Communication and Emotion: What the Heck Did You Say? And Now I'm Offended...

Communication Roadblocks
I've always been curious about communication. My favourite quote is "The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion it has taken place." I use this on my signature block at work because 95% of my job is about communication. All of my jobs or roles: Theurapeutic Healthcare Yoga Instructor, Senior Manager in IT, Peer to Peer Worker, Author, wife, mother, sister, daughter.

Roadblocks One and Two: Cultural and Gender
I was also born and raised in the Netherlands. We have a completely different way of communicating than in North America. It's not better or worse, it is just different. Dutch people are direct. We try not to confuse people by being coy or softening words to maybe tell you that it's time you stopped being a sexist jerk. We state it outright. I know that's weird in North America where women have been told not to say bad things about someone even if they are being ignorant. Bite your tongue, smile, and seethe with rage inside instead. Yes, I am generalizing. And this is where emotion and communication fit in.

In essence, biting your tongue is the typical female reaction to being hit on, patronized, or marginalized. I cannot speak for men because I have not been one in this lifetime, however, I do understand the frustration of asking a person 'What's wrong', and being met with 'Nothing' and end up being in a silent rage hurricane, and not knowing why. For women, this is a defence mechanism or a passive aggressive response in order not to turn a potential harmless situation into a violent one.

Violence is a part of our daily lives. You just need to read the paper to know that; the leading cause of death of pregnant women is being murdered by their partner (2001 Isabelle Horon, PhD Maryland Dept of Health and Hygeine, Journal of the American Medical Association); a Missing and Murdered Aboriginal Women in Canada report from Statistics Canada states that Aboriginal women are more likely to die violent deaths, and homicide rates were six times higher than non-Aboriginal women; women are four times as likely to be a victim of homicide by partner than their male counterparts (Stats Canada). So get it. I understand the reluctance of some women not to speak up, to appear to 'get' the joke and laugh about misogyny, to walk away rather than say what they want. That is one issue with communication. The silence. The building up of anger over being manipulated or being told we are too emotional or too sensitive, or we can't take a joke. Fortunately, as women age, we lose our filters.

But even in a non-violent situation at work studies have found that when women are in a group with men, they will typically not say anything or, if they do speak, are not heard. I used to call that talking in my girl voice again because it happened so often. Working in a male dominant environment, this will only get you pushed around. I saw that first hand when I had a young woman working for me who was meek and soft spoken. She was placed in more and more situations where work was forced upon her and she took it, even though it stressed her and she felt guilty for taking sick days or vacation time. She would work overtime and not tell me because she was not capable of doing everything she was told she had to do because of changing work structure. When I tried to intervene, she would become upset and claim I wasn't being nice or that I was mean. When I tried to understand her work load I was never given a straight answer.

Roadblock Three: Introversion Verses Extroversion
I am an introvert. Always have been. People suck the life out of me. I prefer the quiet, one-on-one deep discussions over meaningless prater and group events drain me completely. Weird, I know! Looking at my non-conformist standard of dress, hair colour and sense of humour, you would think I was a screaming Extrovert. But nope. I'm not. I am an INTJ for those of you that use Myers Briggs, part of the .08% of the female population. I'm a logical thinker, analyzer, like to ponder the ways of the world in solitude while drinking organic tea. You people that know me now can stop laughing. I am also super goofy (check out Facebook pix) and I see the world differently than most. I have studied human nature for almost five decades, up close and personal. And I've seen and dealt with many situations that most of the adult population never encounter.

As my son and I were driving home today we listened to "QUIET: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking. Very cool book if you are an Introvert in an Extravert world. I won't spoil it for you, but being an Introvert is pretty awesome and we make terrific leaders. We had a great discussion about communication. He is an autistic person. Communication is tough for him. I remember him as a child and he would never use the word 'I' because 'eye' sounded the same, but they couldn't have two different meanings. English language problems.....

From studying communication, people can become silent when they feel unheard or they can lash out. I used to stay silent and get angry, then become sarcastic (lashing out). I did not really understand why I was not understood. I would try to be as clear as possible, using as many or as few words as possible, and things would still go sideways. Then I would try and analyze where the train went off the rails.

Now, I read as many books as I can about communication and what can happen when communication doesn't happen. The results are not pretty; health decreases, productivity drops, turnover rates increase, the cost of doing business increases having to re-do jobs or projects, morale drops, people become sensitive and hoard information, gossip, and all sorts of angry beasts show up. It can happen as quick as a backdraft in a fire. One wrong word, phrase or look can turn a conversation from productive to destructive.

Roadblock Four: Being on the Spectrum of Autism. 
Being a person with autism is incredibly difficult in terms of communication and emotion. As you can guess, not being able to read social cues, facial expressions, or understand sarcasm, can make someone a little gun shy when dealing with people. I am going to post my son's view on communication, with his permission.

 How to Express Emotion and How Others Express Emotion by A.F. 
I begin with this statement: I'm not good with emotion; I have extreme difficulty interpreting how I feel and interpreting how others feel. I never really know how my friends feel about me on any given day. I never know, without an outright statement, how others feel. I'm completely clueless, so I use a "best guess" mind set: people don't friend people they hate.

The dominate emotion I have is anger. That's the first emotion I feel when overwhelmed or scared. It's the "natural" mindset when cast into a new situation. Fear is a distant second. When I feel myself getting angry or when I am, I think to myself: "what is the actual emotion that I feel right now?" And "what is the cause of my anger?" And then I stop and think about these two things. I'll follow the strand of thought that makes me so upset and try to figure out the source of it.

Normally I get angry because I'm frustrated. This is usually where following that strand of thought takes me. I get angry because I can't stay long when I'm with a group of friends. I become withdrawn, more analytical and less humorous. This is an introversion thing. I cant change that. This is a classical source of frustration and therefore, anger, for me.

