I Am My Grandmother's Legacy, a post by @GiselleRenarde

My grandmother died.

The past month has gone by in a haze of hospital visits as my grandmother--my favourite of all the humans--took a turn for the worse. One week ago, she was taken off food and water. I got up the next morning and tried to wash some dishes before leaving for the hospital. She wasn't dead yet, but that's when it really hit me: she would be, in the next few days. I had to come to terms with losing her.

I cried into my dishwater. I sobbed so hard I thought I was going to throw up. After that, I realized I'd started speaking about her in the past tense. Technically, she was still alive, but barely. Just barely.

We were there at her bedside when she took her final breath: all of her many daughters and me.

I'd never watched someone die before. A few of my aunts had warned me about the horrific expressions they'd seen on the faces of loved ones. Or unsettling sounds they'd made.  As my grandmother's breath slowed, my aunts wanted me to be prepared for the things they'd found disturbing about death.

But nothing like that happened when my grandmother died.

She just stopped breathing. That's it. Her breath slowed down, and then it stopped. She slipped away. No strange expressions or noises.  It was such a peaceful passing. I'm eternally grateful that I got to be there for it.

After she'd died, one of my aunts asked, "What was Mummy's legacy?"

Her family.  Everyone agreed about that.  She was proud of her accomplishments and her work, but the one thing that lives on now that she's gone is this big family she produced.

In that moment, when my aunts and I talked about legacies, I stopped feeling like a worthless person with a useless career. I am my grandmother's legacy. There are no other storytellers in my family.  If I don't preserve the stories she told me--of her life, of her parents, of her grandparents--who will? Her generation is gone. I must preserve their memory.

I matter. I mattered to her. I'm not worthless. She saw my value.

My grandmother believed in me, even when I didn't.  She believed my work was important, even when I claimed I was just in it for a quick buck. She knew there were easier ways to pay the rent, and she was right about that.

She was proud that her grandchild grew up to become a writer. In my family, we're not showy with the emotions. We don't go around saying "I love you" or "I'm proud of you." In my entire life, my mother has never said those things to me. I've never said them to her.

But my grandma told me she was proud of my writing career. She told me that all the time. She said "I love you" to me only once, and I was so uncomfortable with the bigness of the emotion that my response was: "Shut up! Why are you saying that?"

I never returned the sentiment until after she died.  As the colour drained from her skin, I petted her cheek and said, "I love you, Grandma." 

Maybe I didn't say it in words while she was alive, but I know she knew how I felt. I showed her by spending time with her. Lots of time. That wasn't solely for her benefit. She was truly my favourite person on the planet. I'm so thankful for the nearly 40 years we had together.

I will miss her forever, but every time I start feeling worthless, I'll be able to remind myself I have stories to tell. I have value. I am my grandmother's legacy.

My grandmother was always an avid reader--she'd read the dictionary if there was nothing else around--and a lifelong library user. If you've been following my many posts about my grandmother's life and you feel inclined to commemorate her death, I encourage readers to make a donation in her memory to your local public library system. I think she'd like the idea that there were more books and services available to more people because of her.

Heartfelt thanks for allowing me to share our stories with you.
Giselle

Legacy

By Lisabet Sarai

I'm not a great writer, and never will be. Please, don't object – this isn't false modesty, just realism.

I'm a competent writer, with excellent nuts and bolts skills. Give me a theme and I can spin a plausible yarn that will amuse or arouse my readers. My plots are for the most part believable and consistent, without the truck-sized holes one sometimes sees. My sentences generally read well. My characters might not jump off the page, but they're not cardboard either.

Still, I know I'll never win awards, never be called a genius, never write something that will change my readers' lives. I just don't have anything that important to say – possibly because I've lived nearly six decades without experiencing any great trauma or tragedy. My tales aren't mindless smut, but they don't have the emotional or moral depth of great literature. They're basically throw-away entertainment. When I die, I will not leave an enduring body of work behind me. Oh, I've got a pretty long back list, don't get me wrong, and I hope it will continue to grow, but I doubt that anyone will have heard of Lisabet Sarai ten or twenty years in the future.

