Long Time, No See

Gee--sorry, folks. Real life and my parents' internet-free zone have kept me out of the loop for weeks now. Add to that heinous editing deadlines, a new manuscript that just won't shut up and the kids and you'll understand my recipe for blogging disaster.

I'll try not to let it happen again. I promise.

At any rate, it's been kind of difficult to get my head on straight lately. To begin with, Harlequin, the sequel to my urban fantasy Deception Enters Stage Left, is cranking along at supersonic speed. Last week, I wrote almost 50,000 words on the manuscript and am seriously looking at closing the first draft out within days. Naturally, because I overwrite like a check fraud fanatic, that first draft is probably going to close out at 125k plus.

Because I can edit the heck out of anything, I'm thinking I'll be able to trim at least twenty-five thousand adverbs, dialogue tags and unnecessary scenes out of it. I'm really liking the story. I'm starting to play with some new theories about where to take my spec fic work. I'm getting more drawn to fantasy worlds that are shared with our own--without getting caught up in the tropes of urban fantasy per se.

Let's put it this way: anyone who saw the movie Magic when it first came out probably came away with an active dislike of ventriloquist dummies. (I know I did.) Creepy little clown dolls? Not a big favorite since Poltergeist. Now I'm trying to do the same thing for all of those harlequin masks hanging on walls all over the world--save with a lot of commedia dell'Arte influence and a healthy dose of the American theater world to make it more fun.

And, of course, I'm spending a lot of time torturing my characters. That makes everything worthwhile.

Fifteen Minutes of Sunshine

Yep, so I'm taking my medicine.

I was actually prescribed--PRESCRIBED--fifteen minutes of sunshine per day. Now that it's pleasant outside and not nine hundred degree celsius, I'm actually going to obey my physician and leave my dungeon for a quarter of an hour everyday and sit in the sun.

I figure I can make myself productive and use the time to blog regularly. After all, I've not exactly been faithful to Elf Killing as of late; the Other Hobbies have been taking up most of my time.

Other Hobbies at this point would be editing.

Remember how happy I was last year when I got to the point that I could write full time? How excited I was that I could spend all day every day at my computer zipping out stories? Well, I got sidetracked into editing. Don't get me wrong: I like editing. I like seeing how other writers' stories come together. I like helping to make those stories a little bit better in between the writer and the reader. It's fascinating work.

*Is it my imagination, or is it getting hot out here???*

I just never thought it would be so time consuming. I read quickly--abnormally quickly. Gone With The Wind is an afternoon's recreation for me. The Harry Potter books go down like bon-bons. Editing, however, is a bit more than reading quickly. It's grammar books open on the table, looking up grammatical constructions and then coming up with a way to fix a problem. It's continuity plotlines growing on paper beside the laptop, so I can make sure that all the plots and subplots are resolved. It's a lot of note taking: what works, what doesn't, what needs to be changed and what should stay the same because it's awesome. Every pretty little white manuscript that comes my way ends up bleeding like the slow guy at the running of the bulls in Spain.

*is that a trickle of sweat? That can't be healthy.*

But the greatest thing about being an editor? It's making my writing much cleaner. I'm finding fewer mistakes in my own work now, and writing cleaner means writing quicker. What could be more awesome than that? Every writer searches for a way to make the process faster and better. I think I've stumbled on the secret. Editing frequently makes me a better writer.

*has it been fifteen minutes yet? it's awfully bright out here*

So anyway, I'm watching the hummingbirds dive bomb at the feeder. They seem to be distressed that a human is sitting so close to their food source. If they knew that I was the one that fills the darn thing, do you think they'd be a little more polite?

Well, there you go. Fifteen minutes of sunshine aka dialy blog session. Dang, it's warm out here. I can't wait until winter comes so I can be unhealthy and comfortable in my dungeon.

A Little Perspective...From a Toy

I don't watch a lot of TV. I watch my DVR. That way, when I spend the day working I don't interrupt myself to go watch a favorite show. Then, when I'm done watching the show, I delete it. Entertainment on demand and I can skip through the commercials. It's a win-win situation.

Tonight I watched a show I will not be deleting.

