Author: Tori Lennox

Just your average writer chick enjoying her literary fantasies.
Food For Thought · Novels · Writing & Creativity

Today is a day of emotional ups and downs…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

Not necessarily in a bad way. Just normal. I started this day giving Mom her meds and tucking her back in as I always do. Then I watered my plants and put seeds out for the birds and squirrels. I made a cup of coffee and sat down to read my emails while I watched the critter show through the French doors when I really should be writing.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving for me here in Florida in the United States. We usually share the holiday with Mom’s family. This year, I’m finally getting to cook for us. Nothing extravagant. Just a small meal for two. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for fifteen years; but couldn’t because I worked retail. Let’s be honest, Mom wouldn’t let me because of how I worked. She wanted me to rest up to work the Black Friday sales I hated so much. If you want to see people behaving badly this is the perfect time. Since I no longer work outside the home, I’m getting my wish and I’m truly grateful for that.

It was an email from my best friend this morning that got me thinking about gratitude. Real gratitude. Not the platitude that often masquerades as that emotion. My friend had a leg amputated last year due to illness and nothing has gone right since. He recently developed a staph infection which thankfully is getting better. He’s a dynamic professional, and always has been, so this situation is particularly hard on him. I’m fortunate we’re still so close since we haven’t seen each other face-to-face in close to eighteen years.

Given what he’s going through, it’s hard to offer encouragement without sounding trite. However, the fact he’s alive with hope and something to fight for – namely his health and the opportunity to jumpstart the writing career he’s already started – is something to be grateful for. The fact that he can retire from his old career financially sound with the luxury of starting his new career without needing a day job is another blessing. It’s up to him to find the positive in the negatives and the sweet scent in the crappy hand life dealt him. That’s what we all have to do and that’s what I tried to encourage him to do. Find hope in his situation and cling to it until things get better.

As I sit here musing, I’m grateful I’m home taking care of my mom. It’s hard sometimes. I’m a free spirit who likes to come and go as I please. However, I’m also good at being solitary as long as I get those nature walks. I’m grateful I don’t want or need much at this stage in my life. I’m grateful that attitude ensures I have money to give every month to help other people. I’m grateful I’m no longer young enough to get swept up in the turmoil wracking our country. I’m in a different place mentally and emotionally and I won’t apologize for that. I right wrongs in my own way and I’m grateful to have those opportunities.

In a world where everything is a cause waiting to happen, I prefer my causes to be ones where I can do immediate good. That the tears I cry and the frustration I feel over the state of the world isn’t useless. I’m grateful I have money to pour into feeding people, giving them water, helping them to support their families and put a roof over their heads, and provide disaster relief here in my country and abroad. Having been homeless for a short time a few years ago, my heart is for helping legitimate organizations with boots on the ground that give the hopeless some degree of hope. Even though I don’t materially have what I once had, I have more than so many people and I want to share. Life is about so much more than me.

That’s what I’m truly grateful for – that I understand that now. I’m at a point in my life where I happily give of myself to take care of my mom (my ex-mother-in-law) and I happily give from my finances to help people I will never meet. Feeling that way doesn’t come naturally. Given the abuses I’ve suffered in my life, there is an incredibly selfish part of me that wants to shout “what about me?”. I want this and I want that. I’ve lost so much I’m entitled to have what I want.

Sometimes, it’s couched as more of a “need”. Right. Honestly, I have to remind that part of me that I already have more than I need. If it’s a true need like replacing worn out sneakers – then I replace the sneakers. I’m not that selfless. However, most of the time, that need is an unnecessary want and I know I’ll get more pleasure out of giving than receiving so I give. It takes making a conscious effort to feel that way. A conscious choice. However, that soul tug within me that wants to do my part to make this world a better place keeps me straight and that’s another thing I thank God for. That He reawakened that part of me that I’d shut down somewhere along the way.

If you get anything from this mishmash of thoughts and feelings, please be grateful for the seemingly insignificant things we take for granted.

We have so much to be grateful for in America even when we can’t see it. Cherish your friends and family. Hold them close and let them know you love them. Remember the loved ones who are no longer here with joy for the time you did have with them. Even though holidays are bittersweet, I remember my mother (not my ex-mother-in-law I call “Mom” now) who died in 1996 with a full heart and I wish she was here to hold me. That feeling never goes away. Spend quality time together without cell phones and technology. Hug your pets. Forget the Black Friday sales in favor of family. For the most part, the best prices have already come and gone with those Pre-Black Friday Black Friday sales! I worked retail until recently, so I know that’s true.

Anyways, it’s time to go. Thanks for reading. I won’t apologize for being all over the place. That’s me. I will say, “Happy Thanksgiving!” if you celebrate and I wish you were here if you don’t.

Until next time,

Calla

Novels · writing · Writing & Creativity

I haven’t disappeared…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

I’m just living in that no-man’s-land between creativity and despair.

Not really. It’s nothing so dramatic. I’m torn between finishing the novel I need to finish and working on the book that’s calling my name. That’s why I haven’t written anything here. I’ve been trying to get my focus where it needs to be and it’s been difficult for a week or two. Between some minor health issues and navigating some major revisions I need to make in this novel, it’s been a fight to get the words to flow. However, that’s how it rolls sometimes. The good news is I’m finally over the first hump and the novel is flowing again.

However, I’ve started to feel like a smarter course of action is to do that one last read-through on the finished contemporary that’s ready to go and submit it. Even if it gets turned down, at least I have something with potential in a publisher’s hands while I’m editing and re-editing the novel I believe will get me somewhere. Yes, I’m an overthinker. While self-publishing and self-promotion are my go-to moves if this fails, the child within me still wants that publishing house contract in hand. It’s not an ego thing. It’s seeking the fulfillment of a life-long dream.

As I sit here on a rainy, cool Florida day watching the squirrels, painted buntings, and cardinals wreaking havoc on my back patio, I know pursuing my desire to write for a living is within reach. While I’m not the best writer out there, nor do I aspire to be, I have come to realize I have a niche. At least for my contemporaries and romantic suspense. I enjoy writing easy beach reads that are more sensual than explicit or erotic in nature. In a world where most romance writers are more MA than M, my stories have more to do with emotions and second chances than they do with crazy physical passion and perfect love.

