I Dun Been Kilted: I Thought That Would Be Sexier

I’ll get to that title in moment.

Full disclosure: this was a difficult episode to watch. We’re entering the stretch where the shit hits the fan, so to speak, if the fan is wearing a red coat, armed, and has a taste for ginger men.
There was so much tension I found myself mentally skipping ahead in the books, trying to find a brief patch of sun to look forward to.

But First. And Old Acquaintance Visits. What was his name? 


Horrocks Visits. With Ruffians.

I don’t care if they are Scots, The Watch are a dirty bunch of hooligans. Every scene that they were in was both irritating and laden with tension. The byplay of Jamie’s status as an outlaw took second place to their general coarse behavior. Seriously, for Jenny to tolerate that nonsense made me wish Claire brought a machine gun back through the stones. When Lenox puts his feet on the table, I found myself hoping– no, praying— for some kind of comeuppance.

Two stories: One conclusion.

From the Department of Reasons I Love Being Male, we introduce the issue of Jenny’s water breaking. Little does she know, the child is breached, thus necessitating something wholly unknown to every single person in the world except Claire: Medical skills.

Which leads me to my next point: If you want kids, I have a suggestion.

Cheaper, easier, and you can usually get two day shipping, unless you live somewhere crazy, like Spokane or Mississippi.

About That Title.

If you told me that there would be a semi-nude scene between Caitriona Balfe and Laura Donnelly, I would have prepared myself accordingly. If you told me that one would be behind the other in what can only be described as a Greco-Roman wrestling hold, I would have prepared twice as hard.

Except it wasn’t like that. In fact, ummm.

There was some actual levity (Thank God) in which Jenny requests a stiff drink. To make sure the baby is born with a buzz. A True Scot and all that. Frankly, it could have been taken a different way, if one had a dirty mind.

All right all right all right. Now we’re cookin’–



To remind us: Ebay.

Then, the shit hits the fan, and any laughs are effectively gone for like, what? Three episodes? Four? I don’t know. I know I’m picking out what niceties I can right now, in order to brace for the oncoming assault on our senses. Things like Cait’s neck. Or Jenny, when she’s not, uhh, screaming and having a kid turned sideways through her hoohah. Stuff like that.

So, About Horrocks.

Despite Ian showing balls of steel and feeding the no good Irish scut two feet of steel, Horrocks has a plan in place that outlives him. Jamie is pressured into a raid, and to put it mildly:

And Now, The Wait.

Claire and Jenny are about to go Batshit Crazy in order to free Jamie, and there’s only one thing standing in their way. The dark, toxic, freaky, acidic, amoral heart of a man so horrific he could make the kindest of God’s creatures recoil in horror.

SO. Holy Shit.

Jamie’s gone. And we have to wait a week for things to get worse. I thought we agreed not to get into this Fifty Shades crap?
Ugh.

Okay. That’s is. Now we wait, while Jack Randall shops online for new ball gags.

Ugh, again.

Until next week, friends.

And, if you’re going to come see me at an author event, we’re bringing along whimsical zombie/mummy/witch coffee mugs for readers. Here’s a peek.

Ep 1.13

I Dun Been Kilted: Lallybr– Wait, we found BREE?

The Rumors. They Are Flying.

Before we launch into tonight’s episode, let’s address the Interwebz Buzz du Jour regarding the casting of Bree and Roger.

*All commentary on this topic is squarely from the perspective of a heterosexual male. In no way should it be misconstrued as “leering” or “improper” or even “cause for a stalking charge”.


So, this appears to be Bree. World, meet 5’8″ actress Amber Skye Noyes. She is either going to be world famous, or merely really famous. It is uncertain until tomorrow after her twitter announcement.


And this is Richard Rankin, a Real Live Scotsman, so you know the accent will sound authentic. Bonus? He’s not 5’3″.



He’s a really good looking guy, is a trained stage actor, and he meshes with my expectations of Roger as the series goes on. By “The Fiery Cross”, I had a much more clearly developed sense of what and who he had become.

Now then. To Lallybroch!

It’s about time! I’ve been waiting for Lallybroch since I first turned the page in Outlander, reading of a place that seemed incredibly real. I teach history for a living; places like Lallybroch are alive, if we find and keep them. With that bit of melancholy put aside, Lallybroch seemed to be both primitive and richly appointed. I was enthralled. And, bonus– Jenny and Ian! But there’s quite a bit of tension.


