Zoe E. Whitten's Blog, page 82

This Be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

– Phillip Larkin

Mom…

It's 3:33 as I sit down to write this. We came back from dinner, and I dropped on the couch in a bleak depression.

It started with a girl. Always does with me, but this one was a gem. White dress, blonde, possibly 7 or 8. Every time I looked up, this girl was somewhere else in the restaurant, dragging one of her four aunts (I know cause she kept shouting Zia to get their attention) or two cousins around behind her by her pinky. She ran outside, jumped around, pounded on the glass, and generally could not be ignored.

A less patient childless person would be writing this same post whining about a spoiled brat who couldn't sit in place or be controlled by her parents. In fact, I can just see a status message on Facebook from some of the uptight whiners who think they're funny: "Ugh, such an entitled little shit, drawing attention to herself. Why can't her parents see how stupid their princess is?"

But I saw this happy, safe kid, and I wanted so bad to know what her story was. How cool must her life be, to have a family that makes her their whole world. How cool must it be to feel that happy and safe?

There were kids everywhere in that place, and then, as if there was a cue for all the families to leave, the tables emptied before our food arrived. The girl and her family left, as did the couple and their two older boys on our other side. I looked over at the two empty seats across from hubby and me, and I knew those seats could never be filled by my kids.

Hubby tried to help when he saw me crashing. It's not that hard to notice when my happy mask falls off, and suddenly everyone is asking if something is wrong. Like all people, hubby thinks that speaking to my goodness helps, and even as I begged and pleaded with him to stop, that he didn't understand, he just kept hammering on my biggest emotional sore spots.

I don't blame him anymore than I've blamed any friend who thought they were helping. I mean, you see a friend suffering a depression. They say, "I'm a bad person," and you know you should say something. So, what's an easy, quick fix? Denial. Except what you see as validation of my goodness is actually dismissal of my issues. "No, Zoe, the problem is only in your head."

And that's the problem of course. I can't get you inside my head no matter how much I write. Oh, I can try, but the moment I stop beating around the bush and start with the truth, your brain bails on me. I can't get you to understand me, because to do that first I have to ask you to walk in my place, to know what it's like in here with the voices I live with.

I envy you normal people, you folks who grew up in homes with two parents, who went to school dances and think having weekend fights with your folks is somehow dysfunctional. I envy you people who lost your virginity at 15, and then grow up and act all moral that all teens should wait until 19, even though you didn't. Most of all, I envy you for being sheltered and having no clue what real hardship is like.

When people like you see me in a depression, you say "What's normal?" Because you think that there's no true normal, and thus my abnormal "can't be that bad."

I had my first sexual encounter when I was 7, with my two babysitters. I was involved in a long term-affair with two cousins, and just as soon as they'd been moved out of my life, bro pushed a girl into my lap and said "seduce her for me, or I tell mom about all of your crimes."

You normal people see someone say that and ask, condescendingly, "You were 11, for Pete's sake! What crimes could a stupid child possibly be guilty of?" Off the top of my head? Many long running scams, habitual shoplifting, B&E, indecency with a minor, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and molesting a minor under my care. That's the short list. Don't ask me for the full list broken into individual counts. I stopped counting after the first few years.

And this is the point when most of you begin to lose your confidence in your ability to fix this. But some of you still try. That's because for all your "goodness," you're so deluded that you won't open your eyes and see me. You only see what you want to project on me. So you don't see someone trained to "like" kids who struggles to unwire her head unsuccessfully. You can't understand my frustration that I can't turn off the monster inside me. You think that frustration is guilt, and guilt shows that I'm a good person, just like you.

But that's what you see, and it's not true. I'm frustrated because the person who shoved a minor in my lap and told me to seduce her went on to seduce other girls in his adult life, and he even convinced those girls that they loved him. They both married him. That's how life in Texas is, but you people above the Mason-Dixon line jump my shit and tell me I'm ignorant of how the law really works. I'm telling you, you're ignorant of how life in Texas is.

That guy who destroyed my childhood and my sanity is the one with two kids, and I'm the one hiding out in a room, unable to look at kids. He's the one who gets rewarded with the chance to parent, and I'm the one shunned by my family as a queer. The asshole who was a drug dealer to both the girls he seduced is a parent, and I'm the one locking myself away. The guy who shot someone is a parent, and I'm the unfit person for society. He has a job, a family, and he got on with his life after all the shitty things he did. I can never move on, because of the thing he planted inside me.

