The Lipstick Chronicles

The Tarts are delighted to welcome back guest blogger Jennifer Vido, whose "Jen's Jewels" column at FreshFiction.com is one of our favorite places to read about books.  Jen's here to tell us what's up with life in the suburbs lately.  No surprise as the school year winds to a close, it has a lot to do with those kidlets!  You can also visit Jen at her website.

                                                                

Dispatches from the Suburbs -- The Mom Lifestyle

The majority of Americans look forward to Daylight Savings time for the simple fact that it brings the countdown to summer.  Those days when you skip work due to that supposed cold which can only be remedied by spending an afternoon on the golf course rather than in the boardroom.  Yes, you know exactly what I am talking about.  Of course all of this is well and good unless you happen to be in that special category that is marked with three simple letters -- M-O-M.  Then, I'm sorry to say, you're totally exempt from this sickness.  For us moms, Daylight Savings Time signifies one thing and one thing only . . . .the dreaded end of the school year.

Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not lamenting over the prospect of having our sons at home with me 24/7, all summer, every day, rain or shine.  (That's a topic for another blog, my friends.)  No, I'm talking about all of the obligatory school functions that never seem to end.  I don't know about you, but I'm finding that I hardly have enough time to get things done.  And if that's not bad enough, the teachers feel the need to assign twice the amount of homework in an attempt to complete their curriculum by June.

Take for instance my son's middle school social studies class.  I am sure that many of you can remember (with agony) your child's first research project.  You know -- the one that requires a zillion note cards, a complete sentence outline, and my all-time favorite, the tri-fold display board.  Honestly, by the time it was completed, I swear Julius Caesar wound up becoming the fifth member of our family.  This project was a valuable learning tool, but quite frankly it was also a painful lesson in time management for the entire family.

                                                               

Besides schoolwork, springtime also brings many other obligations.  This is what the past month looked like at our house.  We had two first communions, a baptism, three family birthday parties, the required spring school concert, lacrosse practice and games, the social studies fair, a walk-a-thon for the Arthritis Foundation, scouts, and sign-ups for summer camps.  That's just a sampling of what's been happening.  Whew!  I'm exhausted just writing about it!

But then on Friday, it finally dawned on me.  As I was sitting in my son's first grade classroom enjoying the Mother's Day Tea, I realized that it would be my last.  Next year, he'll be in second grade, where Mother's Day Teas are no longer celebrated. My older son will be in seventh grade, a step closer to high school, where hugs will no longer be readily accepted.  And I stopped and asked myself this question . . What's the hurry?  Even though I'm tired and I have ugly bags under my eyes, this is my life.  And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

So now, as I prepare for my Herculean work, I listen to that little voice in my head reminding me that this too shall pass, and all too soon.  Within a blink of an eye, I'll be reminiscing with my husband about these crazy days when it was such a struggle to keep my head above water.  And yes, a lonely tear will run down my cheek as I wish that I could have it all back.

Metrosexual vs. Retrosexual

by Neil Plakcy, who writes compelling mysteries about Hawaiian detective Kimo Kanapa'aka, struggling to fight crime as he comes out as a gay police officer.

I don't like to admit failure. But I just can't seem to get the metrosexual thing down. I can't give up my Hawaiian shirts. I can't be bothered to get my hair cut until it's so shaggy it blows in my face, and I can't muster much interest in grooming products. Surfing the internet recently, though, I found the term that seems to define me: retrosexual, "a man with an undeveloped aesthetic sense who spends as little time and money as possible on his appearance and lifestyle."

That seemed a little harsh--but sometimes the truth hurts.

I don't know the difference between mauve and fuchsia, and I don't care. I don't know what my skin type is, I think plucking your eyebrows is needlessly painful, and I don't like facials, manicures or pedicures. (I know, having tried one of each as a part of a desperate attempt to make myself more presentable when I wa dating.)

But am I ready to go the other way--to be a retrosexual? Time for a little self-examination.

"A retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himelf."  I love a good piece of prime rib, but I'm not going to kill the cow for it. That's what restaurants are for.

"A retrosexual does not order a green apple martini at a bar." Do Cosmopolitans count? I do like a good microbrewed beer. But a retrosexual probably sticks to Bud or Miller.  Guess I fail on this count.

"A retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be." I'm a mystery writer. I kill people all the time. Thumbs up.

"A retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about." I've got a few scars--but am I going to brag about slicing my foot open on a bicycle pedal when I was nine? Don't think so.

"A retrosexual man is not ashamed of his body nor the sounds and smells that might emanate from it. He understands the theraputic value in a well rendered belch. In public or not." I'm not sure that this is one I should admit to, but you know what they say, if the shoe fits...

"A retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey." Hmm... I guess aloha shirts don't count.

