Terri Wallace's Blog, page 5

The Thing About Asking

Maybe the hardest part of writing isn’t story ideas, or characters, or even finding time to write (although, to be honest, that kind be pretty rough).  No, the hardest part is asking for things–asking for people to believe in your idea, to take a risk on your talent, to believe in you, and to spend their hard-earned money to do it.

Earlier this year, right about the time of the Big Scary Health Scare, I had an idea for a story.  Of course, it sounded insane.  It had a Southern Gothic feel, with some romance woven in, and, of course, some strange timey-wimey bits.

The story kept sneaking up on me.  When I woke up it was there.  Bits of dialogue came to me when I was driving to and from work.  The characters interrupted me when I was trying to shower.  And then the story revealed its title:  The Gravekeeper’s Wife.

The Gravekeeper’s Wife

Ifrinn!  When a story did that, when it told me its name, it was a sure sign that it wasn’t going to let up until I got it down on paper.  So slowly, a bit reluctantly, I started.

People don’t visit graves like the used to.  Used to be that people’d come to pay their respects after church, maybe, or on holidays and anniversaries–and Decoration Day, of course.  Now, though, they don’t bother much.  Except, of course, when they want to make sure that the dead stay buried.

Then, the characters started getting really chatty.  And I realized that I really, really wanted to focus on it.  But I couldn’t, because all of those doctors who were so kind as to keep my beloved husband alive now wanted to be paid for their efforts.  And, unfortunately, the “pay the bills” work leaves no time or energy for the “sustains my soul” work (namely the blogging, and the world building, and the stories).

Something has to give.

This is where the whole “asking” thing comes in.  If you enjoy this blog, or talking with me about Outlander, or liked “The Collector,” or want to find out more about “The Gravekeeper’s Wife,” you can find out how to support these things over at my Patreon page.  There will also be plenty of free things over there as well (because sometimes the only help you can afford to give is a kind word or a virtual hug–and I happily accept those, too)!

Image Attribution.

After #Outlander

With Outlander now on hiatus, there are hours to fill. Long, hot, Oklahoma-summery hours. With hours and hours without school to help occupy the children.

So. Much. Time.

Yes, yes, I know there are always 24 hours in a day, but there is something about the heat that makes the days drag. Some days it seems that all I do is make the sweaty commutes to and from work…and try to convince my children that cleaning their rooms is a good way to alleviate boredom. (No, they never, ever believe me—but I try.)

This year, however, I was inspired. Inspired (as in so many things) by reading Outlander. Inspired, also, by the fact that Hubs survived The Widow Maker.

As a result, I wanted this summer to be Something More. I wanted it to be Memorable.

So, I planted more flowers than usual…

Purple Cone Flower

…and more vegetables.

(Peas, tomatoes, string beans, black beans, jalapenos, leeks, and onions.)

…and more fruit. (I planted a crabapple tree, two apple trees, a raspberry bush, a blueberry bush, two blackberry bushes, and two elderberry bushes. We added a second grape vine (with plans to add two more).

Apples!

And I planted plenty of herbs (five varieties of lavender, three varieties of rosemary, curry, two kinds of sage, four kinds of thyme, cilantro, parsley, horehound, ten kinds of mint, dill, three kinds of oregano, three kinds of basil, a couple of stevia plants, tarragon, chives, bergamot, wild ginger, ginseng, chamomile, calendula, lemon verbena, lemon grass…I know I am forgetting something…)

We like mint, don’t judge.

And I planted flowers. Lots of flowers.

Borage

Lots of purple flowers.

Chamomile and more purple flowers.

And, last weekend…

(insert drumroll here!)…

Cluck!

…we added four chickens to our bramble of a backyard.* Three Buff Orpingtons and one Bar Rock. (I am looking to add a couple of more asap, because apparently there is a thing called “chicken math” where you plan to get three chickens, come home with four, and immediately add two more. Fortunately I am much better at this “chicken math” than “new math.”)

I spent Friday night putting together the coop while Hubs was at work (I might have forgotten to tell him that I was finally going through with all this! Oops! Surprise, honey!).

Coop in the daylight.

My dad was kind enough to help put together the coop. As daylight gave way to dusk, we kept hammering and piecing things together. It felt good…and productive…so nice for something to make sense again. Before long, we were building by moonlight. I broke the silence to ask my dad if a chicken coop built in the moonlight was somehow lucky. (After the stress and drama of this year, I will take my luck where I can find it.) I could hear the smile in his voice when he answered, “Yes. You’ll be lucky if this coop stays together.”