I'll never be able to let go and think about being a parent. Not because of my imagination. That's bad enough, but no, there's a cruel voice in my head that reminds me, "What are you doing, thinking about being a mom? Don't you know I'll destroy that for you too? Sure, I'll slide in real subtle and tell you that what I'm planning is really good for the kids. And you'll go along with it, because we both know what the good people don't. That you're an addict, and the craving for your drug never goes away."

And it never does. After hearing people talk about castrating perverts, I had some hopes that castration might help me. It didn't. Oh, it does eliminate the physical urges, most of the time. But it doesn't do anything about the desire for connection and contact.

I recognized at 14 that I had a problem, but there is no group for me to bring this to. There's no therapist I could open up to that didn't say, "I'm sorry but you have to stop talking or I'll be legally obligated to report you." Even my pointing out that I'd attempted confession to the cops would not change their mind and grant me real help. Even people paid to care tell me to stop talking once they understand which addiction I'm struggling with. (This is why people telling me to seek therapy results in instant rages, because I do seek therapy, and therapists turn me away.)

I can't adopt. It's not a financial handicap that stops me, though it is the case right now. It's not the miles of paperwork or the psyche evaluations I know I can't pass that stop me either. I can't adopt, because I can't kill this demon inside me. I'll never know what it means to look at my smiling child and know they're safe. If I had a child, she would always be in danger, and the threat wouldn't be some stranger looking to jump out from behind a bench and snatch her up. The threat would be right at home, always watching her develop, and always thinking, "Hey, I've trained younger. Why not try something now?"

I've been fighting with this demon my whole life, and when I'm losing, I'm depressed. And without fail, there's always another clueless dippy good person to deny that I have this demon, and I'm just over thinking things.

Do you know that a 7-year-old gave me a lap dance? Three times, actually. The first two times, I eased her out of my lap and said that maybe she shouldn't do that. The third time, she waited until I was out from a heavy lunch nap at work. I had a GREAT dream about being in a strip club, but then I woke up, and there's this girl on my lap, and she's sweating and panting, and my jeans are already sticky…and her dad is less than ten feet away. So I shoved her hard out of my lap and bolted out of the office. And while I sucked down a cigarette at top speed, shaking like a leaf and thinking about prison rape, her dad lectured me that I had to be more careful with her.

I quit. Didn't give a reason. Just turned in my notice.

"Well," you say, hoping to salvage this back into a talk about my goodness, "the point is, you turned her down."

But that's the point you see, and that's the point you'd want to make. Here's my point: I didn't want to say no. I didn't want to be the grown-up and tell her to stop. But I knew that if I said yes and later her folks found out, no way would they believe this affair started with her humping me, not me jumping her. And, since I know you're that deluded, I pushed her away. Even after I quit, her dad was telling me how she was depressed and asking about me. Do you have even the slightest clue how much that tore me up? I couldn't even tell him "It's better that she's depressed, really. Cause what she wants from me is going to fuck up her life forever."

I can't even share my experiences with anyone else. I can't talk about my childhood, not even if I pay someone hourly to listen. I can't talk about my fears to normal people, because they can't shut up long enough to hear the problem before they're proposing quick fixes that don't address the core problems. And if I do get them to understand me, their next move is to leave me. Why? Because I'm not a good person, and you people only want to associate with good people. I'm not good enough to be a friend if I take off my mask.

And, there is no therapy or cure to make me better. I can't go to an incest survivors group, or one for sexual assault victims. I tried, but they asked me to leave because I upset other victims.

If I go in and confess to someone in public mental health services, the shrinks tell me none of this is my fault, that I'm a good person, and get on with my good life. Even if I could get them to listen, they'd misunderstand and decide I'm a threat, and then they'd lock me up and drug me.

There's no middle ground. There's denial or punishment. But somehow, a solution that involves seeing me for what I am is impossible.

So that's why I can't be a mom, and that's why I hate good people every time they tell me "You're one of us." No, you stupid sheep. I'm corrupted in a way that I hope you'll never know personally, and this demon inside me doesn't go away with your reassurances. In fact, even as you're making your speeches, the demon is running a film medley of my childhood exes in all their best poses. While that's running, the demon says, "You go on and believe them. Try to join in a normal life and adopt some kids. Please, give me another chance to destroy everything you hold dear."

