How Do You See The World?
This post is for a fan, who asked me this question. Along with several others, all of which were both unusual and insightful. In order to answer it, I’m going to go through her more specific questions first. Starting with: “[y]our writing reflects a non-conventional norm,” she says. “Does that make difficulties for you in your own life?
My writing is unconventional, because I am. Kisten and Ash (The Price of Desire and The Prince’s Slave, respectively) are both based on my husband. Which, to longtime readers of this blog, is no secret. Nor is it a secret that, in many respects, both books are somewhat autobiographical. They’re both fiction, yes; but they both, also, tell part of my own story. Specifically, the story of how I met my husband. In an attenuated sense, yes; he hasn’t, to the best of my knowledge, ever been in space. Nor do we currently live in a castle. But that’s not really the point; the emotions the characters feel, and their conflicts, the knowledge behind them–the knowledge necessary to craft them convincingly–comes from a real place.
As a writer, you have to–if you’re going to be successful, at least–write what you know. Alienation is a major theme in my books, because it’s a huge part of who I am. We all have baggage; I just choose to put my baggage into writing. Although, admittedly, some books are heavier with it than others. Which doesn’t mean, though, that each story is the same or that each narrative comes from the same part of my heart–or brain.
I wrote POD during a very difficult time in my life. I was bedridden and in danger of dying. A lot of the original manuscript, I wrote while in the hospital. Because, let me tell you, when you’re in the hospital for three months there’s not a lot to do. POD is definitely one of my darker books; in it, I was working out a lot of feelings about my biological family, my decision to leave my community of origin, and what that meant. My childhood was…not good, and years of abuse had left me with a lot of anger. Anger I thought I’d processed, and let go, until I started writing.
“Malignant narcissist” doesn’t really convey what I grew up with. I don’t blame the religion of my youth for my family’s mistakes; I blame them for twisting an otherwise simple and beautiful faith into something wretched. Into a justification for doing just about everything that can be done to another human being. I ran away from home, because anything had to be better.
Almost a decade later, POD dredged it all back up. And, in so doing, gave me the release I needed. It’s an angry book, about an angry topic. A series of angry topics, really.
Whereas, while TPS was also written in response to a difficult event, it was one of a much different nature. A modern retelling of Beauty and the Beast, it is, in some ways, a retelling also of my own story. From a more mature (I like to think) perspective, and with attention to different issues. It’s focused much more on the relationship between the primary characters and less on their troubled relationships with their families. For those who don’t know, this time, the catalyzing event that made me sit down and write was the death of one of my best friends. Someone whose loss devastated me but who, in his life, brought me a lot of hope. The hopeful tone of the book, I think, reflects his impact on my life.
And he, like another friend of mine, is also in the book. Most of the time, when people from my so-called real life creep into my characters, it’s entirely by accident. One I only notice after the fact. But in this case, it was a conscious inclusion. My friend is the “fairy godmother” character, whom Belle meets at the end. He gives her the same gift my friend gave me.
The House of Light and Shadow is, of course, only half complete as a series; but I think, here, the difference between the two books is quite similar to the difference between King Lear and The Tempest. In The Tempest, Prospero forgives. Which, in the end, makes all the difference. Because, ultimately, our happiness is determined by our own perceptions. Not what we convince ourselves to believe, or believe that we should believe, but in our honest belief in our power to be self-determining–and how, in turn, that belief motivates us to act.
All of my protagonists have one thing in common with me: they did what was right for them, and rulebook be damned.
Has living a life similar to that of my protagonists, at least in that sense, caused problems for me? I can honestly say that, in the thirty years since my birth, not forging my own path has caused me a lot more problems. Other people may have an opinion about my life, but they don’t have to live it. They don’t have my dreams; they’ll never have my deathbed regrets. And, conversely, I can’t hold them responsible for me–or my happiness. Only I can determine my own course.
So much of unhappiness, I think, comes from not understanding this. From living a life according to others’ dictates and then wondering why one isn’t happy. When the answer is, in fact, obvious: what other people tell you is going to make you happy, won’t. There’s no magic power in the telling. Some of the unhappiest people I know spent their lives doing what they thought they “should” do, and are now looking to that same source for a return on their investment.
Not everyone likes me. And that’s okay. I like myself, and I’m confident in my decisions, and in the decade since I left home me being me has provided me with some really genuine, wonderful friendships. I’d rather deal with the problem of being me than the problem of not being me, if that makes any sense.
The next question is: [t]here is a common theme throughout your stories of the male character not adhering to sexual monogamy even while in an emotionally committed relationship with his primary partner, who is conversely required to be strictly monogamous (or only shared within the framework the male controls). My question is not on the morality of monogamy but rather on the lack of mutual balanced reciprocity and power. 1) What is the point of this theme in your stories, other than the obvious of males cheating with impunity and 2) are the female characters truly happy and fulfilled in this power dynamic or is it a matter of accepting what they cannot change and making the best of it (living a half-life or settling for less than would honestly make them happy?)
I’d begin this portion of the event, first, by suggesting–respectfully–that this is indeed a question about the morality of monogamy. Because, within its framework, lies an assumption: that sexual fidelity is about power, and control. That the apparently dominant partner, moreover, would be fulfilled in a relationship where–in this case his–partner was unfulfilled.
