The Culture of Mean — A Word Study

 The word "Mean" has several definitions in the English language. It does a lot of heavy lifting and can be used as a verb, adjective, or noun.

First, there's its use as a verb. "Mean" can be used to designate or define or convey, as in "moi means me" or "rouge means red," or any other definition. Also in the verb category, there's "mean" as in intend, such as "well, I meant to do that." "Mean" can also be defined as "leads to," as in "car exhaust means pollution." "Mean" is the action word that moves the language along to its final destination. 

Then there's the definition of finding a "mean," where it is used as a noun. In this definition, a "mean" is something that is found, for example, by adding values and dividing by the number of values to find an average, which points to a mean. It also is used to refer to a "middle way" or the mid point between two extremes. Finding the "mean" in any situation or equation is finding an actual thing or place. A noun. 

Finally, there is the adjective use of the word "mean," as in to call someone "mean." This definition can vary anywhere from someone who is miserly or ungenerous, to low class, poor, and shabby, to spiteful, foul, and malicious. This last "meaning" of the word "mean" is what I "mean" to address: spiteful, malicious, foul.

The phrase "Mean People Suck" started popping up in the 1970s, I believe. Maybe earlier. It is usually preceded by "Be Kind," showing the disparity between the two extremes. 

People can be mean for a number of reasons. I truly believe most people try to do the best they can with what they have. If they are mean to others, it is usually because they are thoughtless. They don't "mean to be mean." They just aren't thinking about another person's perspective or point of view, and end up hurting people without meaning to. Most of us do that occasionally, and eventually we realize it and do better.

People can also be mean because they are, what I see as, a step beyond thoughtless to selfish and self-centered. They aren't only forgetting of other people's perspective, they are actually so self-involved that outside perspectives do not matter to them. They are wearing "blinders," like horses being forced to look in one direction. They literally cannot see outside themselves and their own point of view, so that they end up stomping all over other people's feelings. Again, many people can get stuck this way, either in the short term or maybe for a little bit longer, but we eventually find a way out. We realize what we were doing and we get better. 

Lastly, there are those who mean to be mean. In fact they not only mean it, they revel in it. They take great, gleeful pleasure in being mean and spiteful to others. They get endorphin hits from bullying, being spiteful, malicious, and mean to others. They feel like they gain power or prestige from treating others badly or trolling, sometimes in person, sometimes online. It doesn't matter. It makes them feel good. And the more they do it, the more endorphin hits they get, and the better they feel. It becomes an addiction. It goes from being an occasional practice they do for "fun" to a regular way of being—living deep in the dark pit of malicious cruelty because it feels so good. They feel like they are "winning" at something—who knows what—some emotional game? And what's worse, is that this type of behavior has become celebrated in our culture. We've developed a culture of mean—a system—that actually rewards this behavior. Shock jocks or YouTube videos where people are laughing at cruel "jokes," popular reality shows, or even some business practices applaud this type of behavior; it is seen as entertainment.

Today I ended up on the phone with someone like this. They were entertaining themselves by using baiting, bullying, and spiteful tactics with me while I was trying, I thought, to fix a delivery issue.

It's upsetting to run into this kind of person. Their tactics take up a lot of negative, emotional energy—negative energy that they really like, that they are addicted to. When I run into this type of behavior it usually puzzles me, and it takes me a minute to catch up, to realize that being rational and reasonable, communicating clearly, is not going to work. I'm trying to communicate in one type of mode (sincere, straightforward, honest) while they're "communicating" in an entirely different mode (baiting, game playing, bullying). People who enjoy being mean, bullying, and being spiteful aren't in the market to be convinced. They don't care to have a discussion. They just want to throw all the excrement at the fan and hope it splatters on everyone, like a kid flinging mud on the playground. In fact, the more you try to communicate with them, the more you are walking into their trap. The best thing you can do is to walk away, hang up the phone, block the text, delete the email, stay away from the posts, leave the room, do not engage. It's the only way to "win" at the game they are playing, even if it feels like you're losing. Just walk away.

It's a hard lesson to learn. I had to learn it all over again today. "Mean People Suck" all right. They suck the life right out of the room and out of your soul. So stay the hell away from them.

Writing Through Loss

Heather and I, 1967.

I recently took an eight-week class/session on Writing Through Loss through Mission Hospice (where Heather was in hospice). I haven't done a lot of creative writing recently, and I thought it might help with re-energizing my writing chops as well as working through some grief. It was a weekly class (though class doesn't feel like the right term to use and it was more therapeutic than that). We had various writing prompts using various grief topics during class as well as some homework prompts over the weekend. 

Some of the things I wrote, I just wrote. They weren't special. they just got my thoughts down in front of my eyes. Other pieces that I wrote felt like I was mining a vein of something. It felt good, like I'm becoming a writer again. My brain is critiquing the books I'm reading and listening to as a writer would. I'm not just listening like a sponge. If you are going through a loss yourself, I recommend a writing class like this. Or an art/grief therapy class.

 

Anyway, it's been a minute since I posted anything here and I thought I would share something I wrote for the Writing Through Loss class.

The piece below I wrote for a prompt about the veil between the worlds that is supposed to be thinner during Halloween/Samhain/All Hallow's Eve and what I thought about that. 

