Using the latter ranking method, I’ve come to believe it’s not worth trying to get over some fears because it would take more energy to combat them than to live with them. For instance, I’m afraid of spiders. I’ve been known to let out a small shriek if I come across one unexpectedly, and to ask my long-suffering husband or youngest daughter to remove the encroaching arachnid. They flat-out give me the creeps with their eight creepy legs and creepy swollen abdomens. Yuckamundo. I’m a live and let live kind of gal, however, and I’m not out to eradicate the species as long as its members stick to the rules: stay out of my house. If they scuttle into my basement, bathroom or bedroom, though, I’m more likely to whap them with a shoe or handy periodical than attempt to relocate them (especially if the aforementioned husband and daughter are not around). Please don’t try to convince me that spiders are useful critters that do lots of good; I know it and it doesn’t make a whit of difference.

I’ve read about therapies that help one become friendlier with spiders, that lead up to holding one and allowing it to tickle your palm with its eight creepy legs. Ooh—sorry—I’m repeating myself. What does that accomplish? I come face to face with a mere handful (figuratively speaking, of course) of spiders in a year, usually in my basement. It hardly seems worth the investment of time and money to go through an arachnid desensitization course to spare myself a few tense moments eight or ten times annually. My energy is better spent, I’ve decided, on working with those fears that have a negative impact my life. I won’t list them here, but they involve relationship issues, one-in-a-million shot fears that prey on my mind, travel fears (more and more as I age … a sad trend), and the like.

Some of you, I suspect, are eager to tell me that I’m rationalizing in order to avoid confronting my arachnophobia. You could be right—do we ever really understand all the reasons behind our choices?—but I’m sticking to this path. Do you have fears you’ve chosen not to deal with? Or do you feel there’s value in conquering all your fears, facing down every phobia, whether or not it routinely impacts your quality of life?

During the summer, downtown Monument holds an Art Hop on the third Thursday of every month. One of the stops along the path is at Covered Treasures Bookstore, where I’ll be appearing on July 19 to sign books and chat with readers. Appearing with me will be local thriller writer Robert Liparulo. Come join us between 5pm-8pm.

Those of you who know I have an Ivy league master’s in literature might be pardoned for wondering why I’d never met him before.  Who knows?  I’m sure it was my fault; I can’t blame the institutions of higher learning that awarded me degrees.  (I never said Lolita wasn’t assigned, just that I didn’t read it.)  Probably too busy getting margarita stains off my toga.

But I digress . . .

Humbert Humbert is the narrator of Vladimir Nabokov’s masterpiece, Lolita.  In brief, he’s a fortyish pedophile who makes a twelve-year-old girl the object of his obsession.  He marries her mother, yearning for greater proximity to his “nymphet,” whom he calls Lolita.  The mother dies (a tad conveniently for my writerly taste, but that’s a small point), he gains control of Lolita, and travels the country with her, staying in 1950s motor courts and motels, visiting such tourist sites as might appeal to a tween, and raping her repeatedly.  (HH, of course, does not call it rape, but I’m not in the mood to let him get by with euphemisms.)  He ends up on trial for murder, which the reader knows from the beginning of the book, so I’m not spoiling it for anyone.  I won’t tell you who he kills.  (Another writerly note:  I admired the device of letting the reader know that HH was on trial for murder, but not revealing who he’d killed until near the end of the book, neatly subverting the usual whodunit structure.)

What struck me about this book, and prompted me to connect reading with courage, is the empathy I felt for Humbert Humbert.  I didn’t for one second condone anything he did, or believe ninety percent of his self-justifying passages, or like him, but Nabokov’s brilliance forced me to see him and, in part, understand him.  I didn’t particularly want to understand a pedophile, but I did.  I happen to have a twelve-year-old daughter, the exact age of HH’s Lolita, and, reading this book, I saw her through HH’s eyes.  Talk about uncomfortable!  Beyond uncomfortable—scary and repulsive.  But also illuminating.

This is where courage and reading coincide.  When you read, especially if you’re reading a work that has stood the test of time, or some of the modern masters—Roth, Updike, Atwood, Franzen, Gordimer, Oliver, to name but a handful—you run the risk of having your worldview altered.  Not destroyed or undermined, but shifted a bare half inch.  Is there anything scarier than coming to understand obsession and revenge through a Humbert Humbert or Captain Ahab?  Prejudice via Shylock?  Class consciousness and hopelessness with Lily Bart?  The brutalities and losses of war through Tim O’Brien’s narrators?

