A Photo Essay to Catch you all Up.

I have been a terrible blogger.

I have made promises and reneged on promises.

But anyway. Just so you know, my heart's still in it. LIfe has just caught up with me. To Life! Le-Something!

Rather than try and TELL you everything I've been doing lately (if you are not my facebook friend and already know) (Dave) I will create a photo essay. A picture's worth a thousand words and I think I owe you followers of my blog approximately... several thousand. At least.

There. That should hold you for a while, right? Putz?

If you have any questions (and I don't blame you if you do) comment & I will answer.

My Guilty Collection

I have a secret.

Sabrina's hand tightened about her coffee cup, and she was pierced by the love and pain she could not express for her patient... so proud and obstinate, and caged within his yearning for the girl whom he knew to be so wrong for him.

OK, lots of secrets. Or no secrets. One or the other.

She saw the proud nostrils expand as he took a deep breath.

Anyway, one of my remaining secrets is my guilty addiction. Before I reveal this deep dark secret of mine, guys, you must promise first that you will not judge me. Like many addictions, mine developed during a dark period of my life. That dark period of everyone's life, when you worry all the time about how you look (and to be honest, you do look pretty gawky, particularly because you refuse to shave your legs just yet and insist on wearing knee-length shorts to school anyway, and think that the best hairstyle in the world is to braid your wet locks, then un-braid them the next morning so your hair is crunchy electric waves standing out from your face, and you just learned how to use Sculpie and you've sculpted dozens of pairs of dangly, awkward earrings that almost match the overly large T-shirts you wear in order to hide the fact that you are suddenly wearing training bras).

The dark Saint-Sarnes are cursed in our family. They never find lasting happiness. There was another who in the Great War was injured on the Flanders battlefield. He had married while on leave... when he returned home badly disfigured the girl ran screaming from his bedside.

I remember my adolescence mostly in books. I'd read new ones every once in a while but mostly I stuck with my favorite series. I'd cycle between Laura Ingalls Wilder, L.M. Montgomery, Beverly Cleary, Lloyd Alexander, Robyn McKinley, Joan Aiken, L. Frank Baum, Cynthia Voigt, Judy Blume, and (yes I admit it) Ann M. Martin and Carolyn Keene. (andfrancinepascal. Full confessions here. k.)We read classics in English. And later, I learned to love Babara Kingsolver and Jane Austen and other authors with more redeeming value. But I'll admit it... I love myself a good thriller. A good, well-written serial mystery. Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels is my favorite. The adult version of fiction written for pure entertainment value, but still intelligently written.

His kiss had ripped open the heavens for her... his words plunged her into despair.

I'm not doing a very good job confessing. Sorry. The thing is, alongside more redeeming classics, and less redeeming but still not-badly-written commercial fiction, I have a hidden, competely unwholesome, glee-filled attraction to...

Hers was a face Renoir could have painted, but she didn't know. Dashing young doctors had found her plain and dedicated. Male patients had not found her the sort they could flirt with. Only children had ever loved her.


Harlequin Romances.

You're gasping in horror. I can hear it. Either that, or raising an eyebrow slightly and shaking your head. OK, you must understand. We're not talking about the Harlequins of today. Or even thirty years ago. The ones with all the sex and infidelity and ugh? No. I'm talking about these babies.


50's, 60's to mid-70's (and if you're really lucky, 30's and 40's) era Harlequins. With the red pages. No sex. Well, maybe a bit of necking.

'Nice girls always make it difficult for a man to be kind,' he growled. 'Being chaste they immediately assume they are being chased. Like Gaul they are divided into thorns and sweet meadows, and Lord help the man who blunders among the thorns.'

My introduction to these little gems occurred when my best friend Lavinia, who was also a book lover, went with me to a flea market. One of the items for sale was a large cardboard box filled with Dozens of harlequins. Dozens of books? For only a dollar? It was obvious this was the best deal on the planet. We bought them and came through the front door exclaiming over the excellent bargain we'd made. Lavinia's mother forced a smile, told us how "nice" it was, and then took her aside and talked to her about how they were dangerous books, not the best to read, and she had a choice but she really should just throw them in the trash. *My* mother looked at my half of the booty (unintentional pun, sorry) when I got home and laughed. "Those are really silly books," she said. "But you can read them if you want." she then proceeded to go through the box with me, skimmed the titles and publish dates, took out several that she deemed "innappropriate" and let me have at it.

'You're a darned little prude for a nurse!' with a touch of anger he pulled her against him and sank his fingers into her hair.

I loved them. Back then, it was about travel to far places and learning about romance and enjoying a brainless fairytale. And yes... on occasion there were romantic scenes that set my heart pounding a bit faster and my imagination going. What would it be like to be crushed up against a man's chest and kissed until your lips were bruised? My fourteen year old mind couldn't quite fathom it, but knew there was something exciting about it.

