tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54497132184202928892024-03-13T19:44:28.684-07:00Erotic AnswersArchived sex advice columns from Sass Magazine and original content deemed too steamy for publication. All work from resident sexpert and romance/erotica author Cassandra Duffy.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-21415855963610137142021-02-17T16:35:00.004-08:002021-02-17T16:35:57.295-08:00Where I've Gone<p style="text-align: justify;">I worked a 9 to 5 job for years in Florida. It was rewarding, important work that ate up all my energy and emotional bandwidth, but was worth losing myself in. Then I moved and then Covid happened, and I've been doing freelance stuff on the side, mostly grant writing, some consulting, and a lot of wishing things had ended differently with my last employer. I moved home to Southern California to be closer to my family, but that wasn't seen as a valid reason for leaving. Bridges burned, friendships died overnight, and people I'd once shared triumphs and tragedies with for years were suddenly happy to see I didn't land on my feet.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">This sort of thing will fuck with a person.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I tried to take up writing again, failed, tried again, failed again, abandoned Twitter and threw myself into finding another calling only to fail at that too. My wife makes enough money for both of us to live on, but that's not what I want even if she's kinda pleased with having me be a housewife/writer again. Okay, so how do I remember how to write again?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Not a rhetorical question. I'm seriously asking.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I spent most of this week trying to turn a writing journal prompt into a short story and ended up thoroughly in my own head about the whole thing. Was it a cute idea with no legs? Did I mistake an exercise for an actual story? What clunky bullshit was I covering up by trying to make it funny? And most of all, how does it end?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">That's a big one for me: I always know how my stories end before I start.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My next idea involved re-reading some of my past stuff to see if I could hear my own voice again, but it wasn't there. I picked <i>An Undead Grift for Christmas</i> and <i>Ravens from the Ashes</i> for the exercise. At the end of both, I was left feeling like I was good once upon a time, but I didn't see how it all fit together anymore. The last book I published was <i>Pintor Noche </i>in 2017, which means the last time I wrote fiction of any real quality was at least five years ago since there's about a year lag on completion of writing to publication and that's if everything moves fast.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">What changes in us to lose what we were?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Because I was a writer. I lived, breathed, and swam through writing for the better part of a decade and felt myself glow from the creativity I was a part of. I feel like I've been cutoff from the feed somehow. The cosmic inspiration or zeitgeist or collective unconscious for the Jungians.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I'm Steve Sax and I don't even know who that is.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">He's a baseball player, or was, I know that much. From before I was born, I think. But there was a TV show, I can't even remember which one, where someone talked about Steve Sax who had made the throw from shortstop or second to first base thousands of times, but then, suddenly, he couldn't do it anymore. He straight up forgot how to throw. Short throws, long throws, throws to any point on the diamond were all off the table for a guy whose entire job was catching a ball and throwing it somewhere accurately. I can't remember how the story ended in the show or movie, and I have no idea what became of Steve Sax, but that's been weirdly stuck in my head for months now. I forgot how to throw.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I've got the yips or the shanks or some other sport metaphor. Dick fingers? Is that one?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The question now is do I fight it and try to get back to making the routine throws so I can feel comfortable enough to try the harder ones? Or do I hang it up and do...whatever Steve Sax ended up doing instead of baseball? Is there advice for clearing up the yippy shanks?</p>Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-59639585235376709932018-08-31T13:36:00.000-07:002018-08-31T13:36:54.591-07:00A Fable<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5GJOFTvs4bTz3wbK30Lfz2qafINAHXzqLvHiZNGCvy6J7PDMYmqqH7oMYRuBy3J-L9l0EaHA_KGMwPFLKuBhi-gKx0tsHA3NyXQ_FSvX4FbuZvUa-YbvMOfwoMHcw3c7R6RABaibWC0/s1600/nRMo5z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX5GJOFTvs4bTz3wbK30Lfz2qafINAHXzqLvHiZNGCvy6J7PDMYmqqH7oMYRuBy3J-L9l0EaHA_KGMwPFLKuBhi-gKx0tsHA3NyXQ_FSvX4FbuZvUa-YbvMOfwoMHcw3c7R6RABaibWC0/s400/nRMo5z.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<h2 align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Deidre: A Fable of Coming Home</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Andalus;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Deidre was born on an </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">, but it was not where she grew up. She was taken as a baby,
immediately after birth. She was of the unlucky one in fifty removed from her
home and raised somewhere else.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Instead, she grew up in a harsh land, told she was
from there, told she belonged there and nowhere else, and told the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> was lesser in all ways that mattered. In her heart, she knew these
things were not true. Yet they stripped her of her name, gave her a new one she
did not like, and refused to call her by any but the named they had placed upon
her, and told her she would learn or she would suffer. She did not want to
suffer, and so she tried and failed to be like them. For from as early as she
could remember, she felt a longing for the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> that she was taken from on the day of her birth; the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> that she never truly experienced as others were able to but knew was
her true home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Her abductors taught her to walk in their way, talk
in their way, dress in their way, and tried to make her believe what they
believed. When she refused, or hesitated, or argued against these things she
knew were not for her, were not of her, and which she did not agree, she was
yelled at, taunted, punished, beaten, and worse until she learned to hide who
she was, what she knew, and where she belonged.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">During these dark years in the loud, rough land, death
beckoned Deidre constantly while she lived among her captors, imprisoned in
clothes, culture, and the mannerisms forced upon her. She was soft in ways they
were hard, and that made them hate her, and soon she hated these things about
herself. Death was an escape, truly the only door from her cage that she knew
existed. She did not want to die, but she knew she could not live in the harsh
land, imprisoned and forced to behave in painful, often cruel ways.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">When she was still a young woman, hardened against
the toxic world and its caustic ways, hiding well to avoid the pain heaped upon
her whenever she deviated from the path forced upon her, she met a young man
who would become her hero. This young man had been taken at birth as well. He
was not from the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">, but had been raised there. He was from the harsh
land and had dreamed of coming back one day. He knew of the harshness but in it
he saw a beauty that called to him. He also had thought death was the only door
until he heard of people leaving the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> and
traveling to the harsh land.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Deidre and the young man found a quiet, isolate
corner where the young man’s past of being raised on the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> and the young woman’s captivity would not be known to anyone but each
other, and she asked him questions about his travels, about the path he had
taken, about how she might go home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">It was dangerous and hard, she expected that and
was willing to brave anything to go home. It was expensive, which would be
difficult, but she would pay anything to be free. She could not take the same
path he did; it would not work going the other way. There were similar paths,
but he did not know them, had not traveled them, and they did not go the same
direction as he had gone. She had more questions, but he needed to go. He was
home and wanted to see everything he had missed. She understood that desire as
it burned within her as well and so they parted as friends.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Deidre saved her money for the trip. She carefully
sought information about a path she might take. There were a few people who
wished to aid her, but they too were afraid of what might happen to them if
they helped someone escape. Piece by piece, coin by coin, she planned her
exodus. On the day she was to leave, she looked back on the harsh land where
she was held captive for her entire life to that point and saw there were
things she might miss about it, wealth and strength that could be found there for
the right person, but none of the treasures could buy the home she felt in her
heart, and so she departed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">The journey home was difficult, she got lost many
times, the money she had saved to make the trip was spent quickly and had to be
replaced by doing things she would never speak of again. There were mountains
of pain and she bled often for there was no other way. Each step toward home,
she felt herself becoming more of what she had always known herself to be. Each
leg of the journey that brought her closer to the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> also brought her nearer to herself. At long last, she stood upon the
shore, final leg of the journey, a boat ride across a misty ocean. Without
hesitation she stepped off the shore and set sail for home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">The crossing was rough, stormy sometimes, and she
felt sick to her stomach with each passing wave. She slept a great deal, ate
very little, and stared unblinking into the fog, wishing to see the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> but not able to make out anything but the interminable ocean.
Everyone aboard said they were coming closer, that they were on course, and she
had to trust them. For they had been there, they knew the way, she paid dearly
for their expertise and would have to trust it now that she was in their care,
far out to sea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">At long last, the skies cleared, the water calmed,
and she saw the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">. She wept for its beauty, even at the great
distance from which she saw it again for the first time since her birth. Others
wept as well, knowing what the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> meant to so many.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">When the ship docked and she took her first step on
her ancestral land, the home she was stolen from and denied to her, her heart
soared. Other women from the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> saw her, they saw through the scars, both on her
body and soul, and recognized her as one of their own. They embraced her with
love and compassion, welcomed her to the place she always belonged but had been
stolen from.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">These women asked her name. She gave them the one
she had been forced to use in the harsh land. They told her that was not her
name. Her name was Deidre and she had been missed. She relinquished the clothes
she was forced to wear in favor of the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> garb that suited her much better. They helped her change her hair to
match theirs. They taught her all she needed to know of living on the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">, her home, things she’d not been raised to know. They called her
sister and rejoiced in her return.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">She had missteps and made mistakes. Everyone on the
</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> was from there, including her, but most of them
were raised on the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> in one fashion or another, and knew the ways from birth,
while she had been stolen, taken far away, and forced to behave in ways that
were not natural to her and were not typical on the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Sometimes people would see her and know she’d been
abducted, know she had been imprisoned, see her often awkward, childlike steps
on the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">, her scars, her fear, her pain, and they were
angry. Not angry that she was taken against her will and forced to live in the
harsh land, forced to adopt their ways that were not her own, but angry because
she dared to come back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“Go back to the harsh land!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“You do not belong here!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“You do not know our ways.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“You were not born here and can never be from
here!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“We do not want you!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“The </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> is only
for Islanders.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">They would yell all these things at her and worse.
Many would attack her with more than words. Demand she be imprisoned until she
was willing to leave. Punished her for being different. Hated her for the scars
she bore that they did not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">She cried often and began to hide again from these
people. She would not leave the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">, could
not go back to the harsh land, and death once again seemed like her only door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">Other women from the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">, who knew her name was Deidre, knew she always belong there and had
cried when she was abducted, who only wished for their sister, their daughter,
their friend to be returned someday, they came to her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“These people who say you do not belong, are
wrong,” they would tell her. “You are here because you were born here and will
always have a place among us. Do not listen to the people who demand that you
leave. They are few in number and weak in spirit. The harsh land and the people
from it frighten them. Their weakness makes them lash out at you, because the
harsh land scares them too much to direct their anger there. They do not understand
that your name is Deidre and you are of us, but we do, and we are happy you are
home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">From then on, she wore her scars not with pride,
but with compassion. She still did not want them, still wished she had never
obtained them, but no longer hated herself for having them. She still made
missteps, although fewer and fewer as the years and months passed. She learned
to ignore the weak minority of people who did not understand. Whose hatred and
small minds drove them to attack one of their own because of what was done to
her and not by her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">One day, she saw a crying boy. She saw through his Islander
hair, garb, and name, and knew he was from the harsh land. That he’d been
brought as a baby to the </span><span style="font-family: Andalus;">Island</span><span style="font-family: Andalus;"> and he did not understand why he was there or how
to get home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus;">“Dry your tears, young man,” she told him. “There
are paths to where you want to be. There is a way home. I know it because I
have walked them. And you can too.”</span></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-18316326265147195452018-07-21T13:29:00.003-07:002018-07-21T13:29:42.947-07:00The Raven Ladies on Hold<h2 style="text-align: center;">
The Raven Ladies on Hold</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYSrm2fp0kVAWvYKbyWvEfihQQQhnDjqGYF2VL9-0mTRPiFd34wWDR7cUYuWbajQMO8LQOpdbIjge8uZOC9ul_goRarPyf3dvlEzp7ZQCmq9mmXYIyKYFO5N8A8kUxQbrTHtv-9e8koI/s1600/29-03_old_western_final_full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="620" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYSrm2fp0kVAWvYKbyWvEfihQQQhnDjqGYF2VL9-0mTRPiFd34wWDR7cUYuWbajQMO8LQOpdbIjge8uZOC9ul_goRarPyf3dvlEzp7ZQCmq9mmXYIyKYFO5N8A8kUxQbrTHtv-9e8koI/s320/29-03_old_western_final_full.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
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The Raven Ladies series includes <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gunfighter-Gear-Head-Raven-Ladies-ebook/dp/B005LSDFEO/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2" target="_blank">The Gunfighter and the Gear-head</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Steam-Powered-Sniper-Broken-Bridges-ebook/dp/B008741XXY/ref=pd_sim_kstore_12?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2" target="_blank">The Steam-Powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gunfighters-Gambit-Raven-Ladies-ebook/dp/B00AQRDSHO/ref=pd_sim_kstore_1" target="_blank">The Gunfighter's Gambit</a>, and book one of the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ravens-Ashes-Trilogy-Book-ebook/dp/B00R0PCGYQ/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Ravens from the Ashes</a> prequel trilogy all based on a short story in the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Astral-Liaisons-Lesbian-Erotica-ebook/dp/B004UWPEIW/ref=la_B004V71IZY_1_3_title_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1340219524&sr=1-3" target="_blank">Astral Liaisons</a> short story collection. As of now, I'm sad to say the series is on hiatus for the foreseeable future.</div>
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I love Fiona, Gieo, Veronica, Ramen, Tabitha and all the other characters of the post apocalyptic old west, which makes this decision exceedingly difficult. The fact that the series is by far my best selling series and The Gunfighter and the Gear-head is arguably the only hit book I've written only makes the hiatus more difficult, but I feel it is necessary, essential really.</div>
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When I began writing the books back in 2010, I didn't really like guns. My wife (then girlfriend) was from a gun-loving family, but even though my family has a history of military service and hers doesn't, I wasn't raised with or around guns the way she was. She took me shooting at a range in Brea before we moved across country to Florida to try to get me used to the idea of the gun her parents wanted us to have for protection. I hated it. I hated shooting, I hated the gun, I hated the idea of having it anywhere near me. Since she was largely indifferent and doing it only to make her parents happy, we skipped the gun and I'm glad every day that we don't have a gun in the house.</div>
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To write these books accurately, which I desperately cared about, I had to spend an enormous amount of time looking up information about guns on the internet, talking to my in-laws, and consulting with the members of the military in my family. I didn't like doing any of this either, but it was far enough from holding and shooting an actual gun that I made my peace with the process required to depict a gunfighter like Fiona even though I'm way more like Gieo who barely touches a gun in the first book and only reluctantly when she finally does.</div>
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I could list all the school shootings, mass shootings, and individual acts of police brutality that resulted in people being shot, but I couldn't point to an individual event that has broken me. It's a combined weight and I can't breathe under it, or, more specifically, I can't write under it. I can't look up gun information on the internet. I can't talk to my in-laws about guns. I can't ask questions of military members in my family. I can't write about bullet holes, gunshot victims, or the death and destruction firearms inflict. I've spent months trying to figure this out, trying to divine a way to continue the books without guns, and I couldn't come up with anything. Guns are essential to the series in a way I deeply regret.</div>
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This wasn't a publisher's call. No editor decided this for me. No public outcry forced my hand. I made the decision to discontinue the series on my own, knowing full well it'll probably hurt my brand, my sales, and disappoint my most loyal readers. All I can say is, I'm sorry. I wish I was stronger to overcome this crushed feeling, or a more devoted artist to persevere through my discomfort for the sake of the work, or a better writer to be able to write my way out of the mess I created. But I'm not.</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm stepping away from the series not simply out of principle, although that's certainly a more noble reason and part of what motivated me, but mostly because I can't do it anymore. I can't see what guns are doing to children and innocent people all over our country every day and then sit down to write about how they're saving the fictional world I created and the characters in it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'll be focusing on other projects for the foreseeable future and I can only hope people enjoy them as much as the Raven Ladies. Again, I apologize to fans of the series for this unceremonious halting mid-story, and I hope you can understand my reasons.</div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-78025681522121505222017-11-07T11:48:00.000-08:002017-11-07T12:16:30.385-08:00Pintor Noche<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbttMAlEtzo5Ug0HdLr61-3Zwl_6x3jE6ltVpqjyW6EEUG1DUVm6oY-AejIyPMh3YNHnv_129F8SyVeATLRWA7X8_x-1gKuIJC1dm5V073o6uHXVZnWWL-C51ITbE0gmYxVmCBOcK8Sos/s1600/Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="983" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbttMAlEtzo5Ug0HdLr61-3Zwl_6x3jE6ltVpqjyW6EEUG1DUVm6oY-AejIyPMh3YNHnv_129F8SyVeATLRWA7X8_x-1gKuIJC1dm5V073o6uHXVZnWWL-C51ITbE0gmYxVmCBOcK8Sos/s400/Front.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Pintor Noche</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Alternate History / Women Sleuths / Steampunk / Mystery</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Available through <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0776BVS84" target="_blank">Amazon </a>- <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1127386125;jsessionid=9AC4099BBBCA86277E1196FF88017CA5.prodny_store02-atgap12?ean=2940158799761" target="_blank">Barnes&Noble</a> - <a href="https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/pintor-noche" target="_blank">Kobo</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I started this book long before all the political strife in Catalonia. If you haven't followed that situation, the basic summary is a region in northeastern Spain called Catalonia, where Barcelona is, has declared independence from <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2017/10/catalan-referendum-spain-independence/541656/" target="_blank">Spain and the Spanish government came down on them hard</a>. So I dedicated my book about Barcelona to the people of Catalonia as a sign of solidarity with their struggle for self-determination even as the situation continues to evolve.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For whatever reason, lesbians love mystery novels. I have a few theories as to why, but they're kind of stupid and silly and probably not at all right, so I'll skip going into any of them. The fact remains: lesbians <span style="color: red;"><b>love </b></span>mystery novels. Why haven't I written one before Pintor Noche if I'm aware of this fact? Because I don't actually read mystery novels. Yep, I am one of a tiny handful of lesbians roaming the literary landscape with no mystery novels in my reading diet. Then I read a few steampunk mystery novels and realized the genre could include the tech stuff I like and often have elements of romance. Romance is my jam.<br />
<br />
Pintor Noche is the culmination of a ton of research and talking to painters, Spaniards, detectives, and engineers. What I came up with is probably less accurate than most alternate history writing, but perhaps more historical than many mysteries...or maybe that's just what I'm telling myself. Whatever was sacrificed in accuracy was done in the name of fun, adventure, and a good story. And I'll stick by that even under intense interrogation by a Spanish Inspector.<br />
<br />
<i>Synopsis:</i><br />
<i><b>Barcelona is burning!</b></i><br />
<i>
</i><i>The police are powerless to discover the identity of the Pintor
Noche, the Night Painter, who has turned the summer of 1905 into an
arsonist’s masterpiece. In desperation Inspector Esperanza seeks out Desdemona, the daughter
of his legendary former mentor and predecessor Inspector Amina. Implementing the latest in forensic science, Desdemona teams up with
the Inspector to hunt down the Pintor Noche before one of his fiery
works of art consumes the entire city. With the help of her painter paramour, Santene, and a roguish French
journalist, Yvette, Desdemona struggles to navigate the perilous worlds
of the aristocracy, Sephardic gangsters, and secret societies to chase
the ghost of a man who paints with fire.</i><br />
<br />
Sample Chapter:<br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "trajanus roman"; font-size: 26.0pt;">Chapter 1</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Sun from the trio of skylights in the
studio warmed Desdemona Amina’s skin, telling her it was getting on toward </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">noon</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">. The task of an artist’s model was to
maintain stillness in the face of crushing boredom. It wasn’t Desdemona’s
preferred work, but she could not deny Santene anything. She watched her lover
paint, focusing closest on Santene’s caramel-colored eyes as they wandered from
her form, to the palette, and finally to the canvas. Desdemona believed she
could tell which part of her Santene was painting based on the micro reactions
of her face. A blush to the cheek, faint smile, light sweat on her upper lip,
slightly arched eyebrow, all hinted at the different areas of the painter’s
focus and the affects Desdemona’s nude form was having on the artist. Santene’s
messy, brown curls falling free of the loose bun she always placed her hair in
while painting, the fullness of her pursed lips when she concentrated, and the
voluminous cleavage created by her corseted dress all served to arouse similar
reactions in the model as she watched the artist engrossed in her process. It
was only a matter of time, probably even before the sun reached it zenith, when
Santene would abandon her paints to join Desdemona on the litter of pillows and
sheets. Morning light in the workshop was best for painting while afternoon sun
in </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Barcelona</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";"> was meant for drinking wine, napping,
and making love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">The tension building between them even as
the sun warmed the little studio to an uncomfortable level was shattered by a
terse knock upon the peeling white door. Desdemona let out a sigh and flopped,
face down, onto the blue, satin pillow she’d formerly reclined on. Santene set
aside her palette and brush on a nearby stool and rose to answer the door.
Before Santene could even fully open the door, the feminine, artistic energy of
the room was shattered. Inspector Esperanza charged into the studio,
remembering only manners enough to snatch the bowler hat from his head within a
few steps. He was a tall, slender man, dressed smartly in a pale, gray suit
with gleaming copper buttons. His black hair was mussed every so slightly and a
dappling of sweat clung to his immaculately tended moustache indicating he’d
been walking briskly in the morning heat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“<i>Señorita </i>Amina, at last I’ve
found you,” Inspector Esperanza said, averting his eyes quickly from her nude
form.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“At last I am found,” Desdemona muttered.
She slipped from the pillows to retrieve her robe. “I wasn’t aware I was
sought.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Inspector Esperanza shifted his focus
from one of the many cracks in the plaster on the far wall to look instead at
Santene’s work in progress. He cocked his head to one side and then the other
in much the same way a chicken might study a particularly puzzling kernel of
corn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Why is there so much purple to the front
edge of her skin?” Inspector Esperanza asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“It is an undertone in the process of
drying,” Santene explained. “Skin has many shades to it that are built in layers.
<i>Señorita </i>Amina has lovely violet hints to her skin in the right light.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“She looks brown to me,” Inspector
Esperanza said, “a pleasant shade of brown to be sure, but brown nevertheless.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Certainly you didn’t come all this way
to discuss color layering in skin and paint,” Desdemona said, eager to be rid
of the Inspector.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“In a manner of speaking, I did,” the
Inspector said. “There was a fire last night that I believe was the most recent
arson committed by the <i>Pintor Noche</i>. The night’s victims reside in the <i>Moro</i>
district…” The Inspector worried the rim of his hat in his hands, trying to
avoid the indelicacy of what came next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“…and they won’t talk to you,” Desdemona
surmised.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Only enough to tell me the quickest way
out of their district,” the Inspector said, forcing a chuckle. “Jests aside, I
can pay you for your time. I don’t know how lucrative modeling for painters
is…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“You’re supposed to be paying me?”
Desdemona asked of Santene with a flirty smirk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Only if I plan to sell the work, but I
was going to hang this particular painting in my bedroom,” Santene said, “for
personal use, you understand.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“I believe I know the wall you mean.”
Desdemona returned her attention to the Inspector, who had grown a few shades
redder from the coquettish banter passing between the two women. He was a good
Catholic man with a thunderous boring streak who eschewed the houses of
burlesque and drinking of absinthe. Desdemona suspected she could send him into
an apoplectic fit if she kissed Santene in his presence. Entertaining though
that might be, she decided it also might spoil her chance at gainful
employment. “Very well, Inspector, I’ll look into the matter.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Excellent, here is the address.” The
Inspector produced a slip of paper from the front pocket of his suit vest and
handed it to her. “I shall meet you at the crime scene within the hour if you
are able.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Desdemona took the paper, scanned the
address, and glumly deduced she would not have time to enjoy any carnal
delights with Santene if she expected to meet the Inspector’s timeframe.
“Barely enough time to lace a boot,” she murmured, “but I’ll manage.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">The Inspector bowed to each of them in
turn and then hurriedly exited the studio. Immediately upon his departure,
Desdemona let her robe drop and began searching amid the painting supplies,
canvases, and set props for her clothing. She could feel Santene’s eyes upon
her the entire time, which only served to make the room feel warmer and her
imminent departure more loathsome.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“I suppose I’ll head down to the docks to
sketch sea birds if you’re going to be occupied this afternoon,” Santene
grumbled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“If you buy clams and wine, I can cook
them for you,” Desdemona said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“If you make me dinner, you will have to
stay the night,” Santene countered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“If I stay the night, you will have to
provide breakfast in the morning.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Your terms are acceptable <i>Señorita </i>Amina.”
Santene stood from her painting stool, crossed to Desdemona, and gave her a
light kiss on the shoulder before collecting her sketching implements. “Until
this evening.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Desdemona dressed quickly in her yellow,
corseted dress, at least as quickly as the cumbersome garment would allow, and
drew up her hair into a bun to hold it beneath the matching, wide-brimmed hat.
In bohemian districts she could get away with more sensible attire, but she had
to cross several posh streets to get to Santene’s studio, and her skin color
was already a source of sideways glances depending on the hues of each
neighborhood.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">She stepped from the subdued studio into
the bustle and life of the city. The smell of roasting lamb floated on the air
amid the dust of the ancient streets. She turned down the handle on the side of
her Penny-Farthing bicycle’s rear wheel. The motor was of her own design,
working in much the same way as a pocket watch to spin the small, rear wheel of
the bicycle rather than forcing her to peddle the much larger front wheel. It
worked marvelously well around the flatter parts of the city, especially when
she was wearing a dress that required her to ride sidesaddle. With the mechanism
wound, she rolled the bike forward enough to get it going, stepped onto the peg
along the back frame, and swung herself up into the saddle atop the four foot
tall front wheel. She flicked the drive release on the moustache handlebars and
set off at a clicking, jaunty pace over the cobblestone streets. Certainly she
could have purchased one of the new Rover Safety Bicycles that had the lowered
frame for ladies to still peddle while wearing a dress, but she rather enjoyed
the view from the top of her Penny-Farthing and the nearly unstoppable gait
provided by the large front wheel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">The bike ticked like a Swiss pocket watch
through the city, over the bridges, across the dusty bits of road in the
unpaved sections, and around the busy corner at the <i>La Pedrera</i>. The rich
scent of pipe and cigar smoke sat heavy atop French perfumes and colognes amid
the gentlemen and women walking leisurely down the thoroughfare. The vibe and
pace of </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Barcelona</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";"> was slow and sumptuous in comparison to </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Paris</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";"> or </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Berlin</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">, but no less taken with the bohemian
revolutions in art, literature, and intellectualism. A strange bit of
nationalism for her city arose in Desdemona during the ride, and she found
herself a little cross that someone was burning down parts of it. By the time
she arrived in the Moorish district she’d come to the conclusion she would
locate the vandal regardless of what the constabulary might pay her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">The Moors of Spain, especially on the
Mediterranean coast, were a diverse lot inside of the larger Islamic community,
although the rest of </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Spain</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";"> saw them as one darkened group with
inconsequentially different shades. Desdemona was of Moroccan descent, mixing
Arab blood with African for a thousand years before her ancestors came to </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Spain</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";"> where the blending continued until she
only thought of herself as Spanish and her Muslim roots were completely lost to
the modernizing influences of </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Europe</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">. In the neighborhoods set aside for the
Moors, who had once conquered and ruled the entirety of the Iberian peninsula,
there were proper Arabs, a few Turks, countless Libyans, and Africans from
beneath the Sahara—all of which had dealings with Moroccans and all of which
would see her as a go-between for the Muslims and the Catholics even though she
wasn’t particularly fond of either group despite being an amalgamation of both.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">She could smell the lingering smoke of
the doused fire long before she saw the burned timbers of the scorched section
of the district. Inspector Esperanza was already at the scene with his carriage
waiting across the litter-strewn street from the burned out husks of buildings
that constituted the scene of the crime. The owners of the five burned
buildings were already gathered around the Inspector to voice their complaints
while refusing to answer any of his questions. As luck would have it, they were
also Moroccan Moors.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Desdemona goosed the spoon brake on her
bike to slow it and slid off the back. She tapped her foot on the motor’s
release along the way and grabbed the frame of the bike to walk it to a stop so
she might lean it against the side of the Inspector’s carriage. She may as well
have arrived with a platoon of soldiers, waving the Spanish flag above her head
for the immense relief her entrance instilled in Inspector Esperanza.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Excellent, <i>Señorita </i>Amina, if you’d
be so kind,” the Inspector stepped boldly behind her, armed with his little
notepad and scrap of a pencil to record what information she might draw from
the increasingly agitated <i>Moros</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Which shop did the fire originate in?”
Desdemona asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">A haberdasher, with his sleeves rolled up
and suspenders bedecked in sewing pins stepped forward. “That would be mine,”
he said, curtly nodding to her with his head of perfectly shellacked black
hair.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“And do you have any reason to believe
you were the target of the arson for malicious purposes?” Desdemona asked. “Any
enemies? Recent threats made against you? Disgruntled former employees?
Unsatisfied customers? Anxious lovers or an enraged wife?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">The other men chuckled behind the
haberdasher’s back. He proudly titled his head back and grunted his disdain at
the question. “I am a tailor of fine suits and coats for gentlemen of
discerning taste but modest means. I have always worked alone, I am well-liked
by my customers, respected by my competitors, and live a celibate life with my
extremely devout wife.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">She was all too familiar with the
haberdasher’s type since his description fit nicely many of the married couples
she’d known of both Muslim and Catholic persuasions. The haberdasher’s shop may
have been where the fire started, but she did not believe he was the true
target for the flames. Response times for Spanish fire departments were slow
and their capabilities upon arrival were haphazard; a fire in one shop would
almost certainly consume several other surrounding structures before the blaze
could be contained and a clever, increasingly experienced arsonist likely knew
these things all too well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">She took similar statements of
incredulity from a pawn broker, an art dealer, a type-setter, and an
unfortunate man whose house happen to partially burn down and was then knocked
completely over by the firemen attempting to stop the flames from spreading. If
there was a motive to be found in the bunch, it was known only to the <i>Pintor
Noche</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Splendid work, I suppose,” Inspector
Esperanza said when Desdemona was done ascertaining that the victims were as
they appeared: humdrum citizenry with unfortunate luck. “You’ve uncovered a
witness description of a man in a top hat with a cane fleeing the scene at a
brisk walk. This would describe every man of even moderate means within the
whole of </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Europe</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";"> and much of </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">America</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Perhaps, but not many within the <i>Moro</i>
neighborhood,” Desdemona said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“So our suspect is <i>Blanco</i>,”
Inspector Esperanza said. “We already believed this.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Of the other fires, how many struck
similar businesses to these?” Desdemona asked, ignoring the Inspector’s
petulance for the moment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Almost all of them have involved a
haberdasher. Perhaps the <i>Pintor Noche</i> detests finely attired gentlemen
or he had an unsatisfactory suit alteration that drove him to revenge,” the
Inspector offered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“How many other suit-makers are there in </span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Barcelona</span><span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">?” Desdemona wondered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Not counting the people who do a bit of
sewing and alterations out of their homes, perhaps a couple dozen or more,” the
Inspector said. “We are a fashionable city, after all.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">At the very least, it seemed farfetched
to her that the arsonist was targeting tailors over a matter of billing or
style. No doubt the records of customers at each establishment were consumed in
the flames, paperwork being entirely flammable and all. Still, there had to be
more to the fire-bug’s elusiveness than simply choosing a plentiful target in a
seemingly random pattern.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“I will need the addresses of all the
other fires and a street map current enough to list the businesses that stood
near the fires in the last year or so,” she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“I’ve looked over all these materials and
more already,” the Inspector said, “besides, you were hired to take statements
at this location and you’ve done so. The constabulary has things well in hand.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“If the constabulary did indeed have a
satisfactorily progressing investigation, I imagine the <i>Moro</i> district
fire would have been largely ignored,” Desdemona said. “Instead you hired an
outside agent to take statements in hopes of finding a lead regardless of the
disinterest in the particular victims of the latest vandalism. No, no, no <i>Señor
</i>Esperanza, you do not have things well in hand.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">The collected victims of the arson, along
with several other curious denizens of the neighborhood who had congregated
around the investigation to eavesdrop on a scrap of news or gossip, broke into
subdued, yet sincere, clapping for <i>Señorita </i>Amina’s cutting oration.