Even among such tension, it’s just so beauti–


Gawd Almighty.
Jack Randall can ruin a basket of puppies. What an asshole. And, we briefly see Black Brian prior to his death due to sheer grief at Jamie being peeled like an onion. To reiterate, what an asshole Randall is, was, and will be. Oh, side note: Ian is a good dude. Glad to have him aboard. I do have a minor quibble with the history of one scene: when the tenants are paying their rent, it’s basically a big group hug. European Feudalism was, ahh, Let’s just say it was less optional– and cheerful. But that’s minor, given the nostalgic feel of the entire scene. It’s replete with All The Feels, and that’s okay.

We get a little taste of that braided with some good old fashioned Jamie Fraser ass-kicking ( on the way). McNabb beats his kid. On the back. In front of Claire and Jamie.



Oh, hey, guess what ladies, Jamie’s gonna get naked! You’re gonna see ERRYTHING!


LOL J/K. Moving on. I love Jenny and Ian. They’re my new favorite humans. It’s impossible to ignore their spirit and emotion. Well cast, Outlander!!!!

The combination of Ian’s amiability and Jenny’s steely Fraser-ness is excellent. Jenny has a mercurial quality that’s perfect, given her small stature and huge presence.


And let’s be thankful that each and every episode has a reasonable conclusion. I mean, it wouldn’t do for us fans to be–



So, they did that to us, eh? You know what I’m gonna do? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Because I’m afraid my anger will invoke some timewarp that will make me wait longer for next week’s episode.

Thanks for dropping by. I have something witchy to share– the new preview art for Halfway Dead. Take a peek. Drop me a note. A threat. An attaboy. Whatever suits you.

Cheers!
Terry








































lalalalala

I Dun Been Kilted: Die, Leg Hair, Die!

THE TRIAL.
Leghair’s machinations have led to this moment. Let’s all take a deep breath and give thanks, then, that we don’t live near her. I have a favor to ask of you. the next time someone gets a distant look in their eyes and says, in a wistful tone, “I wish I lived in the good old days”, you must immediately punch them in the throat. Hard.

Oh, sure. There was less crowding at Starbuck’s back then, but you give up so many of life’s little pleasures, like sanitation, science, clean water, dentistry, laundry more than once a month, and handwashing. Then again, you get to experience things like burning witches, killing babies for being Fae changelings, and whisky before nine in the morning. I’d say it’s about even, taking all of that into consideration. I mean, who doesn’t like a wee nip before breakfast?

The Thieves Hole

When Claire and Geillis Duncan are dropped into the hole, and I the only one who thought it was surprisingly roomy, despite the mud, rats, vermin, and frigid temperature? I’ve had college apartments smaller than that!


The Good Ole’ Days, Part Deux:

I don’t know what pissed me off more; the fact that there are multiple laws about witchcraft, or Leghair’s stupid, vicious little ratface. She wasn’t alone in her accusations, as the parade of witnesses quickly devolved into one sympathetic character ( the mother who lost her child) and three uniquely terrible assholes. Let’ start with the 18th Century Douchebro. I know a spurned lover when I see one, and the clown who claimed that Geillies turned into a bat and flew away had Yes, I drive a Jeep written all over his face.
But first, I’ll say something I’ve never said before: Thank God for lawyers.

I love Ned. The guy stays cool under pressure, even when someone introduces the testimony of a cat. He’s a pro.
Then, all hell breaks loose. We have even more reason to hate Father Bain, who could really use a good exfoliation or face scrub. . . .or a series of open-handed slaps. He looks like his face has been used as a flushable baby wipe, but he’s going to take second place behind the penultimate evil of a teenage girl and her *alleged* broken heart.

Faced with such emotional testimony, things quickly go from bad to worse. Ned delivers the bad news: One of the women can be saved; two cannot. Geillies Duncan must take drastic action to save Claire, but first, she drops the bomb:

And then, BOOM. The Devil’s Mark. Science. Reason. Proof of intelligence. Medicine, learning, and all of the things that primitive, superstitious idiots cannot understand:

Who says that stupidity dies out in the modern era?

So, Jamie shows up, he’s pissed, and everyone decides that fighting a crazed redhead with two swords is officially a Bad Idea. Mind you, this is after Claire gets strapped, presumably before being burned at the stake. What the hell is it with sadists and the 18th century? You’d think everyone lived for blood and perversion, despite being “just regular folks.”