That's one reason why I work so hard on behalf of other authors, especially those new to the publishing game. Maybe, just maybe, one of the authors for whom I do crits or whom I edit will turn out to be a truly Great Author. And then I'll feel as though I've done a bit to help make that happen.

I'm better at mentoring and critiquing than I am at writing, and believe me, I realize these are valuable skills. I try to apply them for the benefit of my colleagues. I know a few authors whom I really admire, who truly have the GA Potential, but still have difficulties with grammar, or pacing, or coherency. I'm pleased when I can assist them in smoothing the rough edges of their jewels.

Sometimes I fantasize about winning the Pulitzer Prize. Hey, I'd be thrilled with an EPPIE! My identity isn't tied up in those dreams, though. I've always written, but I never envisioned myself as a Writer with a capital 'W'. So honestly, it doesn't bother me – too much – to acknowledge my limitations.

If one of the authors I've worked with, though, won a prize, I'd be over the moon. I imagine their work, becoming classics, receiving the accolades they so justly deserve. If that ever happened, well, that would be my true legacy – not the slick and superficial novels and stories I list on my website.

And honestly, I'm okay with that. I don't need fame to be happy – luckily, since I'm certain I'll never be famous, at least not for my writing! The knowledge that I've contributed to the creation of something with lasting value is enough.

And speaking of contributions, let me add a quick plug for the Coming Together charitable erotica imprint. Writing and editing for Coming Together is another way I “pay it forward”. All through February, I'm having a Coming Together event called “Share the Love” over at my blog. Every day I'm hosting a different CT author. They're talking about why they support Coming Together, sharing provocative excerpts from their stories, and in many cases giving away free books or other prizes. Please drop by and join in the fun.

Flesh and Words

Before having my first baby in 2009, I thought my only contribution to the world would be my writing. Black words on a white page (or screen) have always seemed more permanent than anything created from blood and bone and flesh. And yet... I now see my legacy as two-fold: the emotions I bleed into words on the page and the human beings I bring into this world. My blood, my life, in written and living form.

I am two weeks away from giving birth to my second child. He will come into this world the same way his brother did-- through an incision made by a surgeon's scalpel. The scar will heal in time, the numbness caused by cutting through muscle will linger forever. But there will be a second child of mine in the world, carrying my DNA.

Because of my age, I opted for genetic testing in both my pregnancies. This time around, I participated in a maternal fetal medicine study, which involved giving a vial of my blood. In the great scheme of things for pregnant women over a certain age, another vial of blood is as insignificant as a few strands of hair. I agreed, because I have benefited from modern medicine and wanted to be a part of a study that will help future generations of women. Plus, it was only some blood. I've lost a lot of blood over the years from awful menstrual cycles brought on by invasive fibroids, from miscarriages, from birth. This was a needle stick. Nothing at all.

It seems that as much as 10% of a pregnant woman's blood contains fetal DNA. Which means that, if that DNA could be isolated from the mother's DNA, doctors would need only do a blood draw to determine all sorts of genetic information that now involves invasive, painful and potentially risky procedures. Imagine the possibilities: with a single needle stick, being able to tell if your unborn child is carrying a genetic disorder. It boggles the mind.

It is also mind boggling to know that not only is my body possessed by the creature that wriggles and squirms and makes my belly bulge in odd and uncomfortable ways-- but this creature is also in my very blood. I am not myself. I am two people. For now. And in two weeks when a surgeon's scalpel separates us, he will still be part of me. For always. Much like my writing, sent out into the world, is still a part of me. Always.

The word legacy has historically been used to describe what men leave behind. Sons, land, reputation, laws-- the word legacy is filled with masculinity. It is about making a mark on the world, something women were long denied even though it was their blood that flowed to bring those men into the world. My two boys will set their own paths and make their own marks on the world and will carry in their veins the blood that contains my DNA. My legacy, or part of it, in blood and flesh.

