D. Hart St. Martin

I make female heroes badass AND believable

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In Which WTF Becomes My New Mantra

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My beloved 18-year-old Saturn died two weeks ago. She only had 31.5K miles on her, but when the dementia of a terminal electrical problem sidelined her, I knew it was time to put the old gal down.

She was a good car. I mean, 18 years. Come on. Only a couple of small problems over our time together. She even had her original brakes. I’d dubbed her “Bratgirl” because she looked a little like a sports car. I certainly felt like my ass was dragging on the ground when I drove her. But, she had to go. Here’s my last shot of her as I backed away in her replacement.

When I make a decision like buying a new car, I generally do a minimal amount of research and then go. Do it. Get it over with. Plus with an anxiety disorder that has left me mistrustful of automobiles in general, I needed to deal quickly with the reality of my fear of the car just stopping—STOPPING—in the middle of the road without power.

I began by looking at used cars offered by a rental company. I’ve known several people who’ve had very good luck getting a car this way. Then I looked at new cars and discovered that for only a few thousand more, I could get a brand new car with no mileage to speak of. Worth it to me.

So on the Saturday after the Thursday Bratgirl first crapped out on me, I forced her to take me to the local Toyota dealership where I abandoned her in favor of a brand-new, bright-red Yaris. I named her Ruby Saturday.

And here she is.

First new car in 18 years. Do you know how much has changed in that time? I got pretty much the cheapest car on the lot. It has Bluetooth and a push-button start and a backup camera. Standard. All of this advanced technology is great, but my driving skills have been truly challenged. Take today.

Today, I drove to my writing workshop, pushed the button to turn the car off and saw a yellow light on the start button. I’d never seen that before. What the fuck? What’s the yellow light for? I pushed the button to start the car again, then turned it off again. Yellow light remained. I looked around and noticed that the car was still in Drive. So my car was telling me to shift to Park. (The Saturn would have refused to give me the key, but Ruby Saturday doesn’t have a key to hold hostage.) Lesson learned.

Ah, but that wasn’t the end. When I came out, I got in, put my foot on the brake and pushed the button, and once I’d backed out of my parking space (with the screen displaying the backup camera’s viewpoint) and shifted into Drive, no music. What the fuck?

A big icon filled up that little screen telling me…what? I thought it was telling me the Bluetooth wasn’t working. So I switched over to the radio, but no radio. And the damn icon wouldn’t let me change things at all. I played with it for a couple of minutes (back in Park), but to no avail.

So I drove my brand-new, bright-red Yaris named Ruby Saturday back to the dealership and whined to the young man in the service bay, “I’ve only had it for a week-and-a-half, and this happened.”

And you know what he said? You know what he said after he said it wasn’t the Bluetooth? He pointed to the icon on the screen and said, “It’s on mute.” And proceeded to show me all the places I could turn the mute off.

Progress. We can’t live without it, but it’s damn irritating to live with.

FIRST POST TO MY NEW WEB SITE

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Like pretty much everything one creates and chooses to put out in the world, web sites require a lot of work—a lot of detail work, especially. I have been very lucky to have a great online friend, Chris Rosser, who is both a writer and a techie, to do that hard work of harnessing all my copy and images and itsty-bitsy tweaks and turning them into a web site. To be specific, the web site you’re on now. (Not to mention the cray-cray I put him through with my frustrations and impatience.)

In addition, the goddess has blessed me with an artist, Jonas Steger—a really great artist—acquired recently and turning out to be the best decision I’ve made since, oh, I don’t know, since birth maybe? Not only is his work divine (check out the map on the Lisen of Solsta series page—a hand drawn masterpiece), but he tells me when he’ll get it done and then gets it done by then.

So while I’ve been preparing all the words for the site and prepping the images I already have, Chris and Jonas have been hard at work and at my beck and call. Chris says he needs a color pallet (or as he wrote it, “colour pallett”—yes, he lives in a Commonwealth nation), and Jonas provides it within less than an hour. Some things take longer, of course, but if you’re looking for a cover artist, look no further than the gentleman who created the cover for Soul Doubt.

I have to admit, it’s been a little crazy. I haven’t been able to do much writing on Mari’s story. But Mari and I have reacquainted ourselves and have returned to the world I created for her. And when the site went live on Friday night, I breathed a sigh. Of course, now I have to return to blogging and master the management of my mailing list. It’s an ongoing process, one I will probably mention now and then here.

I’m grateful to have you along for the ride. I hope you’ll consider recommending my site and blog to your friends.

Bang the Drums

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Listening to the bagpipes played at the various events celebrating John McCain’s life this week left me in need of a bagpipe fix, so I downloaded an album from iTunes. There’s nothing like the sweet tune played on the pipes’ chanter accompanied by the rousing blare of the drones. If you’ve never heard them in person, you have missed an encounter that cannot be equaled. They kick the heart and churn the soul until you simply cannot help but stand up and declare yourself free of all earthly bounds.