We cling to our worldviews with the power of a neodymium super magnet to iron.  We defend them in the face of political arguments, scientific advances, friends’ experiences (and sometimes even our own).  When we read, though, something insidious happens.  A character with a worldview different from ours wiggles into our heads and leaves traces of his perspective.  I imagine little bits of his DNA adhering to my cerebral cortex or penetrating my amygdala, a chemical reaction of sorts taking place that fuses his viewpoint with mine.  The change is usually tiny—microscopic—but it’s real.  Very rarely, it’s momentous.  When we talk about books as “life changing,” or find ourselves thinking about Maggie Tullivers, Holly Golightlys, or Lennies weeks after we’ve finished the last page of the books they inhabit, a more profound change may have overtaken us.

We have the power to avoid this, of course.  We can refuse to read at all, or limit ourselves to news stories on the web or the kind of light, escapist reading that allows us to forget characters, plot and author’s name moments after closing the book.  Heaven knows, sometimes we need an escape; our minds occasionally crave nutrition-less, easily digestible Frosted Flakes novels.   What our souls need, though, is the iron and protein of Shakespeare, Didion, and Huxley, of writers who make us question, ponder, and yes, who make us uncomfortable, maybe confuse, disgust or anger us.

I’ve been deliberately expanding my reading horizons this year (beyond my usual diet of mysteries, suspense novels, and women’s fiction).  Within the last month or six weeks I’ve read Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore, Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, Dickens’ Great Expectations, and, of course, Lolita.  (I sheepishly admit I never read any of them during my academic career.) Not until my encounter with Humbert Humbert did I recognize that my worldview was shifting, but who knows what mayhem Pip or Lady Brett are wreaking on my subconscious.  I say, have at it.  Maybe soon they’ll get some help from Ishmael or David Copperfield or Janie Crawford.  Wreak away, all of you.  I’m not backing down.  I plan to continue practicing random acts of courage with my reading choices.

What books, if any, have been worldview changing for you?  Why?  Have you ever set aside a book because it was challenging your worldview too directly?

Two little words that tend to get wildly different reactions from husbands and wives. Husband: “I’d rather have a root canal while watching a Desperate Housewives marathon.” Wife: “Oh, goody. Swishing around the floor in a ballgown, gliding, dipping, twirling.”

When I recently mentioned those words to my husband Tom, he nobly refrained from gagging and agreed to sign up for a series of five lessons. The fact that I’d already bought a Groupon coupon for them may have had something to do with his willingness. I was also able to mention the magic words “tax deduction” since I write a ballroom dance mystery series as Ella Barrick and the lessons qualify as research for my books.

Ballroom dancing has always appealed to me, but it’s one of those things, along with voice lessons, tap dancing, art classes, and many sports that I’ve never made time for. I had one excuse after another: no partner, no time, inconvenient location of dance studio, etc. They all boiled down to this: I was afraid I wasn’t going to be as good as I hoped I’d be. I suffer from perfectionist tendencies—“No!” gasp those of you who know me—and I’ve dodged activities all my life that I might have enjoyed but which I didn’t think I’d excel at. How very sad. But now, in the spirit of living courageously, I’m giving some of them a try.

Guess what? I’m not very good. But it’s still fun. We’ve had two lessons and we’ve got three to go. Here’s the “before” version of our attempt at the waltz:

I’ll post “after” video so you can see if we improved at all. The best part has been finding something new to do with Tom. He’s got almost no aptitude for ballroom dance, but he’s really trying, and I’m a bit awkward, but we’re being kind to each other. I like having an hour a week that’s just him and me with no kids, TV or other distractions. I think it’s bringing us closer, so I’m pushing for more lessons after we finish our introductory five. It would make sense to continue with the waltz, or take up the foxtrot, but I’m thinking . . . Argentine tango. A sexy gown slit up to here and down to there, passionate music, dips, lifts . . . strained muscles, chiropractor bills.

Okay, we’ll give the foxtrot a whirl.

Overview

When Corinne Blakely, a grande dame of international ballroom dancing, is poisoned, the dance community — including champion dancer Stacy Graysin — is left in an uproar. Corinne was penning a tell-all memoir, but now her secrets might well remain hidden, perhaps just as the killer intended.

The victim’s dance card was full of people who might have wanted her silenced, if not dead. But when Maurice, a ballroom instructor at Stacy’s dance studio, Graysin Motion, becomes the prime suspect, Stacy has no choice but to waltz in and take the lead.

Clearing Maurice’s name is going to be harder than a running spin turn. But there’s one thing Stacy knows for sure — she’s not about to let the murderer dance away scot-free.

Second in the Ballroom Dance mystery series. The first is Quickstep to Murder.

The something brave was cutting my hair.  Yes, I know this is not on par with running for public office or reporting the news in Syria.  Still, I’ve worn my hair the same way for roughly two decades, so deciding to change it up some made me uneasy.  I found a photo I liked in a style magazine—much shorter than my usual short cut and a bit edgier—and after a month of dithering took it to my stylist and told him to go for it.

