Never Look Back - #Regret #Infidelity #Gratitude

Image by Kacper Lawiński from Pixabay

 

I know that it will sound implausible, possibly even arrogant, but when I consider my more than six decades of life, I find that I really don't regret anything.

Have I never done anything I was sorry for later? Of course I have. I've hurt people's feelings. I have occasionally twisted the truth. I've been sexually unfaithful (though I didn't lie about it afterward). I have, perhaps, failed to give friends or lovers what they really needed. I feel guilty about some of these errors. But I don't feel regret.

As I understand the term, to regret something means that you wish that it hadn't happened—that you could take back your actions or decisions and start over again. The implication of regret is that you wish things had turned out differently. I don't feel that way. I'm amazingly happy with the way my life has played itself out so far. I can imagine different paths I might have taken, but I'm not at all sure that these alternative lives would have been more rewarding or satisfying. Most of my dreams have come true, in one way or another. Meanwhile, my life has been filled with delicious surprises, bonuses I never expected.

The infidelity to which I refer above is as good an example as any. When I was in grad school, I was involved in a committed relationship with a fine young man whom I loved very much. I'll call him A. Our sex life was fabulous, too—I learned a great deal from A about both love and lust. Nevertheless, when A was away for a few days on business, I had a one night stand with our housemate (whom I'll call B). I blamed it on loneliness, hormones, and the fact that B had been flirting with me for weeks, but I suppose that these are all excuses. I chose to have sex with B; there's no two ways about it.

I confessed my indiscretion to A when he returned. He told me he forgave me, but ultimately my action destroyed our relationship. It was very painful for everyone concerned (except B, who acted like a real dork).

I'm sorry to have caused A sorrow. However, I don't regret the incident, because it led, indirectly, to my relationship with the man I call my master (here denoted as C). I knew C at the time, but I would never have connected emotionally and sexually with him if I had still been coupled with A. I would never have experienced the epiphanies of which I've written in other blog posts. And it's very likely I would never have started writing and publishing erotica.

Looked at in this light, if I hadn't cheated on my boyfriend, Lisabet Sarai wouldn't exist. So how can I regret that action, as sordid and embarrassing as it seems now?

The one serious area where I might harbor regrets is in regard to my relationship with C. Although we were close, I really didn't understand what he wanted and needed. I believed, incorrectly, that he didn't care about me the way I did about him. I do sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if we had stayed together—if he had asked me to marry him, for instance. Instead, he allowed me to drift away into the arms of my future husband (D), too shy and insecure to assert a claim on me despite his dominance.

Sometimes C and I rehash those issues in our emails. The lure of what might have been can be incredibly powerful.

Still, if I'd stayed with C, I would not have met and married D. I would not have enjoyed almost forty years of his excellent company. I might not have a career I loved as much as I do my present work; D was a significant influence in guiding my professional decisions. I might not have traveled the world the way I have. Certainly it's unlikely that I would have had the fascinating and fulfilling experience of living overseas.

So as much as I might fantasize about life with C, how can I regret my choices?

I know some people who are consumed by regret. Guilt, anger and sorrow about past actions and choices eat away at their peace of mind. I feel sad when I see how they torture themselves. Perhaps their lives have not turned out as well as mine. On the other hand, perhaps some of their dissatisfaction comes from perception and their preoccupation with the past—supposedly lost chances and wrong choices.

The fact of the matter is that regret is fruitless. You cannot change the past, no matter how much you think you might like to do so. Furthermore, you can't be sure that the results would have made you happier, if you had done things differently, the way you imagine.

Don't look back. The past is gone. The future is unknown. All we have is the present. Why waste it by obsessing about what might have been? I'd rather appreciate what I can today, and hope for even better things tomorrow.

Thank heaven he's stubborn - #gratitude #marriage #stubbornness

I have been blessed in uncounted ways in my life. I have enjoyed the benefits of a loving and supportive family, an excellent education funded mostly by scholarships, generally good health, and work that is challenging, worthwhile and fun. I'm grateful for having had the opportunity to travel to a wide range of exotic places. I'm humbly thankful for whatever writing talent I have and for the persistence required to turn that talent into a semi-career.

When I think about it, though, what I am most thankful for is the fact that my husband didn't give up when I tried to brush him off.

Let me explain...

Romance is the realm of love at first sight, but when I met K., I tried to discourage his obvious interest. The last thing I needed was another man in my life. To start with, we lived 3000 miles away from each other. He lived on the east coast, where he was studying towards a PhD. Meanwhile, on the west coast, where I was working at my first job out of graduate school, I was juggling three different lovers.