"A retrosexual man can use a knife. His preferred pocket knife is the Swiss army knife." Hey, I've got a knife like that. Mostly I use it for trimming my nails, but at least I've got the possibility of scaling a fish or sawing a small branch.

"A retrosexual man doesn't mind getting dirty. Men lived for thousands of years without washing their hands every fifteen minutes." Amen, brother. I make sure to wash my hands after using the restroom, or picking up the dog's poop. Anything after that is gravy.

Finally, my favorite: "A retrosexual does not let neighbors f--k up rooms in his house on national TV." No problem there. I remember one show in which the decorator covered one whole wall with moss. Here in Florica, we call that hurricane damage, not interior decorating.

The actual retrosexual code is a lot longer, and easy to find online. On balance, I'm about fifty percent retrosexual. If I was still single, I'd get my hair cut more often, and I'd watch my manners, too. But being happily partnered, I figure I'll live by what I consider the essence of the retrosexual code: just deal with it. Deal with who you are, and that'll make you happiest in the end.

Neil Plakcy's Kimo novels are fast-paced, emotionally compelling reads about a police officer coming to terms with his sexual identity while solving complex mysteries in the exotic Hawaiian setting.  You can check out an excerpt of Mahu Fire here.  But we know TLC regulars will want to explore Neil's foray into erotica.  Check it out here.

A Mother's Confession

by Libby Fischer Hellman

First off, thanks to the Book Tarts for allowing me to guest blog today. I hope I live up to your standards. Now, my confession: I wrote my most recent book, EASY INNOCENCE, out of fear.

Actually, I was close to panic. My daughter was about to start high school, and I was in the middle of a contentious divorce. I wasn't sure whether my daughter would listen to me, much less obey. I was even more uncertain how to steer her through the thicket of high school peer pressure, emerging sexuality, and substance abuse. It didn't help to remember what I was doing at her age.

About the same time, a hazing incident occurred less than a mile from our house. You might remember the video--it made the national news. Ostensibly a powder puff football game between high school seniors and juniors, the event devolved into a gruesome event in which senior girls kicked and pummeled the juniors, poured feces, fish guts, urine, and blood over them, and behaved as barbarically as the fictional boys in LORD OF THE FLIES. Several girls ended up in the ER. (Ultimately half a dozen girls were suspended and lawsuits between school and families flew, but that's another story.)

I started to play the "what if" game--something authors do on a regular basis. What if a girl in the Forest Preserve had been killed instead of injured? What if everyone thought it was a result of a hazing, but it wasn't? What if she'd been involved in something else that triggered her death?

It turns out, of course, that she was. Which is where the fear comes in.

Consider this. You move to an affluent area like the North Shore of Chicago because you want a better life for your kids. You're pretty sure you can get by--both you and your spouse work. And you do make ends meet. But there are no frills. Maybe you don't give the kids an allowance . . . or much of one. It's okay. You worked for spending money as a kid. Your kids can, too.

You happen to have a daughter who's anxious to make new friends. In fact, like most teenage girls, being accepted by her peers is pretty much the sina qua non of her existence. She's new; she has to get in with the right crowd. As a Mom, you understand. You've been there.

But there's a problem.

The badges of peer acceptance these days are increasingly defined by material goods. Especially in affluent areas. Which means that some of her new friends have things you can't afford to give her: Prada bags . . . Michael Stars shirts . . . designer jeans . . . iPods and iPhones . . . a late model Land Rover.

Your daughter feels the pressure. She knows you can't afford to buy what the other girls have. But she also knows she's not going to make the kind of money she needs by flipping burgers at McDonald's or pouring lattes at Starbucks.

One of her new friends tells her they know how she can make a lot of money. It's easy. Maybe even fun. The opposite sex is probably hot for her anyway--why not make them pay for it? She thinks about it. She hasn't grown up with the same societal taboos about sex that we did. Sex is no big deal. And if that's all it takes to make the cash she needs, why not? So she tries it, and she makes a few hundred bucks. Suddenly she has the money to buy a new leather jacket. Her new friends ooh and ahh over her stuff. So she does it again. And buys more stuff. Before she knows it, it's a habit.

They call it "suburban prostitution," and it exists. Oprah did a show about it. Newsweek wrote an article. Just a few weeks ago, someone sent me a report about a 14-year old girl in Texas who was arrested for trying to recruit her girlfriends into hooking.

It's important to note that these young hookers are not runaways. They're not drug addicts. And they're not dependent on a pimp. (In fact, many of the "madams" are teenagers themselves.) These girls, from seemingly stable middle-class families, are hooking because of the money they'll make to buy the things that spell acceptance by their peers.

