​A break from regularly scheduled programming….

I wasn’t sure what kind of feedback or reader mail I’d get from the relaunch of The Life Erotic Discovery Journals. As I’ve been down for the count recovering from surgery, I’ve been blessed to sit in bed reading the loveliest notes from those who picked up the booklets for the first time, along with happy reminiscing from those who read them before and are now excited to see the world unfolding into a streaming adaptation.

I should say that Amazon has been blocking the reviews for TLE. Yes, I’ve been made aware. We’re working on it. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience! Hopefully, it’s fixed soon. I’ve been assured that when it’s fixed, all the reviews will show up—probably all at once. So, please keep leaving those reviews! They will pop as soon as the snag is corrected. (Also, I am deeply grateful for all the emails letting me know!)
My favorite responses are from people letting me know TLE has opened their minds to the deeper levels of intimacy that can occur in trust-based relationships. Those raw and vulnerable moments when we are just humans—exposed—splitting open to tenderness that makes connection with a lover such a spiritual and powerful sexual experience. There’s so much validation in knowing we are not alone in the longing for these experiences, nor alone in the celebration of them when we’re able to make those moments come to life with our lovers.

The notes from readers include very personal stories of their sexual healing journeys; many of those running in tandem with spirituality and a near-cosmic understanding of self—which only serves to elevate experiences with their partners.

I am so honored to know these stories from you all. So grateful to know that “soul-gasms” are happening when The Life Erotic explores these vignettes of partnership through a reader experience. (I hope you don’t mind me co-opting “soul-gasm”, Esial2323… it’s just so perfectly suited! Thank you!)
In honor of the raw vulnerability from readers, I’ll try to answer questions with the same fearlessness.

Jannabella- Why do you write erotica? Are you ever ashamed?
It took a while for me to write erotica specifically. I mostly targeted relationship dynamics in my fantasy fiction. In the world-building matrix where I create Storyverse, all interconnected levers are relationship interdependencies. So, I began there. But as those stories and characters became more real, reflecting a lot of my own personal desires and needs I had to get honest with myself as a creative—and as a woman—and ask what was missing in my life that was also missing from my character relationship arcs and story mediums.

Radical vulnerability and the ability to deeply connect on a sexual/spiritual level.

World builders and creatives with rich imaginations are pretty good at pretending. We can be the original fakers, right? We are easily romanticized, easily led by the longing or promise of something magical, beautiful, and wondrously mysterious. It’s natural for creators to be regularly disappointed, let down, embittered. Unfortunately, this creates a calcification which permeates both life AND the fictional realms and Storyverses we populate. It’s like a virus that jumps from us into our fictional worlds.

I don’t know about you, but I read to escape. I read to fall in love, see new worlds, live other lives. I don’t read to soak up someone else’s wounds, shames, prejudices or hit creator blockages because they’ve leaked into the story, even accidentally.

To be the best storyteller I believed I could be for my characters, Storyverse, and audience—I had to dig out all the injuries, purge all the aches, and drop any baggage that would prevent me from being able to honestly and authentically speak for the moments in each scene. My knowledge is limited. I don’t know all the things. But I can at the very least FEEL everything, and report that to the reader by placing those words on a character’s tongue, or leave that feeling glittering on the page for someone else to find.

Radical vulnerability led to the need to heal myself of shame and fear, specifically around the subject matter. “Heal thyself” became a mantra set to the understanding that I could then heal my characters—and hopefully, someone out there might also benefit from that process as well.

Erotica as a genre was the next logical choice. Aside from memoir, there is no other genre which requires self-honesty, vulnerability, imagination, and empathy the way erotica does. You cannot write sexually engaging prose if you are bound by shame. You cannot write emotionally connective characters if you cannot be emotionally bonded to another.

Writing about shame in erotica, for me is now only writing about the memory of it—not the lived experience of shame. It’s been healed, released. Writing about heartbreak, longing and ache in erotica is now about writing the memory of it. As a creator, I don’t have to avoid these things because I’m no longer beholden to them as a human putting pen to paper. Freeing myself, freed up the characters, and freed up the story—which allows readers to have a more unbidden experience. It also allows me to write the erotic content freely, expressively—and with ALL THE STEAMY BOILERS ON FULL THROTTLE. And isn’t that the fun part?

I hope that makes sense! (As an aside, yes, I am sometimes freshly ashamed of something I do or say, in which case, I learn from it–heal it. Then I try to do better next time. There’s no need to carry it into the story as anything but the memory of the memory of shame.)

Kristystail1966—Do you write erotica while listening to a playlist? Can you post the list for the read along and… bedroom?
Oh, dang! Alas, erotica is not something I can write to music. All other genres I can have music, or specific playlists. Unfortunately, because music is SO GOOD at setting the mood, I end up getting swayed by the tunes and the chapter shifts where I often don’t want it to go. So—in this example. I don’t have a playlist to share.

THAT SAID—I’ll look at putting a thematic playlist together that would fit the journals and compliment them as in after the fact! I’ll get on that and get back to you. Brilliant suggestion!

Zettabird—You make it sound easy to be open with a partner in the bedroom. How long did it take to become that comfortable?