I know that this may sound a bit shocking to some readers, but at the time I was exploring my sexual self and trying to figure out what I needed in a romantic relationship. I wasn't lying to anyone; each of the men I was seeing knew about the others. I was just having some difficulty deciding which if any of them was Mr. Right. In fact, I wasn't sure that I subscribed to the concept of one perfect mate.

Anyway, K. came up to me at a scientific conference on the east coast, where I had just made a presentation describing my research. He asked me some intelligent questions about my paper, but I could tell he was more interested in me as a woman than as a colleague. I liked him, but I was already reeling from the complications in my love life. I definitely didn't think I could handle yet another lover. I was polite but distant. K. joined me at the welcome cocktail party that evening. I pointedly ignored him, flirting instead with the cute British guy who was also part of the crowd.

K. did not give up. He invited me to lunch the following day. I accepted (hey, I had to eat!) and found him to be articulate and unpretentious. He was quite a bit older than I and had led a fascinating, unconventional life. As I recall, we talked about relationships. What was most remarkable about our interactions was the level of comfort. I barely knew him, yet it seemed as though we had been friends a long time.

Still, I held back. He took the offensive. He was driving up to Worcester (my home town) from the conference that afternoon. Would I like a ride? Certainly it was better than going by bus as I had planned. The three hour trip was filled with sexual tension. He was beginning to win me over.

He dropped me at my parents' house and asked if I wanted to have dinner that evening. Of course I agreed. We dined at a Japanese restaurant where he regaled me with tales of his travels in Europe and Asia. I urged him on, eager to hear more. Near the end of the meal, he looked me in the eye and said,

“You know, I'm looking for someone to travel with.” I was more or less hooked.

I flew back to California the next day. For the next six months we wrote and called each other. The other men in my life transformed themselves from lovers to friends. When I came home to Massachusetts for Christmas, it seemed completely natural that K. would return with me to the west coast to share my apartment. After the holidays, we set out together on a three week cross-country odyssey. We were still relative strangers, yet traveled together as if we had known each other for years.

On that trip, in a motel in Taos, New Mexico, K. proposed to me. I told him to wait a year and then ask me again.

That was thirty eight years ago. I'm grateful every day for his love, his support, his companionship, even his criticism. We are not only lovers but also partners and collaborators. We work together as well as play together. I am amazed by the strength and longevity of our connection.

When we met, I thought that it was unlikely that I would ever marry. I couldn't imagine that there existed one man who could keep me interested over the long term, and I didn't want a string of divorces like my aunts.

I was wrong. And now I'm eternally grateful.

Two Lights in My Life - #MothersDay #Gratitude #Memory

 
Mother’s Day always puts me in a pensive mood. I’m fortunate to have had two strong maternal figures in my life, but both of them are gone now. I miss them every day, but especially on the holiday that celebrates them.

Both my birth mother and my step-mother were very dear to me. Both women can take some credit for my successes and my overall happiness with my life. Yet they had radically different natures.

My mother was lightning—brilliant, intense, compelling, fascinating, sometimes scary. Passionate and emotional, she could be deeply nurturing or fiercely critical by turns. Mom could do anything. I don’t mean that as hyperbole. She sewed, cooked, gardened, refinished furniture, repaired electrical equipment. She was a painter, a sculptor, a writer. She sang like an angel and danced like the devil—swing, rock and roll, modern ballet, and belly dancing. She excelled at anything she tried.

Yet she was haunted by persistent feelings of inadequacy and frustration. She was never satisfied with her myriad accomplishments. Both then and now, I couldn’t really understand why someone so remarkable had so little appreciation for herself. Looking back, it seems that I spent a good deal of my childhood trying to make her happy, not grasping the fact that her dissatisfaction stemmed from self-perception, not reality.

After some rocky times, she finally found a spiritual center and some sense of peace. Then, tragically, she died of leukemia, at the age of fifty two. I didn’t have much chance to know her as an adult. She met my husband once, early in our relationship, but she didn’t last long enough to attend our wedding. I wish I could call her, chat with her, tell her I love her now and that I always did (though at one point in my life she felt I’d betrayed her). She’d be ninety now, but given her older sisters’ longevity, I wouldn’t be surprised if she retained her mental acuity to that age.

My step-mother was more like spring sunshine—gentle, warm, filling you with joy for no obvious reason. She had a true gift, the ability to make anyone she was with feel cherished and special. We all experienced the quiet blessing she bestowed: my dad, her children, her step-children (including me), her grandchildren, her students (she was a professor of nursing for many years), her next door neighbors, her friends at church, the clerk at the grocery store. A Christian in the truest sense of the word, she was one of the most generous and loving individuals I’ve ever met.
 
