Wednesday, November 30, 2016

The Ever Hopeful Pessimist.

My readers know my genre is romance. I love love. And write about Prince Charming and Princess Smarty. I like to think that the characters I create are realistic to readers, but they also reflect my some of my more pessimistic tendencies. My cautious approach to relationships and the belief that there is always someone in the relationship that has to work a little more to be comfortable being the recipient of that much love and be okay with the connection you are now sharing with this person.

The other day I attended an early thanksgiving dinner and somehow, in someway, we got into the conversation of relationships, love, prenups, and marriage. I was in a room full of people in various stages of life and was the only one singing praises of the prenup.

I titled this blog pose "The Ever Hopeful Pessimist" because I am hopeful in all things, but through it all I can be slightly pessimistic.

I am like most girls, I think. Well... Maybe like a few girls.

More and more millennial are not interested in marriage, at least according to the statistic. I am of the marry in the "passion of love" variety.

For me the governmental reasons of marriage are not the reasons to do it. Marriage comes in two parts. There is the legal part and the spiritual part.

The legal part is the very cut and dry part most people suffer through to go through the spiritual part. To go before your family and friends and declare your present and future love for that other person.

The spiritual part can happened without the legal part. Your union can be blessed by whatever religious figure you hold in high esteem without the legal side.

But people do the legal side because they want the legal benefits that go along with marriage. Yet when someone brings up the idea of a prenup, you have offended someone to their deepest core. As if by mention it you are planning for the upcoming divorce.

I swear the entire room was in an uproar. The more I dug in my heels the more animated the conversation became. It was like I had announced to the room I wanted to host a divorce before the actual marriage.

We are taught to prepare for eventualities in life and to take precautions. Before you have sex get tested. (Though this is rarely ever sexy.)

When you become an adult?

Pay your bills. Have medical, dental, and car insurance. We do this not in the hopes we will become sick, need a filling or dentures, and will crash our cars. We do it because it is responsible planning.

But extend that to a prenup and suddenly you are planning a war against love and pushing away true romantic happiness.

Yet I believe love to be accepting and enduring. I think those vows spoken during that ceremony means we have done the work before hand. We know each other. We trust each other and the thing that breaks this ever lasting love will not be an agreement that is only enacted if we actually do divorce?

Traditionally I always enter into parties with the same game plan. Smile wide. Everyone kisses each other's cheek in greeting. Little bit of small talk. Collect my plate and go.

But that night I was dragged into the conversation because I have still not perfected the art of leaving. When I am interested in a topic. I have diarrhea of the mouth. I won't give up and I can't give in.

Especially when I am told that the only way I could think this way is if I have not experienced enough love in my life.

Even discounting my own personal experience in love. Romance and marriage take up large blocks of my mind. It rules over me and pushes me. From an intellectual level. An imaginative one.

Romance, love, connection, sex, sacrifice, and marriage. All of it is in my writing. I dream about it, I write about it. I talk about it and I try to live the really good bits of it.

I am in love with love and yet still this "ever hopeful pessimist" wants a prenup. As poor as we may be.

Completed Works:

The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:

Wintr’s Homecoming: Secrets

Jaguar Nights: Lies

Pearl Moon: Betrayal

Shadowy Lights: Fear

Cold Sun: Obsession

The Virgins Club:

Lipstick Diaries

The Young and The Powerful

Witch’s Reflection

Monday, October 10, 2016

High Heels?

The other day I was headed off to a job interview. I was on my professional grind. Wearing a wig to cover my natural curls and a red A-line dress. This happen to be the second interview for this particular company, I was confident in my outfit choice. Then my baby sister stopped me and pointed to my black flats.

"Where are your heels?"

I live in New York and the interview was in a part of the city where parking is an olympic sport. Riding the train would have taken me a full twenty minutes longer just based off of where I lived. I knew that by driving I would have a walk ahead of me. So I opted for sensible shoes not "lady shoes".

Because I was in a hurry I did not respond, but her question bothered me. It was passively saying that as a woman looking for a job. Opting for flats was somehow less professional then showing up with heels.

I love a good heel. They look nice and give me a warm feminine feeling when I am wearing them. But they are uncomfortable!!! Prolonged exposure causes aches and my boobs do a good enough job of that on their own...

When did heels become the uniform of choice for professional women. As if wearing them suddenly raises my IQ and makes me more hireable.

Why?