I laughed like I hadn’t laughed in ages. And it felt good.

It had been a while since I laughed. Laughing felt like tempting fate. I didn’t want to mess with her…she was a bitch! So I had stayed quiet. I had kept my head down. I didn’t want to look too far ahead.

When Hubs was in the hospital, the books were my refuge. I read them, and re-read them. They were my touchstone. They reminded me that True Love was hard and scary…but that it was worth fighting for, worth sacrificing for, and that gave me hope.

I read about the potatoes in Jenny’s root cellar, and I read about Claire’s garden and her wee herbs. I had always loved herbs. As a teen, my room was filled with books about herbs and their uses. I saved money to buy herbs…much like a “normal” teenage girl might buy clothes.

But somewhere along the way, there was not enough time, or space, or money, or…something. Somewhere along the way, I let it slip away from me. Reading the books reminded me of how many things that I loved and let go. And when Hubs had his heart attack, it reminded me that life was too damned short and unpredictable to put things off.

So I bought chickens. Because, I gotta tell you, chickens are friggin’ cute.

We named them all after Scottish clans…one *might* be named Fraser.

Yes, I bought chickens. And I planted herbs, and vegetables, and fruit. I started to study Gaelic, and I researched my genealogy, and I listened to bagpipe music while I watered the plants.

So while Outlander is on hiatus, I will not fret over Droughtlander or obsess about every snippet of series information that ripples across the internet (although I really AM looking forward to seeing Season 2!).

Instead, I will enjoy my summer…the summer that Outlander inspired.

Sláinte mhath.

* Yes, I know that Jamie said that “Chickens make verra poor company.” But he and I do not agree on everything. For example, I am in the “Claire camp” when it comes to neck kisses. Just sayin.’

You Don’t Have to Choose #Outlander

After getting Jamie and Claire safely on the ship to France, I purposefully avoided social media for a few days.  I wanted to let the hoopla die down.  I didn’t want to hear the inevitable bitchfest that would most certainly ensue.  Of course, people are entitled to their own opinions, I don’t mean that.  I just was not up for all of the comparisons ad nauseam.  I wasn’t ready to face all of the They Should Haves and How Could Theys and But They Left Outs. 

Diana Gabaldon encouraged readers to “Put Down the Book”…I really wish more readers had heeded her words.  Because, let’s face it, the woman’s a smart cookie.

*sigh* 

Of course a book and a televisions series are entirely different mediums.  Television shows are restricted by budgets, time constraints, and, well, more limitations that I am qualified to itemize.  Books are only confined by the reader’s imagination.  But both mediums have a place, both serve a purpose and, dammit, both deserve some respect.

I view the books and the show as two distinct but related things. You  know, kinda like my kiddos.

My oldest likes manga and All Things Japanese and is a night owl.  She loves to read and is messy and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about fashion.  I kinda love that about her.

My mid-kid spends hours picking out clothes.  She likes to garden and to cook (no idea where she gets that *blinks innocently*) and to adopt stray animals.  She also rolls her eyes a lot, and her sarcasm can wilt a soul.

My son eats and breathes sports.  He rises with the sun in the morning, makes the sign of the cross whenever he hears sirens in the distance.  He also thoughtfully informs me when he feels “hug deficient.”  He melts my heart.

And just as I try not to compare the My People but instead love them for who they are, that is also what I try to do with the books.  I can love how, in the show, Claire’s pregnancy is revealed by her increasingly queasy stomach in times of stress.  (My non-OL-book-reading husband even noted that Claire was starting to puke with alarming regularity.)  But I can also love that in the book the quiet revelation of hope and new life is found in the warm, life giving waters under the abbey.  I don’t have to choose…just like I don’t have to pick a favorite child.

The television show is not a “bastardization” of the books.  The changes they make take nothing away from the books.  You can enjoy both.  You don’t get your Outlander Fan card taken away if you can’t angrily recite every deviation from the books.  Honest.

It makes me a happier fan when I allow the books and the television show to work in the way that they can…then I can sit back and better enjoy the distinctions instead of itemizing them for an angry post mortem.  Good Lord, if all I did all day was try to hyper-analyze the differences I (and those around me) would be miserable!

Life is too short to waste time in a hate-filled Book Versus Television Deconstruction.  There are too many Really Important Things In Life to get riled up about.  So, for me at least, I will treat the show and the books as I would my children.  I will watch proudly as they find their footing, as they grow and evolve.  I will proudly tell others of their exploits.  But I will not compare them or try to make them into clones of one another.