The Veil by Rachel Olivier

 I like the idea of a “veil” between the worlds — one that is thinner at certain times of the year or day, or even in different parts of the world. I like texture and textiles, so I think of the veil as something that varies between the gossamer thin silk used by dancers and the deep, heavy velvet of a stage curtain, and from light, gauzy white to the darkest midnight, and all the colors in between, depending on when and where the veil is. All it takes is someone who is extra sensitive to communicate with those who happen to be on the other side of that veil, whether it be ghosts, spirits, sprites, trolls, fairies, plants, or animals. I anthropomorphize everything anyway, so it’s not a far leap for me. Every Christmas Eve I wait up until midnight and hope that this will be the year when the cats actually “talk” to me. They never do, but I always hope. I always hope that Dad or Gramma or former cats, and now my sister Heather, will drop by for a visit, either in my dreams, or at 3 a.m., or when I’m reading my tarot cards or lighting candles.

Dad and Gramma (Mom’s mom) both died in October; Heather and Grampa (Mom’s dad) died in January and February. I think of the time between autumnal and vernal equinoxes as the dead of the year. It’s the time of year when Persephone makes time with Hades while her mother Demeter wails across the earth grieving for the loss of her daughter. Seems totally appropriate to me for that to be the time of year when someone dies and when the veils between worlds might be thinner. My cats, on the other hand, have all passed on to Bastet’s Fields between March and August, during the spring and summer of the year, when life abounds. And yet, they visit my dreams more often than the humans do. Are felines better able to sneak through that veil? Even when cats are alive they seem to disappear in a closed room. I always assume they’ve found a portal somewhere. Maybe piercing the veil is just another Tuesday for them.

It’s easier to feel the changes in the year, the death of the year, in more northern climes where dead leaves crunch and gray skies take over. Things just feel more dead there during autumn and winter months. Here in L.A., however, where the sun seems to shine all the time, the “dead of the year” doesn’t seem to have the same meaning. In fact, more often than not, I usually think of summer as L.A.’s “dead of the year” because of how hot and dry it gets. But I also think of L.A. as one of those geographic places, like New Orleans or New York, or other cities, where the veil feels like it’s naturally more thin all the time. So many more souls have lived and died in cities. How many spirits are walking amongst the living unnoticed? Does anyone notice them? Do those spirits want to be seen? Does staying up until 3 a.m. make it easier for a visit? And why don’t my spirits, my loved ones, show up for me? And if they did actually show up, what could they tell me that they haven’t already told me? Maybe it’s selfish of me to want them to show up, but all I really want is to spend more time with them.

 

Current reflections: Grief origins and aftermath

 

Heather in Hawaii around 2009, maybe?

My sister —my beautiful, baby sister — died on January 28 this year. 

I've been wondering how or if I would ever write about it anywhere publicly for a while now. I've posted bits and pieces about what I went through on Facebook, a tiny bit on Twitter, some of it in my journal, but mostly I've just thought about it over and over, speaking with the others who went through it with me, like my mom, other family members, and some of Heather's friends. In order to keep some semblance of privacy I've tried not to use any names, but when I say "we," I usually mean me and Heather's friends or some of our family, or sometimes Heather and I. Also, I have decided not to write about any of Heather's specific health issues to honor her privacy. 

Anyway, it's just all too big; the memories and feelings take up huge bits of real estate in my head and heart. So, this is my attempt to write about what happened and what I am going through now. It's a long read. If you don't feel like going through it all, you can skip to the end to see links to her obituary.

What Happened

When Heather first went into the hospital in mid-December, we knew it was serious, but we also thought it was survivable. My sister was a very private person, so at first we didn't even know she was in the hospital, until her best friend, the one who had called 911 and got her there, got her permission to let me and our mom know. 

Christmas was one of my sister's favorite times of the year. Mine and my mom's as well. We always tried to make it special for each other. But this last season, it felt rushed and off, and that was before she ended up in the hospital.  It was almost as if Heather knew she didn't have much time. She got her Christmas gifts out to us fairly early. And we tried to get ours to her early, but not early enough, it turned out. I now think of it as the Christmas-that-wasn't.

By Boxing Day, the hospital let us know that Heather's condition was not, after all, survivable, except by a very slim margin, or a miracle. She had asked for help in getting her affairs in order. I had been the emergency contact with the doctors because my mom has some other health issues that made it difficult for her. But, I didn't have what I needed to get to Oakland, and my sister didn't have the wherewithal to access her own funds to help. I was going to go by train because that was doable, when I got a call that it would be best if I could get there sooner rather than later. I had a small amount left of my IRA funds that I had slowly been eating away at since I haven't been able to find work. So, I used up some of the last of that fund to get a ticket, but you know that doesn't happen quickly. It always takes a few days. And by the time it all "settled" I ended up getting a ticket that was overpriced, but got me there, in Oakland, by the evening of January 2. By then, the doctors were sure that Heather would be gone in the next few days.

