Every so often I stick my foot in “it.” I did it twice last Thursday on LinkedIn. What was my crime?

I expressed an opinion contrary to the prevailing narrative of the “woke” liberals who took objection to it. Expressing a contrary narrative apparently invites attack, although I don’t know why I’m to blame if supposedly intelligent people cannot read for comprehension.

(Yes, I’m aware that using the term woke liberals may be taken as an insult. It’s meant as one, and it’s also the best term I have for the people described below. But then, they modify conservative with racist, because, according to them, one can’t hold conservative values without being racist. Fair’s fair, folks.)

Here’s what happened. A lawyer–someone blunt and opinionated and scary-smart whom I follow–posted a disturbing video of a white woman confronting her Black neighbors with ugly (and false) accusations seasoned with racial epithets. That lawyer mentioned systemic racism.

OK, before you get your panties in a twist, my response did not deny the existence of systemic racism. I don’t think it’s nearly as prevalent or pervasive as the political left would insist, but that’s beside the point. (I’m not going to digress by getting into political viewpoints specifically.) My response stated that all the “isms” were alive and well and that everyone has biases. I then included an example of having known a stallion that preferred dark mares to light mares. (Getting him to breed a pale colored mare was a challenge.)

Two people, of course, took exception. The first accused me denying systemic racism. No, the term “not necessarily” does not indicate the absence of something, merely the lack of likelihood. Racism exists, but its presence does not equate to it being systemic. The second accused me of crass insensitivity in comparing Blacks to horses. No, the comparison shows that biases are not limited to human beings. Then I added that person #2’s limitation of his comprehension of racism to the past 250 years of US history made him an idiot for failing to comprehend the vastness of human history.

Yeah, I used the word idiot. I went a little far with that. I lost my cool.

Still, I have noticed, repeatedly noticed, that those who most loudly claim the virtue of tolerance for themselves are the least tolerant of opinions, beliefs, and viewpoints contrary to their happy little narratives. Those who say they are most tolerant show themselves as intolerant … and nowadays they don’t even bother with the exercise of civil interaction. They go straight to attack.

Then I stuck my foot in the muck again. Someone posted a picture of a the cover of a recent issue of Vogue showing a man in an evening gown. Many people commented, cheering it. One man responded that he didn’t like it and would appreciate if those who did wouldn’t shove their views down his throat. The sniping and accusations of intolerance ensued. I forbore responding until one person commented on the supposed utopia of secular humanism: every person should have the right to do anything he or she pleases as long as it doesn’t hurt another sentient being.

I took issue with that, pointing out that such thinking led the way straight to relativism. What I think is hurtful will differ from what you think is hurtful, so whose opinion takes precedence? Religion, I wrote, seeks to establish a firm foundation of right and wrong. That doesn’t make religion always right: God knows religion has been responsible for and used to justify grievous crimes against humanity over the ages. But at least people who have a strong moral code have a solid basis from which they can distinguish right and wrong; their sense of honor doesn’t shift with every wave of public opinion.

Yes, Virginia, if you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a conservative white woman. I don’t apologize for that. If you’re not white, female, or conservative, that’s fine. My ego can handle your difference. I might even find some common ground in your world view upon which to agree. But none of your “woke” protests and accusations of my lack of understanding and utter failure as a human being will change the bedrock of what I believe and reason to be true.

I haven’t just witnessed this on LinkedIn, but on Facebook, too. The vitriol is appalling. The commonly understood freedom of the First Amendment (which is incorrect, by the way) means nothing when someone utters a contrary opinion on a public forum. Forget responses, that might simply say, “I disagree” or “Why do you say that?” No one wants to know why, they just want to pound their viewpoints into the dissenter’s head. They bully to get their way, to be acknowledged right and just and the one true way.

I’m one thin thread away from disengaging entirely from social media, because I don’t need this bullying. I don’t need to see it and I certainly don’t need to experience it again. I’m tired of the virulent cesspit that is social media.

Give me one good reason to continue engaging.

Twin Moons Saga ​Book 3 

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n nWorlds fear the powerful, ruthless, and cold-hearted Unseelie king. Deposed and his kingdom conquered, Uberon answers the call of a young human woman’s soul and claims her as his mate. Corinne’s clever mind captivates him, her compassion intrigues him, her beauty enchants him, and her body stokes his libido like nothing else ever did or could. n nDiscovering that myths and legends really are based in fact, Corinne soon learns her fate as the Unseelie king’s chosen mate and the consequences of fae immortality as she adapts to a new world and her relationship with Uberon develops. She revels in Uberon’s passion and shoulders the burden of power and responsibility beyond anything she ever dreamed.n n n nn n n n

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5 Star Review 

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nThis story has it all….an immortal king with the most useful of magical powers, and a very modern and independent woman from America whom you will simply love. She’s smart, sassy and has a few tricks up her own sleeve.
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nDo yourself a favor and read it in any format you can get your hands on.n