Inspector Esperanza harrumphed, waggled his moustache, and straightened his
bowler from the fashionable tilt he’d formerly worn it in to a sterner slant.
The posturing of his authority evaporated almost as quickly as he’d bedecked
himself in it. She was right and he knew it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Your contract will be with me, <i>Señorita
</i>Amina, and not the constabulary.” He smoothed his moustache with two
fingers before producing a pad of paper from the breast pocket of his suit.
“You are an outside consultant only, not a deputized or temporarily sanctioned
agent of the city. This appointment most certainly does not allow you to carry
a firearm or represent yourself as a figure of authority to any <i>Blanco</i>
citizens.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“And would they believe me even if I
did,” Desdemona said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">“Let us hope not.” The Inspector
scribbled out a contract on his pad of paper, signed it tersely, and handed it
to Desdemona. Within moments he was back in his carriage, banging on the
outside of the door with the flat of his palm to indicate to the driver he was
ready to depart. “I will have the pertinent materials brought to your apartment
as soon as they are ready for transport,” the Inspector said as a parting
comment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Desdemona walked the crime scene for
another hour after the Inspector departed. She spoke at length with the
witnesses she believed might reveal more after the <i>Blanco</i> authority was
gone. They did reveal more, if only in placing blame on the police and the
dominant culture as a whole for cultivating an arsonist they seemed incapable
of capturing. Eventually, after she began wholly ignoring their gripes, the
crowd dispersed to return to whatever business was left to them after the fire.
She sketched the paths she believed the fire followed based on concentration of
ash. Santene would have done a far more artistic job of rendering the scene,
although aesthetics were not required for accuracy and she didn’t feel like
bringing her <i>Blanca</i> paramour to the <i>Moro</i> district just yet,
especially not when it was so justifiably riled by nocturnal arson.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">When she’d finally walked and sketched
the entirety of the crime scene, successfully staining the bottom hem of her
skirt and her boots black in the process, she deduced that the fire appeared to
follow prescribed paths through the buildings. Whether or not this was a
product of fire’s natural proclivities or something the arsonist planned, she
could not say. She purchased from a nearby shop a number of small glass jars
and then collected ash samples from multiple locations within the scene to
compare at a later date. Research and testing would be required to learn the
true nature of fire; an arsonist knew the flame like a lover and so she would
need to follow suit to find him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-family: "goudy old style";">Even a clever man would have to abide by
the laws of nature that dictated fire’s behavior—in that, she believed she
could find a pattern and hopefully a clue as to his motive.</span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<br /></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-55523204051386634282017-10-30T12:26:00.000-07:002017-10-30T12:27:23.977-07:00Your Hottest Video Game Girlfriends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span id="goog_2138611903"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_2138611904"></span><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="639" height="400" src="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/36/e3/0b/36e30b8eeca9f0671530eb0299b97344.jpg" width="318" /> </div>
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<br /></div>
Let's talk ladies, specifically digital ladies. This is one of those lists that wouldn't even be possible when I first got into video games, even 10 years ago it would have been incredibly short. We've come a ways, I'm not willing to say a long ways just yet because there's this huge road ahead even if the distance traveled so far seems long because there's all this other...yanno what enough waxing poetic. This is about awesome digital ladies you can hang with in video game land and right now, the world needs escapism. Seriously, reality has gone nucking futs--go play some games.<br />
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
Liara T'Soni -- Mass Effect</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAajPwEvxpcZfAv2wkG59zF-js_NbASEkjLwF5Yu9Ax1E0DGvHGIxZLs9MuOy1VP4Exl1YyBGXLH_-BanEzlrem0Qxu4AlLQmCU5PenuJ9kbMgxrdUBy3Qr4Q8ztXwYGQawyGAEC5DDU/s1600/liara_t__soni_wallpaper_by_squint911-d2ye01y.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAajPwEvxpcZfAv2wkG59zF-js_NbASEkjLwF5Yu9Ax1E0DGvHGIxZLs9MuOy1VP4Exl1YyBGXLH_-BanEzlrem0Qxu4AlLQmCU5PenuJ9kbMgxrdUBy3Qr4Q8ztXwYGQawyGAEC5DDU/s320/liara_t__soni_wallpaper_by_squint911-d2ye01y.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Like the picture? It's a desktop wallpaper--just sayin'</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
That's <b>Doctor </b>Liara T'Soni, hunnie! Okay, she's not <i>that</i> kind of doctor, but she is the doctorate holding kind. I think it's something to do with ancient archeology or communications since she goes full Shadowbroker in Mass Effect 2. She evolves from being an unsure academic to a confident, galaxy saving badass in the course of three games and a couple DLCs. There are other ladies in the Mass Effect series that can make space seem not so vast and cold (<a href="http://masseffect.wikia.com/wiki/Samantha_Traynor" target="_blank">Specialist Traynor</a> and <a href="http://masseffect.wikia.com/wiki/Kelly_Chambers" target="_blank">Kelly Chambers</a>) but they're light years behind Liara. Aside from being one of the most powerful biotic squad members, she's integral to the story and Commander Shepard's character development. There's also a very real possibility she's the smartest person in the game by a wide margin and she'll explain so many things in a velvety voice that gives silk over glass competition in smoothness.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Rating -- total wife material (even though she's going to live 900 more years after you die)</div>
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<h2 style="text-align: right;">
Piper Wright -- Fallout 4</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Y8HHB9UI1vMaAb1kl4bfBj6_iTnMaqPjOnxvc91NoeXMKE-Jg8cb4J774zsPYccQ2KK3yOd6_6pKtJX55BY5ZGNm90w_qqSlPOVcDY1IFH0LlSXp9_jPwPfKLY6VakHKaMjpRh3Y2gY/s1600/9fa0ce2ca2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Y8HHB9UI1vMaAb1kl4bfBj6_iTnMaqPjOnxvc91NoeXMKE-Jg8cb4J774zsPYccQ2KK3yOd6_6pKtJX55BY5ZGNm90w_qqSlPOVcDY1IFH0LlSXp9_jPwPfKLY6VakHKaMjpRh3Y2gY/s320/9fa0ce2ca2.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Did I mention girl's got style?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Bethesda did a lot of fun, creative things in Fallout 4 that they'd hinted at doing in Fallout New Vegas and Skyrim. One of the fun things was making one-size-fits-all romances by utilizing nicknames and easy pronoun swapping in the scripts. That means every romance option is available to both genders and it'll be seamless every time! Everyone knows, when it comes to girlfriends, there's like and there's love. I like Curie and Cait, but I <i>love</i> Piper. She's a reporter, a big sister raising a kid sister after they were orphaned, and she has a beautiful mix of self-deprecating humor, ego, and altruism. She's kind of goofy in vulnerable moments in the most endearing way possible, and how refreshing is that in a game that takes place after nuclear Armageddon? She also has her own thing going on, mostly looking into the mayor of Diamond City as being a possible Institute collaborator and while she's helping you on your journey to find your missing son, she does continue her own work as a reporter, which sets her above most NPCs in complexity of character. Speaking of her newspaper, she's a talented writer. There are several issues of <a href="http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Publick_Occurrences" target="_blank">Publick Occurrences</a> to collect throughout the game, and I suggest you actually read them.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Rating -- total wife material (especially if you could get her to quitting smoking...not that everything in the Commonwealth isn't a carcinogen)</div>
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<h2 style="text-align: left;">
Chloe Price -- Life is Strange</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0nHwMEiUWr7OFhsFiquAVjoNVMDgJQm7uY1Ua-OZEHhY2alYyjX_VLCKM-KqRejkJXq9ONtwQuGjIrejG6zo6fZxaYnxo7VJjm-V0YKxRLOkWAwL8vSaJ8yTR5pozHuLvJWCl1uV3r-I/s1600/life-strange.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0nHwMEiUWr7OFhsFiquAVjoNVMDgJQm7uY1Ua-OZEHhY2alYyjX_VLCKM-KqRejkJXq9ONtwQuGjIrejG6zo6fZxaYnxo7VJjm-V0YKxRLOkWAwL8vSaJ8yTR5pozHuLvJWCl1uV3r-I/s320/life-strange.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Probably not going to prom</i></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Life is Strange is a departure from the big guns, big cars, big explosions, big swords games in every sense. No space marines here, just high school, a photography hobby, and time alteration super powers...okay, so that ones a big deal. There's a mystery, time travel, survival (both high school drama and literal life/death kinds) all while Max is trying to figure out who she even is and what is going on with her teenage angst. Enter Chloe Price. Do you remember that first time you met someone as a young queerling girl and she's the coolest fucking person and you can't tell if she's actually into girls or if you want her to be so badly that your mind convinces you she must be because that would be the only explanation for why she's so freaking cool? That's Chloe and it turns out she's into Max, but in that laid back, older girl, dyed blue hair, wild child sort of way. She comes with a slew of her own problems, an old truck, an over developed sense of adventure, and energy, lots and lots of energy. Yes, I'm describing a <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2015/09/the-manic-pixie-dream-girl-repents/404953/" target="_blank">manic pixie dream girl</a>, but why shouldn't lesbians get one too? If you missed out on the teenage smitten stage of pining for a cool older girl, here's your chance to find out what it feels like to be a sidekick wishing to be a love interest for a punk rock princess.</div>
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Rating -- first love (...and second and third and really as many times as you want since you can turn back time at will)</div>
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<h2 style="text-align: right;">
Sera -- Dragon Age: Inquisition</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mbaepIPGHWkd1RCSpsiyDmT2SK_tDYmW-d0DtimUj0WrQtcAdAZ_097Dvrr88E8pusLftlGCk1-UFhRcnHpgGSnR0KGv5NerN6r48bx_6LHlEqic0Bat26880YBTgSBGw9jwfe2JDpQ/s1600/JUN-5-E3-Teaser-Sera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mbaepIPGHWkd1RCSpsiyDmT2SK_tDYmW-d0DtimUj0WrQtcAdAZ_097Dvrr88E8pusLftlGCk1-UFhRcnHpgGSnR0KGv5NerN6r48bx_6LHlEqic0Bat26880YBTgSBGw9jwfe2JDpQ/s320/JUN-5-E3-Teaser-Sera.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>She's full of these technically-true-isms</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There's a hole in the sky. Demons are attacking peasants and livestock. Mages and Templars refuse to get along. An ancient evil is trying to remake the world. What you need is a crazy girlfriend that has next to no clue what's actually going on! So maybe she's never getting a Fulbright, or graduating college, or...okay, she's probably going to be a huge liability on your bar trivia team, but that's not why you love her! Sera's strength isn't in her brains, it's in her sense of humor, straightforward approach to everything, and bizarre, but defined, moral code. Sera is afraid of magic, likes tall women, solves most of her problems with arrows, and creates chaos for shits and giggles, making her a wild ride, in more ways than one if you <a href="https://youtu.be/onrkOqwPxbg" target="_blank">play your cards right</a>. It's hard to figure how she would fit in with something called the Inquisition and someone called the Inquisitor, but maybe that's a good thing. A girlfriend that likes pranks, jokes, and a clear, if someone basic, grasp of the situation can be helpful for a woman trying her best to save the world. There's nothing quite like the crazy ones, am I right?</div>
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Rating -- long term girlfriend or wild fling (that depends on your capacity for shenanigans)</div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Honorable Mentions</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Not every game builds a full romance for you, but there are several games that offer at least some kind of girlfriend option if you're willing to do some of the work yourself or don't mind brevity.</div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Your Sims Girlfriend -- The Sims</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZQgOTM2l95Dc52t9E20jPLxj-j4wEjS6gb11Ivn1_K3g-JMrLtLBBdB8aRg_VY-Ucz62AnjVKbaLMI8h5t7wQNpBtRnLw4yw1u75bzIMDvyj4bkq0zMNrgCPz0iX1oZRXDndpppn0j0/s1600/maxresdefault.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzZQgOTM2l95Dc52t9E20jPLxj-j4wEjS6gb11Ivn1_K3g-JMrLtLBBdB8aRg_VY-Ucz62AnjVKbaLMI8h5t7wQNpBtRnLw4yw1u75bzIMDvyj4bkq0zMNrgCPz0iX1oZRXDndpppn0j0/s320/maxresdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Come on, we all did it. The Sims is basically an elaborate dollhouse and for little gay girls, that's going to mean little Sim girlfriends getting together and doing a lot of interior decorating, pet collecting, and eating grilled cheese sandwiches. The quality of your Sim girlfriends may have varied and some may have <a href="https://youtu.be/oOgn4yCWgcc" target="_blank">died in cooking fires or drowned in swimming pools.</a></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Random Villager -- Fable 2 and/or 3</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3J0zpbeXssPLPaNnnEMZqDL3QCp00mfN_YI4tGjUmYf6mOEhmk_YFhQi-yq46ZT9smLTQ1D0MJX25lXkUOekEGn3Py-3N-694AF7s8GSGIf6QH2pq883eYSCYIsvVKF_aGIShdAhTrKI/s1600/1210001020a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3J0zpbeXssPLPaNnnEMZqDL3QCp00mfN_YI4tGjUmYf6mOEhmk_YFhQi-yq46ZT9smLTQ1D0MJX25lXkUOekEGn3Py-3N-694AF7s8GSGIf6QH2pq883eYSCYIsvVKF_aGIShdAhTrKI/s320/1210001020a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Want to marry a random village woman? What about a noblewoman? A shopkeeper? A prostitute? Knock yourself out! Want them to be in any way discriminate from other random NPCs? Tough luck. Most of their personalities will be broken down into a two to five word description, but you can date, marry, and get lucky in Albion in the most technical senses. Skyrim offers the <a href="https://www.wikihow.com/Marry-in-Skyrim" target="_blank">same experience</a> with better graphics, if the visual quality of your random NPC wife important to you.</div>
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<h2>
Shaundi -- Saints Row 4</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaMtBODzPzXCZC7ybs1O894JW8Z3xCvry63alkCGmghJ5dN6SLjKGher1uLUS1q3_HSKimqLkHjxkRrnWbYcA6_hyTAaqBitP7LJ-nNrNiiYaxuoyPYj1LHsCurGW5V528tn1vllKgk8/s1600/bbf375d6fb8bcf3f16f516394fe723fc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="478" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieaMtBODzPzXCZC7ybs1O894JW8Z3xCvry63alkCGmghJ5dN6SLjKGher1uLUS1q3_HSKimqLkHjxkRrnWbYcA6_hyTAaqBitP7LJ-nNrNiiYaxuoyPYj1LHsCurGW5V528tn1vllKgk8/s320/bbf375d6fb8bcf3f16f516394fe723fc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Mostly, the "romance" in Saints Row 4 is done directly to make fun of Mass Effect. The whole game is designed to lampoon basically every video game franchise, popular movie, and TV show they can get their hands on. The strange little blip of a thing with Shaundi on the ship (not <a href="https://youtu.be/gvQI7p4KVZQ" target="_blank">fun Shaundi </a>obviously since she only exists in the simulation and our memories) is surprisingly sweet in comparison to the obvious joke "romances" with the other gang members. There's a single cute conversation, implied sex, and a ton of hanging out and blowing stuff up together and that's a kind of relationship, isn't it?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pv4K3LDV3S0YArQWo1B5fSpqb4VdIZlRkiZMvDaIHF8KarxKZSrHfBtv48dy3WIPkof-WhmCphUlqzOgydmWkUyxAN6T2OCOQdG_hoLTarZwV9mtuhveMAse-duWHIwBGyBIVVf81Cc/s1600/ladies_of_mass_effect_wallpaper_by_xdarknessfalls-d4w3fn5-720x404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="720" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pv4K3LDV3S0YArQWo1B5fSpqb4VdIZlRkiZMvDaIHF8KarxKZSrHfBtv48dy3WIPkof-WhmCphUlqzOgydmWkUyxAN6T2OCOQdG_hoLTarZwV9mtuhveMAse-duWHIwBGyBIVVf81Cc/s320/ladies_of_mass_effect_wallpaper_by_xdarknessfalls-d4w3fn5-720x404.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bioware must have a whole "rendering hot butts" development team</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There are a ton of Bioware in game girlfriends I could have written up: Silk Fox, Juhani, Leliana, Merrill, Isabela, Peebee, Samantha Traynor, Kelly Chambers, Vetra, Suvi, Avela, Lembda Avesta, and Lana Beniko. But honestly, it'd get repetitive for some of them and time consuming for the SWTOR ones. Feel free to mention anything I missed in the comments or give love to your favorite digital paramour!</div>
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Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-82208545317466665632016-03-15T13:49:00.000-07:002016-03-15T13:49:46.661-07:00Primary Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cache.milesplit.com/user_files/63599/111467/hurdle9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cache.milesplit.com/user_files/63599/111467/hurdle9.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Starting to feel a little like this.</i></td></tr>
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Primary season finally made it to Florida and the race is looking...gross. Let's face it, this presidential season is a little like House of Cards if it was written and directed by NASCAR. I'm always excited to vote in a primary since, being from California, that was the only time my presidential race vote went anywhere. Florida is a swing state, though, so I've had some meaningful votes since moving here. Kinda, anyway. Today was a biggie, and before you get excited, I won't tell you how I voted today. I'm pretty sure it's like birthday wishes--won't come true if you tell. I will walk you through my thoughts, however, because it wasn't an easy decision.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://quotes.lifehack.org/media/quotes/quote-Elia-Kazan-whats-called-a-difficult-decision-is-a-48271.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://quotes.lifehack.org/media/quotes/quote-Elia-Kazan-whats-called-a-difficult-decision-is-a-48271.png" height="177" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>For Republicans you can pick a sociopath or an idiot...usually their candidates are both</i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></td></tr>
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I'm a Millennial, so I should be all for Bernie, right? But I'm one of the least Millennial Millennials I know. I don't like taking pictures of everything I see, eat, or drive past, which is a shame, because I drive past some really crazy stuff living in central Florida. I also like breakfast cereal, which <a href="http://ww2.kqed.org/pop/2016/03/01/millennials-monthly-fck-cereal/" target="_blank">my generation apparently might be the death of</a>. I'm also a die hard feminist, which would make me a Hillary supporter. Not so fast or simple (this isn't NASCAR).<br />
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Florida is a closed primary system, which means, as a lifelong Democrat, I can only vote for blue candidates. That's actually really helpful since the other side seems to have a really bad game of "<a href="http://www.feministe.us/blog/archives/2007/01/12/death-is-not-an-option/" target="_blank">death isn't an option</a>" going on with their shit-show candidates. Let's talk about the real issue: who is going to be the next president? Let's face it, the Democratic primary really is the presidential race this cycle.<br />
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<a href="http://cdn.billmoyers.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/guest_sanders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.billmoyers.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/guest_sanders.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
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Bernie Sanders - Back when I graduated high school I actually thought about going to a Vermont college so he could be my senator. No joke. I even applied to Goddard and got in. Then I realized I hated cold weather, didn't care enough about ice cream to be a true Vermonter, and could go to crazy good schools in California without graduating with crippling debt. Bernie reminds me of the grandfather I wish I had (I never really knew mine--thanks a lot cancer and heart disease). He's pro education, pro universal health care, pro union, anti income gap, and pro guns....shit. I forgot about that last one. He's kinda sorta pivoted on that, because you can't really win a <a href="http://www.dailykos.com/story/2014/10/07/1334956/-If-you-re-a-Democrat-bowing-to-the-NRA-gets-you-nothing" target="_blank">Democratic primary anymore with the "from my cold dead hands" group's endorsement</a>. I adore his idealism and most of his ideals match up almost perfectly with my own. He's also a steady, measured voice of anger talking about things Americans should actually be angry about (sorry, Trump supporters, you're mad at all the wrong things). He's refusing to participate in the dark money, super pac bullshit that even Obama couldn't avoid. His stance on the importance of climate change is clear, vocal, and right on point. My congressman, Grayson, a brash firebrand that I proudly voted for, is throwing his super delegate vote Bernie's way, so he's in good company. I have a sneaking suspicion he'd pick Elizabeth Warren as his running mate and I have a <a href="http://wepartypatriots.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/elizabeth-warren.jpg" target="_blank">huuuuuuge crush on her both political and otherwise</a>. He'd also be the first openly non-Christian president (even though I think more than a few were secretly atheists/agnostic). He's 99% of the way there, but he's still another old white guy in government, even if he's on the atheist side of Jewish and progressive as hell. Any other cycle, he'd have my vote the second the polls opened, but his opponent is...<br />
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<a href="https://www.foramerica.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/hillaryclinton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://www.foramerica.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/hillaryclinton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hillary Clinton - A bad bitch icon for all bad bitches. If you've read any of my books you've probably noticed I have a deep, abiding respect for tough, power-hungry women with flaws. I'll let you in on a little secret, mostly that's come from growing up in the Post-Bill era of Clinton. I think Veronica is about 25% Hillary in the Gunfighter series: a southern girl who grew up sick of the status quo and set out to change things come hell or high water. Let's be clear here, I don't give a single, solitary fuck about Bill Clinton, where his penis has been, or what kind of president he was. I also don't give a single, solitary fuck about internal martial dynamics of other people. My marriage is none of Bill's business so I'll extend him the same courtesy. With that out of the way...HOW FUCKING CRAZY AMAZING WOULD IT BE TO HAVE THE FIRST FEMALE PRESIDENT! <a href="http://womenshistory.about.com/od/rulers20th/a/women_heads.htm" target="_blank">We're so far behind the rest of the world on this one</a>. Wanna know when Israel broke the glass ceiling for its highest office? 1969. Golda Meier died more than a decade before I was born because she was the 4th prime minister of Israel. We're picking our 45th president right now. James Madison was our 4th president for a reference on how far behind America is on the Israel standard. She's pro reproductive rights, pro telling Republicans to fuck the fuck off, strong on defense, pro racial equality, and pro evolving. Pro evolution, sure, but also pro evolving. Intransigence on positions is for some insane reason viewed as a good thing in American politics. Bush 43 was famous for refusing to change his mind no matter what new information came to light (he said this repeatedly in a bunch of ways). How fucking stupid is that? Charlie Brown keeps trying to kick the football and Lucy keeps pulling it away at the last minute...who is the idiot in that situation? Hillary learns, moves, changes, and evolves as things change. That's a good thing. Past positions are nice, but future plans based on current information are more important. Of the two options, she's the one that evolves and that's important.<br />
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Let's be clear. Regardless of who I voted for today, the other will get my vote in November if they win. The stakes are too high to stay home because my first choice wasn't the winner. It's one of the two Democrats at the top, a thousand miles of shit, and then any Republican...then a thousand more miles of shit before you get to Ted Cruz. I voted today in the primary and I encourage you to do the same if you haven't already. I'm voting for Bernie or Hillary come November regardless of who I voted for in the primary because that's what both of them promised to do no matter how this race shakes out. This election is too important to skip.<br />
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<i>Sorry NASCAR fans for the two jokes. Gotta love a race that only turns left.</i>Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-71259371787060673902016-02-29T17:45:00.001-08:002016-03-01T17:20:05.393-08:00Bathrooms...are you fucking kidding me, South Dakota?<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sooooo I'm not used to having things work this well or this fast in the realm of LGBTQ+ rights. After writing this 11th hour plea to motivate a final push of public outcry for Governor Daugaard</span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>to veto the bill, he did. Read the impassioned post if you'd like. There's a couple sexy pictures of Buck Angel and Bailey Jay, a metaphor about house spiders I'm pretty proud of, and the usual number of jokes. Or just read it to enjoy a battle we won! </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bathrooms...are you fucking kidding me, South Dakota?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://12weeksto40.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/south-dakota-demotivational-poster-1281981164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://12weeksto40.files.wordpress.com/2011/07/south-dakota-demotivational-poster-1281981164.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>And really high waisted shorts apparently</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;">I don't think much of South Dakota, which is a change for me since I used to not think much about South Dakota. But then they decided to do something really stupid, regressive, and bigoted. Before we get into that, I need to kick myself in text form because I got all excited last July (newly wed buzzed maybe?) and declared the next big fight for LGBTQ+ was going to be adoption laws! Yay! We'd moved on from...wait, what? Bathrooms? We're going to have to have a big fucking fight over bathrooms now? Oh, come on, America.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://gblpride.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/transgender-bathroom-controversy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://gblpride.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/transgender-bathroom-controversy.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Add "get arrested" to either side in South Dakota</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> South Dakota, under the despicable "we're using our children as weapons" heading of dickhead things to do, decided they were going to <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/south-dakota-passes-bill-bathrooms-transgender-students/" target="_blank">pass a law forcing trans children to use the bathroom of their birth gender</a> regardless of how much transition they may have done or how negatively doing so might impact them. And then, get this, they blamed Obama. I'm not kidding. The arguments for why they had to pass this disgusting law included blaming Obama for changing the Title IX requirements to be more trans friendly. So, since Obama did something nice for trans kids, it was up to the fuckwit Republicans in the South Dakota legislature to pass a state law to make sure trans kids never felt safe in bathrooms again...thanks, Obama.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fc/Buck_Angel_Headshot.jpg/1253px-Buck_Angel_Headshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fc/Buck_Angel_Headshot.jpg/1253px-Buck_Angel_Headshot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Welcome to the ladies room, Buck.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> It's no secret, I had a pretty shitty high school experience being a weird, Buddhist lesbian girl in a conservative school in a conservative town in a super evangelical Christian county. But, as much as it sucked and it did suck, nobody ever passed laws about where I could pee to make things even more difficult just for me. And certainly nobody in the state legislature vilified me (that I know of) as being far more dangerous than I actually am, which is to say not very. That's what South Dakota is doing to trans kids, though. Passing laws to make sure they don't....do...um...trans stuff in the wrong bathroom? That's where their "argument" really falls apart--even the people who made up the regressive, bullshit law can't really explain what might happen if a transgendered person goes into a different bathroom than the toilet assigned at birth. This is because trans people are like house spiders. Let me explain....</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i2.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/869/540/dbb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i2.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/869/540/dbb.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I have a feeling the real plan was to get Bailey Jay into the men's room.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> No matter how you feel, no matter how deep your phobias go, you are always going to be more dangerous to house spiders than they are to you. This is coming from a deeply arachnophobic lady. The worst thing that happens to you if you see a house spider is that it might touch you*. The worst thing that might happen to the spider if you see it? It gets killed. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/news/transgender-hate-crimes/" target="_blank">That's the reality for transgendered people</a>. They are far more afraid of you than you are of them because, just like with house spiders, one side has all the power and the other side gets stepped on, but you'd never know which is which based on how people (talking to you here South Dakota) behave. The similarities go on and on. The violence tends to be extremely lopsided about who actually hurts who. You're around far more of them than you're ever going to be aware of (see the two examples above if you think you can spot trans people). They're doing helpful stuff for you that you don't even know about. They tend to mind their own business better than just about anyone else, probably because people pass despicable laws about their business whenever someone hears about it. Um...they both like hats? Okay, that one might be a stretch, but you get the point--a lot of irrational fear over a group that is in far more danger than it is dangerous.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*This probably isn't true in Australia--I've seen scary videos of their house spiders</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://static.boredpanda.com/blog/wp-content/uuuploads/jumping-spider-waterdrop-hats-uda-dennie/jumping-spider-waterdrop-hats-uda-dennie-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://static.boredpanda.com/blog/wp-content/uuuploads/jumping-spider-waterdrop-hats-uda-dennie/jumping-spider-waterdrop-hats-uda-dennie-2.jpg" height="280" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's wearing a water drop hat and looking at butterflies! Ruuuuuuuun!!!</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> This is one of the things that bugs me most about South Dakota and their fear-mongering law. A version of it happened in California during the Prop 8 battle too. Using kids as a weapon as if transgendered kids, lesbian kids, and gay kids don't exist or their lives don't matter. So, ostensibly, this law will protect cis gender kids from having to pee next to transgendered kids because...it'll somehow harm them to pee next to a trans person? During the Prop 8 thing, there was actually several commercials saying <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfJEsd2rl8A" target="_blank">"You don't want to have to explain to your kids why two princesses can get married, do you?"</a> What about the little girl who wants to marry a princess? Fuck her, right? Her feelings don't matter as much as those shitty parents who would have to have a five second conversation with their kids about the existence of homosexuals! Can you imagine the horrific damage a girl might undergo if she had to sit, and pee, in a stall, next to another little girl, who changed her name!? The horror!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">The South Dakota dipshits...I mean, lawmakers, argue that it's a sex crimes thing, right? Someone is going to pretend to be transgendered to go into a bathroom and molest people. Okay, if the laws against molesting strangers don't stop someone, a ban on them using the other bathroom will? Also, if South Dakota was actually interested in fighting sex crimes, why are they among the worst offenders when it comes to <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/21/us/on-indian-reservations-higher-crime-and-fewer-prosecutions.html?_r=0" target="_blank">allowing sex offenders to use reservations to cover their crimes</a>? Imaginary sex crimes perpetrated by people pretending to be trans, they need laws for that. But actual sex crimes against indigenous people....meh, let the feds handle that. Also, in the fucked up, completely insane scenario they used to justify their bigoted law, they're punishing transgendered kids for hypothetical behavior carried out by cis-kids. "A cis boy might pretend to be trans to carry out sex crimes, so we made a law endangering trans girls!" Also, PE class and showering at school fears? What the fuck decade do these lawmakers think it is? May as well pass laws for zeppelin crash safety courses and do some <a href="http://www.mcalcio.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/duck_and_cover_fallout.gif" target="_blank">duck and cover drills</a> just to be sure.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBxhpmvwpH0GohhLRjjY_yu2cz96_Z2dBUm11qPH1Smww9BymhyyqW3PzlChDEwCru49FfVUu5BMUlSnaxm5VRIU8MhjMWMJPO5M1VW8I_ooVbc00DCkAPlfWZzKNICGPMVSm6NF_aO0/s1600/e8b13cf880a204e0639225eb6e5f7d37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBxhpmvwpH0GohhLRjjY_yu2cz96_Z2dBUm11qPH1Smww9BymhyyqW3PzlChDEwCru49FfVUu5BMUlSnaxm5VRIU8MhjMWMJPO5M1VW8I_ooVbc00DCkAPlfWZzKNICGPMVSm6NF_aO0/s320/e8b13cf880a204e0639225eb6e5f7d37.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>On a statewide level in South Dakota</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">There's not many Ts in the LGBTQ+ nation, mostly because they're a naturally small part of the population as a whole, but also because it is extremely difficult, extremely dangerous, and they have a frighteningly high rate of suicide attempts (somewhere around 41%). But when you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us, and our kids are precious to us. We've all had a hard road growing up because some frightened bigot decided our childhood needed to be harder for their comfort and insecurities and we don't want future LGBTQ+ kids to have to endure the same. Flood <a href="http://sd.gov/governor/contact.aspx" target="_blank">Governor Daugaard's office</a> with calls, messages, emails, and tweets demanding he veto the bill (if you're reading this on leap day). If tomorrow he signs the bill, we can still flood the <a href="http://legis.sd.gov/contact/" target="_blank">legislature </a>with demands for the law to be repealed and petition the <a href="https://www.aclu.org/" target="_blank">ACLU </a>to take up the cause.</span></span></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-55344716850064084452015-08-12T17:08:00.002-07:002015-08-12T17:16:33.778-07:00How Sex Isn't the Only Form of Infidelity in Relationships These Days (the funny version)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">How Sex Isn't the Only Form of Infidelity in Relationships These Days </span></div>
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(the funny version)</div>
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<a href="http://www.glasbergen.com/wp-content/gallery/marriage/mar11_0.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.glasbergen.com/wp-content/gallery/marriage/mar11_0.gif" height="320" width="231" /></a></div>
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Another blog elsewhere has a post with <a href="http://elitedaily.com/dating/sex-isnt-form-infidelity-relationships-days/1099141/" target="_blank">nearly the same title</a> talking about time infidelity being a problem in modern culture, which is true, but it wasn't as tongue in cheek as it might have been and time infidelity isn't the only kind beyond sexual facing couples in the information age.</div>
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<b>Breaking News </b>- Your significant other, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, husband, accomplice in the crime called life finds out that they are the newly appointed Czar of Awesome and the first person they call...better fucking be you! Their mom, their bestie, their dog, their third grade teacher can fall into whatever order as long as they all come after YOU. None of those other people will have nearly the investment in the success or failure of whatever the big news is. Maybe the second call too, several seconds later, to share the news again and see if it still thrills.</div>
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<b>Have you seen...? </b>- It's the Game of Thrones song, it's time for the Game of Thrones show...those are the words I made up to go with the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7L2PVdrb_8" target="_blank">Game of Thrones opening sequence</a>. Go ahead, sing them along, they fit pretty well. You're at home while your significant other is away being the Czar of Awesome, and you've DVRed Game of Thrones or some equally significant piece of pop culture. Sure you always watch it together and then talk about it, drink wine maybe, comment on how great it would be to own dragons until they ate a kid or something. They'd want you to watch it without them, right? WRONG! You've just cheated on your spouse with your DVR. When you realize this, you can either pretend like you didn't watch it and watch it again with them, but they'll see the "restart from beginning" or "resume playing" option since you know you didn't watch all the credits. Then the red wedding happens and you don't blink--they know you cheated because what sort of psycho doesn't drop a tear at that. Or you'll be on Google, desperately asking "how do I make my DVR look like I didn't watch something?" Go ahead, Google it now, cheater, it won't help you. Or you go full nuclear option, by accident or intentionally, and delete the episode and pretend like it didn't record. But your DVR knows what you did.</div>
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<a href="http://pixel.nymag.com/imgs/fashion/daily/2013/03/18/18-netflix-cheaters.o.jpg/a_4x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://pixel.nymag.com/imgs/fashion/daily/2013/03/18/18-netflix-cheaters.o.jpg/a_4x.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a><b>Binged and Splurged </b>- Netflix, HBO
Go, Showtime on Demand, Hulu, Amazon TV, whatever Starz is doing these
days all allow you to race through a show like you've got nothing to do
and a comfy couch, which is exactly your situation so the show you
promised to watch together, you watched on Sunday, all of it, three
season, by yourself...woops. Netflix is a sexy mistress, just like your
DVR, and she knows you're going to watch the next episode even if you're not sure yet. She'll even
count it down: next episode starts in 19, 18, 17, you naughty thing you.