Tough question. There’s no one answer for this as it depends on the emotional intelligence and generosity and understanding of lovers to meet one another in the most tender and fragile needs first—then get to the other stuff. Anyone can be rough, or ragged, or hungry in the bedroom—not everyone can hear/see/know their lover in those moments. Presence creates that trust. Awareness and the willingness to hold back one’s own personal needs or urges, ensuring their partner is moving at the same level of security and fulfillment, require a willingness to pay attention.

So answering your question—the answer will be different for everyone.

Siatoa755angel—when will the next Life Erotic journal be out?
Good question! And thank you 😊 As there are show spoilers in the next journal, I’m sitting on it for a little bit. Not a long time, maybe next spring. The hope is that the show adaptation will have enough steam that the readers will only be slightly ahead of the spoiler information—readers do it best anyway, right? We should get the early bird treats! Thank you for your patience!

Thank you for all the questions and notes. Truly, the emails have been such a boost. It’s so fun knowing where the books have landed and where they have traveled.

Please stay tuned on the adaptation information and book release news by signing up for the newsletter at ElderGladePublishing
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In the meantime, please continue to ask questions via the contact portal here.

Follow up for Alaska Peeps:

Thank you for all the congratulations and encouragement notes from home! You are all amazing. There were some questions related to the FB post as to what I mean about Alaska Film Incentives, and more specifically how to help get filming up north to my home town. (posting here since it’s too long for FB)

What is a film incentive package? It’s an invitation from the state for film industry to do work within the state. For X amount of dollars spent in the state on the project, the state will return X% at the end of the term. (State of Oregon is 26% return with a max cap of X. Washington is 30% no cap, etc.)

When Mark (producer) and I met with the Alaska State Governor’s Business Development Office, we pitched the idea of legislation for Alaska to hang their shingle out for film industry collaboration. Most states with a good film incentive program see significant boosts in economic growth, industry and infrastructure. For example, Georgia has a film incentive with no cap, which draws in all the Disney and Marvel films to studios built just for this purpose and after the percentage is paid back to the studios from the incentive program, Georgia still sees a massive injection from film profit.
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                According to Deadline on March 30, 2022, the state of Georgia pays out about “$900
million a year” in tax incentives, “which has turned Georgia into one of the nation’s top
filming destinations.” The Georgia.gov website notes “the film and television industries
in Georgia generated $9.5 billion in 2018, but the economic impacts extend much
further. Countless jobs are created in the process.”  (clip from Mark’s memo)
 
Granted, this is on a massive production scale for Disney and Marvel films, however, it all boils down to $$, right? Because of the cost of getting TO ALASKA and the higher cost of goods, services, etc. And lack of infrastructure—The production dollar is half value up North.
 
This is why so many franchises film in Romania and other countries where there’s infrastructure and the dollar goes 4X farther. Having a competitive film incentive program will allow Alaska to net some of that cash, and build economic diversity (as other economies dwindle or lessen). It’s a security strategy.
 
For my part, I am paying Mark out of pocket to build guardrails and suggestions for this legislative package. He’s agreed to it because 1) he’d getting paid and 2) he believes it will help further my goals with the project and my desires for development as he coaches my label forward 3) he gets to be a part of building something cool for the state and the film industry as a whole. (Plus, I think he enjoys the challenge!) That all said, I can’t afford to out of pocket him for the Alaska project for long. I’ll take my best shot at getting the door cracked, but my plate is full, funding is limited, and it’s not a hill I’m ready to die on.
 
In short, this is a good faith effort only, not a crusade. Because it has to be built from the Alaska side. The port of call, or docking station as it were, has to be ready for the projects to come in, queue up and do business. (Contacts and suggestions on how to participate below)
 
Why is filming in Alaska important to me? Because it’s home. Because I was afforded community, tribe, family and a great network of people as I wobbled my way through this dream. My kickstarter supporters from Valdez (and other areas) were the reason Murder of Crows hit shelves as soon as it did after nearly 120 rejections from publishers and agents.
 
Many of the scenes in my books are directly inspired by locations and views in Alaska. It’s essentially written to be the fantastical representation of the life I got to live out as a kid in the wild. It’s also likely, I would not have left Alaska had the opportunities been available to me for the growth and expansion of my education and career at the time. All these and more are reasons for filming back home if possible. Pay it back if I can, right?
 
I have not sold Pillars of Dawn to a producer or studio yet. I’m waiting for the right situation, and until then, I’m squatting on my rights. I’m buying time for AK to get their shingle out so that I can ask for a good faith effort for filming in Alaska if there is a comparative cost within a certain percentage of profit margin to do so. Again, I won’t die on the hill, but if I can show there’s a cost-effective profitability and a win/win for the studio and the state—I’ll have been able to say I made the effort and did my best. The rest will be in the hands of business folks to hammer out the details, so I can get back to the writing, right?
 
If The Pillars of Dawn is supported by a willingness of the State of Alaska to do business with Hollywood, well, I’ll be a happy happy creator. So happy, I’d probably just give it away--but don’t worry, the attorney won’t let that happen.
 
