What a an awesome and tough day today! Some of you know I am a dancer. I am a student of Oriental Dance, and I have issues. I have no instructor in my style of dance (Gothic Fusion), no troupe for this style, and I live far away from the nearest dance teacher. So why am I telling you all of this? Because it greatly influences things. If I want to take classes,  I have to change.

Depending on what’s available I either have to adapt to Classical or American Tribal Style. I can’t complain because I am still studying, learning, moving, and dancing. I have good basic posture. I know how to activate my muscle groups. I have my hip movements independent of my arms, independent of my torso, and independent of my hips.

But to change I have to change EVERYTHING. I have to change hand positions, arms, feet, hips. There are some moves that you DON’T do in one style that are in another. Are arms allowed to move only above the rib cage or can they be at hip level? Flat foot or relevé? Shimmies? Yeah, what kind? Are they straight leg, hip, 3/4, Egyptian? And the combos, turns, and foot work. And don’t forget the music styles are very different.

It’s like wearing 3 different hats as a dancer and learning 3 different dialects. Some of the basic stuff is the same, but the rest is very different. I love to dance. I have to be flexible to get through life. And I guess if the only way I can improve myself as dancer is by being a “Jill of all dances, master of none”, then I shall be!

with love,


oh and if you are curious about all of this, here are a few names:

Fusion: Ariellah, Zoe Jakes, Rachel Brice,  Classical: Sadie, Princess Farhana, Fifi Abdou, Samia Gamal, Jillina  Tribal: Fat Chance Belly Dance, Black Sheep Belly Dance, Silvia Salamanca,

Vampires, Elves, and Werewolves, oh my!

It’s back to school time. I see the pencils, paper, binders, and folders all lined up on store shelves, and I feel a twinge. Many, many moons ago, I had written part of a sword and sorcery story. I had one of those blue paper folders with the three sets of metal tabs to hold your paper snugly inside. This particular one was filled with page after page my sloppy scrawl in pen or pencil telling the story of a troubled, youthful female half elf. Granted, it was a rip-off of some of my Dungeons and Dragons stuff, mixed with some Tolkein and McCaffrey, and a dash or two of Arthurian legend and Brooks thrown in for good measure. The battered folder with the smudged and torn pages was thrown in a box after I got married. Through three moves, one good set of roommates, a horrible roommate, job changes, and a small child, the story was shoved into a box out in the shed.

I finally found the binder again, 11 years ago. My husband had shoved it into a garbage can, beneath a pungent load of mice-eaten debris. The pages were chewed and nearly illegible by now, the ink having faded from age and water damage. I grabbed at the folder, hoping to save my last juvenile dreams of being an author. He, trying to be practical, inadvertently humiliated me and hurt my feelings over it. I was not trying to be a hoarder; I was trying to save one of the few happy memories of my teen years I had. Defeated and broken, I shoved the folder deeper into the refuse bin. The story and my dreams were dead and buried. THE END.

Time, dreams, and hope have a funny way of resurfacing. You never know where or when, but it will start to reawaken like a seed in the spring. Through the last few years I have begun writing again, but this time it is poetry and paranormal stories. NO swords and fairies and magicians. I outgrew that in 1990. PERIOD! Over the last few months, I have become acquainted with many other authors. Some of them write the sword and sorcery stuff of my youth. I have seen some posts about the varieties of gaming and it has had an affect on me. The battered blue folder that contained my hopes and dreams resurfaced in my dreams last night. My troubled (more like career-confused, dysfunctional, and very angry) character whispered to me from the confines of the folder. SHE is refusing to be silenced. SHE will not be buried and forgotten. Just because the first draft of her is no more does not mean she will allow that to happen to her.

Yes, there is a lot of me in Errilyn Lynna RavenHold, in Isis the Contessa of Swords, and of Jade the “NOT the pack Alpha”. Once I finish with Isis the Vampire and her story, and Jade the werewolf and her story, I will begin anew with Lynna. Isis and Jade have healing elements to their stories. Who knows, maybe Lynna’s story will never be published or it may be my best work yet. Only time will tell.

until next rant,