Phantom Pain

I've spent a lot of time thinking about this post. Funny how things can change over the course of a few days and without warning. The person I was Friday is different from who I was on Saturday and vastly different from who I am today. When a man with guns can walk into a nightclub and senselessly eradicate the lives and well-being of so many people without a qualm of thought, you have to sit back and consider your world and your life.

I've spent the last two days doing just that. And then something happened today to solidify what I've been thinking about. So bear with me--this isn't the kind of post I usually write. No laughs here today.

There's always been a lot of tension in my family. Most of that is due to personalities and the history those personalities created for themselves. I spent a long time running from my family--everyone. Even my own kids. I hit a point in my life as an adult where I broke under the constant pressure. Literally. Snapped like a weak tree in a strong breeze. And I fled.

I disappeared entirely from my family and friends and stayed disappeared for a long, long time. Ever see the lyrics to the song Chandelier?

I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier
I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist
Like it doesn't exist
I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry
I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier -- Sia @allrightsreserved

That could have been written about me. It's a failure in my life, one that I face the repercussions of every single day. My mother died before we reconciled. My father is far more forgiving. And one daughter forgave me while the other didn't. 

As is understandable.

But then, I reached a point of maturity--not the maturity that says I'm old enough to vote or drink, but the maturity to look at myself and recognize my own failure as a human being and the damage I left in my wake as a result. At first, it's easy to blame your failings on someone else. My mother was a convenient target for that. The last time I saw her, she literally stalked me to an event I was helping to cater and screamed at me in front of hundreds of people. I walked away from her, but I couldn't walk away from her voice. I still hear it echoing in my head.

I will always hear it.

That was a moment of decision. And like all that came before it, it was a moment I failed. Sometimes, though, failure really is the only option. There was no way to win that encounter or to turn it aside because my mother had determined on the day she sought me out that she was going to cause a scene and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It wasn't until I gained the emotional security I needed (thanks to my husband and his family) that I could take a step back and consider my own. And when I faced that family situation squarely, it became apparent to me that I had to do whatever I could to rebuild those burnt bridges.

There's a different sort of courage involved when you head into a situation and are willing to accept full responsibility for your faults while rejecting the idea that someone else made you do it, someone else drove you away, someone else is really to blame for YOUR mistakes. I walked back into the world I'd fled and did just that. Wasn't easy. Nothing to congratulate myself about it.

It had to be done in order for me to move on--and hopefully for them too.

But some damage can't be repaired, and that's where the real tragedies are created.

I'm not an inherently kind person or a thoughtful person or a brilliant person. I've done some pretty messed up stuff which I regret, as any normal person would. But I do think more about what I do and say and consider. Or I try to. And I move on. I accept responsibility for what I do and move forward from that point.

But I also learned that sometimes there is no other option but to walk away while they're screaming after you, doing their best to destroy whatever fragile accord you've forged for yourself and your life. And just like an amputated limb, even though intellectually you know it's gone you can still feel that phantom pain torturing you constantly with a succession of 'what if--' pipe dreams and vain hopes.

There are a lot of families feeling that phantom pain right now. And there are a lot of people today who feel it and know that they are personally responsible for that amputation. They have no one to blame but themselves.

I have no one to blame but myself.

But there's something you take away from stories like mine, too. I tried and failed to reconcile with all my family. I agonized over that for a long time.

And then I left that phantom pain behind, because while I can control my actions I cannot control anyone else's. I made a deliberate decision to no longer live in fear or guilt or anger, and just to let that sorrow go. Every day, I have a moment where I think--"wow, I wish I'd made up with Mom before she died" or "Man, I wish that so and so didn't hate me" or "if there was only some way I could make it up/get through to them/make things work". But that process is a dual one, not a solo act. All I can do is to make my side of things as tranquil as possible and hope that one day the other end of the road will meet mine.

And if it doesn't? I accept that and move on.

So take a look at your own life. How many resentments are you holding that have poisoned your life and relationships? How many people have your actions damaged? How many people do you see when you close your eyes every night and wish that everything was all right?

And then realize that before those other people can drain the poison from their systems enough to meet you halfway, yours has to be gone first.

My estranged daughter is absolutely livid that in a post I posted a picture that included her from her sister's wedding seven years ago. Honestly, I didn't think anything of it. Personal blog, personal picture. We haven't talked in a few years--her choice, which I respect enough to abide by. The first communications I've had from her in all that time were the messages I got from her today. So I removed the picture and my comments about both my daughters in deference to her anger.

Which is fine. Phantom pain is fleeting, but all-encompassing while you're feeling it.

So why am I telling you all about this? Because I think it's important that you understand who I am and how I became this way before I pass along this--

They say you can never go home again. That a bridge once burned is destroyed forever. That some things are unforgivable. But in the end, the ones who cannot forgive are the ones who hurt the worst. My mother didn't talk to hers for twenty-five years. I didn't talk to my mother for fifteen years. My daughter hasn't talked to me in three years. I have to ask myself why four generations of women in the same family have had the same problem.

The answer's simple--we are all the same woman. Different problems, different talents, different choices but ultimately sharing that same black or white, no gray mentality. When you get right down to it, that's a scary, scary thought. That why I made a concerted effort to stop with the ultimatums-issuing kind of relationships because obviously that's been an issue in my family. And no, it's not genetics. I was adopted. So somehow, it's an environmental trigger that has created this maelstrom--these phantom pains that are agonizing and never seem to heal.

Don't let your phantom pain continue to exist. Accept responsibility for your part in those toxic relationships. And then let the other half come to their own conclusions in their own way. And if they don't?

Keep moving forward instead of torturing yourself needlessly. Because for some reason, it's always the minutiae that gets things flared up--not because they're important, but because they are easier to deal with than the reality.

My door is always open. My phone is always going to be unblocked to you. I will always answer your call or return it as soon as I am able. My world is always open to you. Think about what I've said.

I love you. Always.

Time to let that poison drain away.

New Cover Art--The Temptation of Asphodel

I work with some pretty amazing people on my books. My cover artist, Kelly at KMD Designs, is probably the best cover artist I've ever used in my career. This may be my favorite cover ever. 

At any rate, the third book in my mythology-based fantasy series The Temptation of Asphodel will be released on July 5--which is exciting since the first two books are climbing up the genre bestseller list on Amazon. This morning The Reckoning of Asphodel was ranked #38, and The Redemption of Asphodel was at #108. 

Upward mobility is nice. 

At any rate, enjoy Kelly's amazing work and stay tuned--excerpts will be going up in the next few days both here and on my website at www.cachevault.org. 