<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/22/apartment-23-canceled-dont-trust-the-b_n_2528858.html" target="_blank">Don't Trust the B</a> and <a href="http://tvseriesfinale.com/tv-show/better-off-ted-abc-tv-show-cancelled-no-season-three/" target="_blank">Better Off Ted</a> didn't last long for me, but I
came clean, I swear! ...after I was almost done with season 2...of both.
Not my fault, they were canceled too soon. If there were more
seasons...I probably would have binged those too. Or, again, you can try
to lie, watch and pretend like you don't know what's going to happen.
Your significant other doesn't know the difference between your real
laugh and a fake laugh, right? Guess you'll find out after your <a href="http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/05/netflix-adultery-afflicts-half-of-relationships.html" target="_blank">Neflix adultery</a>.</div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>Do we have any more...?</b> - What are the rules for the last delicious whatever in the kitchen when it comes to you and your significant other? My wife and I do a dance, an avoi-dance if you will, where we both try to out polite each other in insisting the other person takes the last Oreo or shandy or whatever incredible thing we only have one left of even though we secretly both want to swipe it and run away laughing at the amazinginess we will enjoy all by ourselves. But what if your significant other isn't looking and doesn't know there's only one left? What if you just pop it in your mouth, turn quickly and walk to a private corner of the house to chew, savor, and make mmmmmmm noises? Surely that's not cheating, right? You wouldn't cheat with food, would you? Even though <a href="http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/cc/70/7b/cc707b81c262a9e042c5cff53b4398cc.jpg" target="_blank">food is sexy sometimes</a>, tasty, doesn't judge, and...of course you'd cheat with food! Food is fucking amazing! You'd cheat with food, walk back into the room with Oreo crumbs still in your teeth and tell your partner, "No, I think you finished those last night."</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/09/08/article-2200185-0889F75A000005DC-745_468x286.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/09/08/article-2200185-0889F75A000005DC-745_468x286.jpg" height="195" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Can't even tell...from behind.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Nooooo...you're good </b>- But she's not good, is she? She's got kale in her teeth and that shirt is horrible and really, crocs? Is she going to work in a kitchen later? But you're already late and it'd be awkward, and you just want to get going already. Noooooo...you're good, let's go. We trust our partners to have our backs when it comes to not looking like dumb asses. Your significant other can brush stuff off your face without being socially unacceptable about it (try it with strangers, it isn't appreciated). And they can also gently remind you <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.com/fashion/trends/g3494/pieces-that-make-you-look-dated/" target="_blank">harem pants and a cowl neck sweater</a> wasn't even that good of an idea when it was a thing other people were doing. But if you don't tell them, if you let them walk out into the world of judging eyes and acute fashion senses, you leave them open to typically silent ridicule and disgust from people who aren't in a position to tell them they still have the better part of a salad flapping between their incisors.<br />
<br />
<b>Under the bus you go</b> - There are a lot of ways you can throw your partner under the bus. Last Halloween you were going to go as Batman and Robin. Weird. Okay, but whatever. She went along with it. Then you change your mind and show up to the party dressed as a classy spy, and she's there dressed as boy wonder, which wasn't going to make a whole lot of sense in the first place, but makes NO sense without Batman. Glad she looks good in those short shorts.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ljulq2CWCO1qiozwzo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ljulq2CWCO1qiozwzo1_500.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You realized: Oh, yeah, Batman has muscles and I don't</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Or you don't want to go to Janice's thing on Saturday. It's going to be boring and Todd will be there. Fucking Todd with his jokes about digital cameras that nobody gets. So your partner has cramps. Those mega cramps from the worst day and heavy flow. Or she's got a thing, and you'd totally like to bail on her boring thing, but you're in a relationship. What can you do but follow your significant other to whatever lame-o thing she's got on Saturday. Sorry, Janice, you know how it is with those art/music/funeral/etc things.<br />
<br />
Then you share, or over share maybe, an embarrassing moment. But not YOUR embarrassing moment, that'd suck. You share HER embarrassing moment. You were kayaking on vacation in Hawaii, she started getting sea sick, and you turn around just in time to see her feed the fishes with that morning's breakfast. People on the beach gasp, a few kids sprint out of the water, and since it was kind of a small resort, she's known as the chunk blowing kayaker for the rest of the vacation by everyone you see. It was funny when you two were reminiscing about it last night <a href="http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/category/photos/vacation/" target="_blank">while looking through pictures</a>, just the two of you, so why not share the story at the art/music/funeral/etc? Because your significant other doesn't belong under a bus, that's why.<br />
<br />
At the heart of infidelity is a breach of trust. Trust in a modern relationship covers a lot of ground. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to figure out a way to hide the fact that I accidentally (on purpose) lost my wife's horrible old running shoes in the neighbor's garbage can.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-49406224003429367042015-07-17T15:58:00.000-07:002015-07-17T15:58:35.755-07:00Crushing It<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://memecrunch.com/meme/3T0AH/fat-amy-crushed-it/image.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://memecrunch.com/meme/3T0AH/fat-amy-crushed-it/image.png" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Damn right, Amy</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I had a post in mind for this month. It was going to start out all cutesy about how we won on marriage equality and now we can all relax, and then I was going to launch into a rallying cry to get back on the legislative firing line and push for equal employment protection for LGBTQ+ across all 50 states...and then the <a href="http://www.businessinsurance.com/article/20150717/NEWS06/150719848/eeoc-rules-workplace-sexual-orientation-discrimination-illegal" target="_blank">EEOC did that already</a>. Thanks for sucking the wind out of my sales Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. That's fine. I'll shake it off. We've got other stuff to work on. Let me look down the increasingly checked off list for equal rights...<br />
<br />
We're not done, but we're quickly coming to the end of the equality that can be accomplished through the legal and legislative processes. As any other minority group can tell you, that's not nearly the end of it in this country--see the <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/post-politics/wp/2015/07/16/obama-greeted-by-protesters-waving-confederate-flags-in-oklahoma/" target="_blank">disrespect for America's first black President</a> for notes on how the cultural side can lag behind the legal. The cultural discriminatory bullshit facing the LGBTQ+ community is far from settled, even though <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/tv/caitlyn-jenner-supporters-speak-espys-red-carpet-article-1.2293623" target="_blank">Caitlyn Jenner won an ESPY</a>, which is a cool step in the right direction. Big congratulations to her.<br />
<br />
Marriage equality across all 50 states in one step is amazing. No longer do we have to worry if a slightly higher court than the last one will take the right away in your state (or the voters in some cases), or if you get married in one state you might not be married in the state you actually live, and what if you travel to another state...how married are you there? Better look that up before you book the flight. By the way, all of these were actual concerns for Nikki and I because of when we lived in California, how long we've lived in Florida, and the various places around the country we've traveled as of late. It just didn't feel like marriage before. We couldn't get married in California when we were in college because we missed the window. A few years after that we could in California, but we'd moved to Florida by then, and Florida wasn't going to uphold a California marriage unless it fit Florida's version of one man and one woman. Then Florida said we could get married, but hold on, our very conservative governor and state attorney general were fighting that ruling tooth and nail, so if we did get married, who knows if it even would have stayed legal. But that's not the worst of it because any state we have to drive through to get out of Florida wouldn't recognize the marriage, and that was true for about two thousand miles in any direction--hope there's no car accidents along the way that would require hospital visitation rights because you're not going to have those in Alabama!<br />
<br />
Now that it's real, can't be taken away, and isn't dependent on what state you're in or driving through, Nikki and I have been married, which is good, because we we're bordering on common law at this point anyway. Based on certain family complications and some of our personal history, we did it in our own way, on our own time table, and we did it entirely for us--so don't expect a Kardashian-esque E! special on our big day. Then we went on a cruise and it all felt suddenly very real.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.customweddingcaketopper.ca/wp-content/uploads/Custom-Wedding-Cake-Toppers-Corpse-Bride-inspiration-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.customweddingcaketopper.ca/wp-content/uploads/Custom-Wedding-Cake-Toppers-Corpse-Bride-inspiration-2.jpg" height="320" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I tried to talk her into the two Corpse Brides topper, but she wasn't going for it.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When we got back from the cruise, we still had to worry about when and where she wore her wedding ring, who we told, and how much exposure she personally had since she still has a job with a boss who didn't seem all that happy about the marriage equality ruling.<br />
<br />
Why should that matter? Well, up until Wednesday, it would have been legal for Nikki's boss to see the wedding ring, ask her husband's name (my <i>wife's</i> name is Cassandra, thank you very much), ah, well, you're fired, ya big lesbo! <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/30/fired-for-being-gay_n_6076492.html" target="_blank">And that would have been completely legal in Florida</a>. Being a freelance writer, and one that writes almost exclusively for lesbian publications, that was never a concern for me--I'm pretty sure all my editors and publishers know I'm super-duper, rainbows flying out my eyes and ears kind of gay, and it doesn't bother them. Nikki didn't have that luxury. No wedding photos on her desk, no conversations about her honeymoon at the workplace, just silence, lots and lots of silence because we live in a state where firing someone for being gay is completely legal. At least, it was. Then Wednesday happened and the EEOC didn't just say LGBTQ+ had federal protections, we'd ALWAYS had them. So now, if Nikki's boss fires her for having an adorable wife instead of a strapping husband, we can literally make a federal fucking case of it.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPcOSSqsy834ixhRZWUDC2jLQtmtt8z1FixgKeX8puW6qX-QFfxl6h_x-hbxyc_ayE1nekewvzv96VWayLrLqFTXmvTkSBFyWy1digGb_SzotqzlDFyKPzQQ4Ds4hyDBO76N0bDFTAY1U/s1600/Oenda2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPcOSSqsy834ixhRZWUDC2jLQtmtt8z1FixgKeX8puW6qX-QFfxl6h_x-hbxyc_ayE1nekewvzv96VWayLrLqFTXmvTkSBFyWy1digGb_SzotqzlDFyKPzQQ4Ds4hyDBO76N0bDFTAY1U/s1600/Oenda2.png" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Let's just go ahead and bring those 29 states into the modern era.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I can hear what you're saying, even through the internet and miles of distance, but hold onto your epic happy dances for the moment, because we're not done yet. Culturally, who knows how long it'll take us to reach some semblance of equality and respect. Ask any black, Hispanic, Asian, female, or other cultural minority of any kind how long it took them to reach equal cultural relevance and they'll tell you, "Not sure, but we'll let you know if it ever happens for us." What can we do to keep moving that forward? Pretty much what we've been doing. Support LGBTQ+ cultural contributions: TV shows, movies, books, comics, magazines, etc. to keep the voices relevant and contributing. Vote for allies at all levels of government. Come out. Speak up. Be heard.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/2d/9d/85/2d9d85da429c1f9a094a6bbc129593e1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/2d/9d/85/2d9d85da429c1f9a094a6bbc129593e1.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Or for our generation, continue to fight!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What's left legally, though? Not a whole lot, but what's left is important. The next big fight, the next hurdle to true equality that needs to take place, the next victory we have to win is getting rid of the adoption discrimination laws. You can check out <a href="http://www.lifelongadoptions.com/lgbt-adoption-resources/lgbt-adoption-laws" target="_blank">this website </a>for the specifics on which states ban same sex couples from adopting. Suffice it to say, the map looks very similar to the maps of other LGBTQ+ discrimination laws for marriage, hate crimes, and employment protections. Specifically<a href="http://www.dailydot.com/politics/michigan-lgbt-adoption-ban/" target="_blank"> Michigan very recently added new discrimination laws to ban LGBTQ+ couples from adopting or fostering.</a><br />
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Many lesbian couples have the option to have biological children fairly easily--all we need is a male friend with functional sperm and a willingness to sign a contract even though there were hitches for Bette and Tina and the Fosters. Or we can just google "nearest sperm bank" if we don't feel like having that awkward conversation with a close friend. Not all women have that kind of fertility, though, and it gets significantly more difficult and expensive for our gay brothers in this fight who often have to come up with eggs and surrogates and what not (enough to buy a new house kind of expensive sometimes). More to the point, there are plenty of people in the LGBTQ+ community who could have biological children but they're more interested in providing good homes and loving parents to children who need them and would rather adopt or foster children because they're fantastically giving people.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.imgur.com/8dQc0.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/8dQc0.gif" height="173" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Full disclosure, I have no idea if this is how donating sperm actually works, but it seems wrong.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Next fight up on the block--equal protections for adoption and foster care for LGBTQ+ individuals and couples. You can learn more about what can be done from <a href="http://www.hrc.org/state_maps" target="_blank">Human Rights Campaign</a> and what states need the most work. I caught flack for this on my last blog, and to be honest, I don't give a tenpenny fuck if I insulted then or continue to insult now conservatives and Republicans within our community or at large. We need to vote in allies at all levels of government and those allies are almost always going to be from liberal parties like Democratic or Green. Legislatures make laws at the state levels and governors sign them, so it's pretty obvious why the states that discriminate are the states run by Republicans. Vote against them, tell them your rights and the rights of the LGBTQ+ community are a top voting issue for you, and more of them will back away from the topic or switch sides on the issue entirely. It has happened and we can continue to make it happen but only if we apply pressure.<br />
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There are children that need homes, LGBTQ+ people wanting to adopt, and the only thing standing between them in many cases are bigots in state houses who think their bigoted base is more important than equality. The best way to prove them wrong is to vote them out.<br /><br />Stand up and continue to fight!Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-35962527726941501512015-04-26T19:49:00.001-07:002015-04-26T19:51:18.573-07:00Trans Political Partnership (the other TPP)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://sasaki.tesio.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/no_tpp1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://sasaki.tesio.net/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/no_tpp1.gif" height="226" width="320" /></a></div>
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The title of this post is a bad, political wonk double entendre about a trade partnership that...I just realized anyone who doesn't already know what TPP is probably won't care and explaining a joke never made it funnier. Moving on.<br />
<br />
Bruce Jenner recently <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2015/04/25/politics/bruce-jenner-diane-sawyer-transgender-lgbt-republican-conservative/" target="_blank">came out as trasngender</a> in an interview with Diane Sawyer. I'm going to stick with Bruce and male pronouns for this post because to my knowledge he hasn't stated a new name he'd prefer and hasn't specified his pronoun preference. If and when he does, I'll put an addendum on this post, if I'm still paying attention to the story, which I might not be.<br />
<br />
For the most part, this is happy news. Someone who felt compelled to hide who they were was finally ready to publicly be themselves. And, the news around it has been largely positive. <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/bruce-jenner-told-children-transition/story?id=30571029" target="_blank">Bruce's children seem mostly supportive</a>. The media's reaction ranges from vague interest to support (a far cry from what would probably have happened if he'd made his transition public in the 1980s when he first attempted the change). Even his ex-wife, the notoriously unpleasant Kris Jenner, has been pretty cool about the whole thing. Aside from former step son-in-law Kris Humphries posting an <a href="http://www.yardbarker.com/nba/articles/kris_humphries_apologizes_for_bruce_jenner_tweet/18685106?linksrc=story_team_florida_panthers_right_image_18685106" target="_blank">asinine tweet that he immediately regretted and apologized for</a>, this looked from the outside like a very smooth coming out story.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.cdn.turner.com/si/multimedia/photo_gallery/0807/all.time.greatest.summer.olympians/images/cut.bruce_jenner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://i.cdn.turner.com/si/multimedia/photo_gallery/0807/all.time.greatest.summer.olympians/images/cut.bruce_jenner.jpg" height="320" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>He added a gold medal in coming out to his collection</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Yay, so we can all move on. Bruce can transition with the support of friends and family. We can be glad society has become far more tolerant of transgender people in the last 30 years. End of story. Except, no, he kept talking and came out again. This time as Republican.<br />
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I've made no bones about not comprehending LGBTQ+ people who swing to the right politically. It seems a little like mice advocating for cats or fire saying it's really water deep down. Why would people openly identify with a group that is actively trying to destroy them? And before you say, "Destroy? Really, Cassandra? They just don't want to bake gay wedding cakes." Yes, <a href="http://www.inquisitr.com/1957768/california-kill-gays-initiative/" target="_blank">destroy</a>, really.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://jokideo.com/wp-content/uploads/meme/2014/05/Funny-cat-and-mouse-cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://jokideo.com/wp-content/uploads/meme/2014/05/Funny-cat-and-mouse-cartoon.jpg" height="320" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The mouse only thinks they can get along</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Believe me, I get that a person is a sum of many parts, and those parts don't always have to fit together with the other parts to make sense to everyone else. Just because Bruce is transgender doesn't mean that defines who he is in every respect. Also, being LGBTQ+, the perennial underdogs in most conflicts, doesn't mean we're all saints who wouldn't betray our own allies. Dick Cheney has a lesbian daughter, who is as big of a right wing shithead as he is as <a href="http://www.gaystarnews.com/article/dan-savage-takes-gay-marriage-dispute-between-cheney-sisters241113" target="_blank">Dan Savage pointed out</a> awhile back. Not that Dan Savage doesn't have his own issues with the bisexual and transgender parts of the LGBTQ+ alliance. Then there are the entirely baffling Log Cabin Republicans...more on them later.<br />
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Bruce went on in the interview to say he wasn't a fan of Obama (despite the president recently saying transgender people needed better legal protections) and that Jenner thought John Boehner and Mitch McConnel (Republican speaker of the house and senate majority leader respectively) would be receptive to listening to him about transgender rights legislation, which is about the time I rolled my eyes so hard that I sprained my sardonic muscles.<br />
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<a href="http://cdn.mamamia.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/Liz-Lemon-Eye-Roll-and-Exhale-30-Rock.gif" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.mamamia.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/Liz-Lemon-Eye-Roll-and-Exhale-30-Rock.gif" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
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I could list all the ways in which Republican leadership, not the fringe lunatics barking at their rabid followers on AM radio and blogs, but the people who are in actual positions of power in the party and the country, have attacked the LGBTQ+ community. But then this blog post would turn into a long, gross book about Republican bigotry. Let's just look at this week, shall we. The Republican controlled house (speaker John Beohner) just <a href="http://www.occupydemocrats.com/its-going-national-republican-congress-strips-women-and-gays-of-rights-under-guise-of-religious-freedom/" target="_blank">repealed the Human Rights Amendment Act</a> to allow discrimination against LGBTQ+ people in schools. The Senate (majority leader Mitch McConnel) already has similar bills in progress and is eager to move forward with what the house has passed. The repeal won't make it through the senate (because Democrats have sworn to filibuster it), but even if it did, Obama said he'd veto it.<br />
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Do you see the problem in Bruce Jenner's thinking? He's not a fan of Obama (the guy who swore to safeguard his already flimsy legal protections) and he thinks the two guys who are voting to remove one of the only protections LGBTQ+ people have would be receptive to hearing ideas on expanding the protections they're currently trying to get rid of. I think spending so much time with so many Kardashians may have permanently severed Bruce's connection to reality.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.cottenkandi.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Kim-Kardashian-Crazy-Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.cottenkandi.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Kim-Kardashian-Crazy-Face.jpg" height="320" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Reality TV is my reality!"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Log Cabin Republicans were thrilled to death about Jenner's comments. They couldn't agree more. For those of you who haven't heard of the group, they're the gay Republican organization that doesn't have a seat at basically any of the GOP major conventions and who have never successfully donated money to a Republican president's re-election campaign because no Republican president would accept money from gay people. Let me say that again--Republican politicians turned down free money because it came from gay people. In a political party where money = speech/influence and is viewed nearly as valuable to continued existence as air and water, gay people can't even buy a voice with a group who is for sale to anyone with a checkbook.<br />
<br />
I'm happy for Bruce Jenner. I'm glad he's finally becoming the person he always felt he should be. But when it comes to the fight for equality in treatment, rights, and protections for the LGBT+ community, he needs to get a fucking clue.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i1.sndcdn.com/artworks-000071408084-7vmb0r-t500x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://i1.sndcdn.com/artworks-000071408084-7vmb0r-t500x500.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Or a raging clue, whatever.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I wonder what he's going to say when he realizes he's also giving up his hetero male privilege. He probably thinks his Republican buddies will be interested in hearing what he has to say about the rights of a transgender woman who likes sleeping with other women.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-74462898194414320072015-01-20T12:52:00.000-08:002015-01-20T12:52:06.859-08:00Ravens From the Ashes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMgJ9yWKMYTUc8R49nFG4AUKoYwy3LOWONUn7AcWjA6LQ6GqhemR4nAEawkKyPb9uL6FCgwBGyfsWYQOHk_pgzf1FCwvLPol1g9IVatnHlqBBtOvkCmLjO6hI5blwZA7Elh34yrmkB4I/s1600/RFTA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUMgJ9yWKMYTUc8R49nFG4AUKoYwy3LOWONUn7AcWjA6LQ6GqhemR4nAEawkKyPb9uL6FCgwBGyfsWYQOHk_pgzf1FCwvLPol1g9IVatnHlqBBtOvkCmLjO6hI5blwZA7Elh34yrmkB4I/s1600/RFTA.jpg" height="400" width="262" /></a></div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Ravens From the Ashes</span></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">From the Ashes Trilogy: Book 1</span></span> </span></h3>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love thinking about the apocalypse. Zombies, nuclear war, alien invasions, global warming, whatever, it's all fun to think about. But, like most people who like thinking about the apocalypse, I like it only as a concept. Let's face it, I'd be totally fucked if society really did fall. I'm an indoor kitty cat who doesn't even like camping. Still, it's fun to think about from the social standpoint of what might happen to all sorts of people if society's rules were suddenly gone and challenges that nobody has ever faced before popped up...even if my fate would be to immediately get eaten by zombies because I suck at climbing trees. So it should come as no surprise that I write a lot of post-apocalyptic books, but this is my first book outlining the fall of humanity.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This book was supposed to be a prequel to the Ravens Ladies series, and then I decided it was going to be a prequel trilogy...prilogy...triquel...pretriquelogy...I'm really close to making up a word for that. This caused problems, none of which are particularly important now, but it delayed the release of the book by about a year, which suuuuuuucked. The result, however, is the first book I've actually had complete creative control over. A first for me. So if you're wanting to see exactly what my vision of a paperback is, you should spring for the hard copy since it's exactly what I wanted in a book.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've also been toying with the idea of books with soundtracks. Movies get them, TV shows get them, and holidays get them, so why not books? Nikki and I sat down while we were working on proof copies (sorry, dear readers, but the love of my life does get to read all my books way before anyone else) and came up with a soundtrack for Ravens From the Ashes. If you want to listen to the music we decided should be the backdrop for the book, check it out on Spotify: <a href="https://play.spotify.com/user/lizzydark/playlist/4ls8Mxj6xAu4w3GmwrCTtI" target="_blank">Ravens From the Ashes Soundtrack</a>. If you've got music you think would work for the book and would like to add to it, feel free to post your personalized soundtracks for this (or any of my books if you want to) in the comments section. Also consider buying songs/albums/merch or go to a concert for any of the musicians on the soundtrack--I only picked songs I've personally paid for and several musicians I've gone to concerts to see.<br /><br />Here it is, lovely readers, the first book of the origin story trilogy for Fiona Bishop aka the Gunfighter, Veronica Vegas aka the White Queen, and the Raven Ladies. It's available in all formats through the links below, and heck, I'll throw in the first chapter right now to get you started.<br /></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ravens-Ashes-Trilogy-Book-ebook/dp/B00R0PCGYQ/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Kindle</a> -- <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ravens-from-the-ashes-cassandra-duffy/1120912331?ean=2940149908189&itm=1&usri=2940149908189" target="_blank">Nook</a> -- <a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/ravens-from-the-ashes" target="_blank">Kobo</a> -- <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ravens-From-Ashes-Volume-1/dp/1503345041/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank">Paperback</a></span></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span>ONE</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>Drip, drip, drip, drip</i>. Fiona awoke to the familiar
sound of the coffeepot finishing its run. Her head felt like it was full of wet
cement when she dragged it from her pillow. Were the coffeepot not automated,
she doubted it would ever make coffee before noon.
She didn’t actually know if either assumption was true for that morning.
Daylight streamed in through the Venetian blinds on her bedroom window that
overlooked the top of King Street.
Her cell phone wasn’t on the nightstand so telling time wasn’t an option until
she went into the kitchen to look at the microwave.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">She stumbled from bed, found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt
among the scattering of clothes on the floor, and wandered out the open bedroom
door into the rest of her West Hollywood condo. The
coffeepot had filled the living room, kitchen, and dining room with the lovely
scent of freshly brewed coffee. Fiona glanced at the sleeping form on her couch
on her way past.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Sharon, get the
fuck off my couch and out of my apartment,” Fiona snarled at her mother on the
way past. The bleached blond, comatose figure on the couch barely stirred at
the order barked at her. Fiona nearly stumbled over a pair of daringly high
wedge heels on her way into the kitchen. “And pick up your hooker shoes before
I break my neck.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A glance at the microwave mounted above the never-used stove
told her that she’d awoken at 10:32 AM.
