#of course ill travel to an entirely different country by myself to meet strangers who might give me money!!!!!

[patheticrafeenjoyer]

king of skepticism actually

[mercurygray]

Mansion House Murder Party

@jomiddlemarch asked me to kick off our Mercy Street round-robin writing project today! You all may remember we kicked around a couple of ideas and we all seemed to like the idea of making horrible people suffer for doing horrible things;  Clue was mentioned, as was Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None,  in which 13 strangers meet at an isolated hotel at the invitation of an invisible host and are all accused of murder - at which point they all start dying, leaving the remaining guests to wonder who killed who.

I don't really fancy killing the entire cast this week, so - one Southern Gothic, post-war Clue-style murder party it is. 

  In the interest of providing some room for development and explore some new ground, I think it'd be kind of cool to explore post-war Mansion House - a building that has returned to being a hotel, to which all of our Mercy Street friends have been invited back for the weekend when Silas Bullen, the Quartermaster we all love to hate who has also been invited to this odd reunion weekend, dies suddenly and unexpectedly. The characters are trying to catch up on what's happened since they last saw each other ten years previously, and figure out who killed the odious former officer. Any character we met during the two seasons is fair game for inclusion! 

@jomiddlemarch, @sagiow,  @fericita-s, @broadwaybaggins, @jamesknoxpolka have all expressed an interest in participating - and if anyone else wants in, speak up in the comments below. I'll start this week's writing, and tag someone else to write the next bit. Any style, perspective, or voice is encouraged - and it’s southern Gothic, so...an unhappy ten years is probably for the best. (I’m going to start with a less-than-satisfactory ending myself in the interest of getting another character back in the mix, and we’ll see where it goes.)

So - 1875. Grant is president. Country’s in the middle of a recession. Reconstruction’s still going on, and we’re back in Alexandria. 

 It frightened her, a little, coming back to Mansion House. For the whole stagecoach ride she’d worried over her gloves, her wedding ring, the trim on her dress, the ribbons of her bonnet. After ten years away, what would it look like? Certainly not the way she’d left it in 1865 - stained walls, scraped floors...memories.

Emma could still remember standing in the front hall the day they’d closed the hospital - the patients gone, the beds removed, walls dingy where men had rested heads or medicines had been spilled, stairs worn with use. For five years this had been her home, her family, even - and she was leaving it. She’d looked around, wondering if it was wise to try and commit it to memory, and then she’d taken her trunk out into the street, unable to look back. 

And she’d not been back, at all, since the war had ended. Her father had taken possession again and tried to wring five years of ill use out of the building’s walls and floors, and it had been hard work, but he’d done it - though the effort had likely been what had led James Green to an early grave. Her brother, of course, had wanted nothing to do with the place, too busy with the furniture factory to worry over the running of a hotel as well, and now, if Jimmy had his way, it would be sold.

“You look worried,” her husband said, from the seat opposite. It wasn’t a full coach - travelers from their neck of the woods being few and far between these days. “I’d have thought you’d enjoy coming back - being in civilization again.” She said nothing, and he went on. “If it’s about your sister, I wouldn’t pay her any mind. We’ve still got our pride, even if she hasn’t, and that’s worth more than a dozen fine dresses and a house in the city. No,” he went on, “We’ll be just fine - as soon as we sign those papers and sell up. And then there’ll be plenty of money for that new dress you’ve been wanting. Can’t have my wife looking like a pauper for her family.”

And whose fault is it we’re poor? Emma wanted to say. Whose choice was it to refuse a federal pardon so that no decent folk would employ you, and to take a parish in the poorest county in Virginia because they were the only ones who’d have you? Pride doesn’t put food on the table, or a roof over our heads. But she’d learned much in ten years about men’s moods, about staying silent, and “being ‘haved”, as her Sunday School students would say. 

The coach pulled up, and he opened the door for her, helping her out into the street and then ordering their bags down from the roof, leaving her to contemplate the outside of the hotel, the words MANSION HOUSE HOTEL vivid once more over the doors, glass beautifully etched.

The first thing she noticed was the color - the richness of it, the vibrancy, crimson drapes and deep walnut woodwork, the navies and burgundies of thick carpet underfoot, well-lit from above by a magnificent, many-lamped gasolier. In her memories it was plain and whitewashed, and now? This hardly felt like the same place, especially with so many well-heeled travelers coming up and down the stairs, the ladies with their bustles and hats, the gentleman in waistcoats and jackets, not a shirtsleeve or apron to be seen. The air smelled of cigars, adding to the general air of well-fed opulence. 

Her husband breezed into the lobby behind her like he owned the place, leaning on the counter and giving the clerk one of his best, . All Emma could see was the back of his collar, fraying at the seam, one more testament to their present poverty.  “Good Morning. I’ve a room booked - and a meeting today with Mr. Green. We’re expected.”

“And who should I say is here, sir?” The clerk asked, looking as though he very much doubted both of those things, posing his glasses on his nose so he could inspect his register.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frank Stringfellow,” he announced, smiling back at his wife with the pleased look of a man who knows he has made a good bargain.

Emma tried to smile back, thinking, wanely, as she stood in the lobby to wait for her brother and took in the carpets, the chandelier, the wallpaper, of a different time and different faces, feeling the ring under her glove and wondering where she had gone wrong, why she had chosen to leave the hospital, had chosen to stay in Virginia, had chosen Frank.

- @jomiddlemarch - your turn! 

[shamelesskenz-blog]

piece 1

A few summers ago my family and I unburied a time capsule that we kept in our backyard for six years. The time capsule was given to my brother as a christmas gift, it was small, plastic, and purchased at Toys R Us. Nonetheless, it was the sentiment that counted.. Every member of my family had goals they kept in the capsule and checklists that we were hoping to achieve. There were some silly ones like my brother’s goal to become the fastest kid ever and some serious  ones like my mom and dad’s desire to make a more meaningful impact and travel to help in a third world country. I remember seeing their faces when they did not achieve their goal in the span of six years and hearing the sadness in my mom’s voice. In addition, there was one thing that really bothered me that she said, which was: “life gets in the way sometimes, and that's just how it goes”.