One of the first introspective journeys lead me to this conclusion. I would like to stay longer with groups of friends, to stay open and humorous. I used to, and I suppose, still do, become moody, sad, or depressed towards the end of our activity. But since I started thinking along these likes "what is the actual emotion that I feel right now" I can state outright: "Hey, I think I need to go now, I'm getting pretty tired" and that helps mitigate these feelings of frustration.

Knowing that anger is my dominant emotion and that frustration is a cause of anger, I have taken these steps to decrease the amount I feel in daily life. I feel like I am much happier as a result and have developed an positive outlook over all. I prefer this over being moody all the time.
Other feelings are much harder for me to analyze in this fashion. I never really know how I feel about my friends or if I have more intimate feelings for another person. These feelings never exist in isolation of each other. This makes if difficult for me to talk about these matters with other people or that person I like. I simply just don't know.

I feel: anger, frustration, closeness, kindness, belonging, isolation, confusion, when I sit and think about a person I think I like. This emotional fog is persistent and prevents me from talking about anything, I just label it all as confusion and assume friendship and carry on.
How I think others feel about me: annoyance, clinginess, friendly, kind, selfish, controlling, intelligent, dim witted; again, another patch of emotional fog.

I like knowing what's going on before I take action. I don't like being caught off guard by an unknown variable, I like clear and concise planning for everything. I know this is where I get labeled as controlling. But you can always tell me exactly what to do when to do it and why, and I'll be fine too. Basically, I like either being in control of what's going on or being controlled by someone else with respect to what's going on.

I am not selfish, I'm oblivious and absentminded. A selfish person knows the thoughts, feelings and expectations of others but chooses to ignore them. An oblivious person doesn't know the thoughts, feelings and expectations of others to begin with, and there for they act in their own interests or will act with what they think are the interests of others

I don't think people are bad and I don't hold grudges. But there are people who I will avoid because they make me feel angry or they are negative to be around. Other people's emotional state will influence mine, so if someone is negative it will effect me.

In social situations and out in public I look to others for how to feel. I take my emotional queues from the people I'm with. This way I don't need to constantly think about what the heck is going on, who all these people are or if I should feel threatened. If you're relaxed I'm relaxed. This is pretty much how I've gone out my entire life, always with a friend or loved one by my side. I think I've gone out alone maybe 10 times in 20 years. Most of that is buying me food that I need (which I can do because its getting food from the local Extra Foods place)

Overall, I have made the decision to be happy in daily life, which I say literally. Happiness does not come to me, its something that I choose to be. I choose to be around people that make me happy over all. I choose to make these people happy, I choose happy media; songs, TV shows, YouTube series, books etc. Being happy is the way in which I will live my life.

The only way this is possible is to identify how my own emotions work, figuring out what the cause of my frustrating and anger are. Then addressing these root causes and resolving them and finally choosing to be happy once that's satisfied.

This was based from a conversation I had with Malina at the lake.

Conclusion
It's no wonder we are in a state of constant stress and are exhausted at the end of a work day. The emotional toll of miscommunication makes it hard to enjoy your job, or your life, not to mention the cost of business and productivity.

How well do you communicate? Do you think you are effective? Do you understand the impact of your communication skills and how it sets the tone for your marriage? What about in the workplace? Do you know how to listen? Interpret? Are you getting all of the information you need in order to make a decision? Are you interpreting the information in the way it was intended, or are you filling in the gaps with guesses and judgement?

Wherever you are, we all need to understand and be understood.

13 REASONS WHY

I was in a bit of a quandary as to where to blog this, but I still don't know if I am going to write a book review or an op-ed piece on the content. And, I guess I figured it will be a better fit here, because I can talk about anything, not just the writing, the characters, the pace, the story line, the theme, plot or a myriad of other writerly things.

I watched the Neflix series in two days while I was at home convalescing after a somewhat serious heart condition. I cocoon and nest when I am ill because I have learned through life the only person I can truly rely on is myself. So I hide. I don't want anyone to see me and I become paralyzed until the sympathetic nervous system finally lets go a week or two later. So, for a week or so I binge watch TV, sleep and read. Is it healthy? I don't know. Does it work? Yup.

So during this time I watched 13 Reasons Why. It was profound, sad, frustrating, and so many other things that I do not have words for it. Someone mentioned on my FB post that his daughter watched it and was angry about it. I wondered why. Why would this story of a young girl being bullied, sexually assaulted, lied about and abused make someone angry.

Sadly, this is high school. It was like this when I went. It was like this when my children went, and I bet it's the same now. There was nothing this girl experienced that a million other girls didn't experience. The difference being, however, now we get photographic proof, or video proof and this abuse follows you home. It's on your laptop, your phone, on every phone in the high school. The proof stays there forever. Thirty years later, you can google and find that video of you being sexually assaulted.

And the whispers never stop. You walk into a room and the room goes silent. You know they were just talking about how you gave John a blowjob in the playground last night. Even though that didn't happen. You haven't even been kissed yet, but John decides he wants to save his reputation from you turning him down, by telling everyone what a slut you are. And remember. You are not one of them. You are the new kid in school, because your family moves every two years. So you are always the new kid.

Then the jocks think you are easy, so they start hitting on you, trapping you in the hallway, the classroom, outside, anywhere they can. And they touch you. You cannot stop it. Then when you cry, they call you a whore, a bitch, a slut and laugh. This goes to all of their friends and their girlfriends, and suddenly you are walking down the hall and everyone is making rude gestures, leaving nasty photos an notes in your locker, and tweeting it to all of their friends.

You are shopping with your family and one of the jocks mimics a blow job in front of your mother while looking at you. You wince and want to die.

