I’m working from the porch today.  

Well, in theory I’m working but the black-headed grosbeaks and Bewick’s wrens are having such a boisterous sing-off I can’t think. Oblivious, white-crowned sparrows splash in the bird bath, scrub jays drink at the pond, and every winged creature vies for a turn at the feeder. Pecking beneath it are California towhees, thrashers, and quail.  Beyond the feeder, turkey vultures soar over the canyon. A raven gurgles from behind the house. Titmice and house finches grab sunflower seeds and fly to their nests. And here comes a roadrunner, strolling up from the canyon for a sip at the pond. I don’t usually see them until later in the year when all the water has dried up below. The dusky-throated flycatcher announces his raspy presence and a western tanager flashes like feathered fire.

The sun is almost overhead and as the birds begin to settle into their afternoon naps I hear the falling ping-pong ball song of wrentits across the canyon. An Anna’s hummingbird buzzes in the sage by the steps and one of the red koi breaches in the pond like a bloody, mini-Moby Dick. The scrub jays have moved out and a pair of tanagers take their place. I’ve never seen a female here and hope they’re a breeding pair. They’re timid and a flock of goldfinches (lesser and American) easily displace them from the water’s edge. I can’t see it but from high in the eucalyptus tree comes the chatter of a Bullock’s oriole. A spotted towhee screes from the thick cover of chaparral. 

Then, for a moment, there is only a shushing wind. It comes cool, up from the canyon, bringing hints of buckbrush and wild lilac. “Shhh,” it tells the birds. “Go take a nap.” The birds listen. Maybe now I can get some work done. Or take a nap, too…

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I was at the dog beach this morning and a very casual acquaintance approached me. She said, “I hope I’m not being presumptuous but I thought I heard you introduce your wife to me last week.” I answered yes, and she proceeded to tell me how her niece had come out to her over the  weekend, and that the girl was upset that her mother had disowned her. She asked if I had any advice, and truly I didn’t. The niece sounds very healthy and well-adjusted. She is carrying on with plans to marry her partner, and will invite her mother even though the woman has disowned her. I said that sounded like the best thing she could do –  live her life with honesty, joy, and integrity. She can’t change her mother, as none of us can change the unfortunate bigots in the world. All we can do is live well despite them. (And isn’t that really the best revenge:)

I find great hope that this woman and her husband are extremely supportive of their niece, and that the girl’s partner’s family (from Iowa – yea for the Midwest!) are also very loving and supportive. There will always be bigotry. There will always be people like this girl’s mom and the North Carolina preacher man. But I see everyday, even from strangers on the beach, that there are increasingly more supportive people. Folks like this girl’s aunt, who takes the trouble to approach a virtual stranger out of love for her niece. Folks like the partner’s family that have welcomed their daughter-in-law to be and are hosting the wedding. Anyone who has ever been hurt by bigotry wants it all to go away. We want to stamp it out and make it disappear. It won’t. As long as there is fear in the world, its cousin bigotry will walk right next to it. That’s the bad news. The good news is, as long as there is love in the world, its cousin tolerance will be hand in hand with it.

So congratulations to this unknown young woman for continuing to love her mother and her partner. Congratulations to this almost stranger for loving her niece so much. Congratulations to the public outcry against that poor, sad preacher soul. And congratulations to each of us every time we choose the high road of love over the bottom road of fear.

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Bethany Hamilton

This question was posted on Writer Unboxed a few weeks past. I opened the docs on my WIP this morning, feeling the need to answer that question. The book is at least a third, maybe half written, and I’m not sure I know the answer. Should I know? Should I have a burning question at the heart of my work? Or should I let unbridled instinct have it’s head? I rather like not knowing, but for the sake of plot and pacing I need to choose whether my character is gradually developing her spirituality or diving straight into a battle between good and evil. I’m ambivalent about committing. (Ambi, meaning both, and valence, meaning strong – I have strong feeling about both. How do I choose?)

I started the work as an immediate confrontation between good and evil, with the good character needing to develop her spirituality in order to even have a fighting chance against a strongly evolved evil. That could work because I have already set her up in another novel for this kind of confrontation. She is primed for growth and subsequent battle. The stage has been set. It is a plausible scenario.

At some point, I decided I didn’t want to go the good/bad route, that I wanted to take more time developing her spirituality before thrusting her into battle. At the time it seemed enough to foreshadow the upcoming struggle, to suggest that her previous work was merely prelude. This leads me to another question – will readers be patient with this concept? Do I have enough of a story to keep them interested?