I completely disagree. It reminded me so much of Pixar’s film UP, where Carl and Ellie really wanted to go to Paradise falls, but they never did because they prioritized other things such as car payments, new furniture, and fancy dinners over making their dreams come true. Similarly, my mom and dad prioritized other things over their goals and therefore became sad when the goal magically did not happen. The point to this story is that sometimes we go through routines because we think that something will change, or maybe we are just so comfortable in our life that failing (because of change) scares us. Either way, routines make us eating, sleeping, zombies who walk through life until one day, years later we ask ourselves where the time went. I don’t want to go through routine or follow the same path everyone else does. I want to follow my passions and see where it takes me. But with a purpose of course.

Clearly, we are not a “potted plant” put on this earth to eat and sleep but in the time that we spend on this here, it is important that we do not waste time on the same path as everyone else or going through everyday knowing there are dreams that are unfulfilled. My answer to the  question “what should we be doing with our time? And who do you want to be in that time?” is: do what you love, be spontaneous, be proactive, go outside of your comfort zone, and strive to be the best version of yourself. I have big dreams to make an impact on our world. I want to motivate others, bring out the best in others and become the strongest most confident person unafraid of challenges and hurdles in my life.

I read a book a while ago which has since become one of my favorites. It’s called Into the Wild, and it’s a true story about Chris McCandless. I think a lot about this story, and how extreme and authentic it is. Chris decides to take extreme measures to stray from the common path in order to find happiness. In fact, he wanted to show himself and others that materialistic things and long resumes do not make you a better person. McCandless is the personified answer to the question presented above because he followed his heart, traveled on the road less traveled by, and still managed to be happy and kind to others. At one point in the story McCandless wrote “Greetings from Seattle, I am a hobo now! Thats right, I’m riding rails now. What fun, I wish I had jumped trains sooner” (Krakauer). Although McCandless did something illegal by not paying for the ride, he chose to live a lifestyle that most people frown upon. However, he tried something new and showed that happiness is not a result of having things or money but the experiences that we embark on.

In high school someone told me a quote that went: “A hearse does not tow a uhaul along with it to the grave”. I know these weren't the exact words but  it basically means that all the things that we associate ourselves with such as a fancy car, a big house, and designer clothes can’t follow us to our grave and only hold value when we are alive. Therefore, it makes more sense to spend time making memories and being happy doing things we love, because there is no price tag for happiness. As a result, McCandless defined himself based off experience and the people he met along the way. Additionally, he was able to do more in his last few years than most people do in their entire lifetime by going out of his way to be kind and meet strangers. Throughout the story, people explain how McCandless affected their lives and further explained how much of an impact he had on people.

In fact, I have a philosophy: every single person that comes into your life has an impact. whether that impact is small, big, negative, or positive you have changed slightly or dramatically because of that person. An obvious example would be our parents because they help shape us into the people we are today. However, a less obvious example would be a stranger who opens the door for multiple people. This person selflessly went out of their way to make other people’s day just slightly better which inspires a chain of people to do a kind deed.  McCandless influenced each of the people in his life which was evident from the story. When Krakauer tracked down a majority of the people McCandless came into contact with, they all said the same thing: he was an authentic, happy, genuine person that they would never forget. Clearly, McCandless made an impact on a lot of people and he wasn’t being nice to get money, food, clothes etc. He was in his purest, happiest form, doing something that made him feel alive.    

In our society, we are expected to be a certain way. All the people who veer off the common path are deemed to either be crazy, weird, or just simply looked down upon. However, maybe it is the things that the common person cannot see that make these “weird people” genius. An example  is an inventor. In the medical field there people who see a problem and invent technology in order to solve an issue. The inventor used creativity to do something that helps people through a way no one else was able to understand. McCandless worked similarly by creating/inventing his own version of a perfected lifestyle. He saw everyone living their life going through the same routine, and hitting the exact same milestones (college, job, spouse, house, family, retirement...etc) and he went down an alternate route that made him less favorable, but a person with more character and a greater impact on people. He tried a “normal” life, and became less than himself because he was going along the path that everyone else was taking. What McCandless did was instead of living a normal life being unhappy, he took chances and decided to be spontaneous in order to obtain his own happiness. I believe that living the same days over and over again (eat, sleep, work, repeat) makes people extremely similar to a plant, that goes through the motions in order to survive without ambition or character. Its sad to think that people would much rather stay comfortable to avoid failing. However, if we don’t gain experience, fail, and learn then we cannot grow to become the best version of ourselves. McCandless took extremes in his life without any hesitation or worry of what might happen. Although he died trying to live the life he wanted, he reminded those around him what was truly important in life and inspired others to stray from normalcy without fear of failure.

Now I know that I just spent a lot of time analyzing one of my favorite books, but the story of Chris McCandless truly inspires me to live without fear and follow passions no matter how crazy they are to everyone else. I think the people who tell you not to do something are hoping that you don’t succeed because they know they would be able to do it themselves. I want to achieve so much more than just academic wise here at UW. I want to surround myself with people that are so different than me, I want to grow in the way I view the world, I want to go out and explore Seattle, I want to adventure new places, I want to diversify my experience and get as much out of college as possible not just through classes. I have dreams of being a leader and helping others. I want to manage situations and help inspire others. I’m going to do the things I dream of and I’m not going to let anyone tell me I can’t. I want to travel the world, and experience culture, and do things that scare me. I think that my desire to adventure is linked to the curiousity that I have. I am inspired by expereince, and I create art and think deeply about how to problem solve from these expereinces. Sometime people don’t understand that. Doing something different from others can sometimes be lonely, but its also extremely worth it. McCandless was a unique person who lived his short amount of years to the absolute fullest, which is an inspiring message especially to those who feel lost. McCandless was ill prepared for his expedition to Alaska, but he tried things that others could not or would not and to me, that is what geniuses are defined by. He saw the world for what it was and decided to go against the grain in an unusual way because he had greater plans. In fact he set aside all fears and darkness from societal thinking and became a better and happier person because of it.

