Jessica Nicholls's Blog, page 4

National #Poetry Day

It’s national poetry day in the UK today. Apparently the theme is freedom.  I’ve written a couple of pieces that I’ve arrived at whilst contemplating the best sort of freedom.
Where I’m from originally and where I live, these are for the most part, ‘free’ places.  I don’t suffer from political persecution and I wouldn’t desire any continuation of practices that encourage persecution of certain groups.
That’s my opinion, my experience.  I recognize that, opinions can be innately selfish.  I often think of being free of my selfish nature and want to care more and love more when it comes to my fellow human beings.
I also believe the worst way for us to act as a group and as individuals or whatever would be to encourage ignorance and the incessant numbing of any pain.
Uncomfortable emotions, depression and loneliness.  Anger.  These are all issues that within ourselves and within the human experience as a whole, need to be dealt with.
In a beautiful, utopian society freedom from ignorance and freedom from internal (and external obviously) pain would be like….well, like heaven.
Anyway.  I’ll shut up and hope the following pieces speak at least somewhat along the lines of freedom….though admittedly that word is never directly mentioned.  The first is called ‘Words’ and the second is called ‘Void’.
Off we go….
‘Words’
Words are weak
Words are wisps and vapor
Like smoke feebly blown from the mouth of a dying man
Words cannot always describe the terror that lives within silence
Words cannot rescue you from what lurks in shadows
Yet they’ll gnaw inside
Damn things, awakening a specter of pain
Words linger on the tongue, leaving a rotten taste
Leaving the dust of an ancient shell crunching between the teeth
Still, meaningless and dead
Words spoken by lips you never knew
Brittle pages that somehow survived
First tense, second tense, passive voice, third
Lament for the powerless word
Inscribed in stone, shoved behind a glass
Confine all words to the museum of evaporated knowledge
Until no one cares enough to read
The myth, the legend, the fable
Bury them deep beneath a dull grey monument
Here lies passion
Fears are phantoms
Love is a ghost we don’t believe in anymore
Death is a distant memory
Of someone we knew before
No
A warning
Declaring war on words
They’ll find you
They’ll get deep inside
A place
You never knew existed
They’ll stun and bind you
Long before you fight or hide
Words are the companion of consciousness
It’s true
Without them
You’ll die too
…
 ‘Void’ 
A void
An empty shell
Prepared to wither away
Dwindle and shrink
Into the abyss
Devoid of happiness
When all the poison
Used to fill it
Evaporates
Accept the hunger
At least, it’s something
It is what it is
At least, it’s something
Feel it
Filling the void
Turn it into something else
Better this, than filling the space with poison
Caustic and maddening
Eroding what once was beautiful
The absence of youth
The lack of soul
Can no longer be blamed
When embracing the pitiful and selfish
At any age
In such an event
It is all
Within and without
Chronically shamed
Famed for nothing
But lacking the necessary fervor
To love enough
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Swearing. Lots of Swearing.

I’m going to swear in this post.  I am going to get on my soap box.   I am going to talk about stuff that will make people uncomfortable.

If you can’t deal with it, then look away.  Really, I mean it. 

So, I just got called a Nazi sympathizer by someone on Twitter.  And I got unfollowed by them.

I’m not bothered about being unfollowed, but…Nazi sympathizer?  That turned my stomach.  Literally makes me sick.  They referenced Auschwitz and assumed I either knew nothing about it or that I didn’t care. 

Well…I’ve been ‘unfriended’, harshly, conveniently judged and ignored by folks supposedly closer to me than some random twitter person. 

I posted a picture of a book I’d read.  The book was called Alfred De Zayas’ A Terrible Revenge: The Ethnic Cleansing of Eastern European Germans 1944-1950. 

If you can’t be bothered reading beyond the title and reading the book itself, then please refrain from making massive, horrifically incorrect assumptions about what the book is about and imagining it is filled with some sort of Anti-Semitic or Holocaust denying message.

Yes, there is plenty of disgusting literature out there that tries to justify Nazi war crimes, there are vile websites that try to compare the disenfranchisement of ethnic German communities with the Holocaust or even say that the Holocaust didn’t happen, and the ethnic German disenfranchisement did, but this isn’t one of those pieces of pro hate propaganda disguised as proper literature works.

There are complete and utter morons who will try to conveniently interpret snippets of the book to suit their racist tastes.  Of course there are. 

If you think I’d read something like that and go ‘hey, yeah, that’s really interesting…maybe the Nazis weren’t so bad.’…

Then fuck you.

I read the book for research purposes, as I was studying ethnic German communities in Eastern Europe.  As it happens, my mother was descended from such ethnic German communities.  Her family emigrated to the United States at the very end of the nineteenth century, in case you think my grandfather was in the Prinz Eugen regiment or something.

Were there Nazi sympathizers amongst ethnic German communities?  Of course.  Did they deserve retribution for collaborating with and even in cases, committing war crimes?  Yes. War crimes for sure deserve punishment. 

Did children under ten and grandparents deserve to be moved to starvation camps?  Did women deserve to be raped simply for being ethnic German?  Um, no.   

War is a shitty, shitty thing.  So is Fascism.  And it has shocking consequences that should never, ever be interpreted in some small minded, agenda fuelled way.    And genocide like the Holocaust must never EVER be forgotten. 

If you really, really think that I am a person, capable of sympathizing with anti-semitism or any form of white supremacy or extremism….or that I hold some sort of fucked up view of history that thinks the Nazis were just ‘misunderstood’ and they aren’t to blame for what they did then…well fuck you. 

You are an ignorant zealous reactionary who gets off on lashing out at people you don’t know and who makes massive assumptions about shit you don’t know about and frankly…

I. Am. Done. With. That. Shit. In. My. Life.

You haven’t studied ethnic German communities in Eastern Europe.  You assume I was talking about Nazi soldiers, fresh from committing cruel atrocities being beaten after the war and that I thought ‘poor them, see….the Holocaust wasn’t as bad as people make out.’  Of course it fucking was!! 

Fuck you. 

I realize that today, fucking 2017 in supposedly free, democratic countries, there is a blatant advantage  if you are a privileged white person and do I think that’s right?  Fuck, no. 

White privilege is a consequence of centuries of greed, ignorance and bigotry.  Folks have been quite happy to keep it going because frankly, it benefitted them and they didn’t see people of different ethnic backgrounds as being worth as much as them.   

People are really calling that out now, and it makes folks uncomfortable.

This is me, being honest.  I am liberal.   What is known as a ‘libtard’ by some.  I am pro LGBT rights.  I am drawn to paganism but still think Jesus is cool.   

And by the way, self -righteous Christian types?  Jesus would hang out with almost anyone.  Gay, straight, bisexual, transgender, promiscuous, not promiscuous, rich, poor, sick, healthy, Jews, Christians, pagans, etc.   Whatever, he would have given them his time and love.

