I’m working on a conference proposal this week about a subject that makes me rant: the portrayal of motherhood as weakness in modern speculative fiction. I’m posting this blog in the (perhaps insane) hope that a few brilliant authors will agreed with me, and want to be on the panel to discuss it with a group of fans.

In mythology and religion, motherhood has been treated as a position of strength as well as gentleness. While depictions of meek mothers certainly abound, strong mothers are also present. The Hindu goddess Durga is a wonderful example. Durga is a fearless mother, who protects with weapons clutched in her eighteen hands. Fierce and feminine, this divine mother rides a tiger into battle.

Historic maternal figures like Queen Isabella of Spain or Queen Victoria, who continued to show their strength after having children, should provide ample inspiration for speculative writers.  Even criminal mothers like, Ma Barker who famously took care of gang members, even eventually shielding them from prosecution, could become a fine character. But where are they? Too often having a baby signals the end of a character’s ability to grow and develop in any direction except a maternal one.

Only two decades ago science fiction had a wonderful example of a mother-warrior, Ellen Ripley. She’s tough. She can fire a gun and run a loader, but at the same time she comforts Newt, connecting with her as she washes the child’s face. She’s exactly the role model I crave: competent, strong, and caring.

She’s also probably lonely, as I can’t think of another strong mother like her. Doctor Who’s Amy Pond can fight off any number of space monsters, but she completely ignores her daughter for several months after the infant is kidnapped. Padme Amidala fires her blaster and works in the intergalactic senate… until she has kids, then she’s too weak to survive heartbreak. Sarah Connor can take down a terminator but we never see her making her son laugh or taking care of him.

Hopefully I’m wrong and the comments will be filled with a thousand examples of characters that don’t suddenly lose the ability to think, fight, or be fierce simply because they’ve managed to reproduce. If I’m not though, and you’d like to talk about why there aren’t any tough mothers in genre fiction today, drop me a note. With luck I’ll find a few brilliant authors, and along with a handful of creative fans, will generate some solutions to the problem.

Forgive my self-aggrandizing but I’ve recently received word that my proposal for the Romance Writers of America Conference was accepted. I’ll be teaching a one hour session entitled “Develop a Free Author Website in 60 Minutes (or Less!).” Along with Jami Gold, a social media maven, I’ll cover creating a free website, setting up a blog, and various hosting options.

I started writing in HTML back in 1997. I worked for a defense firm, taking care of passel of wonderfully geeky mechanical and software engineers. They wanted a website. I had the most free time. The solution was obvious to them: I would learn HTML. I surprised myself by doing just that. Back then the language was rather intuitive, paragraphs were indicated with a p, if you wanted to make something bold, you labeled it ‘bold’, italics were indicated with an I, underline with a u and so on.
The W3C (World Wide Web Consortium, the Powers That Be when it comes to the web) ushered in a new changes and rules. HTML expanded to include XML and XHTML. It spun off the sections about format (fonts, color, text size) to a separate language called CSS. Databases driven websites came along, and ASP made them work. But the basic 10 pieces of my HTML vocabulary from that first website still work and I remain convinced that HTML is the simplest language in the world to learn. I’m a bit of an HTML zealot. I firmly believe that just about anyone can create & maintain a website. I’ve taught 63 year old Grandmothers and 40 year old technophobes.

I still design web pages in my day job, in fact, it’s the best part of my day. Web design is dependable like math, two plus two always equals four. I like the clean lines of code and how I can know that it will work. I love the intellectual puzzle of making the code do what I want. I can’t wait to introduce a roomful of writers to that fun. Until then, if anyone needs help with a tricky webpage drop me a note. I’m happy to play with it.

The town council made it clear, empty houses caused economic blight. Lauren thought it went the other way around, but you couldn’t bulldoze economic blight, so the houses got the short end of the stick. She looked up at the lumbering Victorian. Gingerbread work proudly ringed three stories, a stain glass window crowned the top. It could be gorgeous if someone cared, bought for a pittance, made beautiful. Instead it would be bull dozed, returned to green space, all in line with the new edicts.

The front door stuck until she put her shoulder into it. She expected a dark interior, something with dust swirling in motes of sunlight. The space wasn’t bad though, almost lived in, or alive really, with bright wood work and three fire places downstairs. She found herself thinking about it, considering what she would do with the space. No matter, the bull dozers would come as soon as she scheduled them.

