To be so lucky...

He's been gone for such a short time now.

I miss him. God, how I miss him. I think about the things I'd like to talk to him about. How I'd like to tell him about all the good things that are currently happening in my life. How I know he'd be so happy, so proud. He'd be so proud of me.

I didn't handle the loss of him how I thought I might. I haven't cried. You can think of that whatever you like. But it's a fact: I haven't cried. It's not that I wouldn't, or couldn't. It's that I don't feel I should. Or need to.

Now please understand. I'm easily brought to tears. I'm a sensitive girl. I always have been. In this instance however, it's not about that. It's not about tears. It's about respecting, and understanding, the man he is. Was. Whatever.

He was my father. The only father I knew. He was my dad. And I loved him fiercely. I would have been there more often, but that was not something I could do. He understood that. Or, at least, I believe he did. We touched on the topic lightly, a bare fingers breadth of touch, that led me to believe that he understood. Did I pursue it? No. I felt no need to. I'm not one to relentlessly pursue something if I feel it's pointless, or already understood. If there's need for more discussion, I'm confident that the other person will bring it up, or I will. I never felt that was the case.

But, my god, I miss him.

I understand him. It took awhile, though. To add everything together. All of the experiences, his and mine...put them all together, in a storybook kind of way...and think, yes, that's a complete picture. I have done that. Added it all together, and been able to think, Yes, this. And that. Yes. I see it.

He was the most affecting, most fundamental person in my life. I could string together endless number of words to describe him...but if you knew him, you'd know that words, endless words, are superfluous. Yet words are what bind him and I together. He taught me to love words, to learn words, to know words. I would not be who I am, if not for him. That's heady. Weighty. I am, I simply am because of him.

He was my father, the only father I knew, the best I could have had. Any and all of you should have been so lucky.

I think sometimes I can still pick up the phone, or go for a drive, and talk to him, see him. Of course, I can't. But I am not distraught with this realization. Yes, I miss him. But I remember how happy he was to see me, when I last saw him, and I must, I simply must, remember that. It's no small thing to bring a smile to the face of a dying man. And I had already told him my first published novel would be dedicated to him. Because he had taught me to love words. To pay attention to words. That is something you never forget.

I'm quite certain I would not be who I am, if not for him. So if I don't cry, it's not because I wouldn't. Or couldn't. It's because I won't. That it's not appropriate. It doesn't fit. I think he would understand. I don't care if no one else does.


I love you, daddy. I always have, and I always will.

There will always be more.

It's a startling thing, to receive something you have long anticipated, yet never really expected.

I received my publishing contract today. For my first novel. A piece of work written, roughly, over the course of 10 years, though granted not full time. Life gets in the way. I started the novel in the summer of 1995. I started it because I got tired of reading bad lesbian fiction (though in truth, I'd only read three books, but that was enough). I wanted to write what I wanted to read. My first attempt (9 pages) was so poor I had to laugh...and then tear it up and start over again. The next attempt was true, more true to my idea, my vision, of what I wanted to ultimately present.

It wasn't easy.

I write from a hugely emotional place. Nothing is trite. My life, my experiences, my feelings, are not trite. They carry weight. I've heard a few comments about how long it took me to write that book. From people who don't write. I shrug those off. Granted, there was a very long time period from when I wrote the first 14 chapters, to when I completed the rest of the novel. As I said, life gets in the way. But until you have done what I, and other writers, have, I caution you to keep your negative, disparaging comments to yourself. It may have taken me a good portion of time to write this book, but it was time well spent.

And now, today, I have signed a publishing contract. This is an astonishing thing. Astonishing. More so because I had previously turned down one publisher (five years ago), and been dismissed by another (less than a year ago). I'm not an easy egg to crack. In fact, if you were to ask anyone who knows me well, I'm very difficult to crack indeed. I have a very clear vision of who I am, what I want, and where I'm going. My thought, my belief, has always been, I will get there eventually.