You're at the corner store and someone else walks in, rubs himself on you while grabbing you. You can't move because you are trapped by the counter. He smiles and says something funny.

The next time an older guy you like invites you in for a coke. He's friendly and persuasive , and then gets nasty because you won't touch him. He rips your clothes off an rapes you. Then as you leave he says, "Please don't tell anyone about this." You walk off in a daze, blood running down your leg and you feel like your head is in the clouds. What just happened?

A few days later, a friend of your parents is visiting and he is leaving the bathroom as you open your bedroom door. He goes on his knees in front of you and mimics oral sex. You are 14 and have no clue what that means, but it makes you feel dirty and ugly and you feel like it's your fault.

This happens every single day in North America. And now with President Trump saying he can't stop himself from grabbing beautiful women by the crotch I realize what a different world we live in, men and women.

I read the book after the watching the series (the series was better) and I felt so bad for Hannah thinking she was all alone. Hannah, you are not alone. There are millions of you out there fighting off teachers, parents, uncles, step-fathers, cousins, brothers, landlords, and bosses.

Reading and watching this just reinforced how ugly it can be, to be a teenage girl in this predatory world. It makes me angry that we raise boys to think this is okay and we tell the girls "to get over it."

And then we wonder why depression is so high.

Donald Trump Should Come With A Trigger Warning

I am astounded in this day and age that a person who allegedly is groping women and assaulting them against their will is a front runner for President of one of the most powerful nations in the world. To hear him say he is a "magnet to beautiful women" and he "doesn't even wait" he just starts kissing and groping disgusts me.

Then there is the entire Bill Cosby mess, the Jian Ghomeshi assaults, Roman Polanski, Woody #$&)^ Allen, the list grows.

What is it about certain males that think women are objects just meant to be there for the taking? Walking, talking animated Stepford-Dolls just waiting to be groped and assaulted on a whim. Really? 

I blame the justice system, excuse me, the legal system that gives rapists light sentences because having this on their record will hurt their future careers. Really? What about the victim. Her life is ruined. Not just her career. Every day for the rest of her existence it will be in her head that she was violated without the ability to stop it.

I blame society for raising boys to be the 'man' of the house when daddy is gone. Ugh. That phrases sickens me. A six year old is not a 'man' to be lording around his sisters and mother. When was the last time someone said, 'okay you're the woman of the house until mommy comes home'? The implications are that boys are these omnipotent creatures while girls just are.

I blame religion for teaching the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Where the heck is the Mother, The Daughter and the Holy Intuition? And it is not just Catholicism or Christianity. It is Islam, and the Jewish religion and all forms of  patriarchal religions that say hey, if you have this genitalia, you can do this and if you have that genitalia, you cannot. 

I blame the parents that raise their boys to be entitled to take whatever they want. Rich or middle income families that feel 20 minutes of action shouldn't be a death blow to Junior's career.

I blame Hollywood for thinking that a 40 YO actor is washed up if she is a female, but a 75 YO male actor can be the love interest of a 26 YO female actor.

I blame corporations that promote sexism and mysogynistic behaviour, while ignoring the disrespect that goes on, and then wonders why morale is low.

I blame advertising that markets to a generalization of sexual assaults against women to sell clothing, perfume, cars, and even a Big Mac. 

I blame universities where, on orientation women are told not to use the tunnels at the University of Manitoba because they may be assaulted, and instead they should walk outside at -40. 

I blame loser, white trash men that have to go to an organization like Pick Up Artists to learn how to become predators and that they are entitled to jump on any female they desire. And that they are taught how to mislead, lie and drug women for sex.

I blame town councils that, after having an alarming increase in the percentage of sexual assaults, tells women that they have a curfew, instead of locking up the perverts.

I blame rank that instills power in a person that allows them to assault others and then to snicker about it afterwards because rank has its privilege.  

I blame women for perpetuating this myth by blaming the victim. I blame Christian women that buy into the pathos of, if you are married, you should be having sex whenever he demands it.

I think I just figured out why women are still marginalized.

Evolvement and Devolvement

Back to the transition from a hard driven Type A personality into a Hippy (See the very first blog), I started Yoga teacher training a couple of months back. I have learned so much valuable and enjoyable information and I have been transformed, internally and externally. This kind of reminds me of a diamond, putting so much pressure on an item, body, or mind that it changes the molecular structure into something completely different.

I have been forever changed. My body feels different, moves more with grace, and my mind has been expanded into different thought forms, spiritual planes of existence, and is calm.

Things that were opaque have become clear; movements that were impossible have become natural, and I have learned serenity. Yoga changed my mind and my life, I cannot name all the differences. All I can say, there was a life lived differently before and after Yoga.

I am so exited to teach and to open this learning to others, and I can only hope that what I have experienced others can as well.

If you have been following this blog, you know I am a physical and emotional mess because of the Compound Complex PTSD, Anxiety, the brain thing....sigh and ADD. Yoga has helped with most of these issues. Obviously not the brain thing. But the others, definitely.

Yoga is more than a program, a pose, a spiritual journey or exercise. It can be all of these things or a combination of any of them. Yoga connects me to the greater spiritual purpose that includes the inclusivity of humanism.

But the events of last and this week have saddened me to the core of my being. A USA Olympic bound swimmer raped and brutalized an unconscious female. The judge, mom and dad, and the legal team thought he suffered enough from having a lifetime ban from the US swimming team that feeds into the Olympics and the judge did not want undo pressure placed on this predator that this man effectively will serve a three month sentence surrounded by protective guards, lest he receives the same life sentence he forced upon a defenceless woman, or, as dad put it, his "20 minutes of action."

I cannot fathom the thought process that turns the brutalization of an unconscious female, against her will, without consent, as 20 minutes of action.

