"Feels entitled. Expects unreasonable or special and favorable priority treatment. Demands automatic and full compliance with his or her expectations"

I am well acquainted with this side of narcissism, as I was raised with it.  The problem was made more intense by the fact that my parents had opposing goals for me and so I was in constant danger of enraging one or the other of them.  However, this same article also claims that this kind of disorder is usually bred in people when they are very young as a protection against trauma or abuse.  I truly believe that that was the case with my parents, so I know rationally that I cannot judge them. 

The problem of many children of narcissists, including me, is that we confuse narcissism with love, as that is the only kind of love we are familiar with.  In my case, I was blessed with a husband who was as far from a narcissist as anyone could be.  However, it was an adjustment, because I was constantly looking to him for cues as to how he wanted me to behave.  He gave none, nor would he venture opinions on such things as how I dressed or wore my hair.  I had to adjust and find out who I really was apart from other people’s expectations.  It took me years to discover my own personality.

I suppose that is why narcissism always comes up in my fiction as a form of "false love."  However, my heroines are always strong enough to ward off the "love" of such men, continuing to be themselves.  And usually, though not always, the men guilty of this behavior, reform, learning over time to love the heroine more than their "ideal" of her. 

Romance novels are full of narcissistic men who are changed by their beloved objects.  Two of the greatest and most beloved classics, Jane Eyre and Pride and Prejudice, have the supreme narcissists: Rochester and Darcy.  And why do we love these novels?  Because they show the tremendous power of real love to redeem and change people for the better.  It has become formulaic. 

However, one needn’t look far in today’s society to see that this form of entitlement has become rampant.  I dated far too many narcissists who were shopping, like men in a grocery store, for just the right delicacy.  In my forthcoming novel, Pieces of Paris, my very likeable, but narcissistic hero has to face a common problem: his wife is nothing like the image of her that he had fallen in love with.  He must face the decision, usually summed up as "I didn’t sign up for this.  This is not the person I married.  Do I stay or do I go?"  And we weigh his character by his decision, as we do Rochester and Darcy.

In complete contrast with this, is Christlike love.  What is its greatest characteristic?  That it is unconditional.  That He does not impose His will upon us.  That we are free to choose.  And He loves us so much, that even if we choose wrongly, even if we harm others in our choices, He still loves us and still wants us to come back to Him, and so He provided a way, through His atonement, for the penitent. 

When seen in this light, the Love of God is mighty miracle.  And yet, I have seen it in my life.  When I turned out to have a grave illness and to be a much different person than my husband "signed up for," he did not leave me.  As mentioned before on this blog, he chose instead the heroic choice of honoring his covenants.  He stood by me and helped me to find wellness.  This is Christlike behavior.

And so, as I have been nurtured and loved by a hero, it is now my turn to forgive those who were unable to nurture and love me properly as I was growing up because of their own problems with receiving true, redeeming love in their lives.  It is my turn to forebear and forgive.

And that is why this theme of the reformed narcissist is a recurring theme in my fiction.

The journey to the latter accomplishment is a microcosm of my adult life. The bare facts, the research, and the consuming need to tell the story of Austria between 1913 and 1938, had their birth in the Austrian Alps, 50 miles from Vienna at the Semmering Pass, where I dwelt in a hotel only partially restored from damage incurred by the Russian occupation. I lived with 79 other Stanford students, far away from urban Austrian life (except on our 3-day weekends) concentrating on the study of German language, Austrian art and architecture, Austrian music, Austrian history, and Austrian politics. Surprisingly, I knew very little about these things, as do most average Americans. I didn’t even know that seventy years earlier, Austria had been the center of European art, science, medicine, and music. In spite of or maybe because of this, large forces were at work to drag it out of its glittering past as the Waltz capital of the world into a new century where international socialism would enfranchise every man and there would be no poor. This made Austria’s aristocracy, stranded between past and future, extremely nervous and quite neurotic. Austrian historian, Frederic Morton has called this period a time of “Nervous Splendor.”

So I learned this when I was twenty. It became part of me, more so than the rest of my education because I had seen the art, listened to the Vienna Philharmonic, heard the stories of the survivors from that time, and most of all because I had visited Auschwitz. A personal quest was born to figure out the dynamics of a world where such an unimaginable horror could happen.

During a very hated job as an international banker while putting my husband through Law School, I had an hour and a half bus commute to and from Los Angeles through the slums of East L.A. This is when I personalized all the forces of that Austrian age into the characters of my novel: the debutante turned democrat, Amalia Faulhaber, the German Lieutenant with the soul of a violinist, Eberhard von Waldburg, the naïve but charismatic socialist, Uncle Lorenz, the proud aristocratic grandmother, Eugenia von Hohenburg Reichart, the passionately nationalistic Pole, Doktor Andrzej Zaleski, and the outwardly misogynistic Baron von Schoenenberg. In a single bus ride, I outlined the plot that was to be built upon and developed as I learned to write during my three children’s growing up years.

