Susan Thatcher's Blog, page 10

Character Study: Liz Gardner

If you’re reading this blog, you should be aware that the title, “These Foolish Things,” is the tile of my first published novel. Part of the function of this blog is shameless self-promotion for said book and its sequel, “At Last.” ( I like old classic songs. Deal with it). And, well, any other books coming down the pike. I have a small fan base (I would like to say rabid, but they are, for the most part, very polite. Unless you smack talk a Boston team). I a. Thinking that perhaps, if you should be reading this blog, I may be able to pique your interest by talking more in depth about the characters, the inspiration behind things. If not, I practice my writing, I have something appropriate for the Twitter co-promotion group I belong to, and I’m no worse off than I was before I typed this.

Let’s start with our heroine, Elizabeth Gardner.

Now, a local blogger/reviewer (Deliza’s Dirty Dramas review)) has suggested that Liz should be p,aged by Laura Linney in a movie.

When I wrote the book back in 2001, I was thinking more Julianne Moore:

Or Cate Blanchett:

A little background (and I’m probably repeating myself): in my teens, I read Harlequin Romances and Barbara Cartland and Regency romances until they came out my ears. They were all the impossibly gorgeous heroines, handsome, dashing, wealthy heroes there to rescue them. Or whatever. (with the historic novels, I was more interested in the descriptions of dresses, which, if you saw me and heard what some folks have to say about my wardrobe, is kind of a head-scratcher. I read Vogue, but don’t have the body or budget for the wardrobe. And stilettos are out).

As I got older, I read “Gone With the Wind,” “Jane Eyre,” “Wuthering Heights,” and “Pride and Prejudice.” My idea of ideals changed. While the heroes of these books were take charge kind of guys, the heroines weren’t sitting around waiting to be rescued, even if they were in trouble, I liked that. And the stars of these classics were not perfect. (Physically attractive, but the emphasis was on their internals: passion, intelligence, courage. The things that don’t fade)

Jump forward to 2000: I’m no longer a twenty something who thinks her life is going to be fantastic and is relatively pretty.

That was me at 20. Relatively pretty.

At 39, I was heavier, had been through a lot of life, and was no longer confident that I would find a significant other. I had had friends tell me that they had family members fall in love and marry for the first time in their forties. I didn’t see those stories being shown in the media. I didn’t see women like me; older, wiser, more self-possessed who were capable of rescuing themselves, if necessary.

I was also telling myself that if I wanted to be a best selling author, I needed to actually, I don’t know, write something.

Enter Elizabeth Gardner. The last name (as stated in previous posts) came from a town in Massachusetts.. Elizabeth? I like the name. I’m a British history buff and a fan of Queen Elizabeth I. I like the name and it’s variations (Isabelle, Isabella, Betsy, Beth). Was I thinking of Elizabeth Bennett? Perhaps on a subconscious level. Her middle name is Duer and for the life of me, I cannot remember where that came from. Sorry.

Liz is NOT me. I gave her some of my physical characteristics (blonde hair, blue eyes. I like having blonde hair and blue eyes). She’s nowhere near as heavy as I am. I wanted someone who wasn’t a heart-stopping lay gorgeous specimen and someone who was more of an undiscovered jewel. I wanted her to have the determination, wit, and heart of my heroines from the classics.

I gave her some of my life experiences because I remembered them well enough to describe them (strained relationship with parents, struggling with the bar exam, no real love life, but hopeful while being wary). I was a decent batter for my company softball team. After freshman year of high school, I have never been part of an athletic team; I gave up on myself in Algebra, my GPA was below the school’s minimum for extra-cirricular activities, so…

As for breast cancer: from 1997 to 2006, I did some pretty good fund raising for Making Strides Against Breast Cancer (American Cancer Society), the Massachusetts chapter. I raised somewhere in the neighborhood of $10,000 all told.

Liz is a breast cancer survivor. I am not. I have friends who have gone through the disease at various ages, including as young as thirty, and have had treatments ranging from chemo taking care of everything to mastectomy + chemo + years of terror waiting for it to come back.

I wanted to create a heroine with whom women “of a certain age” could identify. Someone whom a reader would want as a friend or co-worker.

