Anny Cook's Blog, page 50

Kissing Bits

In 2006 I ventured out into the world of publishing, never expecting anything I wrote to actually make it past the submission process. I was a bit shocked when I was offered a contract--excited, yes, but not really ready to believe my good fortune. Then, I settled in to see if I could replicate my first attempt.

Imagine my surprise when that's exactly what happened. I couldn't contain my excitement as I was offered contracts for a second and then a third book.

There was one small fly in the ointment.

Some folks were...takeaback at the 'kissing bits'. I've had some time to consider this since then. And I've decided this might be a reflection on personal views of the action in the bedroom. I know individuals who cannot mention their own body parts without lowering their voice as though they're speaking about something unmentionable. Now, that must make it difficult to share information with their partner or doctor.

An acquaintance of mine suggested this was natural modesty. I'm not so sure. I believe it's partly embarrassment--an uncomfortable acknowledgement that we ALL have sexual thoughts and feelings. And it's the stark reality that most women have participated in sex at sometime during their lives. Because HELLO...it's pretty difficult to get pregnant, otherwise. Not impossible. But the alternatives certainly take planning and effort.

There's touchy denial going on there, a sly secret knowledge that pretends the truth is hidden in a deep, dark closet. In reality, sex, along with eating and sleeping is one of the activities almost all adult humans share. Pretending we don't is akin to denying we have hunger or a need to rest.

Now I don't advocate public sex. I don't even advocate public discussion about what we personally do--or don't--in the bedroom. But I do think no man, or woman, should be embarrassed by the language in your average erotic romance. If those words, those names for body parts make the reader squirm that much...doesn't that say more about our strangeness, than the writers?

The first time I ever read the word 'breasts', at around age eight, it was in the Bible. Song of Solomon. The author clearly revels in the physical attributes of his lover. He admires and loves her. I have noticed that book is entirely skipped over in church services. Why is that? I was taught that EVERY part of the Bible is equally important. I suspect this goes back to those secret, hushed whispers in the living rooms across the land.

We are the only ones who can shine a light on the secrets in the closet. No wonder our kids have no way to speak to us, no way to frame their questions. After all, our actions speak so loudly they drown out our words. Sex is bad. Dirty. Secret.

anny    

Train Wreck

When a writer sets out to begin a story, they generally have some notion about plot and characters, if not exactly all the details. Of course, there are unexpected changes that crop up. But for the most part, the story proceeds along the original lines.

Until it doesn't.

Back in my early writing days, I planned a little trilogy. It wasn't anything exciting...three sisters who go to Camelot to find husbands among the Knights of the Round Table. On the whole, except for the historical aspects, the idea was pretty basic romance fluff.

I sat down at the computer to rough in the story with a little prologue. My thought was to use the prologue for each of the three stories to tie them together.

Uh-huh.

Well, that didn't work. The moment I set the characters on paper, they seized the story and ran with it. I never got that train back on the track despite my best efforts to wrestle it back in place. No...every time I thought I might have a way to regain control, a new character would pop up, seize a plot point and bat the entire story off in the woods or dunk it down to the dungeons.

Impossible.

Finally, I conceded. My simple idea turned into a wild romp through the halls of Camelot, peopled by offbeat characters and a cast of thousands. Dragons, fairies, firebirds, trolls...no oddity or weirdness was too much.

So that's my story and I'm sticking to it. The characters did it. In a cave. In the woods. In a pond. In the Abbey. Even in Sher Wood Forest. And so on.

Flowers of Camelot. Sexy strangeness galore. Chrysanthemum, Honeysuckle, Daffodil, Magnolia and Larkspur. Or if you prefer print, Carnal Camelot and Lust in Camelot. Available on Wednesday.

anny

Sitting

Recently, I've spend a lot of time just...sitting. Sleeping. Thinking powerful thoughts that evaporate faster than alcohol in a high wind. I know I've had important ideas but they fade away before I can fix them in my brain.

This is a function of medication few people acknowledge. Oh, once in a while someone will mention how fuzzy their brain seems to be. But most folks don't seem to realize how very much daily meds influence our accomplishments. I've noticed an increasing difficulty where it affects my writing, my short term memory, my loss of function.

This last round of medication when I was sick took that a step further...vertigo. So, not only was I brain fuzzy. Whenever I tried to navigate from room to room, I wasn't always certain I was going to arrive unscathed. I ended up with a large bruise on my belly. When my doctor asked what happened, I was unsure. Hmph. I no doubt walked into something.

Every morning I carefully document how I'm feeling. Through the day, I add updates and what meds I've taken. And there is a definite correlation between mood/attitude and medication. Today, I discussed this issue with my doctor. She estimates the vertigo will fade away by this weekend. Was there a choice? No.