There was a rerun of an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition tonight about the Frisch family in Toledo, Ohio. The Frisches are an extraordinary couple who, on a fireman's salary, have adopted five kids from Haiti and three from the US . They're raising them in addition to their own three boys--ages range from 4 to 18. I'm not going to go into detail about them or the show. I'd advise you to watch the show if you can. What I am going to talk about is something one of the kids said.

EHM arranged for trucks full of donated clothes, books and toys (donated by Hasbro!) to go to Haiti to a school there. While the family was vacationing in Florida, they got to help load those trucks onto planes--a donation made in the Frisch family name. And one of the boys said, "When I was in Haiti, I was lucky to even have one toy. When my mom and dad came to Haiti, they gave me a toy. I was like so happy; I know what it feels like. I was just imagining what the other kids in Haiti will feel like today."

And I paused the recording.

It took a minute to sink in: one toy? Can you imagine that? I can't. I'm a writer and I literally cannot imagine what it would be like to only have one toy--to get that toy at the hands of a stranger and experience that joy for the first time. In a life filled with misery and fear, what must that child have thought?

So, I began to picture it in my mind.

A child in a third world country: emaciated, miserable, hot, dirty. He's crammed into a rusty tin-roofed shack with other children just like him. Sewage runs down the gutters on either side of the fly-infested track that serves as a street. He has no mother, no father. He must always worry about where his next meal will come from or whether the men with guns will come to hurt him that night. This isn't a far-fetched description. This description applies to countless children in countless towns in countless impoverished nations all over the world. Let's give this child a name.

Let's call him...you.

All of a sudden, you're holding this brightly colored toy--say it's something as simple as a plastic truck--and it has wheels. It's smooth. It's clean. It makes noises. When you roll it across the dirt that is the floor of the shack you're crowded into, it leaves little tracks in the dust. Then all of sudden, that toy opens up an imagination that has been suppressed under the horrors of everyday life. Now if that truck doesn't make the noise, you make the noise for it. You create little obstacles for the truck to drive around. You spill some water onto the dirt floor so you can have the fun of running that truck through the mud, then carefully wash the truck free of all the dirt and mud so it will be as clean and colorful and shiny as it was the first time you saw it. You run the truck up your leg, feeling the treads along your skin.

That truck, that toy, becomes the springboard for all the wonderful places your imagination can take you. Now when you play with the truck in the dirt, it's the dirt of someplace else: an imaginary place, perhaps, where you eat good food and go to school and take baths every day. A place where you sleep in an actual bed, where you have clothes that fit and a roof that keeps out the weather. That place has people--friends, maybe, or siblings to play with; a father who teaches you about life and a mother who hugs you when you're hurt. From there, you can drive the truck into the future--a bright place where you can be whatever you want and be respected for who you are.

The truck, therefore, becomes a goad to ambition. You feel free to make plans for your future--what you want to be when you grow up, where you want to be.

The dirt, the poverty, the terror and the sick loneliness of your existence disappear, even if only for a little while. And it's all because one day, a total stranger gave you your first and only toy.

It made me think. From something as small as a toy, dreams can grow. From those dreams, a life can be brought up out of hopelessness and the world as a whole can gain an individual so valuable, so wonderful, that everyone benefits by it.

From a toy.

Sometimes Research Is Tricky

...especially when people you don't expect to be anywhere near you read the tabs open on your laptop. Latest moment of horror?

Imagine if you will--a completely innocent person walking by my beat-up laptop and finding about ten windows open on demonology and exorcisms?

Ye-eah. Here's the scene:

When I'm in a working frenzy, it may look like a disaster to other people but I always know where everything is. I'm one of those really annoying people with a little bit of knowledge about a lot of stuff, and that's reflected in my library. I have books spanning a full four millennia, but sometimes they don't provide me with everything I need. Because I like to be thorough in my research, I have to look things up online--if for no other reason than to find out where to go for real (as in book form) source material. So, I was working on my modern day retelling of the Bell Witch legend. I have the two major primary sources for that legend in book form, but I needed more background material so I could set up my plot's climax.

Cue the demonlogy sites.

