Conference Etiquette

Posted on by February 25, 2020

The woman with the severe skirt settles down across the aisle from me. “I’ve won twenty short story awards.” Her voice is a melody of Southern culture, the “I” and “r’s” softened just enough to reveal her region, but the grammar word perfect. She smiles at me.

“Hi, I’m Jessie.”  I exaggerate my long Midwestern “I” and type into the computer straddling my lap..

“Oh. I’m Camille. You said you are… Jerry?” She squints at my name badge, which has been flipped around backwards since I got on the conference center elevator and bent over to tie some kid’s shoe.

“Lisa actually. Lisa Kudrow.”

The woman directly behind me develops a coughing fit.

“Oh hello, Lisa. I thought you said… Jerry.”  She squints at the badge again. Up front, the speaker has laid out a computer beside the box of donuts she’s offering the room, but she shows no sign of beginning her presentation.

“That’s my middle name.” I stare harder at my screen and type.

The woman behind me makes choking noises, and Camille turns to her. “Do you need some water?” she asks.

“No,” the woman says. “I’m fine.”

Camille faces the front again. “Well, as I was saying, I’ve won twenty short story awards.”

“I won some business cards one time.”

The choking woman had started to subside, but now she breaks out into a fresh fit of snorting coughs. Camille turns to her, no doubt to ask again if she needs water, when the back door bursts open to admit a small boy and his heavily laden mother. “Come on Grant,” says the mother. “Let’s sit in the back.”

Camille says, “I thought children weren’t allowed.”

“Sorry, my sitter cancelled.” The mother thumps down her conference bag, another bag brimming with toys, and an overstuffed purse. “He won’t be any trouble once he settles in.”

As if in direct response, the little boy zooms forward. “Hey, Shoe Lady!” he greets me.

“Hey, Shoe Dude!” We high five.

“Whatcha doing?” He glues himself to my elbow and stares at my screen.

“Typing.”

“Is that a game?”

“Sort of.”

“Grant, sweetie,” his mother calls, “Come sit with me.”

“No! I want to sit with Shoe Lady.” He’s nudging the laptop out of his way to climb up in its place.

Camille says, “Really, a conference like this…”

I speak loudly to drown out the rest of her sentence. “I think my son forgot his trucks in my bag this morning, let’s check.” I push the laptop onto another chair and put Grant down so I can get to my conference bag.

“Grant, honey?”

“TWUCKS!” Grant produces three of Sam’s beloved Hot Wheels in two little fists.

“You want to drive them here in the aisle?” I get down and demonstrate my own voice-motor technique.  Camille sniffs. I wave to Grant’s Mom as I stand. “I’ll scoot down so you can come sit by him.”

With an eye to Camille, Grant’s Mom collects her bags and walks forward. As she settles in beside me, the speaker taps the microphone and stands up.

Camille says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

The woman behind me leans forward and lays a hand on Grant’s mother’s shoulder. “Don’t you recognize her? That’s Jennifer Aniston.”

 

Conferences

Posted on by February 25, 2020

I just came back from a writer’s conference. So if I’m a regular visitor to your blog and you’ve missed me this weekend, it’s because I’ve been in Nashville. If you ever get the chance to go to Killer Nashville, it’s worth every penny. I met with editors, agents, fellow writers, law enforcement officials, and mystery fans. Peter Straub was just one of  three guest speakers. The cost is reasonable, and it’s a midsized conference, so you will NOT get lost in the crowd.

That said, I’m exhausted, and not just physically. I just tried to sleep for an hour and got out of bed to type, because all of the voices and emotions of the weekend are roiling over me. I operate on the ‘hermit’ model of writing, so getting out to the big city like this is a bit like the moment when Dorothy walks out of her house in Oz and holy shit it’s all in COLOR. I have never understood why Judy Garland didn’t just lie down flat on the stage and stare at the ceiling. (Don’t answer that. I know perfectly well that they did all that in the editing room, and also, I want to note that when I was a kid, our first TV was this old black and white thing. So I saw the movie all in black and white. My Mom watched it every year, and she had this antique chamber pot upstairs because there was no toilet and when she was pregnant with my sister she didn’t always have enough time to get downstairs to the potty. Anyway, I was sitting on that thing getting ready to go pee the first year we had the color TV turned on, and when things went from B&W to vibrant color, I missed the pot because I forgot to take off the porcelain lid. I was THAT blown away.)