My historical/historical romances are a different matter. While some of them are in a lighter vein like my contemporaries, the series closest to my heart is raw. Having spent my life studying ancient and medieval history, I try to suspend my 21st century values to recognize what made a good man or woman back then was vastly different that what makes a “good” person now.

My stories aren’t about judging or whitewashing characters to make them fit the sensibilities of modern readers. They’re about portraying life and relationships as they were or as close to it as my research and my imagination can get. While Thor would just as soon kill you as look at you under certain circumstances, he has an honor code that is very real. While Alexandria can wield a sword as good as any man out of necessity, she’s not just a warrior maiden. She’s a strong, maternal, protective woman who does what she has to do to save her people. While desperation drives both of them to do things they wouldn’t normally do, there are still things they won’t do. Lines they won’t cross and so on.

Anyways, I’m trying to get all the fluff-in-stuff I enjoy writing out of the way so I can throw on some Journey or Foreigner and focus on my Golden Wolf. My passionate love affair with crafting historical novels/historical romances with enough romance to appeal to woman and enough action to suck a man in is just too much fun to let fall by the wayside for too long.

As usual, I’ve ended up somewhere I didn’t mean to go. That’s okay. I mainly wanted to say I’m still out here and I will be writing again. Since this post has taken me several days to write, things have changed a little from the beginning. I did submit that book I was talking about to a publisher and I also submitted the pitch for a second contemporary romance at the same time. Say a prayer for me. No matter what happens, it was the right thing to do. I’m eagerly awaiting the response knowing I’ll be okay either way.

As I bring this post to close, I’ll be back soon. Hopefully writing about writing; but you know me by now. I tend to go all over the place. There’s just something so alluring about all those mental butterflies flitting about in my head that I get lured into pursuing them. That’s not a bad thing. It keeps me younger than my chronological age which is definitely a good thing. I’m so lucky I have the best of both worlds. I’m still vibrant enough to pursue my youthful flights of fancy and grounded enough to stay focused on getting novels written in a timely manner. It takes a certain maturity I didn’t necessarily have in my youth to tune all the temptations out and do what has to be done which is why you haven’t heard from me in much too long. I’ve been tuning out those distractions and this blog is a tempting one.

Anyways, I’ll write soon and thank you for reading. It’s an honor to share my insanity.

Until next time,

Calla

Judeo-Christian Perspective · Religious · Supernatural

I’ve Struggled With This One…Part III

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Sorry for the delay. The past few weeks have been nuts from a novel perspective. I’ve edited two novels with two more to go. While I can flip between writing and/or editing a couple of novels at the same time, I can’t add the blog to the mix. That’s too many different balls to juggle.

Anyways, I’m here now and I’m ready to dive into the matter. I’ll start by saying while I was so deeply involved with astrology, I was obsessed with hauntings. I wanted to believe in ghosts, orbs, crop circles, aliens, tormented spirits, any manner of things that go bump in the night. I never fully got there; but I tried for decades to get convinced. The whole idea is funny to me now because I never liked spooky things like horror movies or anything gory like zombies. But give me a good poltergeist, ghost, or demonic activity story and I wanted to know everything possible about what happened and why. I wanted to understand.

My poison of choice was Hans Holzer’s books and any haunting show/story I could find on television or the internet. Not surprising, I loved the historical hauntings best. I flirted with becoming a paranormal investigator for a couple of years. What stopped me was an innate feeling I was already in too deep. Some part of me balked at the thought that might be the step there was no backtracking from. I also realized I wanted to know about these things – not interact with them. As wide open as I was to the paranormal, I had enough common sense left to know I had far more to lose than I had to gain if I jumped into that lifestyle with both feet, so I didn’t. I chose to pursue my love of hauntings from a safer distance until I stopped believing about twelve years ago.

That’s about the time I started attending church with the intent to find a better life than I’d had for the last thirty years. While I’d like to say when I rededicated my life to Christ, I saw that my past pursuits were evil. That’s a lie. I already knew they went against the faith I still believed in but felt had betrayed me. I still believed in God and Jesus. I didn’t believe the organized church was right for me. I was perfectly happy mixing my Christian and pagan beliefs together with a generous dollop of morality and religion. So, no, returning to my faith didn’t suddenly open eyes that were already open to the error of my ways. The truth is far less exciting. As my mental and emotional health improved, my self perception improved as well. When that happened, I realized how convoluted and detrimental my interests were and walked away. I just didn’t want to dabble any more.

Before that happened, I visited a lot of crazy places never realizing all the insanity I was studying was opening doors to everything I was trying to escape. Whether you believe it or not, dark attracts dark, negative attracts negative, pathetic attracts pathetic, and desperate attracts desperate. You hear that over and over again; but I don’t think it really sinks in for most of us. It didn’t for me.

I was so desperate to find some degree of happiness and self-worth, I didn’t make a move in my romantic life without consulting astrology books, that astrology chart I’d ordered, and monthly horoscopes. That sounds ludicrous to me now; but it made sense back then. With hindsight, if I hadn’t believed so strongly in the reliability of astrology, I would have avoided so many disasters in my life. I can’t say the outcome would have been any better. I was too mentally and emotionally screwed up from abuse and self-hate. However, I know my life would have been different. I like to hope I would have been open to more positive influences.

However, I was married to my beliefs. To illustrate my point, I would have run as far and as fast as possible in the opposite direction the first time I met my brilliant, abusive, white-collar ex-husband when I was twenty-four. Even though I sensed something about him that I didn’t like, I ignored the same internal warning I would have followed before I became so embroiled in my New Age beliefs.

In my defense, this man passed the smell test. He looked good on paper. He had manners. He said and did the right things to lure me in. My family liked him and his family adored me. Added to that, he fit the profile of who I was supposed to marry according to that astrological chart I mentioned in a prior post. He was successful, professional, from a good family, and five years older than me. Everything my future husband was supposed to be. It didn’t hurt he treated me well while we were dating. Six months into the marriage I discovered I’d married an abusive monster it would take me three-and-a-half years to escape. I won’t go into the lurid details since I’ve already done that in prior posts. I will admit it was my cockroach I’ll-be-here-when-you’re-gone survivor attitude that pulled me through that nightmare. The best thing I can say about “Mr. White Collar Monster” is he didn’t let me play around with my New Age crutches. His life was about math, science, and sex. Superstition had no place in his universe. It did in mine both before and after him.