Oh, you want a blurb? Here you go:

When Tamsen and Brial find a long-lost civilization of Elves, the pattern of the gods' game starts to become clearer. Tamsen begins to feel confident—until an ancient magic tempts her from her path, magic wielded by her most dangerous enemy. As she nears the end of her quest everything changes again. The hunter becomes the hunted, the ally becomes the foe, and behind it all lies the hand of a third, unknown god who tries to lure her from her destiny. 

As the rumbling memory of an ancient war settles over the realm of Ansienne, Tamsen’s faith falters. Can she hold firm against the temptations that are thrown in her path, or will she fall into failure as generations of Elves have done before her? When she is drawn into conflict with immortal enemies, she discovers that the line between obedience and temptation is much narrower than she thought. 

Obedience is dangerous; temptation can kill.

"...If you enjoy a wonderful fantasy series that will captivate you with the sheer volume of world building & captivating characters that fairly leap off the pages and into your hearts, then grab the third installment of the Asphodel Cycle series, THE TEMPTATION OF ASPHODEL. All this reviewer wants to know is this: Can we get more please, Ms. Summers?" -- Love Romances and More R

p;M  Best Fantas

The Asshat Saga--The Asshattery That Is "Jim from Tuscaloosa"

All right. Enough is enough. 

This is the third blog post in as many months about dealing with asshats online. The first two were, frankly, oblique and satiric because I didn't think it was right to call out an asshat for his asshattery online where non-asshats could point and laugh. Today, that changed. Today we're going to talk frankly about a Paul Finebaum caller known by his pseudonym "Jim from Tuscaloosa". And since that is an alias--no doubt to keep him from getting beat up--it'll be difficult for him to complain that I'm being mean to him on my blog. 

Which, by the way, he admitted to reading on nationally televised SEC Network program The Paul Finebaum Show. *waves* Hey there, "Jim". Good to see you again. 

Read on.

"Jim" has a nasty habit of online attacks against people he disagrees with--the kind of guy who posts things chock full of hatred and then deletes them before anyone but the intended target can see the post. He claims to have about 10,000 people blocked on Twitter--there's a good reason for that, since I'd wager about twice that have HIM blocked. He blocks people who disagree with him, and then portrays them as 'dirty' or 'nasty' or 'sick' and brags on national television about how awesome he is. 

Case in point--yesterday he called the Finebaum show twice, during which he compared himself to both Donald Trump and Muhammad Ali--on the day of Ali's funeral. 

Instant asshat designation right there. 

According to "Jim", he is the greatest at everything--greatest athlete who never played sports, greatest Finebaum caller despite the fact his sole topic is himself, greatest Twitter magnate although no one cares about (or can read) his Tweets. In fact, if it weren't for "Jim", there would BE no Finebaum show, none of Finebaum's great articles would have been written (since they were all comprised of what "Jim" had said in his phone calls the day before), and to hear him tell it, there would have been no Alabama football even though he claims to be a conscientious objector to football now. 

Which may be one of the stupidest things I've ever heard.

Except yesterday when he said "my blood is red".

Um...duh.

At any rate, deciphering the "Jim from Tuscaloosa" character's asshat trail has taught me a lot. First off, the alias. It's been known in Alabama fan forums online who "Jim from Tuscaloosa" is for years--allegedly. I personally do not know who the asshat is or his real identity, but if you read this and this and this and this and this you might start to get the picture. That's just the first page, by the way.

Disclaimer--all this information has been gleaned through a simple Google search and does not in any way constitute any claim that I definitively know the real identity of the asshat behind the "Jim from Tuscaloosa" moniker. That being said--smoke, meet fire.

Second off, this asshat has an unusual capacity for hatred and the fool's courage necessary to vomit that forth on a daily basis. Earlier this week, he went off on a rant about how 'no one pushes up the white man', in the process insulting women, African-Americans, the LGBT community, the disabled, and the entirety of the American citizens who do not support Donald Trump for president.

So most likely YOU, if you're reading this blog.

"Jim from Tuscaloosa" has a history of turning on Paul Finebaum as well. (Love the Finebaum Fan website, by the way--listen to some of "Jim's" calls if you get a chance) Usually that happens after he tries to get into a phoner feud (where the show puts two callers who hate each other on the air at the same time) and loses.

So far, he's been systematically destroyed any time that little surprise has been sprung on me. He rants and yells and says what he believes to be insulting things--completely unaware that I got my college education because I was a nationally ranked debater and extemporaneous speaker. So I listen and then calmly destroy every little lie I busted him in. For example--

He called the show last year and said he'd met Rocky Marciano in West Palm Beach in 1969 when he was eighteen. (FYI Marciano was killed in a plane crash in 1966) So when he was done screaming, I broke down his story logically and using math. To wit:

You said you were 18 in 1969 when you met Rocky Marciano in Florida. That means you were born in 1950 or 1951--if you were being honest about your age. So that makes you 65-66 years of age. And oh, by the way, Marciano was dead before 1969 in a plane crash. 

"Jim" fled before I could point out that if he'd met Marciano for REAL the year of his death, that would make him pushing 70.

Last week, Paul was on vacation. "Jim" refuses to call in when ESPN's Ryan McGee is on the phone, although he will call into the control room and whine and complain about Ryan as a host. Personally, I like Ryan, especially since he called "Jim" a "necessary evil". He's a great host. The two days after that, ESPN's Brad Edwards was the host. He just mentioned my name at the top of the show, and Jim called in to rant about 'that damn witch' 'that damn woman' 'Helena'--a pseudo-insult he thinks will hurt me (hell+Celina=Helena) but has no idea the name is based upon Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman in ancient Greece so thanks again, "Jim" and basically lost his damn mind. Brad's response was classic--he schooled "Jim" so severely on the air that I promptly cheered and followed all of Brad's accounts. "Jim" went ballistic--so much so that THIS week, he called in to bitch at Paul because Ryan and Brad sat in for him and were too nice to me.

I can't make this stuff up--and I'm a writer.

So...yesterday. The Ali funeral. Ali was an idol of mine, obviously, and I called the show early in the first hour to express my thoughts which you already read in my last blog post. Then I monitored the memorial service for an article I'm working on for this week. When he KNEW I wasn't watching the show ("Jim" has a sockpuppet account he uses to monitor his enemies online, including my website, blog, and social media accounts) he called the show and said I was a 'geriatric' because I remembered Elvis's funeral. You can hear this idiocy here during Hour 2, around 4:59. And let's be clear--I haven't mentioned his name since I decimated him brutally a couple of weeks ago.

Seriously.

So, let's break this down logically. I was ten when Elvis died, and as a kid in Tennessee the funeral was on all the TV stations. That makes me--math again--born in 1966-67. That makes me--more math--49. Hardly geriatric. Perhaps if "Jim" was able to do math or keep track of the deaths of famous people, he wouldn't make such an asshat of himself on a daily basis.

But let's also remember a few important facts here as well.