Anyway, I got excellent critique on two novels I’ve got going right now, and a publisher willing to look at both. (No, that does NOT mean that they have been accepted. It means they’ve been solicited. Which is fucking huge.)

I did pick up one thing that’s annoying me tonight, and so I’ll pass it along to you, my readers. I don’t think of myself as small-time. I consider myself a professional writer. SO when I realize I’m making an amateur mistake in something I consider polished, then I get bugged. In the publishing world, there are buzzwords, things you don’t put in your novel because they are out of favor with the publishing elite. I am aware of this .The list changes. It typically grows. Exclamation points, right now, are out of favor. (I happen to disagree with this one in particular- I think it’s just stupid to prejudice against a bit of punctuation which is perfectly appropriate to add emphasis to a statement, but I digress.) “He said” and “She said” go in and out. Some years, they are fine, others they are oh-so-wrong. This year, it seems to depend on who you talk to.

Anyway, this editor pointed out that I overuse a particular buzzword. The word ‘just’. And I went, “Holy shit she’s right, and that’s based on a two page sample.” So on the way home, I was editing my most polished novel (well, except for Divorce) which is 258 pages long.

And

I

Deleted

263

instances of the word ‘just’.

263.

That’s like massive overuse of a word, even if it’s not a buzzword. I left in I think five. (There were 268 total.)  And I’m so vexed that I didn’t SEE that, didn’t feel it when I was reading out loud.  I used that word more than an average of once per page. And I didn’t even fucking see it. Fucking annoys me. And I can’t sleep, because I overused a word. Which is outrageously dumb and not anything to stress out about at ALL, and yet here I am, flipping my wig when all my body wants is for me to curl up in a ball and conk out.

Here. I’ll overuse my favorite word to make myself feel better. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

fuck

Rip Tide

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Quinn Burgess dove down and opened his eyes behind his mask. The pretty little fish all darted away, and he swam after them until he had to surface for air. He kicked down to stand up, but his feet didn’t reach the bottom. “Swam out too far there!” he said to no one. He turned to orient himself to the shore and jerked his head in surprise when he saw how far away it had gotten. He started swimming in, scooping his hands in a strong breast stroke.

The swimming felt hard, much harder than it had felt just a few minutes ago chasing the fish. After a minute, he looked up to check his progress and realized he was further out than when he started for shore. Suddenly, going down to the beach alone before breakfast felt like the worst idea he’d ever had in his life.

He shifted to treading water. The ocean was extremely still. The playful waves he had been enjoying seemed to have vanished. “I always thought the rip tide was rough,” he accused.

“Not always,” said a voice.

Quinn kicked around and saw a woman swimming behind him. “The rip tide can be very gentle.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“I live over there.” The woman lifted an arm out of the water to point in the direction of the bluffs. “I saw you struggling and thought you might need a hand. Unfortunately, I don’t have any life preservers. Come on. You have to swim sideways to the current. If you swim against it, you’ll exhaust yourself and drown.”

She led and Quinn followed, an ebb and flow dance as the tide hauled them out to the deep sea. The water, which had been summer warm, felt terribly cold so far out, and Quinn started to worry about hypothermia. “Here, you’re not doing so well,” she said. “Hold on to me.”

“I’ll sink you!”

“No, don’t worry. I’m a strong swimmer.” Quinn wrapped his arms around the woman’s neck, making promises to himself to let go and drown rather than take her down with him. But she seemed almost undisturbed by the ocean’s pull. “I see a boat over there; we’re going to head for it. Keep your head above water!” With a start, Quinn pulled up.  He thought they were free of the rip tide now, the water didn’t feel so forced. But he didn’t think he could have swum even if there had been no current at all. He held on to the woman’s neck and hoped her strength would be enough for both of them.

“Are you some kind of mermaid?”

She laughed, and he realized he’d spoken aloud. “No. I’m just a very good swimmer.”