As soon as I landed, I went straight to the hospital. It was night, I was exhausted and scared. In the two-three weeks that my sister had been in the hospital, we hadn't really been able to communicate with her very well. The toxins in her system had messed with her head (sometimes she would even pull the tubes or IV lines out, or try to anyway). Her phone was either in a locked cabinet or out of juice. Sometimes, occasionally, we'd get a nurse who would make time so we could talk to her on the phone or via a tablet or iPad. But these were just moments of jumbled conversation. Cards that my mom and I sent to Heather were never given to her, just stuffed in with her clothes and locked in a cabinet. I didn't even see them until after I went through her clothes when she was transferred to hospice. There were no Christmas trees or cards or decorations or anything to celebrate. I wanted to burst into her hospital room and try to do something about it! I wanted my baby sister to at least have some kind of celebration in her life.

And of course, when I tried to do that the next day, first thing she said to me was, "don't do that to me." 

It was so sad. 

But, back to that first evening. 

If you've been in hospitals recently, you know what it's like. There's security, limited number of visitors per patient (unless they're under palliative care and then that number is loosened up a bit), none of the vending machines work, and if there are coffee shops or cafeterias, they're all closed by like 2 or 3 p.m. And I'm not sure why, but at the time, Highland Hospital never seemed to have any orange juice. Every time she asked for orange juice she got apple juice. Once it was cranberry. It got to where she just wouldn't touch it when it came. So we started bringing in OJ for her. We were told it was better if she ate, so we wanted to make sure she ate something. Plus, she was dying, for pete's sake! The least we could do was make sure she had the orange juice she loved and craved.

Hospitals, for all that they're there to stabilize and get people on the road to healing, are not user friendly. 

Anyway, that first evening, there I was, juggling my cane and my luggage, walking hallways that seemed to go on forever (after a day in the airport that had seemed to go on forever) on two knees with osteoarthritis, a bum left ankle, a right foot with its own issues (plus a handful of other health issues I am dealing with) to finally get to my sister's room. It was the same walk I took almost every day, more or less, for the next two weeks as we figured out how to settle Heather's affairs and what her next steps were.

Those long hallways, standing in line at security, walking even longer hallways to the elevators and up to Heather's room, with me hauling in photos and food and my laptop and her iPhone, etc., still pop into my head at the most unexpected times. Day after day, and not always to the same room, I wondered how I would I find her. What condition would she be in? Because, of course, as Heather's condition changed, her room changed. Don't know why they couldn't just leave her in the same room, but every few days, as soon as we got used to how to get to her, sure as anything, she'd be in a new room.

The doctors had expected Heather to be gone (and by gone, I mean dead) by the 5th at the latest, and I was crossing my fingers for her to be with us until at least the 9th, so we could "get things done." Each day she had maybe an hour or two when she was at her most coherent, snatched at small intervals. That decreased over time, eventually, and it was time we needed for her to be able to make decisions and let us know what she wanted with the Will, with hospice, with saying goodbye to friends and family. It was hard; hard on her and hard for us, her friends and family, who were with her. She wanted to sign blank checks so I could access her accounts for making some of the arrangements, but her hands wouldn't work. When it came to her Will, we needed to use a traveling notary ($237) who would verify she was cognizant and who used a thumbprint to show her intention even if her signature was unrecognizable. One of the days when she was the most aware and we were discussing it, I captured her in a video as she stated very articulately what she wanted done. She was exhausted with the effort it took at the end of these days. It was so hard to watch. However, we were able to get a Will done and signed and witnessed by the 7th, thankfully.

The palliative care team, which really did a very good job of watching over Heather's care in the hospital, had said it was okay for me to spend the night with her (comfort care rules), which I tried to do. But some night nurse always chased me out, even when Heather said, very clearly, that she wanted me to stay there (and it wasn't like I was in the way, I was just sitting in a corner of the room), and even when we told the nurses that the palliative care doctor said it was okay, they wouldn't listen and would make me leave. I really begrudged that time with her. I wanted to stay with my baby sister and spend as much time with her as I could. Each night when I went home, when her friends left, we didn't know if that would be last time we saw her alive. Whenever I received a phone call with an Oakland area code, I didn't know if it might be the hospital letting me know if it was time. Had she died? So, I really wanted to stay each night and wanted to put up a fight about it, but I also needed the nurses and doctors to be on my side, Heather's side, our side, for helping us to make the right moves. So, I went home, or back to Heather's home, actually, and spent the evenings wondering how she was, regretting not seeing her more, bawling over the loss (I had almost fallen into tears in Heather's hospital room when I first got there, but her head whipped around and she flat out ordered me, "Don't cry!" So, I set myself the task of holding back any crying until I could get safely back to her place). I was also going through her things, deciding what could be thrown away and what would need to be packed away eventually. (Tossing out the old food was easy. But it was when it finally hit me that she would never be coming back to her place and I started throwing away her underthings and socks that it broke something inside me.) Then each morning I'd get back up, wondering how Heather had fared over night, and start the whole process all over again. 

It wasn't all grim. There was some humor. When I was in her apartment I found four (4) copies of her apartment key. When I asked her why she had so many she gave me a wide grin and said, "I'm paranoid!" It was a funny moment.

At first, it was all crisis mode. Then, after the emergencies were seen to, such as medical decisions and getting the Will signed, we had to make the other decisions, such as what measures, if any, Heather wanted the hospital to take to keep her alive. The "Do Not Resuscitate" order on her chart was her decision. I was there and holding her hand when we talked about it. She was not alone. 