Wentworth: The Aftermath (#Outlander)

SPOILERY/ TRIGGERY/FEELS WARNING

If Wentworth was hell on earth, then the aftermath was a Dark Night of the Soul.  I re-re-re-re-read Outlander recently in preparation (not because I am an obsessive fan *ahem*), and I was struck again by just how far Jamie fell into the abyss.

Jamie expected to die after Wentworth.  The idea that the torture could not last forever, that it would end after a finite time, made it bearable.  Having lived, Jamie seemed at a loss as to how to piece himself–body and soul–back together.  But, more to the point, did he even want to?

His self-loathing, guilt, and feelings of emasculation threaten to overpower him.  Devout Catholic that he is, he can’t bring himself to put blade to wrist, but he is dying a slow death nonetheless and doing nothing to prevent it.

The Jesuit priest and poet Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote the “dark sonnets” (also called the “terrible” sonnets, but I’m pretty sure this was not a reflection on his talent) about his own Dark Night of the Soul.  And every time I get to “To Ransom a Man’s Soul” in Outlander, remember the lines from Hopkins’ poem “Carrion Comfort”…

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;

Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man

In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;

Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

I remember my college professor explaining that “carrion” was dead, decaying animal flesh.  *shudder*  By the time Jamie made it to the abbey, his own wounds were not much better than decaying flesh.  Beaten, battered, and broken he may have been, but at least there was still something…someone…tethering him to this earth.

For one heartbreaking moment, Jamie nearly let go…of life, of hope, of Claire.  He tried to send her away.  He tried to cut the fragile cord that bound him.  If Claire went back to her time, there was nothing left to keep him here.

Fortunately, Claire was having none of that.  Rather than beg, or plead, or cry, Claire resorted to the only thing that might possibly rouse a Scotsman from his own coffin…a fight.  By calling forth Jamie’s warrior soul, she helps him reclaim something.  Rather than allowing Jamie to wallow in despair–to “feast” on carrion–Claire sets a stage eerily reminiscent of Wentworth, and she summons the very demons he hopes to escape in death.

When faced with an opponent that he could face, rather than one buried in his memories, Jamie lashes out and fights the fight that honor would not allow to back in the prison.

Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man 

In me…

And in the opium thick room, the scent of lavender clawing at his stomach, Jamie reclaims his life.  He may have bargained his body to Black Jack Randall, but damn if he would let him claim his soul, too.

I can…

can something…hope?

Wish day come?

                                  Not choose not “to be.”

Jamie made a choice.  A choice to continue.  A choice to fight the demons that come in the night rather than join them in the darkness.  To fight for love…for life…for a future.

Wentworth undoubtedly had an aftermath, but it wasn’t a new inventory of scars or a legacy of shame.  The aftermath of Wentworth was rebirth.  The rebirth of Jamie as a man who makes the choice to go forward.

I have been amazed and humbled the past week at how many readers and viewers of Outlander have been generous enough to share the stories of their own personal Wentworth…who have talked about their own assaults and the aftermath.

This week I have seen a lot of articles about rape on television, and a few have talked about the Wentworth episode being mere sensationalism.  But it is more than that.  It is more than something that happened to a fictional character.  It is a starting point—a point where those who have experienced their own version of Wentworth can talk about it, a point where the rape of a man can be viewed for what it really is–an assault rather than an emasculation–a point where the shackles of unearned guilt can be shed.

For those who still cry, “I can no more!”…please know that you can.  

To join the fight against sexual violence, go to Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network

Wentworth: The Burden of Knowing (#Outlander)

I have heard the fearful rumblings.  Some will choose to not watch Saturday’s episode, and that is certainly their prerogative.  (Trust me, I get trigger warnings.  Do what you gotta do!  No judging here.)  But I will be watching.  I won’t hide behind a pillow.  I won’t be live-tweeting.  I.  Will.  Watch.  (Admittedly, there may be a dram or two at hand. And Kleenex…plenty of Kleenex.)

Before I go any further, in leiu of a proper “Trigger Warning Font,” please allow me to just switch to my big, red warning font:

TRIGGER WARNINGS AND SPOILERS WILL FOLLOW. 
 
DINNA SAE YE WERE NAE WARNED.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way…

Saturday means Wentworth.  It means sacrifice.  It means Curl-Into-The-Fetal-Position-While-Still-Trying-To-Keep-The-Whisky-Flowing.  But it also means a turning point.  Up until Wentworth, Jamie fought tooth and nail to protect Claire (despite the fact she had an annoying 20th century habit of wandering off, speaking her mind, and generally causing mayhem).  But at Wentworth, Jamie protects Claire by NOT fighting.  Well, at least not in the normal sense of the word.