The motorboat grew closer, and when the woman hailed it, it powered over to them.  It was a little speedboat. A speck of salvation in a vast grave. Suddenly, warm hands hoisted Quinn up by the shoulders and someone wrapped a blanket around him. “You have to help her!” he insisted.

“Nah,” said one of the fishermen. “That’s Maryann. She can take care of herself.”

Quinn looked back towards the ladder he had just been hauled up and saw a gray tail flip up in the distance. He tried to stand but crashed forward into the deck instead.

“Easy there. You need to keep moving, but not like that.” Someone helped him up onto a padded bench.

Around chattering teeth, Quinn argued, “But she’s a … she’s a…”

“Dolphin,” said one of the fishermen firmly. Quinn blinked at him. “What’s she d-d-doing here?” he asked. The boat rounded and headed in for shore, and Cliff heard another of the men on a cell phone talking to emergency services.

The one who had known Maryann’s name and called her a dolphin said, “Couple of years ago she washed up at the science center all busted up like she’d run afoul of a boat. Her dorsal fin was a mess. They didn’t think they could keep her alive, much less rehab her. But they worked on her, and the staff swore sometimes they saw a woman swimming around in her tank. By and by, she got better, and then one day, she just left. Now, she hangs out and watches for swimmers caught in the rip. She’s trying to pay back a debt.”

“Alright, and she’s a…”

“She’s a dolphin. If she was anything else, do you think they’d let her swim free?”

 

Sunset on the Beach

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“Here comes the cow,” muttered Lee.

“What?” Jay moved his feet around in the sand. They were wading in thigh-high water  on a sandbar a good distance from shore. The setting sun reflected orange, promising a vivid sunset.

“She’s been watching us since we got out here.” Lee tugged on Jay’s arm.

“Let her look.”  Jay nudged a sandy lump, but it was too curved, and he sent his toes exploring in another direction.

“I just want to enjoy this vacation.” Lee pulled harder. “I’m really not in the mood for a confrontation.”

“So ease up. Enjoy the vacation.” Jay removed Lee’s hand from his arm and instead intertwined their fingers. “There.”

But he did look towards shore. The woman was swimming out now, leaving two children and a man playing in the surf. Lee sighed, but he stopped yanking Jay away. The woman approached at a leisurely dog paddle, moving inexorably in their direction.

Finally, she reached the bar and stood up.  The water came up to her hips, and she spoke in a nasal twang. “Are you from around here?”

Jay said, “Nope.”

“Dang. Tourists, too.”

“Yup.”

“Here’s the thing.” The woman squared her shoulders and braced her hands on her hips. “I’ve been out here with my family all this afternoon. I guess you can see them back there.” She pointed and waited while Jay and Lee observed the man towing both children around in an oversized alligator raft.

Jay said, “Cute kids.”

“Thanks. Anyway…”

“We left ours at home with Grandma.” Jay felt something flat and circular under his foot.

“That so?” The woman cocked her head to one side. Neither man spoke. Jay went on probing the shape with his foot. “Listen,” she went on, “We’ve been back and forth across this sandbar a couple of times now. And yesterday, a guy said there’s a sand dollar bed somewhere along in here, but I’m danged if we can find it. I was hoping you’d be locals and know where to look. My little girl’s just dying to see a live one.”

Lee said, “Nope, sorry. We’re from Georgia.”

The three of them looked at each other for a little while. And then Jay said, “But the tide’s been headed out all afternoon. And I think we’re on the far edge of the bar right now. So it could be coincidence…” He let go of Lee’s hand and balanced on one expert foot while he bent up the other knee and snatched a disc from between his toes, “or it could be that the bed’s only accessible at low tide.” He held his find out to the woman.

She opened her mouth to say something, then plucked up the sand dollar without closing it again. She turned it over in her hand. “That’s the real item.” She handed it back to Jay, upside down. “Look at those little feelers.”

“They’re soft,” he told her. He passed the sand dollar to Lee. The woman stood watching them again, not talking.

Taking the sand dollar, Lee said, “If you’ve got something to say, I wish you’d come out with it.”