There are fashions and trends in romance literature: vampires yielded to kinky billionaires who have now yielded to time travel (“Outlander’s” success has spawned imitators) and motorcycle gangs (“Sons of Anarchy has inspired a lot of of fan fiction). Not passing judgment on the writing. They’re all escapist in that the average reader is unlikely to encounter those kinds of characters.

Who knows? If enough folks like Liz, maybe I’ll start a new trend.

“Baldie Chronicles” Sample

PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING CAREFULLY: THIS IS A RAW SAMPLE FROM A WORK IN PROGRESS CALLED “THE BALDIE CHRONICLES.” IT IS NOT YET PUBLISHED. IT IS NOT YET FINISHED. (PROTECTED, THOUGH) THE COVER IS SOMETHING THAT I THREW TOGETHER ABOUT 5 MINUTES AGO. I AM ASKING FOR COMMENTS, THOUGHTS, OPINIONS, WHETHER OR NOT YOU ARE INTERESTED. IF YOU READ, PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. THANK YOU.

———————————————————————————–

Why me?

Elizabeth Gardner was sitting in Dr. Keiller’s office wondering what it was that had brought her to an oncologist.

The mammogram tech had muttered something about “calcifications” and taken extra views of Liz’s left breast. Dr. Chevalier, the radiologist had said something about a “definite mass” and referred her to Dr. Keiller for a biopsy.

“Mother?”

Liz started a bit. “Excuse me?”

Dr. Keiller smiled. “It’s okay,” she said. “A lot of patients have a hard time focusing once they’re in here. Tell me about your mother.”

“Um, she died six months ago. Lung cancer.”

“Smoker?”

Liz nodded. “Pack a day. Marlboro Reds.”

Dr. Keiller made a note. “Did she quit?”

“Not even with an oxygen tank.”

“Father?”

“Gone 5 years. Car accident.”

“And you?”

“Me? I’m still here.” Liz joked. The doctor barely smiled. Okay, not time for humor. “I’ve never smoked. Up until a couple of years ago, my co-workers were allowed to smoke at their desks, but I never did.” Sensing the next questions. “Look, I’m not much of a drinker and I don’t do drugs.” She gestured at her rounded body. “My thing is food.”

“How about your grandmothers? Aunts?”

“No. No breast cancer there.” Bitterness and spite that went to the bone, perhaps, but not cancer. “One grandmother died of kidney failure and the other one had heart trouble.” Like no heart, Liz thought.

“You brought up food. High fat diet? There are studies linking it to cancer.”

“Doctor, truthfully, there may be studies that link too many orgasms to cancer. I eat a lot. Probably more junk than I should.” Liz was having a hard time holding onto her cool. “If this IS cancer, is dieting going to reverse it?”

“Probably not. The studies aren’t complete.”

“So, where do we stand?” Where do I stand?

Dr. Keiller flipped a page in her appointment book. “Next Tuesday, I have an opening at 1 PM.”

“I’ll take it.” The doctor wrote out a card with the information. Liz shook her hand and left.

As she walked back to her car, Liz’s brain kept circling back to the conversation. Breast cancer. Maybe yes, maybe no, but…

Crap.

I don’t need this; I really don’t, thought Liz as she climbed into her car. She tried to focus on navigating the twisting streets of the North Shore, but part of her mind was replaying the last 6 months in her head.

First, her mom had died after a long bout with lung cancer. Liz remembered the oxygen tank, the endless drifts of used Kleenex (some spattered with blood), the pills. She remembered pulling her mother off the kitchen floor one night because Delia had been sneaking out to the garage for a smoke and was too weak to make it. The first home health aide had stolen money and a credit card. Liz had found out the second one used to go out to meet her boyfriend in the middle of her shift. After that, Liz had pulled strings to get Delia checked into the local hospice. They’d made a point of telling Liz what a difficult patient she’d been while talking about the generous donations the families of other patients, nicer patients had made.

