My Dirty Little Secret

-- Adrienne Miller

I’m fully aware this post might lead to the revocation of my official writer card. I fully expect to wake up tomorrow morning to the sound of the other seven Pens banging on my front door, demanding my resignation. They’ll call me names--charlatan, hack, abomination. Martha will probably be chanting, “Burn the witch.” It’s her way. 

Cause the ugly truth is, I don’t really care about grammar. Ok, maybe that’s not entirely true. I care about grammar when it matters. I care about it the same way I care about stop signs. If there’s a cop there waiting for me, you better believe I’ll be coming to a full and complete stop. I’ll count to three, tip my hat and smile. And if not? Well, anything under five miles per hour counts, right?

One problem is that I’m not naturally good at it. My mind isn’t a carefully ordered office ruled by lists and logic. It’s more like a crowded after-hours club, more interested in the rhythm than the law. The flow of words, the sound of them in my head, that’s what I love. 

Which means sometimes I get it wrong. So I buy books, lots and lots of them, to tell me where to put my subordinate clauses...and, while we’re at it, what in the world a subordinate clause is. I barter with people who know about such things. I’ll wash your car, change your oil, babysit your kids, if you’ll proofread for me. I’m not above begging. 

So there it is, my dirty little secret. Of course, it could be worse. Much, much worse.

Everything I Ever Needed To Know About Revenge I Learned From Ricardo Montalban

--Adrienne Miller

I’m not a vengeful person by nature. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a saint. I can hold one hell of a grudge (yeah, I’m looking at you, blonde girl who tripped me in 8th grade art class). But that’s sort of the problem, all I ever do is hold on to my righteous indignation and seethe. And seethe. And seethe. I never get around to the whole “taking revenge” part of the anger cycle. While this has no doubt saved me some jail time, it hasn’t been very satisfying. I’m also worried that I might be working myself up to one hell of an aneurysm.

I figure what I need is beginner course, so I’m going straight to the source. The one film that I’m certain we can all agree is the master work on the subject of revenge - Star Trek II : The Wrath of Khan. And I’ve decided to bring you all along for the ride. Lucky you.

So, **starting up dvd**  let’s see what the recipe for real revenge is. 

*Marooning a group of genetically engineered super warriors on a desert planet is bound to piss them off, but that’s nothing compared to what’s going to go down when they find out that the guy that put them there has been promoted.

*People will be even more intimidated if show off your awesome pecs. 

*Mutant earwigs are wicked effective as phase one of your revenge.

*A good revenge plan isn’t really in full swing until you give a clenched fist monologue explaining your resolve in seeing it through.

*Some part of your battle plan needs to include killing off as many obscure relatives of secondary characters as possible. This packs surprising emotional punch.

*“Revenge is a dish best served cold. *creepy breath*  It is very cold in space.” Go ahead, say it. It’s amazingly cathartic. 

*When in doubt, overact the hell out of it. 

*For a threat to be truly effective, you need to say it twice. Once in a normal-ish voice, then in a whisper/growl.

*Just cause you’re a Starfleet admiral doesn’t mean you can’t rock that popped collar.

*Apparently you have a son you’ve never met, because with all the scientific and technical advances of the 23rd century the one thing they can’t figure out is effective contraception. (And he’s kind of a wussie that likes to wear sweater-capes. Sorry about that.)

*Whatever you do don’t battle face to face, or even in the same room, for heavens sake. Just keep repeating threats and dramatic monologues over intercoms and space age wrist watches. 

*Go on. Cheat. Then just tell everyone that you “Don’t believe in a no-win scenario”. 

*Somebody needs to go flying over the rail. I don’t care who it is, make them do it.

*Get a flashing COMMIT sign installed somewhere in your revenge lair. It’s going to look so cool when you’re rolling around quoting Herman Melville and dying. 

*Don’t feel too bad when your best friend sacrifices his own life to save yours. You can always bring him back in the next installment.

Now that you know how to do it right, go forth and avenge! I know I will. That’s right, Blondie. You better hide. 

Why I Write Romance

--Adrienne Miller

About five thousand years ago, this couple died. We probably won’t ever know much about them, not who they were, or the specifics of their lives. Chances are, we won’t even know how they died. But none of that matters, does it? Everything I could ever want to know about them, I already do. 

Their bodies died. Their flesh fell away. But their love, the connection that bound them together, death couldn’t strip that away. Not even after five thousand years. 