“Well,” she hesitated another moment and finally asked, “Are we going to bug you if we all come out here? I mean,  you got off without your kids and all, and we’re kind of like having the circus over to tea if you know what I mean. But I know my kids would …”

Lee’s sudden barked laugh drew her silence and a raised eyebrow.

“Bring them,” said Jay. “We’re under orders to bring some home, ourselves. I was starting to think we’d be buying them in the shell shop. I’ll see if there are any more good ones or if that was a loner.” Even as he spoke, his toes rubbed up against another flat shell. He nudged a big toe underneath and smiled when the sand dollar flipped up.

The woman shouted, “Come on out!” and then joined Jay’s hunt. She flopped down on her stomach and then dove under. She rose scrubbing salt water from her eyes with one hand and holding up a sand dollar in the other. By the time the husband arrived with the alligator float and its occupants, Jay, Lee, and the woman had dredged up half a dozen more sand dollars between the three of them.

“Look at that!” The little girl took one out of Lee’s hands. She cradled it in her palm. After nearly a minute, she handed it back. “Eewww ! It peed on me.”

All of their hands were stained yellow by the time they had finished excavating the bed and then putting its occupants back when they were through looking. The alligator float was adorned with four or five more that weren’t alive and were therefore viable take-home specimens.

The sun hung low over the water, orange embers making them all into silhouettes even to each other stretched out along the bar. “Oh look at how late it is!” The woman said. “We’ve got to get in. The park closes at sundown.”

“I didn’t know it stayed light this late,” said her husband.

“Neither did I,” said Jay. “Come on. Get your kids back up and we’ll help you tow the float.

The four adults each grabbed a handle, and they left the sandbar together, walking until they had to swim, towing the children safely to shore.

 

1812 festival overture

Posted on by February 25, 2020

It starts in low with the strings, sorrowful and full of remembrance. Let us not forget those dead who went before, those who fell, those who stood until they could not stand, those who never let fail. Here is their pavane. Hope and trepidation hold hands and carry out their somber bodies.
Listen to the clarinet standing alone. Listen to the battle story. The nervous thrumming strings are the racing hearts of memory. Now the brass! The first clashes build to tempestuous thunder and then collapse. But the winds rally! The theme! It is time for the theme! But as strongly as it begins, it fades away, and the orchestra waits, poised.

It runs now! It leaps from hillock to hummock, climbing the hill, tumbling down the other side and struggling back again. Build with the music, climb and chase that singular trumpet. It rises above the mad to-and-fro to call out, “Here! The standard is here!” Then it is swept under the tide, the onslaught of strings, only to rise again, with the French horns to pull it through. Will the theme come again? Is it time? See, only pockets of fighting remain.

Now the skirmish gives way and the dead rise from under their flags and join hands. They walk now in the pastoral gardens with the strings and flutes. Their lives elide one into the other until, swaying before us, they dance. Dead and dancing in this former battlefield. Sinking into their ephemeral legs, they give color once more to those last battle lit moments. The war arises again, but closer now, just before us. Crouching low, and everywhere rebuffed from escape. Running again. Once more cut off. Once more the dead. Now they yield up their forms and their dance dissipates.

And in their wake, remember. Remember the trumpet that held aloft the standard. Remember the building, the crash, the cannons. La Marseillaise! La Marseillaise! Mercy, La Marseillaise.

It’s all falling now, sliding block from pillar, then sinking, and sinking again, and lying flat against the earth to creep forward violins and cellos in hand. Hear the cymbals! Look at them march together in the cacophony of bells. They are running down the hill, running, and the standard is carried now by many, reverberating even as it fades.

Do you hear it in the distance? The cavalry? They ride on light feet that grow heavier as they wade into the parade. The processional! The dead beckon once more, they beg us to dance with them, a final explosion to put paid every fallen one. Let the music carry the pennant! Sing them! Do you hear them singing? The cannons, the cannons bellow victory, and at last, the theme. Finally the theme comes back. Strong this time, certain, sweeping across everything with a trumpet’s speed. And it is done; it is won. Won and done, and the cannons blast triumph while the bells clang release. The brass and the strings, the drums and the winds, they play together the final certainty.