When I call, the show puts my picture up on the screen with my name--not because I'm a supermodel, but because I'm not such a chicken-asshat that I have to hide behind anonymity--as "Jim" does.

When I call or tweet or blog, I use my real name--not because anyone cares, but because I have no idea to hide my identity to keep from getting the crap beat out of me--as "Jim" does.

When I call, I don't talk about myself--not because I can't, but because I won't. I have *never* used the Finebaum show as a platform to market my books or so forth. I don't have to promote myself there--as "Jim" does.

When I call, I don't spew forth racism, misogyny, homophobia, bigotry, and political BS. Not because I can't, but because no normal person would--but "Jim" does.

When I call, I don't compare myself to famous people. Not because I can't, but because I'm my own person and don't need that kind of fake validation. "Jim" is just like Donald Trump, just like Muhammad Ali, the best writer of Finebaum's articles, a better baseball player than Ted Williams, met Rocky Marciano posthumously, played and beat Joe Namath in basketball--and that's just in the last month.

When I call, I don't call about something completely uninvolved with the purpose of the show--athletics. Not because I can't, but because it's not the proper platform. I don't call Hannity about the Volunteers' defensive front; I don't call Finebaum to prosthelytize about whatever horrific political position Donald Trump has proposed out of ignorance that day--but "Jim" does.

When I call, I appreciate the fact that it's a privilege and not a right to be put through by the call screeners. I don't act as though it's my right and the show owes me something. They don't--but "Jim" thinks they do.

Sometimes in this world, you run into people whose sole purpose is to belittle, insult, and put down other people. They don't do that because they're so superior to the rest of us that they've earned the right to say what they please. They do that because they're so mean and little and lack the self-esteem to stand on their own merits. Or, like asshats, they have no merits. I've been looking for some kind of merit regarding "Jim from Tuscaloosa" for over three years now.  I've yet to find one. Mostly because he has a horrific habit of attacking those people he knows cannot defend themselves against the onslaught of bitterness he throws at them.

And the Finebaum listeners are very frank about how they feel about that.

But I can defend myself and the Finebaum family as well, and I do. And "Jim" despises me as a result, since he has yet to win an encounter with me. And he never will. He can't. I'm secure in my life--happy with my career, happy in my marriage, happy with my girls and their children, happy that at my 'geriatric' age of 49 I have found contentment in my world and hope to share that with the people I associate with. And the one thing "Jim" hates more than anything else is a woman, secure enough in herself and her world, that she has the power to laugh in his face.

I've met a huge group of extraordinary people because of the Paul Finebaum show--people I talk with on a daily basis, whose opinions I respect even if I disagree with them, and whose friendships with me are both cherished and important. I am grateful to Paul and his staff (John and Mark in the control rooms, his always courteous call screeners and the tech crew) because not only are they respectful and kind to almost everyone they encounter during what must be at times a completely irritating four hours, but because through them these disparate personalities from all over the country have helped to build what we call the Finebaum Family. We Tweet, we call each other on the phone, we meet when we're in the same place, and we've created this interlocking base through the show that gives us both enjoyment and comfort. All of these wonderful people are CREATING something.

Asshats like "Jim" can only destroy.

I realize he's a lonely, bitter, little old asshat whose only outlet is to make a fool of himself on national television and radio. I pity him. And I'm grateful because every time the asshat makes a reference to me my website gets more hits, my blog gains new followers, and I sell more books. And since he tells on himself so often, his web of lies just gets easier and easier to shred.

He's played the villain for so long, the asshat's turned himself into prey. It's tragic.

But you know what makes this post great? I am talking about an imaginary person--a man who only exists in his own mind. There is no real "Jim from Tuscaloosa". Now if "Jim" wants to come forward with a picture, his actual identity, and shows me that I've insulted him by his real name on my blog--I'll not only retract this blog post, but I'll apologize to him on the air. Yep--I will call Finebaum and say, "Man, I really made a mistake and I insulted the asshat *insert real name here* falsely on my blog and I'm really sorry."

I'll just sit here and wait.

No really, I'm sure he'll provide me that proof.

I'll be patient.

...waiting...waiting...still waiting...

from USA Today:

“Paul has got the best persona out of anyone I’ve ever seen, including Rush Limbaugh, and you can quote me on that,” said Jim from Tuscaloosa, a longtime Finebaum caller who asked that his last name not be used because of past run-ins with other listeners. “He’s outstanding. Has gravitas.”

Bolding mine. Still waiting, "Jim". Many people I know think he's a character created by the show. He probably is in some ways--a guy who calls in, who's a character, who has no idea that Paul Finebaum is being totally sarcastic and helping "Jim" to make a fool of myself.  He may BE a character--because it's easier to believe that than to believe anyone could be so hate-filled in this day and age. But I think he's being used as a character by the show, and is just not smart enough to realize that. 

Thanks for reading my blog again, asshat. Talk to you on Monday, I'm sure.

Author's note--if you're not smart enough to recognize that this is a satire written for comic purposes, then head on up to the page entitled "Satire and Humor" and take a look at those posts. I'm sure they will enlighten you as to the purposes of a blog post around an imaginary character. *rolls eyes* Fiction writer, people. Fiction.

What We Saw In Louisville Today

So I'm actually going back to the topic of Muhammad Ali, because something extraordinary happened today in Louisville. 

I'd planned to road trip to Louisville for today, actually, but the husband vetoed the idea because I'm currently on bed rest. Which, if you think about it, makes me pretty damn pathetic. Ali would never stay down on the mat. He said it wasn't the place for a champion--a sentiment I agree with. 

But now, I'm glad I stayed at home because I was able to witness something absolutely unprecedented in the streets of Louisville, Kentucky. A funeral cortege for a man who transcended athletics also transcended into a moment of rare unity and celebration in an American city that was witnessed throughout the world. I spent the past four and a half hours chronicling the events on Twitter and during that time interacted with people all over the place--people of different races and ages, affluence and religion. I was talking with a writer friend of mine who was watching it on the BBC in Scotland.

Scotland!

For this one day, politics and social unrest were suspended as the people of Louisville came together in a display of such pure, heartbreaking singularity to share the Champ's last journey through his beloved hometown. 

Today was unprecedented in my lifetime. Many celebrities and athletes and artists and politicians have fallen and been revered by this country. But not like this. 

Crowds lined the streets, tossing flowers at the hearse, chanting "Ali! Ali!" Traffic across the eight lanes of I-64 came to a dead stop as the cortege passed by. Men and women of every possible social identity ran into the street to touch the hearse, to press a kiss against the window. to honor a man who meant so much to so many. 

As the cortege passed by the Ali Multicultural Center, it paused to bring the eyes of the world onto a place that was special to Ali's heart not only because it honored him, but because of the amazing outreach work it does. People were crammed up against the barricades, holding up their kids, calling his name, cell phones or cameras in their hands. 

