The Road Less Traveled

Do you have a curious mind? Want to find out what’s underneath rocks? In dark caves? In forbidden rooms? Me, too. Oh, wait, did you say, No? Well think about this. If we don’t test ourselves, challenge ourselves, go into unfamiliar places, try hard things, uncomfortable things, then we atrophy. And we miss wonderful opportunities for love, life, happiness—even wealth.

As soon as you begin putting up walls in your thinking, nothing new can get in, and that may well be to your detriment. As goes the mind, so goes the body. That’s a coraism. (I decided I needed to start coining my sayings. Ha! Even though that’s been said in different words--nothing new under the sun and all that)

So, with this as my philosophy, I challenged myself this year by taking on a couple of different studies and a pinch of adventure—I love adventures. Don’t you? As a result, I have a new perspectives and new ideas feeding my writing brain and my life.

The first part of 2015, I took on shamanic journeying. The whole drumming, traveling with spirit guides to learn a different kind of wisdom than this world has to offer, thing. If you’re already thinking I’ve got a screw loose, or maybe you think I’m consorting with evil spirits—that’s the kinds of walls I’m talking about. See paragraph #1 & 2. Open your mind! (And read on to learn what else I’ve been up to)

So what did I glean from that? New, fresh ways to view the world around me—and how to look and deal with situations (in life and in writing) in new ways. I saw the walls I had put up around parts of myself, learned new techniques to tear those down and bring into focus the strengths and powers I had hidden in dark rooms (hey, I’m a poet and metaphor is my go-to whenever I get into areas where there are few words . . ..

This was probably why I didn’t blog much this year (I really love Anne Allen’s term, ‘slow blogging.’  (Don’t run yourself ragged trying to blog every week if you have nothing to say that’s useful—another coraism) Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know much. And when I feel like that, I don’t blog. You don’t need to hear my ramblings when I ramble.

Next, I began classes with Tai Lopez on getting what you want out of your life and career—even get rich if that’s what you want. And you know what? It wasn’t a scam. (Go back to paragraph #2.)  I’m learning to view the world differently—relate to it differently. I actually see progress in the way I’m thinking . . . and, it has strengthened my creativity, my writing, and my health.

And, I had two mini adventures this year as well. The RWA (Romance Writers of America) had a conference in San Diego which I attended. It was okay—I learned stuff. 

Doug Richardson, Gene Perret, Jonathan Maberry on panel of 6

But the Central Coast Fiction Writer’s Conference at Cuesta College this past month was totally amazing. The talent was over-the-top! My head is spinning with all the new information. I can’t go into all the speakers that gave me more than my money’s worth, so--

I’ll pick one, Jonathan Maberry (NYT best-selling author who writes horror).

What did I learn from him? I learned I have a bit of the horror genre in me! It’s been there all along and I didn’t recognize it as that. My short stories reflect it (in the anthology, Valley Fever, Where Murder is Contagious, free on Kindle Unlimited right now). I even use the tagline on this blog that I write stories of romance and, “suspense that straddles the edge-whether that edge is the paranormal, a deadly decision or the place where science ends and magic resides.”

How can I be a horror writer if I’m writing Romance and Romantic Suspense? (see that last word—yup, it’s in there—genre crossover. When ‘suspense’ comes to mind, so does Hitchcock). And I even had one short story on line in the erotic horror genre. I surprised myself with that one.

“The more pervasive the paranormal is, the more you fall into horror,” Maberry states. . . and ghost stories aren’t necessarily horror.

Define horror? Maberry points out that when he gets together with other horror writers, even the experts can’t agree on a definition. For him it’s, “whatever makes us afraid and gets a reaction.” 

The horror genre diminished in the 1980s when it began to get into extreme horror; movies concentrating on blood and pain (focused on women and children). Many people were turned off and stopped buying into it and the horror genre tanked. Publishers stopped buying it.

But serious writers then began writing under supernatural thriller, suspense, and crossover fiction (Urban fantasy, dark fantasy, sci-fi—think Stephen King; he writes to the mainstream audience but with elements of sci-fi, fantasy and horror). 