But I submit that most folks take whatever meds are offered without investigating the possible side effects. Sometimes you have to take the trade-off. I know my current crop is necessary to keep me alive. But the trade-off can be devastating when you're not expecting it. And there are days when I wonder at the prospect of spending the rest of my life sitting, thinking vanishing thoughts, is worth the trade-off.

anny

Normal

I have a large collection of pictures in my files and after settling on a topic for my blog, I typed 'normal' in the search engine. After culling through the really odd selection that delivered, I settled on the pic above. That fellow looks pretty normal to me.

The advantage to being really sick is all the time you have to read. Over the last few weeks between catnaps, I've spent some time re-reading some old favorites. I couldn't put my finger on the precise reason these books made my keeper shelf, but I read them often.

Then this morning, it all came together. Almost all of the books have characters who would not be classified as normal. And all the rest of the characters in the stories accept them for what they are--a little off center, but interesting.

As a culture, we don't easily forgive or accept those who don't fit in to our preconceived idea of normal. Witness the terrible incidents of bullying and outright physical attacks. But what IS normal? Who decides? Is it just a group perception or has someone made that determination in the past?

If I want to wear reindeer antlers and purple high heels, why does that threaten my fellow man or woman? Who cares? How very boring life would be if we all followed the same path. We must learn to appreciate our differences, rather than demand conformity.

I'm off now to locate my bunny ears and tutu.

anny

Spring! Spring!

We woke to a bit of snow this morning. I snapped the picture above from our balcony. I call this Fairyland Snow. It's exactly the right consistency and temperature to clump on the tree limbs. And It rarely lasts very long.

A lot of folks are grumbling about the snow this spring as though it's something unusual or extraordinary. I remember more than one snowy Easter from my younger days. Spring is the clash of the seasons between winter and summer so we get a bit of both.

One Easter Sunday my father (a minister) spent much of the day with a chain, towing church members from ditches they slid into. Back then, tow trucks were only called for the worst accidents.

Another Easter (when I was a teen), I was pouting because our family didn't do the new outfit for Easter. Hey! I was shallow enough to wish I had new Easter clothes, too. That Easter we woke to eight inches of snow on the ground--and more coming down. As we drove to our church, we passed another one on the way. I admit I watched those ladies dressed in their pretty pastel outfits with a secret smile as they waded through the snow. I, of course, was nice and warm in my winter clothes and boots.

And of course there were several Easters when it was a good thing the eggs we hid for the kids were plastic. And brightly colored! Some of those eggs we didn't find for several weeks...

I'm pretty philosophical about the weather. It is what it is. Prepare for anything. Have a hot mug of chocolate or coffee or tea. And watch the snow come down. A warm blanket and a good book can make the day better.

anny

Light and Fluffy

Quite a few years ago, another writer asked me to read and comment on a story she'd written. I'd previously read many of her stories, so was a bit taken-aback to find her new story...fluffy. Don't mistake me. It was well written, amusing and interesting. But it wasn't exactly what I was expecting from her. And rather than keeping my mouth shut, I told her that. My comments hurt her feelings. For that I am and always have been sorry.

She pointed out she was going through some bad stuff in her life and just felt like writing something that made her happy. I agreed and life continued, but our relationship was never the same.

Now the shoe is on the other foot. Don't you hate when things come home to roost? I've spent a lot of months writing 'serious' stories. To what purpose? I'm not sure. But I do know I'm tired of it. And now I understand my friend perfectly. I want to write something absurd and silly. Something...light and fluffy.

I used to do that. Perhaps that's where I've gone wrong. It may be I need the relief of light and fluffy to counter the serious and complicated. After all, that's generally how most of us deal with life--with a delicately balanced bit of farce so we can face the dark.

In any case, I've decided it's like swimming. It's not whether it's shallow or deep. The important thing is to get wet. So, I'm off to see whether I'm even capable of writing the absurd. Perhaps I no longer have a comedic sense. Wouldn't that be the ultimate payback?

anny

I Put on my Hat

After a long visit to the doctor yesterday that included receiving IV fluids and a change in meds, I trundled home via a stop for lunch and the aforesaid meds. And crawled into bed.

It's warm in my apartment. But there I was freezing, shivering under four blankets, miserable and feeling sorry for myself. My day was spiraling down, ever so swiftly. I was on the oh-woe-is-me treadmill. I was alternating my time with the covers over my head with brief periods of poking my nose out for a quick breath of 'fresh' air.

And THEN it occurred to me. Yes, an absolutely brilliant idea burst around my bleary brain. I would find my knitted winter cap and wear it! Actually, though fully dressed under the covers I was too cold to get up so the hunk dutifully tracked down the hat and brought it to me. And I put it on.

Within ten minutes, I was appreciably warmer. After a warm nap, I felt well enough to eat dinner--in my hat, of course. No doubt I looked quite silly, but I was comfortable.

