Going To The Dogs (Patricia Potter)

You might have noticed that this is a blog inhabited by animal lovers.
Inspired by Tara‘s new pup, I thought I would explore the subject of critters in my life and in books.
My mom’s in a nursing home. I go over there every night with Ting Ting, my ancient rescue Shih Tzu who loves everyone but particularly older people. Someone found her half-starved in a churchyard with a broken jaw, skin disease and a kidney stone as big as an egg. I am convinced she was formerly owned by a senior citizen because, unlike most dogs, she loves walkers (walking aids, not people who walk). She loves to sleep beneath wheelchairs, and we cannot go by an elderly denizen of the nursing home without her coaxing out a pat or an ear rub. She even goes up the statue of an elderly couple every night and waits with hope in her eyes for them to lean down from their permanent position and say hello. She will be in one of my future books, as have many of my animals. There they will romp and love and be loved once again.

One of the nurses at the nursing home loves books and is halfway through my back list. Last night she stopped me and wanted to know why one of my books didn't have an animal in it since all the others had. I’m not quite sure myself how that happened; I think it must be the only one that does not have a critter of some kind.
There’s a good reason for my critter mania. I just plain have a difficult time understanding anyone who doesn’t like animals, and obviously I had better like and understand my characters. Therefore, my books are peopled with any number of animals.
Most come from my own experience, starting with Trudel the Dachshund. Then came a dog named Ben. Ben was my first rescue dog, a cowardly, lovable mutt I adored. When he died, I wasn’t ready to let him go, so I gave him another life in “Island of Dreams.” He trips the villain and saves the day.
Since then, there’s been Socrates, the bad-tempered monkey owned by a similarly crochety blockade runner. The former was inspired by a monkey that bit my brother (I heartily approved at the time). There’s Abner, a mouse that was owned by a hero who had been unjustly imprisoned. Then there's my ferrets (Tristan and Isolde) in "Starcatcher." Brunhilde the chicken was crucial to several scenes in “Lawless,” and I fell in love with Peppermint, the pony in the "Marshal and the Heiress." One of my favorite heroes – David Farrar in “The Greatest Gift” -- had adopted Gertrude, a blind dog wandering the highway; Henry, another abandoned mutt; Long John, a three-legged cat, and Samantha, a rabbit who’d been destined for a stew until rescued. Now that's my kind of guy!

And it continues. My heroine in my upcoming book – "Tempting the Devil" – has a rescue cat named Daisy and often cares for her neighbor’s elderly teacup poodle called Damien. Damien memorializes my late half-dog, so called since I kept her half the time while her owner was out of town.
But I digress.
My newest proposal for a romantic suspense features a paramedic who is involved with parrot rescue programs and has one called Merlin. That says a lot about her right there. At the risk of giving away the plot, Merlin solves the mystery.
There are more animals -- too many to name -- that made me smile as I told their stories. I especially like rescue animals in hopes it will inspire readers to adopt one. But you get the point. Animals enrich a story and give new dimensions to the characters. They provide moments of humor and, on occasion, tears. Their names alone tell much about the hero or heroine: their whimsy or lack of it, the way the view the world.

But now it’s your turn. Do you have a favorite fictional animal from a book or movie? Or do you have a special critter in your own life that you believe deserves a place in a book?
As Tara said earlier this week, animals definitely make life richer. They make you laugh when you need it, and offer comfort when you’re sad. They are always there, asking very little in return. I can’t imagine being without them, in life or in books.

Sheer to Waist, or Decaf? (Maggie Shayne)

I have been told, dear ones, that I should lay off the caffeine. I tend to mainline it and it's not too great for my heart. But I have it on good authority that caffeine isn't the evil everyone keeps trying to make it out to be. It has its benefits, though you seldom hear their praises sung by the medical community. My personal theory is that without it, we all have to run to the doctor for things like lack of energy, lethargy, depression, chronic fatigue, and narcolepsy. Yes, people, I'm certain caffeine is the miracle cure for all of those ailments. Its lack, I'm convinced, is at least a contributing factor to other problems such as low sex drive, chronic obesity, migraines, and quite possibly, flatulence. It's one of those things "they" don't want you to know. Keeps the healthcare industry in business.