Mea Culpa, Futura. Or Something Latin Like That.

It’s time for the next bombshell. Claire’s going to tell Jamie the truth.

Not that truth, the other truth. She’s from the future. 200 years, to be exact– the same amount of time that every Highland story seems to declare. Jamie, in love and in shock at Claire being beaten, chooses to believe her. After 55 minutes of utter chaos, Jamie give Claire a choice that may break her heart.

Who says Outlander isn’t in tune with the classics? It’s a Greek tragedy wrapped in an Arthurian legend with a dash of soap opera. Perfect.

Next week– and seriously, this is even better than this week– we get to see Lallybroch. I cannot wait.

Have you stopped by my author page? I’d love it if you did. Buy a few hundred books. Tell friends. Tell coworkers. Tell a lawyer, even. They needs pals, too.Terry’s Author Page. And Such.

Until next week! Cheers!

Terry

I Dun Ben Kilted: Laoghaire Must Die!!!! Edition

What A Smug, Conniving, Deceitful–

But first, a word about the dining habits of of the Highlander Lickalotopus.


I’d like to make a casual observation here, as one man to a few friends. If I kept my head under the covers as much as JAMMF, I’d never get a suntan. Claire fell through time and landing on a giant Scottish tongue. 

Then she got up, and jumped on it again. Go Claire!

This was a compressed episode– they did a hard job and squeezed a lot into a tight space.


The Duke of Sandringham is a loathsome, foppish, predatory boy chaser, and yet, it’s difficult not to like him. The performance by Simon Callow is lush, cheerful, and a high point. He’s fantastic. 
The episode is interrupted by a the kind of grief-induced meltdown I expect from a Real Housewife of Inverness, but instead we get treated to Dougal absolutely losing his shit. 


More importantly, he’s doing it with a sword in hand while trying to trash Castle Leoch like a hotel room during Spring Break. Claire, potion in hand, comes to the rescue. She doses him with enough hooch to drop a rhinoceros, leaving him completely at their mercy.

OH–right, back to Laoghaire.

THAT BITCH. Claire delivered the Ill-Wish to Laoghaire with a clear warning, delivered in a simple manner that a horny teen can understand: AKA Pimp Slap. Then, in true British fashion, she offers an apology while plotting to invade Laoghaire’s country and make her people eat shitty food and drink tea.



It could have been worse. Claire could make her eat a mouthful of some British dessert, like spotted dick.



There’s a great deal of political– not really intrigue, but more like an inevitable beginning of the end for the clan leadership. The catalyst for this is of course the Duke’s duel. Let the lesson here be: do not tempt JAMMF with violence. He likes it, there are swords, and three froggy Scottish lads take turns getting stabbed and/or kicked in the balls. Jamie gets clipped, which makes his upcoming ride to take Dougal’s crazy ass home into a rather painful affair. So, from the Scottish temper comes Claire being left alone, enemies circling like sharks in the water.


So, Claire gets nabbed with the crazy redhead.
Even if you knew nothing of Outlander, it’s obvious that a shitstorm of epic proportions is on the horizon. This week, we had a murder, a death, a duel, a challenge, a shunning, and the arrest of Claire and Geillis. I’d say that’s about as much as we can take.
So, until next week!

Cheers,
Terry

*Spotted dick is a REAL English dessert. Yep.


I Dun Been Kilted: Shaglander Returns!

So, what did you do tonight? Me? Glad you asked. I stood by an idyllic stream, throwing stones and–


Character Development! Internal Dialogue! Nature!

I personally love the shift to Jamie’s point of view. It’s interesting to hear his thoughts as we edge into the next step of the journey. It also helps to make such bitter pills like, oh, I don’t know– the existence of Jack Randall– more palatable. Okay, not a lot, but a little. Right away, we get reminded of what a colossal douchecanoe Black Jack really is when his, ah. . . craving for Jamie comes to light. 


Jack, Jack, Jack. You dirty little sadist.

Let me be clear: If I was given a choice between drinking this and being naked with Jack Randall, I’d say “Bottoms Up”. Wait– that sounded wrong. Shut up and pass me the cup.



If you think about it, there seems to be a recurring theme of conflict and resolution in this episode, along with something else. Something I just. . . can’t. . . put my finger on. Whatever could it be? Love? Devotion? 