In order to see Claire safely delivered from Wentworth prison and the clutches of Black Jack Randall, Jamie agrees to allow BJR take free liberty with his body.  Jamie agrees not to resist.  He pledges to accept whatever Black Jack wants of him—no matter how painful, or degrading, or horrific.  Jamie agrees to it, because his body is the only thing he is in a position to bargain.  He agrees to it, because no price is too great to protect the woman he loves.  (Excuse me while I swoon a little…nevermind, it was just the whisky.)

And Jamie is true to his word.  Jamie does not resist…but that doesn’t mean he didn’t fight.  Jamie—so strong, so proud—he most certainly fought.  He fought himself.  He fought every survival instinct that told him to Make. It. Stop.  Jamie fought his own humiliation, and disgust, and fear, and pain, and arousal, and shame.  Yes, there was a struggle going on; for a while, Jamie sure beat the hell out of himself.

Certainly at the abbey, Claire was left with a broken man.  Go back, he said.  Just let me die, he said.  Definitely not the Jamie we are used to.  But then, he had planned on dying in Wentworth.  And, to be honest, that which he could hope to erase in death was simply more than he was equipped to live with when he finds himself very much alive.  Jamie admits as much to Claire.

But how do you give someone back their pride, their dignity?  Jamie couldn’t fight for Claire at Wentworth—he had given his word and he meant to keep it.  But Claire could help him fight the lingering demons.  And, when finally relieved of his vow, fight he did.  Jamie awoke the next day to a wrecked room, a naked wife, and only fragmented memories of the battle that they had waged together.

One of my other posts garnered some comments about Outlander being awfully “rape-y.”

Rape also happens a lot in Outlander…because, well, rape happens a lot.  Period.  Claire does not escape this harsh reality.  When Jamie comes with Young Ian, Roger, and the men of Fraser’s Ridge, the drums echoing in the darkness*, he is faced with a very battered and abused woman.  The first time I read that book, I wept.  And not pretty, lady-like crying, no.  I cried that “Swollen-Eyes-Runny-Nose-Can’t-Breathe-Just-Pass-The-Damned-Kleenex” kind of crying.  Jamie was ferocious in his attack on her assailants, unspeakably gentle in his ministrations to Claire, and clear minded about the possible repurcussions of her rape, say, oh, nine months hence.  What threw me at first, though, was what he thought to himself when Claire very, erm, aggressively commenced their their first Post-Rape Consummation.

She fought then, that’s good.  (Or words to that effect.)

At first, it rubbed me the wrong way–as if fighting were something she owed him.  But then I realized that Jamie, of all people, would understand better than that.  He knew that fighting was something she needed.  She needed to fight…to fight through the anger, helplessness, and humiliation.  Just as he had demons to fight, so did Claire.  And she screamed and clawed and raged…just as he had.  And he let her…just has she had.

Brianna, ever her parent’s daughter, also did not escape the 17th century unscathed and, like them, she struggled with it.  Jamie watched her brooding over whether she might have somehow fought off the attack.  Instead of trying to sooth her with soft words and reassurances; however, he provokes her, riles up here anger, and shows her just how futile her fists would have been; in doing so, he assuages her guilt in a way that no mere words could have done.

He also helped Brianna to forgive–and not just herself.  Jamie confides in her that forgiveness is a choice he makes every day.  Every day.  Over twenty years have passed, and he still has to face the past and make the choice.  The Choice.  He did not “reach a place where he could forgive” or “learn to forgive.”  Jamie chose to forgive.  And, in choosing, he takes back some of the power he handed over on a dark night, at a place called Wentworth.

No, the struggle didn’t end when he was freed from Wentworth, nor when Claire made him face his demons at the abbey.  The struggle didn’t end.

The struggle didn’t end for Claire once the bruises faded.  The struggle didn’t end for Brianna just because she tried to hide what had happened.  And Jamie knows this all too well…he shares the burden of knowledge.

And while the Wentworth will be painful to watch…it is honest: things that happen to us (and yes, sometimes things that we allow to happen to us) aren’t resolved neatly at the end of an hour.

Having read the books, I know what will happen.  I also know how Jamie’s decision at Wentworth echoes through the rest of the books.  While perhaps not quite so deep and festering after a time, the choice does leave a very prominent scar—less visible than those he bears on his back, of course, but a scar nonetheless.

So I will try to face Wentworth with the same unflinching resolve as Jamie did…and I will fight off the specters afterwards.