But Nazis?  No.  He would have kicked those fuckers right off their bar stools. 

Would have been nice if he would have turned up when slavers were heading over to Africa, bribing folks, kidnapping people, bringing them on a horrific boat journey most would perish on, then enslaving and abusing their families and their descendants for generations, thus casting a violent and disturbing shadow on American history that lingers to this day. 

But good ‘Christian’ folks sure do get twitchy when these historical anecdotes are brought up. 

Now, there are Nazi symbols being paraded around in the United States and that’s classed as on par with movements like Black Lives Matter and anti-hate protestors by Donald Trump.   Fuck!!  

I am shocked by the amount of people I thought were normal who voted for Donald Trump and Mike Pence.   I don’t think they are all bad people by their very nature, but I think they have been duped.  

And Brexit?  WTF????!!!  Again.  Duped. 

But in both cases, often quite willingly duped and gobbling up convenient memories like a box of cheap chocolates.  Oh…convenient memories…yum yum yummy. 

If the decision benefits you economically but fucks other people you don’t care about? Brilliant.  If it keeps the brown and foreign types who make you uncomfortable out of your face?  Even better.

But then, those poor lost souls who voted Hitler in were sure duped.  Horribly, tragically, duped in such a way that German folks have to live with a nightmare within their collective historical consciousness since the nineteen thirties.    I can’t imagine how fucked up that feels. 

Then, as an American, I think of slavery,  Jim Crow laws,  lynchings,  disenfranchisement of Native Americans, stealing their land and mistreatment of immigrants  of the darker non Anglo type persuasion, and I can have a really good try.  It feels pretty fucked up.  I really, really don’t like it. 

Does this mean I hate my country and I resent people who serve in the military?  Of fucking course not! But there are people who would assume that because of some of my ‘libtard’ views it automatically translates into me being hateful towards the country I was born in and spend my miserable days secretly hoping that it fails. 

The difference between the Germans in Germany and the ‘ethnic Germans’ who lived in eastern Europe is that the latter didn’t actually vote Hitler in.  They were associated with him by default.  They’d never even been to Germany.  They were born in Eastern Europe. 

Associating an entire group of people with vile, negative, evil notions to the point of assuming that they all deserve to die horrible deaths is also, pretty fucked up.

Fuck Nazis.  Fuck white supremacy.  Fuck Trump.  Fuck Brexit. 

And Fuck you, crazy reactionary fool on twitter. 

This is me, signing out.  Feeling fucked up, angry as all hell, chronically misunderstood, misinterpreted by reactionary fools, feeling alone and shitty.  Fuck. this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Days of Summer

 

Summer is winding down and it’s time for some last minute fun.

This is a blog post relevant to a #giveaway hosted by Dariel Raye. I’m also going to talk a lot about my enjoyment, understanding and relationship with paranormal romance as a writer and a reader.  And a little bit about insomnia.

Dariel Raye, is a musician, animal lover and #romance writer extraordinaire who tends to stick to the genre of #paranormal and urban fantasy for her love stories. Quite often, her couples are multicultural/interracial. Because, love doesn’t give a flying *expletive omitted* about race or ethnicity. Only sad fools would be bothered by such traits between lovers.

I’m sure if you asked Aphrodite, she’d roll her beautiful eyes at the prudish stirrers of hate and tell them to ‘*expletive omitted* off.’

Dariel Raye’s characters are frequently shape shifters or angels.   In one of her stories, there is intense attraction between a good hearted veterinarian and an attractive gentleman who adores caring women and whose incisors occasionally lengthen.  Nice.

A few hours before dawn, I found myself reaching for my #kindle to read Outreach, An Orlosian Warriors Novella by Dariel Raye. Normally I would force myself to go back to sleep, but I thought, no it’s summer and if the only quiet time I get to myself will be in these dark hours, then I am going to delve into a world filled with the descendants of angels, demons, disturbed characters with tragic histories and an explosive love story.

It was great.   I love Dariel Raye’s stuff, it’s indulgent and escapist yet beautiful in its use of damaged humans and dark angels.   I wished that the story would have gone on a bit longer actually as four am rolled around and I knew that sleep was not going to be my friend.

Thank goodness for American style coffee pots.

Insomnia is an unusual occurrence for me. I love early nights and generally sleep soundly until sunrise. In fact, I love sleep so much that I wrote a story about a girl who has an unhealthy obsession with the Greek God of Dreams, Morpheus.

When I came up with the concept for my first novel length project, Into the Arms of Morpheus, I was envisioning Morpheus as a typical Greek god in contemporary paranormal romance literature

I assumed I would write a tale of standard seduction.  But my writing took me on a complicated path and I discovered some character traits I wasn’t expecting.

I can’t deny I was inspired by the phenomenon of ‘heart throb’ types. The sort, molded into something innocent young women are powerless against.  They might not realize it, but heart throbs become less human and more like ideas, images and fantasies. Let’s say, otherworldly.

Morpheus became a different sort of character. Whether he’s really good somewhere deep down or whether he is a villain, I’m still not completely sure. He is worryingly appealing yet agonizingly evasive.

The goddess, Nyx in all her might came to me as well.  She’s got her own agenda.   On a side note, I am into #ASMR and there is a #goddess series by @pandora_asmr where she plays Nyx, hypnotizing you to sleep.  Pretty cool and awesome to see #Nyx getting some recognition.   In case you haven’t noticed, I champion the strange and unusual.

Maybe someone will do an ASMR video as Morpheus?  Any enterprising #ASMR #artists?  I could have used that around 4:30 am this morning….

Back to Morpheus in my story….

I was obsessed with mythology during the writing of Morpheus. I set the tale in rainy, wet stone and cobbled Manchester, England, a place I lived in the vicinity of for many years.

Morpheus, is probably the world’s best actor.  He can become anything. He understands human nature more intimately than anyone living or dead because he can delve into anyone’s subconscious and know their deepest secrets, desires and fears.

But poor Morpheus, has his limits and weaknesses. He lives his own immortal tragedy. Greek gods might be powerful, but they can be petty and arrogant.   They are in a position to toy with mortal lives when they see fit.  In Into the Arms of Morpheus, they take advantage of their position.

Because they are all a little messed up themselves.  I’ve chosen those from #mythology who aren’t normally in the lime light.  Personally I find those a little more interesting than the standard attention seeking types.  Not that I want to get on Zeus’s bad side, but he is actually scared of Nyx.

Moving on from my own story, Dariel Raye is hosting a #giveaway on August 25th. There are many #authors taking part.  I’m giving away a signed copy of Into the Arms of Morpheus to a winner of my choosing. I’ll be deciding around Saturday morning.

It’s free it’s fun and you never know, one day I might be quite famous.  I might also dwindle into obscurity and heartily embrace regular daytime wine drinking (tempting…oh so tempting) but at the end of the day you still get a free book.