Everyday people put on their tunnel vision glasses and see the world through routine and structure, but this act not only a waste of precious time but it is also extremely limiting. I never want to be blinded so much to where I completely lose sight of the dreams I have. In addition, I want to be able to live day by day just like McCandless did without thinking about the destination. The next journey in my life is running with my passions and not being afraid of where it takes me. There's a whole world out there, and although I will not be living out of a hunting bus in the Alaskan wilderness, I will be living like McCandless: Without fear and hungry for adventure.

[sixbillionstars]

Before Game of Thrones and the newest Star Wars films, flights to Iceland only left from Denver, Washington DC, Baltimore, or New York. When I learned that the voyage embarks from Port of Hamburg, I figured I’d be flying into Berlin. And after years of watching closely for new United States destinations between the two main Icelandic airlines, this made my heart sing knowing full well St. Louis had recently become a Wow Air destination with cheap flights to many European cities, and of course... stopovers in Iceland on the way.

I won’t go much into how long I had anticipated this experience, however I will say it was a painful wait. First it was celebrities one by one slowly making their way as it grew appealing to more and more travelers suddenly during my freshman year of college and onward. Then it was friends who happened to have stopovers, who could afford it before me, or who were nearer to new departure cities before me... In those ways it was thrilling to feel inches and inches closer all these years. I even had a whole trip planned once to visit Iceland by myself to celebrate the New Year and hang out a week before and after. For a plethora of important reasons I had to cancel that trip, which to this day I still stand behind. So sadly, the most suitable and affordable window of time I had to work with to be in Iceland this time around was twenty hours, since it was a stopover, but a solid twenty hours we spent. An old friend used to joke all the time, “what if you go and absolutely hate it?” which was a possibility I have weighed heavily, even after countless hours over the years reading entire wikipedia pages of tiny, unpronounceable coastal villages with their black sands and fjords, delving into Vimeo videos of Icelandic scenery, and my favorite, the man in a lopapeysa sweater teaching you how to knit. I knew damn well I’d have to come back after such a short time even if it did turn out not so ideal. But after a seven year wait, I am happy to announce that it truly was everything I could have hoped for and even so much more. Maybe because I already knew where to look, or at least where I wanted to look, or maybe it really was calling me all this time.

I was taught a German expression today "Knapp daneben ist auch vorbei” which means, “coming close is the same as missing it.” It’s been circling my mind like an echo of congratulations from the void for just finally being able to do the damn thing.

It is now late into Thursday, our second day in Berlin. Yesterday was spent locating our Airbnb, experiencing jetlag, showering, etc... completely pretty much rebirthing ourselves after twenty hours with none of the checked luggage I truly thought the Keflavik airport would let me access during that amount of time.

I can’t exit this post though without telling a couple of the stories from those hours (and some pictures!) It was by far the most eventful twenty hours of my life...

As soon as we landed, it was time to grab the rental car. I picked out a lovely whatever the car was. At first the reservation said manual shift, which was exciting because I learned to drive on a manual but also I knew the Icelandic roads would be more vulnerable to drivers so I wasn’t sure how revisiting a skill like that there would go. Luckily we ended up with an automatic somehow anyway. Since the Wow air flights are so cheap, they get off by charging passengers for every other thing including meals, so I had not eaten since Missouri by this point (mainly because I wanted to sleep). I felt weak and tired at the rental counter so I asked my friend Alicia to get me something at the cafe nearby. She came back with the first food we were to behold: a caprese panini, but instead of panini bread, it was the body of Christ or something. I apologize to anyone that offends--I mean it in the sense that it was cracker bread meant specifically for religious purposes and not to feed a malnourished traveler. Don’t get me wrong, it tasted good, however the depth of my ketosis and the richness of the pesto was too much. Literally as I stood at the counter facing my first ever Icelandic stranger and transaction, I felt the sudden urge to vomit and ran to the nearest trashcan while Alicia had to sign everything for me in a VERY crowded airport. I don’t think any of us knew how to react honestly, though the woman at the counter was very sweet and brought us bottled waters after seeing my pale sweaty face, despite not totally knowing how to ask if I was okay in English.

Getting to Þingvellir was not an issue, however the drive there involved more of the previous situation sadly. While the girls caught up on sleep, I found our way out of Keflavik onto the highway and quickly back off of it after having tried a couple more bites of the Jesus panini. The first time around I wasn’t entirely sure if it was that was what made me ill or just all of the conditions at once. This time I knew it was that. There was nowhere to even pull over as all of the road space in Iceland is very carefully planned, with roundabouts every few blocks and signs placed not too often or too scarcely. So I stopped in the middle of the road out of sheer desperation -- one of the few very crucial things I had JUST been told you’re not supposed to do with an Icelandic car. I had already begun out the window as I drove simply because my mind was already racing for options. What is the best way here - puking on myself and cleaning that up? No - my luggage I thought I could have today is on its way to Germany. Puking solely into the car? Hell to the no - I don’t care if I bought the insurance, we have the whole route ahead of us and back. Okay well in the time it took to ask myself those questions, all of the above happened anyway. Everywhere. Alicia and Morgan immediately woke up of course and without judgment scrambled into their things for a new shirt and pants for me, helped me clean the car, et cetera, alllllll while locals were angrily and confusedly passing me on this tiny exit I had chosen under the impression it was low-trafficked. Did I mention I chose not to wear underwear on this day of all days? Yes. In my first hour in Iceland I was forced to change BUTT NAKED pretty much on the side of the highway. Needless to say, we threw the Jesus panini away as if it was the one ring to rule them all.