Okay, you know I'm being sarcastic, right? I'm only 99% convinced of the above claims. =) However, there is one benefit to caffeine that none of us may have known about. If you can find a way to wear it, it reduces cellulite. (And to borrow a line from my idol, Dave Barry, I am not making this up.) A company in Pennsylvania claims to have discovered this little known caffeine benefit, and has now developed a way to put it to the best possible use--making them some money. They have developed pantyhose that are infused with caffeine. You wear these babies against your skin, and any cellulite you might have on your legs (and I say "you" because I, of course, have none) vanishes as if by magic. These miracle stockings can be worn over and over, but you can only wash them three times before your washing machine gets stuck on a super-charged spin cycle and self-destructs. No, that's not it. After three washes the caffeine is all gone. And this is the best part. They only cost two hundred bucks a pair!

I've thought of something that company hasn't. These miracle hose can do double duty. Why put them in the washing machine at all? Just stuff them into the coffee maker, run a pot of water through them, and voila! You have clean stockings AND a fresh morning brew.

I'll tell you one thing, this would take that disorder known as Restless Leg Syndrome to a whole new level, wouldn't it? Never again would you have to worry about your legs falling asleep. You could probably consider a much wider range of career options, too. Field goal kicker for the Giants. Soccer Star. Rockette. Kick boxer. The list goes on and on. Gosh, I wish they'd make gloves. Can you imagine how fast I could write THEN?

All right, all right, I can hear the groans from here. I'll stop. My point, dear readers (and I do have one) is that I like caffeine. And I think I need it. It's been two weeks since I moved into the cabin here, and I've been dealing with two sets of lawyers, a pair of realtors and a pair of banks, not to mention all the packing, moving, storing, sorting, and then the usual stuff--like earning a living. So in that two weeks, I haven't exercised once. And I miss it. Yesterday morning, I woke up determined to work out this week, no matter what. So I rushed through my morning pages, and then went running. And man was it an effort. It was hot outside, I didn't drink enough water beforehand, and I had to quit at 4.7 miles instead of my usual 5. I was exhausted afterward, just drained. I showered, did some packing and other jobs etc. It was a very full day. So full that when I came home around 3 pm with a splitting headache, I collapsed on the couch and slept for 3 straight hours. When I woke, the headache was still there. Maybe worse than before despite that I'd taken two doses of pain reliever. After the third dose, it hit me what was wrong. It wasn't that I had overdone the workout after too much down time. It wasn't the heat. It wasn't dehydration. It was just that I hadn't had a cup of coffee all day long!

Rushing to the kitchen (you have to have the visual here, folks. My "rushing" consisted of shuffling along at an urgent pace and saying "Ow, ow, ow" with every step. You shouldn't veg for two weeks then try to run five miles. It's not smart.) Anyway, "rushing" to the kitchen, I brewed a half a pot, nice and strong. I've just finished the first cup, working on the second. The headache is gone. I swear to my bulldog, it started easing after the first few sips. Okay, that could have been partly due to dose three of the pain reliever, but I don't think so.

So let's just say, I'm not ready to give up the caffeine just yet. The junk food, yes. The nicotine, most definitely. The vodka--oh, come on people, be realistic. I only discovered Svedka brand a week ago. I'm in transition here, have a freakin' heart! (Oops, sorry. Got a little sidetracked there.) But I am not giving up my caffeine and that's final.

And as for the running, well, you just wait and see how many miles I go once my new pantyhose arrive from Pennsylvania!

(PS--Please check the link for the full, true scoop on those nylons before you shell out your $200. It's pretty much what you'd expect. Click on the title of this piece.)