Not bad considering her night ended on the barely light side of dawn. She stood
in front of the coffeepot a moment before she remembered what she was doing. A
white mug sat next to the white appliance. Most of the things in Fiona’s
apartment were white, not for any vision of décor, but because she didn’t like
trying to figure out complimentary colors and nothing in her apartment was ever
used enough to show dirt even on white surfaces. She poured coffee into the mug
and considered its existence. Her mother clearly hadn’t made the coffee, and
even if she had, she wouldn’t have set out a mug for her daughter.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The coffee mixed poorly with the tequila film coating the
inside of Fiona’s mouth left over from the night before. She spit the coffee
into the sink and dipped her head under the tap to run the faucet over her
mouth to suck in a few mouthfuls. She swished the water around and spit it into
the sink before returning to her coffee.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Don’t drink from the tap like some stupid animal,” her
mother croaked from the couch. “There’s bottled water in the fridge. Besides, there
are chemicals in tap water.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It wasn’t even funny how many chemicals Sharon
willingly ingested in the form of drugs, paid to have pumped into her face by
plastic surgeons, and poured over her head to turn her red hair platinum blond,
but her daughter was supposed to un-ironically beware tap water chemicals. “I
told you to take your hooker shoes and get out.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona’s mother rose from the couch like a herky-jerky zombie.
She glanced at the shoes mentioned as she staggered toward the hallway and the
bathroom door. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?” she said. “And those
aren’t mine.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You were telling people you were my sister last night.”
Fiona sipped her coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug to absorb the
warmth along with the caffeine. She took a harder look at the shoes. Upon
closer inspection, they were real Jimmy Choos, which were well out of her
mother’s price range or fashion savvy.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“There’s someone taking a shower,” her mother said on the way
back through toward Fiona’s master bedroom and the other bathroom.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I told you to get out,” Fiona said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The shoes must belong to whoever was in the bathroom, the
same someone who made the coffee and set out the mug. That made more sense than
the automated timer making the coffee. Fiona rarely remembered to set up the pot
the night before—automatic didn’t mean the coffeepot would fill itself with a
fresh filter, coffee grounds, and water. Fiona hated to admit, even to herself,
that she’d thought that’s what automatic meant when she bought it.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You need to be in Las Vegas
by 7 PM,” her mother said. “Do you
want me to drive you? We could have a girl’s weekend.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You mean you can snort all my coke and dance with frat boys
while I work? Fuck off, Sharon.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You can’t drive anymore. How else are you going to get
there?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Stripper flight out of Burbank.”
Supremely sought-after strippers and porn stars or sometimes struggling models
and actresses, would fly from Burbank
airport to Vegas for the weekend on cheap flights to dance in the high-end
strip clubs of Las Vegas, earning
five figures in two nights. Fiona never did the dancing part, but she’d taken
the flights before because they were filled with beautiful women who smelled
heavenly and appreciated the professional courtesy of not pestering one
another. After Fiona stabbed a paparazzi guy in the mouth with a pen knife
outside LAX a couple years ago, she wasn’t eager to use the L.A.
hub again and she really didn’t want anyone recognizing her.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“How are you going to get to the airport?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Whoever is in the shower can give me a ride.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Maybe it’s a him in the shower and he was my date.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona rolled her eyes. “Not likely. My television is still
here instead of at an Echo Park
pawnshop sold for meth money and those are women’s shoes on the floor. You’re
not coming to Vegas with me.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Fine, can I at least have the Camaro since you can’t drive
it?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Chaos tic.” Fiona looked down meaningfully to the steaming
cup of coffee in her hands.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Whatever, I’m gone.” Fiona’s mother comported herself and
walked out of the condo with all the grace and dignity that a hung-over
hanger-on could muster.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona returned to sipping her coffee. She hadn’t really had a
chaos tic that demanded she throw the hot coffee in her mother’s face, but
she’d indulged so many of her psychotic tendencies lately that it was a potent
threat even as a lie. Only a handful of people even knew of Fiona’s particular
mental affliction that required her to do most of the insane things that popped
into her head; thankfully, her mother didn’t know her well enough to know when
she was bluffing.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A dainty figure wrapped in a towel emerged from the hallway.
Her dark brown, shoulder length hair was still wet from the shower and her face
had the attractive, freshly scrubbed glow that Fiona adored. Fiona knew the
woman, although she couldn’t remember how they’d met or what her name was.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“What’s a chaos tic?” the woman asked with a twinkle in her
dark brown eyes.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You know those weird urges you get in everyday situations
where you feel like doing something socially unacceptable like spitting in
someone’s face for no reason, or shoving a stranger off a curb, or whatever?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Yeah, everyone gets those.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I call them chaos tics,” Fiona said, “and my mother knows I
either can’t or won’t ignore them.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Good term for something I didn’t know had a name.” The woman
kicked her shoes out of the high traffic area between the bedroom and the
kitchen. She leaned against the divider wall alongside the kitchen island.
“How’s the coffee?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Good, thank you.” Fiona liked that the woman had kicked her
own thousand dollar shoes as if they were five dollar flip-flops just because
Fiona wanted them out of her way. Pliable was good, but being instinctively
aware that Fiona’s feelings were far more important than shoes of any price
range was great. It kept her calm when people picked up on her desires, however
small, without her having to ask for something, and calm kept her from lashing
out.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“The shower is all yours if you want.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Thanks, I could use one.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You have no idea who I am, do you?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I want to say Kelly,” Fiona said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Right so far. I work for you.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“As an…accountant?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Lawyer.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“My lawyer is a large, hairy Jewish gentleman with unpleasant
breath and a weightlifter’s body,” Fiona said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“That’s your criminal lawyer. I’m an entertainment industry
lawyer.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Oh, right, the fucking TV show thing.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You’ll be the next host of ‘Model Behavior’ by the end of
the month if I have anything to say about it,” Kelly said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Normally inking a reality television show contract wouldn’t
require a lawyer since she already had an entertainment industry agent, but
Fiona had some legal baggage that necessitated a specialist, chiefly because of
the mouth-stabbing incident at LAX and the suspended drivers license from two
DUIs. Truthfully, Fiona didn’t even want the show—playing the mentor figure to
a gaggle of bitchy wannabe models sounded like a shit job to her. They drove
the metaphorical dump truck full of money into her living room, and she got
over her trepidation.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Did we sleep together?” Fiona asked.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You fell asleep while I was going down on you.” Kelly
cracked a smile that made Fiona flinch inwardly.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I swear that’s not my best move.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I would hope not,” Kelly said. “Did you need me to give you
a ride to the airport?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I’m driving to Vegas. I just didn’t want Sharon
knowing.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Kelly gave her a suspicious look. “I thought your license was
suspended.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona leaned forward against the countertop between them. She
smiled sweetly, letting a few strands of her red hair fall across her face. A
little fidgeting with the handle of her coffee mug gave off the sense of
nervousness she didn’t really feel. When she glanced up from the demure tilt of
her head, she saw in Kelly’s eyes that her coy routine had done its work.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You could come with me, if you want,” Fiona said shyly. “Give
me a chance to make up for last night.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“You’re not planning on hooking up a bunch when you’re in
Vegas?” Kelly asked. A light touch of pink warmed the curves of her cheeks and
the top of her neck.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I am,” Fiona said, letting a tiny pause pass, “with you.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I suppose I can take a weekend off,” Kelly said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“We can swing by your place on the way out of town to pick up
your slinkiest party dress and skimpiest bikini,” Fiona said with a smile.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">♠ ♣ ♥ ♦</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">After a quick stop off at Kelly’s Culver
City apartment, they were on their way down the 10
heading east toward Vegas. Fiona’s lead foot didn’t know or care about
suspended licenses or speed limits. She’d purchased the highest of high-end
Camaros for the express purpose of feeling every single horse the car had under
the hood whenever she so much as twitched a toe against the accelerator.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Silver and black Camaro ZL1,” Kelly said. “Something like
580 horsepower?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Something like that,” Fiona said, not really knowing the
exact numbers. Long Beach
motor-head butches certainly seemed to like her ride whenever Fiona ventured
down that way for an edgier date than she could get in West
Hollywood. She hadn’t pegged Kelly as the type to know more about
her car than her, although it was definitely a point in the lawyer’s favor.
Fiona was a sucker for fast cars and fast women who knew cars.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Am I going to get to drive it?” Kelly asked.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona downshifted to fourth, slammed the gas pedal, and shot
around a slow-moving BMW. The car roared and jumped forward under her expert
direction. Fiona liked to think her car wanted to go fast as much as she did.
The Camaro understood her self-destructive streak because it had one too. They
were both built to someday end up wrapped around a telephone pole—it was in
their blood and motor oil. Burnouts that fell short of anything worthwhile in
life like Sharon and sweet girls with people-pleasing streaks like Kelly
couldn’t understand the need to ride the edge of imminent destruction.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Maybe,” Fiona said, reconsidering her estimation of Kelly.
Anyone who would go to Vegas with her for a weekend must have some nihilistic
tendencies.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">They merged onto the 15 toward Barstow
with the early afternoon sun beating down on the worn California
highway. Kelly kept herself busy messing with the air conditioning on her side,
answering emails on her Blackberry, and searching through Fiona’s iPod for
tolerable music. Fiona couldn’t tell if her lawyer was nervous or just
self-contained.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“So what exactly are you doing in Vegas?” Kelly finally asked
when she’d run out of busy work.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“There’s a runway thing and a photo shoot,” Fiona said. “I
usually just skim the emails enough to know where and when something is
happening. Details aren’t my thing. It doesn’t matter since they usually let me
know what’s going on when I get there.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Is your agent okay with that attitude?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona shrugged. “Don’t know; don’t care.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I saw that you packed something of a treasure trove of pills
and other chemical refreshments,” Kelly said. “Are you really going to go
through it all in one weekend?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona glanced over, hoping to judge Kelly’s intentions, but
ended up fixating on the top of her silk blouse where the blasting air
conditioner vent was fluttering the gauzy material across her cleavage. She was
tan, her breasts were exquisite, and Fiona couldn’t think of anything beyond wondering
what color Kelly’s bra was. There was little doubt Kelly’s breasts were the
work of a surgeon and not genetics, but that had never bothered Fiona. A person
in Los Angeles would kill their
hookup chances if they excluded the surgically enhanced.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Um…sure, maybe, do you have a weapon of choice against
unsuspecting brain cells?” Fiona asked.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“No, I’m the squeaky clean type, maybe a little pot in
college,” Kelly said. “It just made me think of <i>Fear and Loathing in Las
Vegas</i>. The talent and her lawyer driving from Los
Angeles to Las Vegas
with a trunk full of illicit drugs.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I don’t know what that is,” Fiona said. Even if Fiona wasn’t
entirely distracted by the luscious view of Kelly’s cleavage, none of what
she’d just said rang a bell.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“The Hunter S. Thompson book?” Kelly asked hopefully.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona shrugged. “It sounds interesting, but like I said, I’m
a skimmer not a reader.”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“They also made it into a movie, twice actually,” Kelly said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">As the 15 seamlessly turned into the 515 at Barstow
and they dipped into the true desert of eastern California,
Fiona began to suspect she was losing Kelly. The truth was Fiona didn’t think
of herself as a very interesting person. She didn’t read, didn’t care about
politics or causes, and she didn’t even watch TV or movies all that often.
Anything that required a quiet mind to enjoy made her skin crawl. She worked
hard and partied twice as hard in the hope that the next adrenaline rush or fix
would satisfy her long enough to sleep for a few hours before she would have to
get up and start hunting for the next jolt. Kelly was interesting, though. She’d
gone to college. She’d read things. She knew things that connected to other
things she knew in ways that made her seem smart and worldly when she spoke.
She probably even knew exactly why she was going where she was going for work.
In comparison Fiona was empty, beautiful to look at, but vacant in almost every
conceivable way. When faced with that level of disparity in overall value as a
human being, Fiona did what she always did.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Let’s play a game,” Fiona said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Like twenty questions or something?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Yeah, but strip twenty questions,” Fiona said.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Okay. You think of something first.”</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona could tell from the upward trill in Kelly’s voice that
she was excited by the prospect and probably more than a little nervous. That’s
what Fiona needed: to feel as though she’d regained the upper hand despite how
inferior she really was to Kelly.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">By the time Vegas rose out of the desert like an unholy
abomination cobbling together a dozen cities from around the world into one,
Fiona and Kelly were both mostly undressed and practically thrumming with
sexual frustration. The bra Fiona finally got to see cupping Kelly’s breasts so
perfectly was maroon with little lace flowers. It was as satisfying of an
answer as she could hope for.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Rather than let Kelly get dressed once they pulled onto the
strip, Fiona gunned the engine, weaving in and out of traffic until she shot
across the oncoming two lanes to get into the Bellagio parking roundabout. The
Camaro’s engine roared, the cars she cut across the front of slammed on their
brakes and laid on their horns, and Kelly let out the most delightful noise comprised
of equal parts nervous giggle and scream of excited fear. They passed along the
side of the famous fountains, skipped the valet beneath the awning, and darted
straight into the south parking garage.</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fiona loved Vegas for the parking. Finding parking in Los
Angeles was impossible, required the right stickers
from a monolithic parking authority, and always cost money. In Vegas, they
wanted people out of their cars and into casinos as quickly and as painlessly
as possible, so parking was typically free and plentiful.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">It took every drop of willpower she had not to race through
the crowded parking garage to find an empty, secluded spot. Near the top of the
structure, away from the elevator to the casino, she finally found the dark
corner she was searching for. She pulled the Camaro in, slammed on the brakes,
turned off the engine, and practically leapt across the center console into
Kelly’s arms.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The fiery kiss they shared was only broken momentarily when
Kelly asked, “Aren’t you going to be late?”</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Only a little and I’ll look much better on the runway if I
have the glow of just getting laid,” Fiona whispered against Kelly’s mouth.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.3in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Good answer,” Kelly murmured back and their lips were once
again inseparable.</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span></span></h3>
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Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-22162188858938774822014-02-25T09:23:00.000-08:002014-02-25T09:23:32.486-08:00J.K. Rowling Shouldn't Take Advice From Lynn Shepherd<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDw-AjlQrbYCriIetV0I_l-7vulhEByBRhEmzFNjHrd3qXOUBMOLz-UeshFkKuJ2CZ9_rS4QEJB_eJPremq84lIBR-lO9Jli1CRqhnW_zhqDSzS15-liQSIfEWv-pO5FRMHnzN1hp5cE/s1600/d64a264616f59e92c1e21905c59db199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeDw-AjlQrbYCriIetV0I_l-7vulhEByBRhEmzFNjHrd3qXOUBMOLz-UeshFkKuJ2CZ9_rS4QEJB_eJPremq84lIBR-lO9Jli1CRqhnW_zhqDSzS15-liQSIfEWv-pO5FRMHnzN1hp5cE/s1600/d64a264616f59e92c1e21905c59db199.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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Lynn Shepherd recently wrote <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/lynn-shepherd/jk-rowling-should-stop-writing_b_4829648.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false" target="_blank">a piece</a> the essentially told J.K. Rowling to stop writing because...I dunno. Her logic didn't make any sense to be perfectly honest. She seems to think that the publishing industry has a finite amount of money (it doesn't since it's a supply side industry), has no room to grow (it does), and that J.K. Rowling is taking it all (she isn't--otherwise I wouldn't be selling books). This is, based on basic economics, patently absurd. She apparently even had a warning from her friend not to publish the article. For one thing, Harry Potter doesn't have a ton of detractors. Most book series or movie series you can think of will have a few haters to side with you if you go after them (<a href="http://whowouldwinafight.com/star-trek-vs-star-wars/" target="_blank">hate on Star Wars and you'll get some Trekkies who'll join you</a>), but that's not really true with Harry Potter. You go after the boy wizard, and you're most likely going it alone.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to deal with anything of Lynn Shepherd's but the blog post. I know her books have taken a hit from this, but I haven't read her books. And, unlike Lynn Shepherd, I don't think it's appropriate for an author to comment on the entire series of books and their corresponding movies from another author if I haven't 'read a word or watched a minute' as she said, although I can appreciate the irony of throwing that back in her face. Unlike Ms. Shepherd, I <i>have </i>read every word of the Harry Potter series and watched every minute of every movie. So I'm in a position to correct some of the errors she had in her blog. Like her assertion that Harry Potter is just a children's series that shouldn't be bothered with by adults since it supposedly wouldn't stimulate an adult mind. Let me assure you, Ms. Shepherd, you're completely mistaken in this. The story is entertaining regardless of age, but more than that, the writing is so deep that someone at age 10 will find different gems than someone at age 23 or 30 or 40 or whatever. Harry Potter has such broad based appeal BECAUSE there are so many things scattered through the book for people of all ages and life experiences. Additionally, I've always believed the series became fairly adult at the end of the fourth book. And this always made sense to me that a fan base of children growing up reading Harry Potter would continue to grow up at around the same pace as the boy wizard, so the series would need to grow up as well to something closer to YA or almost New Adult by the end. Of course, Lynn Shepherd would know this if she'd read the books.<br />
<br />
She also mentioned J.K. Rowling's dalliance in writing <a href="http://entertainment.time.com/2014/02/17/j-k-rowling-to-publish-another-book-under-pen-name/" target="_blank">mystery novels under a pen name</a>, but she got some of the details on this wrong as well. Yes, Rowling wrote a mystery novel under a male nom de plume, and no, it didn't do particularly well at first. But Shepherd made it sound as if the internet uncovered her subterfuge, when, in fact, Rowling admitted the novel was hers, most likely at the behest of her publisher, so the sales would improve. I'm not going to fault a writer for wanting to branch out (the publishing industry will try to pigeonhole an author into one genre, making a pen name her only option) and I certainly wouldn't condemn someone for being honest for the sake of good relations with their publisher. It wasn't a nefarious plot or untoward behavior, Ms. Shepherd, it was simply business as usual in the publishing world.<br />
<br />
Finally, I wholeheartedly disagree with Shepherd's belief that J.K. Rowling should stop writing. J.K. Rowling wrote a series that is iconic, beautiful, beloved, and timeless, which Shepherd would know if she'd actually read it. Rowling's personal story in how she struggled before being published and her difficult path to success is compelling and inspiring. And J.K. Rowling gave so much of her fortune back to help people in need because she was once in need that <a href="http://www.businessinsider.com/jk-rowling-is-no-longer-a-billionaire-booted-off-forbes-list-2012-3" target="_blank">she bumped herself off the billionaire list</a>. Quite frankly, anyone who could and would do these three things needs to write as much and as often as they want. Moreover, as an author, I'm appreciative to J.K. Rowling for expanding the map and creating readers out of a generation of children. She's not a wildfire sucking up all the oxygen until the rest of us suffocate. She's a pioneer who pushed out borders so we'd all have more room. She added readers to the market and encouraged existing readers to read more, and I, for one, hope she keeps doing that. It's ridiculous to assume a person would only buy J.K. Rowling books and never read anything else ever again, which would be the only scenario in which Shepherd's blog post would make sense. Reading expands to more reading. When one author does well, it benefits all authors since none of us can write at the same pace our readers can read.<br /><br />If J.K. Rowling cares about writing, she shouldn't listen to people like Lynn Shepherd.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-63753465823396455072014-02-18T16:30:00.000-08:002014-03-04T13:01:17.616-08:00The LGBT Community Gets Two New Heroes: Michael Sam and Ellen Page<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This month saw a groundbreaking announcement and one of the most beautiful coming out speeches in the history of gay men and women leaping from closets. Both were met with the expected kudos and cheering from the LGBT community and its allies (yay) and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/10/michael-sam-coming-out_n_4759841.html" target="_blank">the typical bible thumping/hell fire threats and hate speech from the bigots</a> (fuck y'all). These are normal, expected reactions to Michael Sam and Ellen Page coming out. But we've got some new middle ground folks that reacted in a few similar, but strange and insulting ways.<br />
<br />
Firstly, let me tell you how freaking epic and important it is that Michael Sam came out. A little background on the situation. There are zero openly gay players in the NFL right now. That isn't to say there are zero gay players in the NFL, and anyone who claims this is living in a fantasy land; there aren't any OUT gay players. Statistically speaking, there are probably 1-5 gay players on every team, meaning between 32-160 gay players are probably closeted in the NFL at any given moment. That concern everyone keeps raising about "will they feel comfortable showering with a gay man?" Hate to break it to those showerphobes, but THEY ALREADY HAVE. Michael Sam isn't in the NFL yet, but <a href="http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1954406-analyzing-draft-stock-for-missouri-de-michael-sam" target="_blank">he's pretty much a lock to be next season</a>. He won the best defensive player of the SEC, a college football conference known for their defense. This means, come September, the NFL will have its first openly gay player, and that is pretty damn great!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="http://images1.fanpop.com/images/photos/1300000/Ellen-ellen-page-1336371-1200-1607.jpg" class="decoded overflowing" height="400" src="http://images1.fanpop.com/images/photos/1300000/Ellen-ellen-page-1336371-1200-1607.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="297" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This should only upset people if she steals your personal underwear</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Ellen Page, an A-list celebrity and top candidate for most adorable person to ever exist, came out in one of the most beautiful coming out speeches ever shared. If you haven't heard it, you should immediately click <a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/gossip/la-et-mg-ellen-page-comes-out-as-gay-20140215,0,4037676.story" target="_blank">here</a> and do so. Don't worry. We'll wait. Cry if you have to--I sure did. Amazing, wasn't it? Ellen Page is up there with the most high profile people to ever come out. And yes, right now, that is an important distinction. More on that later.<br />
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In a lot of internet threads, articles, comment sections, etc. about these two events, I saw three insanely common new responses to someone coming out. We all expect the enlightened allies to cheer this stuff on and the hateful bigots to condemn it, but when did apathy and frustration become such commonplace reactions? On George Takei's Facebook post about Ellen Page probably half the reactions were of the "who cares?" or "It doesn't matter and I'm sick of hearing about it" types. For a little background info, George is gay and out and amazing--he's also a giant fucking internet celebrity, movie star, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7N4vhRiJwFg" target="_blank">a highly praised guest voice actor on Futurama</a> so he attracts a pretty diverse following, which kind of seemed to surprise even him when many of the responses included people like...<br />
<i></i><br />
The "<i>I don't care</i>" posters -- basically, they're liars. It wasn't as if George Takei individually asked all his millions of followers to personally look at an article he posted and give their opinion. If he had, then a bunch of "I don't cares" would make sense. But for someone to read an article that nobody asked them to read and post a response that nobody asked for...let's just say, someone going out of their way to post that they don't care would be ironic if it were true, but it's disingenuous because they actually do care. (<i>There are things I actually don't care about. Do you know what they are? Nope, because I don't care about them enough to bother listing them. See how that works when the apathy is real?</i>) For the most part, these people are just as bigoted as the ones decrying homosexuality as a sin, they simply lack the conviction. They want to deride and belittle the LGBT community by telling us how little the things we do matter to the delusional self-important people, but they want to do so in a way that doesn't leave them open for criticism. Too bad for them. I'm calling the "I don't care" response to these important events both bigoted and cowardly and in possession of an inflated sense of their opinion's value to the world.<br />
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The "<i>I'm sick of hearing about this stuff</i>" people -- Boo-fucking-hoo. Go back to the white heterosexual media coverage that dominates more than 90% of every movie, television show, radio station, and any other media source. This is such a whiny, narcissistic stance to have about the plight of a group that makes up more than 10% of the human population. Really? Because something doesn't directly impact or interest you, it shouldn't exist, or should only exist until you're tired of hearing about it? My answer to that is simple and universal: <a href="http://www.rottenecards.com/ecards/Rottenecards_25103168_jzzhcmvwb2.png" target="_blank">fuck off</a>. I'm sick of privileged people telling me that the fight for equality shouldn't infringe on the monopoly of attention and focus given to the white heterosexual narrative. 90+% of all media isn't good enough for these whiny, self-important pricks. No, they need 100% to keep feeling special.<br />
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The "<i>Why does it even matter?</i>" camp -- This group is basically broken into two sides. Half of them don't understand that other people don't have the same rights and protections as them, so they don't see why coming out is even important. They're so narrow-minded that they think their own experiences and what they think is important is so universally accepted that if they don't understand why something matters then obviously it shouldn't matter to anyone. They're ignorant, thunderously ignorant at that. And, from what I've encountered, they're not all that interested in learning that their opinions don't shape the reality of every other human being on the planet--they want to be glib and they're basically just lazier versions of the "I'm sick of hearing about this stuff" people.<br />
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The other half of this group are more accurately "<i>This SHOULDN'T matter</i>" and that's as asinine as people who claim they <a href="http://weknowmemes.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/i-dont-even-know-what-race-i-am.jpg" target="_blank">don't see race</a>. War shouldn't be an answer, puppies shouldn't be euthanized, mentally ill people shouldn't be forced to live on the streets, the impoverished elderly shouldn't have to eat cat food to survive, and gay people shouldn't be persecuted. But guess what, should doesn't have a lot to do with what actually happens. How completely worthless is a person who identifies that something shouldn't be happening, but all they do is say that it shouldn't be? Marriage equality exists in less than half the states, a majority of states offer no workplace discrimination protections for LGBT people, hate crimes are still a daily occurrence, and that's the best THIS country can offer. Don't get me started on what happens to the LGBT communities in Russia, Iran, and Uganda. It doesn't matter one bit if a person thinks something shouldn't be an issue if it directly contradicts reality. It shouldn't matter, but it damn well does.<br />
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Gather around, all you <i>"Why does it matter?</i>", "<i>It shouldn't matter</i>", "<i>I'm sick of hearing about this</i>", and "<i>I don't care</i>" folks, because I'm going to explain to why it is important. And anyone who doesn't feel like explaining this shit to them, go ahead and link to this post and add your own reasons in the comment section. For LGBT youth, hope isn't easy to come by and a pride in sense of self is even harder. A young, gay man who wants to play football doesn't have role models who know what he's going through, doesn't have heroes like himself to emulate, and is essentially told if he wants to pursue his dream, he has to hide who he is. That is why Michael Sam is important and why what he did matters. If a person can't see that it is because they lack basic human empathy for anyone who isn't exactly like them. Michael Sam broke a barrier that existed for decades so others like him wouldn't have to encounter the same level of resistance--that is as heroic now as it was when Jackie Robinson did it. Ellen Page made a marvelous case for why coming out is important so I can only assume most of the people commenting didn't actually listen to the speech and just scrolled down to the section where they got to put in their own, ignorant opinion. She was dead on--gay women, especially women who don't look like society says lesbians should look, get some of the most condescending, insulting treatment as if heterosexuality is a prize that pretty girls can win, and aren't they ungrateful or stupid if they don't want that prize. That attitude is sick, wrong, and it ties together the worst parts of bigotry and sexism. Young lesbians...yanno what? it doesn't even just apply to young lesbians since Ellen Page coming out inspired me and I'm in my twenties...need to hear that their sexuality isn't tied to their appearance. Actually, forget about it just being a good lesson for lesbians of all ages, it's a good message for women of any orientation and age. I'll repeat it: your sexuality is not dictated by your appearance and it damn sure isn't dictated by what people think you should be based on your appearance.<br />
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As for the brain dead morons who said "<i>I didn't have to come out as straight</i> / <i>Tim Tebow got persecuted for being an evangelical and nobody applauded him</i>"...the level of stupid and entitled required to post that shit, especially if its attached to your actual name and Facebook/Twitter account, is beyond help, at least from me. Someone with a crowbar and a bucket of grease might come along to manually remove their heads from their asses, but it's just not worth it to me to bother.<br />
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Does any of this directly impact straight, white, males? Nope, but it doesn't have to for it to be important. Let me repeat that for the people who are still confused--just because it doesn't cater to the majority, doesn't mean it is valueless and the LGBT community getting a few heroes and role models doesn't diminish the fact that you have all the role models and heroes you could possibly want in every field and at every level. Another group getting the same treatment you already have doesn't mean your treatment got worse. More importantly, you're not in charge of what is and isn't important to the world. I hate to be the one to break it the heteros, but you don't get to tell LGBT people what is valuable. We get to decide for ourselves who we love and we get to decide that Michael Sam and Ellen Page are fucking heroes to be proud of.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-82228804904815852152013-11-05T22:58:00.001-08:002013-11-05T22:58:52.669-08:00The Eternal Autumn<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Eternal Autumn</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERpbS6H9M8F2fn4KJuCaBtNOP-Klh2ZUfD2T55lcZR4yiBI5CYfusaeW39KCf8trDREo7k_M0Fx3LmO-6YpVnjgNXbBgtulrSmpIK05ZoxoThSeIYo9wVUbSW_CGnXdpHVYtwKF5FviMC/s1600/EternalAutumnKs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERpbS6H9M8F2fn4KJuCaBtNOP-Klh2ZUfD2T55lcZR4yiBI5CYfusaeW39KCf8trDREo7k_M0Fx3LmO-6YpVnjgNXbBgtulrSmpIK05ZoxoThSeIYo9wVUbSW_CGnXdpHVYtwKF5FviMC/s400/EternalAutumnKs.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FVFLQ6Q" target="_blank">Kindle</a>, <a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/the-eternal-autumn" target="_blank">Kobo</a>, and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-eternal-autumn-cassandra-duffy/1117135159?ean=2940148697763&itm=1&usri=2940148697763" target="_blank">Nook</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I really like travel stories, especially through classic fantasy settings like in The Hobbit and Lord of the Ring trilogy or a science fiction/paranormal setting like in the Dark Tower series. Essentially, in the first book of this series (<a href="http://cassandra-duffy.blogspot.com/2012/09/divine-touched.html?zx=601ec037f7c9f8b2" target="_blank">Divine Touched</a>) everyone hung out in Griffon's Rock for the most part, exploring the city and dealing with everything more or less within sight of the city walls. In The Eternal Autumn everyone has hit the road!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The cover, as seen above, features the lovely, blue-eyed assassin Calista, but she's not alone in the traveling adventures. Harper, Athol, Wizardly Willard, Brandinne, and Sofea from the first book all return. New characters are added along the way, including the daughter born of two women, gifted by three goddesses. In writing this book, I wanted Vaelandria itself to become a character as the reader travels the Last Road with Sofea and explores the Valley of the Hallowed Harvest with Harper and Calista. As with the first book, I tried to balance adventure, action, humor, and romance in the largest project I've written to date.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Enjoy the prologue as a sample below, and meet up with old friends as you return to Vaelandria in the troubled times of the Eternal Autumn!</span></span></span></div>
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<h2>
Synopsis</h2>
<i>Time has frozen. The
leaves of autumn refuse to fall, frost clings to the ground, and the
last harvest took place more than a year ago. Vaelandria is gripped by
the Eternal Autumn, and some say it is the end of days. Starvation and
madness spread across the countryside even as corpses climb from their
graves, goblins raze villages, witches fly through the darkest nights,
and ghosts rise to haunt the living.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As many have come to believe the child of three Goddesses is the
source of the Eternal Autumn, Calista and Harper struggle to protect
their fated daughter from unseen enemies. They flee to the Valley of the
Hallowed Harvest where the Eternal Autumn is celebrated as a holy sign
only to find the citizens of the valley are every bit as dangerous as
those they thought to escape.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In the war torn north, the Dagger Falls Company is hired to discover
the source of the Eternal Autumn and hopefully end it. Led by Sofea, the
former North Wind Valkyrie, the company takes to the road in hopes of
gleaning answers from the Thief Queen of Griffon’s Rock, the mystical
Ogre of the orchards, and a long-dead dragon. Unlikely aid for their
impossible task comes from an escaped Cyclops bear, a flirtatious
Brownie bandit, and a sarcastic Witch of the Nightshade Coven.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Amid the insanity sown by the Eternal Autumn, assassins skulk through
the night, mask-wearing cultists roam the forests, and divine powers
tear at the very fabric of reality. While the world decays under the
sinister beauty of the Eternal Autumn, Calista and Harper slowly unravel
the mystery to find frozen time is a harbinger of something far worse.</i><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Uncial Antiqua"; font-size: 22.0pt;">Prologue</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The Eternal Autumn began in Vaelandria on the day the child
of three Goddesses was born. And the world will burn before her, as the
prophecy went.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The doula, midwives, and priestesses all agreed that Calista
would not give birth until the first month of winter. Calista was growing
increasingly unhappy with the lot of them. There were women who enjoyed
pregnancy, who felt right, natural, beautiful, transcendent, comfortable, and
Calista came to hate these women too. Calista’s personal doula, a dignified
matron of sixty years from Harper’s home fishing village, stated that Calista
might have more than a month left as first children were often late. Calista
nearly slapped the woman at the mention of ‘first children.’ The daughter she
was carrying was to be her only child—any future children their Goddesses
planned to accost them with would have to be carried by Harper.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Pregnancy was a blight for Calista. She was sick for months
at the outset. Allegedly, the stomach upset was to focus mainly on the dawn
hours, taper off in the day, and evaporate entirely after the first few months.