She wasn’t a wimp (or a saint); she sometimes got angry, especially about injustice or dishonesty. She tended to be disorganized. Her refrigerator and her check book were both disasters. She'd often overcommit, then worry about deadlines. She'd never turn down a request from someone in need.

We lost her four years ago, to cancer, but she had a full life. After I moved to Asia, I used to phone her long distance her every week or two. Sometimes I still think, “Oh, I should give Nan a ring.” Then I remember she’s gone. I go look at her photos instead.

I wish I could post pictures of them here, but that would be violating their privacy and threatening my own. Believe me when I say that both were beautiful women, each in her own way. Knowing them, loving them, has made my life much brighter.

All About My Mother (#MothersDay #gratitude #legacy)

Figure from life, drawn by my mother

Today is Mother's Day. Last Monday was the eighty ninth anniversary of my own mother's birth. The juxtaposition started me thinking about my mom—her strengths and her weaknesses, and how they've influenced me.

Mom died more than three decades ago after an ugly two-year battle with leukemia . She was more than a decade younger than I am now. Her death was a genuine tragedy, cutting her life short just as she was finally getting it together. After years of bitterness and anguish, seeking for meaning in gurus, art, politics, sex and the bottom of a bottle, she had succeeded in finding her spiritual center. She felt cherished and protected by her God and her church community, at home at last. To have that comfort and security snatched away—well, it hardly seems fair after all that she endured in order to achieve it. On the other hand, her faith made her last months and days easier to bear. It gave her the courage to let go at the end.

My mom was a multi-talented superstar. She excelled at anything she attempted. She got straight A's through high school, college and graduate school. She drew, painted, sculpted in clay and marble. She could sing like an angel and dance like the devil—jitterbug, rock and roll or the danse de ventre. She earned a life saving certificate. She refinished furniture. She knitted sweaters that made L.L. Bean look cheap and crocheted an afghan for each of our beds in the colors we requested. She created Halloween costumes that were the envy of the neighborhood. She could whip up a sumptuous meal from pretty much any ingredients that happened to be in the refrigerator.

She was articulate and compassionate, a champion for the underdog and a lifelong feminist. She demonstrated against the war in Vietnam, with her three kids in tow. She even ran for a position in the state legislature in order to fight for peace and justice.

Mom had a figure like Marilyn Monroe, all curves. (The drawing above is one of her works that I've salvaged. It portrays a studio model, but I think it was also in some sense a self-portrait.) She loved bright colors, short skirts, high heels and dangling earrings. I remember when she wore a yellow polka dot bikini—I'm not joking. She could be the life of the party.

When it came to emotion, she didn't believe in holding back either the positive or the negative feelings. So I also remember her screaming and crying, sulking in her room and throwing a plate of spaghetti at the wall. In the bad times, she was a volcano waiting to erupt.

For a chubby, shy, introspective kid like me, she was a bit intimidating. But I adored her. I'd do anything to win her approval and ward off her blues.

For most of her life, she was remarkably open about sex. She and my father divorced when I was a pre-teen. After that, she never tried to hide the fact that she had lovers. I didn't understand at the time that at least some of her sexual adventures were compensation for deep feelings of inadequacy. All I saw was a vibrant, desirable woman who wasn't afraid to take what she wanted.

I don't think she actually ever told me “the facts of life”–there were reference books available around the house—but I do recall our conversation around the time that I was besotted by my first lover. I was fourteen, I believe. Mom warned me to be careful, to remember that the first man with whom I had sex would have an emotional hold on me for the rest of my life. I note now that she didn't tell me NOT to have sex. Pretty remarkable. I guess she trusted me, or else assumed that a prohibition from her would not have had any effect. I've realized in retrospect that she and my father probably had a sexual relationship before they were married. For a nice respectable Jewish girl, that must have taken a good deal of courage.

I didn't understand until much later how fundamentally unhappy my mother was. Despite all her accomplishments, she was bitter and envious, convinced that she'd been handed a raw deal, robbed of the opportunities she deserved. Under her bravado lurked persistent self-doubts. She spent most of her short life searching for something that would convince her she was worthy. For years she was a secret alcoholic. Only when she got into a serious automobile accident did she “hit bottom” and start on the rocky path toward sobriety.