I can't be a mom. God, I want to, so bad. I want to be a better parent than mine were, to do something right for once in my life. I'm not good enough to be a real writer. I'm not good enough to be a spokesperson for anyone. I'm not a real friend for anyone, and I have have no place in my family. Even if I somehow managed to earn enough money and owned the right kind of house, I still wouldn't be good enough to be a proper mom.

Now, please, do me a favor, and don't comment how I'm really good and this is all in my head. And for fuck's sake, don't tell me to seek therapy. There's no cure for this kind of disease. There's is only the daily struggle to live with it as best I can.

This has got to stop

http://thecurvature.com/2011/08/22/trans-woman-transferred-to-male-prison-after-being-raped-by-cis-guard/

After being raped by a a guard, a prison's proper response is to…punish the prisoner further? If the prisoner is trans, yes.

This could all end with a proper ENDA put in place to define legal protections for us. Granting us equal protection to the law is not stripping you of rights. It is simply giving us the same rights that you often take for granted.

How many more rapes, murders and suicides do you have to be shown before your conscience bugs you enough to write one email a month, addressed to all of your elected officials? Regardless of party, you should not be pro rape. Regardless of party, you should be in favor of full equality for all people. Humanity and humane treatment should not be owned by either side.

You can fight over the budget every week, and you'll still need another new budget next year. But if we can convince both sides to pass ENDA and move on, it's going to have positive results for many generations past our own. Human rights should be more important than sorting out the yearly budget. Please, go read the story, and then think about this.

One 200 word email, recycled every month. It's not so much to ask to stop travesties like this from happening again and again.

Leaving Facebook (again)

I'm continuing to pull farther back from social networks, as I'm finding less and less in common with the people who populate them. Worse, I'm developing a deep loathing of some people. I'm getting nothing healthy out of this connection with others. What I'm getting is increasing feeling of alienation.

People have been telling me, "do you think this is how you should act if you want people to buy your books?" But the thing is, I don't want to sell my books to some of these assholes. I don't want to talk to people anymore about any topic. I don't want to be a "useful member of society."

Mostly, I wish I could tear down everything you've built and start from scratch. I want to destroy every fucking car and tell you drivers "fuck you, learn to walk on those entitled fucking legs." I want to burn down every church and tell every member of organized religion, "Go pray in your closet and see how it feels to be denied your point of view." And yes, I want to destroy the publishers who sign Snooki and Paris for books and then claim that they're the best judges of quality. I want to hunt down every bully and give them a taste of their own medicine. I want to burn down Hollywood and make porno movies in their place.

I'm full of hate, and every day, Facebook gives me a fresh supply to keep me topped up. But I can't do this anymore. I'd much rather spend all day singing on LIPS and writing dirty stories than absorbing more indirect hate.

So goodbye, Facebook. Can't say that I'll miss you much.

Good with kids…

So, after completing my surgery in Thailand, I was able to heal faster then expected, and was allowed to fly back to Italy a few days ahead of schedule. Hubby's ticket was not the same as mine, and he had to take another flight back a couple days later. So this was how I ended up crammed into a seat directly in front of the movie screen, my legs crunched up at a painful angle. Oh yeah, my mood was great.

And right beside me is a pair of parents struggling to get their crying three-year-old to settle down and sit in his seat for take off.

I got tuned into the kid, and I knew his problems. It was late, and he didn't want to sit up. He wanted to fall on the floor and sleep, which should have been a perfectly acceptable selection given the hour.

He looked at me, and I smiled and put my finger to my lips. And then he went mute. His face went slack, and he just stared at me, like I was really, really interesting.

His dad looked around at me with wide eyes, and I said, "When the plane gets in the air, I've got a cookie that he can munch. He's got a blood sugar problem, so it's making him cranky."

The flabbergasted father asked, "What did you just do?"

I smiled wider and said, "Nothing, I'm just good with kids."

The kid accepted being seat belted in, and the plane took off. I gave the kid a cookie, and then he got down on the floor in front of us and crashed. He slept through most of the flight, only getting up for the breakfast before he dropped again.