The time came when they were all grown up, and I realized I knew next to nothing about the kind of suffering that would occur during a World War in the trenches, the loss of an empire, the loss of status, and nearly all physical possessions. At best, my novel was only a superficial rendering. So I set it aside and wrote light fiction—my Alex and Briggie genealogical mysteries—for nearly fifteen years. Then I suffered a serious medical condition that resulted in my inability to write and eventually sapped all my hard-won skill.

Ten years later, I miraculously recovered, and slowly rediscovered myself as a writer. But there was a change. My soul and awareness of suffering had deepened. I now understood what it took to be a survivor.

I also remembered that my writing idol, Tolstoy, had not written his epics from the point of view of one person, and certainly would not do so from the point of view of a nineteen year old debutante. And so I went into the heads of all my major characters, which finally gave the depth to my work that I had been seeking for so long.

My years of development as a writer, to this particular juncture, owe all to the learning process of writing The Last Waltz. I can only hope that my next book: Pieces of Paris (Fall, 2010) will continue that process.

However, in my experience, when we come to a crossroads in mortality—a decision that will change our whole direction and way of life, we usually don’t see it marked.  We might be in the midst of stress, illness, despair, infatuation, or blinded by happiness.  There are people all around us, usually making demands or requiring our attention.  In short, we are not alone in a field with a clear-cut view of our direction. 

The way we choose to go is determined by the character we have spent our lives developing.  Because of this, no choices we make at our crossroads are accidental.  We won’t miss the right turning if we have prepared ourselves by putting the Lord first in our lives, by consistently praying to know His will, and by learning to recognize the Spirit.  The fact is, if we’re on the right road to begin with, holding on to the Iron Rod, we will usually make the right choice without realizing it.

I have been thinking about crossroads a lot in the past couple of days because I have been given a new perspective on a crossroad that my husband and I faced nearly six years ago.  The turn we took changed our lives out of all recognition and led us down the path we never dreamed we would find.

I was slogging along, doing the best that I could with my 22 year old illness–depression.  David was doing his best to support me and growing very weary, but remaining faithful.  Out of the blue, David and I were asked to speak with the Stake Presidency of the 9th BYU Stake.  President Griffith eased our natural anxiety by telling us this was just a “get acquainted visit,” but they were searching for a new Bishop for the BYU 28th ward.  I shrank into myself.  David had been a Bishop before.  He had given himself to the task 24/7, and that time coincided with the beginning of my illness.  It was one of the hardest periods in my life.

David informed the Stake President of this fact, and we thought that would be the end of the matter.  However, a few weeks later, we were called back in.  David was issued a formal call to be Bishop.  I reminded the leader frantically of my depression.  He said, “That’s one of the reasons the Lord wants David in this calling.”  (We have just recently learned that the Stake President, in following the Spirit, was going against our home bishop’s advice.  Our bishop was sure that I was too ill for David to leave me for long periods of time.) 

It was only because of our temple covenants that we accepted the call.  However, because of that weary decision, our lives were changed forever.  President Griffith told us that the Stake Agenda was to preach the Atonement in every talk and every lesson in our new ward.

Many of the rewards of this new calling came immediately.  Working with the BYU students was so uplifting that even I could feel the Spirit. (During depression, it is very uncommon for the person who is ill to be able to feel the Spirit.)  Studying the atonement in all its amazing complexity and applications was a completely new experience, and offered hope to us that perhaps our lives could be changed through the enabling power of our Savior’s sacrifice for us.

The third year David was in this calling, I finally knew enough about the divine subject to trust the Lord completely.  I laid my burden at his feet with some trepidation.  However, after this act of supreme faith on my part, I was given the medications to cure my illness not even a week later.  I have told that story many times in this space.

My life changed directions from down to up.  So did David’s.  He learned the skills of applying the atonement in his daily life to the extent that he was also given the inspiration and guidance to take an entirely different direction professionally.  This has proven to be a tremendous miracle in our lives.

We would still be on that sad and lonely trail if President Griffith hadn’t persisted and followed the Spirit in forcing us to choose at that crossroads.  Past experience dictated that we were in for a rough time.  However, our choice was rewarded by blessings unnumbered.  We are on a different road, a road that could only have been accessed by faith during a dark time in our lives.

I am so grateful for the choice that we made, simply because we had learned to sacrifice.  It was an “invisible crossroad” and we never had any idea that it would change us forever

All my life I’ve been a drama queen.  While this comes in handy in my profession, it is a distinct disadvantage in real life.  I ache over Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, and Rachmanifnoff.  They speak a musical language that goes straight to my soul.  To me, Anna Karenina is the greatest of all books, because Tolstoy understands the human condition better than any other author I have read.  The number of disastrous romances I had as a young adult defies counting.  Truly.  There were that many, including a death and a schizophrenic fiance.