She found a Higher Power that soothed much of her pain. Unfortunately, she also repudiated the sexual openness of her earlier years. She criticized my lifestyle as sinful. When I showed her a nude photo taken during the same session as my Lisabet Sarai headshot, she condemned me as possessed by the Satan.

I suspect that if she were alive now, she wouldn't approve of my literary career. On the other hand, I probably wouldn't share it with her. Why cause her distress?

When I was growing up, I thought that she and I were quite different. Now I see how much we are alike and how much I've learned from her. Fortunately I seemed to have absorbed more of the positive than the negative. I'm fundamentally happy, content with my life and my choices—probably because I never doubted her love.

My mother is responsible for teaching me the value of thinking for myself. “Do you want to be a sheep?” she'd scoff when I complained that nobody else at school was wearing snow pants, or that all the other girls already had bras. She made me brave enough to make my own way without being influenced by the crowd.

Like my mom, I'm ready to try my hand at activities that I've never attempted. I may not be as skilled as she was, but that doesn't stop me from sewing, drawing, dancing or learning new languages. She never let anyone suggest there was something she couldn't or shouldn't do. When I'm feeling uncertain about some new venture, I remember her and think, what the hell. Why not?

I'm no Marilyn Monroe, but I inherited some of her curves and once I got to grad school and got over my shyness, I discovered that I could throw a mean party. I love bright colors and provocative styles, though I recognize that with each passing year, they look more ridiculous on me. Too bad.

I still have several pairs of her dangly earrings. (She pierced my ears with a needle when I was eleven.) I wear them on special occasions.

In fact, I think I'll go don a pair today, to celebrate Mother's Day.

I hope that wherever she is, she'll be pleased.

Don't Postpone Joy (#blessings #love #philosophy)

We authors are always so busy. Of course we have to produce our stories, but these days, that's not enough. Every day, there's marketing, too. Send out reminders to your mailing list. Check the comments from the guest blog post you did last week. Log in to Twitter to see if anyone has retweeted your news from yesterday, and reciprocate. I have a to-do list that's never empty, because I'm constantly adding new items.

The pressure sometimes feels unbearable, even though I don't make my living from my books. I'm still out there, reaching for success, waving my arms at readers, trying to get attention for what I feel are pretty damn good stories. When I wake up, the first thing that pops into my head are today's deadlines.

No.

Stop. 

(I tell myself.)

That's not what matters.

I look over at my snoring husband, who probably didn't hear the alarm. Sliding over to his side, I cuddle up and kiss him awake. Blackness leaps onto the bed, her eyes big yellow circles, and settles on his pillow with her belly against his balding head, purring like a buzz saw. Mr. Toes perches on a corner of the mattress, wary of her claws but wanting his share of attention too.

This. This is what's important. Not the blog tour or the edits or the web page statistics. Love is what matters, not sales. 

So I take my time in the morning. We share breakfast. I do my exercises, morning sun slanting in the window and turning our bedroom golden. When my DH suggests we go out for dinner, or a movie, I resist the urge to tell him I can't, that I have way too much to do. I'm old enough to know now that I should not postpone joy.

A dear friend of mine lost her husband a few months ago. It was sudden, dramatic. He was yanked away from her without warning--like tearing off a limb. Together for more than forty years, they were still in love. 

Two decades ago, another close friend surrendered to ovarian cancer. She was only fifty one. She went gracefully to her death, and as I watched her, I learned a lot. 

Don't save that new dress for a special occasion. 

Don't assume you'll take a vacation next year because this year you're too busy or too broke.

Don't give up the chance to kiss your husband or smile at your neighbor or savor that ice cream cone you're really craving.

Life is short. Life is fragile. Take what today offers because you never know whether you'll have tomorrow. But don't waste your time worrying about all the pain you might have to endure in the future. Why spoil today when it's so wonderful?

You think it's not? Think again. Joy hides in the most unexpected places. And once you uncover it, it expands.

Seek joy out. Welcome it with open arms. Be grateful for blessings. Be generous with love.

That's what I tell myself, when the pressure mounts. Today. Every day.
 

Bloody Good Erotica

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate! Even if you don’t, I hope you’ll take a minute to remember and acknowledge all your blessings, and to hug your loved ones.

My Thanks-Giving Back post today features Coming Together In Vein, a multi-author collection of vampire erotica that I edited. The book benefits one of my favorite causes, Médecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders). MSF works to provide medical services to the world’s most desperate, often in areas torn apart by war or devastated by natural disasters. They provide care for all, regardless of race, religion or political affiliation—and they’ve suffered for that humanitarian position.