The original estimate for The Pillars of Dawn first season production cost was just under 80MM. We’ve re-written, tweaked, and reformatted the first season to try and hit a 50MM margin. This was a frustrating process and I admit, I didn’t enjoy it all that much. However, I absolutely understand the reason and the point of the exercise. It’s also 100% probable that once the IP sells, they will re-write it all again to their own budget metrics.
 
What does that mean? For example: if I were to have four scenes on jagged, snowcapped mountains in Alaska that would cost 1MM to film on location. They may re-write two of those scenes to take place in the desert so it can be filmed in New Mexico at half the cost, then do the rest on green screen and CGI in the mountains to save the money. That’s just business. It also explains why so many movies are re-written several dozen times and for such ridiculous reasons. A great script can be butchered for the profit margin and not resemble anything of the original work. Chances are, the original script writer is the one who gets blamed for the bad film. But I digress.
 
My attempts to get the budget into this range is really a play for keeping the material within the heart of the story. Meaning, if I am the one that breaks the timeline, and rearranges the scenes for budget, location, etc. It’s more likely going to stay within the scale and scope of the intent of the work—AND I know where to break the plot/relationship/structure points, so they can be lined up again later down the line. That’s not to say a showrunner wouldn’t do the same thing, but as I’m the one who built the world it’s just faster and easier for me to knock it out, then let someone else polish and make it workable. After all, I’ve been working this story world and these characters since 2001. I can unpack it and repack it in my sleep. (assuming I have time to sleep)
 
Essentially, the budget change for the re-pitch process allows more studio options for us to shop the package, as many of the streaming services and even some of the larger studios have a max cap on production costs. For example: when talking with the representative from one company, he LOVED the work and the story and really wanted to talk more—but his mandate cap on acquisitions was 50MM.
 
These numbers are not sofa-crack numbers. They’re still funny money to someone like me who used to wait tables to pay for publishing expenses. Yes, I used tips to buy paper, printer toner and hire editors and such. So a 50MM cap or a 80MM original budget is all like, whatever, to someone like myself. But to an industry with gears built this big, I have to write and plan and arc into that scale in order to be competitive.
 
Which brings me back to Alaska! The governor’s office let us know that it would need to be a grass roots program from my former regional reps in order to be brought to floor in January 2023. I set about emailing the mayor of Valdez – no response. The regional rep – no response. The region Senator – a response! Then a month of email tags and not synching up with Senator Shower, unfortunately.
 
Mark is now in charge of communications with Senator Shower, as Mark has all the important information and the valuable expertise on film incentive packages and the process to get it rolling. It will be easier for Mark to speak the language than for me to fumble through it. And it’s easier for me to chat up people back home and ask for support and engagement in the idea of a bill for film incentives.
 
How to help and what you get from it!
 
That said, it would be super beneficial for Valdez and other regions to hop on board and let your voice be heard if you’d like these opportunities to come North. Do you want productions up North? Would you like the extra financial security of another industry being incentivized to do work in state? Would you like to help set the guardrails of what are acceptable codes of conduct for productions while they’re in your back yards and living rooms? (I know I would)

I’ve agreed to push on this button until the end of this year (then I’ll be budgeted out). The state session sits in January 2023 and if there isn’t a package proposed at that time, I’ll step back and let others have the helm for some other project some other time. That’s four months to try and make spaghetti stick to the wall.
 
If you want to weigh in: call your reps. If you want to have a say: get in touch with your regional members. If you want to make noise: post about it on social media. (good bad or otherwise—all noise contributes to the conversation)
 
If you’d like to be involved personally and sit in on the discussions, hit me up via the webform on my contact page and we’ll get together for a chat. Thank you, as always, for hanging in on this wild rollercoaster adventure. It’s never dull!
 
CONTACTS: For Alaska Region Inclusive of Valdez
Valdes City Leadership page: https://www.valdezak.gov/132/City-Council
Representative George Rauscher:   [email protected]
Senator Mike Shower: [email protected]
Alaska State Legislature page: https://akleg.gov/
 
 
P.S. I’ve noticed that emails are easy to dismiss—but a call to the reps office, number listed on the website—get’s an answer right away 😉
 
Up next: State of Oregon.
 

July 2022 Mid-month Update

I’m happy to report that things are moving right along on nearly all fronts in entertainment ventures, publishing, and business. While I’m not at liberty to discuss those areas much, that only leaves updates on the #cottagestead, and… well, dating.

I’ve put the dating post off for several months as much of it will be kept private, especially once it gets rolling in earnest, but I do know there are questions, especially from my dad and some friends in the loop. (and a small community that knows everyone, and word is already getting around to my usual haunts.) I can’t grab a local cup of coffee or a margarita without someone asking, “Soooo, you’re back in the game, huh? You wanna meet my friend?” (Poly ladies, please stop offering me your boyfriends. Thank you kindly, though. It’s appreciated, but not my jam.)

Yes, I am dating again.
No, I don’t have a lover/boyfriend/mate.