Þingvellir was breathtaking. Every little plant, moss, lichen, dewdrop was so quietly and calmly welcoming. The wall of boxy-looking rocks you may have seen in Games of Thrones was to the left of this photo, with its waterfalls and all. It was confusing finding the dive spot where our snorkel tour was, but once we arrived all of our sorrows were gone. First we met Luis, a cheery Mexican from Cancun, then Manuel the French man who helped us into our dry suits, and then Juan from Madrid was our guide through the crevice of the opening between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates.

The moment I entered the water my heartbeat changed for good, not just because of the chilling 2*C temperature, but because it was then I realized I was really, really there. Until that moment, it was all a dream. Simply putting my mask down to see what was below... I still cannot find the words. Our suits were designed to keep us warm, so the crystal clear stream swept us and this rad Australian couple in our group gently along the divide as if it were a lazy river. Silfra is the only spot on Earth where one can touch two plates at once, and I cannot emphasize enough that the land itself gives you that vibe alone, whether you do the tours or not. For as long as I live I don’t think I could forget how it felt to lay completely still on top of the water looking down, like just another little seagull feather or algae, feeling one with the whole damn country.

Finally.

After a pit stop at a petrol station for edible food and something to make the car smell better, we rerouted from planning a drive all the way to Vik (3.5 hrs there and back) to just spending the time comfortably in Reykjavik where we could get back to the airport by 3am, when the rental was due, and for our flight at 6am.

Downtown was as quaint and beautiful as I had imagined, though of course a completely different layout than what I originally pictured. This happened in New Mexico too when I moved there after a year of picturing the places where my friends’ stories from their phone calls were playing out. We found a cute bar to meet locals in called the Smokin’ Puffin, which turned out to have just opened three weeks prior. Made many friends, including Moe the bartender/plant geneticist from Iran, and Joanne, a bubbly expat from the UK.

Hallgrimskirkja and the walk to it however was the crowning jewel of the evening, with apartment windows all open, most of them displaying cute decorations and cats and succulents of all colors and sizes peering out.

I knew it was a rather large church, I suppose I was not prepared for just how large. Walking past the infamous Leifur Eriksson statue to approach the entrance with its tiered architecture and powerfully rhetorical lighting, I lost my breath again. It was a bittersweet goodbye, though I am nearly grateful we did not stay overnight so I couldn’t get too attached to Iceland’s physical presence.

Was honestly just taking a photo of this sweet cat, and realized its owner was behind him drawing. I almost cried.

Moe’s specialty cocktail: coffee martini :)

Me in my very attractive after-puke outfit with this handsome Iranian plant geneticist bartender who was really sweet to me anyway.

<3

[thesassybooskter]

THE LADY TRAVELERS GUIDE TO LARCENY WITH A DASHING STRANGER by Victoria Alexander: Spotlight & Excerpt

NOW AVAILABLE/HARLEQUIN

Join the Lady Travelers Society in their latest romantic misadventure, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander

She must secure her future 

A lady should never be obliged to think of matters financial! But when Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe’s carefree, extravagant lifestyle vanishes with the demise of her husband, her only hope lies in retrieving a family treasure—a Renaissance masterpiece currently in the hands of a cunning art collector in Venice. Thankfully, the Lady Travelers Society has orchestrated a clever plan to get Willie to Europe, leading a tour of mothers and daughters…and one curiously attentive man.

He must reclaim his heritage 

Dante Augustus Montague’s one passion has long been his family’s art collection. He’s finally tracked a long-lost painting to the enchanting Lady Bascombe. Convinced that the canvas had been stolen, he will use any means to reclaim his birthright—including deception. But how long before pretend infatuation gives way to genuine desire?

Now they’re rivals for a prize that will change everything 

Willie and Dante know they’re playing with fire in the magical moonlit city. Their common quest could compromise them both…or lead them to happily-ever-after. 

Buy Online: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iBooks

Add to Goodreads

  Excerpt

“Perhaps, Wilhelmina—” Poppy chose her words with care “—now is not the appropriate time for a trip abroad.”

“On the contrary, Poppy, this is not merely the ap­propriate time but it’s imperative that I leave as soon as possible.”

“Are you in some sort of danger?” Poppy’s brows drew together. “Have those beastly creditors threatened you in some way?” Her expression darkened. “I daresay between Lady Blodgett, Mrs. Higginbotham and myself we can probably come up with a name or two of some disrepu­table types who might be able to—”

“No, no,” Willie said quickly. “It’s nothing like that. As I said, I have already paid off George’s debts and I have enough left to repay a loan and reclaim something of great importance to me. Well, to my future really.” Wil­lie paused for a moment to consider her words. She did so hate to make George appear more of a disappointment than he was but it really couldn’t be helped. Besides, he was dead and probably would be more amused than an­noyed by her revelations. And she did need to look out for herself now. After all, aside from two loyal servants and an elderly relative, she was on her own. “When I began to sell, er, take inventory of the furnishings in the Lon­don house—something I admit I should have done years ago—I became aware that a few somewhat valuable ob­jects were missing. A small Ming vase from China, an exquisite snuffbox that reportedly belonged to a queen of France and a painting left to me by Grandmother.”

Poppy gasped. “Not the Portinari!”

Willie wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid so.”

“Your grandmother loved that painting.”

