’s long past time we got out of here…” she muttered. Then she kept on talking, but not to me. It was almost as if she’d forgotten I was there. “Some nights,” she went on, “Danny still walks these halls. Him, or the others. And, when I’m half asleep—or half awake—I can feel his hands tuggin’ at my hair and hear his voice tellin’ me things…” Breaking off abruptly, she met my eyes. “Marni, I can’t have a life of my own less’n we leave here. I know you’ve likely wondered why I never found you a new daddy. Well, it’s because it feels like I’m not really a widow.” She laughed hollowly. “I’ve said a piece too much here, I reckon,” she mumbled, looking embarrassed. Standing up, she carefully folded her sewing and laid it atop her mending box. “Think on what I said. Be sure to finish your supper. You don’t eat enough.” Then she walked out of the room leaving me feeling… Ah, what was I feeling, anyway? Confused? Scared? About ten years old and wishing someone else would still make all my decisions for me. The big ones anyway.

Mechanically, I finished what was left on my plate and carried it over to the old fashioned sink. Rinsing it, I laid it in the drainer, still thinking about what Mom had said. Geez, she’d practically told me that our house was haunted. And that she was…was trapped in some way by the ghost of what had been my father. As I trailed up the stairs to brush my hair and my teeth, I glanced at the grandfather clock on the landing. It was barely nine o’clock. Deciding I could do a little more photo editing, I gave my teeth and hair short shrift, pulled the chain to douse the bathroom light and headed for the computer. The nights in early June were still chilly, so I snugged one of my favorite well-worn sweatshirts over my head, luxuriating in the feel of the faded, red cotton against my goose-bumped arms.

Reminding myself to keep an eye on the clock, and with an internal promise that I’d button things up by ten, I brought up the hundred or so shots I’d taken the previous afternoon at sunset. Drawn almost beyond will and reason, I clicked on the one I’d been working on before Mom had chivied me down to supper. Opening my eyes—gulp, I hadn’t realized I’d closed them—I examined the computer image. And, there it was. My wolf was back. Except this time there was someone with him. The someone looked familiar somehow, but that part of the photo was just too small on the screen. Without thinking much—or I probably wouldn’t have done it—I clicked on the “actual pixels” tab and scrolled down to that corner of the picture.

What I saw made my heart start pounding. Mouth suddenly dry, I jumped out of my chair so abruptly that it fell over with a clatter. It couldn’t be. But it was. The man in the picture, with one arm wrapped about the wolf, was my father. Shit! Had Mom been right about him still being here? I’d taken what she’d told me earlier with a grain of salt, but faced with the reality of what my camera had recorded… Shakily, I righted my chair and began to pull up the other photos. Would he be in them, too? . . . .

(For more, scroll to the top and click the link to Title Goes Here.)

The Psychology of Character Development

2011-04-23T12:26:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my blog! I will post weekly on some aspect of psychology as it relates to writing fiction. Once I've run out of those topics--if I ever do--I'll move on into the marketing aspect of what I'm beginning to see as a new era in publishing. Maybe by then I'll actually know enough to write cogently on that topic!

Since psychology is a comfort zone for me, it seems logical to begin this blog with a discussion of the psychology of character development. Have you ever wondered why some fictional characters feel so real it seems you could easily know them, while others feel wooden and contrived? Or worse, when an author builds a character who feels real up until they suddenly don't because of some event that simply jars your sensibilities; and you toss the book aside feeling cheated. Or, when you get partway through a book and all the characters feel alike? Or, they're two dimensional and it's difficult to understand why they're doing what they are. And you find yourself paging backwards to see if you missed something. Of course that's much harder to do with e-readers. (My only pet peeve w/my Kindle . . . I've never been a "linear" reader. So, to have lost my ability to go easily backwards and forwards in the Kindle is annoying.)

I'm sure all authors address character development a bit differently. And, truth be told, I wish I could because the way my characters come to life is intrusive. Once "born", they run about in my head like little mad things. And, if I try to make them do something they don't like, they let me know about it in no uncertain terms. That's why I'm an "organic" writer. I've tried outlining my material and found it to be a waste of time when my protagonist simply thumbs her nose at me if I push her in a direction she doesn't want to go. Me patiently explaining about my plot has proven meaningless. Besides, people think I've gone bonkers when they see me having conversations with myself!

Before I started writing fiction, I didn't understand this at all. So, years ago when I read an interview by Diana Gabaldon when she complained about her protag, Clare Randall, who simply refused to cooperate, I just rolled my eyes. Now, I understand perfectly. Apologies, Diana!

I suppose most of my books begin in my head with a protagonist. Once I have the protag, I need to figure out which setting would work best for them. Is it modern day America? Or do they live in a high fantasy world, or a science fiction one? They usually let me know right away if I've gotten it wrong.

Characters are just like us--except they're larger than life. What that means is, while you and I might think about an unusual act of heroism, my characters will actually do it. Oh, they'll be plenty scared; but they'll mow right ahead in spite of it. And, when you think about it, a working definition of courage or heroism is action in the face of fear. If I have a character in a situation that would scare me, of course it will scare them too. Unless, of course, the character is a sociopath. They aren't particularly sensitive to the feelings that plague the rest of us. Things like compassion, fear, honor, etc. Sociopaths manipulate others and are able to do so without much in the way of emotional fallout . . . at least to themselves. Everyone around them suffers terribly, of course.

So long as we're on the topic of sociopaths, the very best books have well-drawn, three dimensional antagonists as well as strong protags. Without digging too terribly deeply, I can generally find something in any antagnoist to at least try to link to a reader's sensibilities. For example, one of the antagonists in my novel, Psyche's Prophecy, had a perfectly wretched childhood. When he finally dies, my protag is able to engage in a believable moment of compassion when she thinks to herself that he never had a chance because some things that happen to children just can't be undone. Humans usually have mixed feelings about lots of things. It's important for characters to be able to see things from more than one point of view as well. That's one of the tools an author has to make characters feel believable.

Part II of the psychology of character development will follow next week.