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Excerpt

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nHe paused at the forest edge, observing the woman who sat on the old concrete boat ramp as she reeled in a fish with expert skill. 
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n“Y’all can come out now,” she called over her shoulder without looking behind her. 
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nHe obeyed her beckons and quietly took a seat beside her as she cast her line again. They sat in companionable silence, inches apart and never touching. He did not quite know her reason for the studious avoidance of physical connection and did not question it. He simply enjoyed the soft sounds of her breathing, the rustle of her clothes, the splash of water, the rustling of leaves, and the chirps of birds. It reminded him of his home in midsummer.
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nShe caught another fish, deemed it inadequate for her purposes, and released it back into the water after extracting the sharp hook from its mouth. She glanced at the horizon and noted the sun’s descent and the vivid flare of color across the western sky.
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n“I’ve got enough to feed both of us tonight if you’re hungry,” she invited him as she hauled up the day’s meager catch. She gathered her cooler and tackle and began the hike back to her tiny cabin. He fell into step behind her, feeling protective and watching for danger.
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n“Nothing but the occasional black bear or badger around here,” she said, her voice quiet in the rustling wilderness.
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nHe said nothing, but shadowed her nonetheless. He knew park visitors occasionally tramped through what she considered her territory and that some of them had less than benign intentions. He’d killed one of them not three days past.
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nThe elimination of a tainted soul did not disturb him. After hundreds of millennia, little actually disturbed him. He glanced at the slender hips swaying with each step, the lure to masculine interest unintentional. Desire surged, a heady sensation he hadn’t enjoyed since his mate died.
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nHad been killed.
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nMurdered. ​n

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n n#HollyBargo #HenHousePublishing n​#Book #Fantasy #Romance ​#MFRWhooksn n

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Thanksgiving is just around the corner, with Christmas and News Year’s not far behind. This year the holidays bring extra poignancy and stress.

November 18 is the 1-year anniversary of my father’s death. This far this month, I’ve been channeling Dad, wearing his Hallmark shirt and watching sappy-sweet Hallmark movies. I visited him in the Dayton National Cemetery on Veterans Day, talked at him, then had a bit of a cry.

I miss my dad.

I picked up two new clients. One I’d registered for before, but didn’t remember having doing so. Now that I’ve been getting gig alerts from them, I know why I let my account with them expire. Let’s just say that the rates offered hover somewhere between cheap and slavery. This is the same outfit that demanded I write and submit an 800-word article to them for free. I replied that I wouldn’t do that and they offered to bring me onboard anyway. Unless the gig offer improve substantially and soon, I’ll be deleting my account with them.

The second client is a marketing firm that uses Asana and Slack. I loathe such project management applications, but understand their utility and the necessity for them when managing many different small projects and contractors. I haven’t picked up any of the gigs offered yet because, thus far, none appeal to me. That’s the beauty of freelancing: I work on what appeals to me. I’m not forced to work on anything or for anyone I really dislike.

Neither is my preferred type of client. I really like working with indie authors and helping them improve their stories. Getting indie writers, especially authors producing their first manuscripts, to understand the importance of engaging a professional editor remains a challenge. I continue to work on educating them with regard to expectations:

1. No, your rough draft is not ready for an editor; you should self-edit and revised until it’s as good as you can make it.
2. No, I will not return a manuscript ready for publishing. You have to revise it. If a lot of revision and rewriting is necessary, it will need another round of editing. (You’ll get better value from your editor if she’s focused on making your story better instead of correcting typos and grammar errors.)
3. Yes, competent editing is expensive. You get what you pay for.

With the turmoil this year has brought, I suspect many of the writers who used shelter-in-place restrictions to produce their stories also lost much of the disposable income they might have used to get their manuscripts edited.

I have one more art class scheduled before the holiday season begins in earnest. This year, I’ll be gifting some family members with framed artwork. I already gave my elder son, for his birthday, with two pour art paintings that turned out really well. He said he liked them and I said I appreciated the lie. Surely, other family members, too, will politely smile and thank me and discuss among themselves how much they wish I hadn’t–really hadn’t–inflicted my paintings on them.

I’m not nearly as good a painter as I’d like to be.

Other writing remains a hiatus. There have been a couple of small spurts when I added to a manuscript, but nothing sustained. Therefore, there will not be another book coming out this year. Continued dismal sales contributes to the discouragement. I’m starting to wonder if I ought not focus on in-person sales. Book- and author-oriented events don’t really generate much in the way of book sales, but other types of events show a lot of promise. On Saturday, December 12, I’ll be peddling my books at the 9th Annual Christmas Bazaar at St. Clements Hall in Toledo, Ohio. This, of course, assumes the governor doesn’t send us all into lockdown again.

I’m not the only person who will bid 2020 a glad good-bye.