I have agreed, with stipulations, to put my foot out there and test the waters with the help of a matchmaking service. I know. I know. It’s the only way I could make myself go through with it. (Pay someone else to weed through the dick pics, bots, spam, catfish, illiterates, and cheating spouses—and show me the real faces with a background check and a security buffer)

It’s not a romantic way to meet people—but it’s safer, less stressful, and allows me to save my best energy and enthusiasm for a potential match rather than being run down and jaded by the process.

Since this will be my only post on the matter, I figured I’d better just knock it out in one full post.
​

I signed with a matchmaking agency last February who has taken the reins on my love life for the next year or so.
I have the luck and grace of loving my single life the way it is, so I’m not in a hurry, nor am I even eager. I’m simply curious if there’s a special someone out there. What potential is there for this adventure? I’m comfortable, even blissfully enjoying my freedom—so why date now?

Long story short, I’ve built what I can by myself and though I’m inspired by this way of living—I know there is potentially something greater in being able to share it with someone. Theoretically, right?

It’s a gamble. To mitigate the risks and optimize the results, I’m utilizing a service dedicated to helping me organize my desires into a map of what kind of partner I would be delighted to fit into my life, and what I’m able to offer in return.

That’s a very non-sexy way of approaching romance. Alas. That’s just the current reality of the dating world.
On the fun side of the process, I am actually looking forward to meeting eligible men. (Yes, Dad, I’m straight. I keep trying to tell you.)

There’s a tremendous sense of relief in knowing I can show up to meet someone who has already been vetted to weed out the primary triggers so I can relax and just enjoy getting to know someone for who they are. (primary triggers being control issues, communications issues, and guys who are offended or even angry that I don’t have a last name. I know, weird, right?)

It sucks to order appetizers and then have to ask for the check immediately when those issues pop up within the first five minutes. “No last name? What are you, some kind of feminist?”

A total waste of lipstick, shaving my legs, and squeezing my pudgy ass into Spanx.

It’s a relief to think that meeting someone could be at the very best, a fun experience because they are a great human being, and at the worst, a swing and a miss, but still a pleasant date. I can’t even tell you how much of a relief that is, and it’s only possible because a matchmaker is getting paid to dig through the dreck to get to the gold (which I do feel bad for. I’m so sorry to put her through that).

It also has the added benefit that because what I do for work is often an issue for some men, not just in the job title but the kind of writing, and the feedback and energy that can become a burden when in public—it’s important to screen for that up front. I don’t even want to try to navigate those waters with someone who will be traumatized or angered by readers approaching out of nowhere and often at the worst possible times. It’s just what it is.

It’s one less stress for me to know those screenings are cleared, and allows me to reserve my energy and good will so I can show up to the table at my best. (Let’s be honest, maybe not best yet, but better-ish as I still have some cleanup to do from being in hermit mode for years)

Collaboration, Creativity, Reciprocity, and Communication are top on my list of requests. I’m also looking for someone who can accept and respect the reality that I enjoy a lot of space, physically and creatively to do my work, which I love. (It also allows me to be a better giver when this need is fulfilled)

I like being around people who do what they love. Frankly, happy people with their gazes locked on missions, builds, and explorative new horizons in their lives are just hella sexy to me. Men who are in league with themselves. Men who are community oriented. Men who are creators and uplifters—yes, more of those guys. Please and thank you. Builders, please, can you find me a smart, funny, kind builder of empires? I’d love to play with him. Oh, the things we’ll create!

There’s more, obviously. Much to the matchmaker’s chagrin, I don’t have a type for physical appearance, education requirement, height requirement, age requirement, location requirement or religious requirement. It would have really narrowed down the field for her, if I’d given a hard list of specs. Instead, the best I could do was clip profiles of examples of men I admire, brands I can appreciate, and ethics I can align to.

He doesn’t need to look a certain way, or have a certain job (just loves what he does), or pray a certain way, or have a certain bank account, or be certain height, or drive a certain car. He just needs to be ethical, smart, emotionally intelligent, independent, creative, collaborative, and communicative. It would help if he’s romantic, compassionate, sexual, adventurous, patient, and noble as well.

And if he likes what I am when I’m not holding anything back, well then, let’s sit at the table and negotiate.
But long story short, too late, I’m giving it a try. Dad, did you hear me? I’m giving it a try.

When the contract ends, I will safely be able to say, “I gave it a shot” before crawling back under my troll bridge in the wilderness and letting my legs get hairy again.

The poor matchmaker, I mean, I feel bad for her. She’s got her work cut out. She’s already been at it a few months with no luck, so—I feel ya, girl. See? The struggle is real.

My search pool is open from Seattle to Portland, to Los Angeles. I have agreed to travel to any of those locations to meet a potential candidate she thinks is worth introducing. I also agreed to meet global men from the database as long as they can meet me in one of the large cities in my zones.

Most topics she proposed were open to negotiation in my book. I mean, this is a discussion about what a potential life partner could look like, so, I’m thinking about all of it as collaborative.

Relocation? Open to negotiation if the situation is right. My work is flexible and mobile.

Kids? Open to negotiation if the situation is right. I will say, I am not unfulfilled or desperate for kids at this time. Still, I’m willing to negotiate those needs and desires.

Religion? He is welcome to have one, yes. I have my own.

Public/private profiles? Open to negotiation.