Is that backwards, or what? Screwed-up? To me it is. In fact, it's downright scary. What does it say about the values we are passing to our daughters? About the kind of women we want them to become? The more I learned about the issue, the more I knew it was the story I needed to tell. EASY INNOCENCE is dark and disturbing. It explores the implications of a materialistic society that glorifies sexual imagery. But it's a story I think we need to hear. At the very least, I hope it will spark thoughts.

The good news is that my duaghter is now a freshman in college. Somehow we both made it through without lasting damage. She's become an amazing young woman. But how about you? How have you helped your daughters navigate through teenage peer pressure?

If you haven't checked out Libby Fischer Hellman's books, now's the time, TLC fans.  This Chicago writer also blogs at one of our favorite online hotspots, The Outfit.

                           

The Tarts are delighted to welcome guest blogger Liz Zelvin, whose debut mystery Death Will Get You Sober hits bookstores April 15.  Liz's short story Death Will Clean Your Closet was just nominated for an Agatha -- go Liz!  Visit Liz at www.elizabethzelvin.com.

Marital Complaint No. 873: My Husband Won't Read My Book

You know those authors who invariably dedicate their novels to "my husband, who gave me unconditional encouragement and incisive critique, pored over every draft, and made sure I didn't misplace a single comma"?  I don't have one of those.

It's not that he's not a reader.  He loves to read. Coming late both to literacy (fifth grade, when his father noticed the nuns missing something important) and higher education (a B.A. in history in his forties), he has spent many happy hours with his nose buried in a book.  His story is the reverse of min.  I'm an old English major who jumped the wall and ran off with genre fiction shortly after college graduation.  He devoured paperback SFand fantasy in his youth and now devotes himself to erudite reading.  He can still wax nostalgic about his days as a genre junkie.  When the first part of Lord of the Rings came out, I remember he said, "I've been waiting for this movie for 35 years!" -- and sighed with deep contentment when, "Yeah, me too," came from all around us in the darkened theater.  But nowadays, he has little use for mere stories.

My husband likes to browse the brick and mortar Barnes & Noble and treat himself to the occasional tome, but many of his books come from the library of the university where he works.  He once checked out a volume on the Dark Ages by Sir Charles Oman, the author of a multi-volume history of the Peninsular War, all of which he owns.  (I know all about the Peninsular War, too.  I've read Georgette Heyer's Regency romances many times.)

When he opened the Oman library book, he found the pages were uncut.  Back in the dark ages, books were printed on folded two- or four-page sheets.  (Folios and quartos, as in Shakespeare's original manuscripts. I was an English major once upon a time.  I know the meaning of "incunabula" too: Lord Peter Wimsey collects them.)   Readers had to slice the pages open as they went -- and so did my husband, since he was the first person to check the book out since 1898 when the university acquired it.

My husband is probably the only American in the last fifty years who has read James Boswell's Life of Johnson for pleasure.  I've heard him chuckle aloud at some priceless fact about the Ottoman Empire or siege warfare in the 14th Century.  His interests are eclectic: he spent months reading everything he could find about the lesbian expatriate literati (or should that be literatae?) in Paris in the 1920s.  Stuck up over his desk at work are pictures, not of me, but of Madame de Stael.  Peggy Guggenheim was another favorite of his for a while.  So it's not a case of gender-specific reading.  He simply doesn't care for mysteries.

Of course, my mystery is not just any mystery.  He's nervous about what I might have put in Death Will Get You Sober.  I recently overheard him say, "She swears I'm not the protagonist, but I'm afraid there's more in there than I want to know."  To tell the truth, I hope his feelings don't get hurt when he realizes he's not the protagonist at all.  (A secondary character's passion for history is not quite purely coincidental.  As my publisher's standard disclaimer puts it, it's "used fictitiously."

I must admit he's offered to read the manuscript now and then, probably out of a fleeting desire to get it over with.  I've always declined.  He's not getting anything but the finished product.  Will I stand over him while he reads it?  Probably.  Will anything he can possibly say about it be the right thing?  Probably not.  My husband is not stupid.  He knows he's doomed.

The Tarts are delighted to welcome back our tres chic friend Cara Black, whose latest Aimee Leduc mystery, Murder in the Rue de Paradis, just hit bookstores. Having Cara around always makes us feel spiffier.  So get ready all you readers who need a little French flavor, because Cara's going to help you:

Find Your Inner French Girl

Is there an inner French girl lurking inside my baggy sweats and carpool mom facade?  Could I too wear the perfect scarf and tie it just so -- a skill I'm convinced is genetic in female Gauls?  If you've asked yourself these question like I have, then you're ready to take this quiz to check if you're a chic-lette:

A.  My accessories.  Do I --

1. carry a tiny purse-size spritzer of perfume;
2. wear a scarf knotted in the perfect French way;
3. carry a knock-off Birkin bag (Jane Birkin made Birkin bags famous when Hermes designed one for her); or
4. try to make that rubber band around my wrist look fashionable?

