For instance:

Driving home today from a weekend with the family, we started talking about morality and professionalism.

We were talking about Chris Brown, and the fact that because of his conviction in the States, he may not be allowed a visa to get into this country to tour.

S said that his fans in this country are the ones who don’t get to see someone they really like–it’s not hurting Chris Brown.

Theoretically, the idea is that people with convictions are not allowed in this country to keep ‘the people’ safe. By not allowing him in to tour, the government is saying, “We don’t condone what this man has done, and we don’t want that kind of behavior here.”

Fair enough.

But.

Where do we draw the line between putting our morals on people’s private lives, when it’s their professional lives we’re paying for/which effect us?

For instance:

Bill Clinton. He was an amazing president. He did some wonderful things politically. Did he do something stupid personally? Yes. Obviously.

But it didn’t make him less of a good political player.

Here’s my thinking:

When someone does something professionally that effects other people, ie an artist doesn’t show up for the concert they’re putting on, the politician lies and steals money, etc, then there’s a morality issue, because their actions are effecting other people.

But what they do behind closed doors, if it doesn’t effect other people, shouldn’t be considered by other folks under the right/wrong morality banner.

Because I’m damn good at what I do. But if there’s something going on in my personal life, why should that matter to the general public?

It shouldn’t.

Right?

Song: Cuidado con mi Corazon by Ricki Martin and Madonna

Book: Helen of Troy by Margaret George

It’s been a damn slow process, and for the last sixteen weeks I’ve bounced around in the same weight frame, which is utterly frustrating.

But, one noticable fact remains:

My panties are saggy.

Like, because my butt was bigger, they stretched out or whatever. Now, they slide around and bunch under my trousers or jeans.

And it’s not terribly sexy looking like you’ve got a load in your panties because they’re sagging off your bum.

Just sayin’.

One aspect of the weight thing I’m considering is my antidepressants.

I went off them for a while to see if I felt different.

I did.

I had more energy, I was more focused, and I felt alert.

I also cried at every commercial for soap or diapers, and became quite moody. (Poor S).

So, I’m back on them, because crying in the biscuit aisle at the grocery store for no apparent reason and scaring small children isn’t a great thing.

But I’ve noticed that I’m hungrier now that I’m back on them, and they make me kind of…slow. Moderate zombieish.

Hungrier plus lethargic= not good.

I guess as long as my panties continue to be too big for me I’m on the right track though, right?

Book: Argonautica by Apollonius of Rhodes

Song: Escapade by Janet Jackson

The Rules:

Rule 1. Add a picture of the award.

2.Thank your nominator

I want to begin by first thanking fellow blogger Ben at Story Multiverse  for nominating me! It is much appreciated and made me all excited and happy and such, though it seems somewhat chain mail-ish in nature. I’ll still gladly accept.

My blog started out with vague posts and only occasional items of usefulness. Now I try to post regularly, both about my personal journey as a multiple minority, and as someone in the writing profession. I love the interconnectedness and the ability to learn, learn, learn.

2. Choose 10 other deserving bloggers and inform them.

As a part of the award, I am supposed to choose 10 other blogs that I believe are versatile and although there are a billion blogs out there, I have to narrow it down to ten, as well as provide you with the links to these words of excellence. Once you’re nominated, you’re then on the list to do it too.

So here are some of my favourites (though I’ve left out any that haven’t blogged in a while, and if I took the time to name all my favourites I’d never get anything done. Not that I do anyway). :

A Stranger in This Place: Wendy’s blogs are sincere, sometimes funny, but always heartfelt.

Buzz Cuts and Bustiers: a blog about butch femme stuff, along with some great anecdotes and advice.

Yards of Words: Arden writes only as she can–from the heart, sometimes whimsical, sometimes deep, but always interesting and in free-form style.

Bold Strokes Books, Author blog: The authors from this amazing lgbt publishing house blog on a range of topics, from writing to their books to random life-type things.