I will wait and watch and wonder as my boys grow, pondering what about them is like me, what is like their father, what is like previous generations I know nothing of. Will they write? I don't know. Is writing a genetic trait-- or something that runs deeper than blood, soul deep? If they are of my body and my blood carries their DNA, are they also imprinted on my soul-- and me on theirs? It's a question for a far more spiritual mind than mine. But one wonders at the connection-- the cosmic umbilical cord that ties the generations together.

I am proud of my writing, of the metaphorical blood I have shed to find the words I want to share with the world. I am also proud of this body of mine and what it has accomplished despite odds that put my chances of bearing one child (much less two) in the 1-5% range. I am proud of my 20 month old toddler, who already demonstrates creativity, intelligence and kindness. I am proud of the baby I am carrying for thriving despite the odds, despite my age, despite a less than perfect uterus. I am proud of the legacies I will leave behind-- my life's blood in flesh and words. May they complement each other and make the world a better place.

The Words Fly Free

By Lisabet Sarai

"The paper burns, but the words fly free."

- Akiva ben Joseph (c.40-c.135) (at the stake, when the Torah was also burned)

We are all destined for dust. Not exactly a pleasant thought to be contemplating on this rainy Saturday afternoon, but mortality is a truth that no one can dispute. Sooner or later, we will vanish from the earth. Life will go on without us, presumably; we will, most likely, not be in a position to know.

Of course, death is fundamentally a mystery. Perhaps we simply cease to exist. Perhaps we are reincarnated as someone else - with or without memory of our former lives. Perhaps we're shuffled off to some eternally blissful paradise or agonizing realm of punishment (although I personally view these alternatives as unlikely). Maybe the material world is nothing but a dream that will dissolve when we cross the threshold of death. At that moment we'll understand that we are beings of pure spirit, joined into one Being.

Since the truth is unknowable, mostly when I think about dying I consider what I'll leave behind. No children. None of the great scientific discoveries I expected to produce when I was in my teens. Certainly no riches! No, all I can hope for is a small circle of friends and family who may mourn my passing and remember me fondly. And of course, my writing, which even in this ephemeral digital era may still survive.

I feel a bit sheepish, considering the sum of my oeuvre as some kind of legacy. A half dozen smutty novels, a hundred or so naughty stories, a couple of notebooks full of poems: is that really all I'll bequeath to the world at large? I don't harbor any illusions that I'm a Great Author, that my writing has some sort of serious significance or speaks to the Human Condition. At the same time, I do mention my writing in my will. When I die, it will all belong to my brother, who's also a creative type though in a different realm of the arts.

Regardless of its literary value, my writing has made a small difference in the world. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of people outside my personal sphere have read my work and been entertained, challenged, possibly moved. Even if I were to die tomorrow, my words would remain. My erotic visions would endure, living on to enrich the fantasy lives of those who happened to encounter them.

When I sat down to pen this post, of course I went to Google first. I found a page with hundreds of quotes (http://www.mapping.com/words.shtml): clever, humorous, ironic, inspiring. The one above struck me as particularly relevant to anyone who is a writer.

Rabbi Akiva was a Jewish scholar and martyr, executed by the Romans for his faith (and according to some accounts, for supporting a Messianic rebellion). He was talking about the Torah and the Talmud, written works of great spiritual and historical meaning. I realized, though, that all words have a spiritual dimension. They are more than marks on paper (or bits on a hard drive). Words create realities. Even my sex-drenched novels have that power. Their ability to alter the world transcends their physical form.

Think about your favorite authors, the ones whose reading changed you forever. They may be long gone, crumbled to dust, but their words endure. I'd like to think that when I die, my words, too, will fly free, ready to alight on a reader's shoulder and spark her imagination.

I doubt that I'll manage to be as witty as many famous individuals at the moment of my death. However, I wouldn't mind borrowing my last words from Errol Flynn (1909-1959):

"I've had a hell of a lot of fun and I've enjoyed every minute of it."