If you know the Bell Witch legend, you'll know why. (If you don't, here's a brief and not altogether unaccurate summary of it.) The reported activity of the Bell Witch kind of mirrors more recent reports of demonic activity. So, I needed to know not only how to determine what demonic activity would be like but also how to combat it. On tab one--a purported Satanist site. On tab two--a site with the Catholic rite of exorcism.

Cue clueless wandering and nosy human looking at my laptop while I'm occupied elsewhere:

"Celina! Are you a Satanist?"

"Um, no. I'm an agnostic."

"Then why are you trying to learn how to do a black mass?"

At this point, I looked at my computer in confusion. A black mass? You can figure out how to do that online? My first thought (as a writer) was "Cool!" My second thought was "Why would anyone look that up online?"

Of course, my third thought was "You idiot! If you hadn't of stuck your big fat warty nose into my business, you wouldn't be asking such a stupid question!"

After said clueless wandering human wandered off, however, I started to think about the whole situation. It was then that it occurred to me that if for some reason I was arrested for a crime I didn't commit and someone pulled all of the history out of my computer's hard drive, all of this could be used against me. For example--I edit erotica books and my publisher has a very successful erotica division. I pop onto a lot of sites dealing with erotica. If someone like -- oh, I don't know, my holier-than-thou sister-in-law found out about that, she would assume I was either a prostitute or addicted to pornography. Add the demonic activity research sites and suddenly, she would be able to construct a case in her mind that I was a porn-addicted prostitute who practiced Satanism.

(While watching football; most of my bookmarked sites have to do with the University of Tennessee athletic department.)

But just think about that for a moment. We've all heard cases about people accused of child pornography and the things investigators found on their hard drives. What if some bigoted attorney made a mountain out of a molehill--using things like this against a falsely accused person?

Not saying, of course, that the clueless, nosy, wandering asshat who strolled by my computer would ever be intelligent enough to even get into law school, but you never can tell. Am I worried about it? No, not really. It's just one of those things that made me think for a few minutes. And now, naturally enough, I've set up a whole section of my bookmarked pages in a folder that reads "These sites will help you convict me."

I'm such a smartass. Good thing I'm not a Satanist to boot.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To...

Way back in the day, I was a member of the Junior Classical League in Clarksville, Tennessee. My two best friends throughout school, a pair of evil twins named Ed and Jim Long, and I competed for four years for our high school and our state. Every August around this time, we were off at the National Junior Classical League convention, from which we would emerge with lots of awards.

They won more than I did.

I was a two-trick pony. I was the school expert on classical mythology and I was the mean member of our certamen team. Certamen (the latin word for battle) is the JCL version of Quiz Bowl. I was mean and I was quick, so much so that our Latin teacher Grady Warren called me Fauces.

Jaws.

At any rate, we always had a blast. I was the one who had to be constantly watched. I was such a high-strung kid that disaster invariably followed me at conventions. My freshman year, I actually made it onto the lower level certamen team (almost unheard of) and wanted to win so badly. I sprained my ankle on the second day of the convention, and when we lost to Virgina (darn them anyway) I was so upset that I limped offstage in front of the thousands of kids attending the assembly bawling my eyes out.

Yeah, I really was that kind of kid.

At any rate, I think the JCL conventions pretty much helped me to establish my self-identity in high school. I was never as quietly brilliant as the twins, but I was so flamboyantly competitive and so viciously visible that for some reason people equated me with them. I'll never forget how, after two years of coming in second in the mythology test at nationals, in my junior year I finally won it.

Everyone was so pleased that even our villainous arch-rivals from WT Woodson in Fairfax, Virginia, stood up and applauded as I accepted.

Nuts, huh?

At any rate, this evening that same Ed Long (now a Latin teacher in our hometown)posted a video from this year's National Junior Classical League convention. I was so flabbergasted watching it--it took me straight back to high school and the energy, the excitement that overwhelmed those Latin conventions. I spent a little time remembering all the great times, all the good friends I'd made there. I even spared a moment to remember how, when we went to Niagara Falls, I crossed over to the Canadian side with a couple of the chaperones (including Laura Lindsey, now married to Ed Long and a Latin teacher back home herself) for a nice dinner and how much trouble they got into because we were late for curfew.