But when it passed through the streets of Louisville, passing the places where Ali walked as a young Cassius Clay, the whole event became something I never expected. It started with a group of young men whose parents probably were too young to have seen Ali fight live, jogging beside the hearse for blocks in the sweltering June sun. One young man in particular must have stuck with it for a couple of miles--the dude in red refused to give up until the crowd grew too large. Flowers pelted the windshield--most of them red, but then blossoms of all colors--like the people who threw them, of all colors. Older white men ran up to touch the hearse next to young black guys without notice or fear or even a look of suspicion. 

Turns out that the past week in Louisville, the rate of violent crimes has dropped significantly--a silent, unplanned homage to a fighter who preached peace. 

In Ali's childhood neighborhood, an honor guard of Louisville police officers walked on either side of the hearse, but never interfered with anyone approaching the hearse with flowers plucked from their gardens or just to touch the slow-moving hearse and walk away. Considering the celebrities in that cortege, it could have been the direct opposite and probably would have been in any other American city. But this was Louisville saying farewell to their own, and no one dreamed of thinking someone was going to whip out a gun and point it at the famous people in the limos. In fact, the Ali family rolled down their windows, waving to the crowds, taking flowers offered to them by perfect strangers, welcoming the outpouring of love for their patriarch. What an amazing display of coordination and respect on the part of the family, the police force, and the city of Louisville.

And people who yesterday wouldn't have spoken, shared their memories of the Champ today without hesitation or judgement. Tomorrow, their suspicion and distrust might return. 

But not today. 

There were kids--young kids--sitting on top of their parents' cars chanting "Ali! Ali!" Kids who could only have had the faintest idea who Muhammad Ali was as an athlete, and won't know for years what he is as an icon. It was a 21st century American reprise of the Congo. "Ali bomaye! Ali bomaye!" 

How he would have loved it. 

And then all of a sudden there were more people running beside the hearse. Not the media, but old men and young men, white and black and every shade between, Christians and Jews and Muslims--running together in amity and accord. Two young men cruised beside the hearse on hoverboards--HOVERBOARDS, for pete's sake, a vivid reminder of the incredible events Ali's life has spanned. 

And with them ran a young black man in a white hoodie with a gold lame' stripe--no camera, no flowers--a young boxer, running beside the Greatest with his gloves on and shadow boxing like his idol had. 

When the cortege neared the cemetery gates, a huge crowd of people was gathered for that final turn to lay Ali to rest. The driveway was covered with flowers, and the people were chanting, holding up signs, weeping openly. A man ran up and threw an Islamic flag over the right-hand side of the hearse windshield, and a cop moved it with such respect and care over the top of the vehicle--a moment that just does not happen in the America of today. 

I've had several...we'll call them discussions with friends and unknowns alike on social media this week because I unabashedly claim Ali as an idol of mine--a man who symbolizes for me the moments that made me love the world of sports from the time I sat on my dad's knee during the unparalleled fights of the 70s to the lighting of the Olympic torch in the Atlanta 1996 games to the Ali who, although silent and shaking and slowed by Parkinson's who continued to use his influence to raise money for charity, to soothe political turmoil, and to advocate for peace. One of my particular friends, Rich from Atlanta (whose good opinion and thoughts I value almost above anyone else's), argued quite truthfully that Ali's treatment of Joe Frazier was shameful--which it was. Veterans from all kinds of American wars dismissed him as a hero and called him a draft dodger--totally their right. I can't argue with their points of view because they're right. 

But I said and did many things at 25 that made me cringe at 45. And as Ali progressed through his life, and that incredible mouth was silenced, he found ways to make his voice heard throughout the world. And the impact from that resonated today in Louisville. 

We don't have funerals like this in the States. The closest thing I can compare it to is Princess Diana's funeral. But where that was tragic and sorrowful, Muhammad Ali's funeral procession today was more than that--sorrow and joy intermingled, and for one perfect, beautiful early summer day in Louisville, the barriers of race and religion he fought to destroy collapsed beneath the weight of a unity and purpose that he would have appreciated so much. 

And so now, the Greatest is truly gone to his rest. I have this mental image of him looking down on his hometown right now, and although his soul can speak and move and fight without a tremor now in whatever joyous afterlife he's earned, he is still. Quiet. Humbled at last because the whole convoluted, controversial, single-minded purpose of his life spread like a benediction over the city he loved today, proving at last that my favorite Ali quote is unequivocally true. 

I wish people would love everybody else the way they love me. It would be a better world.--Muhammad Ali

Today, in Louisville, it was a better world. Because all these people came together out of love for Muhammad Ali, today they learned to love each other a little better. 

If we truly wish to honor this man, we should do all we can to make this day turn into weeks, months, years, decades--an Ali peace to wrap across America at last.

Sleep now, Champ. Sleep well.

--text from Hana Ali just a few minutes ago. Had to add this in.

The Redemption of Asphodel--Available Today!

Release days are always fun!

The second book in my epic fantasy series based upon Homer's Iliad--The Asphodel Cycle--has just been released! The Redemption of Asphodel is available now at Amazon, Smashwords, and ARE and will be available on other online retail outlets in the next few days, including iTunes. 

This novel was originally published as The Gift of Redemption in 2008, when it was a Top Ten Finisher in the Preditors and Editors Best Sci Fi/Fantasy Poll, and was nominated for Best Fantasy Novel at Love Romances and More.

Aside from a title that actually goes with the other three books in the series, this is the one that received a more stringent editorial pass and is much better than the original version, speaking as an editor instead of an author. So I'm more excited than I probably should be, especially as this book is so important in setting up the sequel series The Black Dream, to be released later this year.

With Asphodel and the Elven Realm safe for a time, Tamsen de Asphodel dives headlong into the political turmoil. Her decision to wade into these shark-infested waters is complicated by the fact that she hasn’t yet regained her strength from the magic she used to defeat her uncle, Spesialle. On top of that, Brial is none too pleased that Tamsen’s pushing herself physically in the search for Ansienne’s new king—or with their best friend’s feelings for his wife. So when the Virgin Huntress sends them all on a new quest, Tamsen is haunted by the single question she must answer.  

What gift can buy the redemption of the Elves?  

In the end, Tamsen must determine if she has the courage and strength to give the right answer.

One of my favorite scenes ever is in this book--a scene that earned me a lot of reader emails back in the day and that was commented on by several reviewers. 

...4 ½ tombstones. I loved revisiting the characters, and watching them grow – especially Tamsen – was a delight. Celina Summers really packs in the drama and love that was so evident in her first novel into this action-packed delight. There is a scene at the end that left me in tears..."--Bitten by Books

Never ever underestimate what Ms. Summers has planned next. 