I'm very proud of my first novel. I'm very proud of myself. Of my commitment. My belief. Writing from the emotional place that I do is very draining. Continuing to do so is a commitment to continual pain, and joy, and, ultimately, satisfaction. I'm okay with that. If I must bleed, and cry, rend myself, display myself openly for all and sundry to view, then I will do so with integrity and courage. I've never questioned it. I just do it. The whys, wherefores, and hows never cross my mind. I just do it.

I have now signed the contract. The contract that has my name, and the title of my book, in bold print. Bold print. My god. I will mail it tomorrow. And that, as they say, is that. But it's more than that. It will always be more than that.

And a part of me is scared to death of all that that entails.

The sun rises and sets...

I have seen many sunrises and sunsets.


I make it a point of doing so. If I am not someplace where I can view either easily, I have made a point of going to somewhere I can do so. To see it. To experience it. To feel it.


This...habit of mine, if you will, applies to the entirety of my life, my existence. I need to see, to experience, to feel. I will go where I must to take in all I feel I should, all I feel I need. 


We are only granted one life. So far as we know. I've made it a point to try to cram in as much of the beauty of this life as I can. Within the limited resources of my finances. I can't travel to all places deemed beautiful. Yet. But what I am able to view that is beautiful, I will.


I'm currently in the beginnings of a long distance relationship. The woman I am involved with possesses a fine mixture of characteristics I've never before come across. She is sweet, and funny, articulate, and intelligent. Witty, sharp, compassionate, present in a startling way. She does not mislead, nor misrepresent. She is disarmingly forward, yet so very concerned that she not be misunderstood. She surprises me often. While I had no expectations, she constantly exceeds any expectations I might have had. She is, frankly, a beautiful person.


She's on the same continent, but quite far away. Yet, true to my nature, I will go where I must to experience that which I feel is important to me. She does not even question this. She understands the risk, the fear, the trepidation, the bravery, but she does not discourage it. If I need to experience, to feel, to know, she says, Yes, please, I understand.


I will go wherever I must, to find and experience that which my soul craves.


The beauty of life.


The only life I have.

Growth vs Need

I didn't know I needed instant gratification.

That's not something I ever really paid attention to. The need for instant gratification. The need to put something out there, for someone, and get back what I needed, emotionally, in return, almost immediately.

I'd never known that about myself.

Until I started playing music.

Being a dj, in a club full of women, playing music for them, provided instant gratification. It's that kind of job (though it never felt like a job, not ever). You play the tunes, they either love what you play, or they don't. Your feedback is the number of bodies you get on the dance floor: instant gratification. When my mentor first mentioned this to me, I was mystified. Once I'd been doing it for awhile, I understood it better. And understood that it was something that fed some hunger in me I'd never known existed. 

Later on, I learned that I actually am that kind of person: I require instant gratification. Outside of playing music, in every day situations, if I give you something of myself, no matter how small, I need something in return, some kind of recognition, acknowledgement, to let me know that you have received what I have given, and that what I have given has affected you in some way. Positive or negative. It doesn't matter. I. Need. To. Know.

For awhile, when I'd send her something, I would receive that acknowledgement. That recognition, that I had put myself out there, for her. An email, an explanation, a thank you. Lately, that hasn't happened. I know why. She's exhausted at the end of the day, she's not one to check her email on a regular basis (though she's gotten better with that since we've come together), and when she does check now, I believe she feels that since we'll talk the next day (we always do), it's okay to just hold her thoughts and words and feelings until then.

Yet I'm impatient. 

I can send flowers days ahead, and know when she'll receive them (roughly), and wait with anticipation for her to tell me of her surprise. But if I send some poem or rambling thought process of emotion, I expect something almost immediately in return. It makes no sense, really. My impatience. My requirement for instant gratification. 

But there's a tempering factor now. Where once I would have asked, perhaps demanded to be acknowledged, that no longer occurs. Now I am patient enough to wait for her recognition. To know that what I have done, my actions, will be received and, eventually, acknowledged. Positively. So positively.