Lesbian Dad: a wonderful blog dedicated to the act of lesbian parenting.

Susan Writes Precise: A blog with great writing, and often about writing.

Embrace and Evocative: really beautiful poetry.

Rebecca S Buck: A wonderful author and friend, she’s a fascinating read.

Random Ntrygg: Nothing light hearted here. A blog often to do with politics and religion, and bound to make you think.

Random Ruminations on a Mad World: a humorous, versatile blog about trans issues, sex stuff, writing, and ukulele playing.

And one extra:

Silly Wrong but Vivid Right: Heart felt blogging about being a single-ish girl in Manchester.

Rule 3: Share 7 random facts about yourself

1. I’m supposed to be left handed. But when learning to write, my teacher said left-handed people were from the devil. So now I’m ambidextrous.

2. I have an extra tube on one of my kidneys.

3. Both of my Achilles tendons are shorter than they should be, leading to lots of twisted ankles and the need to wear high tops, regardless of fashion.

4. The smell of any kind of sea food makes me gag.

5. I’m allergic to eggs.

6. I love listening to Latin and Greek pop music. In Spanish or Greek.

7. I am a cusp baby–neither/both Cancer/Gemini.

Forgiving oneself and being forgiven in turn.

Being absolved.

I’m reading a book by an author I like, but it’s one of her earliest. And it’s clear how her writing and characters have grown and such.

But this book, with its intense, damaged protagonist reminds me of where I’ve been, who I was.

And what I’ve become.

The epiphany is this: it’s okay to forgive yourself. To find absolution in healing, in learning, in honesty and in strength.To accept and expect absolution when it is offered so the path ahead is clear of emotional debris.

I found my absolution through therapy and hard work. Through lots of talking and soul searching. Through love and pain, heartache and joy.

Yeah, I dislike my weight and various other things about myself sometimes. Who doesn’t?

But I’ve arrived at an amazing place psychologically and emotionally.

I. Like. Me.

Three little words I never thought I’d say. Three powerful little words with so many crystalline layers.

I am genuinely, utterly happy for perhaps the first time in my life. I understand my baggage and have off loaded the majority of it. I have attainable, strong goals. I know what I want to be when I grow up. I know unconditional love and can give it in return.

Life is so, so good.

So. Where does your absolution lie?

Image via Wikipedia

Some random stuff, so bear with me:

I’ve blogged before about degrees of separation, but it’s something that has come home to me again over the last few days:

–One of S’s long ago friends, someone she was close to many years ago but, with time and distance, grew apart from, died from cancer yesterday (She was 46). S was able to follow her final days via Facebook, where the woman’s husband read her friends well wishes to her in her final hours.

–It was S’s mum who called to let S know what had appeared on Facebook.

–I blogged about my bio D recently, and low and behold, he’s on Facebook too. As are the half siblings and aunts and uncles and such.

The point of this: thirty years ago, if you moved to another country, you would most likely have lost touch, completely, with someone unless you made the absolute effort to keep them in your life via handwritten letter. It would be a conscious, deliberate act.

Now, they’re in the ephemeral there: search for someone on the internet, and you can most likely find some way to track them, stalk them, let them simply sit in your cyber-subconscious, etc. People you normally would have cut ties with are easily kept, even just peripherally, in your life.

I haven’t decided if this is a good or bad thing (or just a thing in general). Letting go of old relationships can allow you space to develop new relationships. Being unable to track that crazy ex of yours makes it possible to let go of all that hurt and such. Being unable to track my bio D and see my half siblings…well, I have to think I’d be better off not having found him/them.

But being able to keep in touch with people who brought something to your life, who made you laugh, whom you can still tag once in a while can’t be a bad thing altogether, can it? Although it sucks somewhat when it’s not reciprocal–when the other person has left you to the cyber-subconscious and you’re still attempting a friendship with them.

How many people from my past would I be in touch with if it weren’t for the internet?

None.

Not one.