Calista’s pregnancy involved stomach disquiet throughout, anchored to no
particular time of day. Her ankles were swollen. Her back ached. Her feet were
a constant source of discomfort. She couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours
at a time. The baby, her beloved, bedeviling daughter of divine origin, kicked
her almost constantly. She had to pee every ten breaths it would seem. Her
moods swung like a pendulum batted by a cat to the point where she didn’t know
what she would be feeling from one moment to the next, but she knew she would
feel it with an intensity completely inappropriate to the situation even if the
emotion matched, which it seldom did. All the women surrounding her who had
collected their knowledge of childbirth over decades of experience said it was
one of the toughest pregnancies they’d seen.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Calista walked the cold, narrow hallways of the keep they
were staying at on the furthest eastern edge of the duchy of Ovid. She was
wrapped in a giant set of wool and satin robes colored royal blue and black.
Her feet were left bare to absorb a soothing chill from the stones she walked
upon. More than the pain, discomfort, and dawn stomach illnesses, which had
only recently subsided, she was most irritated that her body no longer did as
she commanded. Once upon a time, she was fast of hand, swift of foot, strong,
agile, and able to do back flips while fighting. Now she struggled to simply
walk down the hall without holding her back with one hand and her protruding
belly with the other.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Harper meant well throughout and fawned over Calista with a
devotion that was increasingly irritating. Since most things irritated Calista
as of late, she’d banished Harper from the keep for the day along with all the entourage
who came from the four corners of Vaelandria to attend upon the unborn fated
child. Calista loved Harper, but she wished truly that her Goddess had chosen
the Sword Maiden to carry the child rather than her. Calista expected Harper’s
natural sweetness and caring to blossom, and it had, but she hadn’t expected
the amorousness that accompanied it. Harper was tender, loving, and took
remarkable care of Calista during her pregnancy, but seeing her beloved wife heavy
with child also sparked a nearly insatiable lust in the Sword Maiden. Calista
enjoyed the romantic wishes of her wife at first, especially since she felt
like a waddling, griping, mess most of the time and greatly desired anyone
telling her she wasn’t actually the waddling, griping, mess she thought she
was. After a time, Calista’s own sexual needs grew, as was common during phases
of pregnancy, she was told, until she and Harper did little more than make
love. With around three weeks until her due date, Calista was still amorously
inclined and Harper seemed even more so, but Calista simply couldn’t stand
anything anymore. Warm baths were interrupted by the need to pee. Sexual
contact was often spoiled by the distraction of her child kicking and rolling
about in off-putting ways. Even the foot massages Harper gave weren’t tolerable
anymore as Calista couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit in long enough
to truly savor them. She dreamed of a time when the child would be out of her,
and she could turn her body back into what it was before.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Her constant inner monologue of desiring the end of her
accursed pregnancy was interrupted by the faint scent of something old and
familiar. She was still an assassin trained in the lowlands and any assassin
from the south could identify the faint aroma of the systemic poison known as
Belly Rot. It was a sickeningly sweet fragrance like a rotting corpse, but with
a peculiar undertone of cinnamon. The stone keep they inhabited on loan from a
lesser noble smelled of wet stones, rain, and moldering cloth most of the time.
The intrusion of Belly Rot was subtle, yet well within Calista’s powers of
perception.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Calista froze and listened. As if to follow her mother’s
lead, the baby within her belly ceased her kicking to listen as well. Strangled
breathing trying to pass through a mangled nasal passage sounded from around
the corner ahead. Calista took a soft step back and then another. She pressed
her back to the wall, glanced down the corridor in the direction she’d just
come, finding it dimly lit by the gray light filtering in through the arrow
slit windows, but otherwise empty. She was unarmed and no longer able to run or
fight as she once did. She regretted banishing Harper and everyone attending on
her from the keep. Calista was several stealthy steps back down the hall before
the ambusher apparently realized she wasn’t completing the circuit to the
window that she’d been walking most of the morning. The assassin stepped around
the corner, apparently a little surprised to find Calista staring at him even
while she was sneaking in the other direction.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The assassin was tall, powerfully built, and wrapped in the
muffling black wool clothing common to many orders of hired killers. His face
was obscured by a black shroud. A large knife, coated in soot and poison,
rested casually in his left hand.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Calista turned and ran for the end of the hall. She couldn’t
hear the assassin give chase above the sound of her own robes swishing and her
bare feet slapping against the stones, but she didn’t doubt for a second that
he was behind her and closing fast. She cursed how slow she was and how awkward
her gait had become. Before turning the corner, she snatched the lone torch
from the sconce at the darkened end of the hallway. She tucked into a slide on
her side, gripped the edge of the wall to pull herself around the turn, and
pointed her feet at knee level. Her suspicions were immediately confirmed when
her foot struck the leg of another assassin waiting around the corner. The
man’s knee buckled backward under her attack, and he crumpled sideways into the
wall. She sprung to her feet as sprightly as an almost nine-month pregnant
woman could manage, and swung the torch at the man’s face. The burning wood and
pitch made perfect contact with his black shroud at what turned out to be eye
level. The man shrieked, gripped his face, and began wailing about being blinded.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She scooped up the knife the assassin dropped and began
running again. The second man was an insurance policy, smaller and likely less
skilled than the one still chasing her. Were she still herself, she would have
used the knife she’d collected to gut the much larger assassin on her heels;
pregnant and clumsy as she was, she chose fleeing.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Calista ducked into a room rather than continuing on to the
next corner. No sooner was she across the threshold than a sharp, stabbing pain
shot through her from groin to sternum. The harbinger pain wasn’t precisely
like a knife wound, but she could see the similarities. Her labor was upon her
and at the worst possible time.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Curse you, you little shit, not now,” Calista hissed at her
unborn daughter.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She collected herself after the pain subsided and ran for the
window. The outer windows were arrow slits meant to defend the keep while the
inner windows were more provincial glass and large enough to let in an ample
amount of light as they looked in on a well fortified courtyard. She pushed
open the window and hauled herself up to the sill even as the large assassin
warily stepped into the room.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There was a narrow ledge running around the outside wall, no
more than a couple hand-widths of stonework made slick from autumn rain. Before
she was heavy with a Goddess inflicted child, Calista would have looked upon
the ledge as being miles wide and more than enough to run across. In her
current state, the slippery stone ledge that wasn’t long enough to accommodate
her entire foot from heel to toe when placed from wall to edge, looked entirely
too narrow to even stand upon. She willed herself out the window onto the ledge
and pressed her back against the wall.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She was a solid dozen steps down the ledge when the next
labor pain shot through her. When it became a matter of keeping her knife or
keeping her grip on the wall, she relinquished the assassin’s weapon to hold on
to the inner face of the keep. The blade clattered into the courtyard, but she
blessedly didn’t follow it.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“You do realize if I die, you’re likely to die with me,”
Calista growled at her unborn daughter.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A quick glance back revealed the assassin had already crawled
onto the ledge and was following her at a pace quicker than she thought such a
large man could manage. The assassin had to be divine touched. He wouldn’t have
been sent otherwise, and he certainly wouldn’t have been as cavalier about
killing her if he didn’t have a deity’s blessing in the world. Even if he were
just a standard assassin, she would have struggled against him since her own
stores of power were completely depleted as she hadn’t killed anyone since
becoming pregnant.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She continued on along the ledge and around the corner.
Getting her pregnant body around the outside curve of the building was enormously
difficult and she didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how close she came to
falling. Her balance was all off. Her center of gravity was way out in front of
where it should be, and her spine wasn’t nearly as spry.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">There was one window left before she rounded to the outside
of the tower where there would only be arrow slits. The large man pursuing her
struggled around the corner that nearly knocked her from the tower’s ledge,
though not nearly as badly as she had. Her head start was spent, and she was
quickly running out of options.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Before she could duck into the window, a brief waft of burned
flesh, hair, and clothing carried on the wind to her. She plunged a hand into
the window and pulled hard at what she found. The backup assassin she thought
she’d blinded came stumbling toward the window and fell out with her aid. She
ducked into the window, stumbling about in the weaving room while trying to
right the wobbly ship that was her body. She barked her leg against a spinning
wheel and cursed loudly. The other assassin died on the stones of the courtyard
below. She felt a sudden rush of his life energy flowing to her.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The large assassin filled the window, knife not yet at the
ready. She gathered the scant scraps of power she’d just received and put them behind
a single strike. A labor pain shot through her mid punch, but she only let the
agony fuel her attack further. The assassin braced to take the hit, clearly not
expecting the added force of a Goddess’s might behind it. Her knuckles made
solid contact with the bridge of his nose. The bone shattered, his neck snapped
backward, and the assassin was flung from the window as if fired from a
catapult.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She flexed her sore hand and began her slow, painful waddle
out of the room. She’d have to search their bodies in the courtyard to find out
who they were—that was the only major flaw in her plan of survival: making her
way down the narrow stairwell while in the midst of labor. By the time she
reached the bottom floor of the keep’s tower, she was breathing hard, gritting
her teeth through every fresh grind of pain through her body, and ready to kill
a few more people to vent her frustration. Her daughter was a month early and
charging hard to be born far faster than expected.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Rain fell in earnest by the time she stepped into the gray
courtyard. She made it several steps toward the crumpled body of the first
assassin she’d pulled out of the window. Hoof beats interrupted her focus.
Riders were coming toward the keep’s open gates, although they didn’t sound
entirely like horses. She had the life force of the second assassin she’d
killed at the ready, but from the increasing intensity of the thundering riders
she assumed the force was far too formidable for her to fight. Instead, she
began looking for a place to hide in the largely empty courtyard.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A labor pain ceased any further thoughts of hiding. She ended
up facing the approaching riders doubled over, cursing the Goddess and her
unborn child. A familiar voice bellowed across the keep as he rode through the
open gates on a mighty draft horse. Calista looked up to find Athol and Caleb
leading a group of a dozen Sylvan riders upon dire elk.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“What in the name of the pantheon are you doing out in the
rain?” Athol demanded, reining in his horse next to the body of one of the
assassins she’d killed.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The Sylvan riders spread out into the keep, never dismounting
their dire elk. They were of middling height, muscular, and all had hair the
color of autumn leaves in golds, reds, oranges, and browns. Their otherworldly
green eyes glowed faintly in the gloom of the overcast day. Calista knew the
Sylvans’ hair changed with the season, becoming black or white in the winter,
pale green in the spring, dark green in the summer, and then every shade of
autumn leaf in the fall. The deeper woods Sylvans’ skin also changed throughout
the year to match the forest around them. The riders in the keep looked to be
of a tribe from the darkest boreal forests in the northeast.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Athol rushed over to help her stand fully. She accepted his
hand and powerful arm around her waist. They walked toward the household
entrance on the side of the castle, passing by the assassin body in the
courtyard.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“You killed a Dark Stalker while in the midst of labor
pains?” Athol asked. “It would seem the rumors of pregnancy difficulties are
overblown if you managed such a feat.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Calista gripped his massive hand tightly as the next wave of
contractions overtook her. She bent his thick thumb back, knocking him to his
knees at her side. “Let me share the pain I’m enduring, and you tell me how bad
it is,” Calista snarled.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“I’ll take your word for it if you allow me to keep my
thumb,” Athol complained.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“This is the mother of the prophesized daughter?” one of the
Sylvan riders asked of Caleb.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“One of them,” the Ranger replied. “The other mother is the
one with the Sylvan blood.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Speaking of, where is Harper?” Athol asked after Calista
relinquished her death-grip on his thumb.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“I sent her away to gain a moment’s peace,” Calista said.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“We will remain in the courtyard until she returns,” the
Sylvan rider said.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“I’ll remain outside as well,” Caleb said.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Perhaps I should too then,” Athol agreed.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“You’ll all come inside or there will be several more dead
bodies in the courtyard to worry my wife upon her return.” Calista was
pregnant, irritated, a little frightened about a second squad of assassins
coming when she was even further into her labor, and she wasn’t remotely in the
mood to tolerate male fear of the birthing process.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Athol asked.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Pain-in-the-ass,” Calista replied.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“That was my nickname as a child,” Athol said.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Bianca then.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span></span></span></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-64455778267491648462013-09-13T13:46:00.000-07:002013-09-13T13:46:30.352-07:00Dental Damnit!<span class="null"></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://littlelesbianbigworld.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/dental-dam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://littlelesbianbigworld.files.wordpress.com/2012/04/dental-dam.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Proof safe sex can be cute!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I recently had a friend who was getting back into the lesbian life after a long hiatus ask me a safe sex question. She has a new girlfriend who disclosed having herpes, and she wanted to know how they could still have sex while reducing the risk of transmission. I've made no bones about it in the past that I think <a href="http://thinkprogress.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/teen-map-e1362162632706.jpg" target="_blank">sex-ed in the U.S. is shit</a> and the lesbian specific sex-ed is non-freaking-existent. So I'm going to throw out some of it right now. <br />
<br />
Let
me start by saying, there's a big stigma attached to herpes that
doesn't make a lot of sense. <a href="http://herpeslife.com/herpes-is-not-a-big-deal-dan-savage-love/" target="_blank">And I'm not the only sexpert who feels this way</a>. Yep, it's a virus so if you get it you'll
have it forever. Yep, outbreaks are damn unpleasant. But that's really about
as bad as it gets. (<i>There's some deep down the rabbit hole stuff about if you have herpes 2 and bacterial vaginosis at the same time you can be more susceptible to some types of HIV transmission, but if you're the extraordinarily rare person that has all those things happening at once, you need to be taking your sex advice from a board certified gynecologist, not me.</i>) Herpes won't make you sterile, it won't kill you, and it
doesn't increase your risk for cancer like some types of HPV can.
There's this whole "unclean" attitude, especially within the lesbian
community, about herpes that is overblown. If people take precautions, they can keep it from spreading, but even if it does, it's not the end of the world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://afterellen.mtvnimages.com/uploads/2011/05/LesbianIKEA_0.png%20?quality=0.6" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://afterellen.mtvnimages.com/uploads/2011/05/LesbianIKEA_0.png%20?quality=0.6" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Which day are you on?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There are relationship kudos that need to be handed out in this situation too. The partner in question knew her status on an STD and disclosed it to her girlfriend before sexual contact--that's exactly the right, respectful, and responsible thing to do. Dan Savage has <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=GGG" target="_blank">GGG</a>, and I have RRR: act right, respectful, and responsible when it comes to safe sex. My friend, when she found out her partner had an STD, didn't freak out and dump her, realized she didn't know what to do to keep it from spreading, and then asked for safe sex advice. That's all perfect RRR behavior. Good job, ladies, on communicating well and acting responsibly!<br />
<br />
For Herps2, the biggest safe sex no-no is having sex
when she's having an active breakout. That's a pretty common sense one
and really, if she's having an outbreak, she's probably feeling unsexy and uncomfortable anyway. But definitely if there are sores,
avoid sexual contact until it has passed. If she's on <a href="http://www.webmd.com/genital-herpes/antiviral-medications-for-genital-herpes" target="_blank">anti-viral medication</a>, which a lot of people with Herps2 are these days, outbreaks
are going to be fairly few and far between so completely avoiding sex
during them may sound like a big deal on the surface, but in practice
it's probably going to be an uncommon inconvenience.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.dental-georgia.ge/uploads/products/kerr/lf_oda_ant_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.dental-georgia.ge/uploads/products/kerr/lf_oda_ant_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is a medical use of dental dams, but I freaked you out, didn't I?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span class="null"></span><br />
Dental dams are always recommended for going down on someone with any STD. Herps2 can turn into Herps1 during oral sex or vice-versa. If someone has outbreaks around their mouth (aka Herps1), then she'll need to use a dental dam when going down
on someone as well. It's harder for the virus to go from vagina to mouth than from mouth to vagina, but it
can happen, so be safe regardless of whether its type 1 or 2. Dental dams come in cool flavors, colors, etc. OR in a pinch
if you don't have one, good old plastic wrap from the kitchen can work,
if you avoid
the microwave safe kind. Condoms slit up the side
can also turn into dental dams, especially the polyurethane kind, but this can get expensive.
<a href="http://goaskalice.columbia.edu/where-can-i-get-dams-oral-sex" target="_blank">Go Ask Alice</a> has the whole skinny on dental dam purchasing, but basically these
days you can order them online really easy. Plastic wrap is also a pretty good route to take--it's cheap, plentiful, easily obtained without stigma, and you can size it yourself. It's also a little thinner than some dental dams to allow for more sensation. The origin of dental dams is in dentistry where they used the stretchy things during heavy duty dental work to make sure tooth stuff didn't fall down your throat (see the picture above for how) while you were all zapped out on laughing gas. They've made changes since, of course, but pleasure giving was not really a consideration in their original design.<br />
<br />
Toy
stuff, if you two are into that sort of thing and not everyone
is...basically just keep a her set and a your set to avoid STD transmission, clean them thoroughly after use, try not to mix them up, use the dishwasher
if they're the dishwasher safe types, and if you're really concerned still, condoms fit over most toys. Toys generally aren't great
transmitters of STDs (especially the glass or metal kinds), but it's still enough of a risk to want to avoid
the whole thing by simply having hers and hers sets. The cyber skin and silicon kind can get micro-abrasions that resist cleaning and can hide the Herps2 virus so for these keeping them separate is the only way to be sure. With the glass kind, you can boil them in water if you're really germ-phobic and it'll work just fine once it cools down, but if you do that with cyber skin types of toys you'll probably end up with dildo soup.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://winningateverything.com/files/2011/12/WA_scissoring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://winningateverything.com/files/2011/12/WA_scissoring.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Get spruced up for your date!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
For
scissoring...I just don't know that I would do it. There are the plastic
wrap protection steps that can be taken, although that'll kill the
sensation and good luck keeping a dental dam or a piece of plastic wrap
in the right place for very long doing that. This is just going to be a riskier act than others. With anti-viral medications, the transmission rate can be really, really low, but scissoring will still hold risk. My girlfriend told me she'd still want to it if I had Herps2 (because she's a total sweetheart and it's easy to promise that since I'm not infected), but it is up to the individuals in the couple to decide if that's worth it.<br />
<br />
As for fingers,
jokingly known as the true lesbian sex organ, just don't go from inside
her to your mouth or inside you without washing your hands in between. This one's pretty simple. Your fingers can transmit the virus (or more specifically vaginal fluids on fingers can) in the same way touching things spreads all sorts of diseases. There's a thing called <a href="http://www.herpes-coldsores.com/herpes_whitlow.htm" target="_blank">herpes whitlow</a> where the virus spreads to areas not commonly infected like the eyes or fingers. This is easy to avoid though by not touching the sores during an outbreak and washing your hands between uses. Obviously if you have a cut on your finger, that'll seriously jump up your risk of whitlow infection, but that's also avoidable with a latex glove as needed.<br />
<br />
The
Herpes virus likes genitals, tolerates mouths, and doesn't care for
much else on the human body. It's also becoming far less virulent over
the years, and the anti-viral medications available for it now work
really well to reduce outbreaks and transmission rates. All that being
said, it can still jump without symptoms present so being cavalier about
it is unwise. Dental dams (or dental dam simulacrums mentioned earlier) are really the most important aspect to
safe sex in the specific case of herpes, but in general they're a good rule to avoid any STD transmission.<br />
<br />
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-24603015003753378942013-06-29T12:11:00.000-07:002013-06-29T12:12:45.700-07:00Pay for Gay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img3.etsystatic.com/004/0/7055082/il_fullxfull.364621607_dtwe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://img3.etsystatic.com/004/0/7055082/il_fullxfull.364621607_dtwe.jpg" width="184" /></a></div>
<br />
A Bioware MMORPG based on Star Wars should have been a no brainer of a game for me. That's taking three things I like and shoving them all into one package, and then adding a free to play option, which I guess adds four things I like together since I'm kind of a cheapskate. I have fond memories of playing the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Wars:_Knights_of_the_Old_Republic" target="_blank">Knights of the Old Republic</a> (KOTOR) games when I was a kid. I like Bioware games in general. I even like MMOs. And when the game was released a couple years ago, allegedly it was going to have same sex relationship options!<br />
<br />
That's pretty much where the excitement ends.<br />
<br />
I'm no game reviewer, so I won't go into the particulars of what I like/dislike about the game itself. Plenty of <a href="http://www.escapistmagazine.com/videos/view/zero-punctuation/5323-Star-Wars-The-Old-Republic" target="_blank">professionals have already done that</a> and done it well enough that they don't need me amateuring up the joint. I am going to address the same sex relationship promise that was kinda, sorta, not really delivered on this year. It seems appropriate in light of the recent DOMA and Prop 8 decisions. The news here is good, but what about long ago in a galaxy far away?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20111002233742/starwarsdarkdreams/images/7/7f/Rainbow-light-saber.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20111002233742/starwarsdarkdreams/images/7/7f/Rainbow-light-saber.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainbow lightsabers would go a long way with me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Forget the promise of same sex relationship being in the game at launch. Didn't happen. Not even close. Not even a little (maybe the tiniest amount if you hunted like a Fett and have an incredible imagination). The developers were very sorry and promised to get them in later.<br />
<br />
Years passed and nothing happened. And I don't just mean the same sex relationships didn't get put into the game, although they didn't. I mean NOBODY that worked anywhere near SWTOR would even talk about it. No updates, no comments, complete radio silence. A same gender relationship thread on the official website reached into the thousands of posts without ever being commented on by a developer.<br />
<br />
I skipped the game at launch. I was excited about the possibilities, and then I was ticked when I was essentially left out of the only unique aspect of the game. It's an MMO, and the only real difference between it and any other MMO at launch was the inclusion of an interactive storyline and character relationships...that I wouldn't be able to participate in unless I was going to fake straight. Bioware has been pretty inclusive to LGBT gamers to this point (which I outline <a href="http://cassandra-duffy.blogspot.com/2011/06/lestopian-future.html?zx=3b849b1157bb8b27" target="_blank">here </a>in part) so it irked me enough to skip the game entirely.<br />
<br />
Then came free to play (F2P). Apparently I wasn't the only one to skip the game. I doubt the reasons I skipped it were the predominant ones everyone else had, but whatever the reasons, people just didn't play SWTOR or if they did, they didn't play very long. <a href="http://www.tomshardware.com/news/star-wars-Old-Republic-Subscriptions-numbers,15573.html" target="_blank">Good launch subscription numbers, dwindle, dwindle, dwindle, almost gon</a>e. So then came the free-2-play option. I figured I'd try it at this point. With F2P at least I wasn't paying to be excluded. And this is when I saw the scope of what would need to be changed to include a same sex relationship after launch. The story in SWTOR is huge, entirely voice acted by <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1320395/fullcredits" target="_blank">some fairly notable names with recognizable voices</a>, and that's when I gave up on the game entirely. Game designer was my original dream job before I ended up being a writer. I have a decent concept of what would be required to add a same sex relationship into the game on par with all the others and I knew they didn't have the resources or the inclination to go through with the massive undertaking.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media-cache-ak2.pinimg.com/550x/4c/af/77/4caf77461f878d615fd397d222159452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://media-cache-ak2.pinimg.com/550x/4c/af/77/4caf77461f878d615fd397d222159452.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>
<br />
Recently, they released an expansion called Rise of the Hutt Cartel where they added a planet with some same sex relationship content. Here's where the pay for gay comes in. It's a $9.99 expansion for subscribers and a $19.99 expansion for F2P. Yep, if you want the same sex content promised at the outset of the game, you had to wait several years and now pay extra money. There's also other complicating factors that made it unappealing for me aside from the slap in the face of the price tag. The game is split into light side and dark side, and apparently lesbian relationships would be on one side while gay relationships would be on the other. My highest level character (which matters since the content is WAY down the line from the start of the game) was on the wrong side to access the lesbian content. Pay extra, start over if you're on the wrong side, have the content remain on one tiny planet...nope, not gonna participate in that nonsense.<br />
<br />
As a funny side note of how stupid Fox News is, they released an "<a href="http://www.foxnews.com/tech/2013/01/14/star-wars-game-segregates-gay-characters-on-gay-planet/" target="_blank">article</a>" on their official website (which looks like a poorly formatted blog) where they refer to Makeb (the planet in the expansion) as the "gay planet." And, despite the fact that there is very little evidence to support the claim, they say that the gaming populace was largely outraged at the inclusion of gay content! I guess Fox News has to take the bigot/racist/sexist side of an argument even if it doesn't exist or is a tiny minority. Oh sure, the Family Research Council (frothing at the mouth homophobic fringe group) hated that SWTOR included this tiny scrap of nothing for the LGBT community, but they aren't gamers. Really FRC? You don't like the gay content in an MMORPG? Which server do you play on? I'm looking around for a character called Bigot Fett or Sith-for-brains, but I can't seem to find you in the game.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's the DOMA decision. Maybe it's the Prop 8 ruling. Maybe it's a matter of my time being more valuable now than when I was in middle school playing KOTOR. Whatever the reason, I'm just not interested in being treated like an afterthought as a gamer anymore.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-4432531428288080072013-01-23T13:23:00.001-08:002013-01-23T13:23:48.611-08:00Pioneers! O Pioneers!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/7hWeTaL4ovI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
You'll probably recognize this poem from a jeans commercial from a few years back. I remember it from my AP English class in high school where I had a brilliant teacher who read it in a voice that I now assume is precisely what Walt Whitman sounded like. The Will Greer reading posted here is still amazing, and I couldn't convince my high school teacher to let me record his voice and post it on youtube.<br /><br />With the recent inauguration and the 113th congress coming into session, I've been thinking a lot about this poem lately. Yes, we elected our first African American president in 2008, but just as importantly we re-elected him to prove it was not a fluke. The new congress also has a few remarkable instances that give hope.<br />
<br />
<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">O you daughters of the west!<br /> O you young and elder daughters!<br /> O you mothers and you wives!<br /> Never must you be divided,<br /> In our ranks you move united,<br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> Pioneers! O pioneers!</span></span></span></h5>
These lines encompass what I mean in a way blogging really can't. The new congress has some noteworthy gains for women, but also noteworthy gains in diversity that to this point have never taken place. There is hope in here for other pioneer women in the future. Let's marvel for a moment at the strides we've made before we resume the fight. We're more than 50% of the population and yet there aren't close to 50 female senators or 50% congresswomen in the house of representatives. A long way to go still, but it's good to enjoy the victories of diversity and equality along the way.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.tammybaldwin.com/" target="_blank">Tammy Baldwin</a> of Wisconsin is the first openly lesbian senator elected.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mazieforhawaii.com/splash" target="_blank">Mazie Hirono</a> of Hawaii is the first Buddhist senator elected and the first Asian woman elected to the senate.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://kyrstensinema.com/" target="_blank">Krysten Sinema</a> of Arizona is the lone atheist in the house of representatives right now and is the only openly bisexual person ever elected to congress.<br />
<br />
New Hampshire is the first state in the history of our country to have an <a href="http://www.nh.gov/government/nhcong.html" target="_blank">entirely female congressional delegation</a>. Both senators and both representatives as well as the governor of the state are all women now.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.tammyduckworth.com/" target="_blank">Tammy Duckworth</a> of Illinois is the first Asian woman elected to congress in Illinois, the first disabled woman elected to the house of representatives, a decorated war veteran, and the first member of congress born in Thailand. She's still serving as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Illinois National Guard despite having lost both her legs in the Iraq War.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://elizabethwarren.com/" target="_blank">Elizabeth Warren</a> was elected as the first female senator Massachusetts, which is a good thing that's she's there now, but considering the state was one of the original 13 colonies, it took a little long in my opinion for them to elect their first female senator considering their state is technically older than our country.<br /><br />Those were all remarkable accomplishments and shouldn't be diminished by how far we still have to go, but now I kind of have to throw some cold water on the celebration with some icky numbers and facts: <br />
<ol>
<li>The obvious one is, yes, we've elected an African American as president twice now, which is good, but we still haven't elected a woman once.</li>
<li>While women comprise about 51% of the population of the country, we're only <a href="http://www.womenlegislators.org/women-legislator-facts.php" target="_blank">20% of the senate and 16.8% of the house of representatives</a>.</li>
<li>There are only <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_female_governors_in_the_United_States" target="_blank">6 states with female governors</a>.</li>
<li>More than half the states in this country <a href="http://www.mercurynews.com/politics-national/2012/11/twenty-six-states-have-never-elected-a-female-senator/" target="_blank">have never elected a female senator</a>. The elections in 2012 dropped it from 30 to 26. Of the 26 that still haven't, four of the states (Delaware, Iowa, Vermont, and Mississippi) have never elected a female representative either.</li>
</ol>
We need to celebrates the pioneer women listed, but we need more pioneer women to be inspired by them in the future.Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-22262284534606809812013-01-08T10:50:00.000-08:002013-01-08T10:50:02.590-08:00The Gunfighter's Gambit<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>“Four things greater than all things are, -
Women and Horses and Power and War” ~Rudyard Kipling</i></span></div>
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The third book in the Raven Ladies series is finally out. I’m
still on the hook for the prequel/fourth book in the series and then my
publisher will be looking at the long term success of the books to see if they
want more. Right now, the numbers look pretty good for the series to live on,
but more would always be better, and thus another promotion blog post.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gunfighters-Gambit-Raven-Ladies-ebook/dp/B00AQRDSHO" target="_blank">the Gunfighter’s Gambit</a> we return to the Gieo and Fiona
storyline. Even while Claudia was heading west, Fiona and Gieo were heading
southeast. Normally this would be the promotion post for the blog where I talk
a little about the book, throw out some teasers, and then post the first
chapter for perusal. Not gonna do that this time though. What I’d really like
to talk about is Maude.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cast in <i>the Gunfighter’s Gambit</i> is almost entirely new.