B.  My makeup essentials include --

1. tube of mascara somewhere on my person;
2. another tube of mascara just in case;
3. blush;
4. magic marker from a close encounter with a two-year-old.

C.  My purse essentials include --

1. a rope of pearls, just in case;
2. a man's phone number;
3. Kleenex;
4. a magic marker confiscated from a two-year-old;

D.  My shoe collection includes --

1. a pair of boots with Louis heels;
2. a pair of cowboy boots;
3. flip flops
4. crocs.

E.  My lipstick is --

1. red;
2. fuschia;
3. Urban Decay's pink punk;
4. Chapstick.

F.  My perfume is --

1. Chanel No. 5;
2. something floral with "eau de" in the name;
3. citrus atomizer;
4. eau de baby wipes.

G.  In my closet can be found --

1. black jeans;
2. that vintage jacket bought in a flea market;
3. clamdiggers hitting above my ankles;
4. something a size too small that I keep telling myself I'll wear someday.

H. My agenda is --

1. An Hermes planner;
2. A little Moleskin leather planner;
3. A Palm Pilot;
4. The back of the grocery list.

I.  I am often heard --

1. quoting a line of Proust;
2. Humming a bar of Sinatra's "My Way"
3. Singing along with the car radio to Pat Benatar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot"
4. Asking, "Where are my keys?"

Now add up the numbers associated with your answers, and score yourself as follows:

19 or less -- Congratulations, you have found your inner French girl!

25 or less -- You're on the road to your inner French girl, but you haven't found her yet;

35 and up -- like me, you have a long road to travel to find your inner French girl.

When I saw my score, a bit daunted, I realized I needed to do some work on my inner French girl.  In the bleachers at my son's lacrosse practice, I wondered: how do French women enter a room, projecting an elan most of us can only dream of, and tackle the foie gras without gaining a waist size?  How do they look put-together on a shoestring budget?  How do they run down the Metro steps without breaking a sweat?  Go to restaurants with perfectly behaved children?  Make time for weekly facials?

The stunning revelation I came to is that one must attain the Frenchwoman's inner -- and I stress inner -- ease in one's skin.  My friend Anne-Francoise is the perfect Parisienne.  No snacking between meals; a spritz of eau de parfum even for a vist to the corner boulangerie; wearing heels even to the commisariat when her apartment was burgled; a focus on quality, not quantity in her wardrobe (one good handbag or coat).  But also -- a love of passionate debate, an intense interest in the world.

Maybe those last things explain the "je ne sais quois" that Frenchwomen project and explain how I, an American woman, can attain it.  Like Anne-Francoise -- evenings spent with friends, lunches with her family on Sundays, taking in the latest exhibition, seeking culture and knowledge, and always making room for the sensual side.  As Coco Chanel put it: "There is time for work.  And time for love.  That leaves no other time." 

I now have hope.

The Tarts welcome a new mystery writer who has crossed over into our dark world from romance writing. Karen Kendall is the award-winning author of seventeen novels and novellas. Her upcoming mystery release is TAKE ME IF YOU CAN (Signet, April 2008) the first book in a series about an agency that recovers stolen art.

Can A Feminist Write Romance Novels?

By Karen Kendall

I may write romances, but I’m no Barbara Cartland. I don’t wear filmy negligees or boas. In fact, the only boa I’ve ever had was Columbian (my husband’s). It was seven feet long and featherless, but it did have fangs – and it had lurid fantasies about my cat.

The old clichés about romance no longer hold true. Fabio’s gone and I haven’t seen a rape fantasy plot in a long time. But . . .

Let’s be honest: romance tends to get universally mocked.

Why? For one thing, it’s accused of being formulaic. But it’s no more formulaic than spy/adventure thrillers (save the world, get the girl) or mysteries (who dunnit and why) and we don’t mock those. Of course, thrillers and mysteries don’t get the covers that romances do, and the covers are part of the problem.

A friend of mine once had her book featured by Jay Leno, who read passages from it on live television while he and the audience laughed. Ever seen Leno reading passages from Dale Brown or Clive Cussler and busting a gut laughing? No – because male fantasies are seen as legitimate in our society, while female fantasies are seen as ludicrous. Why?

My mother, a professor of comparative literature, liked to read romances (and mysteries) on the side, but she wouldn’t be caught dead near the university with them. Yet if the male dean of her department were seen walking down the street with a spy novel, nobody would think twice about it.

Does it boil down to the sex?