Finding a Hospice

Then there was the matter of hospice or comfort care: hospital, home, or hospice? Believe it or not, but the Bay Area doesn't have that many actual hospices. A lot of "hospices" are just wings of nursing homes or rehab facilities, and most of them are full up, so you have to get on a waiting list. They (doctors and providers and insurance companies) usually depend on people spending "hospice" at home, which means the family provides the care with an occasional medical technician coming in to make sure they're doing things correctly. And this might be fine if the home is a ranch-style single-family home on one level with several bedrooms and enough family members to pitch in with care, but not such an easy set up if you live in a 300-square-foot studio apartment with a hinky plumbing system that's got a steep driveway and two sets of stairs to get to the front door and is out in the middle of the Oakland Hills in the midst of winding roads (very pretty, but not so practical), with no street lighting, no public transportation, and hardly any parking. Oh, and it was going to be me being her caretaker, and maybe a couple of friends who could make it when they could.

But then, at first the doctors assumed Heather wouldn't even make it to hospice, that she would die in the hospital, which is why she was changed to a system called "comfort care," which means taking away the machines, adjusting medications so it's more for keeping the patient comfortable, and allowing more family to visit. However, Heather was strong and dying on her own schedule, which was not as quickly as the doctors at the hospital thought. So we were being gently pushed to get her transferred. There was a waiting list for the few hospices in the Oakland area (Alameda County), and again, while one social worker tried to push for us to take her home, there was no way we were going to be able to do hospice at Heather's studio apartment.

Heather and a friend.     

 

Photos of Heather

Heather and Mom one Christmas.

Mom and Heather at Mom's 80th birthday dinner.

Our cousin, Heather, me, and Mom.

Heather and I in about 1979.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the middle of all this, when Heather was able, we were trying to phone or Facetime friends and family. Our stepmother had brought in some photos of Dad and Heather and I when times were better. In going through Heather's apartment I found other photos that I brought in for Heather to look at when she was aware. They were photos of her with friends and family, or from some of her travels to Cuba, Puerto Rico, Italy, etc. Some family members were able to schedule visits. We were going to make sure that Heather could feel the love of her friends and family around her. I kind of failed at this, though, as sometimes people would call or text Heather and I would be so distracted with other things that she wouldn't get the messages until later. But we were trying. 

Mission House Woodside

The hospital social worker had overheard us talking about friends and family who lived on the peninsula in San Mateo County. It was after the 9th and I initially thought I would be going home by the 10th. But Heather was still around, albeit with a DNR wrist band and sleeping more and more each day. I decided I needed to stay for the duration, whatever that needed to be. Both the hospital and her insurance wanted her transferred elsewhere, and I've already pointed out some of the issues we had with those various "elsewheres." However, there was a hospice the social worker knew about on the peninsula, Mission Hospice Woodside in Redwood City, which did have a bed open. I am so glad we went there. It was further away from her apartment than the hospital (an hour's drive via Lyft or Uber instead of the 20 minute drive to Highland Hospital), but it was exactly the place she needed to be. 

The day we transferred to the hospice was Friday, January 13 — Friday the 13th. Heather and I laughed about that. I was able to ride in the ambulance with her when they transported her there. We didn't talk much, though, just held hands. It was a bumpy ride and we were both pretty nervous. 

What I remember most about Heather getting settled is the kindness of the staff as we were going through the steps of checking her in, and the moment when we got into the room and the nurses were setting things up, surrounding Heather. They asked me to step out while the settled her, but she was nervous and scared and suddenly more aware and looked up and around and saw me. Her eyes were wide. I said, "I'm here. I'm right here and I'll be right back as soon as they're done." She nodded and I stepped out. I was scared and nervous, too. 

Now, here's something I learned that is crucial in anyone's understanding of a hospice. While a hospital is there to stabilize and get the patient onto the road to recovery, a hospice is there to help provide comfort to someone who is most likely in their final days. While a hospital will also try to keep a patient comfortable, that's not their primary goal. And while the medical professionals do see a lot of death, they don't specialize in what people go through at the end of their lives. So, for example, one of the differences was that the hospital brought in meals on a regular schedule. While the hospital pared down the meals because Heather didn't eat very much unless we helped her, they still kept up that schedule. At the hospice, however, as it was explained to me by the administrator when we checked in, there was no set schedule. If a client (not patient, since hospices are not considered medical facilities the way hospitals are) was hungry, they could ask for a meal, and meals were made on site. And they even had orange juice! Heather's first and only meal at the hospice was orange juice and tomato soup, both very tasty. However, 20 minutes later Heather was in pain and needed pain medication. 

Back in the hospital we hadn't connected Heather's eating with her pain. And if the staff were aware of how it was all processing, they didn't explain it to us. However, one of the nurses at the hospice explained to us that with the nature of Heather's illness, her body had problems processing food, which resulted in pain about 20 minutes after she ate. And as time went on and her system broke down more, it would have more problems processing food, and create more pain. One of the best ways to navigate that, the nurse pointed out, was to make sure that Heather had just enough to satiate the need for something in her mouth, such as sucking on ice chips or using oral care swabs, and limit any food intake, and thus prevent, as much as possible, any onset of pain. 