If it seems like I’m flipping back and forth between subjects like astrology, I am. I toyed with different interests at different times in my life. There were a lot of “beliefs” I tried on for size and abandoned. They didn’t work for me. Astrology, ghosts, and the unexplained like aliens and crop circles were fields of study I pursued for most of my life. Tarot cards and psychics were more sporadic studies. Neither lasted very long for specific reasons I’m happy to share.

My first contact with psychics happened when I was eighteen or nineteen years old. My Mom dragged me to a “Christian” psychic because she was having a weird dream over and over again. She saw this woman was coming to town in the local paper and made an appointment. I tagged along for the ride. This woman seemed pleasant and normal. She had strict rules about only doing one reading a year for her clients. The appointment was more like a friendly get together than a consultation. She “saw” a couple of things she shouldn’t have seen like the fact she saw my mother putting out packages and there was something wrong in her chest area. She was right in her abstract way.

My Mom was a rural mail carrier and she eventually died from the breast cancer that hadn’t been diagnosed yet. Added to that, she eventually interpreted my Mom’s dream as a message from her late sister-in-law who’d died from a brain aneurysm in the middle of the night slumped over her baby’s crib years before I was born. Apparently, my aunt wanted my mother to tell her family she was okay and she loved them. This woman not only interpreted my mom’s dream in a plausible manner, she told us my aunt’s name knowing she was off by one letter. According to her “Spirit Guides” my aunt’s name was Ila Mae. Her name was Ida Mae. She was one letter off. I won’t lie to you, I found the whole thing creepy at the time. I don’t think my Mom really knew what to think.

Before she was done, this woman tried to give me a “Spirit Guide.” I didn’t want one. Even back then I wasn’t sure what those were. I was inclined to think they were demons masquerading as angels. That was before she scared the hell out of me with her version of a Spirit Guide who was supposedly a Grand Prix driver who died in a race in France in the 1950’s. I wasn’t comfortable with that idea from the start. I didn’t care if this “guy” came forward in the spiritual realm to offer to be my guide. I didn’t want a guide. When she started telling me things he supposedly said from the other side starting with his admiration for my “golden pillow hair” and escalating to remarks that would have been overt come-ons from a living man, I went from “uncomfortable” to scared witless. To this day, I’m grateful I reacted that way without knowing why. I can honestly tell you if I’d been the bright-eyed, popular girl I was before I was molested, I might have been enticed by something telling me how beautiful I was. As it was, I rebuked that entity and never looked back. I never consulted another psychic until after my mom and my grandmother died when I was wallowing in grief. My advice, based on personal experience, is don’t go there. At best, you’ll be manipulated by well-meaning people being influence by things they don’t understand. At worst, by unscrupulous cons who know exactly what they’re doing.

The last thing I’m going to share is my brush with Tarot Cards. I had a teacher friend I met on my first teaching job. Susan was a talented artist as well as an art teacher. She not only read Tarot cards; but she collected various Tarot sets for their artistic beauty. When my friend taught me how to read Tarot cards, she warned me the more I read them the more I would want to read them. Her answer to that hunger was to put the cards away for a few weeks and not touch them. Instead of scaring me off, that intrigued me. I took to reading Tarots like a fish to water and I was good at it. I did a reading every chance I got until I realized Susan’s warning was true. The more readings I did, the more I wanted to do. I put the cards in a drawer for a while like she advised only to take them out again when I felt it was “safe.” After that situation happened three or four times and I realized the desire to do readings got stronger each time, I decided I was messing with something bigger than I was. I threw the cards away. Truthfully, I threw the cards away twice before I was done with them.

This is the point where I’m going to end this subject. There are a lot more experiences I could recount, some of them a lot more disturbing; but I won’t. I don’t want to relive the experiences. While I never practiced Satanism or any form of witchcraft or dark magic or any of the belief systems many of us consider “bad,” what I did was detrimental enough to my mental, spiritual, and emotional health. I couldn’t see that while I was involved in that lifestyle. Fifteen years out of it, I see clearly now what I didn’t then.

Whether you believe me or not, is up to you. Whether you get anything out of what I write, again, that’s up to you. I can honestly tell you that I don’t believe I would have met, much less married, the “White-Collar Monster” if I hadn’t so immersed in occult practices. I believe what I was doing attracted him to me – dark attracts dark. I also believe I would never have gazed into those flat, black snake-eyes every time he choked or beat me because I resisted him giving me to other men or because I didn’t want to dress trashy in public. Those were his usual reasons; but, honestly, because he felt like it was as good a reason as any to knock me around.

Bluntly, if you’re repeating my mistakes, the best advice I can give you is to walk away. If you’re dabbling with any of the things I did and you’re depressed or suicidal, I can tell you from experience that what you’re doing may not be the cause – but it’s not helping you. It didn’t help me. While returning to my faith is what ultimately straightened my life out, walking away from all the garbage I’d devoured for years is what opened the door to restoration.

Until next time,

Calla

Novels · Writing & Creativity

While I’ll update Part III soon…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

I’m up to my eyeballs in novels at the moment!

I mentioned on an earlier post that I was submitting a novel to a major publishing house and I did. What I didn’t say is I also prayed, “Lord, if I’m supposed to self-publish please close this door.” before I did it. Since I was submitting largely to fulfill an old dream, I had more of a nothing ventured, nothing gained attitude than the intense emotional investment I’ve had in the past. That’s not to say I didn’t present a professional, well edited submission package. I did. The best I’ve ever submitted before and one I was proud of. What was different from years past is that I knew however the situation turned out was the way it was supposed to be so I didn’t take the rejection personally. In fact, it didn’t bother me at all.

Added to that, I found some company reviews I’ve never seen in all my years of research disclosing personal experiences with this publisher. While waiting up to three months to be rejected isn’t what any writer wants to happen, waiting eighteen months for editors to have multiple conferences about your book only to finally reject it wouldn’t sit well with me. Nor would waiting two years to have my book finally accepted only to wait another year or two to have it published. I’m not talking about going through the editorial/rewriting process. I’m talking about receiving the initial “Yay” or “Nay” to get the ball rolling.

The funny part is I didn’t discover any of that information until after I’d been rejected. It was weird because I typed in the same keywords I’d used before and these articles suddenly popped up at the top of the page I think it was a God thing – the confirmation I needed to go my own way. Release outdated dreams. You can think it’s coincidence if you want. Either way, I appreciated seeing a truth I’d never seen.