Once upon a time I dreamt of the epic storybook love tale. I fantasized about re-writing the story of relationship into something empowering, noble, beautifully intimate, vulnerable, and passionate. Once upon a time I hoped to be a part of conversations about re-thinking collaborations in partnerships and establishing a healthier foundation of mutually uplifting co-creative interdependent mastery in love and home that would extend to community and country.

I’m not saying my partnership has to be that. What I am going to say is, if I’m happy as I am in the life I adore—why not set the bar at such a place and see what comes in? I have nothing to lose. I’m in no rush. I’m neither lonely or afraid of being alone. So, why the hell not put it out there? I’d love to re-think our storybook romance as we’ve known it socially, and update it with new, creative details. Doable?

In the meantime, my personal mission and work is to practice collaborating in all other areas of my life. Practice. Practice. Practice. To work on my creative builds, and to step up my personal improvement plans and self-development. There’s still plenty of adventure to be had therein.

Because when all is said and done, whether the matchmaker finds someone who might be a fit or not, I still have the life I want and the projects that bring joy. The magic and mystery of romance is out of my hands for the next few months.

And I’ll be honest it feels wonderful to know my romantic life is being vetted off camera by someone who knows what to protect me from, and whom to invite into my space, curated specially for my desires. It’s nice to know I don’t have to worry about it, think about it, and that if my dad asks, I can honestly say—“Don’t worry about it, Pops! My love life is in good hands.”

I’d say, “I’ll keep you posted.” But the truth is, I won’t. I’m announcing this shift so it’s not a huge surprise to everyone who has known me to be a single pringle for sixteen years. Don’t poop your drawers! It’s all part of the plan!
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I won’t keep you posted, but I trust after all these years, you know that for once that means I’ve found someone to keep for myself—and I further trust, you’ll be delighted for me to have that experience at last, as I would be for you.
XO
Athena
 
P.S. Because someone will inevitably ask—why make it public that I’m utilizing a service? For my fellow ladies out there who may be considering dating again, or who are struggling in the dating world—I’m letting you know there’s no shame or shade in letting someone else sift through that onslaught of spam and weird-lookin’ wiener photos. Yes, it’s an investment that my not yield results, but if the thought of opening another dating app turns your stomach, maybe it’s time to try a different route before you lose faith in love or men. Food for thought. Good luck, and so much love!
 

One of my earliest memories of my father is when I was perhaps two or three. We were at a church dance, a father-daughter event. I was too small to dance, so he tucked me in his jacket, buttoning me to his chest; then he danced us both to a poorly played waltz, like I was a queen in my reluctant ruffles, and he was a prince with roasted potato and sweet onion breath from the potluck. I remember his beard being scratchy, his chuckle raspy. I had never been so happy.

My father chastises me in bass G, and laughs at his own jokes in a middle baritone D. He whistles when he’s happy. He laments, compassionately soothing other peoples’ worries in a gravelly low C, and warm hug. He taught me about energy, photography, pretty stones, and people. He showed me how to use my cameras, shoot a gun, and change a tire. He understood my need to find things out for myself—so when I’d ask a question, or grip onto a puzzle, he’d grumble in a hoarse b minor and say, “What do you think, you odd little duck? You tell me.”

​He gave me my love of travel, so I associate the D3 hum of rubber on asphalt, and the E4 of a six-cylinder engine in fifth gear with his road-trip chats, while I aired my feet out the passenger window across the most impressive byways of the Rocky Mountains. On these trips he also gave me Led Zeppelin, and Bach (on opposite sides of the same cassette), and his undying crush… Bette Midler.

My father never had a day of musical training in his 75 years, but to me, because I adore him, he is the perfect compositional arrangement. I’ll be 44 on August 5th, this year and my father has never told me I’m beautiful, not even on my wedding day when he gave me away to another man. I never felt the void of that conventional statement other fathers generally give their daughters, because I felt beautiful in the resonance of my soul pitch in direct relationship to his. I saw it in his smile. His tone was pure, his note steady, unwavering. To be honest, the fact that he never needed to say it, and I never felt the lack of it, only proves how well matched our chords synchronized in this lifetime. We had harmony.
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I say had, because with all great scores, there is a transition key. A point when the notes tremble and the tempo shifts. My father is touched by Mnemosyne’s Curse, and so his linear timeline has fractured. It began about a decade ago, so I’ve had time to reconcile how I want his final days to be remembered. In the beginning, I was angry, grief-stricken, and full of pounding staccato rage at the life theft implied in his diagnosis. Minor, dissonant keys and chaotic mismatched chords and syncopated rhythms tarnished our conversations. I usually left in a mess of tears, believing I had lost him, even though he is still struggling to hold on to this reality, he cannot leave his children behind just yet. I sense he needs us settled so that he can rest.