Ms. Summers creates battles that rival any historic saga.  Her leaders are precise and flawed.  Her heroes are worthy. Their sacrifices heavy.  They have learned that with every blessing from the gods there is a price to be paid.  What more do the gods/goddesses want from Tamsen? 

There have been times I have felt cheated when reading a fantasy quest…Ms. Summers never cheats.  Each of her books is packed with intensity and gentleness.  Still she leaves you craving more.While reading “Redemption” I felt there was an underlying meaning to Tamsen’s journey.  There is more to her adventure and battle, she is learning her own truth, her strength of being.  How does a writer capture this?  This is the craft of writing, which Ms. Summers dominates--ChrisChat Reviews

This novel is available in mobi, epub, and pdf. Grab your copy today, so you'll be ready for the release of Book 3:The Temptation of Asphodel when it releases on July 5!

Happy Reading! And as always, please leave a review!

The Phoenix Is Fallen

When I was a grownup, I watched with escalating horror as the legends of my youth passed away. As a writer, I keep odd hours. But last night, I wasn't writing. Last night, I was conducting a vigil. I had a horrible feeling all day. For some reason, I felt like it was the last day--a day I thought would never come. Some people you honestly believe are immortal. As a grownup, I worked on my novel, editing, with ESPN News on the TV, and every few minutes I checked the ticker. When I'd first watched Muhammad Ali, I didn't wait until 12:30 in the morning as I did last night.

When I was a kid, bedtime was non-negotiable.

Unless I was watching a sporting event with my dad. And every time that Muhammad Ali was fighting, I got to stay up. My dad loved Ali--had loved him since he'd won Olympic gold along with our hometown girl, Wilma Rudolph. My dad isn't the kind of guy to jump on a bandwagon.  He's the kind of man to march against the tide around him. He'd loved Cassius Clay; he continued to love Muhammad Ali. And because my dad was my hero, I did too. My love of sports began on those nights when I was allowed to cuddle with my father in his big chair, watching football games or those amazing, spectacular boxing matches when Ali came back to retake his heavyweight title.

A phoenix, rising from the ashes of his career, to regain what was unfairly taken from him.

When I was a kid, I didn't care about politics. 

My dad did. And although he is an Army veteran, he respected Ali's stand against Vietnam. I remember hearing him argue with my grandfather and uncles about it. He was outraged that Ali was stripped of his titles, losing the best years of a boxer's career. "Shouldn't matter what a man thinks, sports has no reason to punish a guy for his beliefs." 

When I was a kid, I didn't care about race. 

That was my dad's generation--and Ali's. I was of the generation who grew up after the Civil Rights Act, after the abolishment of segregation. My parents raised their kids to ignore the still-difficult relationship between the races in the Deep South. But I couldn't help but  be aware of how Ali already transcended that invisible-but-still-felt barrier that was slowly disintegrating around us, and how beloved he was. And as a little white girl in an all-white family I wasn't aware of how incredible that was.

When I was a kid, I watched Ali's greatest fights. 

I watched his comeback fight and loss to Joe Frazier as a kid on my dad's lap. I watched his victory in the second fight over Ken Norton. I watched Ali beat Frazier in their second bout, and the most brutal boxing match I've ever watched--their third and final match. We went to Nashville to watch the Rumble in the Jungle on PPV.  Rope-a-dope  had more impact live than it does now. I still don't know how he withstood the beating he took from Foreman, but he did. Make no mistake, all you dudes who thought Tyson could have beaten Ali if they'd met in their prime--no way would Tyson have been able to go the distance with Ali, and he would have had to. Ali refused to stay down on the mat.

When I was a kid, I watched the end of Ali's career.

I watched every single fight after he beat George Foreman. Every. Single. One. When he lost to Larry Holmes in a fight that no doctor should EVER have given the okay to, my brother and I sat in our living room and cried. Ali was our hero--the invincible man of our youth. It was unthinkable that he could lose. But he had. The Frazier fight was one thing--Smokin' Joe was a monster. The sorrow in Howard Cosell's voice, the obvious sound of him choking back his own tears is something I remember vividly to this day.

When I was a grownup, I realized how important Ali really was. 

Once I was old enough to understand the political importance of Muhammad Ali, I finally was able to process just how vital his influence was. His oft-quoted "I ain't got no quarrel with them Viet-Cong--no Viet-Cong ever called me nigger." 

That quote doesn't deserve to be softened with a politically correct n-word. You need to read it in its original form to get the impact, the full impact, of an Olympic gold medalist who couldn't eat in the same restaurants with my family, or use the same bathroom, or drink from the same fountain. So don't expect me to insult the memory of Ali's courage by paraphrasing what he said. 

When I was a grownup, I realized again how important Ali was--to me. 

The opening night of the 1996 Olympics was an landmark day for me. After years of estrangement, I was visiting my dad. We were watching the opening ceremonies together. And how fitting it was that Ali was the surprise they'd been touting all day. When Janet Evans climbed the steps at Olympic plaza and all of a sudden the light fell on that oh-so-familiar face, I teared up. I'm tearing up writing this now. This man who'd meant so much to people of color everywhere, who'd inspired so many people, stood there as the representative of his country once more at the Olympic games. Once the torch in his hand was lit, the shaking in his hands was so obvious and terrible. 

My dad said, "Someone's going to have to help him light that thing." 

I said, "No one is going to help Muhammad Ali do anything--not when the world is watching." 

Ali gritted his teeth, put both hands on the torch, and stilled the shaking out of sheer will. When I saw the fire catch, I started to cry. Not because Ali was obviously so ill, but because he was still refusing to give up. He was down on the mat in the eyes of everyone watching, and out of his inability to give up, his defiant nature, his self-pride, and above all the consciousness that billions of people were watching him around the world, he overcame once again the elements ranged against him. 

He refused to stay down. 

When I was a grownup, I could watch all of Ali's fights--the ones before I was born. The Liston fights, when Ali's incredible speed confounded the champ--and the speed of his mouth terrified him. 

When I was a grownup, I could discover his bravado from the earliest days and laugh with him. I could learn his history, from the stolen bicycle that led him into boxing to the Olympic games where he'd met--and briefly dated--Miss Wilma, who was a beloved icon of sports in my hometown. 

When I was a grownup, I could appreciate the courage it took for Ali to make the stand he did against the draft, and how unapologetic he was for taking it.  

When I was a grownup, I could witness Ali's transformation from draft-dodger into a man that represented the highest ideals of sports--a man who'd sacrificed his career to stand up for his beliefs--and  how everyone grew to respect him for it.