Anyways, from how things have changed since I started this journey many years ago, I’m not sure what the benefits of getting published by a major publishing house are for an unknown writer like me except some imaginary sense of legitimacy I don’t need that any more. I’m validated by having six completed novels in three genres, thirty plus fanfics, and one non-fiction self-help under my belt. I think it’s past time to lay that insecure part of me to rest. The part that felt I couldn’t call myself a writer until a major publishing house published me. Baloney. I’m a writer.

Now, it’s time to chase the more important dream. The one that says I write for the love of the story. I’m in a different place with my writing and my editing abilities than I was in the past. I’m in a different place with my story telling. I no longer work outside the home, so I have both the time and the resources to self-promote. I understand myself better at this stage of my life than I did when I was younger, too.

I know I can write anything I want to as long as it’s in my wheel house. Once upon a time, I could have written fantasy and sci-fi as well as romance because I lived in that world. I could have written supernatural romances. Again, I lived in that world. My creativity was wide open in my twenties and I embraced everything. However, I was limited by what I thought I could do. Although I wrote a contemporary romance – one that started out as a potential magazine short story written around prompts – I never believed I could write that genre. Three contemporaries later, yes, I can although it’s a recent development. I won’t pretend those books are anything more than they are – chick fic, easy beach reads – and I like them all. While I’m still several weeks from getting the books out there, I’ll know soon enough if the world feels the same.

While I enjoy writing contemporaries, I’m the most emotionally invested in Historicals/Historical romances. That’s to be expected. I love history and I love historical research. I enjoy creating interesting characters that are neither good nor bad; but human and flawed. Characters that can’t be judged by the same standards we’d judge a person today because the laws and the protections we have now didn’t exist then. I enjoy putting them on the edge of the precipice and pushing them over. I enjoy writing realistically and graphically in a way I won’t with contemporaries.

I’m also a bit of a ghoul when it comes to history and historical romances. While I enjoy viewing day-to-day objects like a Bronze Age bulla or an Etruscan earring, the skeletons affect me the most. Largely because of their humanity. Because that skeleton was a man or a woman just like me in all the ways that matter. I feel that deeply and respectfully. That person loved, hated, and bled. They lived. They died. I want to understand as much of their life as I can and those bones in the ground tell so much – a person’s general health, their age, what they did for a living, what area they originally came from, whether a female had borne a child, if a male was likely a warrior, farmer, or an athlete. Sometimes, how a person died. The list goes on.

This information is important from an archeological/historical perspective. It’s invaluable to me in developing my historical characters. When facial reconstructions are done, I get an idea of how a person looked from a different time period. That more than anything cinches the whole, “I am them and they are me” emotional bond I feel with, say, a girl named “Ava” who lived in Scotland 3800 years ago. Or with King Richard III. Since I’ve always believed he received a raw deal historically speaking, I was ecstatic when his bones were finally found. Getting to see how he might have looked through forensic fascial reconstruction was icing on that cake. As crazy as that sounds, since I first read his story when I was in my teens, I had a secret hope he’d be found in my lifetime. I never expected it to happen. When it did, it was a real, “Wow!” moment.

You might wonder what all of the above insanity has to do with writing. A lot for me when I’m crafting historical/historical romances. It’s invaluable. It fuels my imagination and my characterizations. Take Thor, yes, that’s his name since he’s based on a real person who lived in the 12th century. One we have, maybe, one or two short paragraphs about in the historical record. However, the little we do know was enough to fuel my imagination. He came to me fully formed in my mind based largely on years of historical research. I already knew what I envisioned was plausible in terms of his height, build, and coloring. I also knew the story and characterizations unfolding in my mind were plausible as well. Don’t get me wrong, my novel is fiction; but, the framework it’s crafted on is real. For me, that’s what makes a historical come alive.

For a post just meant to say that I’m actively working on Part III, I’ve meandered down a lot of bunny trails. What else is new? Being laser focused on a story is limiting. When I come over here, my desire to run free tends to get the best of me.

Until next time,

Calla

emotional healing · Food For Thought · Opinions · Religious · Supernatural · Uncategorized

I’ve struggled with this one…Part II

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

In more ways than I expected. No, not with what you’ll think of me if I write some of this. I burned that bridge a long time ago with prior posts. The most trying aspect of this piece is finding the right words to say what needs to be said with integrity. To bear my soul. It’s humbling to admit I was desperate for the acceptance I could never have. Not because there was anything wrong with me. There wasn’t. Nothing beyond my perception I was “damaged goods.” Not because others weren’t willing to accept me. They were. But I never saw that because of my self-perception.

Sharing my experiences as honestly as possible entails revisiting traumatic memories and ripping old wounds open. It’s a necessary evil. Otherwise, I’m just another born-again telling people occult practices are evil because the Bible says so. Nope, not me. While that’s true, that’s not my angle. Knowing that reality didn’t deter me, so why should I expect it to deter you. Most of us are attracted to things we shouldn’t be. I was.

So, if you’ll stick with me through the opinions and backstory, I’ll get to the personal experiences that taught me the error of my ways. They aren’t pretty; but they are real. I have a sneaky suspicion a lot of you are experiencing or have experienced the same kind of things. While I don’t post trigger warnings, I will warn you that I may be fairly graphic in my recollections. Not vulgar, but real. The time for relying on allusion has long passed. We’re so desensitized as a culture that alluding to anything doesn’t get the point across. Sometimes it’s necessary to cozy up to vivid memories that aren’t remotely comfortable. Unfortunately, I can’t “show” you how my involvement with astrology and a so-called “Christian” psychic led me to make decisions that catapulted me into the worst period of my life any other way.

That being said, let’s get back to the story I’ve already started. In this day it’s not usual to have a kid in the fifth or sixth grade (or much younger) reading and comprehending on a college level. Back in my day, it was rare and it wasn’t nurtured. I was one of only two kids in my whole school who were significantly accelerated in every subject and Jonathan’s scores were higher than mine. The funny thing, you’d never know it by our grades. We weren’t the straight A students largely, I think, because we were bored and we didn’t have guidance. Nobody really knew what to do with us, so they did nothing. Why am I telling you this? Merely to illustrate intelligence and comprehension aren’t good indicators of maturity. I was a baby when I started grazing through New Age topics. Ten or eleven years old if that. I had no clue what I was messing with. I couldn’t begin to understand how any of that fit in the real world. I just thought what I was learning was interesting and I was a sponge soaking up everything I was exposed to.