Poppy and Willie’s grandmother Beatrice had gone to school together and had remained fast friends through­out the rest of Grandmother’s life, even if their lives had taken entirely different courses. Grandmother had mar­ried the Earl of Grantson, who died far too young and never lived to see his only child—Willie’s mother—past her third birthday. Poppy, of course, had married Mal­colm Fitzhew-Wellmore and had become—according to Grandmother—shockingly independent as her hus­band was out of the country as often as he was home. As Grandmother had made that pronouncement with what sounded suspiciously like envy, Willie understood that being an independent woman—while not especially ac­cepted by society—was not a particularly bad thing ei­ther. Beatrice and Poppy did manage to see one another several times a year. Some of the brightest memories of Willie’s childhood were of those meetings between the two old friends.

When Willie’s mother died when Willie was barely ten, she was sent off to Miss Bicklesham’s Academy for Accomplished Young Ladies. It was to her grandmother’s house she returned for holidays and the summer months. Even if her father seemed to have little use for her in those years, Willie had no doubt as to the affections of her grandmother, her godmother and dear Lady Plumdale.

“Do you have any idea what might have happened to it? Was it stolen, do you think?”

“Not exactly.” Once again Willie was reluctant to place the blame on George where it belonged. This was her late husband’s doing and she wouldn’t pause for a moment to point an accusing finger at him if he were still alive. But one did hate to speak ill of the dead even when they deserved it. “According to some correspondence and a note of collateral I discovered in George’s study, he used the Portinari to acquire a loan from an Italian gentleman. A conte, I believe, a resident of Venice and apparently a passionate collector of Renaissance art. I have enough left from the sale of the country house to repay the loan as well as the accumulated interest.” She drew a deep breath. “What I don’t have is the means to get to Venice.”

  About Victoria Alexander

New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander was an award winning television reporter until she discovered fiction was much more fun than real life. She turned to writing full time and is still shocked it worked out.

Victoria claims her love of romance and journalism is to due to the influence of her favorite comic book character: Lois Lane, a terrific reporter and a great heroine who pursued Superman with an unwavering determination. And why not? He was extremely well drawn.

Victoria grew up traveling the world as an Air Force brat. Today, she lives in Omaha, Nebraska with her husband and her dogs. Victoria had two bearded collies, Sam and Louie (named from characters in one of her books). Sam (on the left), the best dog in the world for 13 ½ years, passed away in September 2010. Louie took on the position of loyal companion and did a fine job even though he doesn't understand that kitchen counter surfing is not allowed!

Now he's been joined by Reggie, also a faithful companion.

They all live happily ever after in a house under constant renovation and the accompanying parade of men in tool belts. And never ending chaos. Victoria laughs a great deal—she has to.

Website | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads

  Follow the Tour

Friday, December 1st: View from the Birdhouse

Friday, December 1st: The Sketchy Reader – spotlight/excerpt

Monday, December 4th: Moonlight Rendezvous

Tuesday, December 5th: Reading Reality

Wednesday, December 6th: Books a la Mode – spotlight/excerpt

Thursday, December 7th: The Romance Dish

Friday, December 8th: What I’m Reading

Monday, December 11th: A Chick Who Reads

Tuesday, December 12th: The Sassy Bookster – spotlight/excerpt

Wednesday, December 13th: From the TBR Pile

Wednesday, December 13th: BTH Reviews

Thursday, December 14th: Blogging with A

Friday, December 15th: OMG Reads

Monday, December 18th: A Holland Reads

Tuesday, December 19th: A Night’s Dream of Books

Wednesday, December 20th: Jathan & Heather

Thursday, December 21st: Books & Bindings

Friday, December 22nd: Book Reviews and More by Kathy

  THE LADY TRAVELERS GUIDE TO LARCENY WITH A DASHING STRANGER by Victoria Alexander: Spotlight & Excerpt was originally published on The Sassy Bookster

[viralhottopics]

Can I forgive the man who raped me?

Thordis Elva was raped aged 16. Years later, she emailed Tom Stranger, the man who raped her, beginning a raw, painful healing process documented in their book South of Forgiveness. In this extract, they meet to find a way forward

Thordis Elvais from Iceland and known to Icelandersas a writer, playwright, journalist and public speaker. She was voted Woman of the Year 2015 by the Federation of Icelandic Womens Societies in Reykjavik for her work on gender equality, and has written a celebrated book on gender-based violence, 2009s mannamli (The Plain Truth). She currently resides in Stockholm, Sweden with her partner Vidir and their son.

Tom Stranger is Australian. He met Elva when he was 18 and on a student exchange programme in Iceland, and the pair had a relationship. Since then, he has worked in various sectors (community services, youth, outdoor recreation, charity, construction, and hospitality). For now, he is working as a landscape gardener and lives in Sydney with his wife, Cat.

From: tomsstranger@hotmail.com Sent: Saturday 21 May 2005, 5.38am To: thordiselva@hotmail.com Subject: Words for you Thordis, I dont know where to start. When I saw your name in my inbox, my spine went cold. My memories are still as clear as day. Please believe me when I say I have not forgotten what I did, and how wary I have to be of myself. I dont know how to reply. I want to call myself sick (but I know I am not), I want to say that you are so strong, so strong to be able to write to me and recall the events and my actions. I want to thank you for not hating me, although Id like you to. It would make it easier for me. Without looking for a scratch of sympathy, I want to tell you that the events and emotions I was party to in Iceland have replayed in my head many times, usually when I am by myself for any length of time. They flash past me, vividly accurate, and then, shortly after the denial and positive character reinforcement, comes the question: Who am I? It is a dark part of my memory. Ive tried to suppress it. But this is not about me. Whatever I can do or offer you, I am more than willing. The question is where to go from here. You tell me. Tom.

*****

After eight years of analysing the violent past and its consequences in a written correspondence, Thordis and Tom decide to meet up in the middle, between their home countries of Iceland and Australia, looking to face their past once and for all.

Day one, 27 March 2013

The taxi picks me up at a quarter to five and takes me to the bus station, where Im booked on the fly-bus. The grizzled taxi driver, hoisting my suitcase into the trunk with a smooth manoeuvre, asks me where Im going.