Am I proving actual suffering for the job by wearing them? Does it solidify my commitment to working in some way by walking the four blocks it took me to get there in heels, that have by now, rubbed my toes raw? Though I am sure my sister did not mean to imply such things in her innocent enough question. I found myself thinking about all of the things I do when I go on an interview.

I wear the expensive dress, nice blazer, and the makeup I usually only pull on for special occasions. I braid down the kinks and where the wig with the highlighted ringlets. Those things add to my natural beauty, but also hide the things "the powers that be" have deemed unkempt and unprofessional.

Even during my own graduation from graduate school, I found myself surrounded by aunts all voicing their opinion about whether wearing my afro beneath that cap was appropriate. I was treated to multiple explanations as to why that would not fly. How professional african american woman did not wear their natural curls, but wear locks of long straight hair with professionally styled curls.

These women who taught me how to dress, comb my hair, braid, and express my inner diva. Were telling me that showing my roots was some how detracting from what I had accomplished. My afro became this unworthy thing and the only remedy was to hide it away behind weaves.

Why? Why do I have to assimilate to be proven worthy when I have done the most important part in getting my qualifications? Why can I not wear the clothes most comfortable to me when I have spent the last twenty years of my life receiving the education necessary to make me competent to do the job?

What about those heels give you confidence in my ability?

Completed Works:

The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:

Wintr’s Homecoming: Secrets

Jaguar Nights: Lies

Pearl Moon: Betrayal

Shadowy Lights: Fear

Cold Sun: Obsession

The Virgins Club:

Lipstick Diaries

The Young and The Powerful

Witch’s Reflection

Thursday, October 6, 2016

Witch's Reflections: Excerpt Chapter 4

Witch's Reflection

Chapter Four

‘Deep even breaths, Selah.’

‘Deep and even breaths.’

The inside of her eyelids were a bright pink as daylight streamed through the windows of her studio washing it in light.

Her legs, exposed by her stone washed jean shorts, pressed against the cold-waxed wooden floors. Making her skin prickle with goosebumps. Selah took another deep breath as she tried to ignore the distractions and focus.

Her thoughts began to fade with each breath. Her magic sparked and she felt an internal warmth spread through the cells of her body. Selah head fell back as her surroundings faded away.

The sound of her music no longer pumped through her ears. The feel of the ground beneath her legs disappeared. She was standing now. Her jeans were replaced by what felt like a stiff type of leather.

Her eyes drifted open. Her nose wrinkled as she looked around the room. Selah was in a small hut surrounded by dirt and the scent of burning flesh. Poverty surrounded her.

Sand and dust covered every surface. Selah felt as if she was being suffocated by it. She looked down at the grime on her skin in disgust. She hated being dirty. It has always a pet peeve of hers.

“Jarita.”

Selah rubbed a spot of dirt on her arm and looked around the tiny room. It was so bare. Devoid of any personal touch.

Her scalp burned and itched. Her hair hung in limp oily curls around her face. Everything was covered in dirt. It was everywhere and coated her skin.

“Jarita.”

“Jarita!”

Selah jumped at the name as she twisted around towards the voice. Reflections were like an echo of the past. Witches watched their former lives looking for lessons and truth. She could not move or talk.

Her thoughts were not completely her own. It was like watching a film, she could not fast-forward through. Selah was only an observer.

Facts echoed through her mind. A woman dressed in a bark brown dress stood in the doorway. Her face was painted with archaic symbols no one in their coven had used since the late 1800s.

Thema. The leader of their coven, and Jarita’s matron. She stood at the door. Tears streamed down the older woman’s face. Her dark brown skin glistened with sweat and her eyes were rimmed with red.

“Bring Ebunoluwa water.”

Jarita nodded carefully.

“Hurry.”

Thema turned and walked out of the room. She’d issued her orders and did not need to see it carried out. Jariata picked up a jug as her resentment bubbled beneath the surface.

She was a servant in the eyes of the tribe. A slave because of her orphan status. They treated her like a burden. Only worth carrying out their orders.

‘It is all Ebunoluwa’s fault,’ whispered a familiar angry voice in the back of her mind.

The voice had been murmuring in the back of her mind for months. Opening her eyes and showing her the injustice of her position. Who she should blame?

Jarita walked out of her hut and started down the path to the watering hole. The sounds of drums could be heard through out the village.

It had been a constant since Ebunoluwa had fallen sick. All prayed for their future leader’s heath and recovery. All except Jariata.

Jariata prayed for Ebunoluwa’s death. The hot sun made the sand burn beneath her feet. Jariata lifted her face to take in the sunlight.