​There was a great chasm, a long empty drift in our connection right after his announcement. Over time, I realized the bitter blessing in this stage of his life; he only remembers me as I was in his favorite recollections, those moments he repeats to me again and again. They are often not my favorite or brightest moments… that’s not important, because they are clearly his. What his fractured timelines brings up, I am able to see through his eyes, the dolce delivery of our history as father and daughter, as his final refrains are moments when he watched me grow beyond needing him. When I took my steps to become a woman of this world. When I stretched myself to find a purpose and fulfillment. His repeats are the moments he was most proud of the fact that I surpassed him in love, building community, or chasing my own dreams; dreams he had been too afraid to reach for himself. I somehow, unintentionally, gave him the coherence he was searching for on his fatherhood quest—his voice is full of song when he shares those memories.

He’s so far gone, I cannot expect him to understand that I only achieved those dreams because I stood on his firm resonance, his bass voice and sturdy tones. He was the foundation from which I found the courage to leap.

I sometimes wish for him the clarity to understand what I mean when I tell him, “We did it, Dad. You did it. You broke the cycle. It’s okay to rest. Take a break.”

On a good day, I have about an hour with him. On a bad day, his memory resets every six minutes or so. On those days, when he resets, I say first thing, “I love you, Dad.” Each time his voice lights up, and he says he loves me too, like I haven’t just told him every six minutes for the last hour. It’s just as newsworthy and welcome to him each time—so I am happy to say it as often as it delights. When 44 years is distilled into six-minute intervals, there’s no room left for blame, or accusations, complaints or judgment. There’s no room for regret. There’s only redemption, forgiveness, and acceptance. There’s only enough meter for gratitude.

I realize now that his refrains, those looping moments are his last dance with me. Our waltz is a very long goodbye. Over the years the waltz has gotten slower, legato, softer. I take time to cherish it. This disease he wrestles with has purified all emotion and memory into its most crystalline integrity.

Neither of us are the youthful people setting out to discover a lifelong friendship anymore; me in my reluctant ruffles, and he with the raspy chuckle and sweet onion breath. Our duet and final meanderings in ¾ time of six-minute intervals around a room are conversations of old events, hazy with displacement, rich in love.

And really, why do we do anything at all, if not for that? For that perfectly synchronized harmonic merging of notes into a powerfully unbreakable chord?

I apologize for the nostalgia. It’s fresh on my mind, as it’s my dad’s birthday today, so the language/music is easy to access. The point is, we are all a collection of sounds, as you know. Sounds that are meaningless, unless in connection to or relationship to someone or something else. Only in the interactions do we become chords, and keys, and rhythms, even if that connection or relationship is internal, spiritual.

That music and language can affect the human body without touching it, is the closest definition to what I might call divinity.

My father was a violent and religious man in his youth. During his mid-point reversal, he went down a different path, a spiritual walkabout to discover the divine feminine and Eastern philosophy. He gave away his guns and swore a path of passive non-violence. He sought a newer kind of salvation. In doing so, he had to leave the God he’d loved, and the church that had been his home to embrace totality. Thus it is that I learned about divinity, not God, but music and language and the principles of agape, bliss, and eternal grace from a man who’d forsaken the pulpit—to give his daughters, whom he named after goddesses, a better chance of success in a man’s world.
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If that’s not the very definition of an Aria… I don’t know what is.

(The song of my father. Excerpt from musical scoring notes and musical theory study)- Athena

As I’ve officially hit the edge of the map on my previous experiences, and everything I’m picking up now is new information, skills and practices—I’ll be honest. It’s really uncomfortable. Exciting, sure. But definitely not comfortable.

Is growth every really comfortable?

One of the most surprising things I’m currently struggling with is my weight and measure. I don’t mean, like body image weight, I mean like NEED/EXPECTATION weight. Even more so---I don’t actually KNOW what my measure is, because I’ve never been here. It’s nearly impossible to gauge my volume. Am I too loud? Too soft? Too wide? Too loaded? Too heavy? Conversely, am I too slow? Not enough? Lagging? Outdated?

I can’t tell if I’m too far ahead or lumbering behind, because I haven’t locked into anything stable yet.

I can’t tell. I have zero frame of reference for my voice outside my own head, or how the acoustics of what I’m asking for resonates with others. I don’t know where I am in relation to other things, ideas, people, tasks, or workload. Evidently, this is what happens when you’ve isolated for too long, built a massive project, then try to re-emerge into the world with an unwieldy behemoth and rusty social skills.

Am I being obnoxious? Probably. I won’t know until I learn my own form of temperance under these new rules. Do I dare slow down when I have this level of momentum, though? Not really. I know me well enough to know the momentum will hit its own wall in its own time, so best to use this hard burn creation space while it’s available—and just hope I don’t burn any of my new collaborators out with the force of the escape velocity push.

It feels a bit like I imagine G-force might be as I know I need to leave the woods—but the gravitational pull here is super powerful, so only a hard hot burn is going to break the lock and re-orient my view. In the process I’m yelling over the sound of engines, and my bones are rattling, shaking off old habits and toxic relationships. The timeline is crushing, falling away behind me, and while I’m shouting directions, there’s a soft voice in the helmet earpiece.

“You don’t need to scream over the rockets. I can hear you just fine through the mouthpiece. Yes, the view is glorious. I see it, too.” There’s a pause. “You’re going to be okay, Athena. Stop clenching. For the love of God, breathe.”