As most of my readers know,I am bi-polar.  So were my Slavic greats.  Genetically we speak to one another in a language that is the most intelligible there is for us.  Such a would-be Slav am I that I got both my graduate and undergraduate degrees in Slavic history, politics, and economics.

My finest work as a novelist is about the fall of a great Slavic Empire, and is full of tragedy, angst, and neverending love.

Most of you probably do not know that I just went through a semi-emergency hip replacement—my second in six months.  Because of my delicate mental state, these major surgeries are a great trial.  Having overcome my twenty-five year bout with depression only three and a half years ago, you would think that I would remember what it was like.  But, no, the black beast always falls on me, taking me by complete surprise.  It is entirely chemical and only happens after I have blissfully lived in a manic state for close to two weeks.  Then the crash comes.  I can’t begin to describe how horrible it is to revisit this country where I lived for so many years. 

I know there is a God, because as I gained a true testimony of the atonement, I held on until hope came in the form of life-changing medication. 

However, once having lived in that black place, those emotions are never erased.  And that is why every taste I have is informed by Slavic melancholy.  I haven’t known much mania, but that unnatural state is one of high vigilance, seemingly clear vision, and non-stop creativity.  Before my late crash, I wrote for hours every day, starting directly after surgery, and including one complete night.  I plotted a very complex novel, peopled by extraordinary characters and happenings I never would have dreamt in my normal state.   So, it’s a tradeoff.

And that is why I’m Slavic.  I guess my final word on the subject should be thank heavens that:

1.) I live in the day of mood-stabilizers, and

2.) I married a stolid Swede.

Thank you,, Lord.

I couldn’t get into the doctor until today.  Over the weekend, I was certain I was in for another round of surgery without pain killers (I’m allergic) that would make it impossible for me to write my planned novel on Florence before the deadline (Apr 1).  I anticipated an extremely painful cruise to Greece which I might be better off cancelling, and didn’t know how I was going to take care of my coming grandchild.  By far the worst risk to my well-being is my mental health which was taking quite a hit imagining all that pain.

However, I prayed anyway.  I prayed that somehow this would all go away. 

When I went to see Dr. Jackson, he took x-rays and was extremely puzzled.  There appeared to be nothing wrong with my hip at all.  He referred me to a back doctor, because he had never seen such a bad back (severe scoliosis).  The back doctor said that the problem was definitely in my hips and has scheduled me for a shot in the hip joint tomorrow which should take away my pain.

No surgery this time!  The mystery isn’t solved, but I’ve been given a very great blessing.  I still can’t believe it.  I have never realized what a blessing it is to be able to work.  I am so so grateful that I will not be having surgery next week.  I’m so grateful that the Lord has provided for me to be able to go on with my work, my plans, and the chance to be with my daughter when she  has her new baby.

I can’t possibly express how grateful I am for these blessings.  Thank you, Lord.

Cut away the dross, the worries, the horrible scenarios and find hope.  And then go forward with that hope, and pursue your dreams.  Put your life in order, so you can receive the enabling power of the atonement.  With God’s help, we can achieve so much more than we ever, ever dreamed possible.

Ezra Taft Benson once said that by turning our lives over to the Lord, he could do much more with them than we could.  I truly believe that.  Since I have done as he suggested, my life has changed beyond all recognition.

I’m happy to be alive an to have future adventures dictated by the Spirit!

,

I have struggled to express this same thought so many times, mostly to beginning writers.  I have called it “writing from your bones.”  I think the reason I am so attached and fulfilled by this place is because there is a spirit that accompanies the huge collection of art and architecture that is this city.  That art represents victory over darkness in each of those artists’ minds.  When we choose to create, we choose not to die or give up.  I have always understood that in a literal sense, but it is true for great art in a figurative sense as well.  Michelangelo is not dead.  At some level, he knew that he would continue to live in his David, a sculpture that is stuffed full of life, more so than many people.

The geniuses of the Renaissance were dealing with the “divine void” (aka existential darkness) because they were coming out of the darkness that had enveloped their world for a thousand years.  The beginning of the Renaissance was an incredible explosion of creativity that began in Florence, but quickly spread across Italy and from there throughout western Europe.  After hundreds of years during which everything remained the same, incredible change happened from year to year, decade to decade in the 15th century.

Some thought that darkness was caused somehow by the church, but they didn’t understand that what the church had come to be was not representative of the true Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Maybe this is why as I sat in the Firenze Second Branch this morning, I was suddenly filled with the desire to learn Italian and come here (with Herc) on a couples mission.  Herc, who has a tin ear for language, has even decided to take Italian with me.