‘Her death will happen soon. Just one more dose.’

Jariata said nothing as she continued to walk. Ebunoluwa was loved by most of the village. Her supposed sweet nature and easy smile misled everyone.

She saw past the thin veneer of kindness to the disaster beneath the surface. Ebunoluwa would destroy the Yemoja clan if she lived to lead.

‘Two drops. Two drops in her water, and she will not make it beyond the night. I promise.’

Jariata arrived at the watering hole and dipped the jug into it. The water bubbled as the jug filled. Once full she hefted it over her head and started down the path back to the village.

What she was doing was wrong.

Jariata knew Ebunoluwa loss was the greater good. It was what was best for the good of the clan. She looked innocent but Jariata could see what others in the clan missed. Ebunoluwa was a poison. A blight on all that they were.

Selah started to panic as she heard the dark thoughts filtering through her mind. This was her past life? She used to be some schizophrenic murderer?

‘Two drops in her water and you will save them all.’

A light giggled filled her mind as she entered the village and turned towards the home of Thema. Of course he was happy. This is what he wanted. What he had been pushing her towards.

She pushed the cloth covering the door to the side and walked into the main room. Men and women sat through out the room praying. Jariata walked past them all to the last room in the corner. A beaded cloth covered the door.

Jariata entered Ebunoluwa’s sick room. To find Thema bent over the sick girl as she chanted. Selah watched in horror as Jariata brought the jug to the small table beside.

She wanted to do something to stop her. To change the past. She wanted to drop the jug but instead her hands tipped the jug over and filled the cup partly.

Looking around carefully she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with clear liquid.

Jariata looked over her shoulder and opened the vial with her thumb. She watched Thema as she tipped the liquid into the cup.

‘Two drops. Two more drops and the threat would be gone.’

Available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. It is also available on Kindle Unlimited. Please Check it out and and if you like it. Leave a review!!! Remember reviewing is caring. 😘

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Pride V.S. Fear

Sometimes I find myself in the field behind my house. Laying among the clovers and blades of fresh cut grass. My thoughts revolve around my life. The things I have done and the things I want to do. There are two overriding emotions at war within me.

Pride in all that I have done and the accomplishments I have made. Fear of failure and stumbling on the boulders of life.

The pale blue sky calm me. Chirping birds, and barking dogs are like music. The pride is fed by the successful completion of a task or challenge. The fear is fed by the expectations of my family, my own need to meet their expectation, and my wish to leave a mark on this world.

I have been going through this cycle of interviews, sending out job applications, working, writing, editing, blogging, babysitting, and constantly evaluating the path I have opted to take.

Risk is this memorizing thing. It draws me in like a moth to a flame. As a child I was withdrawn. I liked being in my own head and reading about philosophy, history, emotions, and mythology.

I loved to think about what adulthood would look and feel like. How I would work, pay my bills, date, and live the single life before settling into a successful marriage.

When you are a kid you do not think about the seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months, and years of struggle and failure. You don't think about the stress of taking a risk. Putting yourself out there and failing.

Now I have left the welcome bosom of school to enter the world of reality and I miss school. Not necessarily the the debt or the hair pulling exams. I miss learning. Working with people not concerned with money, but about the way they could impact the world. Fiction is often better then reality. (Hmm, Right?!).

Reality this week was beautiful, frustrating, scary, depressing, and barely like anything I planned or envisioned for my future. Next week will be the same. And the week after that. And the week after that week. And for the rest of my life the plans I make are little more then a cold comfort.

But I will keep dreaming, writing, and planning. I will keep trying, failing, succeeding. I will do it because giving up is easy and as I stated before. Meeting the challenges I set for myself and successfully passing my goals feeds my pride. It needs to be stronger then my fear.

Best Wishes,

Jen A. Durand, Founder of Durand Publishing

P.S I have decided to giveaway free copies of one of my titles available on Kindle, Kobo, and Nook.

In order for a reader to qualify. The reader must join my mailing list on my website www.DurandPublishing.net and leave a review on either Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or Amazon. Remember Reviewing is Caring. 😘

Completed Works:

The Secrets, Lies, and Betrayal Series:

Wintr’s Homecoming: Secrets

Jaguar Nights: Lies

Pearl Moon: Betrayal

Shadowy Lights: Fear

Cold Sun: Obsession

The Virgins Club:

Lipstick Diaries

The Young and The Powerful

Witch’s Reflection

Monday, October 3, 2016

Free Giveaway

Hi All,

I have decided to giveaway free copies of one of my titles available on Kindle, Kobo, and Nook.