And that, your honor, is how the officer clocked me at 103 in a seventy mile per hour zone.
_________________________________________
Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. It isn’t even a particularly accurate recounting of what the piece was intended to represent. I first heard the 1812 overture when I was playing flute, which was somehow supposed to substitute for our nonexistent string section in 8th grade honor band under a director who went by Strider. (Awesome guy; I was not an awesome flute player, and I think I only got in because I had the perfect audition piece.)  Anyway, the song has stuck with me as one of my favorites, and it was playing on the radio after I dropped the kids off for school. Since I had no passengers, I turned the radio to eardrum blasting volume and hummed along badly. I did not get a ticket, didn’t even get pulled over. Also, it was only eighty mph. And only during the cannon-y bits.

 

Auditions

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“She’s got potential.” Mary Dailey’s pen hovered over a score sheet. She was thinking of herself more than the young flautist who had just left the room. She remembered being fifteen with coltish nerves.

“You’ve said that about every one of them.” Her colleague and fellow judge Janet Green tapped a pencil on the table, and the third judge, Mitch Engel shook his head.

The auditions proceeded, and Mary’s nerves clamped around her wrist so she could barely fill out the forms.  Janet said, “It’s your first year. It gets better after  you’ve done it awhile.” Still, when it was over, Janet, and Mitch made most of the selections with minimal input from Mary. But they were left with two flautists’ sheets and one remaining slot. So Janet said, “You cast the deciding vote”.

Mary stared at her notes about the young women, her mind paralyzed.

“Let me make it easier.” Janet laid out her own judging sheets and Mitch’s alongside Mary’s. “Which of them is best?”

“It’s so hard to decide.”’ Mary studied the pages for a little while longer. Finally, when her stomach muscles were so taut she felt like vomiting, she turned on her stone heart and pointed to the page on her left. “Lana, then,” she said. “She has more technical mastery than Bridget.”

Now that the choice was made, Mary felt a flush of discomfort creeping up her cheeks.  The other judges had thirty years of experience between them to back up their final decision. She had a teaching certificate and a music degree. She picked up her purse and scurried out of the room, eager to be gone before Mitch put up the sheets.  Mary had never failed at an audition. In the end, she always made it. Yet she didn’t want to meet her younger self in the hall. She didn’t want to look backwards and see disappointment instead of relief.

_______________________________________________________

I placed third last week in Trifxctra with the last line from Divorce: A Love Story. Third is a fabulous place to be if you are a Trifectan, so I’m a happy little camper. It’s so validating when other writers agree that the last line of a published piece works. This week, I hope you’ll show a little heart and come play with us!

Sam Part IV

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Before you begin,  here’s the Sam series, in order, with an important note about ballet in there:

Sam Part I,

Sam Part II,

Beauty and the Beast

Sam Part III

Sam Part IV (this one)

Fix You

 

So, the last time we saw Sam, he had just jumped out of my car, and the family was headed for Wit’s End Lane really fast. As an emergency measure, the psychiatrist prescribed a mood stabilizer, Risperdal, and we hoped for the best.

The results were sudden and stunning.

For the first time in a year, we saw our son. The funny little guy under all that anger, the creative thinker hidden under all the frustration. He still had meltdowns (still has them), but they lasted a few minutes instead of a few hours, and he understood the gravity of his actions. For two weeks solid, he apologized every day for jumping out of the car. (Note: I accepted every one, but I sure didn’t discourage the thinking-through that he was doing.)

We had to have blood testing, which determined that Sam can keep taking this drug, which is working miracles for him. This isn’t a long term solution. When he’s a little older, we’ll have to find a different medication that doesn’t have such alarming side effects over the course of numerous years of taking it. But with any luck, it will get us through a school year. And Sam so needs a good year.

But seriously, if that was all, I’d have posted a Facebook update. I’m writing because of the ballet. Yesterday, I told you about Caroline’s stint as an extra in Giselle, and now I’ll pick up where I left off. We got an e-mail this past week asking kids to come audition for a performance to be done on the local military base. Our ballet is hurting for funds, and I have hopes that maybe the air force commissioned a piece or something.

Anyway, there was one part for a kid ages five to eight. So I sent both children and Scott over to try out. I told Caroline point blank that she should focus on the audition process. They go for equality in this company, and she just got to be in Giselle. I had a strong feeling they were going to choose someone who hadn’t gotten a turn lately.