Maybe my novel won’t be suspense after all.  That would be the easy way out.  I guess we’ll see.

This is going to be a different kind of post.  I apologize beforehand if it offends anyone.  However, the massive good will and spirit we felt in the Firenzi Second Branch this morning, was thoroughly bludgeoned by reading an article by my favorite columnist, Charles Krauthammer called “Decline is a Choice.”  Being “out of the world” these few days has been heady and exciting, however Krauthammer’s words recalled me to the state of things in my own coutry.  Decline of power may be inevitable (though Krauthammer says it isn’t, despite our present direction), but what I lament is the moral decline.  I am glad most WWII vets are dead or dying so that they don’t know the hell that they trudged through so heroically was “morally wrong.”  I hope that anyone who doesn’t believe evil exists, will take a refresher course and read The Last Waltz.  Fascism was born in a world where people had given up on morals, largely because of the waste of life that was World War I.  Germany’s revenge focused on the Jews and the Slavs as their worst enemies.  We know about the wholesale slaughter and the death camps.  They were unconscionable.

But what about our own society?  What have unborn fetuses ever done to us?  Surely, in all the world, they are the most innocent of beings.  Yet they are being murdered by the millions.  This is not a political choice, it’s a moral choice, and that’s what worries me about America.

The only choice we have really is to change our own hearts to be submissive to Christ, and to preach this unpopular doctrine everywhere we can.  We must be courageous. We need not be angry about political misdeeds, and resigned to our own downfall.  We must continue to do good, to be righteous, not to be ashamed of our Savior, even if it is “politcally incorrect.”

Those of us who are writers are in a unique position to teach truth.  And all truth is centered in Jesus Christ.  Let’s not lose our perspective in this climate of rage and fear.  Let’s take a leaf from our prophet’s book and “be of good cheer,” spreading that cheer as broadly as we can.

It has been many generations since we, as a Church, have needed the kind of individual relationship with the Lord that we need now.  Each of us must internalize guidance from the Spirit to keep us optimistic and headed in the right direction to build the Kingdom. This is a critical time.   There is something required of each of us.  That something can most often be found as we fight to overcome trials and in doing so forge the faith that the pioneers had.  Our true identities do not become clear while we are living a life of ease.  They only become clear when our way has become so difficult that we must take the Savior’s hand and follow him through the rocky terrain.  The feel of our hand in His, the presence of Him in our lives, will sanctify us.  If we stay true to the covenants we have made to sacrifice and consecrate, we will find that we have power for good that we never dreamed of.

Nephi said, speaking of our day: "And I, Nephi, beheld the power of the Lamb of God that it descended upon the saints of the church of the Lamb, and upon the covenant  people of the Lord, who were scattered upon all the face of the earth; and they were armed with righteousness and with the power of God in great glory." (1 Nephi 14:14)  Where do we become the "covenant people of the Lord?"  In the temples.  So as riots rage, and tempests storm upon the wicked, if we are faithful temple-goers, we will not only be spared, but even t in our scattered state we  will be armed with righteousness and with the Power of God in great glory."

In the temples.  So as riots rage, and tempests storm upon the wicked, if we are faithful temple-goers, we will not only be spared, but even t in our scattered state we  will be armed with righteousness and with the Power of God in great glory."

The most important thing I did today was not to fear and tremble.  The most important thing I did today was to take the sacrament and remember my covenants.

Then when we moved to the Utah Valley and had the Provo Temple seven minutes away, it was the balm to my depressed body and soul.  For a three month period, I did an endowment every day for my German ancestors who’d lived in Russia.  As soon as my son went to college, I applied to be an ordinance worker, and worked two days a week for five years.  Those were five very difficult years, and I spent my stint as a worker in the Celestial Room in hour-long prayers.  All the things I prayed about were resolved miraculously.

Then came my miraculous healing from depression.  My fellow temple workers were all so happy for me!  They had become like a host of mothers to me.  Too soon, however, I was obliged to end my service because of all my orthopedic problems (temple ordinance work is hard!  I don’t know how those elderly sisters do it!).

Since that time, when not laid up after surgery, I have tried to attend once a week.  When I was getting my writing career going, I went even more often.  I needed the revelation and confirmation that I would always receive during my prayers in the Celestial Room.

Yesterday, I was finally able to return for the first time since my surgery.  Yes, I had to take my walker, but I made it!  I have missed the peace and safety so much these last weeks.  Especially after reading the conference talks—so many of which were about the safety of temple covenants.  I am refreshed, revitalized, and recentered.  I thank my Heavenly Father for the gracious gifts of temples where we can get a peek at the Celestial Kingdom.