Then there is the killing of 50 people and the wounding of 53 others due to a belief system that is radically devolved. Someone who thought we should turn the years back to the middle ages. And someone who will probably be labeled as mentally ill rather than a sociopath.

In both these last instances, people thought they were entitled to take what someone else had, against their will, someone who stood in judgement of another human life and decreed they were not worthy.

What a sad state we are in when are controlled by bullies.

The only way to right these wrongs is to be the change you want to see in the world. One person at a time. One small act at a time. Reach out to someone who is hurting and just listen. See the overworked mom and ask her if she wants a coffee. Introduce yourself to your neighbour.

One by one, we can make a difference. Start small. One simple act of kindness. It can make a huge difference.

Post Paris and Mali

It's been a week of strangeness; Paris was attacked and a week later, Mali was in the grips of terrorism. The focus between the two events could not have been more polarized. When Paris was hit, Facebook screamed in defiance and raised its collective fist in the air with shouts of stop terrorism. When Mali was attacked 7 days later there were crickets...nothing. Nothing at least on my feed and I have a fair amount of friends that post everyday.

I found that odd. I admit, I have been deleting hate, racism, propaganda and victim bashing-victim propagating memes, posts and news reports because Facebook is my happy place. I have enough damn reality in my life. I don't need it when I come home from work. And last year I was in the seventh circle of Hell for most of it from illness, dealing with children, and a high stress job.

I seldom socialize. I work, come home, sometimes eat, but more often than not, climb into bed to get ready for another day. Such is the life of someone with multiple autoimmune deficiencies; so to be bombarded with hate and fear just is not what I want in my life on Facebook. But I could not be more astounded by the deafening silence on the Mali attacks. Granted, fewer lives were lost, but why the contrast? Even the typical #blacklivesmatter crowd was silent. If anything, I thought they would be protesting this vile act of psychopathic cowardice, because some of the victims were black, in a predominately black country, but no.

Does that mean only #blacklivesmatter in North America? I really hope not because that is an ugly thought to contemplate. If #blacklivesmatter, then they should matter regardless of geography. If terrorism is ugly, then it should be ugly everywhere, not just in a predominately white culture. Then I wonder if racism is a luxury of a culture that lives in the comparative affluence of North America and Europe instead of a country where the life expectancy is only 53.

And I am still trying to wrap my head around the thinking and the hatred that perpetuates these crimes, and I am at a loss. Young, able bodied men attack and kill indiscriminately in the vein of psychopathy disguised in a nebulous veil as religion. But that is an excuse to kill people. Not religion. I do believe, regardless of faith, these people would kill others, even those of the same faith because the glory is in the kill. Not the faith, not the religion, not in spreading the truth. It is about ruling the world through the genitals of a man. A weak, misguided, uneducated and unethical, simple man. We all know that women in this culture have value less than an animal and less than children. Women are repeatedly murdered, raped and stoned to death, on a whim. Children suffer the same fate. Daily. Mutilation of women and children is a side effect of thinking that genitals dictate how well you live your life and the freedom you have.

The latest reports from Washington show that these young adults take something called fenethylline, a drug that keeps them awake, angry, and ready to tear people apart with their bare hands. Exactly what these rebels need; a drug akin to PCP, massive bombs, explosives and the angry young man attitude. Another side effect of the drug is the ability to mask pain. Effectively, fenethylline turns a person into grizzly bear; an 800 pound, rabid, enraged bear that feels no pain and carries explosives. 

It makes me sad and reflective to think that on the other side of the world there is a mother with a dead child, a sister that is raped, a grandmother that is stoned to death and that 26 year old boys rule their world and are now affecting ours. 

Terrorism, fanaticism, sexism, racism, it all needs to stop. The thinking that I am better human than you because of my skin colour, my religious beliefs, my gender or my sexual orientation is exclusionary, an act of cowardice and morally wrong. 

It's A Man's World

Some things really upset me: Racism, sexism, ageism, any kind of isms. People are people, whether you are straight, gay, Black, Aboriginal, Jewish, Christian, Wiccan, Muslim, female or male. And the thing that gets me every single time is how people will push your buttons, turn on you or demoralize you for one of the above.

It happened to me during last year's innocuous 'Do Women Write Horror Differently Then Men' post. My gawd, you would have thought I was asking if men should be demonized and held captive for days while ripping wings off of butterflies and devouring children. I was lambasted, roasted, stalked, had threatening emails, terrorizing private messages and lewd comments. Nothing to do with the article. Nothing to do with the challenge. Just all threats and cowardly comments from weak-minded individuals who feared a woman asking such a dangerous question. Interestingly enough, only a handful of men actually read the posts, but none ventured a guess. Only the women did that. And no one got it right.

Now, I find out someone I know is being victimized at her place of work.......for being pregnant. She has been demoted, deducted vacation time for medical appointments, and basically being told to FO.

It is 2014. Women get pregnant. They don't do it to screw with the work force. They don't do it to get a vacation. They do it because it is their given right in this day and age to do so what they will with their own bodies. And now it is still being used against them. Why?

Women are told they can't get pregnant if it interferes with their job, they can't get an abortion because that is morally wrong, they can't have multiple sexual partners because that is morally wrong, they can't earn as much as men because they do not head households etc.

In this enlightened age you would think that people for one minute, one tiny little minute, would look back and see things from another perspective.

In this same workplace, the men are paid exorbitant amounts of salaries, given trips to Europe, take three hour lunches and that is fine.

But a woman doing the exact same job, plus filling in two other positions gets paid less, way less, no trips to Europe, works during lunch breaks, takes work home and when she becomes pregnant, is told she is a lesser human being.

Isn't it time to make things equal? Why do we, as a society, have "rules" for gender, colour of skin, who you sleep with, and what religion you are? Why, as a society do we allow minorities to overrule public and country 'givens' because we are trying to be politically correct? Insert "remove bacon from the menu in a restaurant in North America because it offends me".