When I compare my own life with those of the people MSF serves, I’m humbled and grateful. This anthology, which includes fabulous stories by M. Christian, Cheyenne Blue, Giselle Renarde, Xan West, Nobilis Reed, and many more of my favorite authors, is worth buying for its own sake. In addition, every cent of the purchase price goes to support MSF’s courageous and compassionate work.

I’ve included a sample from my story in the book, “Vampires, Limited”. Leave me a comment with your email, and I’ll choose one person to receive a copy of my paranormal collection Fourth World, which includes two vampire tales.

“Try the next picture.” The man’s body was tense, as though he was working hard to hold something back. Slowly, tearing herself away from the soulful gaze in the photo, she turned it over.

The photograph that followed ripped her apart. Although vampiric in theme, it was nothing like the camp pictures that her publication featured. The same red-haired woman lay nude on a satin-draped bier, graceful and pale. Her wrists crossed on her abdomen, just below the modest swell of her perfect breasts. Her face was turned toward the camera, her eyes closed, her lips parted. A trail of crimson fluid trickled from her neck, across the white satin and onto the stone floor.

Behind the bier stood the vampire. His right hand held a white candle that fitfully illuminated the arches of the vault. His left cupped his victim’s breast, thumb resting lightly on her prominent nipple.

His blond hair was pushed back from his brow, damp with sweat. His skin was flushed with the blood that he had swallowed, the blood that still smeared his lips. Looking into those eyes, eyes dark as hell, Lara felt it all: his grief, his guilt and his awful, all-consuming lust.

Who was she, the ethereal, terribly convincing victim? And who, who was he?

She didn’t see him move. Yet all at once he was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, murmuring in her ear. “Barbara was her name. She was my girlfriend, back in college. A terrible mistake.”

He was so close, she should have felt the heat of his body, but it was as if a mannequin was pressed against her, instead of a living person. She could smell him, though, a sharp grassy scent that made her think of the country and wide open spaces.

Casually he trailed a finger up the side of her neck and circled her earlobe. A shiver raced through her, winding tight around her nipples, spiraling down to her sex. He nipped at her ear, playful, but hard enough to make her gasp. “As for me, you know who I am, don’t you? Or at least, what I am.”

Lara knew what he was saying. She just couldn’t accept it.

“Here.” Still behind her, he grabbed her hand and placed her fingers on his throat. His skin was cooler than the air, cool and smooth as marble. “Do you feel any pulse?”

“No—but—it’s just not possible. It’s just a myth. A fashion, a fad. Everyone these days pretends...”

He brought her wrist to his lips, flicking his tongue over the spot where the veins were closest to the surface. His mouth was hot, unlike the rest of him. A violent shudder of desire rocked her body. “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

Thanks-Giving Back Hop Links

Sunday 22 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/sunday-snog-for-good-mm-201.html

http://leighwantsfood.blogspot.com/2015/11/coming-together-giving-back-hop.html

Monday 23 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/giving-it-away.html

http://delilahnight.com/2015/11/23/giving-back-blog-hop/

http://paidbytheweird.blogspot.com/2015/11/coming-together-thanksgiving-giving-back.html

http://wp.me/p1EqZm-Vt 

Tuesday 24 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/funny-brutal-tender.html

Wednesday 25 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/erotic-visions-for-brave.html

Thursday 26 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/bloody-good-erotica.html

http://annabetherotica.com/

Friday 27 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/release-day-for-another-coming-together.html

Saturday 28 November

http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com/2015/11/where-no-man-has-gone-before.html

 

Remembering

 
It's Boxing Day. You and your family are probably recovering from too much food and drink, relaxing after a deluge of visitors, or exploring your holiday gifts.

You're probably not thinking about the fact that today's the tenth anniversary of one of the deadliest natural disasters in modern times - the Great Indian Ocean Tsunami.

I live in Asia, though, and here the memory is still remarkably fresh. On the morning of December 26, 2004, an enormous earthquake measuring 9.2 on the Richter scale ruptured the earth's crust off the west coast of Sumatra, the largest island in Indonesia. Within the next few hours, waves ten meters high or more slammed into Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India, Thailand, Burma, Malaysia and a number of countries in East Africa, sweeping away settlements like so much trash, pulverizing buildings, stripping away vegetation and killing, overall, almost 230,000 people.

One can scarcely grasp that level of mortality. That's close to 100 times the number of people who died in the 9/11 attack in the US, and twice the number of Americans killed in combat during World War I. In many cases, those affected were poor villagers struggling to make a living from fishing or farming in coastal regions. Thousands of wealthy tourists fell victim, too, especially in the Andaman Sea resorts of Thailand, the Nicobar Islands and the Maldives.