But, if it weren’t for the internet, I also wouldn’t have ‘met’ some really interesting people and been forced to really analyse my own thoughts and opinions.

I guess that’s what makes unplugging sometimes really good for me. It reminds me of the here and now. The friend I’m meeting for coffee tomorrow, the writing group I’m leading, the panels coming up hard and fast, the world that is bigger than the 17″ screen in front of me.

But there’s no question the internet has provided an amazing sense of community and the ability to learn. About anything and everything you could possibly be curious about.

It’s certainly allowed LGBT fiction to flourish–if you want a book about lesbian space cowboys, you can find it. Thirty years ago it was impossible to find anything other than the Well of Loneliness or Ann Bannon‘s wonderful lesbian pulp fiction.

2 Questions for you: 1. What do you think of the degrees of separation developed because of cyberspace? 2. Do you have a favourite LGBT author?

Song: If you’re gone by Matchbox Twenty

Book: Shadowland by Radclyffe

My story, For All Eternity, is in there, as are a whole sexy host of stories by other talented authors. It’s on sale at Bold Strokes in March. You can pre-order though.

Image via Wikipedia

So.

I haven’t blogged because I’ve been editing toward deadlines, and as such I’ve been forcing myself to stay focused: i.e. NO interwebs for me until I’m at a finishing point with whichever manuscript I’m working on. I’m editing all day, and reading my dissertation books in the tub.

And what a glorious feeling, to get those manuscripts back into their author’s hands.

But this morning I found myself without any idea of what to blog, since I’ve just been editing…

And then I remembered that part of this blog is about writing and publishing.

Silly me.

I guess what strikes me this morning is that there’s a definite right brain/left brain thing to editing and writing.

Writing is all about creativity. Not about grammar and structure, but about story and character. About developing the fantasy and making the reader want to take that ride with you, no matter how bizarre, scary, or gushily romantic.

Editing is about structure. About grammar, and function, and plot consistency and character development. It’s incredibly analytical, forcing you to step away from the story to see what’s missing, what might be better, what’s unexplained.

*Sometimes it’s just about figuring out where to add that extra ten thousand words because it’s too short….*

The thing with writing is that it’s a craft. It takes work. Sure, the author is the one who has to come up with the story, beginning-middle-end, and know how to get from A-Z. But once that’s done, the editor takes the author back through the novel and says:

“I see where you were going with this. But it’s not actually on the page. You skipped plot point B and went straight to plot point C. Although it’s clear to you, it’s not clear to your reader yet. I suggest this…”

And that’s where the author has to dive back in, both creatively and analytically, to further develop those things that haven’t quite worked out yet.

It’s an editor’s job to take the author’s work and make it the best it can be, based on the author’s vision of the book. It’s the author’s job to write the story, and then flesh it out so it can be the best it can be, based on their own vision.

Yes, sometimes the vision needs tweaking because there’s a “I hadn’t thought of that…” moment.

And that’s the craft part of it.

Remember this: Your editor doesn’t hate you. Really. Your editor isn’t out to get you, or trip you up, or ruin your work. Your editor is trying to drag every instance of creative ability from your head, however she has to do that.

If she has to write “No. No no no no. Don’t ever do that again.” in the sidelines, so be it. If she has to say, “This isn’t working because…” so be it.

Trust her. Your name is on the front cover, but her name is on the index page. She wants it to be a great book as much as you do.

Oh look. I did have something to blog about….

Book: Argonautica by Apollonius of Rhodes

Song: Real Late Starter by Nerina Pallat

Image via Wikipedia

It was two months past my 18th birthday.

I was sleeping 23 hours a day. Waking up to pee and fall back asleep.

A doctor’s visit two days before I was due to leave for University life brought with it the diagnosis of Epstein Barr virus.

Now, if you’ve heard of this virus, you know it’s listed as the cause of a whole host of auto-immune diseases, especially mononucleosis and such.

At the time it meant nothing to me.