Throughout history, men have painted and written about women sexually and it’s been accepted. Women have been the object of the male eye—and still are. Just grab the latest Victoria’s Secret catalogue and take a look. But it’s hard to imagine a Victor’s Secret catalogue, isn’t it? There are no male models contorting themselves into impossible positions to show us the latest in, er, banana hammocks.

And yet the Victoria’s Secret catalogue is marketed towards women! Most of us get depressed just looking at it and not measuring up--but we don’t laugh. And there’s a reason for that. It’s a five-hundred dollar word: scopophilic phallocentrism.

Scopophilic Phallocentrism is what, exactly?

We live in a society in which images of women are controlled largely by men.

Women are usually the object of the camera, while the eye behind the camera is male.

We’re so inured to images like those in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue that we barely notice them anymore. They’ve become part of our culture and our expectations of women. In other words, the male eye behind the camera has become the eye of the mainstream.

The question is: how can we move the female eye behind the lens and put the male in the position of subject? How do we make sure that female perception and female fantasy gets equal time in the media?

By writing and directing from a female perspective. It’s that simple . . . or is it?

It’s part of what I do every day, putting my eye behind a mental camera and creating text images of a male hero from my vantage point as a woman. This means that he becomes my subject and that I have the choice to idealize him, stereotype him, mock him, expose him or treat him fairly as a human being.

But men don’t really like being subjects of the camera/writer, unless they can control the product. They don’t like being seen only in the context of what they can do for a woman. They don’t like being powerless. And so they are, quite naturally, going to scoff at women’s fantasies—namely, romance novels.

Just as we’d rather not compare ourselves physically with models, most men don’t want to be scrutinized next to body builders or romance heroes. What if they come up short? So they point and laugh at the guy on the novel’s cover and sneer that he’s only a stupid fantasy.

Duh! Of course he’s a fantasy. That’s the whole point.

The big question is, why have women not ridiculed the male fantasy of the perfect, airbrushed, bodacious babe? The one who looks like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose each and every night? Too many women go running for lip-plumping products instead of laughing.

Since the male eye has become the norm – the mainstream – a lot of women scorn romance novels, too, without even trying them. Now, I’m ready to admit that there are some truly lousy romances out there (and lousy male adventure books, too) but there are also wonderful, funny, touching and well-written ones. My favorite fan e-mails come from women who tell me, "I’d never read a romance novel in my life before I picked up yours. I can’t believe what I’ve been missing all these years!"

So how can I, with a straight face, call myself a feminist and write romance novels?

Because I’m working every day to validate female fantasy and that’s important.

The bottom line is that a mass-market audience isn’t likely to read the French feminists. No, that audience is going to continue to absorb mainstream culture, so the battle to change perceptions begins there.

I write the most compelling fiction I can, featuring hot, macho heroes (hey, who wants to fantasize about a bald guy with a pot-belly?) who are well-matched with equally strong, intelligent heroines. They don’t shriek – they act. They engage in power struggles with the hero and often win. Along the way they have some great sex, and I happen to think that’s a good thing, since historically women – busy being the objects of male fantasy – have put up with a lot of bad sex, too.

Tried a romance novel lately?

***

For more information visit Karen Kendall's Website

For more information on scopophilia and related issues, see the following links:

The Patriarchal Gaze

Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema

Last November, The LIpstick Chronicles published a guest blog on the subject of The Bodies exhibition. Since then, many voices have contributed to the backblog, and ABC News has opened up the story.  And our "comments" section has generated some terrific dialogue. Here's Lila Shaara's original blog on the subject. 

Of Two Minds

by guest blogger, Lila Shaara, author whose debut novel, Every Secret Thing is available here.

You may have heard of "Bodies: An Exhibition," in which preserved ("plastinated") organs and entire human bodies are displayed, the latter flayed and posed. It's now in Pittsburgh, where I live.  My first reaction was ambivalent disgust. I'm an anthropology professor, and I see a woeful lack of understanding in my students of the basic fact that we are animals (primates specifically, just like chimps and baboons!)  You'd be surprised, or maybe you wouldn't, by how few young Americans have any real understanding of where their food comes from. Their connection with death is even more peculiar; they've seen thousands of murders on TV and in film, mostly fictitious unless they're fans of snuff films. On the other hand, unlike those in most cultures, few of us have bathed our Aunt Hester's dead body to prepare it for burial, unless we happen to be morticians.

So I have some sympathy with any attempt to drive the fact of our animal nature home to us. But the ads for "Bodies" are designed to shock; a man with no skin stands with his hands on his hips in a sporty pose, only he is split completely down the middle; his two halves are joined by a fat, bumpy string of internal organs. The majority of the exhibit's venues around the country are not museums or universities, but Expo Marts and exhibition centers, where the goal of profit-making is clear. On the Carnegie Science Center's website, there's a lot of highfalutin' talk about the appreciation for healthy living it brings the viewer, the marveling at our inner workings, and how much you can learn about human anatomy. You can learn as much from a good textbook, but I suspect the real motive for many is the same one that makes movies like The Hills Have Eyes and Saw IV hits, and the Carnegie is exploiting it for revenue. But I don't tell people that they shouldn't go just because I think it's gross and prurient. That's just me.