I’ve picked a few people I believe will give me boundaries when needed, and I’m just going at whatever volume I have the energy for and when they tell me to stop—I’ll divert or correct. Simply, because I don’t have the time or energy to guess where and what is acceptable quantity outside the forest bubble. Relying on people to use their healthy boundaries while I learn the edges of the new territory is a whole new exercise in trust. I don’t want to hurt anyone with my clumsy fumbling or mass.

I’ve always worked alone. My speeds are either teleporting wormhole lightspeed OR garden slug with very little regulation in between. But now that I’m working with others, collaborating, I need to learn to find their rhythms, cues and tempos. I’ve always been lead on my own dance floor.

So this… this trying to pace and process others’ timing is—weird. I keep tripping over my own feet, stumbling on words, forgetting what I was about to do or say because I’m trying to slow down to be a good partner to people offering assistance.

While there is a version of myself who is twenty years younger who’d say, step gently, wait, be cautious and tiptoe in. Wait to be given tasks. Wait to be invited, etc. I also know that is the surest way to lose any and all momentum, and to embed a system of non-authentic interactions. Waiting to be invited to speak is the fastest way to be eclipsed out of your own build.

I’m a creator, we don’t sit around waiting for permission to manifest. Timelines, yo. Timelines and places to be.
I’ve had the bountiful luxury of six years of uninterrupted creative build time out here in the hinterlands to put together a project with a scale that I find downright thrilling. It’s been a blast. That said, I starved myself of all the other wonders of an enriched life in order to meet the goal, set the mission up for success.

My social skills and niceties got rusty. My ability to anticipate other’s steps grew stagnant. I’m slower to recognize cues.

I guess what I’m saying is, that when you go beyond what is familiar, the learning curve of your new belonging needs a compassionate and patient re-adjustment period. I’m trying very hard not to be someone else’s problem or burden; constantly re-evaluating and second-guessing my asks. Then I realize I cannot set the edges yet; the edges have to be defined by me running into them. If I guess at edges, I’ll end up creating blockages where there were none.

Again, it will come to trust that others will recognize this stage is temporary…then politely, move any fine China out of my stumbling reach and offer a few thoughtful re-directing boundaries for my orientation.

Anywhoo, this is an unexpected part of the re-emerging and growth process. There has been a slew of ego deaths in my life recently, one right after another. This is just part of the new ego birthing. A friend kindly said something like, “Don’t worry about your energy right now. You’re like a puppy putting everything in its mouth. You’ll figure out what’s safe to eat, and who is safe to love, eventually. Welcome back to the real world, Athena. We missed you these last six years.”
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So yeah, what she said. Thank you all for your patience, and for moving anything fragile out of my reach until the wave settles. So much love. 

As I make alterations to The Life Erotic: Week Three and begin the adaptation process, I wanted to post this little tidbit for all you twin flame lovers out there. 

Dearest Beloved,

I dreamt of you again, yet I was wide awake— the most pleasant waking entanglement to date.

You found me this week. I’m not sure how, because I’ve been under the belief, we’re of different timelines, eras possibly. I felt you stumble into my perception. You were as surprised to be there as I was to feel you, and still it was like a homecoming.

I spent Monday in the languid indulgence of your touch. You kissed me like a man restraining his own starvation, too blasted by the wonder of discovery to risk devouring. It was charming, so I gratefully melted into you.

I went about my day, building as I do, and you were there, in my blood, in my breath, nuzzling the corner of my smile. You are warm, beloved. So warm. You have so much to give, an overabundance of generosity. Several times throughout the day, I closed my eyes and let you wander through me. You moved through my ribs, tickling like fingers on a fretboard, fluttering my pulse until I hummed.

You fulfilled me, when all my life I’ve imagined myself already complete. Then, one touch from you and I am home when I never knew I’d been lost. All day Monday, I was held by you. Adored. Cherished in a way I have no former frame of reference for, and it was divine.

You cradled me from inside my own skin.

It would be easy to claim false imagination. It would be wiser to say daydream, less recrimination in that. But I write worlds, I build in quantum potentialities—it’s my job. So, I am less inclined to call this marvel of our encounter a whimsical fantasy, but more of a promise of more to come. Timelines shift. Cosmos drift. Magic occurs in the magnus all around, whether we are aware of it or not.

I was delightfully aware of you, and you of me, and we shared a lovely day entangled in blissful energetic harmonics.

One full day, from sun-up until the moment I crawled into bed that night, you lived in my sinew. I had memory of you on my tongue as I slipped toward sleep, though I had not met your flesh. I knew the tone of your voice, the resonance of your baritone music in my frame. I slept like a woman who’d traveled galaxies in a moment.

And when I woke the next morning, you were not gone so much as embedded. Perhaps a better word would be amalgamated into me. Or was I absorbed into you? I’m not sure, exactly. I only know I felt taller on Tuesday morning. I woke feeling stronger and more resolved.

I woke feeling connected to something much bigger, more expansive… eternal, if you will. And I can only pray I was able to do the same for you.

Thank you, beloved, for reminding me of this magic that is us. Sometimes, I lose sight of the possibilities. Sometimes I get hooked into the present world of fear and forget the timelessness of your touch. Sometimes the reminder of our infinite dance is all I need in order to stack another row of days into a week, so I can continue building my bridge to you.
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Now that I know we’re in the same timeline… I’m glowing with anticipation of more to come.