I didn't get into trouble. I was with the chaperones. *grin* Ah, those were the days.

In case you wanted to check the video out, here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSKa89m8R9g The Tennessee JCL won the Spirit award for big states. Once upon a time, I too sat in an auditorium and chanted "T-E-double N-E-double S-double E-TENNESSEE!" while wearing a toga and thinking about my certamen match later that day. Once upon a time, those chaperones were worried about whatever disaster I brought instead of these kids. Once upon a time, this convention was the most important thing in my young life.

The Junior Classical League--one of the great academic testing grounds in the United States. Congratulations to all of them--and especial blessings to Grady and Dr. Kaye Warren, who have taught three generations of Latin students in Clarksville, Tennessee. I dedicated The Asphodel Cycle to these amazing teachers because if it weren't for them, Asphodel would never have come to pass.

Spare a thought for your greatest teachers today. I have, and the memory has been heartwarming.

Melding New Ideas and a New Review

First, the good news.

The Asphodel Cycle 2: The Gift of Redemption has just been reviewed by ChrisChat Reviews. The book was given a four out of four rating! Here's part of what the reviewer had to say:

"...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 "Gift of 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..."

Zoinks! My day is full of sunshine today! You can read the rest of the review at ChrisChat Reviews.

Now for the rest of the story.

Every once in a while, someone will say something that strikes a chord with me. My husband is particularly good at this. I've been futzing around with some different story ideas for a few weeks. I'm still working on the horror stories, but an urban fantasy concept has been nagging me, a couple of Greek myths, a little bit of traditional high fantasy--and I couldn't settle on one particular idea.

Naturally, this really kind of pissed me off. So I was moping last night, (waiting for Ghost Hunters' season premiere to start) and my husband started to tell me about a dream he'd had that was bothering him. I was pretty much just pretending to listen--you wives out there know what I'm talking about--when all of a sudden something he said struck that idea bell that tolls so infrequently in my overworked head. Before I knew what was happening, we were brainstorming a story plot.

And after he went to bed, it took off. It took off the same way that Deception did; that Darkshifters and Asphodel and Terella did. I'm not going to say much about it, other than this:
Plato, in his Socratic dialogue to Timaeus, spoke of a demiurge which is an ultimate creation myth deity. In some ways, Plato's demiurge was the first benevolent god--once who wanted a world that was completely good but was hampered by the matter of Chaos that he had to work with when he formed the world. Look it up; check it out--then you might have an idea of where I'm going.

Or starting.

Whichever works.

I've never been one for dystopian novels, but this one just might come close. Oh NO! Am I turning into an intellectual in my dotage? God forbid! I've always been perfectly happy being a genre hack writer in the past...maybe I'm evolving.

Maybe it's time I did.

Oh, The Horror!

Someone asked me once how I decide what stories to write. I responded that I write what I feel compelled to write.

Interestingly enough, lately I've been compelled to write horror.

After delving into the paranormal with Deception Enters Stage Left, I find myself splitting my writing time these days between two horror stories. One deals with the return of an ancient and well-documented (in real life) poltergeist and the other deals withs an entirely fictional demonic possession. Last week, working on the possession story, I actually scared myself enough to dig out my First Communion medal.

Needless to say, I was rather pleased.

Maybe it's because I'm facing horrors in my real life that I am currently drawn to the darker side of things. My husband and I are contemplating a move back to Tennessee. Normally, that wouldn't seem to be so horrible until you consider the terrors of packing up my entire household--including all the cats--and transporting it across two states. That's a hell of a lot of kitty sedatives. It's almost enough to make me groan in horror and the thought of boxing up my library most definitely is.

I've always defined myself as a speculative fiction writer. I don't 'write what I know' so much as I write what I see in the convoluted avenues of my imagination. Lately, I've turned off the broad streets of fantasy and into the back alleys of horror and I've found that I like the detour.

