Author: Jonathon

Laurell will be doing an in booth signing at DragonCon tomorrow, Saturday Sept. 2nd at 2pm. Booth #1600 in the Imperial Ballroom! Come check it out!

I was out getting cupcakes for my sister’s birthday yesterday. Cupcakes from The Cup, an uber-yummy cakecakery was all she’d asked for, and so, off I went. I’d never been there before, and anytime I’m in an unfamiliar section of a city, even my own city, I’m always a little more on alert. It was a perfectly nice section of St. Louis. It was a small brick street with high end clothing stores, restaurants, and specialty food shops. It was all very up scale, so why be nervous? It’s me, it’s one of the things I do, especially when I’m writing an Anita Blake novel. My normal caution goes up to a near paranoia sometimes when I’m writing Anita and especially when I’ve been writing a lot of police work, or murder scenes. I spend my days and nights walking around at yellow alert, and it doesn’t take much to put me over into orange, or even red alert.

Parking is at a premium in downtown St. Louis, like most cities, so it took some maneuvering to find parking, finally park, while other cars waited to vulture, as if I would give up before I managed to land the space. I was in the city proper, I wasn’t giving up a parking place, near my destination, they could just wait in an ever hopeful line while I parked. The parking vultures drove sadly away, while I dug for change in my purse. I searched for change too long because more vultures began to wait behind me, hoping I was leaving. I know they were disappointed when I got out and put money in the meter, but that’s parking in the city – full of disappointment.

It was a bright, sunny day, a wide open, space with just a few people strolling the shops, or sitting outside of the restaurants to enjoy the beautiful day. I walked carefully across the bricks in my heels, and just as I got up on the other curb I noticed a white van. It just went on the check list of surrounding details that might be important. I noted it and let it go, then the van pulled into the little street right beside me, and parked. I caught a glimpse of a man’s arm at the passenger side window as I moved further in on the sidewalk out of grabbing room. I was waiting for one of the doors to open and someone to try to grab me and pull me into the van. I moved out of reach, hugging the building. No door opened, nothing bad happened, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the van, except that it had parked right beside me when there was a lot of curb to use that wasn’t right by me. I kept walking, confidently, unhurried, but out of reach and kept a perifial eye on the van. I was yards from the cupcake place. I’d already judged the distance between me, the door to the store, and the van. I knew I could make it inside before anyone got out of the van. No doors opened on it, but it did drive away from the curb, and give up a great parking spot in the city without anyone getting out. Now, maybe they just decided they were on the wrong street; maybe they saw better parking elsewhere, but if they did it was on a different street, because they drove to the far corner and turned onto a major street. They hadn’t done a damn thing that would have made most people that nervous, but I totally didn’t like that they’d parked and then left when I moved into the buildings out of reach. I was happier than normal to step into the brightly lit, cheerful colors of the The Cup. I set about the happy task of picking cupcake flavors for my sister’s birthday, calling home to ask my husband, and daughter wanted, since the flavors of cupcakes change daily. I got my cupcakes in their box, in the neat bag with it’s little handles, and was good to go.

When I stepped out I was looking for the van, but didn’t see it. If I had seen it, I would have walked back into the store and thought seriously about calling the cops. Would that have been over doing the caution; maybe, probably. But I wouldn’t have gone to my car with the same van still lurking outside like some kind of polite shark. Coast clear, I walked for my car, but noticed a person at the corner. They were doing the jittery, almost vibrating, like their engine is on high that says, I need a fix. The person was dressed neat enough, clean, there was nothing to clue me in, but that body movement that is just short of the rocking, and huddling, that comes later if they don’t get a fix sooner. I slowed and let them get ahead of me, then I walked wide round them, and kept an eye on them, and for white vans.

I was very aware that the drug-challenged individual began to cross just behind me. I was very aware that I had a purse, a shopping bag, was wearing high heels,and a dress. People sometimes assume that means you have more victim on you, or that you’re just a softer touch. In my case, they would wrong.

I knew the junkie was going to approach me for panhandling, at least, and I hit the button for unlocking the car, not hurrying (Only prey runs.) but not being slow either. The person called out, “I like your dress.”