The End

So, that is what we did, helping relieve Heather's dry mouth with oral swabs, water, and ice chips. Over the course of the next couple of weeks, her friends, our stepmom, and I took turns hanging out with her at the hospice, trading off spending the night with her, reading to her, watching some of her favorite cop and western shows as we had in the hospital. More family came to visit. Mom called and talked to her. She wasn't usually responsive, partly because of the pain killers, but we wanted to make sure that if there was any awareness, she'd know she was loved.

The staff took excellent care of her, always making sure she was as comfortable as possible and always treating her with great kindness and respect. In fact, when Heather had first gone into the hospital, her best friend's wife had given her a bracelet to wear that had a Tibetan prayer inscribed on it. She always wore it. When she went into hospice, one of the nurses, who was from Nepal, recognized the prayer and prayed it with her one day during his shift. It was so kind.

Heather passed over late on the evening/early morning of January 27/28. Her best friend was with her at the time. She was with someone who loved her and I will always be grateful for that. 

After she passed, while we were waiting for the crematorium to pick up her body, the staff did what they called a rose petal ceremony where her body was wiped down with lavender oil and water, she was dressed in regular clothes, and then her body was sprinkled with rose petals. And then we sat with her while we waited. This was my baby sister. I remembered holding her when she was a baby and first came home from the hospital when I was three years old. Since then, we had played and fought, been best friends, and not talked to each other. Whenever I thought about growing old, it was with my sister by my side. That night, it was difficult for me to grasp that her spirit was no longer in her body, that I would never see her again, that she wouldn't just wake up and tell me to get over myself.

When we said goodbye to Heather in Half Moon Bay

Aftermath

It has been five months since then, but sometimes it feels like it's been a year, sometimes it feels like it just happened last week. I had gone up to Oakland for what I thought would be a week and ended up staying for a month, and it felt like a year. As they say on Doctor Who, time was all wibbly-wobbly — is still all wibbly-wobbly. While everywhere else it was becoming spring and summer, and the rest of the world was talking about Mother's Day, and then graduations, and then Father's Day, I was feeling like it was still winter, like in Narnia — always winter, never Christmas.

We scattered Heather's ashes in Half Moon Bay at the end of April. It was where we had scattered our dad's ashes; she had requested it especially. It was a perfect day and all the right people were there. Still, it's been a hard 2023 for everyone who knew Heather and loved her. I can only write about it from my own perspective, but I know I'm not the only one who mourns her loss and misses her terribly. Her friends and other family members all have experienced, or are experiencing, their grief in just as many different ways. She was an intelligent, beautiful, and vibrant person and she will always be missed.

If you never met my sister and would like to read a little bit more about her, you can find links to her obituary below. The one in the Bellingham Herald even has a short video with photos.

Heather's obituary in the San Francisco Chronicle: https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/sfgate/name/heather-olivier-obituary?id=43548527

Heather's obituary in the Bellingham Herald, which has a short video: https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/bellinghamherald/name/heather-olivier-obituary?id=42840719

Editing your own work: Using the "Find" Feature

When composing a document, whether it's an email to a friend or the next chapter in your own version of the Great American Novel, it's always a good idea to read through it for proofs and errors at least once before sending it anywhere. Even if you're sending it to someone like myself, whose job it is to proofread and/or copy edit your work for you, there's a lot of "pre-proofing" that you can do ahead of time. After all, as the author of your work, it's your job to "own" the work and have intimate knowledge of what your work is saying and how it goes about saying it. 

One reason to proofread is that you may have blind spots while you're writing your piece, such as mistakes and misspellings that you commonly make while your brain is in creator mode and not editor mode. And if you simply read through the copy again your eyes will probably glide over many of those mistakes. It's important to put yourself into "editor" mode before reading through your work again and make your brain see the words and phrases individually.

One way to put your brain into editor mode is to use the "Find" function in whatever application you're using (MS Word, InDesign, Final Draft, Pages, etc.). This will help you see specific items that need to be changed, and your eyes/brain are less likely to glide over the mistake. For example, you want to make sure that a name you used in your copy is correctly and consistently spelled throughout the piece. Type the first two or three letters of that name in the "Find" box, then click on the button to jump to that name in the document, and so skip from name to name throughout the document to make sure each time it shows up it is spelled correctly. 

If you KNOW that you have misspelled that name or word at least once, then type that misspelling into the "Find" box and use that to skip around the document to find all other instances where it may have been misspelled. 

Maybe you're not sure you misspelled anything, but you know you put the apostrophe in the wrong spot. For example, in most current styles, one does not put an " 's " after numerals when describing a time period like the 70s. It should not be "70's." Though at one time it was common to do that and considered okay, now it's not. Now it's considered correct to write it as "70s" without the apostrophe. You want to make sure you have gotten rid of all those extra apostrophes. So, in this instance, you type the 's into the search box for the "Find" function. It will probably take you through to all the other instances where you have a possessive, as well as the numeral you are checking for, which will feel like a pain. But in this instance (as well as the others listed above), that's a good thing. It means you are being forced to spot check your document in a way that is making you read it out of order and pay attention to specifics. In this way, you will see the document differently and, most likely, find mistakes you weren't even looking for that happen to be in the same general area as whatever it is that you typed into the search function. 