When I was a grownup, I watched all the idols of my youth begin to die. 2016 has been particularly hard for people my age. But today, today is the hardest day. Muhammad Ali was the first of my childhood heroes, and my worship of him began at the age of five--a little girl sitting on her father's lap watching him box on TV. Ali is an unbreakable link between my father and me. Dad put up with a lot of crap because he loved Ali so much--and the fact that his precocious daughter had a nasty habit of scowling at a grown-up that was giving Dad grief about it and saying, "Ali is the greatest." 

After all, Ali had said it himself--and no one dared to deny it after the Frazier and Foreman fights. I have this mental image of him ascending to whatever afterlife is there, surrounded by a huge crowd of Congolese kids yelling, "Ali bomaye! Ali bomaye!"

And whoever's at the gate doesn't even have to ask his name.

Like my dad, Ali has always been there--boxer, political figure, orator, icon, philanthropist--a constant, smart-mouthed phoenix rising from the flames.

Today, the flame that began in the world consciousness at the Rome games of 1960, the vibrant, defiant flames of the phoenix are finally doused. What once people thought was empty boasting is now universally accepted as the truth. 

Even beyond the grave, Ali will back it up. Godspeed, Champ. 

Memorial Day--More Personal Than You Might Think

In all the years of this blog, I've never posted about Memorial Day, which is rather strange looking back on it. Memorial Day is a holiday that touches most Americans peripherally--first barbecue, first day the pool's open, first day of summer. But I grew up in a military town, in a family with strong military roots. Memorial Day has always meant a little more to me. After all, growing up in Clarksville, TN which is the host city for Ft. Campbell, KY (home of the famed 101st Airborne and the 502nd Special Forces when I was growing up) makes Memorial Day more important.

Soldiers were a part of my everyday life. You can't go anywhere in Clarksville without running into the military--a fact the community has embraced and takes pride in. So, the cemeteries in my hometown are full of military graves--some of those graves hold members of my family. My father is a veteran, as is his. Many of my uncles were career military, officers and gentlemen all. And many of my friends joined, served, and died under the American flag.

But I've never posted a blog about Memorial Day, because it's always seemed just way too personal. 

When I was a young woman living in Clarksville, I remember when the 101st was mobilized to head over to Iraq. Like many citizens in Clarksville, I knew hours before the news broke. I went to Krogers to pick up either baby formula or beer--funny how those two are linked inextricably in my mind. At any rate, I walked into the store with my friend, and I remember stopping dead in my tracks. 

There was one teller line open, and there was a line of men waiting to be checked out that ran all the way to the back of the store and curved around the meat department to the dairy. Those men were patient, juggling baskets with things like gum, cookies, chips, snack mix, stationery, stamps--yes, so long ago people still wrote letters--and every single man was freshly shaved. 

I stopped and looked at my friend and said quietly, "The US is about to declare war." 

She was a fellow student of mine on the debate team at APSU from East Tennessee, and she looked puzzled. "What makes you say that?" 

I pointed at the line and said, "Because these are the guys that get deployed first. They're shipping out tonight."

She thought I was crazy.

Two days later, the entire base at Ft. Campbell was sealed up pretty damn tight, complete with razor wire and barricades at the entrances. And aside from a few token units, it was completely empty.

A week later, Clarksville was literally a ghost town. Thousands of businesses went under, dependent as they were on the military trade. Traffic was suddenly non-important. Thousands of women returned home to their families. And everyone in town was suddenly doing the same thing.

Waiting. 

I've traced my family genealogy over the past year or so, and my line of descent includes veterans of every American war--including a Colonel in the Revolution, and a General in the French and Indian War. Military cemeteries in Virginia, Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee have gravestones with my family name on them--men who have served their country and instilled in their descendants a true love of country. My daughters' grandfathers on both sides are military veterans, as is their step-grandfather, my husband's dad, who served in a particularly brutal capacity during the Vietnam War--something he rarely talks about.

And now my son-in-law is also a veteran, a Purple Heart recipient from the war in Afghanistan. My daughter lived with me while he was deployed--a year and a half of worry for him, sorrow that he was missing his daughter growing from infant to toddler, and sacrifice on her part. Now he's home, dealing with the aftereffects of his service, and sometimes I wonder when I look at his beautiful, intelligent six-and-a half-year-old daughter or the rampaging all-boy two-year-old twins if one day I'll worry about them as they carry on the family traditions of service to our country.

But Memorial Day isn't about veterans. It's about those who don't get the chance to become veterans--the heroes of our country. And when I think about those soldiers, the list gets long and sad. 

I remember the young lieutenant who was a regular at the little bar where I hung out in college, and how he ran a black market canteen while he served in Iraq--and how the last supply package I sent him arrived a day too late. 

I remember the always-courteous master sergeant who came to my dad's store every Saturday just to glean knowledge from the farmers who clustered around the desk, and how many of those farmers were in the long line of cars that drove back to Sarge's farm after his internment. 

I remember the long, lanky 18-year-old private whose guts I thought I hated, only to have him killed seven years later after we'd become friends. 

I remember the second lieutenant fresh out to his command who I'd jokingly called cannon fodder--only to find my words had been oddly prescient six months later. 

I remember the tears on the face of a childhood friend as her three-year-old daughter wept into her father's triangular-shaped flag. 

I remember a line of stair-stepped kids from fifteen to two, doing their best to emulate their father's well-known stern demeanor as their grandfather pulled his daughter off a flag-draped coffin. 

I remember a line of coffins in a row, placed with military precision on a brutally cold afternoon, while an honor guard added another to the line. Two weeks before Christmas.

I remember the day Ronald Reagan came to Ft. Campbell to deliver an address at the memorial service for 248 servicemen who died on December 12 of 1985 after an air crash in Gander, Newfoundland. The day was December 16. It was unnaturally, bitterly cold. I was a smartass college freshman, sent to cover the event for the newspaper. I was struck particularly how all thoughts of security for the President dissolved as he lingered with the families of the dead, and how human he seemed as he embraced them all and wept with them.

ALL of them.

Sometimes a President transcends his office. This was one of those moments.

 

Only if you were there and witnessed how Reagan interacted with the survivors of the soldiers who'd died in that horrible, strange plane crash can you possibly understand why to Clarksville natives, there is a genuine feeling of love and respect for this most sympathetic of Presidents.

Then as now, Presidents were on a tight, tight schedule, and when Reagan saw how many families were there, and how many children, he basically told his staff to go to hell and remained there until the very last mourner had known the touch of his hand, the warmth of his embrace, and the genuine sharing of his grief and his tears.

I am a cynical, liberal analyst of behaviors--as any writer must be. And even to this day, when I remember how much of himself Reagan gave to the survivors of those servicemen lost, I tear up. He won more than my vote that day.

He understood, and respected, what those families had given to their country. Their best.