When I decided the above, I must have had a reason, but damned if I can pinpoint what that was. I can’t remember if I decided to abandon the good/bad plot or if the story turned from it. If it was the story’s idea, I should absolutely follow where it leads. If it was my idea, why wasn’t it important enough to remember the reason for it? Which makes me think it was the story’s idea. The story never lies. It tells the pure tale. I, however, as author, am a compulsive liar, insistent on deleting, cutting, copying, adding, etcetera, that I might make the final product palatable to THE READER. With no tongue for truth, I writes in term of sales, rejection, and review. The author’s words are suspect at best. The story’s are true.

I think I’ve just answered that question. As for the central question, it’s the same as it is in all my work – will my characters grow or stay small? It’s a question I face a hundred times a day – will my next action push me beyond my comfort zone and make me grow, or will it keep me comfortable, safe, and small?

What will you do today that’s risky, that nudges you off the couch of your comfort zone?

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It’s spring in California, which means rain and green, green weeds. I’ve let them go around my house. The place looks wild. Not abandoned, just wild. Like crazy ladies that spit and wear purple might live in that yellow house on the hill. I used to yank the bromes and foxtails out from between the iris beds, pull the mustard up from along the driveway, and dig the mallow off the hillside. This year I’ve let the the weeds grow tall and thick. It’s hard to watch them, because I know someday I’ll have to cut them all back before they become a fire hazard, but today, they are growing. They are as happy I think as weeds can be. When I’m not dwelling on the ordeal of weed-whacking come summer, I can relax into their fertile, unforced beauty.

Writing is like tending the weeds. I can pluck, trim, and shape each idea as it arises, or I can let each sprout into it’s full potential. I can allow them to grow wild, untended. It’s been my habit to push my stories where I think they should go. I prod, fuss, and  meddle. I force my plots to go where I think they must, that they will convey what I think others want to hear. All this shaping, paring, and trimming eventually creates a book, a book that while quite lovely and acceptable, is clearly controlled. What if I just let my ideas grow where they wanted? What if I didn’t limit them to perfectly manicured plots, letting them root freely instead? The resulting story might not be pretty. It may be too wild for some. It might stir their own managed wildness, making them shy in fright.

Too bad. For I am becoming that crazy woman that lives in the yellow house on the hill. I am letting my beautiful green weeds grow wild. I won’t let them take over and become next season’s tinder, but today I am giving them their full, glorious head. If they frighten you, look away. If you’re curious, come closer. For in their wild swaying beauty, you might just find your own.

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The Blue Place starts fast and punchy. By page four we know just about everything we need to about Griffith’s protagonist. Aud Torvingen is a Norwegian transplant to the American south, a hardened ex-cop with bad dreams, and sudden witness to the immolation of a renowned art historian. A woman fleeing the site of the explosion runs into Aud’s arms and straight into her life. 

Intent on discovering who torched her colleague, art broker Julia Lyons-Bennet tracks Aud down at the local gym. Seeing Aud going through her karate routine, Julia challenges her to a chi sao duel. The name means “sticky hand”, and Griffith proves during the erotic duel that the best sex scenes don’t necessarily involve actual sex. After their torrid sparring, Julia asks for Aud’s help. Retired, wealthy, and cooly untouched by the art historian’s death, Aud has no reason to accept the job. But, intrigued by Lyons-Bennet, she accepts.

Clues to the murder come sparingly. Like any good detective, Aud uncovers them through diligence, perseverance, and a titch of luck. The investigation is realistically slow yet Griffith maintains a swift pace, teasing the reader with hints of Aud’s difficult professional background, her burgeoning interest in Julia, and a nerve-jangling trip to Oslo. Because Griffiths does such a fine job of fleshing out characters, even minor ones, every scene is compelling and relevant. When the clues at last align in one direction, it is a surprise, but a convincing one, for Griffith has delicately planted signposts throughout the novel.

The Blue Place is an absorbing mystery. I found myself thinking about it when I wasn’t reading it and looking forward to picking it up again as soon as I could. For all that, I never warmed to Aud’s chilly Norse heart. Given her background, both personal and professional, Aud is understandably detached. Her emotional fjord is part of her allure, so much so that when Griffith finally decides to make Aud sentient it is too little, too late. Like Lisbeth Sanders of Larsson’s hysterically popular Millennium series, Aud is tough, ingenious, and a borderline sociopath. Unfortunately, she lacks Lisbeth’s haunting vulnerability. Aud is an icy Superwoman, practically able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Her physical and mental prowess stretch credibility, especially in one so young and well-reared, but it works until Griffith tries to transform Julia into emotional Kryptonite. 

Despite that minor flaw, Griffith tells a mean story and has introduced an enthralling lesbian noir sleuth. I would have rather Aud remain invincible to the end but appreciate where the author is trying to take her. I trust Griffith gets her there in the follow-up Torvingen novel, Always. 