*Fan girl admission: this bit is one of my favorites.  The description of the bodhrán gives me goosebumps.  Seriously.  Every Time.

Moving Forward/Looking Back

The past three months have been…trying.  Hospitals, urgent care, heart attack (Hubs), collapsing at work/wonky heart rhythm (me), strep throat on Mother’s Day (mid-kid), flooding front yard (thanks, Oklahoma weather), exploding light fixtures (no, dear husband, the house is NOT cursed), and a pile of medical bills high enough to serve as a decent sized step ladder.  Yep…let’s go with “trying.”

For a few days there, I seriously felt like I had been attacked by Dementors…or like my mojo went MIA.  I felt more than a little lost.  I am normally not That Person.  I tend to be pukingly positive, annoying optimistic, certifiably content…well, you get the idea.  But, for a bit, I wasn’t.  I felt rather…stuck…like I couldn’t quite get the energy to move forward.  Because, to be honest, forward was scary.  Forward was Unknown.  It might well hold more medical maladies, and it would certainly contain more bills and less money.  Never a good combination.  So, I sought refuge where I could.

I worked in the garden whenever weather allowed.  (For those keeping track, we have about twenty tomatoes and many more flowering, the peas are also blossoming—my daughter forbid me from saying that “the peas are pea-ing”—and the herbs are all growing like crazy.)  And when the rain was too heavy, the soil too sodden, I read.

I found an amazing site called Better World Books that has really inexpensive used books, and which makes donations to literacy programs when you make a purchase.  I found some books on Scottish history.  These books supplemented my obsessive Outlander re-re-re-re-reading.

I also randomly Googled my great-grandmother’s surname.  When I first got into genealogy, there was no internet (I know, I know, THIS is how old I really am!), and I could research other branches of my ancestry easier, so the lineage that I was most interested in was woefully neglected.  Now, though, INTERNET MAGIC happened.  I found ALL of the information!  Needless to say, there was much frantic printing, downloading, pdf-ing, and obsessive reading.

The Ulster Scot connection that I had heard of was suddenly explained, with extensive footnotes and hyperlinks, God bless them!  I read about Clan MacDonald of Dunnyveg and Antrim, and Clann Dhomhnuill, and Aonghas Mór MacDomhnaill.  I turned page after page and went back further and further.

“Always Ready”

According to all accounts, my ancestors were cunning, and strong, and willful.  Right about now, I thought, I could use a bit of strength and strong fill.  Not sure about the cunning thing, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing, right?  Intrigued, I read on.

A fair few of them ended up hanged, and exiled, and martyred.  Sign of the times and all.  A pile of medical bills seemed like fair trade for not being drawn and quartered for some imagined offense.

I have always been drawn to All Things Scottish (no, not just the whisky).  I have a theory that it comes from ancestral memory passed down through DNA.  I read an article earlier this week about how phobias might be “inherited” from our ancestors. Some of the things I discovered in the historical documents definitely strengthened my musings that perhaps these things that I am drawn to have a familial/historical connection.

My foray into the past has also made me feel…steadier.  Revisiting my roots has made me feel more grounded, stronger, more certain.  If I come from a people who can survive all of THAT, what the hell am I fussing about this?

Looking back, I can see that it is time to move forward.

Rare Medieval Name Tags

gingerlovinmind:

The past several weeks, I have been haunted by the idea of Legacy. I stumbled across this today and read it as I waited for the school bus to collect my own children.

Five hundred years later, these children are remembered; their names still fresh on my lips, this brings me some peace.

Pax.

Originally posted on :

A word of warning: this post may��make you want to weep. Last week I blogged about��tiny pieces��of parchment, paper��birch bark, and��wood that were filled with short messages from��individuals in��Antiquity and the Middle Ages (check out Texting in Medieval Times). The snippets����� from a soldier���s request for more beer��to a duke���s shopping list �����were made cheaply and with little care because the messages on them��were not meant to be kept long. Although such��ephemeral material doesn���t normally��survive, it forms an��important��historical source: it��provides a rare��glimpse on��everyday life in��medieval��times.

Fig. 1 ��� Erfgoed Leiden, HGW, Archiefnummer 519, Inv. nr. 3384 (15th century) ��� Photo EK

More than in any other medieval document I have seen, such an intimate view��of medieval��life��is provided by a type of written object��I encountered for the first time this week (Fig. 1). When visiting the restoration lab at the regional archives in Leiden (Erfgoed Leiden en omstreken)���

The Thing About Dying…

The thing about almost dying is that it makes you very, very aware of living. Not necessarily the Big Things, like how will your family fare in your absence or the state of your soul, although those thoughts are likely present as well, but the little thing…things that are often of no consequence to anyone but yourself, perhaps something that never seemed particularly noteworthy before.�� The little things are the things that haunt.