Sometimes people ask me why I write romance. Most ask out of honest curiosity, but some don’t. Some ask without bothering to conceal their derision. Now, I have about a dozen pet theories about why romance novels get a bad rap, but I find my rants about the fear female-centric sexuality usually go better when I’m a pint or two into the evening, so I’ll spare you those...for now.  Besides, I think I’ll take Martha's advice. I’m done defending my genre. I’ve decided to celebrate it instead.

There are a lot of reasons that I write romance, the most important seems to be that I can’t manage to come up with a plot that doesn’t turn into a love story somewhere along the way. Love stories are the ones that pull me in. Besides, I truly believe they are important. These are the stories that highlight the redemptive nature of our lives. 

Love, romantic love in particular, is one of the few things that make us uniquely human. Everything dies. Everything suffers. Fear, rage, pain--these are our raw animal emotions. I’m not denying they are a huge part of all of us. But love makes them bearable. Love allows us focus as much on our god-like nature as on our animal. And that journey, with all its sacrifices, from self-centeredness to true connection, makes for some damn compelling reading as far as I’m concerned. 

Maybe I am a true hopeless romantic. I’m cool with that. I just hope that the archeologists five thousand years from now find enough evidence to prove that our capacity to love each other was just as strong as our capacity to hate.

Chuck & Cindy

--Adrienne 

I never wanted to be a princess. I’d rather be Queen, thank you very much. I mean, as long as you’re dreaming, why mess around in the minors when you can go straight to the  big league, right?

But there was always a single exception. Cinderella. 

From the gory Grimm to the Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo Disney, I Love Cinderella. That’s right capital “L” love. I’m not messing around here, people. What’s not to love? Kindness beats cruelty. Love wins the day.  And, for once in a fairy tale, the girl gets to be the hero. Nobody saves Cindy. Cindy’s got everything she needs to save herself--courage, friends and love.

And one hell of a calling card.


 Her glass slipper. 

A shoe so uniquely hers that proves her identity. 

I always wanted one...Ok, maybe not a real one. For starters, I never really learned to walk in heels. Add to that the stress of literally walking on glass, and I’d be a wreck. But a metaphorical glass slipper, a shoe that told the world who I really am, that I can handle.

I’ve come close. Look at these lovelies.

I Love Converse. (There’s that capital “L” again.) All canvas and rubber soles. In a world of designer high heels, I’m a Chuck Taylor girl. There’s nothing I can’t do in my Cons--do the laundry, meet my fairy godmother, go on a date with my very own Prince Charming. Hell, one day I might even wear them to the ball.

A Thousand (un)Common Muses

-- Adrienne Miller

Walking down a street in a far off place, there’s a tickle in the back of my head. My curiosity get the better of me. I look through the garden gate and there she is, pulling me closer to my story.

She’s in the signs hanging off the buildings.

The food I buy along the waterfront.

She shows up everywhere. In the words and faces of friends.

Of family.

She shows up in ways mundane.

And mystical.

She’s everywhere.

In the lush.

And in the stark.

There are stories all around, bits and pieces of them hiding in plain sight all through the world. There are a thousand muses in every moment of the day.

Dibble, Dabble, Double

--Adrienne Miller

I’m a dabbler. I dabble. It’s what I do. 

Not with everything, of course. I don’t recommend dabbling in marriage or parenthood. Chances are you won’t make it very far if you only dabble in writing. Some things take bone-deep commitment, and I’m not afraid of that. But when comes to ways to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon, I’m a confirmed dabbler. 

I’ve learned to crochet and decoupage. I’ve made scrapbooks and collages. I have the afghans and family albums to prove it. Some of these crafts I was semi-competent at and others...well, let’s face it. I was total crap. But that’s the beauty of dabbling--limited ego investment. 

Right now, the dabble du jour is baking. I took it up a few years ago, and tried jumping right into cake and pie territory. But a really good cake or pie takes skill, and developing that skill takes time. We dabblers aren’t big on investing time. It goes against our code. 

My favorite chef hard at work.

So, a few mealy chocolate cakes and crunchy pie crusts later, I moved on and found my wheelhouse. Bread. Yes, I know good bread takes just as much time and skill to make as pastry, but, for some reason, it clicked. The smell of yeasty dough rising in the kitchen fills me with joy. The thought of having warm, fresh bread in the house is comforting. 

I make decent loaf breads and baguettes. My cinnamon rolls are out-of-this-world good, and my Challah is phenomenal. 

Dang, I'm getting the urge to braid some dough just looking at that.

Now, I don’t bake every day. I don’t have any plans to quit my day job, get myself one of those tall, white hats and open up a little boulangerie. Nope. Every other weekend is fine by me.

