It’s the latest anthology edited by my hero, George
R.R. Martin, and his buddy, Gardner Dozois. A collection of stories about …
three guesses and the first two don’t count. I requested it for Christmas and
am not quite halfway through the content. Some of the stories are longer than
mine, and the book itself is so heavy I can’t read it in bed without risking a
concussion. I don’t generally read anthologies—the last one to be acquired was
“Warriors”, edited by the same pair to the same hefty result—but the subject
matter is one dear to my heart, being a bit of a bad girl myself … in my
dreams, at least.
There’s no set definition of what makes a woman
dangerous. She doesn’t have to be a whip-cracking, gun-toting, chain-smoking
dominatrix out to seize control of an industrial empire. She can be a danger to
herself, as well. She can be an unstable mother, an insecure wife, a
downtrodden daughter; or she can be a fledgling sorcerer without a mentor, a
secret agent, a queen regent, or the unassuming cover for an infamous bounty
hunter whom everyone refers to as “him” or “he”. This book is stuffed with
tales that span the spectrum, though so far I have yet to happen on a heroine
in the grip of PMS. After all, that’s when I am the most dangerous.
I’ve written a lot of female characters over the
years. I thought Génie/Janine was the most dangerous of the herd, but then I
remembered a story I wrote in 2001 so, in keeping with the theme, I’ve carved
it up for serial posting starting this Saturday. Working with it again after
all these years, I believe that the most dangerous woman of all is probably the
one who holds a man’s heart.
The things we do for love …
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