Why can we not state what is obviously someone's messed up notion of how something should work when it is blatantly obvious? And why do we roll over and pee on ourselves when we see something is wrong and do nothing about it?

It is 2014. It is time we grew up as a nation and stopped treating each other as chew toys.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Celebrating Women Horror Writers Challenge Results

So how many took the challenge and read the last six pieces to see which ones were written by women? We had lots of discussion in Kindle Horror Books and on various pages; heard some mention they were all written by 'chicks'; others said they honestly could not tell. But, what I found most interesting is no one jumped in with both fangs and said 'Hey, I think this one is a women because XYZ and this one is a male because of 123'.

I did have one person question whether the pieces were written for the article, which I thought was a damn good question. No they weren't. These were all existing pieces of work. Otherwise we (I) could have skewed the results.

I find that interesting. I posted this article on my wall in FB, on Google +, others shared it on their walls and groups and ......nada.......

Why? Too afraid to take a guess and be wrong? Not interested? Have no opinion? I certainly heard a lot of opinions as to why women could not write horror. Nothing scientific, no empirical data, nothing concrete or anything that said women cannot write horror because they ______  (fill in the blank). But a lot of spouting off to say men were better. And I find that odd.

More men than women write horror, absolutely. More men also fail miserably at it than women. I read well over 300 books a year, all horror. Most are male authors, and most books lack several things:

1. Editing: most of the time I will grit my teeth and highlight the errors in a book. If I feel generous, I will contact the author and tell him of his mistakes. Most of the time it is appreciated. Sometimes it isn't. And then I wonder, if you go to all that trouble to write, to conceive a baby of little black and white words, marks and squiggles on the page, to lose sleep over plot, theme, idea, journey, etc and then throw that child into the market without being properly dressed, what the hell were you thinking? I have heard male authors say 'I know this isn't edited, but here it is and please pay me $2.99 for it'. Arrogance? Laziness? Ineptitude? Or do they simply think their work is strong enough to go out without editing?
2. A consistent, or varying pace: it's either all action and plot with no down time, or it is one grand soliloquy after another. Just the other day I read a piece and I think I must have skimmed more than three quarters of it because I was bored to tears.
3. No likeable characters: there is no one to root for; no one to cheer on. No one to feel sad about if they get killed. Yes jerks exist. I get it. Bad neighbourhoods exist. People of both genders being assholes exist. But if I lived in a world like that, I would seriously have to hide the sharp objects. There is not one person who is completely evil. Not one person who has no redeeming qualities or character or something that can make a reader want something better for that person. Can you imagine if Ira Levin wrote Rosemary's Baby and she was a whining, cursing, nagging, shrew of a harpy who smoked, ate with her mouth hanging open and and scratched her private parts in public. The novel would have gone nowhere. Now, bad people in books can be completely evil, absolutely, but your main character better have something going for them or you lose the reader.
4. Making the female characters too weak: biggest pet peeve of the movie The Shining was Shelley Duvall's character taken from being a strong female who had a mind of her own, to a screaming, flailing, simpering mess of a one dimensional character. The screaming, the flailing, oh wait in this scene you flail, and then scream. Really? Yes writing is difficult, and writing another gender even more so, but while the end of the world is crashing down around your ears, your last thought, as a female, as you are being chased by vampires through a New York subway system, is not to stop running and have sex. Sorry. Plot Hole. Ginormous plot hole. Or if a woman has just given birth and  then is invited to spend the weekend on a secluded, un-escapable cannibal island, I am positive she would say no.  But apparently one male author thought this was plausible.Then there was the police officer who was in uniform while her long, blonde cascading hair fell down her back. Again. Nope, ain't gonna happen. 

The other thing that happened was a lot of posts bashing Women in Horror Month. Bashing the logo, bashing women, bashing women writers. Just a whole lot of angry comments, and again, I found that.....typical.

I work in a male dominated field, and in a male dominated sub field. I hear it. The snide comments. The off hand remarks. The 'oh we were only joking' put downs. And I think to myself, we really have not evolved all that far as a species here in North America.

I raised my kids to be people, not gender specific roles. I taught them respect for one another and instilled in them a need to question. If someone tells you, you cannot do this because of your gender, ask them why. My boys played with Barbies, and no, they are not gay. My daughter was the first girl in Manitoba to join the Boy Scouts because she hated what the Girl Guides did. And my kids are very well adjusted, normal, kind, loving adults.

So what started out as a simple question grew into so much more.......and by the way, entries 1,2 and 4 were women writers. 

Celebrating Women Horror Writers: Do Women Write Horror Differently Than Men?

I have heard the comments growing up; women can't be professional race car drivers; women can't be professional chefs; women can't do comedy and women can't do horror. These comments usually came from men. And I often wondered what it was about these professions and gender that sealed the deal. No one could tell me or pin point the error, other than saying women weren't funny or couldn't cook professionally. I found it interesting that girls develop language earlier than boys, read easier and faster because of brain development, write quicker and neater for the same reason, so why could they not write horror? If they developed these skills at an early age and worked on them longer, why was horror the one thing they could not write? Do we not have the stomach for it? Do we not give enough detail? Too much emotion? Not enough sex or violence? Too subtle? Pretty it up too much? Add sparkles....oh, wait.

Then came crime. Women weren't sexual predators. Women weren't serial killers. Women weren't sadists. And again I pondered this mythos our society perpetuates about gender. I have known many female sexual predators that went after both male and female children. I have known women that tortured people, women that enjoyed inflicting pain, women that sought it out and women that led the chase.

Granted, they were fewer in number when it came to getting caught and in serial murders, but in sexual crimes the numbers were almost as high.