But--back to fantasy for a minute. I got a great review earlier this week from Love Romances and More for The Asphodel Cycle 4: Apostle of Asphodel. In part, the review reads:

"...Ms. Summers creates complex characters that continue to grow as you read this series. All the characters, new and old, will keep your attention as you try to figure out along with Tamsen, what her objective is and if she can overcome the obstacles placed in her path. I highly enjoyed this entire series but am sincerely hoping Ms. Summers continues on with Asphodel and her great cast of characters..."

Apostle received five hearts (out of five possible) and an absolute rave! You have to love that! While it doesn't mitigate the ebony recesses of the manuscripts growing on my hard drive, it certainly goes a long way toward illuminating those fantasy worlds I love and hold so dear. You can read the rest of the review here. And who knows? Maybe I will go back to Asphodel someday--at least when I finish the fourth book of the second series. *wink*

But until then, let the horror commence.

New Review for The Gift of Redemption!

Sorry I've been away for a while. I've been very busy with my family and adjusting to the whole grandmother thing. I think I'm finally caught up enough to get back into my normal routine of writing, editing, blogging and so forth and it just so happens that today I have something fabulous to talk about.

Wennonah Lyon, one of the outstanding reviewers at Novelspot, has reviewed The Asphodel Cycle 2: The Gift of Redemption. You may remember that she also reviewed The Reckoning of Asphodel; you can find a blurb and the link in the sidebar to your right.

At any rate, she gave Redemption an 8 out of 10 rating and some really kind words. For example:

The Asphodel Cycle should appeal to fans of Tolkien: high fantasy, noble characters, a world-changing quest. Like Tepper and Lackey, Ms. Summers presents a strong, likable and imperfect heroine with a good cast of supporting characters. If you like High Fantasy combined with romance, you should enjoy the series. I strongly recommend it, and am looking forward to the concluding volumes.

Once again, I am flabbergasted by the names she compares me to. In her review of Reckoning, she compared my work to Hope Mirrlees'. Now Mercedes Lackey? I may faint.

What's really fantastic about this review is that she displays a real understanding of what it is I'm trying to acheive in The Asphodel Cycle and my writing in general. That instinctive sort of insight is really gratifying for an author when it happens. A really good example of what I'm talking about is this:

How can a people atone for an act against the Gods? A capricious, unruly set of Gods; pleasing one results in offending another. In the second book in The Asphodel Cycle, redemption seems less a gift than something to be earned. The earning itself, given the nature of the Gods concerned, is an impossibility.

It's the sort of thing that makes a writer feel wonderful. It lets me know that in some aspect at least, I was successful at imparting the overall theme of the work in such a way that it impacted a reader. Novelspot has such an outstanding reputation for review work too--enough of one that it's very humbling to receive a good review from their well-read staff.

You can find the rest of the review at http://novelspot.net/node/2951.

Have a great day! I'll try to come up with something pithy and amusing to post about tomorrow.

Patience, Young Grasshopper, Patience

Patience is most definitely my weak point. I don't have any.

Okay, maybe that was a mild exaggeration. I don't have much.

I've always expected everything to happen right NOW. When I was an actor, I expected (wanted? dreamed? prayed?) to be cast from the first moment I opened my mouth. After all, how hard was it? Obviously I was perfect for the part or else I wouldn't have auditioned right?

Right??!?

Writing, however, has taught me patience. Although I'm fast and prolific, you can't write a book in a day. Heck--you can't even write a good short story in a day. By the time you get the darn thing written and revised and edited and betaed and revised again and polished and queried and submitted, well...then you have to wait. An audition was a one-time thing, hit or miss, over and done with (unless you really struck a chord) within a few minutes. A book? Well, it's an investment. A huge investment if you want to be particular about it. I have books I've been working on for what now? Six years? (Darkshifters) I'm fortunate in that I have so many books at varying stages of completion, but still.

So let's take stock. Aside from Darkshifters, both books, I've got Deception and then Harlequin, both set in the same world; I've got Terella, with my atheist goddess and her revolt against her own temple; I've got three more Asphodel books--well, four actually if you count the one that moves on to another series entirely; I've got my horror project based on the Bell Witch legend; and then I've got my Requiem project--you know the one (it used to be about vampires and the attempted theft of Mozart's Requiem Mass by the Count who commissioned it)--well, heck: that's three books right there. So yeah: thirteen books at various stages of the process. That's one hell of a commitment. So riddle me this: why am I so darn impatient?