The thought that children are being taken to this by the score appalls me. Mine certainly won't be going. But this won't be the first time that I could be accused of worrying too much about how quickly our culture wants our children's innocence ripped from them or wants to turn them into voracious consumers. So I would never tell other people that they shouldn't take their own kids. That's  just me.

The specimens are reportedly from "unclaimed" Chinese cadavers, and I had to wonder if that was justification enough for them to be used in such a way, without consent, even if it's legal. These people likely didn't have many breaks when they were alive. Now their flayed carcasses are posed kicking a soccer ball for the edification of overfed suburban teenagers. I find that disturbing. But maybe that's just me.

But the main objection my husband and I shared with many other people was the issue of the bodies' true origins. A hospital in Dalian, China, "plastinates" specimens and then sells them. There are horrifying rumors all over the internet and other news media that the Chinese government is "harvesting" bodies and organs from political prisoners. Such abuses are not inconsistent with everything else that we know the Chinese government is willing to do to its citizens. (According to CBC Canada, an investigation by former MP David KIlgour and humans rights lawyer David Matas found that 41,500 organ transplants performed in China came from "unexplained sources.")

The Carnegie's response to these concerns has stayed the same since the issue was brought up. The short version is that the doctor that does the plastinating says that no donor died of trauma, and the guy at Premier Exhibitions (the owner of "Bodies") agrees with him. This was, of course, not good enough for many thinking people. Then David Hilldenbrand, CEO of the Carnegie Museums in Pittsburgh wrote an editorial in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette about how those who objected to "Bodies" didn't understand what art is supposed to be about. Except this was the first time the thing was called art. And he didn't address the actual controversy; instead, he just said that art is supposed to make people argue. That's what it's for. And then you know what he said? "We've been asked similar questions [which questions are those?] about a number of the [Andy Warhol Museum's] electic, sometimes gut-wrenching exhibitions . . . Why the Abu Ghraib photos? Why an exhibition about lynching in America? . . . I shudder to think of the day when our museums explore only those topics that make us feel all happy and comfortable."

What? The point of the Abu Ghraib photograph exhibit was to illuminate human rights horrors. The point of "Bodies" is quite possibly to profit from them. At the very least, the exhibit's stated function is to show in exquisite detail which organs go where and what your nerve fibers look like; these are unlikely to stimulate any tough special questions. Hillenbrand's argument suggests that he is either alarmingly clueless or jaw-droppingly cynical.

So Rob and I wrote a letter to the newspaper. We didn't expect that it would start a groundswell of interest in China's human rights abuses. We just thought it was the right and ethical thing to do, to shake our tiny fists at a gargantuan injustice. But I was shocked at the reaction of a number of people; "I'm going to go but I respect your opinion, even though it differs from mine." In this context, what does "I don't agree with you," mean?  Does the speaker disagree that such things could happen in China? Then he's simply ill-informed. Or does she disagree with the notion that a government killing its citizens for profit is bad? I have a sinking feeling that what's actually going on is that an increasing number of Americans think that "But I want to," is a reasoned argument.

Rob suggested an interesting hypothetical scenario. Say the "unclaimed" bodies had been sold to an American entrepreneur by an Iraqi doctor. What if allegations were made that some of the bodies were those of unconsenting Americans, lost through the vicissitudes of war? Would those "Bodies" patrons be less eager to plunk down their twenty-two bucks? My guess is, you bet your Hummer.

But you know, that's just me.

What about you?

For the ABC News 20/20 coverage: http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/story?id=4284629&page=1

For a thorough look at the issues from the perspective of a museum employee who resigned over this issue:  http://mysite.verizon.net/vzexqyla/anti-bodies-virtual-picket-line/

The Kilgour-Matas Report: http://www.organharvestinvestigation.net/index.html   

 

Guest blogger Karen Olson, is the author of the Annie Seymour Mystery series.  Check out Karen's latest release, DEAD OF THE DAY.

Almost exactly 10 years ago, my husband and I met our daughter in a dingy, cold government building in Changsha, Hunan, China.  A single lightbulb dangled from the concrete ceiling as 15 waiting families held their new daughters for the first time. The girls were dirty and small. Our daughter weighed only 15 pounds at a year and couldn't even pull herself up into a sitting position if she was lying down. She clutched two rice crackers, one in each hand. When we got back to the hotel room, we peeled off five layers of clothing and discovered a disposable diaper was being held on her tiny body with a rubber band. She screamed hysterically for two days, until she realized we were giving her food. Her first smile came when my husband was feeding her rice with chopsticks. Still, food was not to be wasted, and she carefully picked up each grain of rice that fell on her shirt or pants and put it in her mouth.