Of course, you still want to read through the copy one final time after that, because you always need to read it over one final time. That's just the way it is with proofreading.

Discovering new authors: Brooklyn Brujas

 

One of the cool things about using the Libby library app is how it suggests books and authors for you once it gets to know what you're looking for. Because it's Hispanic Heritage Month, more Latinx authors have been suggested on the app than normal, and I decided to try "Labyrinth Lost" by Zoraida Córdova.  It is book one in the Brooklyn Brujas three-book series. I totally enjoyed the story. I was so immersed in it, it felt real to me, the way I was immersed in the Harry Potter books when I read them. I wanted to know more about that world and the mythos that Alex and her sisters and the rest of her family inhabits. I found myself looking up prexes (bruja/o rosaries) and wanting to learn more about Los Lagos.

Just to give you a little taste of what it's about, Alex, or Alejandra, is the middle child of three daughters in a family with a bruja/brujo heritage that goes back generations. Her father disappeared when they were kids and her mom has had to work two jobs to keep everything together AND pay the mortgage, while also attending her bruja circle and keeping up her faith and trying to keep her daughters in the faith. For Córdova is very good at showing how this is a very real faith and a real subculture within the Latinx culture. But Alex doesn't think she believes anymore. She is in track at her high school, where she is a sophomore, has a best friend, Rishi (East Indian), she hangs out with (and has never told about her family's magic status), and just wants to be a normal girl. If she could, she'd give up any claim to magic. But, if that really happened, there'd be no need for a story, right?

The story touches a lot of different areas of interest, from magic, teen angst and rebellion to LGBTQ romance, heroine's quest, and dark fantasy themes. Córdova does a very good job of showing the awkwardness, tenderness, and confusion of first love, as well as the misunderstandings and quibbling of sibling relationships.

I highly recommend this for your next read. I listened to the audiobook, which was narrated by Almarie Guerra, and a delight to listen to. I look forward to listening to the next two books in the series, and even looking up other books by Córdova. I think this is a great story to read during October for Halloween and Day of the Dead, and of course during the rest of Hispanic Heritage Month.

Before Wonder Woman, there was Diana, Princess of Themyscira

In my search for books to listen to, I sometimes run into duds (recently sent three books back to Libby before I finished them because the narrators were getting on my nerves and the stories were not holding my attention), but sometimes I find some real gems. Recently, I found two audiobooks that were quite enjoyable, both about one of my favorite characters, Diana Prince, Princess of Themyscira, also known as Wonder Woman. 

Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo, narrated by Mozhan Marno

I read Wonder Woman: Warbringer back in 2017 when it first came out and quite enjoyed it then. Five years later, I decided to try out the audiobook, and I wasn't disappointed. The book is written for teens ages 12 to 17 years old, so Young Adult or YA in nature. There's some violence, but also plenty of teen angst, smart ass repartee, and romantic notions without any romantic situations, really. The story starts on the Island of the Amazons, also known as Themyscira, and is set before Diana has morphed into Wonder Woman. She's about 15 years old, curious, ambitious, competitive, intelligent, and really wants to prove herself. Diana also has a good understanding of the narrow line her mother, Queen Hippolyta, has to walk in serving and leading the Amazons, obeying the strictures placed on the island, and also being a good mother to Diana. 

Themyscira was set up by the gods (or several goddesses) to be the final home of women who are heroes and warriors or were wrongfully killed by men. In a sense, this is their Elysian Fields or Heaven. This is where they can practice their arts and skills, from races and horseback riding, to arts, music, and crafts, to hand-to-hand combat, for eternity (At one point, Diana refers to a gun as a coward's weapon because you shoot your opponent from a distance rather than facing them. Also, each sister-warrior is in touch with the others, so what one feels, so do the others, even when they're fighting in hand-to-hand combat.). But the inhabitants are from all over the world and from all sorts of cultures, and don't just worship the pantheon of Greek gods. While I didn't read about any Catholics or Lutherans on the island, I'm pretty sure they'd be as welcome as those who worship the Celtic and Norse pantheon of gods, as well as others. And part of me would love to see a story about the several types of inhabitants and how they got there. Are there any atheists or agnostics? Modern pagans or wiccans? If Themyscira is supposed to be a paradise for woman warriors and heroes, it shouldn't matter their creed, right? Pentacostal or Vodun?  A follower of Confucius, Tao, or Buddha? Or maybe Krishna, Vishnu, or Kali? Mithras? I just think that would be fun. Christmas/Saturnalia/Winter Solstice (or Summer Solstice if you're "down under") on the island would be a good setting for it, in case anyone is getting any ideas. 😁 You can read a little bit more about Themyscira and Hippolyta here.

However, back to Diana Prince. While she has a good head on her shoulders, she's still a teenager and still headstrong and impulsive. She breaks several rules to save and help Alia Keralis, who is a direct descendant of Helen of Troy, and could be a harbinger of the apocalypse. Logic dictates that Alia should die to save the world. But Alia is just another teenage girl, like Diana, but more of a NYC 21st century teen than Diana could ever be. Diana befriends Alia and thinks that there is a third way, one that will keep Alia from getting killed, and keep the world from falling into a disastrous war. It's got little to no chance of working, of course, but Diana is determined to try. 