I vividly remember the solemn mood at year end, 2004. New Year's festivities were cancelled. Everyone wore black. As new stories of devastation and death showed up each day, I had a scary sense of helplessness. We weren't personally affected, but we knew families who were. During those first weeks of January, I sleep-walked through my daily activities, numb with shock and grief.

I can't begin to imagine how I would have reacted if I'd lost anyone close to me in the disaster.

Three months after the quake, we traveled to the affected area in Thailand on holiday. An eerie quiet pervaded the resorts. The lovely beaches were deserted. Asians are seriously afraid of ghosts, and those wave-scoured beaches were viewed as haunted. The particular town where we stayed had been hit with no more than a glancing blow, but we still saw derelict buildings and swathes of land contaminated with sea salt.

Ten years later, there are thousands whose bodies have never been recovered. Those people simply winked out of existence that fateful day.

This probably isn't what you want to read about the day after celebrating Christmas with your family and friends. It's what's on my mind, though.

I feel simultaneously guilty and grateful about surviving.  The event made me realize just how fragile life is, how unpredictable a world we live in, and how important it is to appreciate every day we're given.
 
In this season of peace, that is what I wish, for the survivors and for those who were lost.

Blessed

A few days ago I learned that there is a small but definite possibility that my husband and I might become rich.

I'm not talking about rich in the league of Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, of course. However, we're in the process of trying to sell an invention, and we've got some nibbles from potential purchasers who would pay several million dollars.

When my DH told me about this (he has been handling most of the search for investors or buyers), I did a double take. It's hard to imagine receiving that kind of money. Although I've been doing what I can to support his promotion efforts, I have to admit it wasn't real to me until DH and I had this conversation.

I began thinking about what we'd do if this deal actually comes through - what I'd change.

And I was startled to realize the answer: not much.

I wouldn't quit my job. I love my work.

I wouldn't want to move. We have a fabulous apartment and I have no interest in buying another house, after being weighed down for years by the burden of owning a fabulously interesting but continuously deteriorating historic home in the US.

I wouldn't stop bargain-hunting. That's in my blood, inherited from my Jewish mother and grandmother!

Aside from a few odds and ends, there's very little I want or need that money can buy. I guess I'd like to be able to travel more, but even now our constraints in that area relate more to time than money, and I've already said I'd want to keep my job. Probably I'd go visit my family in the States more often than we do now.

Overall, though, I'm so blessed at this moment that money would not improve our lives much, because there's so little to improve. The money would provide some security for our future, relieving some stress, but as far the present is concerned, I have pretty much no complaints.

That realization is totally amazing. Here we are, celebrating Thanksgiving - could I possibly have more reasons for gratitude? I love my life, my husband, my work, my family, my friends, our cats. We have our health and strength. I have my writing life, my back list to be proud of, my peers and my readers.

What more could I ask for?

Indeed, I want to share my bounty with others. And I do what I can.

First of all, I have a story in Coming Together's new holiday charity collection, Coming Together For the Holidays. The book will release around December 1st, but you can pre-order it now. All proceeds support Stand Up For Kids, a charity working in local communities to support homeless youth. They provide outreach, education, food, clothing and most valuable of all, responsible adults to whom these kids can turn.

Second, I will donate $1 to Stand Up for Kids, for each person who comments on this blog post. Just tell me what you're thankful for today.

May you have life, and have it abundantly. Or to borrow the sig line from one of my writer friends:

We give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Why I'm Not Rich

On my recent trip back home to the U.S., I had dinner with my cousin. She and I were really close when we were kids, and I've never understood why we haven't kept in better touch, because whenever we do meet, it's always fabulous.

Anyway, as we were enjoying our gourmet pizza and craft beer, she said: "You're so incredibly smart. Why aren't you rich?"

I had to laugh. I apparently still have my childhood reputation within the family as a genius, though I haven't exactly achieved fame or fortune because of my intellect. I mean, I haven't won the Nobel prize or discovered a cure for cancer, the way I thought I might. But then her question got me thinking. I realized that at least one reason I'm not rich is that I've never tried to be. Wealth for its own sake has never, ever been a personal goal.

It's not that I don't know the value of money. I've been supporting myself since my mid-twenties, and count myself as financially responsible. I work hard and I appreciate being well-compensated. As long as I have enough to meet my needs though (which are fairly modest, at least by some people's standards), I don't care that much about having more. I mean, I wouldn't be unhappy to win a lottery or receive an unexpected inheritance, but I don't spend much time thinking about that. Other things are more important to me.