I suspect we spend much of life refusing to accept the blindingly obvious. We need to put on our hats. Instead, we try all sorts of other solutions because...well, because knit caps are for outside, not inside, and certainly not for bed.

We would make lousy survivors because we would never see past the way-things-are-supposed-to-be. Live a little. Put on your hat.

anny

Perchance to Sleep

When I'm 'sick', I sleep--pretty much around the clock. It's been that way at least since I was felled by the dastardly flu when I was eleven. This is completely counter to the standard expectation in our culture where sleeping is often viewed as laziness. The corporate structure is not designed to cope with employees who are at home sleeping.

Women who are sleep deprived are more susceptible to heart disease, a host of ailments such as diabetes and thyroid issues, and stroke (I've been there on most of the list because I was probably the most sleep deprived person in New York during my forties and fifties).

Even in my retirement, there's residual guilt about sleeping. I wonder why that is?

Of all the ways the body recovers from illness, sleep is the safest, most natural, and least expensive. It's also often the first signal of impending illness. When I reach that flat-on-my-back-can't-seem-to-stay-awake stage, I generally surrender and crawl under the covers. I'm not talking about the bed-and-book stage. Or the bed-and-television bit. No, when I go to bed for recovery, it's lights out, warm comfy covers, and surfacing only for bathroom breaks and meds. As long as I'm sleeping around the clock...I'm still in healing mode.

Now since women are more affected by sleep deprivation than men are, what's the most romantic thing a man can do for his woman? Make sure she gets her eight hours every night.

anny

St. Patrick's Day?

A lot of folks celebrate today because they're 'Irish'. Even if they aren't. Because, for true, who's checking out that stuff, anyway?

In our household we never made much of St. Patrick's Day. I was raised a Baptist, so no saints. I have a wee tad of Irish in my background, but the hunk is almost 100% German. And neither of us is really much for drinking, corned beef, or cabbage.

Then something happened to make this day special. At twenty-eight, with three young children, I believed I had a 'tumor'. In a generalized panic, I went off to the doctor. He closely questioned me about my birth control methods (none, as the hunk had a vasectomy years before), and he sent me for an ultrasound.

And that's how I found out on St. Patrick's Day 1978 that I was twenty weeks pregnant with my fourth child. Every year on March 17th I give special thanks for all my children. It seems appropriate, somehow. And far more realistic than green beer and drunken 'Kiss me, I'm Irish' tee-shirts.

So to my children. I love you. I'm so blessed.

anny

Travel back in the Day

As I cleaned up in the kitchen this morning, I had occasion to pitch out an empty oatmeal box. You know, the round ones that plain oats are sold in. It brought back memories of my childhood.

Traveling around the country when I was a kid was very different than it is now. First of all, hotels/motels were rare and mostly patronized by folks with money. I never stayed in a motel until I was about sixteen--and that was only because I was there to keep my cousin company. My first night spent in a hotel was my first night as a married woman.

Normally, when we traveled, even after we were married, we usually spent the night with relatives who lived along the way. Sometimes, we drove a bit out off our route so we had some place to stay, but that was all right. That was the way it worked. And we had the bonus of visiting with folks we didn't otherwise have a chance to see.

Interstates were rare. Almost all the traveling I experienced was on two lane roads that wound over hill and dale, through small towns and large cities. Smart drivers found routes that avoided the larger cities because that was all stop'n'go traffic that wasted travel time. Imagine traveling from Arizona to Chicago, using only two lane roads! Our family did that more than once.

Now meals were another item that was treated quite differently than now. There were no fastfood restaurants. And frankly, our family was pretty poor. Usually, we got along with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and whatever fruit we picked up at roadside stands. I remember my folks buying a watermelon, then cooling it off in an irrigation ditch while we ate lunch at a roadside park. Usually, the park had two or three picnic tables...and that was it. Toilet facilities were bushes at the edge of the park. And of course, we carried our own toilet paper. The fancier parks had a hand pump where you could get water--if you had a container.

I suppose you're wondering about that oatmeal box. Well, this was before the days of Tupperware and such. I remember my grandmother baking small chocolate cakes (cupcakes without the papers) and packing them in empty oatmeal boxes so they stayed pretty fresh. Sometimes the boxes were used for cookies. Whoever was responsible for the oatmeal box of treats was always very careful to make sure it didn't get squashed!

We didn't have air conditioning in the car. Or seatbelts. If the weather got too hot, my parents would dampen small towels, roll up the front windows so the towels covered the windows and then opened the little vent windows so the wind would blow over the damp towel and cool down the car interior.

And most cars had a heavy canvas water bag that hung across the front grill. Gas stations were only in towns. If you had a breakdown, you always wanted to make sure you'd have water so you could survive until help arrived.

My favorite memory is the night we drove across the desert, the full moon was filling the car with light, and Purple People Eater was playing on the radio.

anny