The Gander Memorial in Ft. Campbell, surrounded by the 248 trees that represent the servicemen lost as they returned from a peacekeeping mission in Sinai, Egypt. Their Air Arrow Flight home crashed in Gander, Newfoundland for reasons that are still a mystery to this day.

Many career soldiers stay in Clarksville after they retire. I think every retired soldier in the community showed up that day to honor the Gander crash victims. It's incredible to remember seeing the old, old men in their veteran regalia saluting as the President entered. World War II. Korea. Vietnam. Even a few World War I vets. They saluted the commander-in-chief, and even those old men who'd needed walkers or assistance to get there stood straight and proud as they saluted, and while their faces might have been wet their backs were unbowed and their legs didn't tremble. Their brothers who couldn't stand up saluted too, and they were a somber counterpart, a reminder to us all of the aftermath of war. There's a certain posture military men get, a crisp snap to attention that never fades, regardless of age. That day was the first day I encountered the permanence military training instills--a reflex that persists no matter how the strength fades. Even men of 80 suddenly stand like they're 20 when an officer walks by. That day, the posture was heralded by tears. It was a particular kind of pride and grief that impacted me so much that echoes of it resonate in my writing now. 

Even to this day, I drive past the Gander Memorial every time I go home. The memorial is a lovely place, the 248-sugar maple tree grove that was begun when a Canadian girl upon hearing of the crash decided to donate her babysitting money to plant a tree for each soldier lost. That memorial is a vital heart in my childhood community--originated by the generosity of a girl who cried when she learned those men weren't making it home for Christmas after all.

I remember the first time I saw Arlington Cemetery, with its plain white stones marking tens of thousands of Americans dead in all our wars--especially the Civil War stones placed right up against the gracious house that seemed so out of place, until I learned that the land had once been General Robert E. Lee's, and regardless of who won the Civil War the North was making certain he would never be able to return to his home. 

And I remember going to my mom's grave in the first week of June, and upon seeing the hundreds of small flags coursing through the rows of the cemetery that emphasized Clarksville's connection with the American military, I felt a surge of pride. And while my mother wasn't a soldier, I remember thinking that since she'd been a child in Nazi-occupied France and had witnessed the execution of her father, perhaps she just might deserve a little flag too.

Every American family tree has branches upon it that are cut out, short, burned from the family trunk with fire and blood and death. Mine is not abnormally laden with those tragic broken limbs. But the roots of every American family bear those little American flags. Sometimes the number of stars is different. Sometimes, those flags change to a Confederate flag for a few years, but once those roots reach the tree they are all, at their core, American. 

That's what Memorial Day is about. Not the broken limbs, but the roots. And as we all know, without the roots any tree will wither.

Why Reviewing Books You Enjoy Is So Important

Being an author is difficult--at any level. Few writers--usually only the big names--are provided marketing by their publishers. Even writers who are signed by the Big Six publishers don't get marketing support. For the small press or self-published writer, any promotions have to be undertaken by the author. 

Some have the finances to buy a marketing company. But those don't always work. When I was at Musa, we hired a marketing firm for a big name author--a NYT Bestselling, Nebula award-winning, made famous by a blockbuster movie author. We invested thousands of dollars in marketing his book, which was a sequel to the book that had made him famous in the first place. 

Didn't pay off. It was like pouring that money down a black hole. And this was a reputable marketing company, one that had a portfolio of success stories longer than the list of books I've edited. 

So what drives book sales for a small-press or self-published author? Reviews. Not just the professional reviews of critics, but the customer reviews on Amazon and other retail sites. Some authors manipulate the reviews by creating sockpuppet accounts and getting friends to do the same. But most--like me--prefer to do things the right way. 

One of the right ways is to do what I did last month. I offered the first book of the series for free for a week upon release. I don't do things like that because I'm a kind person. I do that because I am hoping for reviews. Literally thousands of people downloaded my book for free--enough to catapult it into the top 25 for the genre. And out of those thousands of people, only two have so far left reviews. 

Two.

Not a great percentage. 

I posed this question on my Facebook page today, and a good friend of mine commented that he'd grown up when only professionals did book reviews, so he didn't feel qualified. And I thought for several hours on what he'd said. 

I'm an editor. I've left reviews on books many times. And I strive to make those reviews both unbiased and constructive, especially for self-published authors who may not be getting the kind of feedback they need. For example, my Amazon customer review on KM Shea's book Queen of Ice. This young writer has a lot of talent, but her book suffered with issues a strong editor would be able to correct. And so, that's what I told her--not to be a bitch, but to let her know what she needed to do to make her writing career even better. 

But I am an editor. This review is the kind of thing I'd normally include in an editorial letter to an author I am working with--an email that has attached a red-inked document with hundreds of comments and corrections. 

So maybe...just maybe, Ed has a valid point. Maybe, to many readers, writing a review is intimidating. 

See--here's the thing. Not every review needs to be an editorial critique of an author's work. Amazon gives you options--and even if you just RATE a book on their one-to-five star scale, that helps. Because the more ratings a book has, then the higher it's going to show up on the "Avg Customer Review" filter on the sales page, and that's HUGE. For example, today's Fantasy sales page based upon Average Customer Review. Obviously, the more 5 star ratings a book gets, the higher it's going to be on the page. And while the top of the page is predictably JK Rowling, Tolkien, and Diana Gabaldon, look at the bottom of the page. 221 reviews. 191. 106...

These authors are showing up on the same sales page as Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, and Outlander. 

That's where ANY writer wants to be--needs to be in order to generate sales. Look at the second page. By page ten, the bottom book has 18 reviews--all 5 stars. 

Not many customers are going to cruise past page ten. 

Take a look now at the reviews for that last book on page ten. The top review reads as follows

Excellent story with twists and turns you don't see coming. It is hard to put the book down, because you want to see what is going to happen next and how the story ends! Looking forward to buying a hard copy and will be reading this one again!

Here's my point--you don't have to write a huge review, although there's a lot of benefits another reader can get from your extensive and detailed review. You can write a THREE SENTENCE review like this reader did, explaining what you liked about the story and give that author as much benefit as one of my 2000 word critiques. 

And if you really love a book, then help that author out by posting your feelings as a review. You have no idea how much your review is needed by the author, and how many other people will read your words and think, "Hey, maybe I should try this out." 

So review the books you read--on Amazon, or Goodreads, or wherever. Because when you do, somewhere, an author gets her wings. 

You know what I mean.

Sexual Assaults and College Campuses--Not Just An Athlete Problem

All right--let's start off with a healthy dose of reality here and clear the college football issues out of the way. 

I do not care which school it is. I'm not 'anti-Baylor'. The university I am loyal to with athletics is also under an investigation and has been sued under Title IX for 'creating a culture that promotes rape'. If during the course of that investigation the University of Tennessee is found to have created that alleged culture, my narrative in this blog will not change one iota and I will DEMAND that any UT official that participated in or colluded with the deliberate protection of star athletes, the shaming and ignoring of victims, and selling their souls to win football games like Baylor obviously has, should be IMMEDIATELY TERMINATED and subject to criminal prosecution to the fullest extant of the law. 