So if you fancy some #mythology based urban fantasy in the wee hours, or if you want to go someplace quite dark while basking in the sunshine, if you want to meet Morpheus, Nyx and Thanatos (Death), then come on over on Friday.

There is a multitude of other authors taking part.  Plenty of romance writers of course, but of a wide scope.  Authors who specialize in the erotic, fantasy, paranormal, mysteries, gay romance, multicultural, shape shifters and other creatures of the night are on Dariel’s lineup,  there is a little something for everyone.

Summer is winding down, soon the crickets and birds will quiet, the leaves will change and the air will get colder.   Soon one story will end and another will begin. You might as well have a bit of fun and curl up with a book to remind you of the last days of summer…

Here is Dariel’s Link:

https://www.facebook.com/dariel.raye.3

 

 

‘Going Backwards’

 

My name is Jessica and it’s been two weeks since I last ate a doner kebab pizza.   I have one finished historical romance, (with a ghost story), out for formal editing.   I’ve written a dystopian romance (it doesn’t have any sci-fi or space element to it). I will get to that in the autumn.  I’m currently writing vampire stories in preparation for a Halloween release.

It’s summer break. I stand on the verge of over a month of upended routine. This means writing will be sporadic.  Not nonexistent but…sporadic. There will be time for reading, and I plan on filling my head with as much vampire, fantasy, paranormal, historical and romantic stuff as possible whilst negotiating…summer.  Forget you, reality.

Yet all that aside, I would like to take a moment out there to talk about a few things.

Namely, jealousy, insecurity and loathing.

I will give an example. When I walk into a book store and see successful, best selling books by well known actors or artists.   I am jealous.

It strikes me as unfair that these people are allowed the pleasure of writing and getting published like…bam.  Never mind that said folks are actually producing quality children’s books as well as staring in well known programs and they entertain me or make me laugh, the fact that they get to enjoy instant success with another artistic medium due to not only their talent but their already established name really grates on me.  I tried to convince my son not to buy ‘Billionaire Boy’.  It didn’t work.  Little bugger read it right in front of me.   This success in literature grates on me.

I am ashamed to say so but dear God it does.

*cue glaring green emoji*.   I’m sorry David Walliams and Bear Grylls.  Forgive me, I wish I was a better person.

Whenever I see crappy reality television celebrities bringing out memoirs I honestly feel sorry for the people who buy them. Not jealous or spiteful, just a bit sad.

I loathe marketing people. Folks who think of nothing but sell sell sell….they fill me with disgust for the human condition. I feel these people should be on an old fashioned market stall, smiling and bowing and scraping for every penny because they don’t care about a damn thing apart from making money. If they want to worship money they should wind up in a lonely ‘heaven’ of heavy coins to swim in.  Like in that treasure room in Gringotts bank in Harry Potter or Smaug’s lair in the Hobbit.

They don’t deserve to earn millions and talk about targets and set about looking at website traffic and stalking people on social media to find out what’s #trending.  Perhaps there was a time when people sold products they genuinely believed in….but now I think too many folks think sell first and product quality or validity later.

I desire their happiness and dignity on a pike before the city gates.

Ever heard the song ‘Going Backwards’ by Depeche Mode?

It makes me think of ‘cookies’ and market researchers and opportunistic sales people. Maybe that’s not what Depeche Mode meant with the song but that’s what it conjures for me.

I read about a blogger selling five star reviews to struggling authors. That is both pathetic and disturbing.  I officially loathe that blogger. But that ruthless woman makes money off of people desperate to be seen in the exceptionally competitive world of books and literature available online.

There are people selling ‘wellness’ and ‘truth’ and ‘self confidence’ and ‘success’ and ‘inner peace’ just like there are people selling sexual imagery and war. They mostly have orange faces and whitened teeth.  I trust very few people with orange faces and whitened teeth.

My point is, we are supposed to be moving forward in society. We are supposed to rise above jealousy and bitterness and animosity against our fellow human being. We are supposed to ACTUALLY help one another. Not pretend to help people so as to benefit and line our pockets.

So….why am I so filled with loathing, insecurity and jealousy towards my fellow human being?   Because the lack of balance in this world upsets me and I blame salespeople. I blame those who have sacrificed their morality on the sacred slab dedicated to lost souls and butt kissers so that they can go on holiday in Thailand.

I don’t blame David Walliams or Bear Grylls.  I might be jealous of them…but I don’t blame them.

To a certain extent I blame a lack of education and poor life choices of the hoards who love crap like reality television, celebrity gossip and the memoires of reality television stars.

So if I see anyone sat around a pool this weekend reading a book with some orange faced, bleach white toothed person on its shiny, overpriced cover….

I am going to make sure they are engrossed in their book so that I can discreetly roll my eyes as I walk past them.

They won’t notice me.

No danger there.

Happy Summer.

 

Doner Kebab Pizzas, Yoga and my Conscience

 

The other day I was stuffing a piece of doner kebab pizza into my mouth whilst ordering a well known fitness application for my phone. Already my stomach signaled that it was time to stop eating.

My behavior that afternoon just wasn’t right.

My conscience wasn’t speaking to me, I’d made it sick. I shouted to the children through a mouth stuffed with processed, over seasoned meat, salty sauce, dough and cheese to cease scrolling through Netflix, searching for films I knew were too scary for them.

At that point my conscience crawled out of its sick bed and said in a gruff voice that shouldn’t belong to any lady’s conscience,

‘You are actually going to have to go in there and stop them from putting on a horror movie.   You know it’s going to give them nightmares.   Let’s be honest you don’t want the not-so-little anymore buggers to be clinging to you at midnight, while you are struggling to sleep due to a bloated stomach and heavily put upon digestive system. Do something with yourself! You horrible, horrible person.’ My conscience then slammed the door, grumbling about what a jerk I am and how tragic my first world problem obsessions are and stumbled back into its lair.

My conscience, by the way is a really disillusioned washed up old drunk.

It might not be the most gorgeous, sparkling conscience in the world, but it does know what’s wrong and what’s right.

Monday meant premiering my fitness app. This well known fitness app involves message notifications, exercise goals and a pre-set timer and requests to connect to my camera and all my other apps. This makes me uncomfortable even though I see the point in using it for social media and sweaty selfies, etc.  Promotion.  Convenience.  Surveillance and money laundering.  Whatever.

I could say I’m disappointed with it, but in truth it motivates me.

To my shame, seeing images of beautiful young, fit, likely wealthy and successful women doing exercises motivates me. It’s not that I want to compete with them. I will never be a beautiful fitness guru.  They just look so friendly! I like them. My conscience thinks I’m pathetic but God help me, I actually like the fitness ladies who now live in my phone.