I couldn’t decide if seeing Claire’s bum was worth the guilt of witnessing someone get strapped. Let me clarify: seeing someone who wasn’t wearing black latex get spanked. That was my conflict.
Who am I kidding, totally worth it.

We got to cozy on up to the oncoming Laoghaire Crazy Train. That chick has Stage Five Clinger written all over her.
And a nice rack. 
But I digress. 
In between our first view of L-Lao- Leerah– Lugh– can we just call her Laura and be done with it, for Chrissakes? Anyway, in between her flashing the sweater kittens at Jamie and the final reveal of some bad juju, there is the slight matter of Jamie and Claire’s redefining the term “Unsafe Sex”. 
If you’re a male, like me, unsafe sex means many things. It means cooties. Babies. Bad mornings and awkward nights, but it has never meant what Claire brought to the table tonight. The message seems to be, “We obey each other, you can’t spank my ass, blah, blah, blah– OH, and if you come before me, your balls will be spit-roasted by morning.” At least that’s what I got.


Shall we shag on the shag?

Three items about the love scene tonight that caused me to think.

1) I would LOVE to have been in the production meeting where they discussed exactly how funky they were going to get with each other.
Cait: “So, are we all agreed? A graze of the nipple with the tongue, yes? But not a true suckle? Can I get that in writing?”
Sam: “Define graze.”
Herself: “Not a lick or a rootle (herself’s fave word), but more of a light tongue bath. . . .like a kitten. Here, Sam, let me show you.”
2) Cait’s booty got moves. That is all.
3) I could never be an actor. Never. I could perform open heart surgery with a spork before I could pretend to be passionate with someone in a room full of people with cameras and union jobs. Plus, I like my sex like my basketball: one on one, with socks on.
4) Does the agreement on physical touching cover the entire world, or just the set?


Finally, we close with the bad juju.

So, in the warm afterglow of epic makeup sex, Claire finds what I like to call the Chicken Bones of Doom. (Stage Five Clinger, toldja!).


That scene foreshadows a shitstorm caused by a petulant teenager, or as we call it, “every day in high school.”

So, next week,right? See you then? Have you shared this blog with a friend? Been to my author page? What about a shoebox full of money? Have you sent that? 

Le sigh. 
By the way: I wrote a little zombie erotica. Just in case you weren’t convinced I’m a weirdo. You’re welcome.
Zombies, Dragons, and Witches, oh my.

We’re cool. See you soon. 

Cheers,
Terry


Outlander. Witches. Pancakes.

Welcome Back, Outlanders. 

So, the Winter of Our Discontent is nearly ended. Blessed be, or something. 

Tomorrow, millions of fans will re-engage with the second season. Loins will be girded. Chins will be lifted. Visages will be grim. And then, all hell will break loose as the bilious presence of Black Jack Randall invades our collective senses once again.
I couldn’t help but snicker as I watched people (okay, women aged 18-77) line up to see Fifty Shades of Grey. What was essentially a modest BDSM film paled in comparison to the depravity lurking in the mind of Jack Randall. He makes serial killers look like marriage material, but the good news is that before Jamie is tortured and reborn as something new, there’s a lot of beautiful story to enjoy. But first. . . .



Naturally, I’ll be paying attention to all aspects of the show, not just the parts that interest me. This is all in the name of science and stuff, of course.



So! there’s a lot to look forward to, eh? After the episode, I’ll have a breakdown and commentary– I look forward to yours as well.
Also, if you like witches or pancakes, or witches and pancakes, read the blurb about a new paranormal series that hits stores this June. I think you’ll love it– but for now, a little teaser.




Cheers!
Terry

My Warning To Warner Brothers Regarding The Dragonriders of Pern

You’d better not screw this up. Seriously.

I’m going to give you a brief history lesson, followed with some suggestions which will be roundly ignored. We fans can trust Hollywood to do what’s right with our beloved characters and stories? Right?

Now that we’ve ll caught our breath after a long, maniacal laugh, let’s examine some recent history. I love Lee Child’s Jack Reacher books so much my wife and I named our Basset Hound “Jack Reacher”. Incredibly, our hound is roughly the same height as Tom Cruise, who is a delightful performer but is NOT SIX FEET FIVE INCHES TALL. Let’s look at the evidence:

“Small, but well preserved.”

And here is the actual hound: note the similar elevation:

“I could totally do Tom’s stunts.”