In order for a reader to qualify. The reader must join my mailing list on my website www.DurandPublishing.net and leave a review on either Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or Amazon.

Best Wishes,

Jen A. Durand, Founder of Durand Publishing

P.S Remember Reviewing is Caring. 😘

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Fiction Is Essentially My Therapy

When I am writing or reading a story. I am dropped into this world or this life with some stark differences from my reality. When I am reading I am this silent observer or the receiver of this barrage of sensations and emotions. When I am writing I am the creator of a world where anything can happen and often does. Most of my readers will notice that my stories tend to have common themes. Shared connections.

One of the themes is family. Growing up and even now in my adult life, family is the corner stone of everything that I do. I was taught to honor my parents. Care for and look after my siblings. Work towards a future with the ability to sustain and provide for children.

My childhood was not an easy one. My parents divorced. My father was unfaithful and my mother was bitter. They were the two biggest forces in my life and my childhood was marred by their inability to at the very least immunize their children from the ensuing war.

I love my parents separately. Together they generally combust, unless in public, unable to engage in the simplest of conversations without digs and barely camouflaged anger.

My mother has never really let go of her hurt. Fifteen years later she is still the scorned woman. A fact she is loathed to admit, but is unable to deny.

Intelligent, caring, and completely driven by the success of her children. My mother is a force of nature with only two or three blindsides. Most of them revolving around her romantic entanglements.

When I write about Mothers I usually take the qualities I love most about my mother. Her ability to throw a meal together out of nothing. Her love of children and her traditional caribbean influence. My stories reflect her push for her children, not only to succeed, but to start pushing out those grandchildren she thought would at least come from the oldest of her brood by now.

More often then not the mothers in my stories are fierce, independent, and a source of comic relief.

I also explore the qualities I do not love so much about my mother. Her stagnation when it to the end of her marriage and her anger in the way it ended.

In Wintr's Homecoming, readers are introduced to Jinx Wintr. The not quite orphan. Her father was in the shoulder's in which their family stood. He had a bond not only with his wife, but also with the child. When he dies, Jinx's mother falls into this trap of the Mate bond and becomes this despondent shell of a woman. Leaving her daughter to deal with feelings of abandonment and searching for a new family while avoiding such things like romantic love. Jinx saw what love did to her once vibrant mother and when confronted with her own mate seeks to avoid the pain of such loss by running away from it.

When I write about Fathers I also focus on the qualities I admire in my father. His conviction, boisterous personality, and warmth. I was a daddy's girl for most of my life even after the divorce and love my father in spite of what I consider to be personal failures on his part. The fathers in my story can fall on two spectrums even within one story.

Take for instance, Prince's Heart. Vashti is the illegitimate daughter of a King and spent most of her life as a slave. Her father is this cold hearted dictator. He does not care for his children but focuses on his own wants and needs. He offers her freedom by serving her to his allies as a prize in exchange for continued peace and protection.

The flip to this is King Cyrus. Vashti's father in law. He is this large war forged King. He has the love and respect of his children and shows her the qualities of a father she'd never experienced in her own life. Cyrus is there for his children and while he may not be the best husband, the family bond is a strong one.

My father continued to see the woman he cheated on my mother with. They have a daughter together and live in the same house. She and I have a contentious relationship at best. Not because she was the "Mistress" or because I consider her to be the reason why my parent's relationship failed. But because she as a woman embodies all of the traits I dislike in other woman.

We have a history of actions taken on both sides that have culminated into a situation in which it is best if we do not acknowledge each other. She is not my stepmother or stepparent. She is, in my mind, one of my father's failing. Their continued relationship has and probably will continue to confound me until the end of time.

When I write, this is also explored in my stories in shorter snippets. In Prince's Heart, Vashti shares stories of how she was treated by her own stepmother.

In Cold Sun, Talia Gage is on reincarnated life number four. Her previous lives were marred by murder and betrayal. In her second life she was killed by her father's second wife. Driven by jealousy and greed, she killed Talia in an effort to elevate the standing of her own child.

Writing for me is not only an expression valve, but also a way of exploring my own feelings. It is why writing is such a personal thing for me. I am reveling parts of my soul and trying to create reality within the fiction. Order in the center of Chaos.

The characters I create are embodiments of what is around me. The good, bad and okay is embedded in the scenes and dialogue.

Fiction Is Essentially My Therapy Video