Over the years, and with the help of learning through some very poor relationships, I have come to understand that instant gratification, while not a bad thing, is not all it's cracked up to be.

But I find I cannot easily let go of the need. However, I've also found that, unlike in previous relationships, I feel no need to tell her of this. I may never tell her of this.

This, then, is growth. I have grown.

My god, how I have grown.

Here be Dragons...

I have a vast imagination. I admire others who do, as well. I have always been one of those people who are often lost in thought, staring out the window, or off into some distant space, when I should be doing something (supposedly) important and/or constructive. I have always been a daydreamer. I still am. My mind is a constant source of entertainment. Who needs television? I just look inward, and my god, the thoughts, the ideas, and the visuals that accompany them, are staggeringly endless, and endlessly captivating.

When I was in my late teens, early twenties, I became engrossed in fantasy novels. Not so much science fiction, though I did read a handful of those. But the technicalities of SF often caused me to lose interest. Fantasy, on the other hand, had no technicalities. Anything goes in fantasy. Dragons, elves, trolls, unicorns, wizards, magic!! Swords, and spells, and shapeshifting...now that was a world that beckoned to me, and I ran, no, pelted away from my own boring landscape to live, however briefly, amidst the charms of those worlds.

And then, for some reason I don't recall, I stopped reading fantasy. And science fiction. I stuck with mainstream novels, about mainstream topics, and situations, and people. And then, 15 years ago, I started writing. I believe that what happened was, I knew I would never write fantasy novels (that's not true now, I do have one in the planning stages), so it would obviously behoove me to stick with my own world, and learn the tropes and trails of writers who did the same.

Fast forward 20 years. I am once again reading, and fiercely enjoying, fantasy novels (and some SciFi), complete with dragons, and elves, and trolls, and wizards, and magic...and dragons.

My god. Dragons.

A year and a half ago, I discovered Naomi Novik's "Temeraire" series. They were recommended to me by a staff member at a local bookstore. I am including a link here, so you can read about this amazing series (that I am only halfway through; so many books, so little time, and money).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temeraire_(series)


These books are amazing. They are intricately and superbly written, completely captivating and engaging, and emotionally/mentally affecting. Here are some examples of the cover art.

Stunning artwork. To accompany what I, personally, consider to be stunning books. Obviously, that's just my opinion. But it's not often I get excited, to the point of wanting to rave, about certain books and/or authors. If you know me, you know how fussy I am about the quality of the books I read.

Also, I just found out that Peter Jackson acquired the rights to this series, to develop, possibly, as a mini series. This excites me.

Excited is good.

Choose as you will

I want to talk about choice.

About how the choices we make are ours, and how those choices affect us, as individuals. Not how they (may, or may not) affect others. But how they affect us. Each of us. Separately.

The other night, in a conversation, I stated how I was feeling rather overwhelmed, how I'd lately found myself reacting in ways I hadn't in a few years. Of how I'd seemed to have lost my cool, as it were. I've found myself feeling edgy, and more tense then I have in some time. I've prided myself on having made a transition, a difficult transition, one my therapist and I (amongst others) have admired. There is good reason to admire this transition: it's not one a lot of people are capable of making, or of even being aware they should make. So, yes, dammit, I've been proud of myself.

(A sidenote, a pet peeve, if you will: Unless you actually played a part in some persons forward progress, you should not state, however innocuously, that you are proud of that person. If you played no part, you have no right to any feeling of pride.)

During the conversation, she said she hoped she had not contributed to my current state. I went very quiet for several moments, while I processed this, and marshalled my thoughts. What I then said was, "No, of course not, this has nothing to do with you." Which is true. It really has nothing to with her, per se. What it has to do with is the choice(s) I have made.

I find it interesting when people are so willing to take on responsibility for what is not theirs. Blame is so easy to apply. And some people are so quick to blame themselves, without even thinking about it. Blame is often applied as easily as paint to a wall: a few quick strokes, and there it is. But it doesn't work that way. Because what comes into the mix is responsibility. And choice.