Fiona, Gieo, Alondra, Ramen, and Shrimp all made it out of Tombstone
and into New Mexico, but the rest
of the characters were built from the ground up and there is some serious
diversity in the book as the gunfighter’s journey heads into two antiquarian
societies. Where everything in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Steam-Powered-Sniper-Broken-Bridges-ebook/dp/B008741XXY/ref=pd_sim_kstore_3" target="_blank">the Steam-powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges</a> was modernized steampunk, everything in the Gunfighter’s Gambit is
heading backward in time. This required me to write an entirely different type of
character: anachronists!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maude is a grandmother, a rancher, a hunter, a lone
survivor, and Fiona’s most trusted companion and advisor in <i>the Gunfighter’s
Gambit</i>. In writing Maude, I wanted to create a character unlike anything I’d
written to this point. In doing so, I also ended up writing a relationship that
isn’t easily definable between Fiona and Maude. In the chain of command, Maude
is Fiona’s subordinate, but in life experience terms, Maude has far more. They’re
equal in survival skills for the post-apocalyptic world, but in entirely different ways. Their relationship can’t be described solely as friendship,
sisterhood, mother/daughter, boss/employee, or mentor/mentored. In Maude, I
wrote a character that I think you’ll love, who has absolutely no interest in
being loved by you or anyone for that matter.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maude is Fiona’s antithesis. She isn’t young, she was never
beautiful, society didn’t laude her accomplishments (although they were
numerous), and yet she found a comfortable place for herself within the world
in a way Fiona never did. By the time the Slark invaded, Maude had built a life
worth being proud of while Fiona hadn’t done anything she wanted to even put
her name to. With how much Maude lost in the cataclysm and invasion, she plays
her cards close the vest and takes protection of what little she has left very
seriously.<br />
<br />
Rudyard Kipling would have loved Maude. Three of Kipling’s quotes followed me
while I was writing this remarkable woman into my book:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>“<span class="grand">An
ounce of mother is worth a pound of clergy.”</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span class="grand">“If
you can force your heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they
are gone, and so hold on when there is nothing in you except the will which
says to them: 'Hold on!'”</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>“For the strength of
the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack”</i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book is an adventure tale about a journey to protect
love in many forms. This is an excerpt from the book where Fiona and Maude are
on the trail talking to reconcile their differing views of the world both old
and new.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona, Maude, and Shrimp were back on the trail by first light, heading
southwest into the open desert with no greater goal than simply being found.
They rode slow to conserve their horses and made no attempts at concealing
their trail. The desert wouldn’t necessarily be kind, and Fiona didn’t know how
long they would have to wander before finding some sign of the Apache, but she
hoped, if they were obvious enough, Alondra’s prediction would come true and
the Apache would find them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">She and Maude both kept sharp eyes to the desert around them,
which was how they spotted the coyote at about the same time. The lanky animal
was following along beside them at a distance of a few dozen yards,
occasionally glancing over to keep the two riders in sight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“That coyote bitch has been following us for miles now,”
Maude said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona couldn’t tell the gender of a coyote on sight, but she
believed Maude could. She hadn’t even considered the coyote to have a gender
the night before. It was simply a strange, unknowable, wild animal. “Yep,” she
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Looks like you made yourself a friend,” Maude added.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“I wasn’t looking to,” Fiona replied. “I just gave her a half
a lizard.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“That’s usually how a person starts a coyote friendship.”
They rode on in silence for awhile before Maude continued. “A coyote friendship
is a fickle, worthless thing. She’ll be warm when you’ve got food and vanish at
the first sign of trouble. They’re not dogs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona and Maude both glanced to Shrimp trotting along beside
them. He’d apparently picked up on their new companion as well, although he
seemed determined to ignore the distant coyote. Shrimp glanced in the coyote’s
direction, but always snapped his head back to front after only a brief glance.
When Maude and Fiona looked to him, he let out a little bark to add to the
conversation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“What animals should I befriend then?” Fiona sniped.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Maude thought on the question awhile. It was asked in jest,
but Maude gave it due diligence all the same. If nothing else it seemed an
interesting philosophical conundrum to the old rancher woman.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“I’d say you’d do well to befriend a rattlesnake,” Maude
mused. “Their friendship is hard-won and dangerous to garner, but once you’ve
got it, it’s going to be solid. There’s not much a snake can do for you. Still,
it’ll do what it can once it calls you friend.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona snorted at this. Even from the context of the
conversation, it wasn’t clear if Maude meant herself or Fiona or both or was
talking out of her ass about literal snakes. Maude certainly matched the
definition of a rattlesnake and her friendship fit the description as well. So
too did Fiona though, and Gieo actually referred to Fiona as a rattlesnake
often. In fact, it was one of the first things Gieo had called her—she’d done
it in such a loving, excited way, that Fiona couldn’t help but take it as a
compliment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Remember Facebook?” Fiona asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Nope,” Maude replied curtly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Oh.” Fiona had planned to make a joke about having a friend
list full of desert animals by the time they were done with their desert trek.
Maude’s terse response made sense though. What the fuck would a person like
Maude care about something as frivolous and ultimately fleeting as social
networking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“The world did itself a big favor by getting rid of shit like
that,” Maude said. “We’d just about ruined experiencing the world with cell
phones and everything that went with them. Staring at a tiny screen with the
whole wide world around you was just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen
folks do.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona nodded her agreement to this. She’d had a cell phone,
like everyone else of her generation, but she’d never liked it. It was a tether
to a life she didn’t want and her phone never brought her good news. Before the
cascade that destroyed technology and killed most of humanity in the process,
she’d dropped her cell phone in a champagne ice bucket outside someone’s room
in the hallway of a casino in Las Vegas.
Not having it with her when humanity struck the epic blow to both sides
probably saved her life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Where were you when the cataclysm ended everything?” Fiona
asked. There wasn’t even true agreement on the nomenclature of the event. The
egg heads in the City of Broken Bridges called it the Cascade and so too did
some of the former military folks in Tombstone,
as Fiona recalled. Most of the Ravens called it the cataclysm though and gave
it little thought or reverence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Maude spit. “It didn’t end everything.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Tell that to the billions of dead folks,” Fiona said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“At my ranch, most likely,” Maude said, “working like a dog
or doing what we’re doing right now.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">That was about the answer Fiona expected. Maude probably rode
horses and shot the shit as a primary hobby for most of her long life. The
world in all probability stopped making sense a long time ago and only circled
back around to making sense after the cataclysm rolled all the technological
clocks back. There wasn’t any way Fiona could make Maude see that the world was
a better place now, not with how many children and grandchildren Maude had
lost. She glanced over to the stoic old woman with the hard features and sharp
eyes. No, Fiona was wrong about the world and Maude not getting along. Maude
was strong and knew herself; she’d never let the world dictate to her the way
Fiona had. In that way, the world likely was worse for Maude simply because it
didn’t have as much family and friends as it once did. Maude was going to be
who she was regardless of how many cell phones or Facebook pages there were.
Fiona envied the hell out of that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Are you going to tell me where you were, or you going to
make me guess like an idiot?” Maude sneered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Passed out drunk on one of those big floating air mattress
things in the middle of the Bellagio’s pool.” Fiona hadn’t ever told anyone
that. Nobody had asked, probably because it didn’t matter, but all the same,
she’d never admitted to anyone to that point exactly how stupid and
serendipitous her survival had been. It was a big pool and she was far enough
away from anything electronic, insulated by the large rubber raft she was
laying upon, that the electronic pulse that destroyed most of humanity and the
Slark invaders hadn’t touched her despite being in the middle of one of the
most electrically demanding cities in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“You’ve got a dumb kind of luck watching out for you,” Maude
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona couldn’t deny that. She’d done more than her fair share
of keeping herself alive and she’d certainly had others shield her, Ekaterina,
Veronica, Carolyn, Gieo, and even Zeke among them, yet with all that, she knew
she should be dead. Luck definitely played a large part in her survival, and
most of it was aptly called dumb luck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Maude directed Fiona’s attention to a green spot in the
desert off to the northwest a quarter of a mile out. They adjusted their path
and began to head toward it. It was mid afternoon when they rode up on the wellspring
watering a tiny scrap of the desert. Fiona wasn’t sure exactly how far they’d
gotten although she guessed they were likely south of old Jaurez by then, but
probably not by much.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">They dismounted and set to watering the horses in the verdant
little pools. Fiona polished off the last of the hot, dusty water in her
canteen and dunked it into the clearest, tiny pond to fill again. Shrimp began
lapping at another, smaller pond a little ways off. Fiona glanced over to the
dog that was warily eyeing something across from the little delta of streams
branching from the wellspring. The coyote had snuck up on them enough to take a
drink herself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona remained stock still, watching the coyote that in turn
watched her even as it drank. Fiona lifted her refilled canteen to her mouth to
drink as well. The coyote stopped lapping at the water momentarily at spotting
the movement, but resumed as soon as she’d assured herself Fiona meant her no
harm in the action. Up close and in the light of day, the coyote didn’t look
like a dog at all. She was lanky and perfectly formed in ways Shrimp wasn’t.
There was a certain awkwardness to the shape of the cattle dog mutt that simply
didn’t exist in the coyote. She was flawlessly suited to the world and a little
beautiful because of it. Her coat was the same tan of the desert, broken by
tiny steaks of darker and lighter shades to mimic shadows and sun. Her head was
pointed and precise for hunting small game. And her tail was bushy in a
decidedly un-doglike way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“I watched her head toward the wellspring before I even saw
it,” Maude whispered from behind Fiona. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she
knew it was here and thought we might want a drink.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“And why do you know better?” Fiona whispered back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Because that’s not in the nature of a coyote friendship to
offer water in exchange for nothing,” Maude replied.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona turned her attention back to the coyote. The coyote
paused in its drinking with its mouth still hovering above the water, but
without its tongue emerging again. Casual as you please, the coyote turned
away, having drunk its fill, and wandered back out of range. It sat in a sandy
patch beside a saguaro cactus and waited.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Your friend there may have helped us more than just the
water,” Maude said, drawing Fiona’s attention away from their desert guide.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona stood slowly as not to frighten off the coyote with
sudden movement. She screwed the cap back onto her full canteen and turned to
see what Maude was talking about. The old rancher woman had walked a little
circle around the wellspring, coming to a stop over some tracks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Five riders, maybe more,” Maude said. “They were riding
single file, but there is enough size variation in some of the hoof prints to
venture a guess.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona knelt beside the churned earth and the u-shaped hoof
tracks. A spill out of water had created mud of the desert floor at one point
and then dried to cast several near perfect prints. There was no way of knowing
how old the tracks were since they were created in dried mud; the edges were
crisp, but that could still mean a matter of several weeks or a couple hours.
“Any guesses on who left them?” Fiona asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Apache,” Maude replied without hesitation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“How are you so sure?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Maude pointed to a set of their own horses’ tracks. “See a
difference?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona stood and glanced between the two sets of prints. The
difference was immediately apparent. Their horses had left muddy prints as
well, but there were little dots along the u-shapes where horseshoe nail heads
sat. The curves of the other tracks were perfectly smooth and unbroken. “They
don’t have horseshoes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“Yep,” Maude said. “I’m guessing the West Durango
folks probably have blacksmiths since they’re stationary, but the Apache likely
don’t bother with metal working.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“I guess we follow them,” Fiona said. “Water is rare enough
in the desert that we’re likely to find another wellspring again along their
trail.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“You’re finally starting to think like a tracker,” Maude
said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona smirked. “If I get too good at it, you’ll be out of a
job.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">“I’ll be long dead before you’re even a tenth the tracker I
am.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona hauled herself back up into Molly’s saddle. “Shit, you
might be long dead before I have breakfast again, old woman.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="color: purple;">Fiona spurred Molly into a gallop down the Apache trail,
heedless of whether anyone was following. She heard Maude scrambling to keep up
and Shrimp barking at the commotion well behind her. She glanced out of the
corner of her eye to see the coyote easily loping along through the desert a
dozen or so yards off to the right.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-10948242686367113392012-11-08T12:21:00.001-08:002012-11-08T12:21:17.138-08:00Relationship Parable<i>This column ran last spring in a few places, but I kind of lost track of it since it ran during my transition from part time columnist to full time novelist. The timeline stuff was accurate in spring when I wrote the column and this was supposed to be the first part of a several part series on relationship parables, which I might still end up writing to post here.<br /><br />Enjoy!</i><br /><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0Gf1oao7yQ2v3fA3uRJks5Krd3esNRL4sByCIUBUQZ1NBiLtAFTyEJEd51mGLm3MpfwLDs9AAzxE7nbIBbdt3t-mkQwloEmy2PFmtI_Qxw8fZBYCl5GW0mfEARjfGdD-Q-FR4Wl_a10/s1600/Pink-moving-billboard-1024x682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0Gf1oao7yQ2v3fA3uRJks5Krd3esNRL4sByCIUBUQZ1NBiLtAFTyEJEd51mGLm3MpfwLDs9AAzxE7nbIBbdt3t-mkQwloEmy2PFmtI_Qxw8fZBYCl5GW0mfEARjfGdD-Q-FR4Wl_a10/s400/Pink-moving-billboard-1024x682.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not the moving service we used, but close enough.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In case you’ve noticed the absence of a column from me in
awhile (or a blog post for that matter), let me tell you a little story about
relationships…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been living with my girlfriend for a couple years now.
About eight months ago, I relocated with her from <a href="http://www.orangecounty.com/" target="_blank">Orange County California</a> to
<a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/politics/sns-rt-us-usa-campaign-deadbre8a62ak-20121107,0,5260002.story" target="_blank">Orange County Florida</a>. Anyone who has tried to move somewhere with someone, you
know that aside from the primary function of relocating all your things, moving
also seems designed to causes stress, fights, and costs a ton of money. Since
my girlfriend and I are both very thrifty women, the costs only added to the
stress and fights.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We survived the cross country move but then, at the
beginning of March, we moved across town from an apartment to a house, which
caused one of the rarest and most intense kind of fights a couple can have, the
dreaded:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>we’re moving out, so we
don’t have to worry about our neighbors hearing our argument</b>. In an empty
apartment, we had a proper screaming at each other match. That’s not entirely
accurate, technically, she was screaming at me, and I was intentionally getting
under her skin in a much quieter way. From the outside, it probably sounded
like she was screaming me silly without response, but let me say, I am a master
of messing with people without seeming like I’m messing with people. If I ever
had an argument with myself, I would probably end up slapping the hell out of
me. To my girlfriend’s credit, she only yelled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEt8cxBt1Jiu31Oa3uot3M0ckhxLVHBxU3jK53de8M1TmMrRkJM0ANovKpEEqmW6lvfHXSjZm9CT0Hh68JcoXlNnrI05ntM_Q6La2RmdjwuKqsU2-bI9b9A32qxFCnaxLNetu5FU3cbE0/s1600/arguing-couple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEt8cxBt1Jiu31Oa3uot3M0ckhxLVHBxU3jK53de8M1TmMrRkJM0ANovKpEEqmW6lvfHXSjZm9CT0Hh68JcoXlNnrI05ntM_Q6La2RmdjwuKqsU2-bI9b9A32qxFCnaxLNetu5FU3cbE0/s1600/arguing-couple.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, traditional marriage.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve been together for several years, known each other even
longer, and we’ve never had a fight like this. More specifically, she’s never
had the out of control reaction she had, and it scared the hell out of her that
she was able to get so angry. The combination of stress from moving, the huge
amount of money we were spending, and her need to take on absolutely every
responsibility she can get a hold of, finally caught up with her, and then I
started needling her with bitchy comments because I’d felt like she hadn’t
listened to me enough that day. I totally earned the screaming at, and I told
her so, but that didn’t make her feel better since she was a little freaked out
about the rage reaction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As women, we’re socialized to internalize our anger. We’d
rather take stuff out on ourselves than externalize it onto the people who probably
caused the anger. In the rare occasion when we do externalize our feelings, it
is usually accompanied by a lot of guilt and shame. I have no doubt in my mind
that if I was straight, and I managed to get my boyfriend that angry, he would
have punched a hole in the wall of the apartment we were leaving and we would
have lost our deposit; yay for being a lesbian! We all have those emotions at
those intensities in us. It’s a human thing, not a gender thing. So, while it
freaked her out because she was still thinking in the socialized terms that
women aren’t supposed to have that kind of anger and we certainly aren’t
supposed to show it, I wasn’t surprised, shocked, or appalled to learn my
girlfriend was an emotionally vivid human being. Having anger is normal,
expressing anger is healthy, internalizing anger because that’s what you’ve
been socialized to do is damaging.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqoduw6UZ6rbWrert-HLSYM_jqmfXa5LLfnUb7mYMreXoH57AcLFohinYDVsRQ5SGVPWZXLWNv-ewXlcreAItCpB7NvIsTlDuet9IWfGhGxisL9d8S3Z2Ks99whYdYUGWgzgxjbdkWCAs/s1600/angrywoman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqoduw6UZ6rbWrert-HLSYM_jqmfXa5LLfnUb7mYMreXoH57AcLFohinYDVsRQ5SGVPWZXLWNv-ewXlcreAItCpB7NvIsTlDuet9IWfGhGxisL9d8S3Z2Ks99whYdYUGWgzgxjbdkWCAs/s320/angrywoman.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The intemperate sex indeed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The relationship moral to this story is two fold:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Firstly,
and most obviously, understand that moving with your girlfriend/wife/partner/whatever-nomenclature-you-prefer
is mind bogglingly stressful. Give each other a break, learn to take breaks
from each other, and accept that arguments are almost certainly going to arise
no matter how much you love each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Secondly,
and perhaps not so obviously, outward expressions of “unsavory” feelings like
anger, jealousy, contempt, etc. shouldn’t be looked down upon. I put unsavory
in quotes because there aren’t “bad” and “good” emotions, only “preferred” and
“not preferred” emotions; calling these emotions bad is where the guilt and
shame over feeling them comes from. Anger isn’t a bad emotion and so expressing
it doesn’t make you a bad person. <a href="http://www.mindfulnessnyc.org/index_files/watering_our_good_seeds.htm" target="_blank">Trying to destroy or suppress a perfectlyhuman emotion like anger is what’s actually bad for you.</a> Within a relationship
you don’t just have to understand your connection to these supposedly negative
feelings. You have to understand your partner’s relationship to the feelings
both in how they experience them and how you express them to your partner. Knowing
Nikki had that kind of anger in her didn’t scare me, didn’t make me rethink the
relationship, or think less of her; it let me know she was human with a very
human need to express her anger sometimes. The really scary thing would be if
she never showed me anything but a happy face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiLJffB6pAIPCE6KHYUoLZ_dUfyom67bYc7zM1P_xS4ckY8yyv986j0X8xWyJRXCoCjCxsmbGy90y4353sgVC1Z1Bup4vG_5EUv6Z_RsTrHzKpHpMZDmSlzP6syvXW7cWLlf9MTW39lE/s1600/tumblr_m2yjjaStlR1r5mcv8o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCiLJffB6pAIPCE6KHYUoLZ_dUfyom67bYc7zM1P_xS4ckY8yyv986j0X8xWyJRXCoCjCxsmbGy90y4353sgVC1Z1Bup4vG_5EUv6Z_RsTrHzKpHpMZDmSlzP6syvXW7cWLlf9MTW39lE/s320/tumblr_m2yjjaStlR1r5mcv8o1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy endings involve sunsets and rainbow flags.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-5034702364895110722012-09-25T13:02:00.000-07:002012-10-05T17:37:05.333-07:00Divine Touched<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Divine Touched</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzq2yycsoApdIhTedElTpCO4rHJeoutm_-DKVRRBZAx8O5pSrZXms2kYR3HXsb0PWLz0q8C-9lbs6zWNLW_4Zfp4K3nPqftIRP7LoVUlTIfaXl_rya_MjCnKAutLfX8yTY6eBQvkiAF4/s1600/FrontCoverDT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzq2yycsoApdIhTedElTpCO4rHJeoutm_-DKVRRBZAx8O5pSrZXms2kYR3HXsb0PWLz0q8C-9lbs6zWNLW_4Zfp4K3nPqftIRP7LoVUlTIfaXl_rya_MjCnKAutLfX8yTY6eBQvkiAF4/s320/FrontCoverDT.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">What would you do if your god stood before you, spoke directly to you, and told you to kill the woman you love?</span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></i> </span>I LOVE swords and sorcery stuff. Dragons, wizards, elves, orcs, and all that fantasy land fun. I played World of Warcraft in high school. I watched all the Lords of the Rings movies (and then read the books--don't judge me, I was 11 when the movies came out). I love everything Game of Thrones, again, I'll admit to the show starting me on the books. So what is a girl to do if she is known for steampunk and paranormal, but she really wants to write about knights and ogres? The answer is apparently take a stab at the new genre and hope my readers are into it.<br />
<br />
Synopsis:<br />
<i>Harper, Sword Maiden for the illustrious Goddess of the Open Ocean, has
returned to the fabled city of Griffon’s Rock at the end of the Last
Road to rest for the winter months after a disappointing year treasure
hunting. Her rest is cut short by a mysterious storm of divine origin,
an attempted horse theft of her beloved mount, and the sudden appearance
of a beautiful southerner who seems determined to capture Harper’s
heart.</i><br />
<br />
<i>As the snows begin to fall, the intrigue and romance heats
up. The object of Harper’s desire, the mysterious rogue Calista,
appears destined to get everyone into fresh trouble with a mystical
stew-brewing ogre, a greedy guild of Dwarven thieves, and finally an
exalted march out of the snowy north bent on divine retribution.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Harper
must decide if her growing love for Calista is real or a product of the
lies she’s been told. Before the spring thaw, Harper will choose
between the woman she loves and the Goddess that is the source of her
magic.</i><br />
<br />
So here it is, the first chapter of my fantasy adventure epic where a pure-hearted knight struggles with her faith as she falls in love with a cold-blooded assassin. Divine Touched is available: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009FRSOTI" target="_blank">Kindle</a>, <a href="http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Divine-Touched/book-G2hFSX-OP0CmoO2S_s-fDQ/page1.html?s=z1C5MeYGxkO02SOtjq_Xpg&r=1" target="_blank">Kobo</a>, <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/divine-touched-cassandra-duffy/1113008646?ean=2940015630633" target="_blank">Nook</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Divine-Touched-1-Cassandra-Duffy/dp/1479321893/ref=la_B004V71IZY_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1348603184&sr=1-6" target="_blank">Paperback</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Andalus; font-size: 18.0pt;">Chapter 1:</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Andalus; font-size: 14.0pt;">The Last Season for an Old Friend</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first storm of
autumn darkened the sea to the northwest, rolling in like gray mountains across
the sky, carrying with it the scent of the winter to come. The Last
Road wound its way up through the granite, heading
north along the coast, with the rocky shore to the west and the groves of stone
berry trees to the east. Ahead, tall like a tooth of the Gods, stood the Screeching
Peak, snow already dusting its
jagged cap, stark white against the foreboding gray sky.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harper walked slowly,
careful to keep to the right of her warhorse, Aerial. The great gray mare,
sixteen hands tall and stout like a brawny north man, was finally to be
retired. Her coat was lined with scars equal to Harper’s, although the final
wound to end her career left only the tiniest mark, no bigger than an
arrowhead. Aerial was only seventeen seasons with plenty of career left before
her until she lost her left eye to a stone dart of all things at the end of
summer. The armored head-crest she wore in combat would have blocked most
projectiles much larger, but the stone dart found its lucky way through, given
more force by attacking opposite a charge. Harper tried her best to heal the
wound, dropping her attack when Aerial reared, yet even her magic couldn’t
spare her beloved horse’s eye. Enough remained to stitch together a milky globe
that Aerial could barely make out shapes with should Harper pass her hand in
front of it. The rest of her company had already ridden ahead, giving Harper
private time with Aerial for the last return to Griffon’s Rock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears rolled freely
down her cheeks, pausing momentarily on the shelf of her high, refined
cheekbones before tumbling free. Harper was part Sylvan-born on her mother’s
side, giving her slightly tapered tips to her ears, delicately triangular
facial features, and an innate sense for magic. As she wore her honey colored
hair long and typically free flowing, she passed easily for an exotically
lovely human woman with the exception of her eyes. They were an otherworldly
combination of green and blue such as a northern ocean after a violent storm
when the world below the waves is churned to the surface and lit upon by
rarified light breaking through the gray dome of storm clouds. Some said they
shone with an inner light, although Harper was seldom near a reflective surface
to verify.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though Aerial had long
since lost the need for a lead rope, Harper rested her hand on her equine
friend’s flank as they walked together. The ocean crashed against the granite
shore down the boulder-strewn slope to their left and the autumnal winds blew
through the golden leaves of the stone berry orchards to their right allowing
them both to walk blind, guided north only by the sounds surrounding them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aerial sniffed at the
air, flaring her nostrils to take in the scent of the approaching storm and
rain striking saltwater to the north. Harper followed suit, breathing in deeply
the blessing of the Sea Queen. Maraline, Goddess of the Open
Sea, spoke to her followers like
Harper through the ocean’s song. Harper tried her best to see the approaching
storm as a sign of a good resting season to come, a fine farewell to a friend’s
long service, before Aerial and Harper would finally part ways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Griffon’s Rock rose
out of the base of the Screeching Peak
like a shining jewel among worthless gravel. The city itself, the wintering
home of Harper’s company, was built from the ruins of the Dwarven
City State
that had inhabited the mountain a century before. The Dwarves had come to rely
on the griffons that lived among the peak as their staple herd. Their end came
when the dragons, who also fed upon the griffons, took umbrage with the Dwarves
pillaging their food supply. The Dwarves were exterminated under the flame of
the dragons and the dragons starved slowly after, consuming the last of the
griffons without leaving generations enough to replenish the reduced numbers.
The city of Griffon’s Rock and the
humans who inhabited it learned the lessons of foolish dragons and greedy
Dwarves, focusing instead on the easily fostered crop of stone berries: the
hearty, tree-grown nuts the griffons had once eaten. The shells of the stone
berry were so hard only the griffon’s beaks could crack them, or, as the people
of Griffon’s Rock learned, metal nut crackers in the precise shape of a
griffon’s beak. The nut within was often crushed, mixed with water, and turned
into a gruel for marching troops or high quality mash for warhorses. The armies
of the nation of Vaelandria marched on their stomachs as the old proverb went.
And the stomachs of Vaelandrian horses and men alike were filled with stone
berries grown by the people of Griffon’s Rock. The secondary industry of
Griffon’s Rock was to offer winter housing for mercenary companies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The treasure seeking
season was coming to a close, although earlier than Harper might have liked.
Harper’s crew, the Dagger Falls Company had been beset by misfortune the entire
season from spring’s first thaw until they’d finally given up their endeavors a
week ago. More fortunate companies would continue their work until the first
snow, which wouldn’t be for another two weeks, collecting coin and treasure for
their benefactors before retiring to Griffon’s Rock. The haul the Dagger Falls
Company managed that season was embarrassingly paltry, and Harper didn’t look
forward to making their report.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’d lost their Jack
early in the season. Felix, a street urchin who had risen through the ranks of
thieves guilds to turn adventurer and mercenary at the first opportunity, had
served ably as the company’s Jack for four seasons. Early in spring, when they
were working as caravan guards to make their way into the east, a brigand
ambush had struck the wagon train, felling Felix beneath a hale of arrows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The company tried
their best to replace the talented Jack with little success. Mettler, a
grandiose figure with a flourishing rapier as his favored weapon and a bright
orange sash tied around his head at all times, had hired on once they’d
finished the caravan escort duty. The next job, and Mettler’s only work with
the company, was a reclaiming of a captive nobleman’s daughter. Mettler was to
scale the stone manor’s wall, enter through an open window, and sneak through
the mansion to open the gate for the rest of the company. The loud crash that
followed from within, the shouting of guards, and then the frantic pounding on
the interior of the keep’s massive oak door told the company Mettler had failed
miserably in his task. They’d gained entrance to the keep when the guards burst
out the front door in great numbers to see if the foppish Jack was acting
alone. The Dagger Falls Company battled well, slaying the guards through force
of arms and dumb luck, and ultimately freed the nobleman’s daughter in a distinctly
ham-fisted fashion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second replacement
Jack they’d hired on, and the one who managed to follow them the rest of the
summer, was a Havvish woman—Havvish being the diminutive people having arisen
from the union between a Gnome and a Brownie that supposedly took place two
millennia ago—less kind origin stories for the relatively new race said they
sprang from a swamp of particularly irritating water. Short to the tune of
around four feet tall and delicately built, their work as Jacks was legendary and
so the company felt themselves fortunate to find one available for employment.
Unfortunately, so too are the Havvish people known for drinking, gambling,
stealing anything not nailed down, and talking all waking hours and many
slumbering hours as well. Brandinne was talented at her work, there was no
doubt about that, fighting well with her crossbow and daggers, setting
brilliant traps, and flicking locks from their mountings with little more than
a look, but she drove them all to the edge of madness with her prattle and
stink-weed pipe smoking. Sven and Athol, the two brothers whose family was the
company’s benefactor, seriously considered stuffing Brandinne into a sack and
drowning her on so many occasions that Harper actually started to fear for the Jack’s
life. Toward the end of the season, when they were camped at the edge of the
Rusted Plains, Athol had stepped into a leg-turn trap, having somehow found his
way toward Brandinne’s side of the camp in the dark. The trap that cleverly
combined sticks and ropes in such a way that would turn an ankle if stepped
into, had served as a non-lethal warning. Athol claimed he was sleep walking.