More important than my fascination with dipping my toe in murky waters was my belief anything my Mom read was a must read and, around this time, she was reading astrology books. She read them and shrugged them off as entertainment as most people did in the ’70’s. She bought into the “characteristics” aspect of astrology more than the “prophetic” aspect and took it all with a big grain of salt. Over time, I bought it all. Astrology was more than a passing interest. It was my crutch.

While my Mom knew I was more interested than she was, I don’t think she realized how deep my involvement went. She should have because I didn’t hide what I was doing. But, she didn’t for a lot of reasons. For one thing, by the time she pushed through her busy day, she wasn’t interested in micromanaging my life. For another, she didn’t know my Dad had molested so she thought the reason her once popular, self-confident kid became withdrawn was because Junior High was hard. I’d gone from an Elementary School where we were taught to be respectful and well-mannered to a Junior High filled with mean-spirited, disrespectful hyenas. Not being into sex, drugs, profanity, and mouthing off to teachers made me a moving target for all the kids who were. Yep, bullying existed in the dark ages. I experienced more than my share of it.

While none of that was pleasant, I was tough enough to have navigated the teen-aged angst just fine if I’d still been that same bright-eyed, innocent little girl I was just a year before. Instead, I was a tormented kid looking for something to take the guilt, fear, and shame away. Something that could give me some degree of control over my life was what I was looking for. By the time I was in High School and into college, I’d taught myself to cast astrology charts. I could look at someone and predict their Sun Sign with a fair degree of accuracy based on physical characteristics. My little hobby had become obsessive and I loved it. I felt powerful.

When I was in ninth grade, I ordered a detailed Astrology chart that predicted the rest of my life. With hindsight, ordering that forecast was the worst thing I’ve ever done. My life became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I became addicted to reading every horoscope I could get my hands on in an effort to keep all the bad stuff that chart predicted from happening to me. While my “planetary alignments” were overall negative, that chart promised I still had the power to change these things and it told me a lot of specifics I clung to for most of my life. Concrete specifics like my perfect husband would be five years older than me. I’ve put that one to the test a couple of times and it’s crap like everything in that chart with the exception of the projected pain and misery. While I can’t say my life would have been any different if I’d never bought that chart – it wouldn’t if I’d made the same choices – I can say expecting my life to be unhappy pretty much ensured it was until 2008 when I finally found my way back to Church and healing.

At this point, I wish I could say this was the end of the matter. It was just the beginning. I was like the person who’s first drink initiates their dive into the bottle. My grazing in the “New Age” section of the library vault opened doors I’d never really thought about before. My next big interest was ghosts, hauntings, poltergeists, cryptids, preternaturals, E.T.’s, and eventually Tarot Cards. Actually, all of those were parallel interests going on at the same time I was mired in astrology.

As I’ve already said, this piece has several parts. I’m guessing there will be two more posts in this vein. Definitely one. I apologize for so much backstory; but the experience part of the blog doesn’t make sense without the set up.

Until Part IIl ~ Experiences,

Calla

emotional healing · General Quirkiness · Judeo-Christian Perspective · Life in general · observations · Opinions · Religious · Supernatural

I’ve struggled with this one…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

In the, “Do I or don’t I” write this piece sense. It took me a few days to finally decide that, Yep, this one’s kind of out there, but it’s true so I’m going for it. I’ve been honest about my life and my journey from self-loathing to self-respect in so many ways. But, I’ve never shared this part largely because it’s easier to speak about abuse than it is to speak about “Spiritual” or “Supernatural” beliefs some of which seem foolish with hindsight. Not foolish that I believed certain things on my spiritual journey. That’s what a “Seeker” does. Foolish because I let my beliefs control me when I believed I was controlling my beliefs.

I’ve also debated opening up about this aspect of my life because it’s not only out there; but incredibly long. More than one blog long. Probably a two or three-parter. However, I’ve made allusions to “my journey” in terms of my spirituality and stated outright that I came by my Christian beliefs the hard way. However, I’ve never shared that much about how I went from practicing a form of “Christopaganism” to my current belief system. I think it’s time to weave that story with the same candor I’ve tried to exhibit in all of my posts.

The sad part of my story is I considered myself a Christian while I dabbled in Occult practices. I didn’t comprehend it’s one or the other. The two don’t mix. Like it or not, when you try to have it both ways, you’re going to favor one side over the other. I’ll let you guess which one. I’m not saying these statements because I’ve heard or read them somewhere. I’ve lived the events I’m writing about so I’m not just sharing beliefs. I’m sharing experiences. I can assure you the lure of Astrology, or psychics, or Tarot Cards or whatever soul poisoning dabble you choose isn’t worth the price you’ll pay down the road. It wasn’t for me.

My dance with the dark side started in elementary school as a smart kid with a fearless mind and a thirst for knowledge that continued for most of my life. The dark, musty downstairs “Vault” of my small town library was a treasure trove of resource books that entertained me for years. There were tomes on everything from gardening to true crime to history to travel to the 19th century Spiritualist Movement and everything in between. I grazed through all of them; but I was drawn most to the books about hauntings, the preternatural, and the Spiritualists. I devoured every ghost hunting book Hans Holzer wrote. I read about Atlantis, Lemuria, and Mu as well as the Order of the Golden Dawn. I digested the writings of Edgar Cayce. I became fascinated with UFO’s, crop circles, and ley line theories. Don’t get me wrong, I pursued other interests like medicine, history, quantum theory, FBI profiling, forensic facial reconstruction, and history among other things. As I’ve already said, I liked knowing a little bit about some things and a lot about others. Unfortunately, for the most part, the “lot” wasn’t the right stuff. My favorite dance was with Astrology, Tarot Cards, ghosts, ET’s, and things that go bump in the night all under the guise of knowledge.

Despite all that, I considered myself a Christian. I would have corrected anyone for suggesting otherwise. I believed in Jesus. There were things I didn’t do because they were “wrong.” I had the guilt, the condemnation, the rules and regulations without ever having the relationship with the Father or the Son. Forget the Holy Spirit. He was just a word. I believed I was right. The occult interests I dabbled in weren’t my “religion.” They were just passing fancies I found interesting and I had “rules” in place to protect me.