You see, I’m a dabbler. It’s what I do.

Google Panic

-- Adrienne Miller

Did you know that chloroform wasn’t discovered until 1831? 

I didn’t. And when I found out I nearly panicked. Because, you see, I really needed a certain young woman to be drugged and rendered insensible for at least a couple of hours in 1805. 

Sure, if it had only been a year or two discrepancy I would have fudged it. But 26 years? Not even I can rationalize that gap away.

I needed a substitute and I needed it fast. This was the last sweep through my manuscript before I sent it out. I had promised everyone I knew that I would have that puppy out in 24 hours. I’d dawdled long enough. My husband was sick of my excuses for not sending it last month...or last week...or yesterday. I was actually fearing physical violence from my critique groups if I had to confess to missing another self-imposed deadline.

So after a couple of deep breaths into a paper lunch sack, I came to my senses and did what every modern writer does when faced with these terrible dilemmas--I googled.

I googled the hell out of it. My first choice for a substitute was bust. Ether didn’t come into use until 1818, so I went deeper.  I searched “Drugs to make someone unconscious” and “homemade chloroform substitute”. You know the kinds of searches that land you on a FBI watch list somewhere.

---On a side note, can someone tell me if these lists exist or are they just the made up boogeymen of writers minds when we have to google something like “how to dissolve a body in lye”. I’m always certain there’s going to be a knock on my door the day after I type something like that in.

Ten minutes later I hit the jackpot.  A sponge soaked in a solution of opium and mandrake root had been used by doctors starting in the 13th century to render patients unconsciousness. Was it perfect? Close enough. And, anyway, who’s to say my villain wasn’t a fan of medieval Italian medical texts?

See, that’s the sort of plot point I can rationalize away. 

Gift Anxiety

--Adrienne Miller

I don’t want anyone to panic, but there are only 35 days left until Christmas, people. Sure, it may seem like enough time now, but it’s not. It never is. Not when I have him to shop for. 

That’s right, I have massive gift giving anxiety. 

Not for everybody. The kids are relatively easy. Just open up the Amazon toy page and pretend you’re a kid again. For everybody else there are the trips to the bookstore and See’s candies. And I’m not sure words can truly capture how much I love Target. 

I love buying presents.

Unless they are for my darling husband, Tom. Because when it come to presents Tom is  like Mr. Miyagi and I’m...well, I’m not even Ralph Macchio. I’m like when they brought in the girl for the fourth movie (by the way, do you remember it was Hilary Swank? Ya. Me neither.)

He knows the little things that thrill me, not just the big, shiny things (though I do love me some shiny things). 

Things like bad english translation - enter the Violence Action Figures with all their awesome phrases like, “Small child might cause suffocation” , “One both hands to make it have an extra are stuck respectively” and “Nice Ho Liquor”. He saw these and thought,  “Adrienne will love these and keep them forever and for always”...and I did.

Or when he found he could buy me a Scottish title by purchasing a piece of land on a highland wildlife preserve. Now most people just give their spouse’s real name...those people lack vision. When given the decision of what great honor to bestow me, Tom thought back to a conversation we had months earlier about what our pope names would be and dubbed me “Adrienne, Lady Awesome”.

There are other cool prezzies: the ostrich plume pen, the Doctor Who sonic screwdriver replica (are my geek stripes showing again?), but the best has to be the time he got me trapeze lessons. That was the gift that told me how much faith he had in me. It takes a special kind of love to believe your overweight wife, the one with the crippling fear of heights, when she declares in the middle of the circus that she can “totally do that”.

So, I ask you, what in the world am I supposed to get him in return? Somehow a new sweater just doesn’t cut it. It doesn’t help when I ask him what he wants. I either get, “Oh, nothing in particular,” which leaves me scratching my head, or “I’d love a Ibanez BTB570FM” which means there will be no surprises come Christmas morning.

In the end, I know the gift giving problem lies with me. You know those people I mentioned who lack vision? I’m afraid I’m one of them.

Meet Douglas

--Adrienne Miller

Douglas is my date this November. That scruffy hair. That half smile. That mischievous look in his eyes. Oh yeah, I don’t think its going to be a problem spending a whole month with Douglas.

Of course, it’s easy to say that now, while November is still young, while we are still in that thrilling hook up stage of our relationship. I’m well aware of how things will change around the middle of the month. How he will start to break away from the plan I’ve mapped out for him and start doing his own thing. You see, Douglas is cocky and he's headstrong. He's even a little crazy. But he’ll come back to me. They always do.