Tiny sparks of green fire gleamed in Nadi's eyes as she came to his side, followed by the laden tray.

As I grew up, these stories became more and more obviously fake, however. I will forever be grateful to my mother for her reaction when I came in the door that day. The laugh. The warning that they were "silly." In a way, that was the best insulation from unrealistic expectations in relationships that I could have received. Because as I grew older, and developed relationships, a few of them romantic, and as I really began to travel and form opinions and see what was real around me, I very clearly saw the silliness in these shallow, formulaic, stories, and the hilarity in these one-dimensional, improbable heroes and heroines.

When she walked into the room, she was like an oil painting in a room full of watercolors.

But I still read them, and I still love them. I could explain why, but oh, you won't understand. It's a combination of my weird sense of humor, a fascination with history and how people lived in the past, women's issues, feminism, human relationships and how people perceive them over time, the way Idealized Womanhood was perceived....

"You have ears like a hawk!" Exclaimed Mrs. Saint-Sarne.

And of course, there are the one liners. The ridiculous titles. The awkward, doe-eyed portraits often with strange and incongruent backgrounds. The improbable plots.
"I like games of chance, Sabrina, but I don't like the trick played on me, that I should get trapped like a silly pup in those absurdly large eyes of yours! I could break you on this rail... come on, say it! Say you love Black Douglas! Admit it to me and I'll let you go!"

Really, the only sort of understanding I could give you is a sampling. Which I have done. Old Harlequins have been a source of comedic entertainment and bonding for the female members of my family. We collect them. We pass them around. We gleefully read passages aloud to each other. We choke with laughter over titles and pictures when we open a stack of harlequins on Christmas morning.

The best one so far (a gift from me to my mother last christmas):



I challenge you to ever find something that awesome in your stocking.

(quotations taken mostly from Black Douglas by Violet Winspear, published 1971. A childhood favorite that the dogs eventually ate, but which I found, to my utter delight, in a local book thrift store, just recently. Sorry, I'm not lending out my copy. I know you're pretty disappointed.)

Writing the Dark Stuff

As some who've read Lightning Tree know, I write about controversial issues in LDS history, but I have worked hard to keep my storytelling about the main story--about the journey my main character takes, and if historical events come into play they come through the eyes of my character, and they are relevant only in how they affect my character. In Lightning Tree, Maggie, my main character, was a child when the Mountain Meadows Massacre happened. At the time, it was not a topic discussed openly among those who she would have known and associated with. I don't portray it specifically except in her dreams and flashbacks, which reflect her worries about Pa Alden, who *was* involved with Mountain Meadows--how much, she doesn't know until the story is nearly done.

(This article orginally appears on my professional writing blog... if you're interested in reading more go here. (bratty of me, I know.) :)

i am not perfect

Sometimes I do things I wonder if I should have done, but still can't think how I would have done them differently. I think I tend to blame myself for any drama at all that happens in my life. One thing I have realized lately, however, is that I cannot control when drama happens. Sometimes you do everything you possibly can and it still happens. What I'm learning to do is, instead of blaming myself for unasked-for drama, to try to mitigate the effects of it. Sometimes that will help, and sometimes it won't. So in the end, all you can do sometimes is ride out drama, don't do anything you personally will regret, and work on learning something from the situation.

Lately I have been realizing that I cannot be perfect. And when I'm not perfect, accidentally or on-purpose, I need to figure out a way to forgive myself and learn something. That is a hard lesson... One I'm not sure most in my family know how to do. One that I'm just barely getting my head around.

This blog has been neglected for a while. I simply do not have time to post here anymore. I write, and I have to network and tweet and all kinds of stuff. I need to force myself to post here, however. This was my place to write, starting in 2005 before I even married Skywalker. This is kind of the place where I really learned how to write. This blog has been through hard times--a giant spike of traffic when I posted my series about pornography. A period of complete neglect, lately. Today I'll be working on getting my professional website on its feet, I think. Hard work, but necessary. I'm going to start trying to post a few times a week on this or my other blog. Lately I've been coping by playing fruit ninja or Candy Crush Saga for a few minutes at a time during the day. Instead, I need to come here and write for a few minutes during the day. Writing is something I do a lot of, lately... 1100 words at least. But I need to remember it's also my release.

In the past, I have not written during times of personal turmoil, because It is hard to write about. And share, especially. But I think I need to. No need for specifics. Time to put some stories behind me & to rest. But I think it's important. That's what this blog has been, and it's what it needs to continue to be.