If I choose a certain course of action, a certain direction, that choice is mine, and mine alone. I own that. Granted, I am not in control of every aspect of whatever follows, but the initial choice was mine, and I'm good with that. I will be, and always am, cognizant that the initial choice was mine, and that, should I choose, I can walk away. Certainly, there are factors that may come into play, unexpected behaviours or situations that crop up, that I have no control over, and that throw the balance one way or another. But if the choice was mine to begin with, I'm completely comfortable with that, and I will go with that. That is my path. It's clear to me, and always will be.

But blame is an interesting thing. I rarely lay blame, unless it's against myself. I've been that way since I was a child, and it has held true until now. With some exceptions. Self-awareness is a powerful thing. A freeing thing. It allows you to view the world in a dispassionate, yet wholly compassionate way. And what I've come to learn is that I will blame myself now where I deem it appropriate. I'll beat myself up far quicker, and far worse, than anyone else possibly could. But if it's not mine to wear, I'll drape that mantle of blame where it should lay. It's all about understanding.

For her to think that she had any part to play in the state I now find myself, for her to be ready to blame herself, when the initial choice was mine, to pursue a certain course, made me feel sad. It shouldn't happen that way. People should be more aware of the spaces they occupy...of where they belong in the hierarchy of importance. And it saddens me when people want to take on what couldn't possibly be theirs. It makes no sense to me. If I feel, or react in, a certain way, don't automatically think it's got anything to do with you. If I have a choice (and I do), I will choose. And that choice is mine. Not yours. My choice has nothing to do with you.

It really is all about me. Not you.

Let's be clear...

I find myself in an odd quandary.

It started off innocently at first, the attraction. The fact that, sure, it was there, initially. The attraction. And I acted on it. Sure, it was strong, and I'm a reactive person, and then she shut me down. Hard. It kind of shocked me. How she stated flatly she'd have no truck with that. No deliberate sexual innotations.

Okay, I thought. Okay, no problem, I can do that. And so I levelled down, and stopped with any suggestive comments.

A few days later, she ups the ante, by making her own suggestive comments, and I'm at a loss. How do I respond? I wonder. Should I respond? And I choose not to. And I can hear the subtle disappointment in her voice, as she playfully tosses out innuendos, and I carefully bat them aside. Words are tools. I wield mine carefully. And all I get is silence in return. And I wonder, How is what I did so different from what you're doing? And is it fair? If I can't, why can you?

I make a point of bringing this up in our latest conversation, and she says, Well, I needed to make you aware of my limits, what I was comfortable with. I won't be that blatant.

And so I ask, How is what I said so different from what you're saying?

It's about placement and timing, she says.

Oh.

Control is an interesting thing. Balance is an important thing in a relationship, any relationship. She made a very pertinent point. I need to take responsibility for what I say, when I say it. If I'm just going to blurt out what I want, when I want it, and it doesn't match her own state of mind, I must curtail that desire. That need. By the same token, if I get shut down, and three days later, she tempts me with the same thoughts, the same words, and I stop breathing, she must take responsibility for that.

I will grant her the control she needs. I can see it's far more important to her than it is to me. I'm a reactive person. I do tend to blurt out what I want, when I think the field is open. I'm not thoughtless, but I will, when I think there is receptiveness. But if I misread that, if I get it wrong, I have no problem with apologizing, and doing a backstep or two. The problem comes in when she does what I was previously gently reprimanded for, and that's okay.

I need to understand.

She makes a habit of shrugging off my apologies. I call her on that. You can't take me to task, and then say, No, it's okay, don't worry. If I've overstepped, if I've mispleased you, you should stick to your guns, and tell me so, in no uncertain terms.

Relationships are built on trust. On belief. Don't let me cross your boundaries. If I do, call me on that. If you expand your boundaries, let me know. I'm adaptable.

Just let me know. But don't play with me. Confuse me. Let's just be clear on this. On everything.

We owe each other that.