But upon landing, he was cranky. And, guess what? Yep, shushed him with no effort, much to the amazement of his parents.

I don't know how it is that I do the things I do. I don't think it's magic, or psychic powers or anything like that. I know I have an empathic ability, but that's being able to read emotions with my eyes, not through auras or brain scans. I'm just good at reading body language. That doesn't explain how I can make kids understand me without words. And, it doesn't work on all kids.

But then there's this other little story I want to share. Before the surgery in Thailand, before I'd even met Luche, I had to move back to my hometown. I hung out with my cousin Bill, who was seeing a woman with a baby from a previous boyfriend. Cute kid, a real nice boy with pretty eyes.

This kid did not know me from Adam, and yet the moment I arrived he was all smiles. He began passing me every single toy he could find in the room, and I would nod and smile before setting each item aside. Since his tour went so well, he decided to give me his mother's money, taken from her wallet.

I smiled, nodded, and handed the money back to a flabbergasted mom.

So, three months later, I go back over to their house to make a little Halloween party, and the moment the kid sees me, he twists around in his mother's arms and reaches for me like a long lost relative. His mom passed him over, and within two minutes, he'd gone to sleep on my chest.

How does it work? I dunno. I'm just good with kids.

So sometimes, even though I don't want to. I wonder what life would have been like if I could have run away the right way. If the cop hadn't returned me to my mom and trotted me off to a foster home instead, maybe I wouldn't be so messed up. Then maybe, even if I was sterile, I could at least consider adoption.

Instead, I got returned to my home, and even though I'd defended my bother unfailingly, he still blackmailed me. I asked him why it had to be me, why he couldn't just do these things on his own. Bro sneered at me and said, "Because you're good with kids."

It's like a repeating echo, a haunting phrase that I can't get away from.

Scale creep

Well first, let's talk about Twitter. I got sick of forums a long, long time ago. I burned out on Facebook twice in the time since I first signed up for it. But man, I love Twitter. It's a constant news source, and it's a place of inspiration both for book ideas and for blog topics.

Which brings me to today's topic, inspired by a Twitter talk: scale creep in fantasy. No, not scale creep like the phenomena in wargaming where a 25mm product slowly grows to become 28-30mm just because the artist is trying to make his statues "more epic." But this is a similar problem, in that lots of fantasy writers these days don't know how to tell a little fantasy. They all need to make every story "just a little more epic." At this point epic is losing meaning because every story is supposedly epic. But many of them just look desperate for attention.

The inspiration moment for this came when some of us got in a conversation about an article where a male writer was saying "Fantasy sure has made a lot of social progress lately! We'll even let woman and colored folk share the spotlight with us now!" Setting aside the fact that even this opinion is debatable, we started talking on Twitter and pointing out how fantasy has made very slight progress, but that it continues to be mostly about white male heroes saving the world. A friend of mine complained, "I'd like to see a woman of color save the world!"

And it hit me that I don't want to see anyone save the world. This is a deluded fantasy cliché whose time has come and gone. It may still be popular with the mass market, but it's peddling a garbage ideal that isn't possible, even in a fantasy setting. To accomplish such a feat, a writer has to create the biggest plot holes to let his people escape through, or develop the worst plot devices to keep their train wrecks running. I cannot stress this enough: a small army of misfits cannot save the world, not even with magic powers.

I'm going to say something even more offensive: I think writers who peddle this shit only do it to earn a paycheck. They can claim otherwise and pretend they're really doing something artistic. But when your epic fantasy looks like every other epic fantasy, maybe you should admit that you're an "artist" in the same sense that the guy who sells his paint by numbers prints is an artist.

I'm sick of the mainstream and the moral majority dictating the direction of our artistic development. I'm even more sick of the idea that a minority of hypermoral people can save the world and not somehow end up becoming the next oppressive evil. After all, that's how life works in our world. Some general of a rebel army fights hard enough to build an army, and eventually he gets the backing of the enemy of his enemy. Then when he wins and overthrows the old dictator, he oppresses his people and becomes a dictator within 6 months. And even if you turn a blind eye to his bad behavior to narrate the story of his uprising, he is still only "saving" one country. So, do you see how saving the world MIGHT be a li'l unrealistic? Maybe?