I told Sam Miss Kyana wanted him to come dance. He was good with that. If I told him Miss Kyana was hoping he’d try out skydiving, I’d have to go pick him up at the airport.

Scott took them in, and Sam commenced to flirting with his favorite teacher. Kiss-blowing, eyelash batting, the works. Everything short of the marriage proposal. (He reserves those for me. Sigh.) There were fourteen kids, and when they went into the studio, the new director came out and explained to the parents that he was really excited so many children had turned out. There was only going to be one part in this particular ballet, but he really hoped everyone would come back for Nutcracker tryouts in September. He made it clear that he loved all of their kids and thought them all splendid dancers.

After the first round, seven kids got sent back out. Caroline was among that set. In fact, all the  seven and eight year olds got sent back. The seven who remained were all six and under. Clearly, they wanted a younger child, since there’s no question that the older students have more technical mastery than the younger ones. After another round, four more kids came back to their parents. That left three children. Finally, Sam and the last two little girls came out, and it was decision time.

I should note that Caroline, as soon as she didn’t get the part, immediately started rooting for her brother. She’s my little sunshine with an awesome spirit. While waiting, the three remaining parents were joking with each other and the kids were just bored. Nobody sat on tenterhooks. And then Mr. Darren came back out. He said, “This was a difficult decision, because all three of you are really good dancers.”

And then he picked Sam. I’m tearing up just typing that.

The kid who jumped out of my car three months ago.

Just got cast in a ballet.

Because he didn’t flinch in the part where another dancer has to put a hand over his face.

Because he performed a lift without wiggling.

Another of the little ones has been cast as Sam’s understudy. (My kid has an understudy, ohmygod.)

On October 11 and 12 2012, Sam will be performing the role of the son of an MIA soldier, once at a local church, and once at the military base.

And the church performance will be live streamed. I’ll post the link on Twitter for anybody who wants to see (or to search the audience for the sobbing mother I know I’ll morph into, having heard the plot.)

And

Oh

My

God

We are so proud of our little guy right now.

This isn’t the little girl from the tryouts. It’s a girl who was in fairytale ballet camp with him this summer

Giselle

Posted on by February 25, 2020

The ballet down here really tries to use kids in its productions. It actively seeks ways to incorporate young people into its works. This summer, Caroline got to be in the cast of Giselle. There is a summer program for older kids (older than Caroline) and at the end of their run, they put on a show. But the ballet draws from its younger set, and Caroline was chosen to participate. She has been in the Nutcracker. She knows how to handle herself onstage, and she has an idea of what’s expected of her during ballet.

She came home from the dress rehearsal wailing, “I can’t be in the show if I don’t have eyeliner.”

So we stopped and bought eyeliner on the way home.

And I got ready to Google-tube the hell out of that subject, because baby, I don’t wear make-up. I’m allergic to it. I can wear greasepaint, but not cosmetics. I have never met one that doesn’t break me out in massive hives. Lipstick’s about all I can sport. And I understand how to apply blush and eye shadow, and in a real pinch, mascara. But eyeliner is formally out of my depth.

And because I am me, I didn’t think to just ask for help. Mercifully, I was bemoaning my fate to my friend Linda, and she said, “What time do you need me at your house?” Not only did she apply eyeliner. She also gave Caroline base, mascara, blush that didn’t evaporate in ten seconds, and a coat of lipstick that the audience could see. And she did it in under half an hour without once snarling “SIT STILL!” as I am prone to do when I have to paint my daughter colors.

The ballet was intense, and they had those 8-10 year old kids onstage for the entire first act.

Caroline got so much out of the experience, and I’m so proud of her for taking the initiative. I’m not a backstage mama. (Though I volunteer for The Nutcracker pretty much wherever they need me.) And neither are the other parents here. We’re pretty laid back about this, so when a kid is really into ballet, it’s because the kid wants it, not because some mother is living out her unfulfilled ballerina-princess dreams. (I took ballet for one year? Two at most? I loved performing, hated actually learning, and had no interest in continuing. My children’s continued and intensified fascination with it absolutely does not come from me.)  We all love to watch the productions, but this is just a kickass extracurricular, and it’s driven by the people who are doing it.