The really rich people in the world - people like Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, Carl Icahn, Carlos Slim - have put a huge amount of mental and emotional energy into the process of becoming rich, probably since they were quite young. They understand money. They love (I suspect) money. They find the process of pursuing wealth to be satisfying in a way that I never could.

Not me. I can't be bothered with all the hassle necessary to get rich. Okay, that's a bit facetious, but honestly, I don't want to devote my time to the process of accumulating money. I have other things to do.

For me, prosperity covers a good deal more than just having cash in the bank (or invested in the stock market). A companion that I love and whose company I enjoy - a job that challenges me and lets me make a difference in the world - good health - a comfortable home - tasty food - the occasional chance to travel - these are some of the things that contribute to my definition of  "personal wealth". I'm not rich and never will be, but I have a fantastic life - interesting, rewarding ever-changing.

I have a few friends and family who are much richer than I am. When I'm in their company I always feel a bit self-conscious, as though they might be judging me based on my income or my bank balance. Some people do feel that your net worth is synonymous with your worth as a person, and in many societies status and wealth are closely related. I fight that feeling. They made their choices. I've made mine. And I'm intensely grateful for the outcomes.

It's a day to count one's blessings, and I have many. So being rich isn't one of them... well, that's fine with me.

Happy Thanksgiving to all! 

May you be showered with blessings!

Life's Been Good to Me So Far

Lucky I'm still sane after all I've been through.
I can't complain, but sometimes I still do.
Life's been good to me so far...
                                           ~ Joe Walsh

Every now and then you just have to stop and say thanks to the universe. Or at least I do.

I blog a lot and I have to admit, I have some tendency to whine about the fact that I'm not a rock star of publishing. I make a bit off my books, but I could never support myself (even in the marginally Third World country where I live). Yeah, I get five star reviews every now and again, but there's often an awful lot of time between "now" and "again". I don't even bother looking at my book ratings, because I can't count that high...

In the last couple of days, though, I've been counting my blessings.

For example, I tripped on an irregularity in the sidewalk the other night, bent my big toe back at almost a right angle, and woke up the next day in a lot of pain. As I limped around the apartment making breakfast, I was sure I'd broken the toe, that I was facing weeks of restricted mobility. My mind flashed back to my broken leg, and I was already making mental lists of all the stuff I wouldn't be able to do.

However, as the day went on, the pain lessened (though the toe turned reddish gray and swollen), and by the next morning, I could walk with almost no limp at all. I was delighted that all my dire scenarios hadn't come to pass. Maybe this means all the calcium I've been taking since my last fracture is actually doing some good!

Then there's the dancing. Just before the toe incident, my husband and I had dropped in to one of our favorite bars. It's a little place, a bit seedy, but they have a fantastic DJ who plays vintage rock and roll. As we sipped our drinks, the DJ revved up an old John Cougar Mellencamp tune, "Hurts So Good" and I just had to get up and shake my booty! (Much to the amusement of the other patrons, who I guess weren't used to seeing a borderline senior citizen like me shaking my shoulders and swiveling my hips.) I sat down, a bit winded, only to have the DJ put on Santana. Oh baby! I couldn't sit still!

I do so love to dance! I forget about everything and just move! And I'm reassured that I've still got the ability, at least to some extent. As Bob Seeger put it, "Rock and roll never forgets".

Then, on the writing front, last weekend I finished Rough Weather, my paranormal prequel to Hot Spell. I'm letting it sit for a week or so before I submit it. Meanwhile, I've started working on my next project, a short story for a lesbian femdom anthology edited by the award-winning D.L. King. Tied to the Billionaire is available for pre-order and all the authors have working together, revving up for some great marketing events (with super prizes).

Yes, life is good! The weather has been great, I just got positive news about my step-mom's health, my husband has been sweeter than usual, my cats haven't been attacking each other too frequently...

You know, there's always something to be grateful for. Screw the reviews! (And thanks, Joe!)

Unexpected Blessings

I have a lot to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. Both my husband and I are relatively healthy, especially for our ages. We have great jobs that provide intellectual stimulation and the rewards of doing something socially worthwhile, while producing a relatively low level of stress. Our apartment, though old and a bit battered around the edges,  is roomy, comfortable and very affordable. We don't need a car; our place is located in the heart of the city, where we can walk to public transit. For many services, we don't even need to do that - they're just a short stroll away.