And you never see the heroes turns into the dicks in fantasy. The new boss isn't the same as the old boss in fantasy. Even though the heroes brutal behavior clearly speaks to a future dictatorship. How can it not when everyone in the allied group believes that might makes right?

The other problem is, with so many stories focusing only on the big picture of saving the world, we never have time to read or think on the little problems. Aside from the main character, everyone else is a toss off in plot or character development. People show up as needed, and then they give little reasons to validate their quest. ("Evil dude killed my mother, ate my dog, AND dated my big sister!") Just, can you try a little harder to earn your paycheck? Please?

I've written exactly one traditional fantasy story, and it was about a black "teen" (Elf adolescence lasts longer than their actual teen years) trying to adjust to life in an alien "green" culture against the backdrop of a werekin hunt. At no point does the world become threatened by a great evil. Oh, there IS a great evil in the story. And there is a conflict to resolve. I didn't get ultra radical trying to tell the story. I just backed down the scale and tried to write something besides "white guy saves the world."

BUT, I am a transsexual bisexual. Of course being a minority writer, I'm going to excel at writing something from a minority perspective. What would be even better is if a white male fantasy author wrote a story that didn't read like a white male writer's work. Because to me, that would show that the writer had made the effort to do some research and educate themselves before they started writing.

But the problem is, many of the white male fantasy writers are so busy patting themselves on the backs for being open-minded, they can't hear comments about their closed eyes. Despite this, I still hold out hope that one day I'll find an epic four-book fantasy quadrilogy that doesn't end with "one white man will save the WORLD." Again.

So…Sinead is horny

This morning I woke up to the news that Sinead O'Connor is lonely and looking for a man. On the surface of her ramble it's all pretty amusing, what with her talking about humping trucks and yarn. But the thing that sticks with me is right at the top is how Sinead says "the man who posts this for me might try to talk me out of this." Why? Is there something really terrible in her admitting "I'm starting to feel horny"?

Apparently, yes. Apparently, even the expression of heterosexual desire requires wrapping the topic in warning and self-deprecation so that we don't have to feel weird admitting that we might like sex every once in a while. But even people who aren't celebrities are becoming more concerned about avoiding saying anything offensive online, lest someone else online see it and ruin their reputation. Which I wouldn't mind if people were choosing to be discreet as a personal choice. But these people also jump others and say "Hey, you can't talk about that in public!" It's like Dr. Ruth never existed, and all that talk about sexual liberation went right over your heads. (For clarity: not all of you, just the comment policing folks.)

For a long, long time, I would write up blog posts, and then erase all of it because what I put down was too angry or honest to post. I'd wanted sales, and I'd hoped that biting my tongue might bring them. It didn't, and really, whether I write about Snow White or underage midget porn, my sales suck.

Which got me to thinking along the lines of my transition. I couldn't transition before 30 because I kept thinking about all the people I'd let down. But then everyone abandoned me, and I realized, Hey, there's no one left to please. So I can do what I need to take care of myself.

Well, that's what my monthly explosions do; they clear the room of fake friends. Maybe my crazy drives away five or six people who might have read me, if only I hadn't been so honest about my mental illnesses. But those kind of people who don't want to know about my dark half also don't want to read fiction that challenges them. They want to read things they like and agree with. They want to meet characters they like and can identify with. And that's not what I write. And please note, there's no accusing tone in this. You don't go in for reading that. Okay. We cool.

BUT, me playing nice and biting my tongue to get you into my books doesn't work, because I'm going to lose you in the first few pages when you realize I'm not your kind of writer. So what would my lying to you gain me? Nothing, my friends. Which is why I feel it's better to wear my crazy on my sleeve instead of hiding it and pretending that it's just my characters that are messed up.

The thing is, I'm a nobody at the bottom of the writing financial pile. Fan-fiction writers have larger audiences, actually. I'm a complete unknown, so when I say something displeasing or personal, only a handful of folks are going to see it. An even smaller number will actually talk about it. The same is not true of Sinead saying she's horny. This will be discussion for lots of people, and a great many will complain that she shouldn't say these things in public.

The Internet was supposed to bring us into an era of enhanced communications, but with more opportunities to open up and take off your masks, many people have chosen to put on a new kind of online mask that makes them look a lot like fake ass moochers. And then they tell others, "You should do this too if you want friends and sales."