Her name is Julia Elna, but we kept her Chinese name---Xin, which we were told meant prosperity---as a second middle name. She's 11 now. As American as any other kid, but raising a child of another race has had its ups and downs. We've heard from the moment we started telling people we were adopting a baby from China that she'd be "smart, good in math." She was also described as "a beautiful China doll." Okay, so she's pretty and smart and good in math. She also plays the violin.  Some stereotypes you can't get away from.

I did have a stranger walk up to us when she was about 2 and say, "Don't they kill baby girls in China?" And if I had a dollar for every time someone asked me "how much did it cost," I probably would have been able to adopt again. One woman actually asked me if we were going to tell her she's adopted. I mean, she IS Chinese and we aren't.  She'd be able to figure it out.

Funny thing is, for a long time apparently she didn't realize she looked Chinese. When she was about 3, we were in a Chinese restaurant and she asked if all the people who worked there were Chinese. I said yes, why do you think so? She said, because they look Chinese. I said, well, you're Chinese.  She looked at me calmly and said, but I don't look Chinese. I asked her, what do you think you look like? She said, I look like you. Later, at home, we looked in the mirror together. Her expression was one of disbelief as she turned me to and exclaimed, I look Chinese!

We belong to a group called Families with Children from China. Lots of other families in our area who have adopted girls from various provinces. It's a great organization, and we've been able to show Julia families that look like ours: Caucasian parents, Asian children. But when she was 5, we realized we did too good a job having her accept this. She met a little girl during kindergarten orientation who was also Chinese, and she was so excited. She asked, did you see her father? He's Mexican. I said, he's probably not Mexican, sometimes Asians look Hispanic. I'm sure he's Chinese, too.  She asked, why would he be Chinese? She didn't realize Chinese kids could have Chinese parents.

These are all things we didn't realize we'd have to address when we flew across the country to meet her that first time. We felt we were prepared; my husband had lived in Japan for three years and knew firsthand what it was like to be a minority. But as we all know, parenting is on the job training as you go. Julia is a confident girl, proud of her Chinese heritage but very American at the same time. She's taken a great interest in the presidential primaries, and she's upset that she can't run for president because she wasn't born here. She has set her sights on Yale already. As I watch her growing up, I realize that there's nothing else she can't do, and I remember that tiny person being handed to me in that stark gray building 10 years ago. For those people who have insensitively asked me "when I would have a baby of my own," I always respond by saying that Julia IS my child. I'm not a particularly religious person, but I do believe that things happen for a reason, and if I had a biological child, I would never have met Julia. I truly believe she was destined to be our daughter. And I can't imagine life without her.

For more information, try these links:

Holt International

China Adoption

An adoption blog

Families with Children From China Heritage Tours.

The Book Tarts welcome our good friend Sarah Stewart Taylor, author of the Sweeney St. George mystery series, featuring a college professor who specializes in "the art of death."  Sarah, on the other hand, specializes in many things.  Including chickens!

For Christmas two years ago, my husband gave me a card with a note inside. When I opened it up and read his writing, the words made me swoon.  "Okay, sweetie.  You can get chickens."

I know it's not everybody's idea of a romantic holiday gift, but for my husband, who had grown up on the farm we live on and had traumatic memories of shoveling chicken manure and trying to extricate eggs from underneath angry, pecking hens, it was better than diamonds.

Growing up on suburban Long Island, I always wanted to raise animals. I came by my interest honestly. My father had grown up on a farm in New Hampshire and my maternal grandfather entertained his grandchildren with stories of his own upbringing on an Iowa farm. My husband and I had raised lambs and chickens for meat for a few years before I developed my obsession with getting some layers. His arguments against it were all good. We live in Vermont. Raising animals that don't end up wrapped in neat little packages in the freezer by November means shoveling a path out to the barn when it snows. It means chipping the ice out of the chickens' water. It means leaving the warm house and woodstove to go collect eggs before they freeze.

But still, I wanted some hens. I dreamed of fresh eggs, custards, cakes, quiches. So, a couple of months after I'd received my Christmas present, we sent away for 20 baby chicks of varying breeds. They arrived, peeping cheerfully, in a cardboard box delivered to the post office, and lived in our laundry room for a couple of weeks before they were big enough---and smelly enough---to take up residence in the chicken house. The chickens (and two "accidental" roosters) are now nine months old, full grown for fowl.  It's been fun to see them grow and develop their own personalities. My beautiful Blue Andalusian hens are shy and skittish. The plump Cochins tame and docile. The prolific Rhode Island Reds are businesslike and seem to exist only to lay their beautiful brown eggs. My favorite, until she was carried off one night by an owl, was Dolores, an unidentified free "rare breed" chick who came along with our order. Sleek, black Dolores came running when I called her name and liked to sit on my arm and eat grain from my hand.