I answered, glancing back, as I put my purse and bag in the car. The person was closer than I liked, at the end of the car beside mine. If he rushed me I wasn’t going to try to get in the car, but to rush around it, using it as a barrier between him and me. I no longer had time to get in my car if things went badly.

“Can I have 75 cents?” He asked, but he’d stopped at the end of the other car.

“Sorry, I don’t carry cash anymore,” I lied, as I got in the car, shut and locked the door, in one smooth movement. Nothing and no one would have made me get out of my open car and go back the person as he stood trying not to jitter in street. I put the car in gear, and he drifted away looking for someone else to panhandle from. I wondered what he’d wanted the 75 cents for?

Welcome to the inside of my head when I’m in the groove of writing an Anita book. Its like living in a world that is just a little brighter, a little scarier, a little more aware of all the awful, and wonderful possibilities that surround me. I don’t think like this when I’m writing a Merry Gentry novel; it’s only Anita that affects me quite this way. Years ago this new awareness made me jumpy, paranoid, and opressed. Now, I know what’s happening and I sort of welcome it, because I know it means that I’m in the zone for Anita. The book is going well, her voice strong in my head, in my fingers, tingling down my spine and spilling out my skin. I’m home in a slightly hyper-reality that I carry like a song in my head.

I left my husband, Jon, asnooze in bed this morning. It’s been a long week, and this is a weekend we have Trinity. Shared custody with her father means that she divides her time. When I heard her stirring I rolled out of bed, got dressed, and went down to see if my teenager wanted some mother/daughter bonding time or had her own agenda for the morning. She wanted to stay home and continue watching her anime on her computer while I made a breakfast run to Panera. Then I had a choice, I could take our SUV, or the Baby. The Baby is my Chip Foose Stallion, 2007. I love the car, and it’s the only car that when I look at it’s rear end I think almost the same thoughts as when I see a man with a nice ass. This was the car that helped me understand that vehicles can be sexy. I relearned how to drive a stick shift for this car, but I don’t drive it much. I make excuses, that my head is into the book, and I’d rather veg to music while I drive and not have to concentrate to the level the Baby demands. That’s even true, part of the time, when I’m in absentminded artist mode you don’t want me driving a high performance car. But the truth is that I’m a little afraid of the Baby. I’m afraid of cars in general, actually. I know why; my mother died in a car crash when I was six. I’ve never trusted cars since, not really. They are treacherous beasts, and the other drivers are not to be trusted. If I’d lived in a different country, or a bigger city, I might have been able to build a life without a main car, but this is America and I was raised in the country, you have to have a car. So I did, and I loved being able to drive at sixteen, because my grandmother couldn’t drive and after my mother died we had to depend on relatives to take us anywhere, for anything. It was very isolating, and kept me out of a lot of after school activities, so when I was old enough my grandmother and I were thrilled that I could drive. We were independent again for groceries, shopping, whatever, but I never really got over my unease about cars.

Which brings us back to this morning, and a choice of things to drive to get breakfast for my family. I reached automatically for the keys to the SUV, because I could listen to music and it takes less concentration to drive it – all true, but that wasn’t the reason. I felt that little tickle of fear in my gut. I don’t know why I’m nervous about driving the Baby, or when it started to bother me, I just know that it does, and I know like all fear it grows if you feed it. Every time I gave into it, and drove the other car, instead, the fear gained strength, and I lost. I know that about myself. I know that I have a host of phobias all from real life trauma, and I know the only way to not be crippled emotionally by them is to keep facing them, to wear them down with my own courage. It sounds so stupid that I’m afraid to drive my own car, but I am. I don’t need to understand why my unease surrounding my mother’s death has attached to my beautiful Mustang, I only need to accept that it has, and that is my battlefield for this fear. I drove the Baby this morning, and it took more courage than was pretty, to do it. I was nervous starting that growling engine up, nervous backing out of the garage, nervous easing her onto the main street, nervous driving into traffic, but I did it. I did it, and somewhere in that drive the fear fell away, and I began to remember why I wanted this car, why the sound of the engine fills me with an almost physical rush of pleasure, how proud I was when I was able to drive her through a drive-up for food without killing the engine a half dozen times. I remembered driving her when I prayed that stoplights would stay green so I didn’t have to come to a complete halt, and risk killing the engine as I shifted gears, and used all those pedals. I remembered Jon and our friend, Charles, taking me out to a large parking lot and taking turns teaching me how to drive. My shifting was so rough that it made both of them motion sick and they tag-teamed so that each of them could rest in between sessions. I was so happy when I realized I could drive my own car, well. I bought her with Jon driving her off the lot, because I couldn’t drive her yet. This car was a beautiful challenge to me from the very beginning. I’m still not sure what possessed to buy her. Maybe it was just time; I don’t know.