And don’t belittle the horror genre. The Road by Cormac McCarthy won the Pulitzer for literary fiction and was horror.

Lest I get too far astray, I won’t go on about the horror markets and Maberry’s advice for writers (unless enough people want to know more and tell me in the comments below).

Needless to say, all these experiences this year have affected me and my writing—deeply. And it’s only September. Can’t wait to see what Oct., Nov., and Dec. will bring!

Keep tearing down those walls that keep you from your good.

Were there any walls you tore down this year that you can share?  I’d love to hear about them.

The Mesoamerican Biggies

Or, Maya, Aztec and Olmec civilizations - Part 3 in the series of the trip (Part 1) that led to the inspiration (Part 2) for my first novel.

The Maya first settled around 2600 B.C. in early Mesoamerica (what is now Mexico and Guatemala). They became more sophisticated in the latter years (A.D. 250 through A.D. 900) from the influence of the Olmecs who came on the scene later (1400 B.C.—lasting about 1000 years).

The Olmecs built no major cities or pyramids as the Maya did, but were good farmers, artists, mathematicians, and astronomers. They wrote in hieroglyphics, as did most of the cultures that followed them. The giant round Olmec heads (3-meters or 9 ft. tall) resemble African warriors. The name “Olmec” was derived from Aztec writings. We don’t know what they called themselves.

Only after the Maya adopted much of their culture from the Olmecs, did they go on to create their impressive legacy that today extends through Guatemala, El Salvador, Belize and Honduras. They were ruled by powerful war lord kings and priests. What happened to the Maya as a great civilization is still a mystery with many theories (though their descents are still alive today).

The Aztecs followed about 400 years after the Mayan civilization began to shrink. In the early 1300s, so the story goes, the wandering tribe of Mexica people were looking for a home. Persecuted and cast out from other nations, they believed that their god, Huitzilopochtli, the god of war, the sun and human sacrifice, would show them a sign to guide them to their new settlement. Huitzilopochtli is said to have directed the wandering tribe to look for “the prickly pear cactus upon which they would see an eagle perched,” and that's where they would build their new city (the symbol used on the

Mexican flag).

They found such a place on a small, swampy island in the middle of (what is now known as) Lake Texcoco and founded Tenochtitlan, in A.D. 1325. Later, the Spaniards conquered the Aztecs and they built Mexico City over Tenochtitlan.

There is evidence of a connection between the Aztecs and Native Americans. Obsidian and macaw feathers from further south in Mexico have been in found in the Southwest United States—so there were obviously trade routes between the two areas. Southwest Native Americans built ball courts and doorways in styles similar to their counterparts farther South in Maya territory. The ancient world was definitely connected.

The setting for my novel, Dance the Dream Awake, is on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula near Tulum—Maya country. Both present day and past life take place around the Cobá pyramid complex (a large metropolis composed of many cities within the eastern Yucatan).

Although only a few of the estimated 6,500 structures have been uncovered on Coba’s quiet and peaceful grounds, it may have once had the largest population (an estimated 100,000 people) living in its domain of all the ancient Mayan cities (600-900 A.D.).

My novel about to be released this week (May 9) is a romantic suspense, so today I’ll share a snippet of the romance that begins to brew on the plane to Mexico City when Tessa first meets Nick, an archaeologist with a dig at Coba, close to where she will be staying.

*

The final boarding call was being announced when I reached the half-empty plane late that night. I felt stressed and wanted a last cigarette. Quitting was the pits.

As soon as the plane was in the air, I ordered a gin and tonic and buried myself in a magazine until the flight attendant returned. After downing half my drink in one gulp, I sat back, took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying not to want that cigarette.

“Can I buy you another drink? You’ll be through that one pretty quick.”

I looked into the palest green eyes I’d ever seen. I hadn’t noticed the man who’d slipped into the seat across the aisle.

He smiled. “You look super stressed,” he said. “If it’s the flying, another drink will take the edge off.”

I sat a little straighter. He was tall, I could tell by the way his tanned legs spilled out of his khaki shorts and straddled the seat in front of him. The rolled-up sleeves of his blue, cotton shirt revealed muscular arms.

“Maybe one more. Thanks.” His manner soothed me.