About 2 months after her mother’s death, Liz’s old faithful orange cat, Brubeck, had died. He’d seen her through high school, college, law school at night, heartbreak and been a huggable furry rock in her life. Millie Wentworth had offered to get her a kitten right away, but Liz had refused. You can’t replace such a good friend; Brube deserved to be missed and mourned.

Liz also found out she’d flunked the bar exam for the second time. By one point. One lousy, rotten, stinking point. And Brubeck wasn’t there to let her cry into his fur.

Now this.

With any luck, the mass would be a cyst. And she’d promise her doctor that she’d cut down out coffee, chocolate, anything with caffeine. And she’d promise to lose weight and exercise at the same time.

At a stoplight, Liz thought, with any luck, it would be a cyst but luck hadn’t been part of her life for a while.

She pulled into her driveway, turned off the engine and sat for a minute. In hindsight, she was glad that she’d decided to pass on her third attempt at the bar for now. She would have really waffled it.

As she unlocked her back door and entered the kitchen, Liz noticed the dirty dishes in the sink and a loaf of bread left open on the counter.

“Morgan?”

No answer. Liz could hear muffled music. Morgan was probably in her room with the TV on. Before heading upstairs, she loaded the dishwasher, put away the bread and wiped down the counters. Morgan was not very conscientious.

As Liz walked through the living room, she noticed the phone was off the hook. That meant one thing: Sean was here. Ducky.

Liz was just about to knock on Morgan’s door when the music paused and she heard Morgan moan loudly and a man’s rhythmic grunting. She also caught a faint whiff of pot smoke coming from under the door. Lovely. Well, that explained the mess in the kitchen. Morgan’s boyfriend was a moocher, a stoner and spoiled rotten by his well-to-do parents. He always seemed to turn up after Liz had gone grocery shopping. Morgan never had any real food of her own; she seemed to live on boxed macaroni and cheese, takeout pizza (with leftovers staying in the fridge until Liz threw them out) and Diet Coke. Despite Liz carefully explaining that she wasn’t shopping for the entire household, a lot of food disappeared each week. And it had become necessary for Liz to hide the liquor.

The music stopped and was replaced by muffled conversation. Liz crossed her arms and leaned on the wall. She had a pretty good idea of what was coming next.

The door opened a crack and the talk became clearer. “C’mon, Baby, just cook up that beautiful steak. You always make me work up a sweat, you bad girl.” Liz heard what sounded like a slap, probably on Morgan’s ass. “She won’t miss it. It’s not like she’s going to starve anytime soon.”

As they emerged from the room, Morgan was saying, “We’ve gotta get rid of the pot smell because…”

“She doesn’t allow it in the house,” finished Liz. Morgan and Sean stopped dead in their tracks. “It’s in your lease. No illegal drugs.” She had meant to talk about her upcoming biopsy with Morgan, but this wasn’t the moment.

There was silence for a minute. Liz stared calmly at the pair who began to fidget.

Sean spoke first, “Look, it’s just some pot.”

Liz didn’t move. “I don’t care. It’s illegal. I don’t want it in my house.”

Morgan got defensive. “You have booze.”

“I don’t get to hold onto it very long, do I, Sean?” Liz answered sharply. He looked uncomfortable. She continued, “If this was 1930, I wouldn’t have booze in the house.” Liz was exasperated. “Morgan, this isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion.”

Morgan shifted on her feet. “I know and we weren’t gonna smoke, but Sean was telling me about this new strain and it’s primo bud and, well, he was showing me and the next thing you know…” she shrugged, caught Sean’s eye and giggled. He pinched her ass which made her giggle even more.

“I don’t care if it’s smoked, raw, rolled in cornflakes, dipped in chocolate or the Breakfast of Champions…”

“Oh hey, this one is called ‘Breakfast of Champions,” James interjected.

Liz gave him a look and he shut up. “Do not bring it into my house in any form.” Liz looked at both of them. “Is that clear?” Morgan looked sulky.

“And Sean?” He looked at Liz.

“That ‘beautiful steak’ is earmarked for something else. You have a job. Buy your own damned food; I’m sick of feeding you. Starting right now, unless you buy it, you don’t eat it. And since Morgan hasn’t gone grocery shopping, I guess you two are leaving to find something to eat.”