I rest my case. Way to go, Hollywood. Just hose the fans down with explosions and hope for the best.
I’m also a lifelong fan of Clive Cussler, who was nice enough to write me a return letter some fifteen years ago. Dirk Pitt is my own literary James Bond, and yet, the film that was made (Didn’t see it? Don’t worry. Nobody else did, either) not only tanked the series, it assured Clive Cussler would never again trust anyone from California. Way to go.

Which brings us to The Dragonriders of Pern.

I love everything about these books. Anne McCaffrey shaped an entire generation of readers of which I am one. I love Pern. I love her dragons. I cheer for her concepts of honor and duty, and read and re-read the books almost yearly. This is one of the longest relationships of my life– I was given my first McCaffrey book in 1980, by my friend Tim McCoy. I still have it.

When I speak about my passions, the world of Pern is among them. It took me four decades to become a writer, and about ten seconds to figure out the dedication of my first novel that had dragons, Banshee.

Even he majestic cover art of Michael Whelan  withstands the test of time. His vivid colors and sweeping vistas tell the reader that this story is big. Here is his vision of Lessa on Ramoth. If you don’t know those names, you should.


So, here we are on the precipice of a movie.
Warner Brothers has optioned the film rights and assigned a writer. Meet Sarah Cornwell:

I don’t know anything about Sarah, but I wish her well. Right now, I regard her with the suspicion of a parent watching someone handle their newborn child; in essence I hope for the best but expect the worst, because the ways that my precious Pern can be destroyed by modern sensibilities are virtually endless. Anne McCaffrey wasn’t just a great writer; she was a keystone in the world of science fiction as early as the year I was born. She’s among the first women to break out into the wider culture of Science Fiction and Fantasy authors– and she did so with strong characters, a world that regarded social organization as an aside rather than an ax to be smashed against the head of readers, and a narrative in which honor transcended the need for pat social commentary.
 In short, she’s everything that Hollywood is not.
I know I’m not alone in wondering if the script that is written will be tortured into something that meets the current narrative of Good Society.
 Dear God in heaven, the uproar will make the legions of Eragon fans look like a hiccuping baby– these books have been around for fifty years, and the fans are incredibly loyal.

And savvy on social media.

And well funded enough that I for one can imagine full page ads being taken in out in trade papers to refute any craptastic attempt to ruin our collective image of Pern.

Long story short, consider this a warning: don’t tank this story. Don’t you friggin’ dare. Don’t twist it or modernize it or do any of that horseshit that Hollywood does to great stories, and you’ll have a billion ( that’s a B, are you listening?) dollar franchise on your hands that can run for years.

We’ll be watching, but if you ruin it, we won’t. You’ve been warned.

Outlander: Current Casting Concerns

Let’s be clear: So far, Great.

The team at Outlander has selected some actors who are going to be iconic for their parts in the series.
I don’t think anyone could have prepared for the onscreen malice of Tobias Menzies, the luminous versatility of Cait, or the presence of Sam. Great job all ’round.

HOWEVER.

Since my home state was in the grip of winter this month, and I had to run on a godforsaken treadmill (it’s really a deathtrap with handrails), I have been listening to “Drums of Autumn”. This reinforces several concerns.

1. Davina Porter, please narrate my life. 
This should be self-explanatory. “Terry selected an apple with the verve of a charging knight. He would make the apple his own, one sensual bite at a time.” Annnnnd SCENE.
2. Please Dear Lord, let Brianna be tall. Let Roger be taller.
I cannot abide the destruction of another beloved literary character due to a lack of height. It happened once, and if it happens again, you’re going to see some aberrant behavior on my part. By aberrant behavior I mean, “beating the casting agents senseless with a sock full of bolts”.

I AM TOO 6’5″.

 Another point: Brianna must have cat eyes. And she must have a nontraditional beauty that dares me to look away. And freckles. And long legs. That’s just a personal preference, but I want my wishes to be on record. I have standards.
3. The Lord John Issue.
Easily one of my favorite characters, he has to be charming. Urbane. He must have the gravity of charisma and a trustworthy nature that merits Jamie’s friendship, and later, Brianna’s. Also, he better be blonde. None of this “sort of brown as a blonde” nonsense. Don’t tell me there aren’t British blondes; I’ve seen the BBC in the 1970s. It looked like a Nazi recruiting poster.
4. Ulysses
Look, slavery was the bane of humanity, and I don’t want to descend into a political lesson. I hope that the cultured gravity of Ulysses can be found in an actor without resorting to some sort of mishmash where the character is turned into a boilerplate activist. That will ruin the dynamic between Jocasta and Ulysses.
5. Jocasta
For the love of all that is holy, please find an actress who bridges that intellect and grace without being an intransigent harridan. The temptation to make Jocasta into a sort of taskmaster might be present, but I can only hope that she is presented as written: Intelligent, graceful, and oh-so-very-Scots.