How does my family feel about this autumn fling? Oh, I’m sure they’ll manage. Don’t feel sorry for them; they knew the job was dangerous when they took it. Besides, there are worse things in the world than a month of takeout dinners and leftover lunches. It’s a well known fact that November is a month of literary abandon...and parental and spousal neglect.

Will things work out between Douglas and I? Will our liaison last to the bookstore shelf? Do I even dare dream of a bestseller list or two? I know it’s too early to say now, but it’s so easy to dream when I gaze into those eyes.

The Treasure In Our Blood

--Adrienne


Myth is an attempt to narrate a whole human experience, of which the purpose is too deep, going too deep in the blood and soul, for mental explanation or description. - dh Lawrence

There is a strange contradiction down deep at the base of me. Its always been there, ever since I can remember. A mix of light and dark that always confounded me.

I wrote my first vampire story in the fifth grade in between turns playing foursquare.

At the same time that I was performing in my high school improv comedy troupe, I was writing epic poetry about angels with leather wings who beat the skin off of people so that their true selves could be revealed. (Yeah...I’m not saying it was any good. I’m just saying I did it.) 

When people who know me read my work they usually come back with a similar response. “I was expecting something funny, not something so dark.”

I never understood how I could crave the things that fill my life with joy and laughter, things like Disneyland, but as soon as I put pen to paper all the darkness within me spills out.

(Yes, here’s a random picture of me and my boys just last week enjoying a little twirling teacup action.) 

I’ve always been fascinated by myths. I can remember watching Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth with my parents for the first time. At 12 or 13 I couldn’t absorb it all, but I was happy to sit there, curled up on the couch and listen to him explain things I could only kind of, sort of, grasp, like the difference between that which is eternal and that which everlasting. As I grew older I was thrilled to incorporate mythic structure into my stories. 

But I always kept myself removed from the process. These things - the hero’s journey, transformation, rebirth - these were all just thrilling story points. Not something that illuminated anything in my plain ol' life.

Then one day, only a few weeks ago actually, I was watching The Power of Myth again for the umpteenth time, and I heard this:

“It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life. Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.”

And this time I got it. I didn’t just understand it. I got it.

When I write I send my characters down into that abyss. I send them down there - into that pit where they stumble and bleed - so that I can go with them. Because down there is where we find ourselves. Where you spill your blood is where your real life begins. 

And when we emerge - and the emergence, to me, is the most important part, the reason why I believe in happily ever afters, without the emergence the story doesn't feel true - we have earned the right to know bliss. 

“Furthermore, we have not even risk the journey alone; for the heroes if all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero path. And where we thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existance; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world.” - Joseph Campbell, The Hero With A Thousand Faces

Graceland

I wasn’t an Elvis fan when I walked into Graceland, but I was when I walked out.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m an Elvis girl. The dork stripes, remember? Add it onto the list, right in between the Renaissance Faire and my love of Doctor Who.

Young Elvis. 

Movie star Elvis.

White bejeweled jumpsuit Elvis.

Huggy Bear Elvis.

I love them all.

 And if you’ve ever been to Graceland, you probably understand why. 

Because besides being massively talented and playing music that goes straight to the joy center of my brain, the man wasn’t afraid to be himself.  Need proof?

Yeah, that’s the Jungle Room. Do you have a Jungle Room? Hmmm...me neither. I don’t know anyone who has a Jungle Room. And I don’t remember seeing one the last time I watched Cribs or flipped through the pages of Better Homes and Gardens. Nope, only Elvis had a jungle room.

Or how about this. If your eyes are somehow able to focus on the center of this picture, you’ll see a pool table. Now, who the hell covers the walls, the ceiling and the sofa of their billiard room in ream after ream of pleated patchwork fabric? Someone with a thick stream of awesome running through their veins, that’s who. Someone like Elvis.

And the thing about Graceland is its not that big, not what I’d consider mansion anyways. Its a nice house--certainly bigger than anyplace I’ve ever lived--but hardly the palace-sized home you would imagine the King of Rock and Roll would live out his days in. 

So, what does Graceland have to do with Grace? Well if I had to pick some kind of connection out of thin air--and I do, this post has to end somehow, you know--I would probably say something about how being true to yourself and surrounding yourself with the things that make you happy, not what some magazine writer or tv host or anybody else for that matter says you should like, is one way to fill your life with real Grace. 

Or I can just give you the ending you knew was coming from the very start, and tell you that in the end it doesn't really matter, because...