I picked up breakfast, and drove back home, feeling as bright and upbeat as the sunny, summer day. If I had allowed myself to drive the other car, knowing that it was fear that drove the choice, I wouldn’t have been feeling so happy. For me, at least, if I’m afraid of something I have to face it. I have accepted that for me, any time I give into a fear, let it stop me from enjoying my life, that I feel diminished. I know that I’ve lost against the only person I really measure myself against, me. I’ve disappointed me, and in the end I’m the face in the mirror. I’m the one that knows why I do things, I can pretend for others, but when I’m afraid of something I have to go for it. I have to work through it, or I get stuck. The fear doesn’t just affect that one thing, or one part of my life, it begins to spread, so that it’s easier to back down to the next issues, and the next. Fear, and bravery do the same thing; they snowball. Fear leads to fear; courage leads to courage – whichever choice I make it’s easier to make the same choice next time. It’s initially uncomfortable to ignore a fear and act as if you’re not afraid, but I find in the long run it’s better. I’d trade a few uncomfortable moments for that uplift of spirit and mind and heart that comes with knowing I didn’t let it beat me.

I had breakfast with Trinity, and then we sat on the couch and talked, and watched an episode of Law and Order: SVU, which was about a young model her own age being assaulted and killed. The show talked about anorexia, and other body image issues. We were able to talk about it, and do that mother/daughter bonding that you don’t always get to do with your teenager. I value the moments when she still wants to be my little girl, and then the next moment we’re talking about serious things, grownup things, and I guess that’s what being a teenager is, you’re not a little kid, but you can be, and your’e not a grownup, but you can be – both, neither, so confusing. We had fun, and have something that I never had with my grandmother, we not only love each other, but we “get” each other. There’s a companionableness and comfort, a togetherness, that I never had with anyone in my family growing up. It’s nice to finally understand why some of my friends said their mom’s were their best friends. Trinity and I would have a nice morning if I’d driven the other car, she wouldn’t have known my decision making process, unless I told her, but I would have known. I would have known that I gave into my fear, and that the mother sitting beside her hadn’t done her best that morning, but had chickened out. I would have known, and really, in the end, it’s all about me knowing. You can hide the truth, hide your fears, from others, but you always know. I’ve fought this fear since my mother died. I kept thinking I’ll get over it, I won’t be phobic, and it has gotten better, now it’s narrowed down to my strength of will and the Baby, and occasionally when others drive fast, or certain things happen in traffic, it can still really overwhelm me. I did go to a phobia expert, and was told that phobias that have no real cause are much easier to treat in traditional ways, but phobias brought on by real trauma are harder. The mind and body knows that the fear is not groundless, but very real. So, the only way to fight back against it, is to face it, again, and again, and again. Every time I face it, it gets easier next time, every time I back down, it gets harder. Simple really, and incredibly challenging. It used to wear me down to fight against al the things I was afraid of, but now it’s just a part of me. Courage is like a muscle, the more you use it, the stronger it grows. Being brave against the phobias has helped me be brave in other areas of my life, because I know that I faced the fear I’ve had since I was six, the fear that took my mother away from me, when I’ve faced that, business negotiations, or personal interactions, are nothing in comparison. Having said that, trust me I have my moments of social panic – of what the hell do I do now, but that’s okay. If I insist on pushing myself further outside my comfort zones then I’m going to have those moments. It’s the price I pay for not falling back into my fears. Forward, movement, it’s part of who I have become, and hey, it’s worked pretty good, so far. Life being what it is, and what it’s taught me, I am willing to believe that someday I’ll come up against that immoveable issue that I can’t push past, or run through, but until that day, forward, ho!