Typical of Wonder Woman of later years, Diana, like her mother, seems to know she needs to walk a fine line between worlds. She doesn't know how the "real world" works, really, other than from what she's read in books. She can't talk to anyone about it because she'd sound crazy, and she wants to protect her home. She doesn't even know what she is truly capable of, thinking only that she has yet to become a true hero like most of the citizens of Themyscira. In a very real sense, Diana is in the world, but not of it. The legend is that she was created from clay and given life by her mother, with supposed help from Hades. But she has yet to discover her gifts of speed and strength, among others. Her journey with Alia is as much a journey of discovery of herself as it is a journey to save the world.

Anyone familiar with the Grishaverse series knows that Leigh Bardugo is a great writer and storyteller, and she doesn't disappoint here. I know Wonder Woman is a DC heroine, but I really wish Bardugo could continue writing stories about teenage Diana. Mozhan Marno, who is the narrator, also adds to the story, and is very good at depicting the different characters involved in the twisty-turny plot. This can be a good listen as well as a good read and I highly recommend it. 

Diana and the Island of No Return by Aisha Saeed, 

narrated by Kristen DiMercurio

 

After listening to Bardugo's Wonder Woman book, I was looking for something else similar and found this, Diana and the Island of No Return, by Aisha Saeed (you can read more about Saeed here). And guess what? It's the first of three books! Yay! So, I am looking forward to being able to get to the other two books as well.

This book, which came out just last year in 2021, is more Middle Grade than YA, and is for readers ages 8 to 12. Diana is herself about 12 years old in this story. And similar to the Warbringer book, she is intelligent, ambitious, competitive, yet also kindhearted. How she was created from clay is no secret. In both this story and the other, Hippolyta has been honest with Diana as to her origins. It's just with other things about Diana that she's a little more cagey. She knows that there is more to Diana than even Diana knows, especially at this tween stage in her life. But she wants to protect Diana from a wide world that Diana may not understand and that may destroy Diana. 

Similar to the Warbringer story, Diana sees someone in need, in this case a boy (no boys allowed on Themyscira!), and jumps in impulsively to help him without telling her mother. Diana learns, through use of the Golden Lasso, that the boy, Augustus, has been sent by a demon to kidnap Diana. If he doesn't do this, his family and entire village (he also lives on an island and the people there design and make chariots for the gods) will be destroyed by the demon. In the meantime, he's put everyone on Themyscira to sleep, and the only antidote is, of course, on the island that he comes from. So, even though she feels pressed into it, Diana decides to come back with him. She also brings with her her best friend, Princess Sakina, and Sakina's pet bird. 

Back on the island, Augustus, Sakina, and Diana set to finding the ingredients that will wake up the residents of Themyscira, and also the ingredients for the potion that will defeat the demon. Sakina, who is from the land of the scholars, knows what type demon he is, which helps Augustus figure out what potion might work on him. Again, as in Warbringer, this is a story as much about Diana's own self discovery as it is about catching the bad guy and bringing him to justice. And while the story is brought to a satisfactory close, there's a few tantalizing and dangling threads for readers who want to continue on with the series. 

I had never heard of Aisha Saeed before this book, but now I want to read all her books. This was a fun story. Not as sophisticated as Bardugo's, but it's not meant to be. It's action packed and full of fun scenes between the friends as they struggle to save their homes. I wasn't as pleased with the narrator, Kristen DiMercurio, but after the prologue and first chapter, I was able to relax into her style and soon forgot about the awkwardness that I heard in the beginning. I highly recommend this book and look forward to reading/listening to the rest of the series.

 

City of the Lost by Kelley Armstrong, a review of the first book in the Casey Duncan series

Back in 2010, I went to a function at Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena that was part of a tour called the Smart Chicks Kick It Tour. It was a panel discussion/book signing with a number of speculative fiction authors, including Kelley Armstrong, Rachel Caine, Melissa De La Cruz, Kami Garcia, Melissa Marr, Alyson Noel, Mary Pearson, Margaret Stohl, and Rachel Vincent. 

You can see a photo from that event above. From left to right (hopefully I get these right, it's been a while), is Rachel Caine, Alyson Noel (back), Margaret Stohl (front), Melissa De La Cruz (back), Kami Garcia (front), Melissa Marr, Kelley Armstrong (back), Rachel Vincent (front), and Mary Pearson (back). 

At the time, one of my freelance gigs was proofreading for Locus Magazine, and they let me know about this event and wondered if I would be available to hang out and take photos and maybe ask questions and forward same to them. Of course I said yes, and even after several long bus rides there and back again, it was worth it. 

Rachel Vincent was the only author in this group that I was familiar with at the time, but after the discussions and the question and answer period, I swore I would find the books these women had written and delve into them. They seemed to be a fun bunch of people, and the few moments that I was able to talk to some of them I was struck by their coolness, as well as their "funness" and sincerity factors.

Well, I did delve into some of their books at the time, or short stories that I happened to read in anthologies, but then I got distracted, life happened, and keeping track of these ladies kind of fell by the wayside. 