I have a little more to say on the topic, but I’ll save that for its own rather lengthy post tomorrow.

Sunday Sins: Anna Karenina

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Sundays have been far too pious in this town of late. That means, yes ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for another edition of SUNDAY SIN. And what better book to save from itself than that bursting-with-lust tome Anna Karenina. None, methinks. With sexuality, women’s roles, and repression lying in the heart of this novel, its characters simply beg for some sexual healing from Eden Fantasys. Oh yes. This is sponsored content. But I think you know my integrity (which is utterly different from ‘purity’) is sound.

First, a brief plot rundown omitting many salient points for those of you who can’t handle Tolstoy. I’m not going to muck around in Russian names. Everybody’s got a nickname, and I’ll be using them. This guy, Stiva, is boffing the (former) nanny. His sister Anna comes along and reconciles him with his wife, Dolly. (He goes off and boffs a ballerina instead. Dolly copes.) Anna accidentally falls in love with a guy named Vronsky.
Anna becomes pregnant. She wants a divorce. Anna has a baby, gets puerperal fever, and leaves with Vronsky. She becomes an object of ridicule. Vronsky still has a life. Sexism sucks. Anna, probably doped up on sedatives, goes to meet Vronsky at a train station and instead throws herself under the locomotive.I’m omitting the other main character (Levin), by the way, but every other character needs a cure more than him. So he and his gal get off (see what I did there) without Jester Analysis ™.

Stiva the serial philanderer goes from affair to affair without showing any real respect for his wife Dolly. You know what? That guy needs a serious flogging. Maybe if someone had paddled him as a child, he wouldn’t be so determined to wander from his own bed. (And if that doesn’t work, let’s hope he’s at least using a rubber away from home.)

Dolly is Stiva’s betrayed wife. In spite of Anna’s intervention, Dolly never gets the love and respect she deserves. So it’s pretty clear in this book that she’s going to be working out on her own. That’s OK. She can get plenty of exercise with her own pair of smartballs. But a discrete massager wouldn’t hurt either. Let’s face it, the girl’s going hungry.

Vronsky the loverman. He initially courts Dolly’s sister Kitty but drops her like a hot coal when Anna comes into the picture. He thinks he’s such a hot number. He probably carries around a pocket pussy. But somewhere around the middle, he realizes he’s just a slave to love.

Karenin is Anna’s husband. The man who stands between his wife and her lover. He’s hidebound by tradition. He needs to break out of his repressed mold. A lot of his problems stem from the fact the he’s not getting any. He could use some of those delicate items Vronsky is getting plenty of. In their absence, he needs a good blow. And he probably wouldn’t mind if his girl was a little on the flexible side. It would soften him up to take a new attitude about Anna and Vronsky.

Anna Karenina. Ah Anna. Anna can’t control her own fate. She’s not allowed to. She leaves her unhappy marriage for an unhappy affair with a studmuffin who treats her well in spite of his bad boy ways. But she’s not happy. To help her relax so she doesn’t need those sedatives, she needs an in-home spa treatment. She should lean back with an aromatic candle and let go of all her tension. If she can just achieve a state of zen, that locomotive will seem so much less appealing at the end.

I hope you have enjoyed today’s edition of Sunday Sin, sponsored by Eden Fantasys. Join me next time (and feel free to suggest titles in the comments) to offer more sexual healing to literary characters. In the long run (and in conclusion), I think Mr. Tolstoy would have benefitted enormously if he had been given a subscription to Eden Fantasys magazine Sexis…

Sexis - a provocative sex magazine at EdenFantasys.com

Trifextra: Divorce: A Love Story, Spoilers

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Jamie made the first merge of her nine-hour drive and pushed the car faster as she started singing along, understanding exactly which way to go, the music of her childhood all around her.

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Dear Trifecta, thank you for letting me abuse your meme to advertise my novel again. Dear readers, that’s my novel’s last line, but if you think it’s a spoiler, you’re dead wrong.  Take a chance on an e-book, and I think I might just convert you to electronic tomes.