When the weather was warm and the chickens spent their days outside, I loved going out with a cup of coffee and watching them peck around in the grass for the grain I threw and take dust baths in the sun. There was something so peaceful about their little routines and I found that it put me in a good mood for the day ahead. Maybe it was standing lazily in the morning light for a couple of minutes and feeling like I was doing "chores."

But even now that it's frigid outside, the path to the barn lined with walls of snow and ice, I look forward to seeing my girls (and two boys) every morning. I can hear the roosters crowing as I make the coffee every morning and when they hear me coming, the hens start clucking contentedly, knowing food is on it way. The best part is tucking my cold hand under a toasty, feathered breast and coming out with warm eggs, white and speckled brown. And of course, the fresh scrambled eggs we make for breakfast.

Fan-ning The Flame

By Guest Blogger Maryann Mercer

A great TLC Welcome to our own Maryann - you've enjoyed her comments, and now you get a chance to hear more, as she blogs on a very hot topic - Fan Fiction!

Once upon a time in merry old England, there was an author who wrote marvelous tales of the city, detailing social ills, redemption, love and destiny. People clamored for his work, which was slow in coming due to several factors, including the absence of electricity and (among other things), the iMac. One dark and dank night, an avid fan declared he could not wait a moment longer to see what happened to Ebenezer and Tiny Tim in the years following A Christmas Carol, if anything happened at all. Taking the paper on which his good wife had scribbled the weekly grocery list, he lined through 'get lye for soap' and began to write. Other fans of the author decided this was a good thing and began writing their own tales of Fezziwig and Company, and later added stories of those who peopled Jane Austen's fictional world and the moors of the Bronte sisters. Stories were passed from fan to fan and happiness ensued. Thus was born the phenomenon we now know as fan fiction. Fans created stories about such diverse characters as Don Quixote and Sherlock Holmes without fear of recrimination. Some published their stories in fan magazines; others shared them with friends.

Today, fan fiction is applauded and abhorred; seen by fans as a way to create stories using some of their favorite characters from the media, seen by writers as either a form of flattery or a definite encroachment on their own work. There are thousands of fan fictions and many fan fiction sites. One such site, www.fanfiction.net, breaks the sagas down by movies, television, and books. Those who write stories based on television series or daytime drama will tell you they write out of appreciation for the characters or because they don't believe their favorite character gets enough airtime or development. Those who choose to write extensions of movies apply the same rationale. They want to know what happens AFTER the credits start to roll. Most studios seem not to protest as long as the fan/writer is not making money from the work. Some series creators use it as a marketing tool. Joss Whedon for example encouraged fans of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer to read fan fiction during the hour in which the program had previously been broadcast.

Nowhere is controversy more evident than in the area of the written series. Authors who've worked hard to become successful at their craft look on fan fiction written about the characters they've created as theft, pure and simple. Anne Rice has taken numerous steps to prevent unauthorized fan fiction of her characters, especially Lestat. Science fiction fantasy writer Robin Hobb has posted an online entry to her blog about fan fiction writers entitled ‘Vampires of the Internet'. Other authors including Meg Cabot, who has addressed this issue on her website, are not quite so vehement but worry that readers of fan fiction will pick up their published works expecting something other than the author’s own concept and characters.

Now here's the rub. Bookstores have on their shelves volumes of work, some of which could be categorized in the broad sense as fan fiction for which someone other than the original author has been compensated. Examples include the series about Mr. Darcy, and Grendel, the Beowulf saga told from the point of the monster. Geraldine Brooks has written a popular spin-off of Alcott's Little Women in her book, March. Louis Bayard has taken us into the Dickensian future with Mr.Timothy. Jasper Fforde has created an alternate universe with his Thursday Next series, in which characters from the classics hop from book to book doing uncharacteristic things. Granted, most of these classics are considered in the public domain. Copyrights on others have expired, making the term ‘fair use’ applicable.

So, I turn the discussion over to you with these questions. Is fan fiction flattery or felony? Why is Mr. Darcy fair game when contemporary heroes such as Jack Reacher are not? If an author writes about a character from another, uncopyrighted work and proceeds to copyright his current story, does this mean no one else can use the character? Is writing fan fiction a creative exercise for aspiring writers or just copycat scribbling? What makes fan fiction about characters in books more heinous than fan fiction about television or movie characters? And… if you chose to write a story about your favorite character just for fun, who would it be? Tell me. I'm all ears.