That’s all for now. I have plenty to worry about before Black Jack starts his onslaught on my psyche via sexual torture. I like to think of it as “Fifty Shades of Cray”, because everything that happens to Jamie is flat-out insane.

Until next time. Buy my books, I want to buy a Scottish island, and yes,you can come visit.

Cheers!
Terry

 

I Dun Been Kilted: Post Kiltum Depression

Post Kiltum Depression: The Winter of Her Discontent
“But look, yon light in that window breaks—‘tis the moon on the arse of Jamie Fraser, and yer mother needs a moment alone.”
                                                                             –Himlet, Act 2
And so, the long grind of winter sets upon Outlander fans, blissfully filled with minor events such as “Thanksgiving”, and “Christmas” and “Boxing Day”, serving to fill their hearts with the business of celebration while Jamie Frasier endures a five month squat in a freezing window.

I couldn’t be more thankful. Before I draw the ire of legions, allow to me explain.

I recently began listening to the Outlander novels while I run. There are some obvious comments, such as– audio books bring an entire new experience to the story, they enrich my views of the characters, and Davina Porter has, by now, received my offer to narrate my life in live action. 

“Terry was never discrete when selecting cheeses at the market,” intones the narrator, “but the Roquefort appealed to the very heart of his roguish nature.” If she cashes the check, prepare to be wowedby my simplest actions. She’s thatgood.

Unfortunately, Davina has captured the vile heart of Black Jack Randall, too, and that’s where the trouble starts, because her skill as a voice actress is interfering with my workout regimen. I run for health purposes. You know, maintaining the ole’ ticker and all that, but listening to Davina voice the predations of Black Jack leaves me alternately curling my hands in anger or standing, stock still, with hands on hips and a look of utter disgust on my face when I revisit what happened in Fort William. 

Since I run in a family-friendly park, people tend to give me a wide berth while discreetly noting my description. Male. Face like a bucket of worms. Hates someone named Jack. Could stand to lose a few pounds, but won’t if he just stands there.Davina is so skilled, I find myself wondering if anyone will have the courage to dress as Black Jack— the realBlack Jack—for Halloween.

Now, a note about courage.
Let us discuss actor (and apparently delightful human) Tobias Menzies: a man who actually attended high school with other people, graduated from college with an advanced degree, takes his craft seriously, likes dogs, and by all accounts, is a professional, charming, dedicated person to work with. For all we know, this gentleman may end up curing cancer and settling Mars at some point, but I’d like to draw attention to the enormity of his decision to play Jack Randall. Is it a tremendous career opportunity? Of course. Will millions of women regard him. . . differently, now?

Why yes, Tobias. Yes they will.

I’ll simply say that Tobias better cut his food into small bites for the remainder of his natural life, because if he chokes in public, every woman in the restaurant will encircle him like malevolent druids, chanting, “You like that, you wee bastard? HAVE ANOTHER!” while kicking him into a pulp. Tobias, as one man to another: dine at home, eat toast, and chew your food well.

I’ve found my interest drifting to casting issues for the upcoming episodes. I love the periphery of Outlander; as a writer, the minor characters bolster a scene, as a reader they make it rich and detailed. There are major considerations at stake with the casting of Brianna. After all, this is the fruit of Jamie’s and Claire’s passions, and thus will be a critical addition to the experience. It’s also an issue that has wildly divergent answers based on who you ask. 

If you ask a female Outlander fan, the answer might be something like this:
“Oh. My. God. She should be smart and funny and shy and a little bit uncertain at first, but then she totally falls in love with Roger but only after she realized how smart and sort of tough in a nerdy brilliant way, and you really have to use the line where she describes his green eyes as ‘groovy’. She has to make you think about Sa- I mean, Jamie, and she should have the perfect accent but not to be too young because I don’t want anyone showing Cait up in set and I will neverforgive them if they cast someone with the wrong color eyes”—

Ask an Outmander about casting Brianna, and this is what you get:
“A six foot redhead? Sweet Jesus. Yeah, that works.”