I left the salon an hour and a half later pleased with my new look.  The shortness exposed a lot more of my face and felt fresher to me.  The stylist had used a little wax or gel to make it a bit spiky (not punk-rocker spiky, just “middle aged woman trying something a little outside her comfort zone” spiky) and I sauntered through the mall feeling pretty edgy.

Well, no one but me liked it.  My husband said, “You got your hair cut.”  A friend said, “You cut your hair.”  My mother didn’t comment.  All you women out there know that those observations, minus a phrase like “it looks great,” or “I like it” mean “Were you on drugs when you got that cut?”

So, in a very non-courageous way, I let them squelch my pleasure in the haircut and decided not to post a photo of me with my new ’do on this blog.  Can you hear the sound of chickens squawking?  I can.  The cut was three weeks ago, so it’s grown out enough that taking a photo now wouldn’t do any good.  I haven’t yet decided if I’ll have it re-cut in the new style or go back to my old style (which I didn’t hate—I just wanted a change).

Regardless, I promise that next time I do something similar, I won’t chicken out of posting a photo, whether or not everyone on the planet thinks I mainline illegal substances before visiting my stylist. 

It’s as if the urge to be more courageous has become part of the cultural zeitgeist. Courage is in the air. I don’t know where I go with that, other to suggest it may be a backlash against a culture of fear that has prevailed not, as many think, since the events of September 11, 2001, but since we realized that there is no easy win against terrorists. Invading nation-states doesn’t stop terrorism; it may even foster it. Regulations on liquids in carry-on bags, the Patriot Act’s infringement on civil liberties, the expulsion or demonization of immigrants, the incarcerations at Guantanamo Bay . . . none of that guarantees our safety. We are vulnerable.

The sluggish economy highlights our vulnerability, as do prices at the gas pumps, joblessness, and an election season that makes it look like we’re searching more for a savior and miracle worker than a president.

I suspect that the new emphasis on courage is our coming to terms with that vulnerability, our making a decision as a culture to go on living and working and loving, to fly, and attend Super Bowls and NASCAR races, and shop at malls. Even though most of what I talk about on this blog are the small, individual choices that add up to courage, I’m encouraged by what seems like a larger commitment to courage.

Have you heard or talked about or observed more courage recently? Or am I falling victim to wishful thinking?

 
The panel is scheduled for 1:30 p.m. Saturday, April 28th, with a book signing at 4:20 p.m.

In May, I’ll be a speaker for a topic called Right-Brain/Left-Brain Write Brain.

Barbara Samuel and I will be the featured authors, sharing our right-brain and left-brain approaches to “the Writing Life.” We will discuss our differing approaches to productivity, attitude, habits, networking, promotion, and professionalism. Pikes Peak Writers suggests that attendees will “Learn how these writers balance their daily responsibilities, overcome obstacles, and cultivate success.”

This event is free and open to the public, and is being held at Celebration Place at the Citadel Mall in Colorado Springs. Doors open at 6:00.

For the most part, her poems are uplifting, sometimes bringing me to tears with a surprising insight or perfectly captured observation about swallows, her dog Percy, an otter, an encounter with a buck.  Today’s poems, though, were bleak, lamenting the encroachment of humanity on the natural world:  gray foxes struck by cars, a dying river, a museum drawer full of extinct birds, polar bears struggling for survival.  My tears at today’s poems were very different than my usual delighted, surprised tears.

You’ll notice I listed four poems for today, after previously stating I limit myself to one or two.  That’s because I hoped to eradicate the sadness of the first poem by reading a more uplifting one.  When the second poem was equally a downer, I read a third.  After the fourth, I almost went back and read earlier poems in the collection, poems I knew were cheerier.

I stopped myself.  Why was I so afraid of feeling sad?  Why did I want to run from the images in today’s poems by superimposing something more sprightly over them?  I forced myself to sit there, on the red leather loveseat by the sunny window that is my reading spot, and be sad.  I didn’t dwell on the poem’s messages or rail inwardly about the damage humanity is doing to the environment.  I just felt sad.

That was my act of courage for the day.  I didn’t run from the uncomfortable emotion or try to work through it.  I experienced it.  When I was done, and had gone upstairs to work on my current novel, I couldn’t help but wonder how I was stunting my imagination and my experience of life by usually choosing to hurry through the difficult emotions, or avoid them altogether.  How different might my writing be if I had the courage, routinely, to examine all my emotions and reactions, and not just the pretty ones, the happy ones, the ones that don’t sour my stomach or raise a lump in my throat?

I guess that’s partly what a year of living courageously will help me discover.