Wish you could run away from Pandemic 2020? Try escaping into a book! I’ve been reading books by other authors—turns out most books are by other authors. But if you haven’t read mine yet, then please check out They Only Eat Their Husbands. It’s my memoir of how I ran away: from love, to Alaska, around the world. Remember how adventurers used to travel? In the before times, not long ago… Here are a host of links to all the places you can purchase They Only Eat Their Husbands. Thank you, beloved readers, for supporting books, the economy, and my family’s supply of food, soap, and disinfectant!
I recently received a request from a blogger to answer a question he has asked more than 1000 people he characterizes as leaders, thinkers, writers, writers, researchers, elders, artists, CEOs, laymen, etc: What is the meaning of life? Although I don’t believe this is a question one person can answer for another, I do believe it’s a question worth pondering, and I figured, why not add my voice to the mix? So, if you’re in a philosophical mood, please stop by The Meaning of Life blog, and check out my answer, or any of the 1000-plus answers that catches your attention. And by all means, if you feel like sharing a few meaningful thoughts of your own here, please do.
I’ve just completed a final revision of my novel—though let’s face it, it ain’t over till the fat publishing contract sings. The twinned elation and depression of completion puts me in the mood to share something. If you read the novel, you’ll find this out sooner or later anyway: turns out this story I’ve been working on for nine years has taken on social topics so uncomfortable they make me squirm. Part of me thinks, “Yes! That’s where the good stuff is.” Another part of me thinks, “Damn, girl, you do go out on a limb, don’t you?” What can I say? This is the book I had in me.
I fear that writing a story which reveals something of the way I see the world, will prompt some to see it as activism, even though my aspiration is to create art. Not that I shy away from action, but I prefer to pick my battles, to lobby for action on climate change, to convince our leaders to do everything in their power to stop it in its tracks and reverse its course if possible.
Yet the novel I’ve written is not about climate. It’s about everything else, everything I’ve faced that many people don’t realize has anything to do with me because I don’t look the part. Because I’ve never looked or behaved like any one categorizable thing. By chance, I believe I’ve lived the leading edge of a trend that scares people, but which is the way of the future if only we avoid causing our own extinction: a mass assimilation of all races, ethnicities, and cultures, until the planet is a soft blend of colors and textures all running into one another, a marriage of the yin and yang of traits traditionally divided into feminine and masculine, and a spiritual life that embraces all humane expressions of love and divinity.
My historical novel is a story of the search for home and belonging. It’s about a girl caught at the center of a struggle she never wanted. All she ever wanted was home and family, but in a patriarchal age she finds herself fighting for freedom and self-actualization, if only to protect her limited feminine sphere.
This novel is also about a man who is all the bad things that can make us fear strangers and, if we live the examined life, can make us fear ourselves.
It’s a novel about the other, about immigrants, about refugees, war, social justice, family violence, sexual abuse, patriarchy and matriarchy, power and control, women’s repression and empowerment, racism and sexism, religion and atheism, friendship and romance and betrayal, heterosexuality and homosexuality and asexuality.
I did not do this on purpose. I only meant to tell a story of two immigrants from two different countries who come together in America. But as I finished the story, the socio-political climate of the real world made it clear why my novel was bound to splinter into so many pieces. When people from different worlds come together to create a new one, one thing is inevitable: collision. This can lead to synthesis or combustion, or both. Anybody who paid attention in high school chemistry understands this. When you combine different elements, both magic and mayhem can ensue.
Maybe if we accept that reality, we can begin to accept each other, even the ugly bits.
A few have suggested I change my novel’s antagonist, because they didn’t know whether to hate him or feel sorry for him. I’ve come to see that this is how bad guys tend to affect us in the real world. I’ve also come to accept that I don’t need to illuminate every last pustule of evil. My new motto as I made my recent round of cuts: “A little bit of my bad guy goes a long way.” Too bad we can’t edit flesh-and-blood bullies this way.
Fiction, it turns out, is not an escape, but an entering into the world at a more profound level. I don’t believe in writing with the idea of teaching a moral or making a point. Rather, I seek to reflect what I discover as I explore human nature. I hope these reflections have something to say to someone who cares to hear it.
It is the story that was in me, so how could I help but tell it? If you ever pick up my novel, The Candlelight Bridge, I hope something in it reminds you of a story of your own, maybe one that you have yet to tell…or to live. Then together we can sit out on our limbs, and perhaps imagine a whole tree strong enough to hold us all, come magic or mayhem.
You can listen to my sexy flash-fiction story, The Afternoon Sleepwalk, in the latest No Extra Words Podcast, Episode #81: You Looking at Me? This episode features three fun stories, plus two writers describing their cool writing spaces. But, just FYI, I read my story at 19:20:
Happy 453rd Birthday to the Bard, who has given our language so much. A few of my favorites:
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on…” – The Tempest
“Though this be madness, yet there’s method in’t…” – Hamlet
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…” – Henry V
Let us all celebrate the day of William Shakespeare’s birth with my favorite sonnet:
“When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
– William Shakespeare
By Cara Lopez Lee
I’ve been getting rid of them this week. The extra words. I often say too much. My obsessive compulsive disorder makes this so hard to control that sometimes it feels like I only have two options: say everything or nothing at all.
Sometimes I write a Facebook reply in an attempt to connect, some comment about an experience I once had that’s similar to the one a friend has described. Then I ask myself: are you sure this person shared their story in hopes of hearing yours? What then shall I write? “I understand”? Won’t that get lost in the thread? Shall I ask a question? “And what happened to you after that?” Too intrusive perhaps? I give up, delete all my words, and hit “like,” or the surprised emoji or laughing emoji, admonishing myself to be sparing with the heart emoji so they know I mean it.
In this month’s edition of Long Story Short, I take a personal look at a sacred yet strange space, the marriage bed: “…when you spend years sleeping with one person everything that happens in bed is too much information.” Please check out Smelly Make This Bed (if you haven’t yet). Thank you as always, my friends, for supporting the power of words.