No clue. All I know for certain is that rushing a story is a bad idea. So for now, I'll forge ahead and try not to hit refresh on my inbox every ten minutes.

Patience is a virtue. It's also well-nigh bloody impossible.

It's Out! Apostle of Asphodel Published by Aspen Mountain Press!

Well, it's finally done. The final book of my epic fantasy series The Asphodel Cycle has just been released. Apostle of Asphodel, the follow-up novel to Temptation of Asphodel is now available from Aspen Mountain Press.

Here's hoping that all of you Asphodel fans enjoy the conclusion of the story. After the other Asphodel novels did so well and won so much recognition, especially Temptation as a Preditor and Editor Top Ten Novel of the Year for 2008 and runner up to Christine Feehan's Murder Game in the 2008 Golden Rose award voting, I'm praying that Apostle keeps the standards up.

I'll just go ahead and cheat and let you know that out of the four books in the series, Apostle is my favorite.

So now I have to ask myself--what's next? Is there another story down the road for Tamsen and Brial? There are other options in the Asphodel world for stories--the next generation, perhaps, or maybe a couple of secondary characters. I've played around a bit with some of them. Who can say? But for now, Tamsen and Brial are quiet. They've earned their rest after all; they've been running around for years now. Maybe that peace they're always talking about will come to them at last. Maybe they can actually have some fun for a bit.

Or maybe they're taking it easy on the Elysian Fields, where all of the other great, dead heroes of mythology end up. They could be hanging out with Achilles and Odysseus for all we know...

Guess you'll just have to buy the book to find out.

Thank you to everyone who's shared the journey of The Asphodel Cycle with me. And a huge thank you to my editor, Sandra Hicks, who is also the publisher at Aspen Mountain Press. If I breathed life into these characters, she made them toe the line. A huge shout out to Renee George, who creates such lovely covers for these books and who I devoutly hope does every cover for every single one of my books in the future.

But most of all, thank YOU for reading--and loving--the world of Asphodel. So for now, from the soaring streets of Leselle and the blossoming orchards of Asphodel and the busy markets of Geochon, we bid you all a fond adieu.

For now.

Apostle of Asphodel--Coming Friday!

Well, The Asphodel Cycle is almost completed. *sniff* Tamsen and Brial's story is coming to an end. *sniff* So here's a little bit of a teaser to get you guys ready! You can read an excerpt at both my website and at the Aspen Mountain Press website. But for those of you who follow ye olde blog, here's a special snippet just for you.

The Asphodel Cycle 4: Apostle of Asphodel

Coming July 3, 2009 from Aspen Mountain Press!

***

Brial had tumbled out of the way when the severed head fell to the floor. He ran to join Wilden, who was chopping away at the snake’s midsection. The two mages showered fire down upon the beast, keeping up a steady barrage of magical attack.

Rage boiled up within me once more. I could taste it, fiery and caustic against my tongue, as I watched my loved ones battle against this cursed beast of the underworld. It was only a matter of time before someone was hurt or killed in this fight.

Lamashtu sets her traps well. She knows only too well what the death of any of these would mean to me, or what my own death would mean to the world of the Elves.

Rage consumed me, twisting in my soul like a living thing, until my hands shook with fury.

At that moment, the snake’s huge clawed hand swiped along the floor, upending all four warriors with a massive blow. The remaining heads shrieked triumphantly as the hands reached for the closest prostrate form.

Brial.

My vision dimmed as if someone had dropped a veil over my face. The magic soared gloriously from the pores of my skin to shimmer like an aura of silver in the blackness of the cavern. The magic had never felt like this before.

Always before, it felt different from me, a separate and distinct area where I could sometimes go. Now, it felt like part of me, a living part of me like my skin or my hands but with a mind of its own. I felt its connection to my mind and my soul, feeding from my fury as it flew from every particle of my body. A light hum sounded, building as it drew strength, and the snake turned its heads to me, distracted.

Within seconds, the magic had control of me. Everything was obscured through some strange mist. I did not care.