To me, a healthy relationship is one where love and respect are equal. Where both partners value, not simply the relationship but each other as human beings equally. Where there is true mutual reciprocity. Whereas–again, to me–a person who was happy hurting another person, actively or passively, would be the opposite of moral.
Kisten, as a character, isn’t presented as anything close to a perfect model of manhood. He’s a deeply flawed individual, a drug addict and a sex addict who suffers from PTSD. A major point I’m making, in this series, is that he seriously needs to get his shit together. He’s incredibly lucky that Aria loves him, not because of what he can offer her materially or out of some twisted sense of loyalty because he rescued her, but because of who he actually is. And she does love him. Truly and deeply. As he loves her.
Love doesn’t, despite what the average romance novel would have us believe, occur only between perfect people. Nor can the depth of one’s love–or satisfaction with one’s relationship–be measured in one’s partner’s lack of flaws. Aria is happy and fulfilled, not because everyone would be but because Kisten is the right partner for her. He doesn’t need to make everyone happy. And yes, he has sex with other people; but he can give her the one thing no one else can: complete and utter devotion.
Aria has never experienced true love before. Not from her parents and not from her former fiance. To them, she was expedient. And it’s coming to terms with that, which causes her the most pain. Kisten is everything she’s been told she shouldn’t want–which, apart from everything else, is the strongest proof that she isn’t settling. She has to, rather, make a conscious choice to be with him in spite of what she’s been raised to believe is “right.” To choose what actually makes her happy, as opposed to what she’s been conditioned to believe a woman “should” want. Essentially, she’s choosing authenticity over rhetoric. She’s choosing love. Not what love should look like, but how love feels.
Kisten might be highly flawed, but he’d sacrifice himself for her in an instant. And she knows that. And it means everything to her.
A lot of people are faithful with their genitals, and nothing else. They spend their nights on the computer, or watching television, rather than engaging in meaningful conversation with their partner. They fantasize about other people. They make jokes about how awful their partner is to everyone who’ll listen and regale their friends with stories of the latest catastrophes in their households. Never asking themselves: if things are that bad, then why are they there?
I’m not talking about domestic abuse, here, but the kind of low grade resentment that erodes the soul over time. Sexual fidelity is used as a barometer of relationship health, I think, because it’s obvious: a person either is, or isn’t. But how important is it, really? And what matters more: the fact that Kisten likes to get around or the fact that he supports Aria, wholly and completely, in all of her endeavors, encourages her ambitions, and sees her as his intellectual and emotional equal? As his equal and, indeed, necessary partner in all things?
I’d argue that they have a much healthier relationship than the average couple, because they do respect each other. Because they talk. Their relationship is, indeed, at least to me, characterized by a tremendous depth of intellectual and emotional intimacy. They’re each other’s best friend–and that, to me, is beautiful.
It’s interesting to me that some people view Aria as passive, when to me she’s anything but. Leaving home takes real courage; as does deciding, before one does, that one has to. That one deserves better. I deserve better, when you’ve been told your whole life that you don’t, is a revolutionary thought. Embracing it as one’s mantra is a revolutionary act.
She’s not shy, either, about telling Kisten what she thinks. About his world and, indeed, about him. A dynamic, incidentally, which has also marked my own relationship. I think I fell in love with my husband, first, because I loved debating with him. He was truly the most interesting human being I’d ever met. Now, certainly, the fact that he had a cute butt didn’t hurt! But a cute butt does not, also, a decade of wedded bliss make.
And let me be clear, too, that I’m all for the woman wielding the whips and chains. That’s just not a dynamic that speaks to me, or with which I have any personal experience, and so I leave its discussion to different writers. What a couple does in the bedroom–with each other or, indeed, with other adult and consenting parties–really is irrelevant. What gets one off says everything about…what gets one off. And nothing about one’s relationship with their primary partner outside the bedroom. Maybe, if we as a society stopped confusing great sex with love, we’d have fewer divorces.
Finally, to those who’ve asked, no. I’m not offended if you don’t like Kisten. Or Ash. Or, for that matter, Tristan. Who is also, although to a somewhat lesser degree, influenced as a character by my husband. I really, really like my husband. I spend a lot of time with him. He’s my best friend and, I’m sorry, the sexiest man on earth. He makes me happy and I make him happy but, you know what? We’re not either of us for everybody. Nobody is.
And that, I think, is part of what makes love–true love–so incredible. That, within that sea of humanity, you find your person. Someone who understands you, who wants to understand you, and who loves you–the real, unvarnished, warts and all you–for exactly who you are.
My books aren’t roadmaps to anything. They’re certainly not relationship advice. They’re just stories with a lot of gray, and not a lot of black and white. If you want to know what I think about politics–in or out of the bedroom–ask me. And feel free to follow my personal profile on Facebook, which is where I post my rants. I try to keep them off my author page as much as possible because certain topics can be divisive and pretend, because that, ultimately, is all it is, should be for everybody. I get to pretend for a living, and for that I’m extremely grateful.