My father played the drums in a bagpipe band when I was a teenager. As I began listening to this album I’d chosen at random, the first song, “Scotland the Brave,” moved from single bagpipe to a chorus of pipers to the inclusion of the drums, and I remembered with poignancy, awe and not a few tears my father’s struggles to master the damn technique of those Scottish drums. I don’t understand the intricacies of the differences between any other percussion style and those of the Scots, but I do know he did a fair amount of swearing as he practiced for hours on his little homemade drum pad. But master them he did.

Every Wednesday night, our family—Dad, Mom, little sister and I—would head to the military industrial complex where my father worked. While my sister and I took Scottish dancing lessons in one of the out buildings, outside the pipers and drummers would practice both the mastery of their instruments and marching, both fast and slow. And every Christmas, band and dancers together would march in the local holiday parade. We’d wear our little dancing slippers which really weren’t meant for marching, but the magic and joy of following the band led by its drum major lives on in my memory forever.

I miss my daddy. I listen to the drums on this bagpipe album, and there’s a part of me that wants to squeal with a child’s delight. If you ever hear a bagpipe band, whether recorded or live, pay attention to the drums. They’re the best bit of percussive work you’ll ever experience.

My Daddy in all his glory

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Dear JoAnn,

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Today is the first anniversary of your passing, though you’d passed away from me a while before that. We got all caught up in the political, and I didn’t understand until you were gone where you were coming from. Not that that would have made a difference. So I’ve spent the last year thinking about how I didn’t miss you because I’d already begun grieving the loss of you months before.

But today, as I set out for my walk, I plugged my earbuds into my phone and pulled up Sticky Fingers, and when the first licks of “Brown Sugar” hit my ears, I recognized reason for celebration. Those two concerts in one day at the Forum where we jumped up and down and danced like maniacs.

Those nights spent exploring our insides with Anita.

That early morning when you and I rode up to the top of Lookout Mountain and orchestrated the sunrise. Anita had fallen asleep on us . You, as you always could, had taken a two-hour nap earlier under the influence of something that should have kept you from doing so. We did a damn good sunrise that day, and we spent the entire day proud of our work.

Canasta. Oh, my god, we played canasta every chance we got. And we were brutal—all of us—you, me, Neal, and the others in your crowd.

The house in Pasadena. Your brilliant idea to strip all the kitchen cabinets of paint in the middle of summer before you moved in. Nearly killed us with the fumes. And gloves don’t work if your hands are sweaty because the sweat mingles with the fumes slipping and your hands burn anyway. Then later, you completely remodeled the kitchen, replacing the cabinets anyway. You told me you’d owe me forever, and I held you up to that, didn’t I.

The good times. Time to remember the good times. We laughed and had fun all over Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley. And I will remember forever. Thank you for all of that. It never would have been the same without you.

Love,

Hart (whom you refused to call Hart because you couldn’t get used to calling me anything but Debi—are you up there still calling me Debi? Stop it. Right now.)

War is Coming

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I am going to war.

I have been diagnosed with a left kidney stone that will kill me. Literally. Another infection caused by this stone blocking my left ureter could be the infection that turns into sepsis and kills me. So the stone must go, and my urologist believes the only way to get rid of it is to remove the kidney. But the surgery could kill me. So I’m going to war.

I write fantasy. I read fantasy. Ah, hell, I watch Game of Thrones religiously. I view my world through a veil covered with medieval figures loving and warring, and as I contemplate what I’m facing, I realize it’s a war, and I will either fight to the death or fight to survive.

I must train for this war. Hence, I must exercise my obese body. I must eat well in preparation for this war, and so I must cut certain foods from my diet. And as I step onto the battlefield (the OR), I will gird my loins to fight the good fight.

I cannot know the outcome. Everything in life is random. I may fall. But if I prepare the best I can, the odds may turn in my favor. I will not return unscathed, and the war will continue as I struggle to regain my life.

But damn it, I’d really like to survive to April 14, 2019 (actually late May 2019 when the series ends) to see the final season of Game of Thrones. So I prepare for war.

Breaking Worlds Cover Reveal

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Lisen sat in the study off her office, her legs stretched out, the hearth cold and dark before her. She’d earned the cold, deserved nothing better. Her life was over. Rinli was dead.

Thus, does Breaking Worlds, Book V in the Lisen of Solsta series, begin—with the slow dirge of the heart’s drumbeat and unrelenting grief over the loss of a child. Such a story must be accompanied by a very special cover, and Aidana WillowRaven, cover artist extraordinaire, did not fail in her assignment.

Breaking Worlds front cover - web

Aidana is a cover artist. There is a difference between a cover designer and an artist. A designer incorporates the work of others (photos mostly) to create original covers for their clients’ books. An artist, on the other hand, starts with a blank canvas, listens to the writer’s thoughts on the scene or object to be depicted, then takes the idea and creates her own vision of it.

I have to say Aidana created a masterpiece this time, and I am thrilled to share it here with all of you. Admittedly, I micromanaged a bit. (I always do.) But she put her heart and soul into the depiction of a moment which doesn’t actually appear in the book; it occurs between one scene and another. Hats off to you, my friend, my collaborator! And thank you for all your hard work.

(Breaking Worlds will be available soon on Amazon in print and Kindle.)