Surely, they are re-inventing the stereotypes surrounding attractive go getter type women. They aren’t all cruel, tan, toned creatures seeking to crush me. It’s okay not to hate them. It’s okay to buy an app like that. It doesn’t make me a dork/sheep. Right?   I won’t wake up one day to a world where I am a starving beggar in their empire of pretty, young, tech savvy and healthy.

This whole affair makes me feel quite pathetic yet…I know it’s doing me good? Conspiracy theories of ebusiness and app tycoons seeking to run our daily lives aside, what harm could it be doing?

I did yoga this morning via said app.   I even listened to the music score that went along with it. I didn’t hate all of it.   When it came time to do the ‘balance’ moves I struggled. I kept keeling over and needing to grasp onto a chair.   I’m not particularly balanced physically. Or emotionally.

I ate vegan sausages on whole wheat pasta with roasted tomatoes and garlic for dinner this evening. There is no wine in the house. This is on purpose.  I am physically incapable of ladylike drinking.

As I said, my conscience is already a drunk. There is no hope for me.

I’m trying to save money. I’m trying to lose weight. I’m trying to be a good parent.   I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to succeed with my writing.

*Conscience pipes up from its lair* ‘You are talking about yourself like ALL the time!’

Yes, thank you conscience.   This is a blog and blogs are very often exercises in admittedly self centered ramblings and personal opinions so why should mine be any different?

That aside, I keep seeing tweets and articles about how talent is not exactly rare. There are many creative types around with the ability to write something interesting.  What makes them succeed is their tenacity. The moves they make and the work they put in to succeed. To get your work seen, you have to complete all manner of research. You have to know who would want to help you get your work out there. You have to source dozens of these people. Then you have to present something impressive.

So, you’d better have it.

Even then, chances are the ones in positions to help you will be incredibly busy, dealing with the thousands of other creative types trying to make a living from their art. FYI, if any ‘agents’ ever ask you for money after getting you all excited, telling you that you have a strong voice, etc., do NOT engage with them or send them money.

*Sound of creaking bed springs as my Conscience sits up slightly*

Conscience: ‘F-wording vultures.’

Anyway….

Writer’s write. Talent is common. Tenacity is what makes or breaks you….etc. etc. etc. Eye Roll. Yawn.

*Cue the sound of empty bottles falling and rolling on a wooden floor, shuffling feet and a groan.*

Okay, I’ll formally introduce you. Everyone? This is my Conscience. Conscience? These are like the two people who occasionally look at my blog…

Conscience: ‘Okay. I suppose getting your work seen is like getting fit or being a better person. You have to make the effort. You have to ‘get over yourself’ and just work at it.   Stop obsessing over your little insecurities and the many things you become paranoid about. Grow accustomed to rejection and the fact that higher ups might look at you and think ‘Wow, that sucks. Go away.’ Steel yourself against that because it doesn’t matter. What does matter is what you learn in the process and that you never EVER give up. And the fitness ladies in your phone are not your friends, okay? They are attractive fitness people who had an idea, pursued it and now they make money off of people like you. But that’s okay, because you do need to get healthier. And maybe….just maybe one day those ladies will buy your book and find it an emotionally enjoyable read and will get in touch about how much they liked your book. OMG you really want that don’t you? You’re so freaking sad and weird at the same time! You really, really need to get out more. Jeez…crazy obsessive woman hauls herself over the coals for buying a well known fitness app and there are people starving in the world.    Give money to charity or something. I need a drink….’ *cue the sound of a bottle uncorking and a body collapsing on a bed with broken springs*

Okay. So…I won’t order Doner Kebab Pizza next weekend.  Or any apps for that matter.

My name is Jessica and my conscience is a disillusioned, washed up old drunk.

Once upon a time, I imagine it was a glorious, bright eyed sort with the world of moral choices at its feet.

I’ll get back to work then….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Balance and #Health and #Wellness and Stuff.

 

Balance. Control. Discipline.

I like gorging myself on rich food and drinking wine over the weekend. Then I want to hit the gym, run and drink green smoothies all week. Mealtimes involve a healthy chicken and black bean burrito, with no cheese or sour cream. I’ll eat nuts and whole grains, dabble in yoga and meditation, etc.

Then Friday comes and an intense urge accompanied by euphoria hits as I start on a bottle of crisp, zesty chilled Sauvignon Blanc and salty rich snacks. The delirious deliciousness is so good, I become ecstatic with happiness. Everything makes sense on Friday night. The world is right. By Sunday I’m on ice creams and chocolate bars in a desperate attempt to pick myself up off the floor.

Lately, I’ve allowed myself to slip even further from my lifestyle standard. I’ll even eat a rich pasta dish and drink wine on a school night. Not to the point of being a hung over wretch the next day, but certainly not in a position to get up at 5:30am to go for a run.

I just sort of do my day, minus any significant exercise. I try and stick to lower fat lower sugar eating, but it doesn’t pack the same punch. It doesn’t have the heady feeling I get from eating lean protein style foods after sweating and panting, then exfoliating and moisturizing afterwards.

Eating a chicken sandwich on whole wheat knowing I barely managed to roll out of bed and wash myself just isn’t the same.

Then you hear words like moderation and balance. Yawn.

Yet here I am again. Sunday. I didn’t get out of bed until ten. I’ve eaten more chocolate than I care to admit. There are empty bottles in the recycling that I am responsible for. I’m staring down the barrel of another week.

I’m staring down the barrel of the rest of my life.

It’s not the vanity, it’s the mindset captured when I’m being a good girl. I love my indulgent weekends. But they can’t spill into my week. Not anymore. I honestly do have stuff to do.

And it’s not just about my expanding waistline. Or even the puffy eyes. Or a sluggish thought process and general state of confusion as to how exactly I got here.

My urge to nap during the day, a habit I find offensive in other situations, disgusts and compels me at the same time. It’s not those sort of things.

Okay well yes. It is those things. It’s also that I still want to be able to drink a glass or two of wine and not feel like a piece of crap who does this way too often. I want to drink that glass knowing that I earned it. Not panicking that I’m going to feel tired tomorrow, yet being unable to stop myself from swallowing yummy chilled Pinot Grigio.   Chardonnay sucks.

I want to eat a piece of cheese and a few olives and not feel disgusted with myself. I want to enjoy a piece of cake and not become immediately embroiled in a ferocious yet silent debate about whether to eat cake until I feel sick or whether to stop eating all together and just cope with my salivating, twitching and excessive drinking…I mean blinking… I mean I like cake. Shit.

I’m very knowledgeable about healthy eating. I’m not limited in my ability to comprehend what is good for me and what is not. I’m just exceptionally good at justifying bad health choices.

For example, my subconscious theory that if I consume a bag of nacho cheese flavored tortilla fast enough, it doesn’t count. I have processed fake cheese corn stuck in my teeth but hardly recall eating anything so anyway what’s for dinner?

Another example? I hold sugary soft drinks in high disdain. I do not see the point in sodas or artificial fruit drinks at all. Until I wake up with a hangover and find myself chugging lemonade like it’s going out of fashion.