Today, a facebook friend of mine, someone from my home stake in California, posted something that (unintentionally) triggered an old hurt. I wrote her about it. I actually un-friended her. These are things I don't generally do. Am I a little crazy right now? Perhaps. She wasn't too happy about it. I probably added to the pain of some things she and her family are going through right now. Am I perfect? No. Absolutely not. But I think admitting we aren't is the first step to becoming better.

I got interviewed!

It's nice to have your face in the newspaper for something nice.... loved how the article turned out, too.

Rivers

It’s interesting how you can be frightened of what you love. I grew up next to a gorgeous river. The South Yuba is a playground of smooth white granite, almost too hot to sit on during summer afternoons, but sizzlingly delicious when you come out of the water wet and dripping. The pools are turquoise-green, and the currents are smooth, strong, and loving. When I was younger, we stayed on the sandy beach, swam out to where the water was just above our heads, and quickly came back. As I got older I allowed my friends to convince me to venture further upstream, fighting rapids, clinging to rocky corners to catch my breath, standing on smooth, tall underwater boulders that we knew about only because we swam it so much. Carefully, we’d edge into the full wash of waterfalls, find a place to wedge ourselves, and pretend it was a particularly ferociously jetted tub.

Jeff and I camped on our honeymoon. We chose a few cheap, spartan tent-sites around Monterey Bay and followed a line along the coast up into the giant forests of Northern California. One of the places we made camp in Monterey was a mile walk from the beach. I remember hiking along a narrow trail through grassy fields overarched by eucalyptus trees. There were a lot of butterflies, particularly swallowtails. We picked some fennel that grew along the path and tasted it. The bay, when we got there, was beautiful--blue, warm and sunny,with a giant rocky arm stretching around to the North. Bodysurfers were using it to launch themselves into the waves. I waited on shore, sitting among piles of bleached white branches that lined the beach, and allowed the water to bury my ankles while Skywalker ventured further out. I tried not to think about giant tidal waves. I was glad when he returned.

We went whale watching. I enjoyed standing on the prow of the boat, but was relieved when we got back to shore. And while they were great memories, I was even more glad when we left the ocean and ventured into the redwoods.

My worst nightmares involve tidal waves. I actually dreamed of one the night before the Indonesian Tsunami. Sometimes they’re giant walls of water that send streams of vapor stretching into the sky as far as I can see. Sometimes they’re boiling masses of grey, rising up against a cliff or ledge where I am standing with my family.

The river I live close to now is mostly shallow, wide, and full of bright trout. The rocks on the bottom glow in jewel tones when the sun hits them just right. Grassy islands and trestle bridges, mysterious hollows and miniature forests make me think of some of the darker fairytales. Giant, white-winged birds squat in the middle to fish. In the summer, it is dark green. In the winter, it is an icy jade color. There is a spot at the city park where I can walk out onto a volcanic ledge and watch a terrible descent of rapids pour over jutting rocks, ricocheting out in spray patterns that remind me of feathered headdresses. One of my friends is convinced that the spirit of an Indian chief lives on the island just a stone’s throw from her front porch.

We have a pond in our backyard. I promised myself I’d take my kids out there every day this summer and teach them to swim. I don’t feel comfortable living around water. I worry, and sometimes dream of terrible things happening. But the odd thing is, sitting there right next to what could be (in my mind) instantaneous death can bring a sort of roaring peace. I don't know if it's the calm of sitting just next to ferocity, or the sound of rushing water itself filling the senses entirely so there's no room for anything else, but I am grateful for my rivers.

Review of Crater Lake, by Steve Westover

Steve Westover asked me to review the advance review copy of his middle-grade adventure and fantasy-fiction, Crater Lake: the Battle For Wizard Island.

Crater Lake was a fun and interesting read. It will appeal to its intended audience, and it is a rarity; a story directed to middle-grade boys. We need more of those.
I felt that the legend, geography, mythology and overall imaginative conceptualization of the world of Crater Lake were very well done. The characters are perfect—a quarreling pair of siblings, a jock/bully, a cute girl, the good boy scout. Any kid who picks this up will find someone to identify with. I enjoyed the interactions between the characters. I appreciated that they were generally consistent, without improbable changes in personality or behavior.

My favorite thing about this story is the sense that it’s not a cozy little world Westover has created; there is real danger. Overall there was a feeling of eeriness and impending adventure (or doom) throughout the story, which drives the reader in spite of the disturbing tragedies that occur in the course of the story. I did feel that there was a little bit more of that than I’d expect in a middle-grade book (tragedy, particularly as one of the tragedies remains unresolved at the end) but the violence isn’t such that I would keep my children from reading it. Overall, I recommend this book to anyone with grade-school aged children, boys in particular—they will love it.

You can buy a copy of Westover's book here.