She's A Lady...NOT

Recently a friend of mine (let's call her Florence) lent my book, The Bridgeman, to a new acquaintance of hers. (Let's call her Gladys.) When Gladys was finished, she returned to Florence and asked her what kind of person I was. Gladys figured I must be a closet psychopath and how on earth could I be friends with the sweet Flo? Gladys didn't think I could possibly be a lady and depict the scary evil-doing that appears in my book.

Well, I must admit that Gladys is right about one thing. I am no lady. I am a bit of a loud mouth, I have been known to swear, I have even - on occasion - consumed too much wine. I don't feel comfortable with my ankles crossed. I can't cook and I do like calisthenics in the bedroom with my husband. I get incensed when I visit a public washroom and have to choose between "Men" and "Ladies". Why can't there be one for women? I mean, it's even one letter less. Do they think too many guys will make a mistake and miss the WO?

So I write about nasty things that happen, sometimes to good people, sometimes to innocent animals and even children. That does sound gruesome. But it's reality. It's the heart of darkness of humanity. I like to explore it because I find the human race so contradictory, fascinating, and puzzling. I want to see inside the criminal mind and try to explain it. Moreover, I want to punish the bad and reward the good.

I love dark, gritty, meaty mysteries like the kind Minette Walters writes, or sometimes P.D. James. They are women, too, I'd bet.

Contrawvessy

Or contro-vers-y. Doesn't matter how you pronounce it. I'm surprised that I am surprised by the debate that erupted over The Bridgeman. After all, I wrote it with the express purpose of shocking my readers. I wanted to present the dichotomy between the love that two people have for one another (Emily Taylor and her husband Langford) and the twisted lack of love that some people suffer from. To go even further, I wanted to demonstrate the evils of power: the use of physical strength or intellectual prowess over those less well equipped. Such as the abuse of domestic animals, who for the most part are passive, weaker, and not as schooled in manipulative ways...mostly because we've made them that way. I wanted Emily to question her judgement, too. How could she think the mild-mannered caretaker was what he appeared to be? Can people don masks that completely obscure their hideous sins? I think they can. In fact, most of us know they can - look at all the psychopaths who played the part of "quiet neighbors".  Emily wonders if she has been completely duped. Not only that, she's haunted by her own guilt, by the fact that she, too, has a mask, a hidden self. Despite the harshness of the puppy mill and the animal abuse club described in the book, it's essentially a novel of hope and love and the conquering of evil. I guess that's why I was surprised by the strong negative reactions from some readers. They seemed to focus on the evil and forget that, in the end, the bad guys got punished and the good guys were exonerated. Not only that, the puppies were freed. And Emily, though she still hasn't come to terms with her secret past, does achieve some measure of satisfaction. Ah, contrawvessy - good for the soul?

Mothering My Mother And My "Baby", Simultaneously

I am straddling two apparently different worlds. One, the world of long-term care homes for the elderly; two, marketing ebooks. One visceral, one cerebral. But I am struck by the thought that they do have one stark similarity: they are both misfits. On Tuesday, my first ebook is released. I have my head in the cyber world. People I’ve never met are suddenly friends. I am browsing their blogs, watching their websites, sharing life stories. Many of them are extremely interesting and admirable; a few are just selling, which in reality is what I am doing too. My books have always been misfits. They aren’t classical anything. Although mysteries, they break rules, switch points-of-view, and present some social justice issues close to my heart and head. Until Cheryl Tardif and Imajin Books, my books were proverbial square pegs in round holes. Along comes Cheryl, who not only understands the underlying themes and appreciates the differences, but also steers me toward a more marketable approach. So I get up every morning, as John Locke advises in How I Sold A Million Ebooks, and think about how to sell. In cyber world. My mother is also a misfit. She always has been, really. In the 1940’s, she (a white woman) married a black Canadian man. Pretty bold for those times. He died in the war, so she married my Dad and tried to fit into the 1950’s Leave-it-to-Beaver’s June Cleaver housewife image. She didn’t wear it comfortably. Eventually, she got a job in real estate. In her sixties, she started her own business. In her seventies, she learned to play the piano. She has always been loud, funny, opinionated, and bossy. Then came the Transient Ischemic Attacks. As my brother-in-law Dave says, her record button no longer works. It’s been that way for nearly eight years now. Hasn’t gotten worse. Still has the long term, especially her mathematical side. It’s not Alzheimer’s. It’s cerebral vascular dementia. But when we say dementia, suddenly she becomes a definition, fits into the round hole, and off she goes. However, when we cart her off to long-term care this week, she looks up at us with those azure blue eyes and she knows. She ruminates on why we can’t just die on a certain date and not go through this slow decline. She knows she is in an institution and that she really doesn’t fit. She’s still lively, funny, and social. In this same week, we are suddenly offered our top choice in LTC residences, one less hospital-like. Will this be my mom’s Imajin? We’re going to bet on it. Just as I am betting readers will like my books, despite their difficult subjects and misfitted-ness. (See, I even make up words.) I must say, though, that the euphoria of the release has been juxtaposed by the stress of my poor mom’s shuffle through the system, as kind and caring as those systems have been. (And they have been wonderful, truly.) My husband says things can only get better. Imajin that. www.imajinbooks.com Cathy