Those rules were laughable. For one thing, I was already in a dark place from the time I was molested the first time. To even think I could wallow deeper in the dark without being affected takes a serious disconnect from reality. You can’t. I believed I could read about witchcraft as long as I didn’t read the spells or chants. I could read about other religions if I didn’t read the rituals. In fact, I could read anything I wanted to read as long as I kept the wrong words out of my head. Right. I was playing with things I didn’t fully understand although I knew enough to know words have power. Looking back, there was something in me that drew a line in the sand I couldn’t cross. One that said I was willing to dabble this far; but not cross the line. While I’m grateful for that restraint, I went too far.

Far enough I didn’t like the dark and I didn’t like to sleep. I was born an insomniac. My mind was always churning. The fear of the dark came later. About the time I learned there might be things to fear in the dark like that cold, malevolent presence I encountered at the top of the stairs one night in my family home. It should have clued me in when the “whatever” departed and let me pass when I cried out to Jesus. It didn’t. Not really, I brushed it off as “one of those things.” Not my brightest moment. I don’t claim to know what that was or why it happened. It just did. I don’t even claim to know what it’s intent was beyond the fact I felt like I was being pushed down to a kneeling position and I didn’t like that even more than I didn’t like it.

For one thing, I was standing on the top step of a second floor staircase, not the landing, and that wasn’t safe. For another, the whole experience was terrifying. For the third, I don’t like being forced to do anything so there was a degree of anger in the fear. While I’m grateful the story ended with me walking safely to my bedroom, I wish I’d had enough sense to be scared back in the right direction. I wasn’t. Not beyond putting my Bible by my bed and reading it. I was fourteen or fifteen at the time and already too damaged for that degree of common sense to bleed through the youthful arrogance. Added to that, the hamster was already galloping around the “if I can control my life, I can control the pain” wheel in my brain and had been for several years by then.

As my occult interests expanded, my boundaries became more defined. I had enough sense to know I was flitting where I shouldn’t go and I needed to do more than just not read certain words. So, I decided what I would and wouldn’t do; but, I didn’t give up my quest. Knowledge is seductive and I wanted to know. That mindset is dangerous. It can take you places you’re not meant to go. But, as I said, I had boundaries. Right. I thought I knew everything when I knew nothing.

I understood I wasn’t going to play with Ouija Boards. I’d heard enough spooky stuff about that to steer clear. Crystals didn’t interest me. The idea of channeling or automatic writing scared the hell out of me. Literally. The idea of something overtly having control of me that wasn’t me wasn’t anything I wanted to tangle with. I wasn’t interested in astral projection. I didn’t know what would crawl in when I crawled out. I wouldn’t dabble with anything involving Satanism, grimoires, spells, or blood sacrifices. None of the yuck stuff that ended up in horror stories. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t joyfully prance around in shadowy areas I considered “safe.” I did and it all started innocently enough with imitating my Mother’s interest in magazine horoscopes.

While my goal isn’t to freak you out, real life is messy. Most of us drift into things without realizing we’re doing it. I dabbled in things we consider mainstream now like astrology and tarot cards. I consulted psychics a few times in my life. I did more than that as I’ll share more in depth in the next post. In closing, I wasn’t that stereotypical weird Goth kid everyone knew something was wrong with or the woman who cut herself in private. I wasn’t an addict or an alcoholic. None of that. I was a very normal, very average woman with a love for learning. Or so I thought. In reality, I think subconsciously I was a woman searching for some way to end the pain and find a degree of peace and happiness anyway I could find it

Until Part II,

Calla

Food For Thought · observations · Opinions

I just read something that disturbs me greatly…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

In a world that already disturbs me in a lot of ways. Before I write this post I need to make a couple of things clear. Number one, this is very much an opinion piece and number two, I don’t care how you identify in terms of whether you’re a male who identifies female, etc. That’s your journey and only you can take it. I also need to say this post is all over the place. There is a point and purpose, it’s probably not as clear as it should be here in the beginning. This post is more about just getting my feelings out than doing it in a professional manner.

I’ll start by saying I’m a female who identifies female and I always have. I was a pretty, large breasted female before I was out of seventh grade. Considering the events in my life that occurred both before and after that time, I could have identified very differently, but I didn’t. I’ve always known I was a heterosexual female. As unpopular as that is to say, it’s true. Before you go back to my prior posts and say you’re a Christian, you’re biased, etc., let me say I left the church when I was fifteen. I’ve only been a practicing Christian for the last ten years. Beyond that, I was in theater in high school so I’ve always had gay friends. If I’d wanted to be anything other than what I am, I could have chosen that path. Considering I was molested by my father before I was in Junior High, and by my youth director before I left the church, I could have hated men. I didn’t.

I went the other other way. I just stayed away from boys and men. I was terrified someone was going to try to touch me in ways I didn’t want to be touched without my permission. The fact boys and men couldn’t look me in the eye because they were too busy staring at my breasts didn’t help matters. The sad thing is, in spite of all that, I still wanted a normal dating life. Truthfully, I was torn between knowing sexuality is normal and not wanting anyone to make me feel dirty again. Not wanting to touch or be touched in ways I knew were wrong. So, I was totally screwed up before I was eleven or twelve.

All of that being said, I’m a human being first and a woman second. One who is loosing both her humanity and her womanhood through the rampant depersonalization of our culture. I am not part of the “Birthing People,” or people who breastfeed or people who menstruate or people who go through menopause or people who bear children or any of those other crazy labels becoming so prevalent today.

I’m a fifty-seven year old woman with a solid grounding in reality who believes in right and wrong and in absolutes. I’m also a woman who believes you have the right to believe and feel however you want. However, these new labels disturb me because part of why I think I survived all the physical, mental, and sexual abuse I’ve suffered is because I always had absolutes to hold onto. I knew I was a woman. I knew I was an abused woman. But I also knew I was a survivor and not a victim. That doesn’t mean I didn’t have a lot to work through or it didn’t take many years to heal. It just means I didn’t take my own life because I did have certain values instilled in me that taught me to fight and not give up. When everything is fluid, you have no absolute to hold onto because you and your life are whatever you say they are. I can honestly tell you I would have probably committed suicide if I hadn’t held the personal belief that suicide was wrong for me. I thank God I had those beliefs for they are the very reason I’m still here.