To South Africa.

Oh, really? To Johannesburg?

No, to Cape Town, I reply, still in disbelief at my own words despite the time Ive had to adjust to the idea. It would be an understatement to say that the proposed meeting has been on my mind. Its reverberated in every step when Ive gone out for a run; its been in every breath of cold winter air that scraped the insides of my lungs; its soaked the wet washcloth I used to clean my sons sticky fingers. And Ive tried my best to push it out of my mind when making love to my fiance, enjoying his warm skin against mine.

After all, that would be a highly inappropriate time to be thinking about it.

From the moment the destination was set, I adapted to a new calendar before or after Cape Town. The last time I bought deodorant I automatically deduced that I wouldnt have to buy another one until after Cape Town. Yesterday, when snuggling down with my three-year-old son to do some painting together, spending quality time with him BC momentarily appeased my guilt for leaving him for 10 days to travel halfway across the globe to face a man from the past without any guarantee of the outcome.

Something tells me that parents of young children are not meant to take such foolhardy decisions. Thats the reason I gave up my dreams of parachuting when I fell pregnant with my son. Then again, throwing myself out of an aeroplane at 7,000 feet carries less emotional risk than taking a trip down memory lane with the man who turned my existence upside down. Because it wasnt an unknown lunatic who tore my life apart all those years ago. Who turned down the offer of medical help for me, even though I was barely conscious and vomiting convulsively. Who decided instead to rape me for two endless hours.

It was my first love.

My mothers eyes flew wide open when I told her that I was travelling alone to South Africa to meet up with the man who raped me when I was 16. She strung together a series of hair-raising worst-case scenarios before letting out a sigh, looking at me with loving reluctance, and adding: But I know its pointless to try to talk you out of things youve set your mind to, dear. Shortly thereafter, my dad interrupted my packing when he dropped by for a coffee. Despite my attempt to break the news to him in the gentlest manner possible, it didnt prevent him from freaking out. He lectured me in a thundering voice about how I was jeopardising my life for an utterly ridiculous idea.

But I have to finish this chapter of my life, I said softly. My cheeks were on fire.

Finish this chapter? he repeated, appalled, and jumped out of his chair. You dont need to travel across the globe to finish anything! This whole idea is a big pretentious drama, thats what it is!

His words hit me right where it hurts.

Youll have no control over anything. Nothing but your thoughts! Nothing else!

What do you mean? I asked, confused. Ill obviously control my actions and whereabouts.

No you wont, dear, he hissed. You cant always. If you could, then that wouldnt have happened.

We both knew what he meant by that, even though weve never talked about the incident that changed everything. In recent years, Ive spoken widely and publicly about my status as a rape survivor (though, until now, never identified the man who raped me) yet my father and I have never discussed that fateful night. He has never asked and Ive always assumed he doesnt want to know.

I sat up straight, aware of my glowing cheeks. If you reduce me to victim and him to perpetrator, I can see how this seems incomprehensible to you. But were much more than that, Dad.

He scoffed loudly before storming out of the kitchen.

I leant against the wall and let the air out of my lungs slowly. Goddamn it. I knew this would be hard, but bloody hell.

My father appeared again in the doorway, pacing up and down with frustration I knew was fuelled by fatherly love. How can you be sure youll finish anything with this nonsense? This may just as easily be the start of something else entirely! The distress in his voice made it sound like a threat.

I sat alone in the silence my father left behind and watched the dust settle. In a way, I think were both right. This trip will surely mark an end to a certain chapter of my life. What sets me apart from my father is my belief that in the next chapter, I wont be the victim any more.

Day two, 28 March 2013

The screen in the seatback in front of me shows a blinking plane over a map. According to the timer, Cape Town is just 29 minutes away. The butterflies in my stomach nose-dive, as the time seems way too limited considering how many questions are left unanswered.

Goddamn it, what if I cant forgive him? Am I ready to let go?

Frustrated, I scroll through the folder on my laptop, searching for something to calm my nerves. I was level-headed enough when I suggested this trip, wasnt I? In an attempt to recover my faith in this risky undertaking, I read through my own proposal:

You may need a lifetime to forgive yourself for what you did to me. That is up to you and you take however long you need, independent of anyone else. I, however, am climbing a different mountain. And I am getting very close to the top. I propose that in six months time, we meet up with the intention of reaching forgiveness, once and for all. In person. It is the only proper way for me to do it, I feel. No letter can ever compare with face-to-face communication. And after all weve been through, I think it is the most dignified and honest way to finish this chapter of our story.

I sound so calm, so fucking reasonable. How is it possible that this was written by the same person now hyperventilating in a plane 30,000ft over South Africa, full of nerve-racking doubt?

Reading through his reply, Im somewhat comforted that he, too, felt conflicted:

Ill admit that I was floored by your request to meet up. Fearful, anxious, cautious, paranoid. You name it, it all came swarming in. But youve asked, and you sound like you are making vital ground towards something very special for yourself. So of course Ill agree to see you. After much thought I do think it will be beneficial, and an opportunity for myself to air face-to-face some long held words and for us both to look to close some doors. I want it for you, Thordis, as you seem strong, open and ready to see me and move forward. I want it for me because Im so very sick of being sick and seeing myself as unlovable, and believe I can move on if I could just look you in the face, own up to it and say Im sorry.

Forgiveness is the only way, I tell myself, because whether or not he deserves my forgiveness, I deserve peace. Because Im doing this for me. My forgiveness is white-hot from the whetstone, and its purpose is to sever the ties, because if I can let this go, once and for all, Im certain that my overall wellbeing will benefit greatly. Self-preservation at its best.

Day four, 30 March 2013

Its seven oclock when we buy ourselves a drink at the hotel bar and sit down by a table facing the garden, readying ourselves for the hard talk. The windowpane clatters loudly, and an endless stream of staff crossing the room distracts me to the point where I give up. What do you say about us finishing this conversation in my room?