Sean looked shame-faced and mumbled something about being broke from buying weed. Liz made a mock sympathetic face. “And…what a surprise…here you are with the munchies. How could you have known?” She turned to Morgan, “So it’s going to be a bag of Cheetos from Cumbie’s. Sounds perfect.” As she turned towards her own room, Morgan took a last shot.

“God, why are you such an uptight bitch?”

Liz turned and looked at her. “It’s an ugly job, but someone’s gotta do it.” She walked away from the pair and shut the door behind her. She thought she heard, “Hippo” come from the other side of the door.

Liz pulled on her favorite old sweats and padded downstairs. She needed Millie. And she needed nachos. As the chips and cheese bubbled away in the microwave, Liz dialed Millie’s number. Millie answered as the microwave dinged its end signal.

“Hey, what’s up?” Millie asked.

Liz dumped salsa on the plateful. No mystery why she wasn’t a slender reed. She dug in. “Might have a problem.”

“Only one?” Liz could hear the sound of Millie struggling with a zipper on her end. “I could make out a list for you.”

“Starting with my lousy taste in friends. Har dee har har. No, this is serious. Focus.”

“I can’t stop for too long. Getting ready for a date.” Millie was breathing heavily.

“Oh, yeah? Do I know him?”

“I doubt it. His name is John; he’s in the DA’s office. We got each other’s coffee at Dunks the other day and there was an argument and he said he thought I was cute and…”

Liz snorted. “Really? Are you sure it wasn’t more like he got your coffee and you clobbered him with your briefcase? I’ve seen you before you’ve had your morning coffee. It’s not pleasant.” She crunched on a loaded chip. “Thank God I don’t have to do that nonsense anymore.”

She heard Millie mutter, “Yeah, right.” Millie was not a fan of Brad, Liz’s boyfriend.

“Stop crunching in my ear. We’re going out. What’s the problem?”

Liz told her about the mammogram and upcoming biopsy. She heard Millie’s activity stop.

“Liz, what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. Biopsy’s not until next week and I have to keep going until then.”

“Do you want me to cancel and come over there?” She would have.

“No. You go bamboozle this guy into thinking you’re wonderful and tell me what lies I’ll need to swear to later.” Liz hung up the phone and finished her nachos. As she rinsed off the plate and loaded it into the dishwasher, Liz thought about her life and where she stood.

35 years old, parents gone, no siblings, cousins she didn’t see often (and didn’t really want to, either) and she had people calling her “Hippo” behind her back. People who were living under her roof mostly because she didn’t want to be alone.

Liz made her way to her living room and sofa. She hugged a pillow to her chest. It wasn’t warm and purring like Brubeck had been, but it would have to do. She drew herself into a ball around the pillow and closed her eyes.

35 years old and never really lived, she thought. I’ve existed.

She buried her face in the pillow for a minute, trying to pretend it could purr.

Maybe It’s Time

I’m not a cryer. I did plenty of it growing up; falls off bikes and monkey bars, losing pets, angry tears, getting reamed out by my father (my mother believed in “Wait til your father comes home.”), getting hit by my father, losing grandparents.

That was…forty years ago. The last time I really cried was about 10 years ago. It was when I took my cats samba, Cookie, and George to the Ventura County Animal Shelter to surrender them because I had no job, was losing my home, had no food for them, no money to buy them their food or medicine. They knew something was up because they all cried on the way over. Even Cookie, my Blue Point Himalayan who was a trooper.

The black and white cat in the picture is Toulouse who had died two years earlier.

For the past ten years, I have experienced an unstable life. In that time, I have not had a home in my name; no lease, no mortgage. I have lived in hotels, corporate housing, camped, been in a homeless shelter for a couple of months, rented a room (and got booted from it about a year ago) , and for the past year, been couch surfing (going from one friend’s house until the welcome wears out, then on to another home. This is what you do when you don’t have the money or credit to rent an apartment or get a room even in a fleabag hotel).

I haven’t cried.