My husband told me that he realized just how serious things were when the emergency personnel started cutting off his clothing. His first flash of thought…before the fear of life and death and pain and That Which Comes Afterwards…was just this: What if I never get to smell her hair again?�� Weeks later, when finally he shared this, my own raw emotions broke free (although I admit that I did ask him what my hair smells like…apparently it is smells like sunshine and rosemary and “kind of perfumey”).�� Other fears came later: job and bills and money and The Future. But for a moment, all that mattered was the familiar warmth of comfort of a beloved.

In the weeks after That Day, spring awakened and the view of the ridge behind our house took on new life. Something seemed to stir in my husband, too. He watched the bulbs I had planted break through the earth, and he asked eagerly when we could plant our garden.�� Per doctors’ orders, the digging and planting would have to fall to me this year. Despite my exhaustion, each day ended with a few more seeds tucked into the earth like an offering.

The daffodils and hyacinth bloomed and faded. The grape vines leafed out. The lavender seemed to resurrect itself from the gray dormancy of winter.�� The tomatoes and peppers sought the warmth of sun, as did the peas and black bean bush. ����The berry bushes flowered and the herbs trailed and twined and stretched skyward. My spirits also grew as my husband walked the gardens each night to point out the minute changes that had never before caught his notice.

He became engrossed with living and what comes from a life well-lived. These things we grew, they had purpose, they offered something back…he worried that his life did no such thing. This man, long since sworn to protect and serve, worried that his life was not Enough. My heart broke.�� When I tried to console him, he told me that I couldn’t understand, that I already knew that I was leaving something behind, that my words were my legacy.�� But, even as he said it, these words that he spoke of, these words that I love, that I try to shape and craft–they seemed so inadequate. How could I not find the words to give him to ease his mind and settle his soul?�� What kind of writer was I?�� What kind of wife was I?

Our walks around the garden have been hampered by the seemingly unceasing rain.�� The pattering of rain from the gutters and the sloshing of passing cars has replaced the low drone of tree frogs.�� The rain crows mock us in the still between the storms.����The��fog’s embrace soon becomes��stifling as our growing��restlessness cuts short our goodwill.

This morning, desperate, I took to the garden in the early morning hours and rain be damned.�� Breathing came easier in the rain cooled air, but the words did not.�� I sat on the damp rocking chair and lulled myself into thoughtlessness.�� Closing my eyes, the baptism of rain continued.�� The rain has a purpose, I reminded myself before I finally rose to start the day.

Then the��words finally came.�� They are not my own, but I am unspeakably grateful for them:

Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you���re there. It doesn���t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that���s like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.

–Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)

Tonight, I will take him to the garden���rain or shine���and I will remind him of this truth too often forgotten.�� It doesn���t matter what you do,��so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that���s like you after you take your hands away.�� And I write it here, in case you need a reminder.

How Books Have Saved Me (a/k/a Outlander was my Targe)

You don’t get to choose when you stumble into love.�� If I could have, I might have chosen to wear something other than a bright blue mud mask although, in retrospect, I believe it might have brought out the blue in my eyes.�� Or at least that is what I��told myself to help assuage the mortification that was unique to��my overly-introspective seventeen-year-old-self.

Even with the blue mud mask, he still went home and told his mother that he met the woman he was going to marry.����I like to believe that this comment speaks more to��the romantic nature of my husband than for��any strange��mud-mask��fetish he may harbor.�� Yes,��he was a romantic soul, that one.�� Still is…just buried a bit deeper��now.�� Time does that.����Once the rosy haze of youth passes, the Real World starts to seep in.����Sweet nothings are replaced by To Do Lists, and��Date Night becomes something that happens��once a month rather than��quarter-monthly.�� Dirty diapers replace dirty talk.�� You find solace where you can.

I found solace in books and television.�� Whenever��Life sucker punched me (as the bitch is wont to do), I retreated into��fiction until I felt steady again.�� I can tell you exactly where I was in my life by what��sustained me.

During my “OMG I Have Three Toddlers and I Think They Stole My Soul” period, I found Harry Potter.�� Molly Weasley reminded me that it was okay to lose my cool, that I always wanted to learn to knit, and that friends are there to help.�� While I can still knit no more than a scarf, I have amassed a lovely collection of now Totally-Recognizable-As-Scarves knitwear, and also more than a few friends that also love the books.