He looks at me, shocked. Are you sure? Youre comfortable with that?

Im sure that itll be easier to have this talk if we get proper privacy. Its tough enough as it is.

Tom radiates ever-increasing anxiety as the elevator climbs closer to the 12th floor. Unlike him, my emotions have calmed down.

Almost serene, I step out of the elevator. Theres no turning back now.

He buries his hands in his pockets as I fish my key out of my bag in front of my hotel room. Putting my hand on the doorknob, it morphs into the white plastic door-handle with the keyhole that haunts my dreams. Within me, everything falls silent. Ready? I ask myself.

Without hesitation, I turn the key.

Tom follows me inside my room, takes a look around and smiles nervously. Not bad.

Sit wherever you like. Im going to make some tea.

Thordiss student ID from around the time she met Tom. Photograph: Courtesy of Thordis Elva

He sits down on the edge of the bed while I busy myself with the kettle. From the corner of my eye, I notice him closing his eyes and straightening his back, as if hes steeling himself. When the boiling water hits the teabag at the bottom of the cup, Tom begins the story in a hoarse voice. I wore my golden shirt that evening. I didnt know it was customary to get dressed up for a dance in Iceland, and I didnt have anything fancy. The son of my host family took me to an exclusive store and helped me choose the shirt. I thought it was the peak of cool, at the time. The striped trousers were a present from my host sister.

He accepts the steaming teacup from my hand and stares into it for a moment before continuing. I remember how excited I was when I bought the ticket. I remember that I was with my friends Carlos and Ben when we met you outside the dance. You were pretty drunk when you arrived.

It was the first time Id ever tasted rum, I tell him. I didnt know how to drink alcohol. Nor did I know how to smoke, even though I took a drag from the rolled cigarette you handed me. I just wanted to impress you. And after the ensuing wild cough, I wondered if perhaps that wasnt a cigarette, I remind myself.

I lost you the minute we stepped inside, Tom continues. Carlos and I went straight to the dancefloor. I remember feeling happy and carefree in that sweaty pile of people. Then someone told me you werent well, you were in the ladies.

My mind replays the awful scene from the bathroom stall. The stains on my new dress. My hair wet from hugging the toilet. My fear and wonder as one spasm after the other wrung my body out like a dishrag. The repeated promises that Id neither drink nor smoke again if I were only allowed to survive this night. And finally, the desperate wish for my mom to come save me. I fucked up, Mom. Im sorry.

Tom frowns. I felt it was my duty to go and check on you. So I went in and climbed over the partition, into your cubicle. I held your hair back while you vomited, and I thought I was going to be sick as well. Then you flopped to the ground and lay there, motionless. I remember carrying you out.

He pauses and looks away. Before I have a chance to tell him how grateful I was when he appeared like my mother incarnate to save me from an untimely death on the bathroom floor, he grimaces bitterly. Then I couldnt be bothered to look after you, Thordis. I dumped you on Ben and left you with him. You were slumped on the chairs outside the bathrooms and he stood there, stooped over you, as I went back to the dancefloor.

I look at him in surprise. I thought youd taken me straight home.

He clenches his jaw. My only thought was that this was the only Christmas dance I was going to experience in Iceland. I was selfish and didnt have any concern for you. In the end, I felt guilty that some other guy was looking after my girlfriend. So I scooped you up in my arms and carried you up the stairs, in a foul mood because I had to leave the party.

And the security guards stopped you on the way out because they wanted to call an ambulance for me as I was dangling from your arms, foaming at the mouth. They thought I had alcohol poisoning.

Id forgotten that moment but I dont doubt it, he says in a low voice.

Tom Stranger in 1996, the year he went to Iceland. Photograph: Courtesy of Tom Stranger

I remember that part vividly because for a second there, I thought youd take their advice, I respond, looking down into my cup. That Mom and Dad would get a call from the hospital saying that their 16-year-old daughter was lying there with alcohol poisoning. I imagined being grounded for life.

Id known for three years by then what it is to drink to excess, and Id seen many of my friends at various stages of drunkenness. I just thought you were wasted. I didnt think you were in real danger, he says.

Whatever it was, it had me paralysed and unable to speak. But I heard you loud and clear as you refused the offer of an ambulance, telling the security guards that you knew me and would see me safely home.

He nods, his complexion strangely pale. The taxi was white, I recall. I told the driver your address I remember letting us into your house. But what I dont remember is what I did with you while I struggled to unlock the door.

You draped me across your shoulder while you rummaged round in my bag for the keys.

He raises his eyebrows. Really? Like a sack of potatoes?

I nod.

He swears at himself quietly. And I remember your entrance hall, the shoes on the floor. From memory, past the coat hooks there were some stairs on the left, leading up to the kitchen and your parents area. Your room was through on the right. He stops and swallows.

I remember taking your clothes off.

I remember it too. My gratitude when he removed my vomit-stained dress. My relief at having my feet freed from the high heels. My frustration for not being able to utter a word of thanks. My lack of understanding when he continued to remove my underwear. Why my panties? Why?

My stomach muscles reflexively tighten as I prepare for the blow.

He stands up, moving restlessly, and walks over to the wall opposite the bed. I undressed you completely… He falls silent and hangs his head. The wind howls pitifully outside the window.

Tom begins to cry.

I wish I could tell you why I did it, Thordis.

Did what?

Raped you, he says, quietly.