You see, men like redheads like women like Jamie. Exactly like that. The next season promises to be a win/win, as long as you can overlook the vampirism, sadism, creepy need for oily buggering, rampant death, destruction, use of cattle, broken bones, disease, famine, did I say death, and forced hugging while pleading for cooing about love.

But I’m not complaining. We’ve got redheads.

Until next time, friends. Stop by my blog, check out my paranormal books, stalk me at will. It’s been a pleasure.
Terry Maggert

I Dun Been Kilted: Claire Goes Both Ways

Well hello there, friends! I trust you’ve had a week to adequately, ahh. . . review the material from last week’s episode.

You know, for the purposes of art.

Moving on. I admit that, based on the title, I thought that many Outmander’s wishes were about to be granted as Claire played both sides. After I realized my, ah, interpretation was incorrect, I made peace with the actual plotline and moved on after some quiet sobbing.
We begin our travels this week within the friendly confines of the Scottish police offices, and I’d like to give proper credit to the producers for resisting the temptation to resort to cheap stereotypes. That’s integrity!

And one more thing about Scotland. Seriously, even in the most dreary of conditions, the raw beauty acts as another character, a looming presence that either crowds the actors into a cloistered tension or spreads before us, without limit and daring the eye to look away. Is it any wonder that such land creates poets? That this land can make us believe, with great ease, that there is a love story unfolding before us that is so powerful, it overcomes the rules of clocks?
Forgive me for descending into romanticism. Let’s return to the brutality of the era, shall we?

 
BUT. The possibility of freedom– of a sort– for Jamie, and by that rationale Claire? It’s a tantalizing glimpse at what might be even in the convoluted world of Outlander. I’d be remiss if I forgot to mention the issue of Jamie (Former Virgin) and Claire (Veteran) establishing that, yeah, it was pretty good. Okay, maybe better than good.



The pain that Frank is experiencing almost lets us forget what a total bastard his progenitor is, but nonetheless, the loss of one’s spouse is reason enough to take leave of your good senses. I was nearly shouting at the screen as I watched the comedy of errors unfolding. Desperation can make stupidity as natural as eating or breathing. We hear new theories about Claire’s disappearance, much to the chagrin of Frank.



And correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Frank a World War II veteran? At what point does it seem like a good idea to visit a darkened alley. Past midnight. With reward money? Oh, perish our collective worry. He’s the suspicious blood of Black Jack Randall coursing within him, and if we learn anything from Outlander, blood never forgets.

Claire must begin to adapt. 1743 will not mold to her; she must recast herself to survive in the world around her. Fair enough. Begin with a knife, and some of the finest advice ever given.

Indeed.

 
 But then, the real world intrudes yet again in both flashback and highland settings. I would love to see the casting call for the actors so ably filling the roles of rotten bastards in red uniforms.
“Wanted: Filthy sod with antlers for teeth and flexible position on sodomy. Bonus for pre-existing skin condition. Apply to Herself. Be on your best behavior.”
A passionate exchange between Jamie and Claire is shattered as only a marauding scumbag could: with violence, arrogance, and terrible hygiene. Once again, the world is harsh mistress.

There’s some crossover between cynicism of Frank and the hatred of Black Jack. When presented with the possibility of Claire slipping through time, Frank shows us. . .something.
I admit– hearing the echo of Frank and Claire calling to each other across time was wrenching. The scene was filmed so beautifully, with the proximity of two worlds separated by a thin veil. But this episode is ultimately about move, counter move, and a crescendo that serves to push Black Jack Randall to the right hand of Stalin (and bucking for a promotion). It’s incredibly difficult to watch the violence Black Jack brings to Claire; her face collapses upon itself like the last leaves of fall as they lose to the bitter winter. 
And then, Jamie. The sonofabitch is heroic and has good timing!

And THEN, reality sets in. 

BUT, we’ll survive. I’ll still have some occasional funnies as I gather more images and such. It isn’t as if we’ll forget about the show, right?
So! Thanks for dropping by. Tomorrow is a big day for me– my fourth book is released, I announce two new series, and I plan on eating most of a blueberry pie. I won’t share the pie, but if you’d like to explore the world I’ve built in my books, drop by one of the links below, and as always, thanks.

The Fearless Urban Fantasy 


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Cheers,
Terry