While I’m not willing to call myself a “Birthing Person” or any of those other dehumanizing names, I will claim to have been a woman of childbearing age once upon a time. If I’d ever had children, I could have been a pregnant woman, a mother, or even a breastfeeding mother/woman. I have never been a “People” of anything. I don’t care how you identify – you’re still a human being with human dignities. When you become a “People” you’ve lost what makes you a person. You might as well be a Borg from Star Trek TNG and part of “The Collective” instead of the very special person you were created to be.

Just my personal opinion.

Until next time,

Calla

Food For Thought · General · Novels · observations · Opinions · Writing & Creativity

A Bit of This…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

A bit of that. With how I feel this morning, that’s how this post will be. All over the place. As I sit here watching squirrels and birds grazing in my patio garden, I’m content in the moment. There’s something about being told off by a woodpecker because the bird feeder is lacking I find funny. I’m not as amused by the ravenous pole-dancing fur ball that loves to decimate said feeder when there’s plenty of food set out for him. I’m also not as happy my tiny titmice aren’t as pleased with the new “squirrel free” feeder as I’d hope they would be. The birds prefer competing with my Kamikaze woodpecker pair for their shot at the feeder. I’m hoping my little friends will grow to appreciate both feeders. I don’t know if that’s going to happen. Time will tell. It usually takes a while for the feather babies to warm up to anything new. They still aren’t sure if I’m friend or foe even though I feed them.

In the interim, I’m enjoying the constant insanity of bobbing morning doves on my patio, obnoxious blue jays dive bombing my mulch every now and then, and my beloved cardinal love bugs who visit several times a day. They have a special place in my heart because Daddy Red watches over his plump little princess from a higher perch every time they come calling. He even feeds her sometimes which makes my heart melt and I’m not really a heart melting kind of girl. Daddy Red likes to feed on the feeder and bathe in the bird bath while he watches over his mate. Little Girl prefers her seeds from a pie plate on the patio and her bath from the puddle accumulating in the seat of a plastic chair. As insignificant as this sounds, it makes me smile since this is as close to the country as I can get living in town and I cherish every moment.

I haven’t written for a while because I’ve gone through some health issues for close to three weeks. It started with a fairly bad autoimmune flare and ended with an unexpected issue that physically wiped me out as much as the flare. As annoying as being useless is, it wasn’t all bad. While I didn’t get my novel submitted as I’d hoped, I did realize I needed to change a couple of things and I got started on my synopsis. So, not all bad. I had a lot of time to think while I rested as well.

The biggest thing on my mind was the contents of this blog and how it might affect my ability to sell my books. I became concerned that my more conservative values aren’t in sync with what people want to hear. That my opinions might be deemed offensive. In the end, I decided not to change a thing. There are a lot of ideas and opinions in this world that offend me and some that, offense aside, are just plain wrong in a reality that has any sense of honor or integrity. Any absolutes. However, other people are entitled to hold any belief they want. I respect that right. All that I ask is to be allowed the same courtesy.

I think that attitude comes from being old enough and grounded enough to realize my life isn’t all about me. I remind myself of that daily. Maybe that I’ve given up everything in terms of my job and my personal income to take care of my “Mom” reminds me of that. Every time I struggle with how narrow my world has become, I’m hit with how much more content I am with my daily life now. I feel a great sense of gratitude to God for making it possible for me to be here with my ex-mother-in-law giving her the life and the dignity she deserves. She’s doing great. It doesn’t matter my boss and my co-workers thought I was nuts for doing it. I’ve walked away from everything I spent seven years building with the conviction even if it’s sometimes scary, you have to find joy where you are and I’m doing that.

Back to the blog thing, I’ve decided in a world where very little is honest or concrete, I need to be both. I don’t blog for the “likes” or the views or the comments although receiving any of those puts a smile on my face. I blog with the hope something I say will positively impact someone out there in some way. I blog because I want to remind myself how far I’ve come from the irreparably damaged woman I used to be. I blog because it keeps me writing and makes me feel like I’m following some part of my calling. While I’m not really out there in the world due to family commitments, my “voice” can be. Even in the darkest years of my life, I tried to help others. Offer comfort and encouragement in a crazy world. I couldn’t heal myself; but I tried to heal others. I’m still doing the little I can the only way I can at the moment. I write these nutty little blogs.

In closing, it’s taken me several days to finish this post because I was slogging through writing a novel synopsis and a cover letter as well as doing the final edit of my first three chapters. I had to make sure my submission was up to snuff. As you can imagine, that’s the hardest part of writing. It wasn’t fun at all; but I was so happy when I finished. Not only finished. I was satisfied with my work. That was a feeling I didn’t think I’d have.

I emailed my novel submission to the publishing house at 9:30 E.T. this morning. What a way to celebrate my 57th birthday! Now, the waiting starts. We’ll see what happen. In the meantime, I have three completed novels to edit so I have my work cut out for me!

Until next time,

Calla

Novels · Writing & Creativity

When I think I’m finally done…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

I realize my work has just begun. I’m in the midst of editing which is my least favorite aspect of writing. Unlike years ago, I now catch typos, missing words, and spelling errors the editing tool doesn’t. That’s largely due to personal growth and maturity. I’m doing what I have to do. While I’m not fond of the process, I no longer say, “I hate to edit.” In fact, I enjoy knowing I’m improving my work. I also recognize that, unlike my fanfic, my novels represent me and the standards I hold myself to. That’s important. While my style of writing and/or my stories may not appeal to everyone, my manuscript should reflect my commitment to excellence.

Beyond the technical formatting, that commitment includes using words properly. I spend a lot of time verifying spellings and definitions. While a word might sound good in a sentence, it’s the wrong word if it doesn’t mean what I’m trying to say! I also spend a lot of time searching the Thesaurus for just the right word. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. That’s when I compromise and accept the “perfect” word has eluded me. At that point, I let it go knowing sometimes I’ll find what I’m looking for farther down the road. Often in the midst of editing. That whole concept of just putting something on paper and moving on has gone a long way towards eliminating writer’s block for me. I can sculpt the masterpiece later. Right now I need to put some defining chips in that shapeless hunk of stone.