I’ll go back to snubbing it on Monday.

No thanks, just water for me.

At least wine has a bit of integrity. Whatchamacallit Zero? Whatsit Light?   Bubbly Diet Whatever? Bah! My nose and I are going to go right up, thank you very much. Until we’re above a cold can of yourself because your carbonated caffeinated qualities accompany spicy fattening comfort food perfectly. When I drink you, I know I’m slumming it and possibly drinking cancer or dementia inducing chemicals yet I secretly fear the day you are no longer produced.

As for the ‘full fat’ soda brigade? You make me sick. Until I feel sick and drink you down like a ragged traveler who’s been lost in the desert for weeks. I love you ginger ale, don’t leave me!

I drink infused water now. My water has pieces of lemon, mint, cucumber, berries and ginger floating in it. I’m still gaining weight. It turns out my home grown kitchen herb infused H20 does not offset the doner kebab pizza I scoffed on Friday because I was freaking sick of cooking stuff involving home-made chicken stock and chopping up varying forms of bastard salad. F word I hate salad.

I’m really quite proud of my ability to resist chocolate and sweets.   My true weakness is salty stuff.   I’m also nauseatingly proud of my honesty.   I have a problem with consuming too many salty carbohydrates. Yet you come see me on a Sunday, or when Mother Nature tweaks my biological situation and I’m stood looking at an impressively sized American candy bar and wondering if it’s big enough.

I adore running. My knees remind me that I come from a long line of short, stout (yet really awesome) peasant laborer type women who were built for constant work, but not for the elegant, graceful art of running. Bend, stoop, stir, lift, push, pull, grunt, carry, hurry up, give birth, but don’t run for goodness sake your joints can’t take it. Really?

No…I will lose enough weight off my middle one day so that I can enjoy running and my knees will shut up.

I like the gym, the cross trainer and doing weights. I don’t talk to anyone there yet I love the feeling of unity in health. We aren’t all perfect, but we are here and let’s do this people!   I don’t resent the beautiful types who are there. The fact that I mentioned that shows how open minded I am. It does not betray any insecurity at all.   I welcome all my gym brothers and sisters with open arms.  Even the annoyingly attractive and fit ones.

I avoid eye contact like the plague and the thought of doing a group exercise class truly horrifies me on a level that needs its own blog post but…solidarity people! We can embrace health and find a better version of ourselves.

In all seriousness I love sweating. I also love eating. And drinking.

And green tea is really really boring.

So, what to do? How to find balance in health and habits? The thing is, I know I’m not alone. Lots of folks are struggling with weight and healthy lifestyle habits.

Lots of people freaking hate salad. Even with a nice dressing, extra chicken, or some alternative vegetable that isn’t lettuce. You are the bane of my existence lettuce!  I heard, that lettuce has chemicals in it that actually cause hunger. Who would have thought that a bit of produce can be so cruel as well as prone to becoming soggy and tasteless?

Then again, I do like using lettuce as an alternative ‘wrap’ to tortilla or buns. Burger meat in between fresh lettuce leaves is actually okay. So is taco meat.

Fine, maybe I can’t use lettuce as a scape goat for my poor lifestyle choices. I can’t blame the unappetizing bits of soggy green stuff on café sandwiches for making me choose the cheese toastie instead.

Maybe I have to actually swallow back down my urge to isolate myself with a huge piece of black forest gateau.

Maybe I should eat in public more often. And slowly enough that I remember what I’ve consumed. But control doesn’t come easy. It doesn’t grace you with any benefits unless you make the effort and practice good old, agonizingly boring self control.

Sometimes, that means acknowledging your own madness.

Hello. My name is Jessica and I’m not entirely balanced.

 

Bad Day

 

When you are alone.

Your words are meaningless.

Your emotions a lead weight.

Your dreams unfulfilled.

And there is no savior for any of this save for you.

Alone.

Only you can claw yourself out.

Reality is a dull and hungry existence.

Food turns to grey matter on your tongue.

Drink doesn’t satisfy until you are sick.

Your body repels and protests your every decision.

Your mind punishes you.

For the shame of knowing better.

For the shame of having no excuse.

For the horror of no escape.

And the anger, the poisonous, pointless anger.

Because you are in so deep.

Swallowed by the version of you, you never wanted to be.

And only you, dreary wasted you, can claw yourself out.

 

 

 

 

Many Masks and Manchester

 

Much as I recognise Ariana Grande as a beauty and a performer, I did not know she was in Manchester last night. Then again, neither was I. So I was rather surprised when I woke to find messages from family in the US wondering if I was there or anyone in my family in the UK was.

Then I found out what happened. I cried imagining the pain of the parents who lost children attending a concert. My daughter, who is an Ariana Grande fan, was shocked that the suicide bomber would choose to leave the world in such a way, murdering innocent children alongside killing themselves. She was angry, finding the act utterly pointless and ‘idiotic’.

She didn’t understand, yet she didn’t blame Islam or general religion or foreigners.

She’s not thirteen yet.

I explained that the dead suicide bomber, whose identity we do not yet know, could have been a young person who never fit into mainstream society. They were likely full of resentment towards a community they felt rejected by.  Perhaps they were found and encouraged by an older, charismatic, highly manipulative person to embrace a hateful and violent ideology.

I thought more on this. Perhaps this person WAS a refugee. Perhaps this was a person who was disappointed, disillusioned individual jealous of a stable, wealthy nation and its inhabitants. Maybe this was a person envious of those who haven’t grown up with bombs and constant risk of dying or grieving due to some cruel atrocity.

Perhaps this person was just insane.

Perhaps they condemned Ariana Grande’s sexy music videos and sultry lyrics as sinful and wanted those going to die as a way of sending a message of what is acceptable behaviour.

Perhaps they’ve watched too many biased news programs.

Perhaps they’ve witnessed military intervention in other countries and have seen dead children and thus felt justified unleashing death and misery onto what they saw as a spoiled, corrupt nation full of sinful people who will never care about them. That’s difficult to swallow, I know. And for the record, I respect service people who have volunteered to put their lives at risk in order to defeat the lowest of the low who would seek to murder us all.   But I do not applaud or glorify war and its consequences. And yes. I can do both.

At any rate, the suicide bomber is dead. It’s easy to just say “what a *expletive deleted*” but we do need to comprehend this person’s mental state in order to look ahead.

This person died as a result of hate, jealousy, spite, bitterness and maybe even mental illness. The children who died are victims of that person embracing evil. Parents who now grieve in a way I can’t bear to think on, suffer as a result of this person’s warped mental state.

Whatever side you’re on, ‘religion’ and ‘holiness’ have nothing to do with last night’s events at the Manchester Arena. Hate and evil do.