Fast forward to the pandemic and my recent love affair with the audiobook. I'm trying to find a cool new book to listen to on Libby, and I feel like I've made some bad choices. Nothing is pulling me in. And then I see this cool cover, with an intriguing description, by Kelley Armstrong. The name made me stop. I haven't been paying attention to urban fantasy writers (other than old faves like Neil Gaiman) for a while now, but I knew the name so I stopped. I looked up the book, the author, and then I remembered what I learned about the author at this event, how I had enjoyed hearing her stories on stage. So, I check it out and begin listening and fall in love. 

For me, City of the Lost (book published in 2015, audiobook in 2017) by Kelley Armstrong (narrated by Thérèse Plummer, you can hear a sample here), hit a lot of high points and feels. It's set in Canada and has elements of Twin Peaks mixed with bits of Firefly and Northern Exposure. It's not quite scifi/fantasy, but definitely speculative in nature. It is a thriller and detective story, with Wild West elements tossed in. 

Told in first person, mostly present tense, Detective Casey Duncan, the main character, is reminiscent of Detective Benson of Law & Order: SVU. She's tough, with a marred interior. She's made mistakes, but she tries to be a good person. She's got some issues (introduced early on, mostly), but tries to make sure they don't get in the way of doing her job. Of Asian descent and with parents and a sibling who are all uber-smart and have gone into medicine, she's the outlier who has wanted to go into law enforcement ever since she was a teenager. A born rebel.

In the middle of trying to be a good person and help her best friend Diana flee an ex-boyfriend (and get herself out of a bad situation as well), she follows up on a suggestion by Diana to move to a small town in the Yukon that does not officially exist. It's a place where people can go to hide out, or disappear, for anywhere from two to five years, or longer, sometimes. They have to apply to be accepted; show that they have a real reason to fear for their lives. They also need to come up with the fee to get in, or have a vital skill to trade in return for living in this "haven," Rockton. We learn that the town, population about 200, is in the middle of the woods, somewhere outside Dawson City, and so isolated that if you disappear into those woods, you're either dead, or end up becoming one of the wild folk, "settlers" or "hostiles." There is no internet, no cell phones or computers, no mail, no contact with the outside world, no TV signals (though one character does admit to having DVDs and a DVD player and screen), no currency (just "credits"), and little electricity. Only essential services, like the infirmary, have access to generators. Most people in the town have to learn to live with wood stoves and oil lamps. Supplies are grown, caught (as in game hunting) or flown in, and at a premium. Recycling is a necessity. All residents are between the ages of 18 and 60. There is no mayor or town council, however there is a shadowy council "down south" that makes decisions on who is allowed in and also decides on punishments when crimes are more than the average bar brawl. The "law" is a sheriff, Eric Dalton, and his deputy, Will Anders. And now, a detective, Casey Duncan (now Butler). 

And that's another thing. Almost everyone in town has a new name, not the name they had in the "real world." And while they might tell you they came to escape an abusive relationship or because they were being wrongfully accused of something, the backgrounds of these residents are shadowy, iffy, nebulous, and shifty. So, when some of the residents get murdered, Dalton, Anders, and Butler have to figure out who's stories they can trust, and who's lying. Nothing is as it seems.

It's an intriguing concept, this life of isolation and escape from the "real world." And again, while this isn't a scifi/fantasy story, it definitely has an alternative speculative feel that puts ii smack dab into genre territory. The spooky woods aspect, with the dangerous "settlers" and "hostiles," mixed with the mysterious person behind the murders, is what gives it the Twin Peaks feel, while the characters seem be, well, real characters. They reminded me of characters from Firefly. The sheriff is an asshole, kind of like a mix of "Capt. Mal," and "Jayne Cobb," while his deputy is the "nice guy," more like "Wash." Diana is like a teenager set loose on the bar scene for the first time, and seems to lose it at the drop of a hat. (I don't know who to compare her to because every time she struck out at someone — verbally, that is — I wanted to beat her about the head and shoulders.) Some of the others seem to be "normal," but in this town, you don't know, do you? One of the women, Isabelle, has the feel of "Nandi" from the "Heart of Gold" episode on Firefly. 

The narrator, Plummer, is excellent. She gives Casey's voice a throaty, earthy feel, and creates distinct voices for each of the other characters as well (not all narrators do that). I felt comfortable listening to this at a 1.10 speed, although it probably would have been fine at a regular speed (I find I mostly like listening at a 1.10-1.15 speed, or 1.25 if I'm getting impatient because I don't like what's going on and just want to get through it).

I think I had figured out "whodunnit" a little before the reveal, but Armstrong keeps the story fast paced and twisty-turny enough that even if you figure it out sooner rather than later, you'd still have a good time. There's a hint of a romance, but not too much sex, with a "fade to black" for most scenes where it appears. (For some reason, I cringe at sex scenes in audiobooks. It's one thing to read them, and another to listen to someone else reading them.) This is the first in a seven-book series, and between the setting and the characters, I confess that I am hooked. I really wanted to listen to the next in the series, A Darkness Absolute, as soon as finished this one, but alas, I had work to do and all the other copies were already checked out! So I placed a hold and can't wait for it to show up! (I love using Libby.)

If you're looking for a fun thriller/whodunnit with a slight feel of being outside your own time and place, I definitely recommend City of the Lost by Kelley Armstrong.