Oh you pathetic, deluded people. Acting nice to get friends means those are not real friends. And just getting sales does not mean anyone has read your book. What you're chasing is higher numbers, thinking that means anything. But at the end of the day, it's just another credit score that don't mean shit.

You don't believe me. Look, I have lousy credit. I can't apply for a credit card because I don't have credit. I CAN get a debit card and put cash on it, so anything that requires plastic I get around with preloaded plastic. I can buy anything a person with credit buys. I just have to save my money ahead of time instead of picking it up now and owing someone else for it later. We both buy it. I just have to get around my lack of credit.

And it's the same thing for my social experience. I don't have many real friends. There are a few, but mostly, my trumped up contacts list is full of other people trying to sell me their wares. They would no more buy my book than I would be theirs. So my social score is just as pathetic as my credit score, and with friends like these, I don't make any sales.

BUT, but scattered among these fakers and salesmen are a group of people who are real, and who are online to socialize and be a part of the conversations. And sometimes, we get into some GREAT online debates that we might not have changed anyone's minds, but we openly discussed difficult topics without anyone resorting to name calling or unfollows. That doesn't always happen, and yes, it frustrates me when someone decides to end a debate with a verbal wounding instead of just walking away. But it makes me that much more grateful when in the heat of a passionate debate, the other person says, "I'm going to step back. I can't convince you, and perhaps this is a good place to stop."

And let's talk about how social numbers relate to sales…they don't. I can have a ton of online friends and still not have any influence over them. So whether I need to convince someone of my opinion or to buy my book, I can't. Again, this isn't a complaint, simply a statement of fact. Big numbers do not equal big money, nor even big social influence. It's just another lie to pursue and avoid admitting that all this desire for fame is meaningless if we're all going to die. And, looking at Amy Winehouse, it's clear that being a celebrity does not mean you're respected after your death. Celebrity is meaningless. Kissing ass to make more friends is meaningless. You having great references will not convince the grim reaper to walk on without you.

And I am totally not bitching at you about this. What I'm saying is, you don't really improve your figures much by pretending to be something you're not. Sinead can't get laid if she never talks about feeling horny. But, actually saying online that she is might not work either. Because this online world of communication is mislabeled, in my opinion. We ought to be calling this a miscommunications network instead.

But Sinead, seriously, if you're that hard up for a date, please, come to Milan. We have no shortage of desperately horny men, and I'm often propositioned by younger men even after I tell them I'm married. I've even turned away rides that I think I'd have to card first. (Though my husband assures me that anything above middle school is technically considered legal, unless you're a teacher. Weird, weird laws in this country, let me tell you.) So you could probably even get laid on your way to the hotel. Worth a shot.

And if you make it two weeks here without getting laid, I HAVE been looking for a reason to buy a strap-on, and I always did have a crush on you after you tore the pope's picture in half. Between me an' hubby, we might be able to work something out.

Call me.

TV review: Teen Wolf, full season

I just watched the last episode of Teen Wolf season one tonight, and I'll be honest; I'd held off on this one because I was worried there would be some key ingredient missing from the end. Not so. The writers provide closure for the most important questions of season one, although hubby pointed out that there was one question left over about the veterinarian that wasn't answered. But clearly he still has a role to play in season two, so I hope we'll get the answer then.

I really have to hand it to the writers for developing characters I cared about even when I didn't like what they were doing. Jackson was a source of constant amazement because I simultaneously hated him, and yet I understood why he's a jerk. It doesn't change the fact that he's a jerk, but it elevates him from a shallow stereotype to being a real person with flaws. And the same is true of anyone in the cast. There's no shallow stand in. Even Stiles' dad, the sheriff, who is very much a bit character, has some room for character development over the course of the show. Then there's Lydia, who starts out the ditz, and is quickly revealed to be hiding more brains than she's been letting on to her cheerleader friends or to Jackson.

Of course there were little niggles that if I'd been doing the show, I'd want to change. Top of the list is the look of the betas, but I get why they went with a lower special effects budget for these designs. Also, Scott's mom is kinda weak. Okay, she's a bit character, but most of the time she was on-screen, I felt like fast forwarding because she's just being stereotypical mom. I DID love an early conversation where she asked Scott, "Have you been taking drugs?" And he counters with "Have you ever taken them?" And she gets this look and realizes she can't tell the truth and still have the upper hand. So she just walks out. But aside from that scene, mostly she's a meh mother.