Brandinne superficially accepted this excuse, but the damage to the group’s
cohesion was done. Brandinne took her earnings and left them in the next town.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the next job,
Harper’s trusted mount and warhorse of great import to the company’s success,
took the stone dart to the eye when they were to clear out a colony of goblins
that had taken up residence in a town’s only functional mill. The Dagger Falls
Company took a vote, declared the season hexed beyond repair, and retired to
Griffon’s Rock to spend the winter months searching for a new Jack and better
fortune for the spring thaw to come.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harper finally
strolled through the gates of the city’s massive walls, once built by talented
Dwarven masons. The cobblestone streets, brick buildings with thatched roofs,
and hearty agrarian people all felt familiar and safe to Harper. The citizenry
of Griffon’s Rock were abuzz with preparations for the return of the mercenary
companies. At least two dozen or more companies took their winter rest in
Griffon’s Rock, bringing with them wealth spent liberally on drink,
entertainment, finery, and, if any was left over, supplies for the next season.
The town greeted the companies with great hospitality, plied them with food,
drink, and wanted wares, and then sent them on their way the following spring,
picked clean of nearly every coin. Harper was different. As a Sword Maiden of
the Sea Queen, she spent her winter months at the temple to Maraline, healing
the sick, performing miracles in the name of her Goddess, and growing the flock
of the faithful. Her wealth remained her own, saved in the temple’s coffers,
spared by her duty to her faith.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She walked the
familiar narrow alleys along the outer wall to the livery where she would
finally dip into her mountain of savings to provide comfort for an old friend
who had served well. The livery master came out to greet her, dressed in the
stained brown clothes of his work, his equally filthy hair pulled back into a
long braid. He smelled strongly of the stables, of sweet hay, pungent horse
manure, and leather tack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Greetings to you,
Lady Harper,” the stable master said, raising his hand in a three fingered
salute meant to show fealty to an agent of the divine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Greetings, stable
master,” Harper replied. “I have need of new service.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“New or returned
service, my lady?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Aerial has lost use
of her left eye in the course of duty,” Harper explained, gently turning her
horse’s head to show the stable master the truth of her words. “I wish her to
rest in a retirement well-earned, paid for by the coin she helped acquire.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Begging your
apologies, lady, but we do not provide horse ‘retirement’ services here.” The
livery master fidgeted a bit, not wishing to look upon Harper when delivering
the news. “Perhaps you should see to the butcher or one of the slaughterhouses
for such a thing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The implication struck
Harper like a cold knife to the stomach, which she had experienced and hadn’t
enjoyed. “No, not in the sense of retire from this world,” she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Begging apology
again, but what other retirement might a horse be offered?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“To rest well, eat in
peace, the occasional freedom to run across an open pasture, and then sleep in
a dry stable.” Harper held Aerial’s head close to her own, breathing deeply of
the warm, familiar smell of her beloved friend. “She has earned all of these
things and more. Will you see to her comfort as a loyal servant of the Sea Queen?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The livery master,
still appearing baffled beyond understanding, nodded his agreement. “I do not
understand your purpose in this, but if this horse is a servant of the Sea
Queen, I will care for her as I would my own daughter.” The livery master took
the offered bridle, gave the horse a perplexed look, and led her into the
stable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harper considered
correcting the livery master before he departed, to tell him she meant <i>he</i>
was a loyal servant of the Sea Queen as she had seen him come within the crystal-lined
walls of the temple, but she thought better of it. Aerial could certainly be
called a favored child of the Sea Queen and if that helped the livery master
understand the request better, then Harper was glad to see it done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first rains of the
coming storm struck her before she could even turn to take her leave. She
tilted her head back to take in the blessed storm, bathing in the baptismal of
her faith as she walked the streets toward the Thundering
Dawn Inn.
People gathered beneath awnings, at windows, and even dared to stand at the
edge of the road to watch her pass, Sword Maiden of the Sea, drenched and
happy. Harper knew this was as close to the divine as many would come. Few
witnessed Gods and fewer still received the personal boon that was magic of the
holy—Harper had done both.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was but a child of
single digit years, the daughter of a fisherman in Anilthine, when she beheld
Maraline in all her glory. A blockade had shut the city’s bay to the world over
a trade dispute, keeping Harper’s father on shore to fish from the docks with a
pole like a common angler. She had joined him at the edge of the jetty, the
manmade barrier of piled rocks to partially close off the bay to the wild
waters of the ocean. On that fateful day, she went to see the hulking ships of
a rival city bobbing along the lazy blue waves as she’d heard they were
fantastically different. She was nearly out of her father’s line of sight,
although not entirely as this would raise his voice and she didn’t want that,
but she had wanted a closer look at the great warships. At the furthest edge of
the jetty, where the sea spray washed over her whenever a wave crashed against
the rocks, she finally saw the whole of the armada blocking in their fair city.
A storm unlike anything she’d seen before or since, rose like a spear in the
sky, slicing across the open ocean as no weather could. The men upon the
blockade ships shouted, attempted to raise anchor and set sail, but it was all
in vain. The storm slashed through their ranks with determined vengeance,
shattering ships with lightning, colossal waves, and sail-tattering winds.
Standing amidst the storm, gigantic like the statue of the Goddess within the
city’s square, was the Goddess Maraline incarnate. She walked along the ocean,
smoothing the water as she went, creating a causeway in escort of a lone ship.
She passed by the jetty, a few dozen yards only separating Harper from the
Goddess of the Open Sea.
She was magnificent, beautiful, glowing like the noonday sun set to bounce off
the water. Harper felt her power in a way she’d never felt anything before. The
touch of the moment lingered, found a resting place in her, and dwelled there
like a flame. Her father ran to her, attempted to collect her from the end of
the jetty, but he too was struck by the power of the Goddess and, like his
daughter, could only hold his ground in awe of witnessing the divine. The ship
the Goddess had personally escorted through the blockade held a high priestess
with the power to raise the dead, or so the stories went. All Harper knew was
that she must devote her life to this great and powerful lady of the ocean.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ember of the
divine planted in her from proximity to the Goddess had remained, growing
slowly, the source of Harper’s magic and anchoring her connection to the deity
she served. The rain soaked her hair, made heavy her linen tunic, and seeped
into her leather riding boots, but she didn’t care. The rain also grew the
ember of the divine within her and she felt closer to the Goddess because of
it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alarm rose out of the
west. Someone was ringing the great iron bell above the western walls, calling
aid to the docks and the lighthouse. Harper snapped out of her reverie. People
were rushing toward the sound of the clanging bell. Harper joined them in the
charge, sprinting through the puddles collecting in the street. The lateness of
the hour and the darkness of the storm clouds left little light to follow by.
The storm prevented any torch from gaining purchase, leaving the help called by
the bell to flow through the streets almost blindly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she broke free of
the city, Harper got her first look at what raised the alarm. The great stone
lighthouse on the edge of the jetty lay dark, likely losing its light under the
ferocity of the storm. White-capped waves smashed upon the rocks, rolling out
of the angry North Sea in gray mountains of water. Amid
this turbulent hell of livid water, the remains of a ship was being battered
against the rocks beneath the lighthouse. Cargo crates, barrels, debris, and
people bobbed as black dots amid the choppy water of the bay, washed over from
time to time when a colossal breaker roared clean over the jetty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Great pyres of pitch
laden logs began lighting around the bay, finally granting light enough to
effect a rescue. Men with ropes and floats rushed to the docks and onto the
jetty. They struggled hard to pull the sailors from the angry gray waters even
as the spray and wind threatened to pluck the rescuers from the wooden planks
of the docks and granite boulders of the jetty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harper rushed to their
aid, making her way down the path toward the lighthouse. She slid her slender,
two-handed sword from the scabbard across her back. The beautiful, holy weapon
imbued with the power of the Goddess sprang to life when the rain struck it.
This was no accidental squall of the coming season. The blade recognized the
hand of the divine in the waters. What could the Goddess wish to destroy on
that ship, Harper wondered. She braved the crashing waves at the end of the
stone precipice the lighthouse was perched upon, raised the beautiful blade of
the Goddess high above her, and bathed the entire bay in the soft blue glow of
the guiding light of the Sea Queen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .3in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rescuers did their
best to work by the light, hauling man after soggy man from the waves by the
light until the storm finally battered the last of the ship into little more
than kindling, and the entire hulk disappeared beneath the darkened waves.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-18160178583274405362012-08-28T14:01:00.002-07:002012-10-05T17:15:07.803-07:00Random Questions from Everywhere<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Random Questions from
Everywhere</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJhRyJ4grgsMA9k0boBEyiZfr_j0n66_o3eHiONVRKEKRWpku4DAyMlpqR92qfbUrOfTGhrvXKURn6GahgwqrjsguTzXpIw8vAobkVE6GfKKNcljkR84X5B1hrfspWwozJiC8YokD9nY/s1600/6a00d8341c56b153ef01156f825214970c-500wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyJhRyJ4grgsMA9k0boBEyiZfr_j0n66_o3eHiONVRKEKRWpku4DAyMlpqR92qfbUrOfTGhrvXKURn6GahgwqrjsguTzXpIw8vAobkVE6GfKKNcljkR84X5B1hrfspWwozJiC8YokD9nY/s320/6a00d8341c56b153ef01156f825214970c-500wi.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yep, it's another fuck it blog post!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve kind of slacked horribly on the relationship advice
land questions. Ever since I quit doing the freelance columns, I’ve had a hard
time giving out advice. A lot of the questions I get are kind of depressing
or lack all the information so it turns into something of an email back and
forth, which isn’t conducive to blog posts. In the name of keeping the blog
fun, I’m going to answer a couple random, silly questions instead, even if (especially
if) the question wasn’t asked in seriousness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Have you ever “gotten” someone in your books?</i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFR9VBOfLD7V_F0bFbCcsalPphc3xnBkEZlJtGwhE3Y5DFMXZl4wj8ksfQVbVBpAbCW-K4-qbsPBubDSNZuLnEupTbqJnBmWCeifS6-qerDi4qUk-CeeqkM7WmWMd47CLmK26xYFEARfg/s1600/554706_10151195783281224_849947994_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFR9VBOfLD7V_F0bFbCcsalPphc3xnBkEZlJtGwhE3Y5DFMXZl4wj8ksfQVbVBpAbCW-K4-qbsPBubDSNZuLnEupTbqJnBmWCeifS6-qerDi4qUk-CeeqkM7WmWMd47CLmK26xYFEARfg/s320/554706_10151195783281224_849947994_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep! Firstly, let me say this is a long standing tradition
in the author world and it is entirely immature, ridiculous, and ineffective.
<a href="http://www.crossref-it.info/textguide/The-Pardoner%27s-Prologue-and-Tale/12/1405" target="_blank">Geoffrey Chaucer did it with Simon the Pardoner way back in the 1300s.</a> It isn’t
known precisely who the Pardoner was, or if he was entirely allegorical, which
I kind of doubt, but Mr. Chaucer really let the guy have it. Nerd Girl Info:
<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0183790/trivia" target="_blank">there’s a reference to this in A Knight’s Tale</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m certainly not alone in “getting” someone through
literary satire. I’m probably not even alone in figuring out how silly the
behavior is. Trying to “get” someone with a novel is a little like getting into
a gun fight with a musket that takes a year or more to load while firing at someone
who probably doesn’t have a gun at all and is so far away, they’re not even
aware you’re shooting at them. Let me clarify that bizarre metaphor. It
takes about six months to a year to publish a book. So even if a person writes
very quickly, which I do, the book will still take six months to be seen by a
reader. Odds are, the person being “gotten” won’t even read the work. On the
off chance they do, they probably won’t recognize themselves since people are
terrible judges of their own character. And even if they do read it and
recognize themselves, they probably won’t care enough to even send an email to
the author saying, “Hey, I read your book about that incident at a party over a
year ago and it truly hurt my feelings to know you thought my pants fit so
poorly!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1LDC4FJo7ubg7m4ihj5A3xEUjkakdtMLfIyr_i0Cktof5OTHbDtGkuCnoj3A4Z4JAg8yyT9QIgFyGJjiV-YjyMjBrFJnq3Q_T3ezfDdX7_eYmTo3Z2h3iDQpSLSj-eQElq9CQmi-ju8/s1600/chief-wiggum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1LDC4FJo7ubg7m4ihj5A3xEUjkakdtMLfIyr_i0Cktof5OTHbDtGkuCnoj3A4Z4JAg8yyT9QIgFyGJjiV-YjyMjBrFJnq3Q_T3ezfDdX7_eYmTo3Z2h3iDQpSLSj-eQElq9CQmi-ju8/s320/chief-wiggum.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm clearly not the first person to lampoon a cop they didn't like.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my specific incident of literary “getting” someone…I got
a ticket a couple of years ago, a speeding ticket to be precise, and in my
20-year-old brain, I thought the California Highway Patrolman giving me a
ticket for going 80 in a 70 zone on an entirely empty section of I-5 was an
asshole thing to do. Actually, I still do, but whatever. If you’ve read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gunfighter-Gear-Head-Raven-Ladies-ebook/dp/B005LSDFEO" target="_blank">TheGunfighter and The Gear-Head</a> you’ll probably have noticed there’s a former CHP
officer named Rawlins. Zeke orders him around, Gieo blackmails him, Fiona mocks
him, and he eventually ends up dead. The GF&GH is a popular book,
routinely in Amazon’s top 100 for lesbian fiction. The thing is, I doubt
Officer Rawlins reads lesbian fiction. I actually kind of doubt Officer Rawlins
even reads recreationally. So, yep, I really “got” him and he has no idea it
even happened, nor would he probably care if he did know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In hindsight (actually a little bit while I was doing
it) the whole thing felt silly and a little pointless, which is why I haven’t
done it since. Of course, if you get pulled over in the north Central Valley of
California by a chubby, arrogant CHP officer named Rawlins, feel free to tell
him he’s in a book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Have you ever tried to start a trending topic?</i></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3to7qLEjAC98K2IlasBKUEpw6H36FsVtNUWSfQ7ueYOiGPEuJbSbbjDFw8cM__W1-KPJ5UZlij_19HL3SKGM1jlncOdYb4p99Qvk38Zlbuj43QPxgfdH1YvD_eeQbQEDYi7q5eQwA89U/s1600/c89ddaf18c91e7338190b3db80df7491.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3to7qLEjAC98K2IlasBKUEpw6H36FsVtNUWSfQ7ueYOiGPEuJbSbbjDFw8cM__W1-KPJ5UZlij_19HL3SKGM1jlncOdYb4p99Qvk38Zlbuj43QPxgfdH1YvD_eeQbQEDYi7q5eQwA89U/s320/c89ddaf18c91e7338190b3db80df7491.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Why does creating a hand gesture for something immediately make it lame?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a question from one of my new twitter followers who
is increasingly becoming one of my favorite tweeple. Yes, and several. My
history of creating hashtags:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#ShitMyGirlfriendSays: I still do this one from time to time
when my girlfriend says something truly fantastic. I probably didn’t create it,
but for awhile there all the activity on that hashtag floated around things I
was saying and my follower list. So, while I may not have hatched that specific
twitter egg, it was mine for a bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#TweetingThroughABadMovieOnFX: I used to live chat/tweet
during movies on FX. I only picked 2 star or lower movies, only movies I’d
never seen, and movies it was entirely likely FX did some truly hilarious
things to while editing for television. Last fall, FX showed “Twilight” and I
made the mistakes of #TweetingThroughABadMovieOnFX during it. Oh my fucking
goddess, did people lose their shit over me making fun of Twilight for a solid
two hours. Seriously, I had people pestering me about how wonderful and
transcendent of a story Twilight is for weeks! After that, I kind of lost my
taste for the whole thing, and FX has started showing better movies.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1PpNgvNTfQG8OVXGdPxPw3bLx7BAduTE6x3fDd4Ey2KvbKUAJnuQZnQ9HsbrSHt3tnJq0rcCSRQU6wy0dS536swnm7GkIAc_9tYnLv0PwYuuQcPtpxdLR6NuIXh3c4kJtTKz9sZ8614/s1600/2009_12_16_Michael_REy2_Twilight_sucks-s320x400-84865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1PpNgvNTfQG8OVXGdPxPw3bLx7BAduTE6x3fDd4Ey2KvbKUAJnuQZnQ9HsbrSHt3tnJq0rcCSRQU6wy0dS536swnm7GkIAc_9tYnLv0PwYuuQcPtpxdLR6NuIXh3c4kJtTKz9sZ8614/s320/2009_12_16_Michael_REy2_Twilight_sucks-s320x400-84865.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I pointed to this exact scene as creepy. Twilight fans response: "Ermahgerd isa lurve storah!"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
#SexPositiveSaturday: I still think this one is a good idea
that just didn’t work out. I wanted to get a bunch of relationship advice/sex
advice columnists, bloggers, podcasters, etc. to start posting sex positive
information and news on Saturdays with this hashtag. A few of us did for a
couple weeks and then it just kinda died, probably due to my lack of focus.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>Have you ever padded out a blog post with pictures to make it look like you wrote more?</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever get killed in a book?</div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-20615470955255951822012-07-26T16:33:00.003-07:002013-09-25T11:57:13.730-07:00Book Bloggers<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I posted a comment awhile back on a column for the San
Francisco Book Review that was written by a colleague who is from the same area
as me and someone I’ve grown to like quite a bit through talking with her via
social networking sites over the past year or so. Let me start by saying that
I’m super happy for and super proud of Rachel for having her article published
by the San Francisco Book Review--it’s kind of a big deal place to have an article,
especially for California
writers. The article was largely written with a writer audience in mind, and so
my comment that has been getting so much attention lately was directed at other
writers.<br />
<br />
I have since been able to clarify my statements, which were posted in haste,
with many book bloggers and reviewers on an individual level, and I’ve enjoyed
this since it was a good chance to catch up as well, but I thought it’d be a
good idea to clarify things on a larger scale.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/.a/6a00d8341c630a53ef0120a94c9f01970b-800wi" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/.a/6a00d8341c630a53ef0120a94c9f01970b-800wi" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the <i>LA Times</i> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Firstly, let me say, I wish I had put quotes around
“blogger” in my original post, because that’s really how I meant it. The type
of blogger I was talking about isn’t in the majority and I’m very sorry that
from the way I phrased my post that many bloggers felt I was talking about
them. That was not my intention and I do believe the specific type of “blogger”
I was talking about makes up probably less than 10% of the whole. You know
what, I’m not even going to use the same word for them when writing this
anymore. After talking with an accomplished book blogger on twitter last night,
I came to the conclusion that I don’t even see the two as being of the same
group. There are book bloggers, paid and unpaid, who behave in a professional
manner whether or not they’re getting paid for their time, and many of them
aren’t but are deserving of compensation for their work. But then there is
another, smaller group that I’ll just refer to as hack-jobbers who go out of
their way to find books they’re going to hate so they can attack them. These
two groups are not the same in my mind and I feel terrible that my post appeared
to lump them together, which was not my intention.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.d.umn.edu/%7Elmillerc/TeachingEnglishHomePage/5902/calhobbes.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="http://www.d.umn.edu/%7Elmillerc/TeachingEnglishHomePage/5902/calhobbes.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Bill Wasterston who wrote stellar dialogue for a stuffed tiger.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My post’s primary goal was to give comfort to other writers
who have been hit by these hack-jobbers. The original article was written to
other writers--it seemed like a good place to talk to them. I may have just
come from one of the <a href="http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_a_burn_page" target="_blank">burn pages</a> or I might just have been thinking about my
last trip to one--either way, I was mad and posted in haste to say the writers who
were being “reviewed” by these hack-jobbers, who don’t actually seem to finish
very many of the books they “review”, should take heart in knowing they’ve
succeeded at something wonderful:
selling a book. And they shouldn’t let a hack-jobber make them feel like
it wasn’t an accomplishment.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
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The thing about book bloggers, the real ones, not the
hack-jobbers, is that they’re doing something nobody thought they would. I am
writing specifically to the book bloggers here; I’d love to sit down with each
and every one of you, have tea, and tell you this face to face, but we’ll have
to settle for this. The Big Six publishers didn’t think you would do what
you’re doing--they bet a lot of money in a roundabout way that you wouldn’t.
You’re sorting the huge flood of indies in a way they never could and you’re
doing it without anyone telling you when or how. You all just started doing it.
You loved books so much that you gave up your free time to help others love
books too. As an indie author from an indie publisher, I need you and
appreciate you for working on this enormous labor of love, without pay, that
will hopefully never be completed. We’re in this symbiotic relationship where
indie authors and unpaid book bloggers are creating a literary world that has
never existed before. If unpaid book bloggers didn’t review indies, the Big Six
would be right about this new system not working and indies would have an
enormously difficult time succeeding; likewise, if indie authors/publishers
didn’t put out their work, book reviewing would still be dominated by paid
reviewers in the New York Times and other publications, and they’d all review
the same several books from the Big Six. What is being created by unpaid book
bloggers and indie authors/publishers is a system where readers have more
choices than ever and opportunities to read books that suit their every taste
and/or desire; the Big Six and traditional paid book reviewers simply can’t do
this because there just aren’t enough of them. Most indie authors, myself
included, would have an extremely hard time standing out from the crowd if it
weren’t for book bloggers pointing to us and saying, “Hey, that person’s got a
book you might like!”</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m going to run through a list of book bloggers and show
you exactly what I mean about good people doing good work. Some of them have
reviewed my books and some of them haven’t, but I’m only going to post one of
my own book reviews, and I’ll save that for the end--trust me, it won’t be
self-promotion.<br />
<br /></div>
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The first review I want to look at is from Loving Venus / Loving Mars. It’s an
LGBT oriented book review site with expertise in bisexual literature (try to
get THAT from the New York Times Book Review). They go with the A+ through F-
review format. In this review, Leah is giving a C to the book. I think
C/3-star/whatever-is-your-middle-rating reviews are always interesting. You get
to watch a blogger really talk about the book in a balanced way. <i>Loved it!</i>
and <i>Hated it!</i> reviews are useful, but when you get to see a book blogger
with talent working on a 3-star or C grade book, you really get to see their
critical processes in action, which also holds entertainment value: <a href="http://bi-curious-romancenovel-chat.blogspot.com/2010/09/review-verdict-for-love-by-monica-conti.html">http://bi-curious-romancenovel-chat.blogspot.com/2010/09/review-verdict-for-love-by-monica-conti.html</a></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">There were many times when this story was going to be a DNF for me.
But I’m stubborn that way sometimes and I kept reading. I’m glad I did even if
I have some critical things to say.” -- </span>I love her for saying this. She
didn’t quit on a book, despite wanting to, and she found something she would
have missed if she had. That is superb book blogging and exactly what I’ve come
to expect from Leah.</div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“So
I did have some expectations of a well crafted story, which didn’t happen.” </span>--
This happens. A reviewer will like one book from the author, but not another,
and Leah explains precisely why, while keeping perfect focus on the specific
book she was reviewing.</span></div>
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I’m not going to go through the entire review because it is
very in depth, but the spoiler alert/highlight section is done in a very clever
way, so you should at least check that out even if you don’t read the whole
thing. Ultimately, her review breaks down to the fact that the author did some
POV things Leah felt didn’t work, but that the story being told was a good one,
even if the way it was being told wasn’t. And she gave it an accurate C for
that. This is the type of review that helps readers AND writers make better
choices. Leah has reviewed a couple of my books, and she seemed to like them.
She had notes on them that were helpful to me in future projects and she
articulated those criticisms in a way that benefited everyone.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another example of book bloggers/reviewers are the ladies,
Rob, Amy, and Susie at Insatiable Booksluts. Rob is a woman, by the way, so
that wasn’t an accident or typo. This is a fine example of a generally positive
review from Amy. It’s a 4 out of 5 star book, but Amy explains very clearly why
it lost that extra star. <a href="http://insatiablebooksluts.com/2012/07/22/review-all-about-lulu-by-jonathan-evison/">http://insatiablebooksluts.com/2012/07/22/review-all-about-lulu-by-jonathan-evison/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">It starts off with the first line
of the book, which I like because it gives the reader a sample to really get
the flavor of the book being reviewed. It’s followed by cleverness in her
rating of it and background on why she chose to review it. She selected the
book because she wanted to review it, presumably because she thought she would
enjoy it. That’s precisely why a person should read a book to review it.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">Amy provides a clear synopsis so
her review will have context and a reader of her review could decide if the
story sounded interesting to them as well. Who couldn’t like a book blogger who
took that kind of care of their own readers?</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">She concludes her review with an
explanation of why it lost the star it lost, which was thought out and a
reasonable flaw for the penalty incurred. She also posted a funny tweet about a
typo in the book, but she did explain very clearly that the typo was minor and
understandable. I thought this one, well-placed tweet was far funnier than
pages and pages of viscous snark.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The website’s banner says, “Voracious readers tell you if that
book is going to suck” and they do, but they also tell you if the book isn’t
going to suck. They have a balance of positive, negative, and in between
reviews, which means they’re taking the task of sorting books seriously, and
making an honest, good faith effort to assess each book on its merits
regardless of whether it ends up being one of the ones that sucks. They won the
2012 Independent Book Blogger Award for Adult Fiction category and I think they
more than earned it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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The last book blogger (because I already know this blog will be
+4k words) and the only review of my own work I will be posting today. It comes
from Guerilla Bookworm. I don’t know if they’re male or female, and I couldn’t
find on the site where it said, so I’ll just call the reviewer “they.” They
clobbered my book in an example of a perfectly written 1-star critique. This
specific review was entirely validating for me--someone really taking the time
to dissect my book and find it wanting meant to me that I’d finally joined the
ranks of other professional authors who took a lump or two at the hands of a
talented reviewer: <a href="http://guerillabookworm.com/?p=164">http://guerillabookworm.com/?p=164</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“How much did I want to adore this
book?” -- isn’t that an ominous start? Immediately I knew I was in for it, but
I also knew that this book blogger had come to my book with happy expectations
and hopes, eager to read and review with an open mind, which meant they were
doing their job.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">Next, they go into the sex scenes
in the book, which they didn’t care for at all. The reviewer prefaced it that
they even expected the sex scenes so it wasn’t a surprise to them. The
attention to detail in recalling specifics on the scenes they didn’t like shows
the reader of the review that the reviewer thought quite a bit about this
criticism and took the time to be specific without posting spoilers. They gave
reasons and supported those reasons with examples--perfect book blogger form.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“That might have worked if this
were a video game instead of a novel.” -- I liked this line a lot. I wanted to
be a game designer for a long time. It’s in the middle of a paragraph
explaining why the reviewer didn’t care for the protagonists, but again, the
writing used to clobber my book is clever, well-reasoned, and an equitable
expression of the reviewer’s opinion.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“And, yet, I hung in there.” --
this reviewer was NOT having fun reading my book, it wasn’t even on his list,
and they didn’t “owe” me a review because I didn’t submit or ask for one (not
that anyone ever owes anyone a review). YET they persisted through the whole
thing because they wanted to be fair and reasonable in their criticism.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“I never pick up a book without
wanting to enjoy it.” -- statement of what makes them a quality book blogger
and not a hack-jobber: making a good faith effort.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“It did give me one good chuckle in
a scene involving a robot and a puppy. So for that, Ms. Duffy, I
sincerely thank you.” -- at least I got one chuckle </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">At the end, they discuss what they
thought I could have done better, encouraged me to continue writing, which kind
of surprised me, and then offered alternative reads based on the genre of my
book if people wanted to see what the reviewer thought was a quality book of
this type. All of which was lovely and provided valuable information for both
readers of the review and the author. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The reviewer mentions at one point that they think they’re
being vitriolic. I didn’t see it that way at all, but I might have a different
point of comparison for that word. This review came out during a very hectic
month for me, so I don’t recall if I sent them an email thanking them for their
consideration, which I usually do, regardless of the outcome of the review. So,
if I forgot to, and I think I might have:
Thank you for your consideration, Guerilla Bookworm, I’m sorry you
didn’t enjoy the book, but I appreciated your time and effort regardless.</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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There are hack-jobbers out there though. Hack-jobbers are NOT
book bloggers in my opinion. The people above represent the majority of book
review blogs, while hack-jobbers represent a small, but fairly vocal minority.
These people, I don’t want to call them reviewers really since that seems like
a secondary goal, go out of their way to find books they aren’t going to like
so they can say mean things about them. Why a person would waste their time,
energy, and money doing this is completely beyond me. Some of them don't even spend their money as they'll brag about exploiting Amazon's return policy to rip off authors, publishers, and distributors by buying a book, reading it, and then returning it for a refund before writing a scathing review of the same book they just stole. And that’s really the
point of part of my post on the San Francisco Book Review--nobody is making
hack-jobbers do this. If they were professional book reviewers and their boss
was making them review books they hated and they couldn’t leave their job
because we’ve all got student loan payments, I would probably have a different
opinion of them because I’ve had to work a few jobs where the boss breathing
down my neck was the only reason I did something, plus they would have been given a review copy instead of resorting to stealing one. But all the hatred and
bashing from a hack-jobber is done voluntarily and without compensation, so
they really are just being mean to be mean. Thankfully, I’ve never been
reviewed by one. Some bash the authors themselves and some just do a shit job
of reviewing a book they clearly set out to hate. One of their goals seems to
try to discourage indie authors and publishers from…well…existing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I thought quite a bit about posting one of their sites as an
example, but I decided against it since I really don’t want to provide even
more hits and attention for bad behavior. Some people I’m sure will still
figure it out.</div>
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<br /></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“I aim my Darts of Mockery at the
small-press publisher, who later removed the book from their online store,
Amazon, B&N and ARe” -- good for her? Either she’s taking credit for the
removal of a book that had nothing to do with her, or she’s taking credit for
insulting someone’s work out of the public sphere. Book bloggers provide
information for readers to make informed decisions, while hack-jobbers want to
decide what books are even available for readers by insulting writers and
publishers until they leave.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“so I figured I should out myself
a Mean Girl” -- that’s in the header of a section where she’s bragging about
all the people she’s mocked recently. It makes the website look a lot like a
burn page to me.</span></div>
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-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span><span dir="LTR">“Made it about 20%...” -- that’s a
good sign she shouldn’t have even posted anything about the book. What about
the other 80%? Should we all go find an actual book blogger who can finish a
book rather than a hack-jobber who revels in telling us how much of the book
she didn’t even read before posting her review?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Some people are only borderline hack-jobbers, but I believe
anyone who reads 20% of a book and thinks they’re qualified to say anything
about it needs to get their mean girl head checked.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://content9.flixster.com/question/62/13/45/6213455_std.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="http://content9.flixster.com/question/62/13/45/6213455_std.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or put it in a cute pink book and keep it under your bed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListBullet2" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-list: none; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: 0in;">
As for the content of my original post on the San Francisco
Book Review…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I used a turn of phrase that people gravitated toward in my post. I talk in
colloquialisms. Anyone who has read my twitter feed or blog or has had a five
minute conversation with me knows I talk a little like a mix between a Diablo
Cody and Aaron Sorkin character. I also kinda write like that too. I’ve only
recently realized that turns of phrase, like the one I used, are NOT universal.