When I'm gone, I hope that my readers continue to have fun. I could hardly ask for more.

The Pearly Gates

By Lisabet Sarai

“Next! Stand right there, on the yellow line. Let's see your papers.”

“Here you are, sir. I hope you'll find that everything's in order."

“Hmm... What? What in the name of the One Whose Name Must Not Be Uttered is this nonsense?”

“My portfolio, sir. I was told that we were supposed to assemble artifacts from our mortal lives that would argue for our admittance, a sample of whatever we'd done that we considered most worthy of Divine notice.”

“Quite so. But this looks like – smut! Filthy, obscene, unmitigated porn!”

“Well, I suppose some people might call it that. Others, including myself, might label it art. In any case, it's my life's work – novels, short stories, poems, all celebrating the glory and mystery of desire...”

“Don't talk to me about Glory and Mystery. I sit on the right hand of The Omnipotent and Ever-present Himself – at least on festival days. How can I show Him – this? He'll cast me out of Heaven before you can say 'Salacious Seraphim'!”

“That would make a good title for a story...”

“Huh? Be still, you silly cow, while I try to figure out what to do with you. Let me look at the rest of your file... Married, no children, kind to animals, voted in every election, donated regularly to charity... Oh dear. It says that you died lashed to a bondage frame, with dildos inserted front and rear. He won't like that at all...”

“It was one-hundred percent consensual, I can assure you. Anyway, the ropes and the flogging didn't have anything to do with my aneurysm. Better to kick off while having fun, don't you think, instead of wasting away in an old folks home or being mangled by a drunken driver? Although I am terribly sorry to have caused my Master distress. Can you send someone – an angel or something – to let him know that it wasn't his fault?”

“I'll put in a request. Your concern for him is commendable, despite the unsavory nature of your relationship.”

“Unsavory! We were lovers for fifty years. Isn't loyalty considered a virtue? Isn't Heaven all about love?”

“Yes, of course, but under the circumstances...”

“Look, if the Big Guy hadn't wanted us to have sex, He wouldn't have given us the equipment, would He? Or the inclination, for that matter. You can't have it both ways. If He really is the Creator of All Things, then He's responsible for every kink and fetish I've ever written about, and lots more besides. He's got the original Dirty Mind. You know what they say; in the beginning there was the Word and the Word was made Flesh – moist, warm, swollen, palpitating, feverish flesh! I'm just doing what He commanded... loving my neighbor and urging everyone else to do so, too."

“Your logic seem sound. But I can't let you enter the gates dressed that way. You'll upset the other souls. They expect eternal comfort, serenity, purity...”

“Oh really? Are you sure? Maybe they'd like to wear black leather instead of white gossamer, to trade in their harps for other instruments of pleasure. I could make some recommendations... In any case, I'm not so sure I want in, given your sanctimonious attitude. If Heaven is really as prudish and uptight as you make it sound, I don't think I belong here.”

“Wait! Where are you going? You may not find the realms beyond these Pearly Gates to be exactly your cup of tea, but I guarantee you'll like Hell even less. Don't be fooled by all those tales of delicious wickedness and wild carousing, or all those dark, romantic portraits painted of Satan and his minions. Hell is more like an endless trip in a freezing third-class railway carriage, packed in with sausage eaters who haven't changed their socks in three months.”

“Well then – I'll just have to create my own afterlife. I've been building worlds for so long now – the word made flesh, you know – it shouldn't be too difficult. Maybe I'll try a bit of reincarnation. I'd love to slip into a lithe new body and console my poor, lonely Master...”

“Wait, Ms. Sarai! Let's discuss this. The Sacred Maintainer of the Universe doesn't like to be rejected...”

“I'm not rejecting Him. Just His headquarters. I don't think I'm interested in replacing my pen with a pair of wings. Anyway, wherever I am, despite what you may think, I know that I'm doing His work. And what you consider disgusting smut, I see as my poor but honorable legacy.”

“Lisabet...

“See you around, Pete. Drop by my Fantasy Factory if you decide you want a little action.”