In addition, i haven’t had enough of a job to support myself since November 2013. I worked at a lousy job test-driving cars. It was lousy because the cars were “modified” to allow the engineers to install their testing gear and they disconnected a lot of safety gear. The drivers would report issues that didn’t get fixed. The hours were irregular; only one pay period was for two solid weeks, and the pay, though above minimum wage, was t enough to support myself even if I had worked a full 40 hours per week. Right now, I’m unemployed. No; I am not drawing unemployment. The why is none of your Damned business.

I still haven’t cried.

What isn’t in my car is in a storage unit and I am struggling to keep up the payments. This includes things like my bed (which the crazy ex-roommate wanted to keep in lieu of rent that was not 30 days overdue when she told me to get out by the 16th. When I said she couldn’t have it, her response was “Fick you.” Long fake fingernails and accurate typing on an iPhone are mutually exclusive). I’ve been living out of a suitcase.

I still haven’t cried.

Both of my parents have died since 2011; my father to Alzheimer’s (it scared the shit out of me to see him in the early to mid stages) and my mother to liver cancer. I didn’t get to say goodbye to either. I couldn’t afford the airfare for Dad’s and none of my siblings told me about Mom. Her wish? Theirs? I don’t know.

0 tears shed. I don’t have the time or the space necessary to indulge.

My books, though they do sell and do get good reviews (the only bad one I’ve seen was from someone who mistook it “These Foolish Things” for a book of the same title by Deborah Moggach (Ms, Moggach? I got the copyright back in 2001). However, they have not yet found their audience. The next two stories I have “bookend” the two published stories, but my laptop dies, so it’s been composition books and a ballpoint pen. As you know, I didn’t get to the Deep In the Heart author event.

Still haven’t cried.

I don’t cry like this:

It’s more like this:

Or this:

Complete with snot bubbles. I sob and scare every animal within 5 miles. Humans can’t handle it (if I cried in front of my old man, he’d get even angrier, tell me to “knock it off” because they were “crocodile tears” because if I was really that upset, I wouldn’t have done whatever in the first place)

Maybe it’s time. I need another place to live, I need income. I need them quickly.

This is Rev. Michael Bernard Beckwith. If you’ve seen “The Secret,” you recognize him, his church is the Agape Center in Los Angeles and part of their ministry is. Prayer Ministry. You can reach them at 310-348-1270, I called them. We talked about my predicament, the fact that I feel like I’ve had it, my fears. All of it. I told her of trying to make sense of my situation in terms of a task to complete or a lesson to learn. I mentioned that I don’t cry. She said, “Maybe it’s time.”

Maybe that’s the lesson, the task. Right now, while I have a safe space, cry. Bury my face in a blanket and sob.

It’s time to release the toxic emotions and memories I’ve been keeping inside.

Later.

Let Me Tell Your Story

“Finding Inner Strength” is the subtitle of my blog and a theme that underpins “These Foolish Things” and “At Last” (and probably a bunch of other stuff I’ll be writing).

I been through my fair share of crap (and then some), but I’m not big on talking about myself (Hell, I’m not even good at selfies). I’ll invent a character and give him/her dialogue and scenes that I’ve observed in my life. However, it takes a while to come up with a finished product.

And I have to find content to populate this blog.

Tell you what; if you’ve been through trying or traumatic circumstances and come out the other side, I want to talk to you. I want to use this space to tell survivors’ stories, to give hope and inspiration to others who may be experiencing what you have.

Email me at sthatcher.author@gmail.com if you want to tell your story. I will change names, if you want to remain anonymous. But, I’ll make your story a star.

And I’m including the next cartoon just because I’ve always loved it.

(crack Knuckles)

Check out this lady:

She was Daisy Washburn Lovell, my great grandmother. I’m not the first author in my family. She published two books, “Glimpses of Early Wareham” and “Glad Tidings.” My Bible (Yes, I have one. No, it doesn’t burn my hand when I hold it) was a gift from her, personalized and inscribed with a poem she wrote. This is her author photo.

(by the way, I grabbed the picture from Sarah Sheppard’s (my cousin) Facebook timeline. Credit where it’s due)

Grandma achieved a goal I’m shooting for: books in the Library of Congress. Not too difficult, really. Just fill out an application and pay a fee.

That’s on the to do list this year.