Elvis Has Left The Building!

It's Time To Talk About Autism

--Adrienne Miller

We are coming up on an anniversary in my family. I remember every detail of the day. How kind the psychologist was as we came into the little office. How much I just wanted her to get to the point when she presented my husband and I with our copy of the long report. And, even though I thought I had prepared for myself for what was coming, how much it hurt to hear for the first time that my son, Jack, has autism.

Its not an uncommon scene, though I wish with all my heart that it was. The CDC says that 1 out of 150 children have autism. Which means that a whole lot of families have been through similar first years. And just as many are now starting this journey. 

It's almost been a year now and I think I'm ready to start talking about autism.

I remember the horrible tangle of emotions I felt in those first few weeks and months. Lots of anger and despair. And guilt. Don’t forget the guilt. Maybe I did something to cause this. I have no right to be this upset. Jack is healthy and some people aren’t so lucky as that, you know. 

But then I would see Jack and most times just being around him would snap me out of it. Cause he was going on with his life, not caring about the specifics of that report or where he fell on what chart. He went on being the sweet, funny guy he always was. The little boy who loves trains and books and Disneyland.

Jack went into early intervention program through our local school district, one that gave him 25 hours a week of ABA therapy. We were also lucky enough that our insurance covered speech therapy sessions at our highly esteemed local Children’s Hospital. 

He began making amazing progress. When Jack first started school he only had a vocabulary of about 40 words, now he talks in sentences. The same kid who couldn’t draw a straight line with a crayon can now write his own name. We have a gallery dedicated to his art work in the entryway to our house. He even plays with his younger brother. Not alongside him. With him.

Don’t get me wrong, there is still a long, long road of us. There’s a lot of skills Jack hasn’t mastered. Maybe he always will have those problems or maybe he won’t. I don’t know. No one does. 

But over this last year I’ve learned a lot about my son. He’s an amazing courageous boy who has handled everything that this tough year has thrown at him.  I can only imagine how difficult every day is for Jack-- every day that he has to struggle to communicate, every day that he is bombarded with too much sensory information, every day that he works so hard in school to learn what comes naturally to the rest of us.  And everyday I see him smile. 

And this is what I’ve really learned over the last year. This is why its time to talk about autism. Because Jack isn’t just a 1 in 150 statistic. He is brave and strong and downright amazing. All our kids are. And that is what the world needs to know about them.

I Believe in Miracles

--Adrienne Miller

I held my boyfriend’s hand as he stepped up to my parent’s porch. Though I could tell he was doing his best to hide it from me, he was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? Meeting the parents is a stressful thing.

The door swung open and there was my dad--a formidable man--blocking the entrance.

“So, you’re Tom, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like hockey?” my dad asked. We both got the sense that our entrance depended on his answer.

“I love it.”

Now I was nervous. I knew Tom had never seen a hockey game in his life. The only little bits he knew of the game came from what I had told him on the car ride over--the basics of offsides and icing and interference. That was it.

Tom was going to have to bring his A bullshitting-game to survive the next three hours with my family.

Turns out, my future husband--himself no scrawny weakling--was up to the challenge. One game, that was all it took and he was hooked.

Now, I’m not sure this is really how it went down, it was over a decade ago. My parents might have a different account of the story, but I swear this is how both Tom and I remember it. And it gives you a pretty good idea how crazy my family is over hockey.


I love hockey. I love the speed, the athleticism, the intensity and the tension. I love the feeling of being a fan--I’m a San Jose Sharks girl, in case you haven’t noticed--the sense of belonging, the hope, the pride, the rivalries.

To me a big part of hockey is family. We have a family high-five-handshake-thingy that we do every time someone scores. My dad and I call each other after every goal. I even talked to my parents about what they thought I should write about in this post.

My mom joked that I should write about how hockey is a metaphor for life. Which is funny, since we all know that its the other way around, right?

But it's a good a theme as any, so here goes: What hockey has taught me.

If you want something you’ve just got to get in there and put on your warrior face. There are going to be times where you have to face off against someone with better stats. Every now again you’ll have to battle it out along the boards, and you’re not going to win if you’re worried about getting hurt.

Celebrate every goal. You worked hard. Have your moment. Then get back in the game. Some days you’ll win and somedays you’ll lose, but every goal along the way is awesome.

Sometimes you can do the impossible. You can make that jaw-dropping save, snatch victory out of thin air, make something out of nothing. Really. I’ve seen it.
Of course, when all else fails you can do what Tom did and just fake it.