But she is a bit character in the grand scheme of things ,and everyone else in the cast I loved. So, I give the full season of Teen Wolf an enthusiastic 5 stars. I can't wait to see season two, or to get the box set of season one to watch this over. It's really good enough to deserve watching a few times, in my opinion.

Cousins and aunties…

Man, today, it is hotter than a motherfucker. The temperature soared to 40° or 104 F, and  we still had to go out in that sizzle-shizzle. I forgot my sunglasses, so I was mewling and hissing at the sun and running for shadows to hide in.

Before I head back for a different kind of trip down memory lane, I want to mention that last night, I practiced guitar for a bit, and that today I've started a new novel to conclude the vampire coven series for season one and move Vicky and Amber into their new places for season 2. This book will also mark the formal introduction of Exodus, the Southern Baptist vampire hunters. From this, you can infer bad things are about to happen in the series for someone of fanged persuasion.

But so today, I want to talk about some relatives who DIDN'T make my life a living hell. It's true that after a certain point, I didn't feel like I could trust them, either. But that wasn't anything they did. Instead it was me developing uber-paranioa because of other relatives and friends treating me like crap.

But my aunt Lisa and my cousins Annie and Terri let me play with their dolls, and they didn't act like I was weird for being different. My aunt Lisa had a HUGE collection of doll clothes because she made them herself. So her dolls put on a lot of random strip shows as I went through all the outfits. I remember complaining about Barbie's legs not having proper knees, because how could she walk? And when I moved her legs to make her walk, she swayed like a drunk uncle. (I had two of those, one on either side of the family.)

And my cousin Terri…there was never a time when I didn't enjoy hanging with her. We might just go climb a tree and stain our fingers eating berries, or get in trouble for smoking bits of rotted wood to imitate our parents. (Who were major proponents of the "do as I say, not as I do" school of parenting.) We made mud pies with Sprite to see if it would improve the taste. Or we rode bikes and rambled about cartoons and other goofy stuff.

Then there was my aunt Brenda, lover of bicycles and libraries. She is one of several women to instill this love of reading in me, but Brenda deserves special mention because she was the one who told me to question everything, to take nothing at face value. She was one of the first to offer her complete support when she found out about my transition, but then the same was true of Terri, of Annie, and my Aunt Lisa.

And I was not really surprised by their support. Their love has never felt conditional to me being good or acting right.

So when I look back through my memories, and there's a ton of crap to sort through, every once in a while I run across a moment of happiness, like an island of tranquility in an ocean of stormy waters. Any good qualities I posses, I gained in emulating these women and girls as I grew up. I can say that while there is a lot of shitty things about Texas, the native women have usually treated me as an ally in misery, and we all celebrate our lot with typical gallows humor.

So yeah, not everyone in Texas sucks. Just FYI.

Abandoning Red

By mutual, amiable agreement, the muse and I had both agreed to abandon Red, Redefined after the muse came back and revealed that the killer was Jules Verne. I searched myself over this, and then I thought about the time that I exploded ay my roommate because Isaac Newton was the villain for Escaflowne. And, to this day, just thinking that gets my temper up. Not because they used a real person, but because their plot was so stupid that "Isaac Newton did it" was the final stupid straw that killed the stupid pony.

And to make Jules Verne the answer for my story irritates me in the same way. This story was already stretching to cover its main theme and also be a time travel murder mystery. And, I don't like time travel stories. I've made three attempts to write one, and I've abandoned each project feeling unsatisfied with the whole thing.

Here at least, I love Charles and Greta. But he's an older villain and she's a child bride, and that's not going to sell well no matter what I do with the time travel side of the story.

So, me and the muse have to work out who gets written about next. There's Vicky's new novel, where the murders she committed in Arizona finally catch up with her, and then there's book two in the Sin City trilogy, where Wendy fights a daemon and almost dies right at the start, leading to a book mostly about Rafael and his efforts to track down Phillip after Phillip kidnaps a comatose Wendy from the hospital.

And, nobody will buy these stories either. But I'll hopefully be able to finish them and move on to the next books in both series.