Also on the list: use my knowledge of dealing with debt collectors to make an e-book and presentation to teach people what their rights are and how to deal with bad actors in the business.

2 signing events (REALLY sore about missing Deep in the Heart this past weekend. Looks like they had an excellent time). I AM signing at the LA Times Festival of Books in April. And working on getting back to Long Beach in June. On the list.

New laptop. On the list.

Complete at least a first draft of the next Liz Gardner (which, I found out today was Grandma Lovell s father’s first name. I probably used to know it, but I named Liz after the Massachusetts city of that name. There’s a giant chair there. I remember seeing it when we went from Vermont down to the Plymouth area)

This is the sort of thing that makes an impression on a little kid. From Vermont. (I still get stars truck seeing the Hollywood sign)

Speaking of Liz and Ty…

This year, they’re going to break through and find a much bigger audience. There is talk of some cross-promotional marketing groups out of the DITH event and I have been accepted to be included. Reach beyond the local group. It is time that all the sweat and energy I. Invested in creating them actually started paying off.

Things go well enough, I may talk to some of the authors in my age bracket and see if we can put together a “Hen Lit” (The more mature form of Chick Lit) signing. Maybe.

That’s just the first half of the year. Stay tuned.

Some Days, the Bear Eats You

At some point in 2015, I was optimistic enough to sign up for Deep in The Heart 2015, a group author signing event in Austin, TX on February 7. 2015. It was far enough in the future that I figured I could get the money for a plane ticket and hotel, etc. in time because surely, I would have a REAL job shortly.

Didn’t happen.

A great friend from high school donated airline miles and I had a fund raiser to for this and to fix my car. The car got fixed. Hotel, ground transport, etc? Not so much. People were generous. They will be acknowledged and thanked by name in the next book.

My heart is heavy.

I am fighting other battles (of my own creation, so I can’t bitch). I don’t know if I’ve hit the bottom and I’m about to start rising or of I’ve hit bottom and I. Stuck.

I’m no angel. Against my better judgment, I’ve let fear drive the bus and I’ve done some stupid shit that I’m paying for now (literally). I was counting on timing and providence to help me make this weekend happen. For once, they didn’t.

Maybe for the best. I have the same two books that I had t the end of 2013. Maybe this is the Universe’s way (or God. I’m not sure what’s out there, but I know we’re not alone) of saying, “Look, Kid. You need more material before the publishing houses see you. What you have is good, you just need to show you have one in the chamber.” Someone somewhere said the best marketing tool for your last book is your next one.

Like I said, I’m no angel. Because I’ve screwed up in credit and financial matters (and according to my research, I am not alone), I’ve learned a lot of shot the hard way. But I’ve learned it, fought successfully because I’ve learned, and I’m putting together materials to reach others. Everybody deserves respect Md dignity until they prove otherwise.

So, no Austin this weekend. Dream deferred (any town who wants to be weird, I need to go there).

But not dead.

Out With the Old and All That Jazz

Barry Manilow “Just Another New Year’s Eve”

(Yes, back in the mid 70s, I was a Barry Manilow fan. I’ve since recovered)

As I write this, people in the U.S. are beginning their prep to welcome in 2015. Parties are rising from boxes and bags, special “good luck” dinners are being cooked, candles lit (raise the energy level), etc.

Goodbye 2014.

Some folks will look back on this year remembering events of great joy such as weddings, babies, dream careers going up several notches, and the year will have been a banner for them.

Others, myself included, will not mourn its passing. For us, it has been a year of trial, loss, and in some cases, the masks being ripped away from so-called friends to show the nastiness hidden behind.

This was a year of losing what no longer served, learning who friends are, and figuring out what the lessons were I needed to learn. And figure them out, I did.

1) I got by with a LOT of help from my friends. )apologies to John, Paul, George, and Ringo)

Thanks to those who helped me quickly and efficiently leave a hostile living situation with an increasingly unstable roommate.

2) George Lucas was right. In an interview after “Return of the Jedi” was released, he referenced Joseph Campbell discussing the Ewoks: “When you’re nice to the little bunny on the side of the road…” I forget the rest of the quote, but it had to do with help from unexpected sources.