It’s easy to run with anger. It’s fast and exhilarating. It feels good to lay into someone who perhaps ‘really deserves it’.  The idea is empowering.  Until you realise you’ve done something unforgivably cruel.   Until you are dead and no glory or peace await you.

It’s easy to hold onto bitterness like a crutch. Let it seep inside you and poison your humanity. Evil is far cleverer than us mere mortals understand.

How simple would it be, if in order to eliminate all potential murderers of innocent people, we must to get rid of those of a certain faith or ethnicity? Or kill or emotionally bully those of a certain sexual orientation?

Should we get rid of religion altogether?

Will we destroy evil if we make everyone swear allegiance to atheism in order to prove that we are against terrorism? Will that do it?

Patience is slow and difficult. Peace isn’t quite as satisfying if you are feeling aggrieved. Tolerance strikes many as ridiculous. The thought of ‘love’ doesn’t have the same instant gratification as hate. It doesn’t carry that adrenaline rush of violence, of lording loud spiteful words over those whom we do not understand.

But the reality of love’s impact is more powerful than hate.

It’s more stunning than any mask evil wears.

And evil doesn’t wear one mask. It wears many.

So I will pray for Manchester and the grieving parents and children, a community awash with grief for the ones who left this world far too early.

Whether you respond to cathedral bells, a gospel choir, chants and meditation, incense, a call to prayer, or silence, let’s pray together. You don’t do prayer? Let’s be kind, together.

I still will think of Manchester as friendly, witty, down to earth, musical, gritty and loving as it’s always been and always will be.

Fuck you, evil.

Love,

Jess

 

 

 

 

All We Need is Love. Right?

 

I’ve spent an afternoon going through my WIP, (work in progress), after a long hiatus and honestly? I’m sick of looking at it. And it’s a good story. I like it. I just need to finish it. Yet there’s a couple of finicky storyline aspects I need to fix and the final ten chapters need penning. I know how it ends.   A handful of the remaining chapters will be set in present day, revolving around a blossoming romance. I just…haven’t felt in the mood for romance.   I’m obsessing over tiny details. What will she wear? What will the temperature be? Will they hold hands? Will they wear mittens or gloves? How long should the kiss last? Will he wear cologne? Will it be spicy or more aromatic and woodsy?

I’m killing the mood by being fussy like this. More importantly, I’m wasting time.

There’s been a bit of a life change happening for me recently, that REALLY has put a temporary stopper in my work. I’ve spent too much time scrolling through various forms of social media. I’ve been unable to avoid reading snippets of news articles about dreadful things happening in the world.

The politics of power and manipulation grow stronger. At the end of the day, if people want to view something a certain way, they will.   Cold hard facts could come and smack them in the face like large dead fish and they’d still insist they felt nothing. Industry shoves compassion aside and egos loom like indestructible death stars, determined to subdue the masses with smoke and shadows.

War is an industry. Health and beauty are an industry. Food is an industry. Sex is an industry.

Love is not.

Likely a lot of us realise this as we scroll through whatever form of social media, searching for something to identify with. Some way to connect either for work or friendship purposes.   I find myself growing numb to all of it. How odd, to seek connection by being alone.   It won’t be long before all the paths that lead to understanding will be destroyed.   Then, we’ll be forced to be live like cheap plastic pieces on a shelf. Alone, maybe even next to one another yet with no means to reach out and touch someone (cue vague memories of some 1980s phone advert).  Our moments of pleasure and happiness short lived and replaceable.

It’s a shame people don’t get greedy for love the way they do for money.

Because money can’t buy love.   It can buy weapons, food, supplies, vehicles, training, medicine, technology and influence. It can buy the services of a personal trainer, a high standard of living, organic food and high quality anti-aging toiletries. Maybe a bit of laser treatment. It can buy fashions designed to encourage sexy thoughts. A nice dinner and a fancy hotel room. It can buy people.

But not love.

Funnily enough my other WIP which I’ve shelved for the moment is partially dystopian in nature. I always disliked dystopian work. Now, reading the news, I’m feeling the pull to hurry up and finish this other so I can get going on that one.  Stories of apocalyptic, chaotic societies set in a fictional future has been ‘a thing’ for a while now, but I’m sure other authors would agree that that it’s like the news is handing stuff to creative types on a plate.

As far as reading is concerned, historical romance with an idealised, sweet smelling setting has always appealed to me. Dystopian stuff with all the survival requirements, spoiled landscapes and orphaned characters depresses the crap out of me.

Back to my own writing, how to conjure those moments of deepening love when all you want to do is stop typing and go drink excessive amounts of wine? And all because you took a break to piss about on your phone and you read a news article. Then you read an article about how it was a fake. Then you read an article about how the people who said it was fake are crazy. Then you read an article about how the folks against those who spout against ‘fake news’ are actually evil manipulators hell bent on controlling us all. Then you think it’s mean to call anyone crazy for having different beliefs. Then you can’t abide certain beliefs yourself…like that mainstream media outlets are ALL lying to us. Then you read a…you get the idea.

Maybe news outlets are full of liars determined to convince the masses of certain things that would only benefit those folks in high powerful places. That kind of thing makes for the beginnings of a decent dystopian/conspiracy theory type novel. Yet I find it depressing as hell and not conducive to the development of a romance. Then I hate myself for being so childish and self-indulgent.

I want to celebrate love and compassion while the rest of the world seems hell bent on driving folks apart. Industry. Business. ‘The man’, as it were, tossing aside non-influential folks like so much garbage, destroying the earth’s natural set up in favour of progress, I don’t like all that stuff.

I don’t think all rich and powerful people are inherently evil, and there is nothing wrong with wanting to better yourself in life. I’m well aware that money is a necessity if you want to live comfortably in most parts of the world.

I just think people who desire nothing more than riches and power…might be a bit evil.  And it saddens me that there seems to be a lot of these folks around. They vary from your wannabe celebrity taking butt selfies to your conniving propagandists convincing isolated, lonely people to sacrifice themselves in order to get ahead.

At the end of the day, you can’t manufacture intimacy. Virtual reality will always be virtual reality. Money cannot buy love.

But if it could, maybe this earth would be a better place. And the war lords, ginormous egos, kings and queens, lords and ladies, Death Stars and Saurons of the world wouldn’t feel so inclined to find sorrowful ways to push their bloody selfish agendas.

 

 

Writing, Research and the Horrors They’ve Come With.

 

 

I have spent the last year writing and researching a historical romance novel with some paranormal elements.

It hasn’t been easy.   I’ve ran into some hard to digest events.

The ‘history’ element is relevant to half of my ancestral heritage, specifically, my mother’s.

She was proud of me for working on this and was enjoying the findings that came up as I have gone through the process of trying to make the historical bits of my story accurate.

Let me put it to you this way, the people who know me personally are likely sick to death of me going on about it.

In the past twelve months, my mother passed away.

That sucked.   It was her birthday this past week. That was a rough day.