“Vacationing in Mexico City?” he asked.

“I’ll be staying in the Yucatan.”

His face brightened. “What a coincidence. I’m headed for the Yucatan, too. I’m meeting up with some of my colleagues down there, on the peninsula in Coba. Anthropological research on the Maya.” He lowered his voice and leaned close. “We have a new archeological dig in the jungle near one of the older pyramids.”

“The Maya?”

“Yeah, there have been some exciting new discoveries recently and we’re right in the thick of it.”

His enthusiasm reminded me of a boy opening a packet of gum, hoping to find his first Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron baseball card, or whoever it was that young boys looked for these days. He rattled off some technical details to impress me. I half-paid attention to what he was saying, wondering at this uncanny coincidence. I observed the lock of sandy colored hair that danced above one eye as he talked. Occasionally he’d brush it back, but it belligerently worked itself loose as he continued talking. I took another sip of my drink and tried not to stare.

As if he’d picked up on my thoughts, he suddenly cocked his head and studied me a moment. I caught a twinkle in his eye, “Maybe we’ll bump into each other there.”

The thought had already crossed my mind. “Can I ask you a question? Did the Maya have sacrificial rituals like the Aztecs?” I looked interested, like I didn’t already know.

“Did they! They were obsessed with sacrifice. They had some masochistic practices—” He hesitated, glancing at my white linen suit and the hair I’d done in a long, conservative braid. He must have decided what he had to tell me would either shock me, disgust me, or some such thing. “Let me just say they were very religious and serious about their sacrifices,” he continued with that pleased look a man gets when he feels he’s been gallant about shielding a woman from locker-room language too distasteful for her tender ears. Old school—polite and respectful, I liked that. He ordered another round of drinks and extended his hand. It was warm, firm, with calluses from working in the earth. “My name is Nick Richardson.”

“I’m Teresa Harper. Just call me Tessa.”

*

If my novel and the Maya interest you, I will be sharing more on my Facebook Author Page and here on my blog in future posts. 

Questions? Comments? -- leave them here or on Facebook.

Trips, Treks and Teotihuacan

Sometimes we think life is random, making no sense; that things happen to us out of the blue. But I can trace my start as a writer and the beginning of my first book—and my own personal development, to an event that happened in 1987.

Jose Arguelles launched a word-of mouth campaign, called the Harmonic Convergence, asking for ‘Sun Dancers’ to gather near sacred sites around the world at dawn on the 16^th and 17^th of August, 1987, to hold a global peace meditation—to ‘open the doors’ to the final 26 years of the 5125-year Great Cycle of the Maya (A cycle which began in August, 3114 B.C. and ended on December 2012 A.D).

Without getting into too much detail of the fascinating time keeping/math of the Maya (they calculated the cycles and progressions of planets, galaxies—and universes for all I know—all above the understanding of my math-deprived-brain), here’s the quick skinny:

• A Tun is 360 days,
• A Katun is a cycle of 20 Tuns.
• 52 years (of 365 days each) is known as the Hunab.
• The Baktun (note glyph on right is a symbol of Baktun) is a cycle of 20 Katuns
• So, the *Great Cycle is made up of 13 Baktuns (or *5125 years).

(Oh and by the way, there are many more cycles, so if you love cycles and math and fractals, you should check out the Mayan’s astronomical skills.)

Arguelles marked the start of the last cycle of 26 years before the end of the Great Cycle, as a moment for collective synchronization to move the earth and the universe to spiral higher in consciousness. The idea of history repeating itself—either one step higher—or a descent lower in our evolution, would be a good analogy. He believed this event had meaning that extended into other dimensions and hoped we could synchronize to the higher level if enough of us got together and ‘dreamed’ it so.

Thus was the impetus that lay in my consciousness for a few years, seeding my novel, Dance the Dream Awake, which had nothing to do with this event, but ignited my imagination because of the trek I took that threw open the doors. I had several déjà vu experiences on that journey.

