Pictured: Mysterious and Shadowy Figure Moments
Before Flailing Headfirst into the Ocean
As some of you who follow me on Twitter may know, I visited Hawaii at the beginning of October. It was my first time there, and it absolutely blew me away. Whatever romantic notions you have of Hawaii, I assure you, they pale in comparison to the real thing. Though, oddly enough, I'm not much of a beach-goer. It may shock you to learn that I don't like being out during the day. I wish I could say it's because I'm a mysterious creature of the night~, but really, I just sunburn within nanoseconds. Ow.

Nights by the ocean, though? Oh my.

Ocean shorelines are an incredible thing at night. I don't know why, but the moment I'm next to waves in the dark, there's a sudden squeeze on my lungs and a heaviness in my legs. The moon shines down, the tides roll inside my head, and I can feel the earth breathe. Eventually, my breath syncs up with the surf, and the experience of unity is indescribable. Maybe the gentle tug is all in my head. Maybe it's due to my sinuses constantly being swollen from allergies. Regardless, I do so love being out by the waves at night, and this is definitely the state for it. I even did yoga on the water thanks to the fine folks at Yoga Floats. I also fell in a bunch. If I wanted to be one with the ocean, I got my wish.

Out of everything, though, the thing that stuck with me the most was the Bishop Museum's Hawaiian Hall. I'll come right out and say it: America has a long and storied history of meddling where we're not wanted, enslaving others, and happily committing genocide on native populations. (The Trail of Tears was genocide. Period.) Not surprisingly, here come the American missionaries in 1819 to faithfully execute the white man's burden, followed by an outright usurpation of the Hawaiian throne in 1893. Grover Cleveland's administration called it illegal, and Bill Clinton apologized for it, so that's something. Still, it's another black mark on America's already checkered past.

A curious thing happened, though. The natives weren't suppressed. In fact, they remain an integral and equal part of Hawaiian culture. Pidgin is used by the haole (see what I did there?) without a second thought. Japanese immigrants have been integrated, leading to the establishment of such landmarks as the Byodo-In temple. And, when the Japanese Empire hit Pearl Harbor during World War II, representatives from all cultures fought and died together to defend state and country. Hawaii is the real, honest to gods melting pot the rest of America so desperately wants to be. Maybe it's because it's a small world over there, and if you're going to rub elbows with people so far from mainland, you all have to get along. I think there's more to it, though. The much vaunted spirit of aloha---love, community, and just plain not being dicks to each other---has endured throughout the centuries, in spite of all the horrible things that have happened. It doesn't matter whether you're an islander or mainlander. You can't help but take a little piece of it with you.

You don't change Hawaii. Hawaii changes you. And, usually, for the better.



In Other News

ALTERED continues to plod along, passing the rough 33% mark. My hope is to get the ARCs ready shortly after the beginning of the new year, even as I admit that's way too ambitious. There's a lot of actors in Astin's latest adventure, and it requires a slower burn than the breakneck action movie that was TAINTED. Not only that, the larger the scope of the book swells, the harder a time I have of keeping all the facts straight. I neither want to contradict my own plot nor have our plucky angel hero come across as an idiot. (Well, no more so than usual.) An editor will be needed this time around. TAINTED still had typos after months of grinding it to a fine edge, and if I don't get a second set of eyes on the next book, it's going to implode spectacularly.