The yip came when she inspected the third bedroom. The kind of yip she’d cursed once, a noise so clearly associated with sleepless nights. Puppyhood. Why did anyone think it was so great? But then her eyes stung, because Baxter, Baxter had always been great even when he was a garbage eating trash dog. Baxter, she blinked away the tears. The yip sounded exactly like Baxter.

It came again, and again, until she couldn’t just call herself insane and go on with the final inspection. She found herself downstairs, then upstairs again. Baxter yipping coming from everywhere and made by nothing. She remembered him, every detail of his golden fur and dark brown eyes. The yips brought his puppyhood though, not his older years, the arthric hips, the slow still-eager wag of his tail.

They were in the front parlor room, the square of space empty except a broken down red couch and them. She saw the first one and knelt down. “Bax?”

The puppy looked up at her, almost sleepy, but then sprang up, ran to her, golden retriever ears flopping around the couch. She fell almost, plopped down on her butt and scooped him up, this Baxter-puppy-that-couldn’t-be. He licked her face like Baxter, wiggled and climbed over her. Baxter as a puppy. Her heart filled with joy and pain, gladness at this stolen moment. She’d missed him and what he stood for, more than she realized.

And then another yip, and there were more of them. Seven in the end. A litter. She couldn’t leave them to the bulldozers. She could barely leave the room. So much love, so many memories. A room of seven Baxters. She found an empty box, filled it with them. After longer than she cared to admit they all went in the car, then back to her office.

Where they disappeared. Some one took them from the box and she fumed about it. Angry. Cursed the world. She could go buy a puppy, sure. Buy seven of them. But they wouldn’t yip like Baxter. She took her bitterness out on the house. Had her assistant do the final inspection that afternoon.

He came back almost manic with glee, talking about papers, forms. The builder he said, over and over again, as if she would understand. They filled him with coffee, made him slow down. He’d found plans. Dozens of them, upstairs in a drawer. The architect was famous, the house couldn’t be bulldozed. He’d dreamed of finding a hidden gem like this.

But the forms, the papers, where were they? Stolen from his car. But he’d find them again. The bull dozers couldn’t come.

Dispatched an intern, a quick young thing. She came back faster, her eyes red from tears. Just like her grandmother’s house. No, no papers, no forms, no sign of that. But the rooms all smelled like her grandmother, like mint couch drops and hair oil. A bowl of M&Ms on the mantel of the fireplace, red and green ones so it would always be Christmas, she said with chocolate in her teeth. The intern got the price out of the computer, the details on the back taxes. Less than most down payments, but more than the girl could afford. Then the tears came, they couldn’t bulldoze her grandmother’s house.

Clever house, Lindsey thought, catching on to its scheme. She drove in the setting sun, stood out front. You always thought of it the other way ‘round, of people haunting houses, not houses haunting people. She walked up the front porch, put her hand on the wood, feeling the warmth. From the sun maybe, caught all day, or maybe from something else, the beating heart of place. Baxter had been more than a dog, in the end, he had a soul somehow, he was Real. Could a house do the same?

Inside a comforting yip greeted her back. “You’re smart,” she told her house, and opened the door to find the golden retriever pup, a bright blue welcome home ribbon tied on his neck.

Each Christmas a dear friend gives me an Amaryllis in bloom. The flower dies in six weeks or so, but the long green leaves decorate my windowsill until the fall. Then, in an act of great faith, I cut off all the leaves, shake the bulb out of its nest of dirt, and throw it into the fridge. It waits there for me, for at least a month, until I put it back where I found it. Then I wait for another eight weeks, hoping that the magic will still work. If I’m lucky, I get the photo above. If I’m very lucky, I get better: more flowers, more bulbs.

It’s a lot of waiting and lot of hoping. It’s taking drastic steps, damaging something that I know is working because I believe I can get better. I value the final flower enough to risk killing the plant. I don’t even pretend to know how bulbs form in the wild, how they work when there is no refrigerator. I take it on faith that the people who guide me know what they’re doing.

I’m editing now – somewhere between my second and fifth formal round of edits, depending on how you count. My time was not my own this fall, and so my Amaryllis bloomed late, in January instead of December. They sit on the window by my desk, and reassure me that my edits, which require just as much faith, will turn out. I hope they’re right.

I used to think I was a fast writer, now I know I’m a faster drafter. I can crank out a first draft in no time, but the editing process takes ages. Worse, the more editing I do the less I like my work. My vision for the characters gets muddy, the plot gets sloppy, and I find myself wondering why I ever wrote this nonsense. Obviously that’s not how editing is supposed to go, but despite an internet full of advice on how to write there’s precious little out there on how to edit. (Someone please prove me wrong.)