My mother was one of twelve children born into a German-Hungarian Catholic family in rural North Dakota during the 1930s. My grandfather was born in and my grandmother’s parents came from mainly German speaking villages in a part of Europe called The Banat.

Today, that is the area surrounding where Hungary, Romania and Serbia’s borders meet. Back in the day, when my ancestors still lived there in the late 1800s / very early 1900s, they referred to it as ‘Hungary’.

To say that times have changed in that part of the world since my family left is an understatement.

If you want more of the history, look up Danube Swabians.

There have been two main challenges to my research.

1) I don’t speak German, Serbian, Romanian or Hungarian. But I do know some nice people who have helped me with non-English sources.

2) Part of my story involves places, people and a culture that have been damaged by Nazis, the war they waged and the aftermath of it.

The First World War divided the Banat (the place my family once called ‘Hungary) into three different countries.   The German speaking people in villages that once all came under first Hapsburg, then Hungarian rule found themselves under three different governments.

They were mostly farming folks and craftspeople.   They got on with it and left the politics to the big boys.  So…they said, ‘Okay, we are Romanian now. Okay, we are Yugoslavian now. Okay, we are Hungarian…I guess. Can I still speak German at home? Yes? Fine then…back to my plough and the grapes in my backyard.’

Apparently there was an attempt to create a ‘Banat Republic’ ,(look that up on Wikipedia if you like too), in 1918 but it didn’t last long. They didn’t have a big voice in the grand scheme of things.

Let’s be quite clear, when Hitler invaded Eastern Europe , the ‘Volksdeutsche’ as the Nazis called them, (ethnic Germans) received preferential treatment over other ethnic groups from the occupying German army.  There was Nazi propaganda, youth groups, etc. in the villages.   The ‘Volksdeutsche’ were a part of Hitler’s plan. They were to be his ‘fifth column’, particularly instrumental in overcoming the Czechs, Serbs and other Slavic peoples.

Some folks were taken with this and likely hadn’t cared for other ethnicities anyway. Some folks didn’t much care for the Nazi propaganda and interference in their daily lives. Yet if they said something they got their business ruined, were sent to jail, or far worse.

I think at this point it’s important to recall that this is before the day of iphones, computers, social media and television. This is before our convenient contemporary, history class, wiser-in- hindsight, people-were-just-all-horrible-back-then, era. There weren’t many options as far as news sources with different slants or biases were concerned.

There was no #sickofNazis hashtag. The systematic torture and murder of Jewish, homosexual, gypsy, and politically uncooperative people in concentration camps like Auschwitz was not fully understood by your average Josef living in Farmingville, Yugoslavia.

Almost like, the atrocities being carried out in and suffered by folks in places in Syria, aren’t fully appreciated by your average Joe living in Farmingville, Iowa. But Joe has a life and job to get on with. And lucky Joe, he doesn’t have soldiers with guns telling him to look the other way if he doesn’t care for what’s happening.

So, back to Josef in earlier 1940s, Banat. He did not know that one day, people would be reading detailed accounts, watching films and documentaries based on the disenfranchisement, starvation, torture and murder of an estimated six million people, Most of them Jews, also including Gypsies, Slavs, Poles, homosexuals and any who were politically uncooperative with the Nazis.

Josef, being a human being and all would have likely felt the same disgust and repulsion at the actual accounts of genocide.   If you can sit and read accounts of ethnic cleansing, the rapes and torture, children being hit in the head with rifle butts for crying for their parents, without feeling sick then there is something wrong with you.

Yet these things continued to happen in Europe AFTER the war. AFTER the Allies got together to decide how to fix the devastated continent.   AFTER the Nuremberg Trials intended to bring justice to victims of the Nazi’s abhorrent actions.  AFTER the Potsdam Agreement intended to re-organise borders, ethnic communities and nation’s standings.

Josef also didn’t ‘get’ that not many people outside the German speaking world, unless they were distant descendants of his father’s daughter in law, would know about what happened to over three million ethnic Germans after WWII, who had been living in Eastern Europe for generations.

He may or may not have known about the SS Prinz Eugen Regiment, made up of mainly Banat Germans, many of whom after the war were found to have been guilty of atrocities against civilians.

There is no clever one sided way to refer to war crimes. They are what they are. A stain. A shame. A trauma. A scar. A source of rot in our earthly condition.

He may have eventually been forcibly recruited by the German Army despite never having lived in Germany and being a citizen of Yugoslavia. Before all this war business started, Josef just wanted to get on with his farming, baking, cabinet or wine making.

He wanted to feed his family, kiss his wife, go to the pub, go to church, etc. etc. Maybe Josef’s neighbour was a particularly Anti-Semitic, racist jerk who thought all this ‘Aryan’s, aren’t we wonderful? Isn’t our culture superior to all others and aren’t we a perfect example of that?’ business was great.

If Joseph could have tweeted, perhaps he would have said #tellmewhenitsover. #neighborfromhell.

And Josef didn’t know why the Jewish shop keeper down the street had ‘mysteriously disappeared and his bastard of a neighbour now had some of the Jewish man’s possessions. Yet Josef couldn’t tweet. #thatsnotmystuff #Naziassholes

No, Josef couldn’t tweet then. Neither can most folks nowadays, living in warzones, in places occupied by ideological zealots, ever in danger of being ruthlessly bombed by ‘the enemy’.

I’ve read about a lot of Josefs. And Magdalenas. And Elisabeths. And Walters. If Josef lived in Romania perhaps he had the option of joining the Romanian military. As an ethnic German living in Yugoslavia, he likely did have to fight for Hitler’s Reich on the Eastern Front, whether he liked it or not.

Josef probably died doing so.

Or, if he didn’t, maybe he returned home to his home village in the Banat, to be with his family, imagining that life would carry on as normal after the war. The Allies had won, the German soldiers were leaving so all this business wasn’t Josef’s problem anymore.

No, surely… it wasn’t his problem anymore. And why did the fellow who ran the Nazi ‘Volksgruppe’ activities in his village suddenly decide to move to Argentina anyway? #weird

Well, Josef’s village in Yugoslavia was taken over by Russia’s Red Army, and eventually Tito’s communist partisans. Josef, alongside his racist neighbour, and other ethnic German male villagers were forcibly marched to the middle of a field where they all dug a huge ditch. They were told to strip and get in the ditch.

Josef’s story ends there. His wife’s, children’s and parents’ doesn’t though.

Josef’s wife was sent into forced labour, to work in conditions where she would be lucky to survive.   Josef’s young children perhaps died of malnutrition in an internment camp alongside their grandparents.

Because, they had to pay for what the Nazis did.

Maybe they got lucky. Maybe they made a break for it, got over the border into Hungary, eventually into Austria where there were overflowing displaced person’s camps. Perhaps even to Germany, where there were also, displaced person’s camps.  Germany and Austria were so devastated by the the war, they didn’t have much room or time for Josef’s starving, destitute wife, elderly parents or wailing, traumatised children.