I do that by seizing on the element I’m writing my story around. That may be a character or an event. It might be a more abstract idea. It varies. Yeah, I’m a weird one and I’d never tell anyone to write the way I do. My novels have always downloaded in my mind from start to finish. My brainstorming and outlining is more about fleshing out details and connecting dots than developing storylines. My characters are old friends from the beginning. I know how they look, feel, and act without really thinking about it.

On the one hand, all of that’s a good thing. On the other, sometimes I think it would be easier to follow conventional wisdom. Not going to happen. In most things, I see the big picture before I can contemplate the details. Writing is no different. While I’d like to start with an outline and write in a more methodical fashion, I never get anywhere when I try. Talk about massive writer’s block. I have to start writing, get in the flow, set up my beginning, middle, and end – then I can outline to a certain degree and I usually do. See, it’s weird; but it works for me.

So, the best words of advice I can give any wanna be writer is to find your style of writing and what works for you. What lets you complete a story. If the step-by-step, tried and true, works for you, go for it. It never has for me. I keep bringing it out every now and then only to bog down and fail miserably, Know, as well, that unless you’re incredibly gifted, your writing won’t be great from the start. It probably won’t even be good. There will be lots of mistakes. Lots of room for improvement and growth. Know also the more you write, the better you get.

I know this is true; but I’m never happy with the finished product. I always feel I can do better. While that may be true, I know I have to find a stopping point where I make peace with my work and declare “this is good enough.” If I don’t, I’ll never finish. The same will be true for you. There will come a point after you’ve edited, rewritten, and edited however many times when you’ll know it’s time to stop. If you don’t, you’ll make a mess of all your hard work. I know. I’ve done it.

I’m on my forth or fifth edit on this little 50,000 word novel. When I finish this one, I’m done. I feel it. I’ll do a final read through for flow and to catch little mistakes like missing words and the like; but I’m not making any major changes. I’m not wracking my brain to see if I can write that sentence better or second guessing my choice to write a scene that way. The next major edit will happen when a publisher buys my novel. I’ll make their changes and I’m done.

For real.

Until next time,

Calla

Novels · observations · Writing & Creativity

Once upon a time a girl wrote fanfic for The Mentalist…

Tori LennoxLeave a comment

And she loved doing it. While that passion has faded, for a few years it was a big part of her life. The part that got her back into writing and expressing herself. That made her believe she could write again. She’ll always be grateful for that gift and maybe, just maybe, she’ll return someday to finish those tales still waiting for Jane and Lisbon to get their loving closure. She’s certainly tempted every time that random positive review rolls in.

Obviously, that “girl” was me and taking those beloved characters for a creative spin gave me purpose in a time of great pain and betrayal when I was struggling to find a glimmer of the woman I’d always been in the woman I’d become. While I’ll always be grateful for the escape the show and the writing gave me, for the most part, I’ve moved on. I’m in a different place in my life. I know who I am and it’s far more pleasurable to read fanfic than to write it.

While I saw a lot of evils in fanfic and experienced some of it as a writer, I don’t regret any of the time I spent writing my fantasies. I grew a lot as a writer and as a person. For a while, I had some wonderful imaginary friends and I grew a tougher skin where my writing was concerned. I also learned to stay the course in spite of the trolls. There were a lot of trolls. There still are and they’re horrible people in my opinion. I saw so many potentially good writers abandon writing thanks to them and that hurt my soul. Honestly, I contemplated doing that myself on several occasions.

However, I should admit I invited the trolls in several ways. The first was by responding like the thin-skinned writer I was. My stories were my babies and I was fiercely protective of them. The second way I invited the trolls is I didn’t work with a beta largely because my writing was my escape and it was freeform. I wasn’t trying to present a polished piece. I couldn’t at that time if I’d wanted. I was simply trying to get back into the process after many years away. I wrote an A/N to that affect and acknowledged there would be a lot of mistakes, etc., because I was just trying to get the piece out while I could. The third way I invited the trolls was by pushing the envelope on my characterizations of Jane and Lisbon by putting them in difficult situations and having them act accordingly. The trolls, and the genuinely affronted readers who didn’t believe people could act differently in unusual situations, had a fit with all that. As put out as I got with the stupidity, when I look back I see how much I grew during those times as both a writer and a person. The biggest thing I learned was to take criticism better whether justified or not.

I still read fanfic and there are some wonderful writers out there. At this point, I only read in a couple of fandoms that don’t include the one I wrote for. I actually gave up reading The Mentalist fanfic many years ago when I didn’t want other people’s ideas unconsciously creeping into my stories. I did that because a reviewer pointed out that my story was similar to another author’s story in a way that strongly hinted at plagiarism. After checking out the referenced work, I realized they were two totally different stories based on the same familiar trope. Other than the fact we both started with a “nothing new under the sun” idea, neither of us had taken anything from the other. Added to that, I started posting my story before she did so I wasn’t the one who would have plagiarized anything in the first place. I didn’t bother pointing any of that out. I posted an A/N announcing I would no longer read The Mentalist fanfics so any similarities to anyone’s story was coincidence. I kept my word and no one ever tried to accuse me of plagiarism without actually saying the words again. However my love of reading TM fanfics was tainted from that point forward.

On a more pleasant note, every now and then I get a review that strokes my ego and makes me want to finish the story they’ve written about. I got one of those yesterday. There’s nothing like someone telling you of all the fanfic they’ve read, you’ve done the best characterization of Lisbon they’ve ever read. It makes you want to go back and roll in that story until it’s done.

However, sometimes reviews come in that are doubt-edged swords. I had one of those the other day. The reviewer told me how much they enjoyed the story then informed me Lisbon was much harsher than she’d ever been on the show and she didn’t believe she’d be the way I portrayed her. However, she still thought it was a great story in spite of that. I wrote her a very nice response thanking her for her review and for appreciating the story. I also shared with her that, while I agreed with her assessment, at the time I wrote that story I followed my muse which dictated that was the way the story flowed.

Where I am now versus where I was at the time I wrote that story is huge. My feelings would have been hurt back in the day. Now, I really appreciate that someone is still reading my stories and enjoying them. I also appreciate she took the time out of her life to let me know how she felt. I genuinely appreciate her opinion and stand by the fact that was how the story downloaded in my mind characterizations and all. I remained true to my vision and that means not everyone is going to like it. However, that’s an integral part of telling a good story – remaining true to the vision.

Anyways, once upon a time there was a girl who wrote fanfiction…now she writes novels.

Until next time,

Calla