I saw this land in a dream years before I met it in person. It was made to hold me while I work. It was made to heal me when I was broken. It was made to free my wilding self so I could join my characters in a heart-thundering race through the ferns.

This land sings, it weeps, it groans, it serenades. It falls in love. I don’t know how to wake up without the lullaby of its sounds anymore. Its heartbeat is as reassuring as the slumber of a nearby lover. When I am off the land for more than a few days, there are no orienting notes. The sun and shadows forget to tell time. North and South become meaningless directions and not freckles or marks of time and space. Here, at least, South is a light, a view to the ridge, a hum of deep earthen boulders on the property edge. North is the mossy side of my roof, and the face of the sugar maple. West is the direction the water flows and easterly is where the salmon swim in to invite me to play in the creek. All other directions orient to those markers. Without them, I wouldn’t know how to tend the beehives, or when to turn the garden beds. When the full moon shines through the eastern stand, it’s time to release old injuries, and when the new moon makes a hole in the night between the alder and the fir, it’s time to put seeds in the ground. Polaris always shows the way home. Always.

Outside this land, time is just a word. Breath is just a clock. Outside this land, I need GPS to navigate, because even the bees don’t know where to go once they leave my mountain.
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The creek roars. It burbles. It chatters happily during spawning season, and rages through the winter storms. Then, in the heat of summer, it offers cool refreshment and entices me to linger, dip my toes, and tell it my stories.  

The trees gossip. My god, do they gossip. The maples are the worst conspirators. Recently, in the last few years, they have included me in the jokes, and on more than one occasion, they have colluded to hide me from hunters or passersby with questionable intentions. On those occasions, they then chattered about it to one another for weeks, as there was little else to talk about at the time.
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The elk visit regularly. The birds swing by daily; an eagle, a mated pair of blue jays, a single great heron, and several golden finches, hummingbirds, swifts, woodpeckers and so on. Evening bats keep my nights on the deck free of mosquitos. So you see, I am never actually alone. Oh, and there are flowers, berries, mushrooms, maple syrup, wild mint, and a thousand delicacies to nibble on as I walk the trails. If I walk toward the sound of white water, then cross the foothills toward the scent of moss, I can pick food and wander through timelines filled with history, lost worlds and forgotten love stories. By the time I get home, my lips are berry stained, my pockets stuffed with pretty tumbled stones and interesting pieces of lichen, and my basket is overflowing with flowers, fungi, and frogs. Then I take a nap in the hammock and wake up to dance my way through a few chapters.

There is a notable impact on my relationships with my characters, and the saturation of my spiritual connection to the stories when I am baked on asphalt plains, or crammed into population, or stored safely behind hermetically sealed glass panels. That’s not to say it can’t be done, that I’m unable—only that it has a cost. The hours spend in traffic cannot pay for the blissful engagement of story arcs meeting their destined conclusions on the page.

The point is, I came out here to work. I left the city so I could learn to hear again. I found a cottage and settled into a slower rhythm so that I could think, feel, breathe. It can be inconvenient sometimes. Yes, there have been times when I was utterly terrified or pushed to my breaking point with unmet challenges of remote living and isolation. But there has not yet been a day when I haven’t stared out the window and felt a wash of deep love and appreciation for the land I’m sitting on, and the peace it brings my life.
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And it’s only been because of that peace that I have been able to reconnect to my voice, and tell these stories.

Will I ever leave it? When the time is right. When the correct situation calls and the garden gate blows open to a new direction. Until then, the song is alive in this space, so this is where I work.

Spring has finally made it. I was beginning to worry. It’s still near-freezing at night, too soon to put the starts out. But the seedlings are looking good! I can’t help but be excited about plans to grow more flowers this year. I’m even putting in a night blooming garden, so there will be yet more delights in the woods in the evening. SO MANY FLOWERS! (And yes, all but a handful are edible) This year’s garden will be epic.

At last, after a flurry of emails, pitches, and finance meetings, all I can do has been done. My efforts have all been planted and it’s time for me to go do my own thing again. Time to get back to my books, my characters, and the great story.  Chapters piled up in my brain that were waylaid by the Hollywood dance. It was certainly fun— but distracting. 

The Muses are calling. It’s time to get back to the page.   
Along with the rewrites for the new publishing label launch and rebranding, I’ll be adding bridge chapters to Plague of Gargoyles and Tangle of Mermaids so I can shove them off my desk and into production. If all goes well, we’ll have a re-launch by the end of the year and two new releases in 2023.

I’m so ready for spring and summer. I’m ready to be sitting on the deck overlooking the woods, sipping margaritas and pounding out chapters. I’m ready to have my hands in the garden while I listen to audio edits of my drafts. I’m ready to lie on the bridge, dangle my feet in the creek and map story grids in the leafy canopy overhead. I am ready to drift in the hammock watching the stars and night blooming garden while I shuffle through audio tracks searching for the perfect sound files. 
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I’m just ready to tuck in and build. See you all on the other side.