This was a new Tamsen, neither the half-human Countess nor the half-Elven Queen. I was a scion of the magic, a daughter of the power granted and tended by the Virgin Huntress, who confronted one of the dreaded denizens of the earth with a fury tempered by cold decision. I raised my hands and with a thought lifted everyone back to the other side and safety. Deprived of its prey, the monster bellowed in rage, the four heads thrown back as they howled at the ceiling.

“Tamsen! No!” Brial shouted. He struggled with Anner and Wilden, clawing to get back to the higher plateau of the temple cavern.

My gaze returned to the infuriated monster stomping toward me, its heads snarling and dripping acidic saliva, the huge claws twitching as if preparing to rip me in two. I let it approach while the magic simmered within me, telling me without words that it was almost time.

The creature stood over me. As the mighty hands dove down to hook me, the magic swelled.

The low hum escalated into a deafening roar as the power within me rushed out in a flood. The monster stopped, its heads reared back in surprise.

The magic I bore swarmed from my hand, flying at the monster with a whoosh.

The bolt of energy impaled the great snake at the base of its necks, shearing a hole through scales, flesh, and bone. Blood and venom exploded from the gaping wound, raining down upon the already slick floor with a sick splattering sound.

The monster screamed once; the terrible sound echoed from the vaulted cavern with a reverberating cadence that sent more loose rocks tumbling into the pit far below. It fell backward, one clawed hand tearing desperately at the massive statue. With a grinding sound of ripping rock, the great figure of Lamashtu sheared away from the obsidian walls, following the snake to the floor where it exploded with flying shards of stone. The creature writhed once or twice more, before succumbing to the mortal wound the magic dealt it.

I stood over the body of my fallen enemy, the magic subsiding into the well of power within me. Slowly, the veil faded from my eyes until my vision was once again clear and unobstructed. The corrosive venom was beginning its work on the statue, and I watched as the form and features of the seven-named witch goddess melted into a puddle of indistinguishable sludge on the floor.
I turned then to regard the stunned faces that peered at me from the opposite plateau. In the last seconds before the magic ebbed from me completely, I heard myself say, “So thus shall all the abominations fall when the power of the apostolate is unleashed.”

Michael Jackson and My Youth--Dead on the Same Day

*Celina's note--this is an expanded version of a post I made at Absolute Write this afternoon when Michael Jackson's death was finally confirmed*

I was a little girl when Elvis died. Since I lived in Tennessee, we had wall to wall television coverage of the events in between the first rumors of his death to the end of his funeral cortege. It was the first major celebrity death I'd been exposed to and it impacted me quite strongly--strongly enough that thirty years later I still recall specific details of those three days. My younger aunts drove to Memphis for the funeral and we still have old Polaroid pictures of the funeral procession and the tens of thousands of people who crowded the streets around Graceland--a mass of humanity that continued for weeks as loyal fans filed by Elvis' house.

At the time Elvis died, we were learning Michael Jackson songs in my youth chorus. I was staying at my grandparents' house. It was my father's 45th birthday. My younger brother cried.

Thriller came out when I was in high school and changed our perception of everything that had to do with music. The summer after I graduated high school, my mother and I went to see the Victory tour in Knoxville right before I started college. It was one of the last moments of closeness that she and I would ever share.

The Victory concert wasn't just a show--it was an event. We met another girl my age with her mother and younger brother. The girl (who was white) could do an amazing Michael Jackson imitation. we were standing in line to get into Neyland Stadium when a police officer approached us and informed the girl that blackface was illegal in the state of Tennessee. It was one of the most surreal things I've ever witnessed in my life and the thing that stood out the most to me that night wasn't even that moment.

It was the fact that all of the seats closest to the immense stage, the seats placed on the astroturf at Neyland Stadium, were reserved--and given away for free--to underprivleged and handicapped children. Thousands of kids for miles around sat there looking up at their hero.For make no mistake--Michael Jackson was a hero to many kids at that time.