While not a book, I will admit to binge watching all of Doctors 9 and 10 while my husband was away at CLEET training.�� While Hubs was away learning to be a cop, I (with a little help from the Doctor) taught my kids that nerdy glasses are cool and that libraries contain the best weapons of all.�� Books.�� Books are my weapon against fear, and doubt, and loneliness.

During Hub’s heart attack*, I used my battered��copy of Outlander as my shield…my targe.�� So it was no surprise when the odd bit of text floated up when I struggled with sleep.����“Don’t be afraid. There’s the��two of us now.”�� With this offering, I felt a sense of immediate panic.�� Because, perhaps for the first time, I realized–truly realized–that at some point it was very likely that��there would NOT be two of us.�� Life is scary like that.�� It is full of car wrecks, and tornadoes, and accidents and, yes, heart attacks.�� The thought took my breath away.�� The idea of being without him was terrifying.�� Alone had never felt so, well…alone.�� I wanted to wake up Hubs, to convince��myself that he was still here, still next to me, that there was still two of us.�� Maybe I would have, but he gave a small snore and saved me the trouble.

Still, I stayed awake.�� I listened to him breath and thought about the uncertainty of it all…a whole life built on a foundation of our mortality; quite an unsteadying thought. Yet he is the only foundation I’ve got.

I cannot slip through stones like in Outlander.�� But I can open the pages of a book and slip inside, just for a while.�� I can hide among the words until my world steadies, and my head clears.

* You can read more about Hub’s heart attack here.�� If you want to help, you can find out how here.

The Ghost of Lady Geneva (a/k/a Rape in Outlander)

Sometimes books we love���characters we love���strike a nerve.�� Books tiptoe into territory that really should have a trigger warning (why has no one come up with a font called Trigger Warning that we could all easily identify?) ��Characters sometimes behave in ways that polarize readers.�� Books can divided and books can unite, and sometimes they do both at the same time.

Outlander is particularly good at doing this.

Yes.�� This is another Outlander post.�� Deal with it.

While Jamie Fraser is one of my favorite literary characters, there are times that I want nothing more than to throttle him.�� Normally I don���t feel conflicted as I am reading a story, but later���as my mind lingers on a scene while I am driving, or showering, or trying to tune out my children as they bicker–bits of a scene will float back up and I will re-examine it, turn it over, and prod at it.�� By now, I should know better than to prod things.�� Still, I prod. ��I am a prodder.

Earlier this week, there were some comments made on another one of my posts about the Lady Geneva kerfuffle.�� [SPOILER ALERT:�� If you don���t recognize the name Lady Geneva from the Outlander books, don���t read any further.�� You have been warned.]�� When I first read about the incident, I took it in stride.�� When I read, especially when I read the Outlander books, I have learned to try not to assume too much and to keep reading, because Diane Gabaldon has a way of making things Work Out.�� I trust her writing; I trust her story.

Anyway, back to Lady Geneva����� (If you have strong feelings about Lady Geneva, what transpired, or how Jamie behaved, go grab your copy of Voyager so we can talk.)

(THIS IS WHERE THE TRIGGER WARNING FONT WOULD SHOW UP, IF I HAD ONE���)

I have a lot of conflicting emotions about this scene.�� First, I was horribly angry with Lady Geneva for blackmailing Jamie into bedding her.�� I was also angry at Jamie for not finding a way out of it.�� I kept waiting for him to out-think her, to out-maneuver her scheming, but he didn���t.�� I was unspeakably disappointed.

As I read, though, I felt a bit sorry for Lady Geneva.�� Just a wee bit, mind you, because she had no say in her life.�� She was arranged to marry a much older man whom she didn���t love.�� Her first sexual experience was to be with someone for whom she felt no feelings or attraction.�� While this was not an uncommon occurrence in that day and time, for an independent spirited woman like Lady Geneva, it must have felt unbearable.�� So she tried to take back some measure of control���she tried to fashion the ���first time��� that she wished to have rather than the one allotted to her.�� In another context, this might have been strong, independent, perhaps even admirable.�� The problem is that by blackmailing Jamie to behave in the way she desired, she took away his control.

It was actually Jamie���s tenderness (albeit somewhat grudging) towards Lady Geneva that made me feel some measure of compassion towards her.

There was some tenderness for her youth, and pity at her situation. ��Rage at her manipulation of him, and fear at the magnitude of the crime he was about to commit.

Even though he thought her a ���wee bitch��� for threatening him and his family, he still tried to instill in her a recognition of her of value.�� I tried to teach her, to initiate her, to guide her.