Ten years ago, we were jobless and in debt. Today we don't owe anybody anything - and we've even got a some savings.

I've got friends around the world, and a family with whom I'm very close, even though we're separated by a lot of physical distance. I just Skyped with my brother and sister this morning. To me it's a kind of miracle that I can talk to both of them, as long as I want, for free... once we figure out the time zone differences, that is!

I've always been an optimist, so in some sense I'm not surprised that my life has turned out well. I figured I'd have a rewarding career. I thought it likely that I'd have a series of companions, rather than a single long-term spouse, but I always assumed I'd be in a romantic relationship. I'm one of those fortunate souls who grew up loved and carried that into adulthood.

Reflecting on all my blessings today, though, I realize that there's at least one set I never expected. I didn't plan to become an author. It just sort of happened. Unlike some authors, I never considered writing as anything more than a delightful diversion from my "real" work. I created and submitted my first novel on a whim. I was astonished when it was accepted. Being a professional writer really wasn't part of the plan for my life.

Today, I have seven novels to my credit (with another in progress) and so many shorter works that I've lost count. This blog Beyond Romance will be three years old next week. During that time I've published nearly 750 posts and received almost 95,000 page views. Writing, editing, blogging and hanging out with my readers and my writer friends has become a huge part of my world - and one that I deeply cherish. Who would have guessed?

It's incredible to look back upon all the breaks I've gotten, all the lucky little twists of fate that brought Lisabet Sarai into being and have allowed her come as far as she has. I have indeed been blessed, and this Thanksgiving, I'm especially grateful for this wonderful, unexpected gift, the ability to write, publish, and touch people's hearts.

May you all be as blessed as I have been!

  

Green Eyes and Gratitude

I belong to a number of on-line writing groups and in general, I've found them really useful. First, it's a way for me to get to "know" other authors in my genre. Writing can be a lonely business, especially when you live overseas as I do.

Second, the writing groups offer support, advice, professional information and marketing opportunities. I can share what I've learned with new authors and can learn from the veterans.

There is one problem with these groups, though. It's difficult to avoid comparing myself to my peers. I don't write as a full-time career, so I'm not nearly as prolific as some of my colleagues. I'm also new to the romance genre, relatively speaking. I don't know what works from a marketing perspective. Actually, I don't always "get" what readers want from romance. My sales so far are modest. Although I don't make my living from my writing, I still find a nice fat royalty statement to be a great affirmation.

Recently a well-known author, whom I greatly respect, commented that her very first book had sold 500 copies in the first month it was available, and that this was pretty typical of most of her releases.

Five hundred copies? In one month? I don't think I sell that many copies in a year. The green eyed monster immediately reared its ugly head. I was so envious--well, the comment put me in a bad mood for days.

Envy is a highly destructive emotion. It can poison your self-esteem and your sense of well-being. It can undermine external relationships, too. Every time I thought about her, I got this churning feeling in my stomach--despite the fact that she has helped me personally with information about ebooks and markets.

Fortunately, there's a tried and true antidote to envy: gratitude. When I look at my writing career, I see that I've been far more fortunate than many of my peers. My debut novel was accepted, enthusiastically, by the first publisher to whom I submitted it. I contrast this with some authors who tried for years to break into the publishing game before they finally succeeded. I may not have as many books out as some of my peers, but I've got a good, solid publishing history Furthermore,my acceptance to rejection ratio is very high; when someone rejects one of my stories, I tend to be shocked. Obviously I'm very spoiled!

I seem to have some difficulty getting my work reviewed, but most of the reviews I do receive are positive. For instance, I recently was rated as a Five Angels "Recommended Read" by Fallen Angels for my historical ménage short story "Monsoon Fever". Maia wrote:

I loved this story! Monsoon Fever is not only an extremely sexy read, it's also pitch perfect with place, attitude, and voice, with enough politics and society observations to please the most discerning reader.

You can read the whole review here.

How can I possibly stay envious?

I got a new lesson in gratitude recently, when friend and colleague Anna Kathryn Lanier hosted guest author J. Aday Kennedy. Ms. Kennedy is a successful children's author, despite the fact that she is paralyzed from a stroke. She started writing after the stroke, in order to do something useful with her time. I was awed by this woman's courage and persistence.

What do I have to complain about? I've got my own room to write, my own laptop, no kids to interrupt. I've got a supportive husband and good relationships with my editors. I'm healthy, for the most part, and the physical problems I do have are annoying rather than life threatening.

Begone, green eyed monster! I'm a very lucky lady. And I don't want to waste my time on envy when I could be writing!