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Experiencing a death in the family just before the holidays completely changes everything. At this time of year my life fills with joyful celebrations, wonderful holiday baking, and the magic of the season but this year long naps, quiet afternoons, and phone calls to friends have replaced all of that. Oddly, I don’t find myself missing the noise and the busyness.  Perhaps I’m growing older, perhaps it’s the loss, but a quiet holiday feels just right.

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Shopping for the Christmas Angel I took from the giving tree brought me more joy than anything I’ve done this holiday season. On Christmas morning my Angel will unwrap a new winter coat, soft fleecy pajamas, a huggable doll (with at least one hug from me stored inside), an art set with pastels and crayons, and six books (2 science, 2 fantasy, 2 biographies of strong women). I wish I could have included a letter telling her how much it meant for me to be able to help her, and reminding her that poor girls change the world just as often as rich girls.

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I won a baking competition using this recipe. On the same day I received an award from my gym for being the ‘biggest participant’. I’m trying not to see the irony.

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My rabbit editor removed his page from Facebook this week. The constant demand for more pictures, more status updates and more Facebook-ing in general got to be too much for him. Thankfully, he doesn’t mind the fame so I can leave you with this photo:

(The demonic glow in his eyes is not photoshopped.)

I tend to be a little paranoid about losing my ‘voice’ as an author, so I don’t read a lot of fiction when I’m in the thick of writing.  I’m working on a new manuscript so my To Be Read (TBR) is about to take over the book shelf.  The books and a bit of explanation:

The Big Sleep – Raymond Chandler – Noir/Mystery
I can’t stop reading this book. No matter how many times I read it, it ends up back in the TBR pile every year.

The Wedding Quilt – Jennifer Chiaverini- Women’s fiction
I quilt. I read. This book combines the two hobbies. After 17 books in the series the characters are like old friends. The author has jumped the series ahead by about 20 years. I’m wicked curious to see what happens to everyone.

The Price of Freedom – Ann Crispin – Fantasy/Historic
I read this during the weeks before DragonCon but I didn’t really get a chance to enjoy it. It’s up for a re-read.

American Gods – Neil Gaiman – Fantasy
I enjoyed this book greatly on first read, and with rumors that it’ll be a miniseries on HBO soon, it’s due for a re-read.

Sup with the Devil – Barbara Hamilton – Historic Mystery.
The third in the Abigail Adams mysteries hasn’t grabbed me yet (118 pages in). I enjoy Barbara’s work enough that I’ll keep going back to it.

The illusion of Murder – Carol McCleary – Steampunk/Mystery/Historic
I devoured the first book in this series, and immediately went for the second. On reflection though, I realized the first book ran long. I’m now waiting for a good long flight to start the second.

The Tiger’s Wife – Tea Obreht – literary fiction?
On loan from a friend, it’s set in a part of the world where I spent some time. Despite that I can’t seem to get through it. 129 pages in and I’m still waiting for the story to start.

Candlenight – Phil Rickman – Mystery-Horror from the UK.
I’m a fan of this author, but 35 pages in the novel didn’t grab me, so it went back on the shelf. I’ll pick it back up again soon-ish.

The Doctor’s Family – Lenora Worth & The Cowboy’s Lady – Carolyn Aarsen – Inspirational Romances in the Rocky Mountain Heirs series
I read the first 2 books in the series. The bad guy getting away with crimes (kidnapping, harassment, theft, vandalism, arson) is getting really old. That said, the only way to see him get caught is to read the next 4 books in the series.

Huntress – Malinda Lo- Fantasy; Fuzzy Nation – John Scalzi – SciFi; After the Golden Age – Carrie Vaughn – Urban Fantasy (but not the kind with vampires)
All got great writes up on Tor.com.

All the others were recommended by friends or have a style I want to emulate in my writing. Some of the historic ones were published in a time frame I’m writing in now. I love to ‘research’ the values of a time by reading what was written then. Of course the funniest part of having a TBR pile of epic proportions is that there are still books on my ‘to be bought’ list.

This is not a time for poetry, she said.

Stepping into a shaft of sunlight as she broke my heart.

It’s a time for practicality.

And I thought, could there be a time more desperate for poetry?

This isn’t a hundred years ago. You aren’t a hero in some epic tale.

The sunlight fell along her hair and I remembered sweet moments lost there in stolen passion.