���A man should pay tribute to your body,��� he said softly, raising each nipple with small circling touches.�� ���For you are beautiful, and that is your right.���

Ah, but here is where things get tricky����� (Feel free to go pour yourself a dram, if you like.�� I had to.)

Lady Geneva said, ���Stop it.����� She screamed, ���Take it out!����� Damn.�� That is pretty clear.�� By today���s standards (if this was not a scene in a beloved book) most women would consider that rape (remember: No means No!). ��Was Jamie���s behavior tantamount to rape?�� By 18th century standards, I���m not so sure.�� Certainly Lady Geneva didn���t consider it so.�� And, since she is the one involved, I think it is important to consider how she views the encounter.�� Well, it turns out, she is eager to get back on the horse (so to speak) and, a few pages later, she tells him, ���I love you, Alex.����� Hm.�� Okay.�� I���ll admit it.�� I am relieved.

Don���t get me wrong, I am not giving Jamie a pass.�� There is still the part of me that still feels like Jamie���s giving in to Lady Geneva���s demands somehow was a betrayal of me Claire.�� And it definitely was not one his finer moments.�� It wasn���t one of those Jamie Moments that you want to point out to your spouse or BFF and swoon over.�� But readers are a forgiving bunch, and they have a knack for making excuses for the characters they love.�� I wondered if I was guilty of this, too.�� This is what has been plaguing me.�� Was I making excuses for Jamie?

The thought rattled around my head for a while, when it finally bumped up against another thought.�� In my 42 years, I have heard time and time again that ���Rape is about control.����� Well, clearly Jamie lost his own self-control during the encounter, but was he trying to control Lady Geneva?�� Hm, well, considering he was the one being blackmailed, I don���t think so.�� Lady Geneva, however, did try to impose her own position of control over Jamie.�� He initially made it clear that he did not want to have sex with her.�� Does that make Lady���s Geneva���s forcing of Jamie to engage in sexual relations that he does not want tantamount to rape?*

Some believe that it is.�� Others, however, take it a step further.�� Not only do they condemn Lady Geneva for her actions, but they are quick to demand some form of punishment.�� Sure, what she did was reprehensible���seriously, blackmailing a man to bed you?�� Way to keep it classy Lady G.

I get the anger.�� But what I don���t get, and can���t condone, are some of the comments I have heard/seen that basically state that ���She got what she deserved.����� Hm.�� Well, true enough, Lady Geneva did ask Jamie to bed her.�� That, however, doesn���t seem to be their intent, however.�� Some think that Jamie should get a pass for forcing himself on her after she asked him to stop because she brought it on herself.�� Um, WTF? ��My 21st-century-self rankles at the idea of someone using a forced sexual act as a form of punishment.�� Rape = Punishment.�� It has to be said���especially with the increasingly common trend on social media for trolls to tell women who don���t agree with them that they deserve to be raped.�� *shudders*

Wentworth is far easier to talk about.�� Even though Jamie consented to the act, it is much easier to identify what happened to him as rape.�� Wentworth was brutal.�� Wentworth was degrading.�� Wentworth went beyond the bodily trauma.�� Wentworth was committed by that vile, damnable, broken, warped piece of shit Black Jack Randall**.�� Of course we can comfortably call it rape***.�� Rape was what happened to Jamie, not what he did.��

Holy, mother of����� Seriously?�� *sigh* Diana Gabaldon doesn���t make it easy for the reader.�� The characters are all too human.�� They are flawed and messy and piss me off and make me want to throw the damned book against the wall, and sometimes I do throw the book.�� But I have always picked it up again���because I have to know what happens.�� I have to see how it will all play out.

We don���t have to always like the characters. ��(Just as you don���t necessarily like your family���not you, Hubs.�� I totally love you.�� Please don���t ever have another heart attack.)�� For some readers, this scene was a deal breaker.�� Some threw the book and never picked it back up.�� But when you throw a book aside because you don���t agree with one moment, one act, one scene out of so, so many���you lose the chance to question yourself, and what you think you believe, and what you really think when you confront uncomfortable truths.

I don���t know that I have positively untangled all of my feelings about the Lady Geneva kerfuffle.�� Part of me still feels her ghost lingering in the books that follow.�� I think about her and want to shoo the thought away, but sometimes you have to acknowledge a ghost to give it peace and let it finally rest.�� And, honestly, she still haunts me.

*This is about the point where I want to give up and go pour myself another dram of Ardbeg.

**Just a reminder, I adore Tobias Menzies.

***Yes, I know that I didn’t cover ALL of the rapes in Outlander.