This is an edited extract from South of Forgiveness by Thordis Elva and Tom Stranger (Scribe Publications, 12.99). To order a copy for 11.04 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Thordis Elva and Tom Stranger will be speaking at the Royal Festival Hall as part of the Women of the World festival on 11 March, and at the Bristol Festival of Ideas on 13 March

People were quick to judge I wasnt angry enough: what came next for Thordis and Tom

Standing in stark stage lights, with five cameras directed at me, I recently found myself on a stage, telling an audience of 1,200 how Id been raped when I was 16 years old. Next to me on stage was Tom, who raped me after a dance at our high school. Together, we gave a TED talk that summarised a 20-year long process, whereby Tom shouldered responsibility for his actions and the way they impacted our lives. It was viewed nearly 2m times in the first week and the overwhelming reaction was positive and supportive.

In the talk, I described the violence Tom subjected me to, how I spent years wanting nothing more than to hurt him back, how I found a way to part with the anger that nearly cost me my life, as well as rid myself of blame that I like so many other survivors wrongfully shouldered.

Tom described how he felt deserving of my body that night, without any concern for me, and consequently convinced himself that what he did was sex and not rape. The following nine years were marked by denial, in which he did his best to outrun the past, until I confronted him in a pivotal email that changed our lives for ever.

Ive been asked why I didnt press charges immediately, and the simple answer to that question is that I was a 16-year-old girl with naive notions about rape. Rapes were committed by armed lunatics, the kind of sensationalised monsters you saw on TV and read about in the papers. The fact that Tom wasnt a monster, but a person who made an awful decision, made it harder for me to see his crime for what it was. That way, the demonisation of perpetrators in mainstream media got in the way of my recovery. By the time I was able to identify what had happened to me as rape, Tom had moved to the other side of the planet, far from the jurisdiction of the Icelandic police. At the time, 70% of rape cases in Iceland were dismissed, even when the perpetrator could be interrogated and the survivor had documented injuries, neither of which were the case for me. Therefore, pressing charges would not have been a fruitful process, and the only option I felt I had left was to bottle up my pain and anger. Studies show that very few survivors have a clean-cut story in which they went straight to the authorities after being assaulted, put the blame squarely on the perpetrators shoulders, healed their wounds and moved on. For most of us, life after violence is a messy ordeal. We dont go to the police because were too confused, scared or doubtful that well get help. We blame ourselves and obsess about things we couldve done differently. We numb ourselves with alcohol/drugs/sex/food/work, or we turn to self-harm to relieve the emotional pain. We continue to see our abusers and pretend that nothing happened, because facing the truth is overwhelming. We develop PTSD and mental illness. We stay silent about what happened out of fear that well not be believed, or worse, blamed for it because we did something wrong. No wonder, really. In reality, the only people capable of preventing rapes are those who commit them, and yet were told from an early age that we can avoid being raped by dressing and behaving in a certain way. This culture of victim-blaming also fosters the idea that there is a right way to react to violence. Had the survivor only worn something else, not smiled so widely, not gotten drunk, fought back (more), screamed (louder), gone straight to the police, not feared their attackers retaliation if theyd only done that, everything wouldve worked out differently. Victim-blaming deepens the shame that many survivors feel and lessens the likelihood that they speak up about their experiences.

Watch Thordis Elva and Tom Strangers TED talk.

The reality is that there is no right reaction to having your life ripped apart by violence. I knew that my collaboration with Tom would be controversial, and the reactions of internet trolls didnt surprise me. But I am concerned with how quick some people were to judge the wrong way in which I worked through my experience. I wasnt angry enough, I shouldve pressed charges, I was setting a dangerous precedent, I should be ashamed. Although I made it clear that my forgiveness wasnt for my perpetrator but for myself and that without it, I wouldnt be alive, I was still told that I should not have forgiven.

This worries me. I worry about my fellow survivors who are at risk of internalising the misconception that there is a standard reaction to sexual violence, with the conclusion that they didnt react in the right way. To you, I want to say that you did nothing wrong. The way in which you carried on with your life may not have been clean-cut, it may have been messy and incomprehensible to those who dont share your experience, but it was your way to survive a trauma. Nobody has the right to tell you how to handle your deepest pain.

And as the title of our story South of Forgiveness suggests, forgiveness played a pivotal role in allowing me to let go of the self-blame I shouldered, largely due to the victim-blaming culture I grew up in. And yet, forgiveness is not the core of our story, in my mind. The core issue is responsibility.

I understand those who feel discomfort and even outrage when hearing and seeing Tom on stage, knowing that hes perpetrated sexual violence. At the same time, given how prevalent this type of abuse is and how under-reported a crime it is, were in all likelihood seeing and hearing from perpetrators on a daily basis the main difference being that we dont know theyre perpetrators. They could be the people we went to school with, who greet us at the grocery store, who direct the films we watch, get elected to public office, run entire countries and live right next door. Given the low reporting and conviction rate, most of them will never have to take responsibility for their actions in an institutional sense. This does not lessen the gravity of their deeds.

By the time Tom had confessed to his crime, he couldnt have done time for it even if he wanted to, as the statute of limitations had passed. As a result, our case fell through the cracks of the legal system, like so many others, but it didnt lessen our need to analyse our past and place the responsibility with the person to whom it belonged: Tom. We also did our best to answer questions that are rarely posed in the public discourse about rape, where more focus seems to be on the survivors attire, behaviour, whereabouts and sexual history than the perpetrators culpability. And as frustrating as it is, I understand it to a certain extent. Because in the public discourse, the only people speaking about the violence theyve been party to are the survivors, usually. Which is why we only have their stories to dissect, their details to scrutinise. Did she say shed been drinking that night? This tradition of one-sided scrutiny blindsides us from looking at the behaviour of the person responsible, the perpetrator, to whom the focus needs to shift.

I am not sharing the story of how I processed the abuse I endured as a set of recommendations for others.

My story is a unique account shared in the hope that it can aid a public discussion about sexual violence.

As a society, it is our duty to fight against violence. And as individuals, we have a right to heal from it.

Read more: http://bit.ly/2lUbi8H

from Can I forgive the man who raped me?