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Veteran correspondent Marie Colvin

Not too many women you can say that about. Marie Colvin was one of the amazing war correspondents I modeled my character Greer Madison after. Eerie parallels between the the two. Marie Colvin died today covering the conflict in Syria. With her boots on. http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503543_162-57382449-503543/2-western-journalists-reportedly-killed-in-syria/

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“Because mystery is horrible to us, we have agreed for the most part to live in a world of labels.” Underhill, Practical Mysticism

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Stemming from the Latin crudos, meaning “raw, uncooked, bleeding,” and related to cruor  “blood from a wound” The Salt Roads is indeed crude. Carved from human flesh, with all it’s bone, meat, sweat, blood and juice, Hopkinson spares no pain. Her novel is raw work sliced from the skin of three women and a new-born god.

Mer is a slave in Haiti who’s only hope lies in brief liaisons with her woman lover, and her faith in La Sirene, one of the gods from the old country. Jeanne, in another time and land, is Baudelaire’s scheming dark mistress, desperate to grasp at security in a century and land where there is no security for women, of any color. Thais, an Alexandrian prostitute, runs away from her master to see the great Roman cathedral at Capitoline. At the hands of their masters, each woman suffers the hardships of their time, and then more.

Within each, Hopkinson deftly interweaves the triple aspects of Erzulie, the Vodun goddess of love. Riding, or possessing, Mer, she is La Sirene, ruler of the ocean and motherhood. Like La Sirene, Mer steadfastly mothers and bathes the ill, oppressed, and wounded slaves of her new land. As Erzulie Danthor, Jeanne is consumed with jealousy and passion, unable and unwilling to keep herself from affairs with either man or woman. Through Thais and her ordeals in the desert, comes the aspect of Erzulie Freda, the virgin goddess of love.

Fortunately from all my research for Cry Havoc it was easy to see the various manifestations of Erzulie in each of the women, but I’m afraid that is a subtlety lost on the more casual reader. Having said that, I have to admit the borning of Erzulie throughout the story confused me. It seems that, like the women, the goddess wasn’t able to fully manifest until suffering through an almost near-death wounding, a sacrifice if you will from the hand of her oppressor. As with the women, once the wound was overcome, she was reborn into her   authentic destiny.

Hopkinson’s novel is earthy, mystical fare, heavily seasoned with the vital salts of blood, sweat, and juice. It’s a compelling read of women and gods, displaced and found. While compelling, be warned that The Salt Roads is often disjointed – Hopkinson juggles the four lives unevenly, with Thais appearing late in the story, as if in afterthought.

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For all those who asked if “The River Within” was available in paperback, the answer is yes! Thanks to Catherine M. Wilson’s generous and talented work at Raqoon Design http://raqoon-design.com/ “River” has been beautifully re-formatted (as well as professionally edited) and can now be safely read in the hot tub, ocean, or rain!

But wait, there’s more! Packing a generous 390 pages “River” also makes a handy paper weight and convenient bedside weapon. Best of all, if you read it and don’t like it “River” has 390 pages just perfect for starting that cozy winter fire!

Hurry! Act now! Quantities limited to the first 5,000 buyers! http://amzn.to/wSb8Zt

Seriously, thanks to all of you who asked for this in paper. Without your encouragement I never would have made the leap from e to tree.

Best, Baxter

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I hate star ratings. I gave this novel three – wait! Don’t go! See? That’s what happens with stars, we skip twos and threes and go looking for fours and fives. But literature, like life, is a lot of threes and you shouldn’t skip them over because threes are solid, quality, “likes”. To me three stars means I liked this book well enough to finish it and I will read this author again. (Four stars is I really like the book and thought about it all day when I wasn’t reading it. Five stars is I love this book and it’s going to a desert island with me.)

After a mishap on a fire-fighting crew Jay returns home to recuperate in the company of her father, sister-in-law, and autistic nephew. Bufford alternates between the present and 1983, when 12-year old Jay is forced to stay with her rigid grandmother after her mother runs away from rehab and a stint in jail. In an effortless transition from Jay the girl to Jay the woman, we follow a lost child as she becomes a lost adult. 

There is a persistent tension in the present scenes from Jay’s outings with her teenaged nephew and his Jesus-idolizing, brain-damaged friend. Both are large, volatile, pubescent young men and the book reads like a car wreck about to happen. You brace yourself, squeeze your eyes shut, and wait for the impact. With characters that include a junkie mother, dead brother, autistic nephew and his violent friend, one would expect the impact to be devastating, but Bufford’s eventual wreckage brings hope rather than despair. 

I think I saw this book mentioned on a lesbian literature forum so I assumed it was lesbian fiction. I read, waiting for a relationship to develop, but it’s not a lesbian book at all, just a good story about people who are deeply flawed, richly human, and coming to grips with life on life’s terms. 

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