So what's the problem? As an impromptu question on Facebook, I asked, Do you read female authors? Why or why not? Most of the people had only positive things to say, and that gender did not factor in. Others pointed out that there were more male authors than females, which is correct. But some did say nope. Won't read them. And they pointed out things like females hold back and men are more disturbing. Others said women writers dissolve in to dark romance. I am not going to argue with these people because they are correct. I remember when paranormal meant anything vaguely paranormal related. Now, it is usually a term for paranormal romance writers (not all of whom are women, by the way).

But I do think there are some women that knock it out of the park; Chantal Noordeloos, Billie Sue Mosiman, Penelope Crowe, Suzi M, Allison Dickinson, Lisa Lane and there are many, many more.

Do women write horror differently than men? You be the judge. I am going to post six pieces.One of them is mine. What makes these pieces work? Not work? Which were written by the women? How can you tell?

ENTRY ONE

Sherryl felt a rush of impotent, bitter anger. She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. A cramp tore through her. She drained her teacup and set it down on the table and drew her legs up on the couch, feeling it sinking and settling. “I'm so sorry, Noko,” she said. “I wish there was some way to fix it, to go back.” Noko shook her head. “So do I. They thought they were helping us. Kill the Indian in us, they said. They killed a lot more. My boy.” Sherryl raised her head to look at Noko over the side of the couch. The older woman's face was drawn, set in lines from years of pain. Shadows stretched her eyes into skull sockets. “Oh, Noko. What happened?” Noko took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap, where they twisted like small animals burrowing. “I was gigishkaage,” she said. “Pregnant. How old were you?” Noko nodded. “Thirteen, maybe fourteen. We were supposed to be in school until sixteen, but a lot of us didn't last that long.” Sherryl had to stifle a sarcastic, inappropriate laugh, as if it was an understatement. She thought of another story, about a nun who had struck a child so hard the child's neck broke and the nun's instructions to the other children: step over the body and get back to class. “I was able to hide it most of the year,” Noko continued. “It was winter, late and cold and I couldn't hide it anymore. The people who ran the school, they were mean but not stupid.” “How did they find out?” Noko shrugged. “They saw it. Or maybe somebody told. Who knows? The matron, she beat me, but what was she going to do? I wouldn't tell her who the father was.” “What happened to the baby?” As far as she had ever known, her Uncle Ray was Noko's first born. Then her mother and her Aunt Bess. Noko looked at the moving pictures on the silent television. She stared for so long, Sherryl was about to give up and turn the sound back on, when Noko spoke again.

ENTRY TWO

It wasn't until the titanium blade caressed her flawless cheek that she shook and wept, silently screaming under the duct tape. I pressed a little harder and the blade bit into her skin causing a scarlet trail of blood in its wake. She screamed but the duct tape muffled it well. I set the knife down and saw a moment of relief in her. Can’t have that now can we? Relief is no fun. I picked up the pliers and put her fleshy earlobe between the vice of the pliers. I then squeezed as hard as I could, delighting in her wincing and repressed screams. I had some more fun with the pliers on other parts of her body. Paying particular attention to her fingers. What can I say? I enjoyed the sickening crunch of her cartilage being mangled by the steely jaws. Several times she passed out from the pain, every single time I grabbed the smelling salts and brought her to.

ENTRY THREE

For some reason he figured that must be his destination. Would getting there end the Hunt? Was there any end to the Hunt? There must be, for by the time he actually made it to the trailer he was in the Splatterhouse; walls dripping red blood, organs sticking to them as if they had been flung forcibly against them. Hands snatched at him, tried to trip him up, tried to grab his clothes and hair; disembodied extremities falling off the walls with fingers curling around his ankles. His progress was stunted by this, it felt worse than when he was being pursued by the masked chasers in the narrow tunnel bordered by canine fiends as he seemed to be getting nowhere. Every step he took shook the Splatterhouse walls and cascaded more blood down them, shook more mutilated flesh off them to fall upon him. A tangle of entrails dropped in ghastly ropes around his neck, an eyeball bounced off his cranium. Rolled along the plane of the floor, splashing into a puddle of congealing blood, staring at him. The masked Hunters came right through the walls. They ripped through them with their blades, sliced great holes and jagged rends in them as if they were actually composed of flesh, forcing their bodies through their created apertures, looking like mutated creatures in the midst of a gruesome birth.

ENTRY FOUR

Scarlet snarled and palmed her knife, holding the sharp blade just above Grandmother’s heart and plunged it deep with both hands. She closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, a moan of satisfaction escaped from her lips. She pulled out the knife and the spear and then rolled the body over, kicking it with her foot.  She licked the blood from the blade. It was still slightly warm, salty.

A hunger overtook her, consumed her. An overwhelming sensation enveloped her mind, like a mist which wrapped its nebulous folds around her synapses and nerves compelling her to consume the flesh. ‘Eat’ it insisted.

Scarlet sank to her knees and whimpered, fighting the command, while at the same time her hands moved willingly along the body, tearing at the clothes and discarding them in a pile. The knife traced the  sagittal line on the body neatly dividing it into two halves. The skin parted and Scarlet help separate it from the bone, and the internal organs spilled from their casing. Blood, gore, muscle and fat oozed onto the floor. Intestines and stomach contents collapsed into a gelatinous puddle of offal. Scarlet plunged her hands and arms into the mess, feeling the warm innards wrap themselves around her skinny arms. She rubbed the organs over her face and body, trying to fight the impulse to bite into the organs, but her hands kept shoving the body pieces closer and closer to her mouth. Gagging, Scarlet’s hand reached for the heart and pulled it out of the chest cavity. She gripped the muscle and yanked it out of its home, ripping it free with a slurping sound. Blood ran down her arms. Sobbing, gagging and turning her head, her hand forced the heart to her mouth, her mouth opening wider and wider. The heart was warm and slightly heavy in her hands, a myriad of red and blue veins and arteries. Scarlet slowly sunk her teeth into the muscle, the blood squelching between her teeth. She ripped into the meat and tore it in half with her teeth. She chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed and ate the entire thing and fell asleep amongst the mess.