Ewok.

</

George Lucas. Spot the difference.

I received help when I needed it from VERY unexpected sources. I've never been sky diving, but it's been like free falling without being sure you have a parachute, let alone one that will open in time. And no, it's not fun.

3) Even in the midst of turbulence and uncertainty, there can be peace and joy.

I got to attend John Williams at the Hollywood Bowl, 3 shows with friends of mine in them (all excellent), I got to the movies I wanted to see, it wasn't "omigodomigodomigod" for 24/7/365.

I also started a Facebook page in August called Medieval Merriment. Some of the posts have gone viral with 40,000 views and 2100 members from around the world. It's nice to be able to lift spirits with that kind of reach.

While my book sales haven't been what I'd envisioned (yet), the positive reviews keep coming. I turned out quality products and they WILL find their footing, even without support from a couple of sources. Remember Lesson 2? You can't be two-faced to the bunny on the side of the road.

There are other lessons learned that I am not sharing here. Important ones, but they’re for me.

“Hey, 2015? Before you come in, we’ve got to lay down some rules…”

Check it Out

Very briefly, yours truly is in the spotlight over at Toot’s Book Reviews:

Susan Thatcher Spotlight

Books make great Christmas gifts.

Especially mine.

Avian Rotation

Yesterday, at an event nominally attended by adults, I found myself back in high school dealing with a self-appointed queen bee. I was not part of the in crowd 30 years ago nor am I part of the clique now.

This person has not treated me with any kind of courtesy, professional, mature, or even human since I’ve known her. Yesterday, she walked by my table, with my name on, gave a little “fuck you” and walked on to hang out with her group. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was the SAQB, but when she started snapping selfies with the other women, I knew.

Wow. Not even high school. More like playground.

As I left and she was talking to a couple of people we both know, suddenly, it was friendly. That’s when I made my error:

Her back was turned. But since there was a Facebook rant within a couple of hours, someone told her.

One of my favorites. I always liked Nelson Rockefeller. Study that picture; it’s the near-extinct moderate Republican.

The rant stated, in plural, that she would never “handle” any of my works (the ongoing attitude indicated that wasn’t going to happen anyway. No loss), had a libelous element to it “we know she pays for her reviews.” (huh? Well, patent falsehood stated as a fact with the intent to cause harm is actionable. I got one of my few law school As in Torts), that I have awful covers (loose translation: taste and simplicity are not a substitute for Fabio-style in flagrante delicto, and that I have “horrible sales” ( apparently, I’ve been getting tracked. So much for not caring) . Oh, and when her breathless minions wanted my name so they could boycott, she said something about me being post-menopausal. Not libelous, but leads to this being appropriate:

What I regret about my action is solely this: it gave consequence to a small time drama queen. Part of the manipulation of followers is the periodic need to refresh their sympathies and that allowed her to do it. My mistake.

The authors around me noticed the cold shoulder and asked, making note of the name. See, even big fish in small ponds need to behave in a professional manner and acting like a teenager is the antithesis of that.

I’m free to say what I want here because this blog doesn’t draw a lot of attention. Even if it does, I haven’t stated falsehoods as facts, or threatened anyone’s livelihood.

I know you’re thinking “Mean Girls,” and that does apply (although I’d like to see a new reference), but I’m more of a fan of “Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion,” especially the end when Romy tells off the SAQB of that film . More applicable since the stuck on the past mindset exists here.

That’s okay. This SAQB will go her way with her acolytes (Try crossing her and see what happens) and I will go mine.

From the other side of the aisle.

Who Needs Feminism? You Do.

Want to see me in person? Sure you do: this Saturday at the Burbank Public Library Buena Vista branch, I will be there, signing books, selling books. There will be a bunch of other great local authors of different genres. Come on down.

A few months ago, Facebook and other social media blew up over a Tumblr account of young women holding up signs declaring that they don’t need feminism:

Yeah. What this smugster doesn’t realize is that her gender has already been politicized whether she likes it or not.