And so now, despite all of the terrible things we learned or suspected about Michael Jackson, despite all of the bizarre moments and curious life choices he made, I find that I, too, am saddened by his death. It's like the final nail in the coffin of my youth--that poor, tiny boy driven by his parents into the dog eat dog world of show business and deprived from his youngest days to his last days of the privacy the rest of the world enjoys. And now, the ghouls are gathering outside the hospital and the freak show will begin--they're already showing up at the hospital in costumes, for Christ's sake.

And at last, I suppose, my youth is finally gone.

I've never been much of one for nostalgia. I've never been silly enough to proclaim that the 1980s were 'the good old days.' But there is some truth to the idea that the world changed after that decade. It became darker, scarier in a lot of ways. Music became angrier. Politics became murkier. Communism fell but revolution rose in its place. And Michael Jackson was an integral part of that last bright gasp of fun and frivolity that the eighties epitomized for me and many of my peers. How could you be depressed by the moonwalk? Oh sure--we laughed at Michael and his pet monkey and his pressurized oxygen chamber. Why not? He was eccentric, but he was also a pioneer. His music changed the industry and established a precedent that may never be equalled. His legal troubles and accusations of child molestation overshadowed the very real and generous work he did for handicapped and underpriveleged children.

In a lot of ways, we--the children of the eighties--were embarassed by Michael Jackson in recent years. How many of you would admit to owning a Thriller jacket? (I didn't.) Or wearing sparkly socks? (I did.)

A few years ago, I met a fellow that was one of the backup dancers in the Thriller video. We were working together on a show in Cincinnati. I was kind of stunned when he confided this to me--he was middle-aged and pudgy. There was no way he was one of the infamous zombies from Thriller!

Then I went to his apartment and he showed me his photo album. Sure enough, there he was. I could recognize his face under all the zombie makeup--two guys back to the right over Michael's shoulder.

And now, all of us who cringed in embarassed squeamishness whenever another of Michael's escapades was reported in the press over the past few years have been forced to sit up and face our own mortality. Michael Jackson was literally a star for my entire life. He was only seven years older than I. And now he lies dead in an LA hospital and the vultures are swarming around the TV cameras and the assholes are posting messages online about all the little boys in the world being safe--

And for the first time in years, MTV is playing videos again. His videos.

All but one. Michael Jackson never got to be a little boy himself. But he tried throughout his Peter Pan aspirations to retain that spark of childhood and to share it, however presented, with the rest of us.

Third star to the right and straight on to morning, Michael. Rest in peace.

Seasons of Life Turn Another Notch

Wow, I've been swamped lately.

First and foremost, I'm proud to announce that I am now a grandmother. My daughter gave birth to her daughter Keelynn Shea, who weighed in at 7 lbs 7 oz. Keelynn and Meredith are both doing fine.

I never thought about being a grandmother when I was still this young. I mean, after all, I'm only 42. My grandmothers when I was a kid were, well, old. They had gray hair and lots of wrinkles and wore old lady clothes and carried old lady purses and had old lady shoes with practical heels and old lady hairdos, short and curly and poufy on top. I don't look anything like my concept of a grandmother. My hair isn't grey, I wear it in a ponytail, I don't have wrinkles and I wear tank tops and jeans. I definitely don't wear practical heels.

But, still, the inevitable circle of seasons in the human life span has turned another notch for me. Last week, I could still consider myself young. This week, for whatever purposes I can come up with, I've come face to face at last with the concept of middle age. I don't feel any different; as a matter of fact I feel the same way now that I did at 25. But I am different, and that change is internal and emotional more than external and physical.

There are up sides to being a young grandparent. I'll probably (God willing) be there for my grandkids as they mature into young adults. I may even get to hold my great-grandchildren someday. That could be a real kick.

But for now, I'm still stunned by the speed of it all. How quickly life has sped by, so that my children are having children and I still occasionally get carded for cigarettes by particularly unaware convenience store clerks! By the time this year turns another notch from summer into the clean crispness of fall, I'll find myself a grandmother once again as my other daughter gives birth to her daughter. At Christmas, I'll have two infant granddaughters and I'll have the incredible pleasure of seeing them on my father's lap so that four generations of our family are in the same room at the same time. How amazing that will be!

Welcome to the world, Keelynn.