ENTRY FIVE

The voice is in Denny’s head; a lilting sing-song, scolding him for something. His eyes remain clenched; he’s afraid to open them, terrified, though he has no idea why. Something’s not right. A stench fills his nostrils, familiar, surrounding him…drenching him. “Bad, bad daddy.” Harsher this time, as though through gritted teeth, the voice clotted, congested. No, the voice is not in his head. He slowly peels his eyelids apart, looks around at the blurred bedroom from where he huddles in the corner. Like a scene viewed through a lens smeared with grease everything is distorted, runny. The only color he can make out is a deep, violent red. And this red is everywhere, in Rorschach splotches and splashes, in rivulets and puddles. Everywhere.

ENTRY SIX

“Nine months,” Susan said to her living room—her mourning room.  “Nine months, to-day.  And today’s the day, isn’t it?”

            No answer.  Why would there be?  She was alone, had been practically the entire time.

            No suprise.

            Her baby was coming.  And she knew, knew with knowledge and feeling, she wasn’t going to survive.  Nor did she deserve to.

            Little Susie Bruisey had messed around , yessiree.  Had messed around with a Tall, Dark and Handsome, and, as her mother would have said, had landed in the soup.

            Soup, hell, daddy would’ve added—you’re chin-deep in the chowder.

            She sat down on her couch, disgusted with the mess she had allowed to fester: pizza boxes, Chinese from Wong’s (“We Speak English/We Delivery” written on the side of their van), Stouffer’s by the ton (Lasagna Italiano, Macaroni and Cheese, Salisbury Steak, Meatloaf, shrimp scampi, and more), OJ cartons and bottles ... candy wrappers, and One A Day Women’s that she had taken by the triple (her baby was needy, and there’d been no OB/GYN prescribing prenatals), and that was just some of the food-stuffs.  There was also the piles of laundry, all dirty, full of filth and bile and crusted clumps of tissue and blood.  Way too much blood.  She hadn’t dealt with occasional spotting, no.  She had gushed, again and again, for months. 

Scary.

            The price to pay.  And the bleeding had seemed the least of it.

            Hair had gone, too.  First, she lost her perm.  Then her hair went flat, its life gone.  It turned gray, then corpse white.  A sunrise or two later, started staying on her pillow.  Ugly warning patches of witch’s-tress.  Next, was its washing down the drain, freaking her out as it inch-wormed down her shower’s walls and snaked its way past her feet toward oblivion.

            She did have some teeth left. 

That was nice.

            But then there was the arthritis, the insomnia, the back-pain (let alone her arms, hands, legs and feet).  Oh, sweet Susie, let’s not forget about the incontinence—her favorite.  Or the bonus round of eczema that fruited everywhere save her healthy, rosy-glow stomach.  No carny would dare guess her age, which could be anything from 90 to 175. 

She used to be so, so pretty. 

            Last month she’d turned 22.

            Had it been worth it?

            No.

            But almost, she thought.  Oh, yes, almost.  She’d bedded an angel.  How many could say that?  A beautiful angel—a son of God.

            “I thought there’d be wings.”

            “No, Susan Thorpe.  No wings.  Angels don’t have wings … only the Seraphim on the Ark of the Covenant.  The wings are symbolic.”

            “Oh.”

            His voice had been magick, a mesmerizing croon.  And though there’d been no wings—“... Angels don’t have wings.”—there’d been that glow, his glow, flashing up the bedroom in its mystifying black-light, more romantic than a single or a thousand perfectly placed candles, a radiant smolder of the divine that shrouded the room, and her heart, in a blazing puissant embrace.

            He’d enveloped her.  One thrust.  That was all.  One thrust as she lay back, legs splayed, knees impossibly high, sex beckoning—begging, pillow under her bottom ... and that one seed-driving thrust.  A single plunge enforced by gripping, manly hands.  Just one singular, stabbing pitch of power and ... then he stopped, freeze-framed, shivered, yelled and—

            —she’d yelled with him, an orgasmic bellow beyond knowing that simultaneously was also a keening wail, an exhalation of release so pleasurably-traumatic it would kill her, would have to.  Would indeed be the highest blessing for which she could ever hope—to die with his coming and hers, her body and soul’s. 

            Yet, she’d somehow lived through to gasp another breath … then another.

            Her angel had left.  But not that nirvanic peak.  Oh, no—that remained on hold, ready to explode any time she flipped the switch.

            Still would, if she willed it.

            Her angel’s parting dowry, the anesthesia that kept her going through all these long and horrifically short months, the ability to put herself back into that cumming moment.  A perfect drug on mental tap that she could draw down on demand, any time, in any mood, day or night—the perfect distraction while her body channeled all its resources for the baby.  Don’t like going bald?  Go have a ten-hour orgasm.  Don’t like puking up your left lung?  Go twitch and drool through the night.

 How jealous Amy Winehouse would’ve been. 

At least she hadn’t had to worry about anything else.  All his promises had been kept: the place to stay, the DVD player, the big TV, all the food and utilities taken care of, all the clothes she could want—a full-blown complete blank-check.  Her job?  Sit back, zone out.  Feed her baby: its food, its fluids, her life. 

She only had to get through nine months, before, like a good little girl, it would be time to quietly slip away.

That’s almost what she had done.