Period. 

And if that loses me some followers from Vol Nation, that's just fine by me. You can read the Pepper-Hamilton report about the Baylor situation here.

However, all that being said, the allegations involving sexual violence and college athletes isn't the problem. It's just a symptom of the problem, which extends far beyond the athletic department and touches every single university campus in the United States. 

College campuses are a happy hunting ground for sexual predators, and overall universities are at the very least dilatory and frequently delinquent in working to solve this problem. According to the US Department of Education in 2015 (Huffington Post, July 25, 2015):

The U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights is investigating 124 colleges and universities and 40 elementary and secondary schools over how they have handled sexual assault among students. 

As of July 22, the federal agency was conducting 140 investigations at 124 higher education institutions for possible violations of Title IX in their handling of sexual assault, according to information the Education Department provided to The Huffington Post. Meanwhile, 41 similar investigations are taking place at 40 local K-12 schools and school districts. 

And then from Know Your Title IX, an informational website educating students about on-campus sexual violence, this litany of disturbing statistics on gender violence:

Approximately 19% of women will be sexually assaulted during their time at college. (Study published in 2007) 

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s campus climate survey (which measures prevalence of and attitudes toward gender-based violence) found that 17% of female students had been assaulted while enrolled. (2014)

But that's not all:

5-6% of men will experience sexual assault during college.[1]  (2014 and 2007)
90% of campus sexual assaults are committed by perpetrators that the survivor knows.  (2000)
84% of female survivors report being sexually assaulted during their first four semesters on campus. (2007)
The majority of undetected college rapists are likely serial perpetrators, committing an average of 6 rapes each. (2002)
13% of women report being stalked during their time in college.
80% of survivors of stalking know the person who victimized them.  (2000)
43% of dating college women report experiencing violent and abusive dating behaviors including physical, sexual, technology-facilitated, verbal or other forms of controlling abuse. (2011)
More than 57% of college students who report experiencing dating violence report experiencing it while in college. (2011)

And let's be real here--these are older numbers. The most recent numbers are even more disturbing. The National Sexual Violence Resource Center reports this for 2015:

One in 5 women and one in 16 men are sexually assaulted while in college   

More than 90% of sexual assault victims on college campuses do not report the assault 

63.3% of men at one university who self-reported acts qualifying as rape or attempted rape admitted to committing repeat rapes 

Those last two figures are the ones I want to concentrate on for the moment.

NINETY PERCENT of victims DO NOT REPORT THEIR ASSAULT. The National Domestic Violence Hotline Law Enforcement Agency Report reported in 2015 some reasons for this issue:

Of those victims who have called the cops, 2 in 3 were afraid to call the police in the future.
Only 1 in 5 victims actually felt safer after calling the police, and 1 in 3 victims felt less safe.
Of victims who have called the cops, nearly half felt police discriminated against them.
Of victims who have called the cops, 1 in 4 report being arrested or threatened with arrest. 

And for the idiots who called in to the Paul Finebaum Show this week talking about "how many times the alleged victims made false reports of sexual violence" ponder on this False Allegations of Rape Study that provides analysis of ten years worth of reported rape cases at an American university for a moment:

Of the 136 cases of sexual assault 8 (5.9%) were coded as false reports, 61 (44.9%) did not proceed to any prosecution or disciplinary action, 48 (35.3%) were referred for prosecution or disciplinary action, and 19 (13.9%) contained insufficient information to be coded (see Table 2). It should be noted that in no case did the research team “override” the classification of a false report made by the police department. The eight cases that were described as false reports by the police investigators were also categorized that way by the coders.

 So yeah, you moron with the 'false allegation' and 'cleat-chasers' comments. You are reading that correctly. 5.9%. Some additional data:

Let me be perfectly plain here. Yes, what happened at Baylor is absolutely atrocious and unconscionable. But that's not the entirety of the problem. Like the iceberg that sank the Titanic, 90% of the problem is hidden from view.

We have held a societal ideology for--well, pretty much EVER--that blames the VICTIM of sexual assault rather than the PERPETRATOR, an ideology that is borne out in the modern day by victims who are unwilling to expose themselves to the 'she was asking for it' tactics used still by some defense attorneys, the indifference (or in Baylor's case, collusion) of law enforcement to assist victims and protect then during the investigation of sexual crimes, and the mythology that women falsely accuse their attackers in order to cover something up or retaliate against someone.

THAT is the problem with sexual assaults on college campuses, and it is universal. And while Baylor is dominating the headlines, schools with the same issues and no ostensible athletic department involvement are dealing with the same issues and are NOT getting the same media attention. If we're just talking about Title IX complaints, then we need to consider athletic departments more specifically:

But again--Title IX does not equate the REAL problem, which is sexual violence on college campuses. It is just a symptom, like athletes as alleged perpetrators is legitimately represents just a fraction of sexually violent offenders at US colleges. And even though Baylor is scrambling to preserve itself with a rash of firings and 'reassignments', I have to ask--what are they doing to resolve the issue they share with every other college in the country?

What steps are Baylor or Tennessee or 124 other institutions taking to end sexual violence on their campuses?

That's the question that we, as students, parents, educators, and taxpayers need to be asking--MUST ask if we're going to really take a stand on sexual assault. We must DEMAND that law enforcement actively investigate EVERY sexual assault equally, without consideration for the power a university wields in the community. And we must broaden the scope of our inquiries to the universities even where the athletic department is not the focus of these claims.

And you, as an individual, need to check this list. See if your university, alma mater, or a state school your tax dollars fund is on this list--a list I would normally never post on a blog because of its length. If your school is on this list, then you must pursue the truth in these claims as strenuously as possible, because it's your duty, my duty, our duty to make certain that we do.

As I said. Normally wouldn't post a list this big, but this list MUST be posted because it demonstrates the scope of the problem much better than I could. So I have to ask you--how many schools are on this list that you are associated with?

Time to ask some questions, my friends.

Does this school enable athletes to be protected from criminal allegations?
Does this school actively investigate sexual assault?
Does this school assist victims of sexual assault to the fullest extent?
Does this school cooperate with law enforcement?
Does law enforcement engage in collusion on the university's behalf?
Does this school have a support system in place to assist victims of sexual crimes?
Does this school immediately protect victims from their alleged attackers?
Does this school devote time, personnel, and money into protecting its students?
Does this school actively educate its students regarding sexual assault?'

There are a lot more questions you should ask. These will do for a start. It's my opinion that no matter what university you ask, not all of these questions will be answered to your satisfaction.