I battled through the first year of university, excited to be out, to have a girlfriend, (and then not a girlfriend), but throughout I was so tired. And then I couldn’t hold my head off the pillow. There were days I wasnt strong enough to feed myself. I couldn’t stand up long enough to shower by myself.

That’s when the battery of tests began. And continued for the next decade and half. A host of symptoms: swelling along my spine, coughing up blood, horrific muscle spasms, nerve pain, exhaustion, weakness, cognitive issues caused by lesions on my brain. All leading to tests for a litany of diseases:

AIDS. MS. Lupus. Chronic Fatigue Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Polymyocitis. Dermatomyocitis. Cancer.

Leukemia.

And then, just last year, a new specialist who did a quick examination, pressing in a few places that actually made me cry.

And she said, with a definitive, ‘of course’ attitude: Fibromyalgia.

If you’ve ever suffered with something without knowing what it is, you’ll know what a relief it is to get someone who says, with total certainty, what you’ve got.

There’s still no cure. There’s nothing that can be done except manage the pain and the symptoms. It changes nothing about the way I’m living, because I’ve been managing these things for so long.

So, here is a little bit about FM, just because I’m in the mood to share: *all of the below is thanks to fibromyalgia association UK*

What Is Fibromyalgia?

• Fibromyalgia is a chronic condition of widespread pain and profound fatigue. The pain tends to be felt as diffuse aching or burning, often described as head to toe. It may be worse at some times than at others. It may also change location, usually becoming more severe in parts of the body that are used most.
• The fatigue ranges from feeling tired, to the exhaustion of a flu-like illness. It may come and go and people can suddenly feel drained of all energy – as if someone just “pulled the plug”.

• Besides pain and fatigue fibromyalgia symptoms often include:
• unrefreshing sleep – waking up tired and stiff
• headaches – ranging from ordinary types to migraine
• irritable bowel – alternating diarrhoea and constipation, sometimes accompanied by gas in the abdomen or nausea
• cognitive disturbances including lack of concentration, temporary memory impairment and word mix up
• clumsiness and dizziness
• sensitivity to changes in the weather and to noise, bright lights, smoke and other environmental factors
• allergies

As with anything, you learn to live with what you need to live with. I’ve done so, though I can’t hold down a 9-5 job etc. I get frustrated sometimes, yeah, and there’s a chance I’ll have to use a wheelchair when I’m older.

But, life is good. I’m lucky to have the life I do, and I never forget that.

Thanks for reading. Readers make blogging worthwhile, and knowing you’re out there makes me smile more than you know.

An enormous table fits fourteen of us for dinner, and where you end up sitting is anyone’s guess. This year, I got to sit next to S’s dad, P, whom I always love sitting and chatting with. This year, as he’d just had eye surgery that made him extra tired, our conversation was quiet compared to the crazy shouting across the table like most years.

Surrounded by his family, who were laughing and carrying on as only the Oldham’s can do, he suddenly turned to me and said, “tell me more about you, Vic. I know the basics, but tell me more about your childhood. What happened with your dad?”

Now, P meant my bio dad, not my Lesbian Dad. A person I’ve never spoken about, because, well, there isn’t much to say.

The short of it: I saw Bio D until I was about nine. He had remarried, and the wicked red-headed stepmother (WRHSM for short) did not like having the previous woman’s child around. On Christmas day, the year it was their turn to have me, she called to say their plans had changed and they weren’t coming for me after all. “We’ll see you next year.”

I never saw them again, though I did speak to him once more when I was 13 and trying to find my way–some attempt to find solace where there really was none.

So that’s what I told P. When he asked if I have any desire to get hold of bio D, I explained that he was not a nice guy, my bio D. They locked me in closets so WRHSM’s parents wouldn’t know he’d been married before, etc.

But P, surrounded by his loving, wonderful children, couldn’t grasp that not only did I not want to make contact, my bio D didn’t want contact with me. My mom is my last biological relative on the planet, and P thinks I should contact the bio D to continue to have bio links on the planet, especially as I have two half brothers and a half-sister off him. (P is really into family trees and such, something he’s passed on to me, though my research tends to stay with the maternal side of the family, obviously).