I’d always hoped she’d make a fine princess to be saved.

There are things to consider, money and security, things that matter.

She turned in the sunlight, offering me a weak smile that could have meant she was sorry but might have meant nothing at all.

After she walked out, I realized it was precisely a moment for poetry.

We are natural story tellers. We tell our tales around the kitchen table, with grand gestures that make people laugh or in halting, toneless stammers. Every person recounts something, little or big, how the grocery shopping went, how they lived their life. It’s all a story to be told. Children’s tales of adventure, adult tales of woe, young dreams of success, weave themselves into a tapestry of stories that create our life.

Everyone has a story. You may not agree with it, or appreciate it, but it’s there. Some where under the heavy weight of day to day life there’s a dream that makes a tale. Sitting on worn couches, in rooms with the hiss and beep of medical equipment, resting on trees older than you are, it doesn’t matter where you are, you recognize the story – the life song of a person.

But all stories must end. Songs may linger, but melodies always fade. Immortality comes in the telling of the tale. The smell of coffee, the laughter of people who never knew you, the worn hands recreating your gestures, they all keep you alive. It’s the stories that keep the people we love alive, and I’m glad to have the tales to tell.

I am the youngest in all the family circles I inhabit. Modern culture puts me a hair behind middle aged, but the elders in my life, the ones who stopped counting after 85 years because it just didn’t matter any more how old they were, say I’m still young. I like to sit and listen to their stories, to imagine a place where women wore gloves to grocery shop,  a time when a man could walk away from home and never be found again, and a life without credit reports that track us all. Their stories feed my fascination with Noir novels, with worlds where the lines between good and bad are crisply drawn.

I found out today that I’ll be losing one of the elders in my life, one of my favorite people. Cancer always seems to win in the end, no matter how hard we hate it. I think about him, how he fought in a world war and lived through three others. How he worked one job for longer than I’ve been alive, then retired to take another.  There’s a chance (though slim) that I’ll be asked to give a eulogy. I already know what I would say: he took care of his family.

I think of all the men from his era as the same, people who put family first, took faith seriously, and stood up for what mattered. In my imagination they all worked hard without complaining. They took pride in the place they lived and maintained it with their own hands. I know I’m generalizing, life was never as easy or wonderful as we remember it. Memory has a way of painting over the pot holes and smoothing out the rough spots. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could listen to more stories, and visit that time just a little bit longer.

The girl could have been pretty. Her long hair swept back around high cheek bones, complimenting her thin angled face, along her jaw line creamy skin framed perfect strawberry lips. But there the pretty ended. Just over left lip a red-pink mark started, it bloomed over her cheek and stretched out to her ear. Her eyes looked normal, clear and blue, but her eye lid split down the middle, half creamy flesh, half angry red.

In the third grade she decided the stain was shaped like the continent of Australia. As if someone had applied a decal of it, snagging the west coast on the side of her nose, wrapping the northern shores above her eye. The splotch ranged from deep purple, almost blue, to a bright red, as if she had been permanently slapped by life.

She hated the spot.

She loved it too.

Her twin sister, Nona, had no stains. The little girl’s perfection became clear to their mother when the twins were only three. Immediately their mother thrust Nona into the world of beauty pageants. The marked twin could run and play, read books and imagine, the perfect one practiced walking and smiling, was tormented by beauticians. Nona endured constituent judgment. Her twin lived as a ghost, completely free.

Nona won twenty thousand dollars by the fourth grade, and had a pageant coach by sixth. He took her sister’s virginity in a small hotel room while Nona won the Sweet 16 Crown in the ballroom six floors below. The sex made the marked twin into a woman. For three months it consumed her. The man taught her ever position, every technique. Her skill exceeded his teaching, but she fancied herself in love. Then as he pushed into her the pageant coach called her sister’s name. Suddenly his habit of turning her face to the right during love making did not seem so romantic.

She told the worst gossip of a pageant mother, swearing the woman to a secrecy that would never last and protect only herself, the poor victim. Nona continued with pageants, a case of crowns and trophies overflowed in the living room. Her sister continued with older men, men with means. Nona pushed her body, demanding strict perfection, gaining an eating disorder, losing her friends. Her sister’s body stayed a temple, and the men who worshiped at it paid dearly for the privilege. A young lawyer saw Nona on stage, decided she was the beautiful articulate woman he needed by his side. She left pageants to become a wife.

Her sister became much more important. She became a whore.