And I don’t just mean to the world, I mean to the U.S.
Did you know “swing a dead cat” is something of a regional saying? I used it
when I moved to Florida from California,
and probably 60% of the people around me had no idea what I was talking about.
“Why would you swing a dead cat?” they justifiably asked. I wouldn’t--it just
means there are a lot of the thing in question in the area; so much so that if
you had a small dead animal you couldn’t theoretically swing it above your head
because you’d keep hitting those plentiful things…explaining the “swing a dead
cat” phrase did not help it make sense, by the way. I used the term “above my
pay grade” in the post. This is a phrase typical to military people or people
with military families of a certain time frame and, as I learned, is NOT
universal. I come from an extended family with a lot of military service.
“Above my pay grade” has nothing to do with how much money a person makes
anymore than “swing a dead cat” has to do with swinging dead cats. It’s used in
the military sense when a soldier doesn’t want to answer a question, but
doesn’t want to say, “I don’t want to answer that question.” The way I used it
in my bastard child of Diablo Cody and Aaron Sorkin way was to mean, “outside
of what I normally like.” I should have just posted that instead.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.wikia.com/annex/images/b/b4/Nostromo054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://images.wikia.com/annex/images/b/b4/Nostromo054.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a picture of the space ship called <i>Nostromo</i> from the Alien movie--it has nothing to do with the book <i>Nostromo</i>, which bummed me out some.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reading “outside of what I normally like” section of the
post also included <i>Nostromo</i>. That is a hyper specific example, and many
people caught on that. I used it because that’s MY hyper specific example of a
book that was “outside of what I normally like.” A friend recommended it, said
if I liked Dostoyevsky it would be right up my alley. That friend and I don’t
talk anymore…I’m just kidding, I killed him to avoid future awkwardness. For
those of you who haven’t read Joseph Conrad’s opus, it is as dense as marble
and more intricate than a Swiss watch. The layers have layers upon layers and
if you aren’t super focused the entire time, you’ll probably miss something
you’ll need later. I don’t like reading stuff like that because I have a
wandering mind that tends to daydream occasionally while reading. I did not end
up finishing <i>Nostromo</i>. It was well written, the story was as massive as
the sun, the imagery was compelling, but it was way outside of what I normally
like. I wouldn’t review <i>Nostromo</i> because I didn’t finish it. The book
might have had an “ah ha!” moment two pages from where I stopped reading that
would have magically knocked everything else into place--Joseph Conrad was that
good of a writer. But I didn’t finish, so I will never know if that would have
happened. People have preferences that not every book, even the greats, will
fit into, which is what that part of the post was meant to say.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t believe any author could ever write something that
is universally understood and meaningful to all readers. That is a preposterous
goal like a person trying to fly by flapping their arms. Can people fly? Sure,
or the movie Top Gun would have just been a really long beach volleyball scene.
But we can’t do it at will, we can’t do it all the time, and we can only do it
a few people at a time--that’s the same with writing. An author can only reach
some readers some of the time with some of their message, which leads to some
readers not understanding every single message or reference in a book. It’s not
the reader’s fault, nor is it the author’s fault. The pieces for something to
make perfect sense simply weren’t there. Book bloggers are very aware of the
limitations of the written word to convey ideas perfectly and make allowances
for it, because they know how it is because they’re writing a blog trying to
convey ideas. Hack-jobbers assume if something doesn’t make sense to them, the
fault is with the work or the writer, and maybe it is, but maybe it’s just the
passage required a reader to possess a certain reference that particular reader
didn’t have.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Example: I took an
Avant-garde fiction class in college. It sounded like fun and authors came to
visit all the time so we could talk to them about their books and get some
first hand answers about what we read. I’d never read any Avant-garde work to
that point and I haven’t really since. That particular field of fiction is very
self-referential, so the fact that I hadn’t read any became a real problem for
my comprehension. An author of one of the books wrote extensively about another
Avant-garde writer and one of her works. There was a specific passage in a
particular book of this other writer that he suspected involved a very lewd act
being performed while she wrote it. An email exchange later between the writers
confirmed this was true! And everyone but me in the auditorium laughed. I
wasn’t a stupid or inept reader--I simply hadn’t read the other book being
referenced. The author <i>could</i> have explained that other book and the
other scene in several paragraphs, but that would have completely halted the
flow of writing and spoiled the remarkable musicality his work had. I was
there, the author was there, and so I just asked him what the other scene was
about. I won’t bore you with the whole story, but it was funny, the author
explained it well, it involved a dildo, and when the premise for the reference
was explained, it made perfect sense.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I write lesbian books. Moreover, I write silly lesbian
books. I do it because I like writing silly stuff and I’m a lesbian. That’s
about as nefarious as my process gets. I don’t want to trick readers, I don’t
want my work to talk down to them, and I don’t write for a universal audience
since I know not everyone likes silly or lesbians. My books contain references
to lesbian culture that I seldom explain, but could easily be understood with a
quick google search. Some readers run the search and some don’t. Either way, a
scene not being understood is almost never due to a reader not being smart
enough or a writer being too smart. Especially not in my books which are about
robots, and vampires, and puppies, and first loves, and oral sex, and
post-apocalyptic blimp piloting, and gangs of department store Santas running
extortion rings, and…you get the point. I’m not writing highbrow stuff so I
assume if a reader doesn’t understand a section in my book, it’s probably just
because they haven’t had any experience with the terms gold star lesbian or
uhauling or “the chart” or someone being a total Shane. Readers aren’t dumb,
but no reader can reasonably be expected to have heard of everything a writer
puts in their book and no writer can reasonably be expected to explain
absolutely everything they mention. And that was my point that kind of got lost
in the original post on San Francisco Book Review.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.biography.com/imported/images/Biography/Images/Profiles/T/Mark-Twain-9512564-1-402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.biography.com/imported/images/Biography/Images/Profiles/T/Mark-Twain-9512564-1-402.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Someone brought up <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3172" target="_blank">Mark Twain being snarky toward JaneAusten and James Fennimore Cooper</a>--he was, but the authors he attacked were
long dead (Literary Offenses came out in 1895. Cooper died in 1851 and Austen died in 1817) and Twain had his own body of work for people to criticize in
response if they so chose and he encouraged anyone who felt up to it to do
precisely that; to my knowledge, nobody wanted to get into a literary fist
fight with Twain, but he did invite anyone who felt like it to try. I’m sorry,
but that analogy doesn’t fit hack-jobbers. If Stephen King suddenly decided to
put his Mark Twain suit on and write a tell-off piece about Faulkner, that
would be a valid analogy to what Twain did. Anonymous or semi-anonymous people
posting insulting comments about a book on the internet are not analogous to
Mark Twain.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As for the snark stuff, censorship, and first amendment
rights to voice opinions…with very few exceptions, people can say what they
want. Does what they say hurt other people? Does it reduce the level of
dialogue? Are they being mean in an attempt to be funny to other mean people?
If the answer to any of that is ‘yes’ then it would follow that a reasonable,
kind person wouldn’t say it know matter how protected their speech is. A good
example of this: my own original post on SFBR. I was a writer talking to other
writers about hack-jobbers and yet I ended up hurting book bloggers with my
words. Simply having the right to say something doesn’t mean you should.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i>As for the comment section, I’m not sure what I’m going to
do with that yet. I will warn people about this though: any comments pertaining
to the SGRB/Goodreads feud will be deleted. I’m not happy about so many people
trying to drag me into drama that I’ve made clear I want no part of, and I’m
not interested in hearing why someone thinks this post relates to something I
have nothing to do with and want nothing to do with. If fanning the flames on
that mess is your idea of fun, you’re welcome to it, but not on my blog.</i></b></div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-33240158425293530582012-07-21T16:06:00.000-07:002012-10-05T17:15:34.882-07:00Love in India and Not-Really-RoommatesI'm very quickly going to catch up on a couple of questions I received via email, one of which I've been putting off forever, and I'm truly sorry about that. I have excuses though! Possibly even good excuses! Sadly, most of what I could come up with by way of excuses could also just be called living life as a writer/girlfriend/cat owner/human being, which is to say, they're not particularly vindicating.<br />
<br />
"<i>Hi Cass,<br />
I came across ur question answer round in d lesbian dating site. I
found ur answer and suggestions to the point and very practical. Cass if
u cud do me a favour. M actually in a dilemma and I don't see thngs
moving ahead.<br />
M a 26 year old woman from India. I was in a relationship with a guy for
few years and honestly I always felt sumthng missing. The relationship
wasn't going healthy therefore we broke up for good.. It took me a long
tym to get over him. In a years tym, I met this amazing woman. She is a
butch lesbian and is open about it. We used to communicate over the
phone and met few tyms. Now the thing is I wasnt ready for anythn more
than frenship at that tym, however I did have feelings for her. The two
months that we were together were the most amazing thing that happened
to me. One day we met and thngs went beyond just friends.<br />
Now the problem is soon after that she wanted to get into a relationship
but I ws not ready to confront the society. She had issues and she left
me. Its been a year now and m stil waitn for her. I have had lots of
proposals from guys but I just can't thnk bout anyone else but her.
Please help me out. How do I win her back."</i><br />
<br />
This last letter was typed out on a Blackberry--being an owner of that kind of phone, I'm completely sympathetic in how difficult it is to type out a whole email on one of them. Let's all be understanding of the writer of the email for the errors and let's also be understanding of me that I didn't go through and smooth it over since I've recently been blinded by proof copies (not literally, but you get the idea).<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> Dear India Reader:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What you describe in the first part of your email is fairly typical of non-gold star lesbians. For those of you not familiar with the nomenclature, a gold star is a lesbian who has never been with a man (I'm one but my girlfriend isn't). For women who come to the realization they might be a lesbian after a few awkward relationships with men, it can be kind of disorienting, especially if you live in highly traditional area like India or Alabama.<br /><br />What happened between you and this lovely woman you fell for is also fairly common. This is good news for you, but I'll explain that in a second. It's incredibly common for a first relationship (or even one a bit down the road) to fail because one person is out to society about being a lesbian and the other isn't. We call it being "in the closet" but I'm not sure if that saying is universal enough to be true in India. You were in the closet, she wasn't, you weren't ready to come out yet, and things fell apart. This is a story as old as Sappho.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This is where the good news comes in. Since it is an old story, and it's happened to people all over, it might be something this woman has experienced before. Breaking up with someone because you're ready to live life as an affirmed lesbian and they aren't is tough, but sometimes, like in this case, a second chance comes along with someone who wasn't ready before, but they're ready now.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>You may not be able to get her back. She may have moved on to someone else by now. If that's the case, you need to let her go. But there's good news in this too. Lesbians date, break up, and then become fantastic friends that may end up back together someday or just remain lifelong friends. That's pretty much the glue holding together the lesbian community. So if she's moved on to someone else, make it clear that you'd really like to be her friend and she'll probably accept. At that point, you'll be off and running to meeting other lesbians within the community, since she'll probably be able to introduce you around. You need and want to be part of this group as a new lesbian.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>If she's single still, your best bet is to simply tell her you weren't ready then, but you're ready now and she is who you want to be with. Explain you were afraid before, you weren't sure, but you've had time to think and become sure, and you know now that you want her and you are ready to come out to the world. She might have some stipulations about how "out" you need to be to be with her. Consider them carefully, but I would suggest keeping an open mind about accepting them. They might sound tough or scary, but ultimately you'll be a happier person after coming out and you'll strengthen the trust of the relationship by proving to her that you are ready.</i>The next letter is super short and super sweet, but has a HUGE issue behind it. I love those tiny questions that have huge answers.<br />
<br />
"<i>How do I come out and tell my family that my roommate of 43 yrs is really my partner?</i>"<br />
<br />
See what I mean about it being a small question but requiring a lot of answering?<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Not-Really-Roommates</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<br />
<i>Odds are, if you've been living together with this woman for 43 years, your family will have their suspicions unless you've been a master at hiding it, and even then... When I came out to my family, they kind of had a "finally, she figured it out" response. You may find that this is the case with your family as well. They might be simply being polite enough to wait for you to say. If this is the case, then you're generally not doing anything but clearing the air.</i><br />
<i><br />If this isn't the case, and it might not be, then you've got some more work to do. First and foremost, let me congratulate you on having a 43 year monogamous relationship. Well-fucking-done! For those of you who aren't aware, I've quit the last of my dating website/magazine jobs and I'm doing all my advice through my blog/twitter now, which means I can swear in my responses again. That's a huge relief to me since I'm no damn good at watching my mouth.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Your tactic in this should be divide and conquer and here's how:</i><br />
<i>Step 1: Make a list of all the people you want/need to come out to in your family.</i><br />
<i>Step 2: Pick the people on this list who are most likely to respond well to the news. Odds are, these will also be the people you're closest to.</i><br />
<i>Step 3: Come out to the likely allies first, doing it individually of course, and bringing your partner along for the ride. Tell them you love them, that you've been living like this for a long time, and it doesn't have to change anything about your relationship with them, but that you wanted them to know since families who love each other shouldn't keep secrets.</i><br />
<i>Step 4: Find the people on your list that you don't think will react well at all and decide whether or not you even need to come out to those people. My grandmother on my father's side is extremely traditional Korean, living in Korea. I'm not out to her and I never plan to be. She lives on the other side of the world from me, she'd never accept it, and so I'm planning on running out the clock and letting her go to the grave without ever having to freak out about her favorite granddaughter being a lesbian (my sister thinks she's the favorite because she gave grandma a great-grandchild, but that's just silliness). Odds are, there are some family members on your list that you can just say, "To hell with telling that person."</i><br />
<i>Step 5: Use the allies you've come out to already who reacted well to it so far to help and support you in coming out to the other, trickier members of your family. If Cousin Joe sees that you have three or four other family members with you that already know and are fine with it when you tell him, he's far less likely to make a scene about it. Do this part one at a time. A person can be reasonable and open-minded on their own, but when it becomes PEOPLE things start getting iffy as to how tolerant they're going to be.</i><br />
<i>Step 6: Be ready for it to not work out 100%. There might well be people in your family who aren't going to be cool with it no matter how well you approach this. With them, all you can really do is say that you're sorry they aren't willing to accept your relationship of 43 years (holy freaking crap that's incredible!) and that you hope they'll reconsider some day. And then you have to let them go until they get over their bigotry. Sadly, they might never, but that's not on you--it's on them. You don't have to live your life as an apology to bigots, even if those bigots are blood relatives.<br /><br />I'm hopeful that this will go well and that your family is already probably in the know about what's been going on and simply waited for you to admit it to them. Regardless, I'd love a follow up email or comment to let me know how it went. Regardless of their reaction, you've got me on your side.</i>Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-48978249519655617852012-06-07T13:31:00.000-07:002012-10-05T17:16:40.555-07:00And the winners are...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWTyhSp2eabbOw5eBYY4nQl4qH_88Gr9mOG2MROG17x0uviRXbkFh5UJdUD0nBRN1JQXCzcl8_iPZYbxL6_e0BNd0OM-wn9xTSgaCT1cONAb-ufBw0iXvm20uIDAk3k7ZDbLnTSuOn9o/s1600/2ish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWTyhSp2eabbOw5eBYY4nQl4qH_88Gr9mOG2MROG17x0uviRXbkFh5UJdUD0nBRN1JQXCzcl8_iPZYbxL6_e0BNd0OM-wn9xTSgaCT1cONAb-ufBw0iXvm20uIDAk3k7ZDbLnTSuOn9o/s320/2ish.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>
All during May, I ran a <a href="http://cassandra-duffy.blogspot.com/2012/04/autographed-book-contest.html?zx=55b742aa479d55eb" target="_blank">contest</a> where my readers could win one of four autographed copies of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gunfighter-Gear-Head-Raven-Ladies-ebook/dp/B005LSDFEO" target="_blank">The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head</a>, and now we know who the winners are!<br />
<br />
When I first brought the idea to my publisher, they didn't see the point. All the readers who would be entering the contest would have already purchased the book, so what was my angle? To be honest, I didn't really have a nefarious money-making motive for doing it. It sounded like a fun thing to do, and it was. So I just did it on my own out of my own pocket. I'm still not super sure what the total cost is going to end up being. I get copies of my books for the gross price since I already gave away all my freebies to friends and family, so that wasn't too expensive. What I hadn't counted on was the international readership I apparently have. It turns out, half the winners are not from the U.S.--there's a Canadian and an Australian in the mix and so I'm going to get to see what it costs to ship books internationally. To be honest, I'm more curious than anything else.<br />
<br />
As for a reiteration of the rules and all that. There were two winners for the trivia part of the contest and two winners for the fan-art part of the contest. The trivia winners were picked simply by which two people got the highest scores, no partial credit. I was a little worried about this part when I gave both sets of trivia questions to my girlfriend before I launched the contest and she didn't do so well. Of course, this fear was immediately allayed when the first trivia entry came in the day the contest opened, and she got 100%, incidentally one of the winners. The fan-art part wasn't judged by me. I took the names off the submissions, not that my girlfriend would know who they were anyway, and let her pick her two favorites.<br />
<br />
Now, I will post the answers to the trivia questions since they don't have any real spoilers to them anyway (If you want to try your hand at the contest, follow the link to the contest above and then check your answers to see how you would have done):<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Congratulations to:</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Courtney for getting a 100% on the day the contest opened</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mike who only missed one </div>
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</div>
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<b>Raven Ladies Trivia:</b></div>
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What color is Slark blood? -- <b style="background-color: lime;">Green</b></div>
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Where was Fiona Bishop born? -- <span style="color: red;">Tombstone, Arizona</span> (Remember, it's BORN, not where did she live most of her life, which would have been Los Angeles)</div>
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What is Veronica’s real first name? -- <span style="color: red;">Tanner</span></div>
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What did Fiona name her horse? -- <span style="color: red;">Tyra </span>(There's a not-too-subtle joke running through the book about why)</div>
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How many Slark heads need to be collected for a week’s worth of fuel? -- <span style="color: purple;">Six</span></div>
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How many dirigibles did the Ravens build to attack the refineries? -- <b style="color: blue;">3</b></div>
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What does Fiona call her crazy moments? -- <span style="color: red;">Chaos tics </span></div>
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Who promises to kill Yahweh Hawkins in Fiona’s name? -- <span style="color: #cc0000;">Claudia</span> (who is the protagonist in the second book in the series <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Steam-Powered-Sniper-Broken-Bridges-ebook/dp/B008741XXY/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&qid=1339099213&sr=1-4" target="_blank">The Steam-Powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges</a>)</div>
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What catalogue did Fiona model for before the Slark invasion? -- <a href="http://www.victoriassecret.com/?cm_mmc=Google-_-VS%20Brand%20II_VS%20Brand-_-Exact-_-victoria%27s%20secret&affdata=sBBGyO1gb_6227145124" target="_blank">Victoria's Secret</a></div>
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Why did Gieo program Ramen to lie sometimes? -- <span style="color: red;">To see if she could</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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The other set of questions, which very few people even took a crack at, was spread across almost all my other books:</div>
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<b>General Cassandra Duffy Literature Trivia:</b></div>
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</div>
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<i>Demons of </i><i>Paradise</i><i>:</i></div>
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<i> </i>In “An Archeologist’s Dream” name one thing Nitocris asked Holly to bring her. -- <span style="color: red;">perfume/pomegranate/panties (also gave it to someone who answered Ford Mustang, because technically that was true too)</span></div>
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In “An Eternal Night of Overtime” what did Brooke want to be before she turned to the fashion industry? -- <span style="color: red;">Professional surfer</span></div>
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In “Answered Prayers” what scent follows Jada’s guardian angel? -- <span style="color: red;">Peppermint</span></div>
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<i>Astral Liaisons:</i></div>
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<i> </i>In “The Flesh Menagerie” what do the Ice-Niners want Sonali and Claire to do? -- <span style="color: red;">Procreate</span></div>
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In “Of Pirates and Politicians” what letter do the Saladins resemble? -- <b style="color: red;">F</b></div>
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In “Escaping the Colony of Hot and Cold” the colonists of Martini are divided into two classifications, olives and…? -- <span style="color: red;">Onions</span></div>
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</div>
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<i>The Vampires of Vigil’s Sorrow:</i></div>
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Which college does Debbie want to go to? -- <span style="color: red;">Barnard</span></div>
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Grace’s father, Henry, served in World War II in which branch of the military? -- <span style="color: red;">Navy</span></div>
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</div>
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<i>The Grift Girls Series:</i></div>
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<i> </i>In “The Last Best Tip” what business do Lucy and Sasha want to start with their grifted money? -- <span style="color: red;">Lesbian sports bar</span></div>
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In “An Undead Grift for Christmas” Lucy, Sasha, and Lara are attacked by a gang of…? -- <span style="color: red;">Department store Santa Clauses</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Now for the fan-art part of the contest:</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Congratulations to Felicia! </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38GUiAWS0v_w-7y1E2KHkn4pk3j29AxFVfqOXdhj4KKS0DYlnLZ4K_tCs3vXUVob2VmUYlns-6nGxyhutcNjjssSoA0OGAeYwlh9u8vUD1eK_4ONvBuhpw2LNc710_4xZ74Np5q_8jcE/s1600/Gs+n+Gh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38GUiAWS0v_w-7y1E2KHkn4pk3j29AxFVfqOXdhj4KKS0DYlnLZ4K_tCs3vXUVob2VmUYlns-6nGxyhutcNjjssSoA0OGAeYwlh9u8vUD1eK_4ONvBuhpw2LNc710_4xZ74Np5q_8jcE/s400/Gs+n+Gh.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The picture can also be found on her <a href="http://polyficomic.com/2012/06/01/gunfighterandgearhead/" target="_blank">website </a>along with her other work.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
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<span style="color: black;">And Bunny! </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3jQiunsue7WKN3GPULSaQhg-kZer60zDK6yK0kCdNHftKhzeKbsIcLpJoyEbiqt5pI3FgROSZjh5SNjt2aokjWwTQqRAGCN9dVggIAIqHJXCT6Lt1ggvp5oPdK1vMa7DpKp9SIV4D0E/s1600/Ramen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3jQiunsue7WKN3GPULSaQhg-kZer60zDK6yK0kCdNHftKhzeKbsIcLpJoyEbiqt5pI3FgROSZjh5SNjt2aokjWwTQqRAGCN9dVggIAIqHJXCT6Lt1ggvp5oPdK1vMa7DpKp9SIV4D0E/s320/Ramen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I have a theory that my girlfriend picked this picture because it very closely resembles how she sees Ramen</i></td></tr>
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The whole contest thing was supposed to coincide with the release of the second book in the series, but it ended up coming out a few days early on some platforms and the contest was in my procrastinating hands, so the announcing of the winners and the release of "The Steam-Powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges" kinda missed each other by a little more than a week--partially my bad, partially my publisher's.</div>
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For shits and giggles, here is the cover of the 2nd book in the series (The Steam-Powered Sniper...), available now, and the third book in the series, which should be out in December (The Gunfighter's Gambit): </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieikjf4EyEOU9ipazqGwZG0fSNkxc0YboAoC_BXaxMPhiRJe2a6SdwCHu-0vISwgVMI13QpdFd1ol_52M0SUrFnNIIdhWS04WUM8kXPZvL4kfEe8yq9bszIYSZ7V6ZQxTpStq8YZKkDv8/s1600/GFGTeaser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieikjf4EyEOU9ipazqGwZG0fSNkxc0YboAoC_BXaxMPhiRJe2a6SdwCHu-0vISwgVMI13QpdFd1ol_52M0SUrFnNIIdhWS04WUM8kXPZvL4kfEe8yq9bszIYSZ7V6ZQxTpStq8YZKkDv8/s320/GFGTeaser.jpg" width="210" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAKQ1PROpeCdzoL0gp50JjWApigPBHi3GHzGoIjy1w_6n8c5J0kwG2daIX89I0Qp5LnDUqKHLWOjyeiFqOpN6T7fOdSUOAKVK0JUTLyqqPpFOB1_FnABSIhLIbpfbBYOuN9IIFE2kGgs/s1600/cover5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAKQ1PROpeCdzoL0gp50JjWApigPBHi3GHzGoIjy1w_6n8c5J0kwG2daIX89I0Qp5LnDUqKHLWOjyeiFqOpN6T7fOdSUOAKVK0JUTLyqqPpFOB1_FnABSIhLIbpfbBYOuN9IIFE2kGgs/s320/cover5.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5449713218420292889.post-54502285609800410082012-04-18T16:07:00.001-07:002012-10-05T17:37:52.776-07:00Autographed Book Contest!In celebration of paperback editions of <i>The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head</i> finally hitting bookstores and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Gunfighter-Gear-Head-Volume/dp/1475110227/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, I will be holding a signed edition contest!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_qdBF6l7CNJVsk_6vu2fUlHOAO0Bs7qJkWSFd-R7uHrwb4_VDkl45IrL2U3qul8n0wBYhXWU6mJhTk5aVi0TED3fS_lAgVfAdxwC0Y9NSGJSQ62LMb2HTMKas3d4JlYrwTBoZCTF1P8/s1600/2ish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_qdBF6l7CNJVsk_6vu2fUlHOAO0Bs7qJkWSFd-R7uHrwb4_VDkl45IrL2U3qul8n0wBYhXWU6mJhTk5aVi0TED3fS_lAgVfAdxwC0Y9NSGJSQ62LMb2HTMKas3d4JlYrwTBoZCTF1P8/s320/2ish.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
I'll be autographing and personalizing a few copies so I decided I should devise at least a couple ways to win them.<br />
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<b>Way to Enter #1:</b> <br />
As you may know from following my twitter or keeping up with my web page, I'm a big fan of fan fiction. More than that, I'm a big fan of any fan created content. If you're artistically or creatively inclined, you can enter any stories, drawings, paintings, pictures, or poems you've created that were inspired by <i>The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head</i>. Submit your entries to my usual gmail account: <a href="mailto:LizDarkling@Gmail.Com">LizDarkling@Gmail.Com</a><br />
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The winner for this option will be selected by my girlfriend as I probably won't be able to pick just one or two that I like.<br />
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<b>Way to Enter #2:</b><br />
I can hear so many readers now saying, "Cassandra, you're so creative and well-dressed, but what about those of us who are just well-dressed?" First off, thank you for noticing and never underestimate how important being stylish can be. Secondly, I've got you covered...<br />
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If you're not into fan fiction/art/poetry contest, you can also enter to win an autographed copy by answering trivia questions about the book! Just copy the list below into the body of an email, answer them with one or two words, and send them to the usual email address (<a href="mailto:LizDarkling@Gmail.Com" target="_blank">LizDarkling@Gmail.Com</a>)<br />
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<b>Raven Ladies Trivia:</b></div>
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What color is Slark blood?</div>
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Where was Fiona Bishop born?</div>
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What is Veronica’s real first name?</div>
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What did Fiona name her horse?</div>
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How many Slark heads need to be collected for a week’s worth of fuel?</div>
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How many dirigibles did the Ravens build to attack the refineries?</div>
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What does Fiona call her crazy moments?</div>
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Who promises to kill Yahweh Hawkins in Fiona’s name?</div>
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What catalogue did Fiona model for before the Slark invasion?</div>
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Why did Gieo program Ramen to lie sometimes?</div>
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<b>Way to Win #3:</b></div>
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Let's say you're a reader of mine, but you're still waiting to read <i>The Gunfighter and The Gear-Head</i> until you can read a personalized, autographed copy of your very own. I totally understand how special of an experience that would be since I have an entire shelf in my office devoted to autographed books from my favorite authors and they are by far my favorites to read. If you're up to the challenge, you can also enter to win an autographed copy by answering questions about my short story collections, novella series, and vampire novel! Again, just copy and paste the questions into an email to me, answer them with one or two words, and send!</div>
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<b>General Cassandra Duffy Literature Trivia:</b></div>
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<i>Demons of </i><i>Paradise</i><i>:</i></div>
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<i> </i>In “An Archeologist’s Dream” name one thing Nitocris asked Holly to bring her.</div>
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In “An Eternal Night of Overtime” what did Brooke want to be before she turned to the fashion industry?</div>
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In “Answered Prayers” what scent follows Jada’s guardian angel?</div>
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<i>Astral Liaisons:</i></div>
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<i> </i>In “The Flesh Menagerie” what do the Ice-Niners want Sonali and Claire to do?</div>
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In “Of Pirates and Politicians” what letter do the Saladins resemble?</div>
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In “Escaping the Colony of Hot and Cold” the colonists of Martini are divided into two classifications, olives and…?</div>
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<i>The Vampires of Vigil’s Sorrow:</i></div>
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Which college does Debbie want to go to?</div>
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Grace’s father, Henry, served in World War II in which branch of the military?</div>
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<i>The Grift Girls Series:</i></div>
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<i> </i>In “The Last Best Tip” what business do Lucy and Sasha want to start with their grifted money?</div>
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In “An Undead Grift for Christmas” Lucy, Sasha, and Lara are attacked by a gang of…?</div>
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<b>Contest Rules</b> </div>
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Now for the rules, because we've got to have rules in this world.</div>
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1.) If you feel so inclined, and want to drastically improve your chances of winning, you CAN enter all three ways with three different submissions. Just make sure to send them in three separate emails so I don't get them all mixed up.</div>
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2.) I'll be giving away <b>four </b>autographed copies. One for each way of winning and then a fourth honorable mention copy for whatever entry tickles my individual fancy.</div>
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3.) The contest will run from May 1st to May 31st, which means you have some time to be really creative and/or be really detail oriented in your research. I'll be keeping people reminded via twitter and facebook.</div>
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4.) Once the winners have been chosen, I'll notify them by email and if you're lucky enough to have won, you can specify at that point who you would like the autograph personalized to and where you would like it sent. If you want to sell it later, just tell me to make it out to eBay, but I can't promise the book will appreciate in value.</div>
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5.) I'll ship the books to the winners hopefully at some point in June at my own personal expense (so expect the cheapest and thus slowest shipping option the US Postal Service has to offer).</div>
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6.) If I don't receive enough submissions to give away all the signed copies, I'll probably feel like a loser for several days, so let's not have that happen, and then I'll probably just and up giving the autographed copies to the local women's bookstore or library.</div>
Cassandra Duffyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04334364092023168175noreply@blogger.com0