This group reminds me of young, wealthy and privileged, like Paris Hilton or the Kardashians. They are enjoying the benefits that a parent or a grandparent sweated blood, fought, fell back, fought some more, and sacrificed to secure. They don’t see a need for others to fight and struggle because they themselves don’t need it.

They’re not thinking about things like Title IX as they go out for a college soccer or field hockey team. Or these women:

Because of their sacrifice, these young women are free to go vote for men (or women) who want to restrict access to birth control because it offends their religious sensibilities or outlaw abortion for the same reasons.

Know this woman? No? Do you young anti-feminists use birth control? She did a lot of fighting and sweating to lay the groundwork for that.

“I’m morally opposed to having my tax dollars pay for birth control and abortion.” Hey, I’m morally opposed to having my tax dollars pay a salary to a Congress that’s been sitting on its ass for 2 years and wasting taxpayer dollars on 50 plus show votes to repeal a law that’s working. I’m morally opposed to churches getting involved in politics and not having to pay taxes. I’m morally opposed to paying for war. I’d prefer the money went to supporting women in controlling their own destinies.

The young women in the Tumblr feed were not on the planet when the bitch shown on the left almost single-handedly sank the Equal Rights Amendment, which would have made gender equality a part of the Constitution. Know who she is? Someone dug up her nasty old ass and stuck a microphone in front of it. She’s running her trap again on topics as diverse as birth control, women’s rights (again. Jesus. Everything old is new again) and that she thinks the President is responsible for Ebola in the US. Phyllis Schlafly is an older edition of the spoiled rich kid who doesn’t appreciate the sacrifices that were made in order to allow her to publicly be a stupid shit. Seriously, though I generally do not wish I’ll on people, I want her to die soon and in the most embarrassing way possible.

Young Women Who Think They Don’t Need Feminism (especially THIS one):

Do you want to make your own decisions? Like whether or not to shave? (I’m a feminist and I shave. I have the choice) If you find yourself with an unplanned pregnancy, how many choices do you want available as you chart your course? Just one? How about reading? Getting an education? Think it’s not necessary to fight that fight?

Malala Yousefzai

This girl was shot in the head because she said she thought girls getting an education was a good thing and should be a right.

Got a job? You got to choose that rather than having your father choose a husband for you (sometimes based on what kind of stuff your prospective husband was willing to trade for you. Goats, camels, land, a title (Consuelo Vanderbilt), cash, a corporate merger, building a political/Royal dynasty (Catherine of Aragon). Women stopped putting up with that shit. That’s feminism.

Earn money from that job? Do you enjoy getting to decide how you use it? Want to buy a house or rent an apartment? Get a car loan? Not so long ago, you couldn’t have done those things without a man getting involved, whether you were married or not.

Feminism, my dear, spoiled young ladies, is not about shaving body hair, or allowing a man to open a door for you. Remember telling someone “You’re not the boss of me”? That’s what feminism is about; fighting for and protecting the right of women to be their own bosses.

Respect is an earned thing, not a freebie. Feminism is not only about us making our own decisions, it’s about them being respected. See this guy? And the woman?

He’s now a US Supreme Court justice whose confirmation hit a major snag when he was accused of sexual harassment by the woman in blue. The hearings lasted days and the details were unflattering to an an educated man who would be making decisions affecting women. I suspect part of the reason that Justice Thomas does as little as possible on the bench is payback for being exposed. Know all the sexual sensitivity training that is now part of orientation? That came about because a woman came forward and said, “This is the shit I was subjected to as part of my employment. No one should have to deal with a hostile work environment.” That was over twenty years ago; two decades and four Presidents. Want to see what’s outside the HR Manager’s office where I work?

She doesn’t think we need feminism, either. And she’s in charge of enforcing the policies that prevent this kind of inappropriate shit.

The reason we need feminism is because these battles from twenty, forty, fifty, and ninety years ago have not been won. People with means who don’t think that the American ideal of equal rights for all have been buying legislators on the state and Federal levels to undo this progress. Women are the majority in this country yet we are underrepresented in government at all levels. Do you honestly think the freedoms you enjoy now are going to be protected if women stop fighting for them?

You do need feminism, you spoiled little shits, even if you don’t want to mess up your manicure fighting for your rights.