Here is an excerpt from my novel of the first déjà vu event on my trip that became part of my protagonist, Tessa’s fictionalized story: 

. . . By the time we arrived, it was hot. The air-conditioning had been only slightly cooler than non-existent. My expensive outfit was damp and sticking to me in all the wrong places. My purse seemed ten pounds heavier than usual. I felt unglued. It had been years since I’d last been to Mexico. I’d forgotten how humbling and hard it was to maintain any kind of sophisticated aloofness in this humid, earthy country. I made a mental note to shop for cotton dresses. At least I had remembered to wear sandals.

I shrugged off my jacket, twisted my hair up off my neck, and tucked it under my Panama hat. After pulling my blouse out of my skirt and tying it in a knot at my waist, I felt a bit cooler. I threw my handbag over my shoulder and headed for the ruins.

After walking to the top of the incline, I looked out over the breath-taking view of Teotihuacan. For a few moments, I saw fruit trees and bright flower gardens lining the central walkway between the great pyramids. Brightly painted houses and small temples sat on raised platforms. More modest houses sat on the edges of the fields of flowers, crops, and intertwining aqueducts. 

I blinked. The mirage disappeared in the shimmering waves of heat that rose up from the ruins. Weeds and rubble were all that surrounded the pyramids now. I tried to make sense of the vivid mirage and decided I must have seen an artist’s rendering of it somewhere and remembered it in that split second.

When I noticed a group of fifty or so gaily-clothed Indians, I blinked again but they were real. They seemed to be in the process of forming a huge circle. It was too early for the tour buses so I figured it wasn’t meant for tourist entertainment and started down the hill to watch.

Drums beat and feathers, rattles, and beads shook in syncopated rhythms. Those in colorful native costumes danced and chanted. I moved closer, drawn by some echo of familiarity. Feelings stirred from a place deep in my heart then rose to my throat, causing tears to well up. What was happening? Why was I reacting like this? I knew nothing of these people, these ruins.

The circle of dancers stopped in unison. For a few moments no one moved, as if transfixed in time. A man stepped forward and raised a staff with feathers on it. He vigorously shook a rattle, interrupting the trance-like silence, then broke from the circle and started dancing toward the direction of the Pyramid of the Sun. The drums began a slow, steady beat as he snaked back and forth up the steps of the huge pyramid, the others following.
 

I had an unbearable urge to join them and moved quickly down the hill. Most had gotten halfway up by the time I reached the base. The sun was already bright and the stone reflected back the heat. Once I began the ascent, I had to stop often to catch my breath. I changed from following them, as they weaved back and forth, to heading on a straight path up the center face. When I reached the last three steps, I was exhausted and light headed. The Indians were already in a circle around the center.

Damn cigarettes. I had to break the habit this time. And I needed to start exercising more. The rising frustration at my clothes, my health, my life back home being in shambles had built to a breaking point. No one noticed my distress.

The man leading the procession stood in the center. From his strong presence and apparent authority, I assumed he was a shaman. After a few moments of silence, he raised his arms to the sky and began singing a hauntingly beautiful song in an unfamiliar language that wasn’t Spanish.

The tears welled up again. Why did I feel so much from this gathering—as if I’d come home? Mother and I had moved around so much that I never had a chance to feel that connection with a place and feel like I had a history. In the busyness of city life, I never thought about it much.

Individuals started placing little gifts on an altar in the center, while others sang quietly. The gifts were symbolic objects, wrapped in cloth and decorated with crystals, feathers, flowers, colorful ribbons, and strings. On impulse, I reached into my purse for the wooden box and removed one of the three odd, lighter green beads. What was one less that didn’t quite fit with the others anyway? I stepped forward to place it on the altar, a gift to these beautiful people and this loving moment. I felt as if a door in my heart had opened.

The shaman stopped singing when he saw it. He raised his staff, said something in the unfamiliar language, and then motioned toward me. The others ceased singing and looked up in surprise.

Suddenly embarrassed, I succumbed to the stress of the heat, humidity, and low oxygen. I watched three white butterflies float above the altar as I sank to the ground in a faint.

Release date for Dance the Dream Awake from Black Opal Books is next month, May 9, 2015, but is available for pre-order on Amazon, Smashwords and Black Opal now.

Next week: the next step on my real journey and corresponding fictionalized excerpt from the book.

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