Maybe they eventually were successful in emigrating to America, Canada or Australia, where they could live, work, go to school, eat real food, drink clean water. All whilst not living in a messed up warzone, forced to subscribe to a hateful ideology lest they face violence and hate themselves.

Despite the fact that they never subscribed to the ideology. Or that they were eight. Or eighty and hard of hearing.   Or that they were like Josef and thought this whole thing is gonna blow over, and life is going to go back to normal. It’s just another damn war played out by the big boys, I don’t like it but it’s all gonna be okay eventually.

Josef was so sadly wrong.

Life did not go back to normal.

Today, there aren’t many ‘Josefs’ living in what were once, bustling communities in Eastern Europe. There are a few Romanian or Serbian folks there, but his family is long gone.

Graveyards are decaying, unkempt, even vandalised in certain parts of the Banat. Because there are no descendants of the sleeping ones left to keep them up.

Mass graves lay beneath serene fields, some with men guilty of cooperating with German occupying forces. Some filled with Josefs, who didn’t care for the whole thing and expected it all to blow over. Some filled with normal, non-military people, or with children and old people who perished of disease or starvation.

Or they are filled with people who were beaten and tortured to death for being ‘German bastards’ .

It’s difficult, you know…writing a story about a culture which doesn’t properly exist anymore in the place of its origin. Its people are scattered in different parts of the world. The folks who lived there in harmony pre Hitler have since passed on.

It’s hard to piece together the normal, daily lives of these Danube Swabians.

Because some man with delusions of grandeur and ideas of racial supremacy started exploiting and manipulating an economic and political climate.

You’ve been to history class, you’ve watched films and documentaries….you know the evil and vile acts on a mass scale that ensued.  And no, to compare the genocide of the Holocaust with that of the ethnic Germans in Eastern Europe is not helpful.   Because, as far as numbers go and the systemised organisation of it all, it’s quite ignorant to say that one was on the same scale as the other.

They were connected. The first was a concocted plan of ethnic cleansing, ridding the supposedly glorious German world of what the Nazi’s thought was dirty blood and disloyal people. The second was a result of the acceptance of collective guilt, reparations, and removing ‘enemies of the state’ from countries previously oppressed by Nazi occupiers.   Revenge killings and rapes abounded.   They both involved large numbers (though not comparably so) of innocent civilians. Children, women and the elderly.

One time, when I searched up the term coined by Nazis, ‘Volksdeutsche’ I found a rather upsetting blog of a person trying to say that the Holocaust wasn’t real, but the genocide of ethnic Germans was.

What a load of vile, unhelpful nonsense.

I’ve read about Germans in the Reich and ethnic Germans in Eastern Europe giving bread to starving Jewish children, unable to accept that this was somehow okay.

I’ve read about Romanian, Hungarian people assisting and aiding the ethnic Germans, after the war.  At great personal risk to themselves.  Despite many of their fellow citizens insisting on the collective guilt of all Germans.

I’ve read about a German who stepped in to stop the Nazis executing Serbian men in his village.

I’ve read about Russian military officials stepping in to prevent unnecessarily harsh treatment of prisoners by local partisans.

Granted, we need to understand the horrors, much as we need to see that despite so much evil, there is still good in the world….

Perhaps you didn’t know about ‘Josef’.  I certainly didn’t until I began this research.

My mother’s Danube Swabian family left Europe to homestead in America in the early 1900s, the story of the Danube Swabians and what happened to them after WWII gets to me in a very personal way.

It has been difficult to portray not only a bygone era, but to picture the world and environment of my characters that existed before WWI.   There is a layer of horror in between that era and the one in which I live.

I started out imagining these charming Old World villages in my contemporary, comfy Anglo-American mind. A green, fertile land where love, amongst varying other agricultural goods could grow and blossom.   The Banat, the ‘Bread Basket’ of Europe. *

The land where half of my ancestors lived and loved for generations.

Then I had to talk to folks, I had to read, I had to sift through other eras. I had to find out about the mass graves.   I haven’t been able, in any good conscience, to gloss over them and pretend they didn’t happen.  I haven’t, in my Anglo-American raised conscience been able to think ‘yeah, well they deserved it.’ At no point have I thought ‘oh gee, this sort of thing has ONLY happened to an ethnic group I am connected to…no one else.  How unjust.’

No.  I’m fully aware that our human history is riddled with atrocities and sickening crimes, in every corner of our world.

I have no tolerance for zealotry in any form.   Digesting the knowledge of other people’s nightmares has made me feel sick at times.

But I’m still writing a love story.   Love and compassion are forces far more powerful than opportunism, greed, bigotry and cruelty. I shall continue to believe that.

I am lucky. There is no soldier with a gun telling me what to believe, there is no mad man powerful enough to enforce his ideology upon myself and my community.   My heart and intellect are free.

There are still many people in the world who are not so fortunate. They live in a place, where love and tolerance, kindness and compassion do not come easy.   They live in a place, where to subscribe to a most vile mind-set and course of action is a constant temptation.

If you are interested in learning more about the events in Eastern Europe after World War II involving ethnic Germans, here is a suggested reading list.

Alfred DeZayas’: A Terrible Revenge

Ali Botien-Furrevig: Last Waltz on the Danube the Ethnic German Genocide in History and Memory 1944-1948

Nick Tullius: My Journey from the Banat to Canada

Katherine Hoeger Flotz: A Pebble in My Shoe

Elizabeth B. Walter: Barefoot in the Rubble

Raymond Lohne: The Great Chicago Refugee Rescue

Dr. J. Steigerwald: Reflections of the Danube Swabians in America.

From the Banat to North Dakota: David Dreyer and Josette S. Hatter

Herta Muller: The Hunger Angel

(note: Herta Muller is a Romanian born German, Nobel Prize winning novelist, whose work is criticized by some as representing Danube Swabian communities in a negative light. Personally I think her poetic descriptions of ugliness, starvation and cruelty still have a place in examining life during this time.)

The DVHH website (DanubeSwabian Village Helping Hands site is a page dedicated to the preservation of Danube Swabian history and culture).

 

*There were large communities of ethnic Germans living in regions of what is today Russia, Poland,   Czech Republic, Hungary, Romania and Serbia. The ‘Danube Swabians’ lived mainly in what is today Hungary, Romania and Serbia.   They had lived there for generations, likely at the time of the Second World War, had no ties to Germany save for a common language (albeit varying dialects), and similarities in culture and ethnicity.

*The territory of the Banat was re-claimed by the Hapsburgs from the Ottoman Turks after years and years of battles and shifting boundaries. It would perhaps fair to say that this was a war torn place when the Danube Swabians arrived, invited by the Hapsburgs from other German speaking regions of Europe.