            Till six days ago, when she’d said enough’s enough.  No more.  Till six days ago when a moment’s realization came that she was damned, her baby destined for the same … twice-over, that Little Susie Bruisey was going to Hell and how that would break her daddy’s heart, her mother’s … how her baby becoming his, would break hers. 

She’d said no more, and started to pray again, like when she’d been a little girl, even an early teen, well before discovering boys and how much fun it was to twirl them ’round slim fingers.  Well before discovering the intoxication inherent in saying fuck-all to her parents’ stooped rules.  Before she’d learned to say no, but to them, not drugs.  Yes, before all that.  Back to when she’d known how to pray, with an honest and believing heart. 

She’d tapped into those memories and brought back those blessed ways.  Humbled herself and begged.  For herself, sure.  It was inevitable.  Pure survival instinct.  But really, in her heart of hearts, she had pleaded for her unborn—for him (and it would be a him) to have a chance at redemption, for something better than the life of blasphemy and murder his father had planned.

            And then there was today, her seventh day of sobriety.  Wonderful number seven.  It was a good number. 

It was her last. 

Tonight was, after all, the night. 

Her baby was coming. 

            She looked at the good-bye letter, enveloped and scented with Love’s Baby Soft, like she’d used as a girl to mark all her birthday, Christmas, Mother’s and Father’s Day cards.  She’d even found enough strength to clean a spot on the disaster-strewn coffee table so it woudn’t get dirty.  Mommy and daddy were going to love it. 

            Colors had been one of her gifts.  She knew ’em all.  Collected them, too: pencils, pens, ink bottles and paints.  For her letter, there’d be nothing plain; a ball-point would’ve been an abomination.  She’d written her letter in calligraphy using a quill dipped in her favorite ink bottle: a small, circa 1950, cobalt-blue (her favorite color) glass affair, labeled, New Parker/Super Quick/Permanent Black/2 Fl. Oz.59cc/Made in USA. 

            The ink was a hell of a lot newer.  Still, Jane Austen would have been proud.

If she had any tears left, she’d let ’em fly. 

Her parents deserved so much better. 

Spilt milk. 

Gallons.  

            She thought of her words, spat out some of the room’s stink, and thought of her words—of their total inadequacy:

            Dearest Daddy and Mums,

Remember your little girl ... do you?  Falling out of that apple tree, Daddy?  Busting her lip in the swimming pool, Mommy?  Always getting hurt, always sorry and ready to do better?  Well, she’s back.  Loving God again, and back.  And so sorry.  So very, very sorry.  Understand?

            I’m sorry.

            I’ve been bad, and I’ve gotten hurt again.  But it’s for the last time.  I’ll never be bad again, because I’m back in His loving arms—for good.  Don’t worry, no more and never.  Don’t cry, either, at least not more thanna little.  You’ll see me again … here, there, or in the air—I promise.  I’ve found the Lord again, and I’m okay. 

            Again, If I could just take it all back, everything, for being gone for so long, for torturing you two.  But that’s all over, and this time, as hard as it is to believe, I’m telling the truth.  Or like when I was littles and waiting for my new uppers: I’m tellin’ the troof.

Thank you for everything, and know that you were right.  You were right about it all.

            Loves and Misses,

                        Your Susan

xxx/ooo 4-ever and evers

            In retrospect, she supposed there were too many sorries in the letter.  They made her sound like some kind of ’tard, but that was okay.  She wasn’t going to change a thing. 

            She sniffled.

KFC napkin in-hand, she wiped her tears.  Guess, I wasn’t out after all, she thought. 

Then her doorbell rang, the first time in all these months. 

Christ a’mighty, what now?

            She thought about getting up and waddling to the door, scrawny left hand in vain trying to support her back, and then she thought better.  Why go to all the trouble?  The door wasn’t locked—never had been.  Why should it be?  She was safe as safe could get.  She was going to have his baby, after all.  Nothing on Earth could touch her.

            “Come ON IN.”  Old instincts started to drive her hands for some last-second hair fixin’, but she quickly corrected herself.  What was the point?  “Door’s unlocked.”

            The front door opened and two men in white stuck their heads inside.  Susan almost gasped.  Next to her angel, the two were the most handsome men she’d ever seen, their eyes almost glowing, almost golden—almost.  “Can I help you?”

            One of the men, the brown-haired one that made Brad Pitt look like a hairy-ass, said, “The Agency sent us.  Somebody having a baby?”

            “You could say that.”

            The other man answered her rhetorical statement: “Super.  We’re here to help you through it.”  And then they came in, each one carrying one of those medical kits she’d seen EMTs use on TV. 

            “Now who sent you guys?”
            Brown hair again, “The Agency.  Can we get started?”

            “Uh ….”

            Then the other guy, face and form perfect, hair blonde as a sunbeam, “Yeah, the Agency.  Now, what we’re going to do is set up, clean this place, and give you all the help you asked for and more.”

            “All the h—”

            “Shh,” blondie hushed.  “Don’t worry about a thing.  You were heard.  Now drink this.”  He opened his kit and pulled out a bottle of water made by some company called “Living Springs” and handed it to her.  “It’ll make you feel better, I promise, and then we’ll get crackin’.”

            The other guy smiled.  “Trust him.  He never lies.”

            “Never-ever.”  Blondie grinned and got moving.

            She opened the bottle and drank, and immediately felt all her fears melt.  She stared into the brown-haired man’s eyes, and for a second, the briefest of flickering moments, they were golden … shiny, heart-melting golden orbs.  She blinked and then they were blue again, but shifting … from lightning bolt to Nordic to gentian … others, all the blues in the universe, the kind she could just fall in forever and 4-ever. 

“Thank you, my name’s Susie Bruisey.”

            “Not any more, Lady Susan,” the two answered together.  “Not anymore.”

Ok begin your guesses........six entries, which ones are which?