And the truth is, I have considered it at various milestones throughout the years. High school graduation, graduating with my BA, and my MA. When I moved to England. And now that I’m going for my PhD, P thinks it’s worth contacting him, if only to say, “see, I didn’t need you after all. Look what I’ve become.”

But the thing is, I don’t need that validation from the sperm donor. I search for that validation from my LD, not the bio D. Because the bio D is just that–a bunch of genetics passed down, with no parental skills attached.

Granted, I do wonder if he ever ponders what happened to his first-born. (P says there’s no question he thinks about me. But I think that might be P being the amazing dad he is).

It’s been 26 years since I last saw bio D. My middle name is Anne, and he named his second daughter Anne. It weirds me out a bit.

I’m reasonably certain at this time in my life that I’m not going to search him out. I’m just as easy to find on the internet if someone wants to find me. Why search out someone who doesn’t want to search you out too?

But it was an interesting conversation, and one that’s certainly taken me to ponderific places.

Song: Real Late Starter by Nerina Pallett

Book: Worth the Risk by Karis Walsh

A human being’s self-esteem is shaped by internal and external forces, both of which seem to conspire to drive us around the bend and make us feel eternally, infernally, insignificant.

All my life, I was never enough.

Never skinny enough, never pretty enough, never smart enough, never funny enough. Never popular, never really geeky. Always in the middle, in flux, in limbo.

That’s how I felt, at least. Well into adulthood, I always worried about what people thought of me. Do they think I’m smart? Or stupid? Do I come across as trying too hard? Or as snobby?

Am. I. Fat?

Size has always been an issue for me. Growing up in Southern California definitely gives you ideas of what you should and shouldn’t look like, and being a wide-hipped, acne-ridden teenager with split ends and bad teeth wasn’t it.

That’s what I saw, anyway. The truth was that I was anorexically thin, with bones showing where they certainly shouldnt show. I went on to model in my late teens and early twenties, and although I didn’t have the patience or shallowness to stick with it, I still wasn’t convinced I was even remotely attractive. I had no confidence whatsoever.

By the time I was twenty I had a fully fledged auto-immune disease, and suddenly I was even less of a person, because there were days I couldn’t even feed myself. I was fat and disabled and the doctor told me there was no cure–that I would live that way for the rest of my life.

A few years ago I hit rock bottom with my self-esteem. I would never, ever, be good enough. At anything. I crashed into a cesspool of self-denial, self-immolation and eventually, utter self-destruction.

The climb out of that morass of destruction was slow and at times truly awful. It took nearly two years of therapy to move beyond all that horrific stuff clouding up my soul.

Today, this is where I am:

Some days I think people on the street are looking at me wondering who let the little window-licker out on her own. (I know that’s not PC. Sorry. But it is what I think)

But more days than that, I allow myself to think there might be something attractive people notice about me. I am still overweight, but I’m working at it, and I’ve lost a substantial amount through hard work and determination.

My disease gets me down less and less as I accept it as simply a part of me, like a finger or toe, albeit an extra.

I know I’m intelligent.

I’m learning to be more comfortable around people, and less worried about what they think of me, because it’s about relationships developed by communication, not by perception.

I still avoid the camera as much as possible, and most of the pics you’ll see here are either old ones, or don’t include me. One day, that will change.

I am happy in my own company, much as I was as a child. I don’t mind sitting in coffee houses or movie theaters alone.

I’ve come to understand that self-esteem can be built up just as easily as it can be torn down, but we have to have an inner understanding of our self-esteem before we can be strong enough to build it to where it should be.

And that rocks.

How about you? Do you have or have you dealt with self-esteem issues? How are you overcoming them?

Book: Initiation by Desire by MJ Williams (Lezzer sex, from first page to last. Seriously)

Song: Run Rabbit Run by The Hoosiers