Maggie

A new addition (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I went with my twenty-year-old daughter to pick up her new puppy over the weekend. She wanted a Poochin. There were only two breeders we could find with litters available. The closest one was South Dakota. We live in Phoenix. It's too hot in Phoenix to ship critters, the airline regulations won't allow it, so onto the plane went Rach and I with an empty travel kennel. So many people asked to see what was inside that we finally tipped it sideways and carried it that way so they'd know there was nothing there. The next morning, on the return trip, we couldn't walk two feet without people stopping us to peek at him. I have to say, he is adorable. He stops me in my tracks and I'm cleaning up after him on a constant basis, but more on that in a minute.

His name is Darcy. He's six weeks old. He's a Poochin - half poodle half Japanese chin. Yes, we flew all the way to South Dakota to get him. He'll get to be about ten pounds. Rach and I can say this by rote, in our sleep, and while we're having other conversations, we had to repeat it so many times. We figured we should have made signs and worn them around our neck.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't blame these people. Had the shoe been on the other foot (a horrible cliche, forgive me) I'd have done the very same thing. I'd have been the most annoying of them all as I would have asked to hold him. My point is, he's adorable. He compels you to his side and you can't help but ooh and ahh and want to share in the joy of him. Everyone who came up to us was envious of him. Wishing he was with them.

And there's another side to this. He's not house trained. And he's teething. My daughter is working three days a week and since Mima (that's me) works in her own office, it's a given that she can babysit. On Monday, I'm back in my office, on deadline with three books to write by January, and this sweet little six week old Poochin named Darcy proceeds to potty on my new wool rug. And again. And then again. I watch him play with my one-year-old baby Taylor (a full bred poodle who weighs five pounds) and I tell myself I have to work. I get through five e-mails and he's chewed a hole in my speaker cord. He goes from there to my keyboard cord. And he potties again. (Yes, I've taken him out. Countless times.) He's still dang cute. I still love him. But having a puppy is hard work. Really hard. It takes patience. It takes self-control. It takes selflessness.

And I have to tell you, the reward is great. One look from his eyes to mine and I know what life is about. That is a happy moment. Serene, peaceful, exciting all in one.

And as my four legged babies always do, Darcy is teaching me something. I have a book to write. I love writing. And anytime anyone hears that I'm an author they ooh and aah and ask questions, and wish it was them. But it's also hard work. Very hard work. It takes patience. And self-control (especially when the emotional insecurities kick in). And it takes selflessness. I give up self to my characters every single time I sit down to write. This is no easy task. Giving up self to someone else.

But the reward is great. The best. I am living a fulfilled life - doing what I love. What could be better than that?

And isn't this what all of life is about? For all of us? We choose. We find out that our choices are hard. But if we can stick with them, keep the puppy, sit down at the computer, complete the project, the reward is the best of life.

So, anybody got tricks they want to share about potty training? Or puppy raising?

OMG, Do I Need Medication? (Suzanne Forster)

I’ve always blamed my tendency to get lost in the aisles of my neighborhood grocery store on being an incurable daydreamer. Actually, daydreaming takes the blame for lots of things in my life. But it may be getting a bum wrap. I learned recently that being directionally challenged is a symptom of a neurological condition that I thought I couldn’t possibly have, simply because I’m a writer. But more about that in a sec.

As you can probably imagine, driving a car can be quite an adventure for someone who gets lost in grocery stores. I tend to go into the zone when I drive, which I also thought was the daydreaming thing. Sounds dangerous, I know, but I’m aware of the road and the other cars, and my driving record is excellent, so I’m probably not a danger, except to myself. Why? Because I end up in places I never intended to go. Sometimes that’s fun. Once I drove to the mall instead of my dentist appointment. But mostly it’s annoying, and occasionally, when the pedestrians are wearing hooded sweatshirts and exchanging little brown bags for money, scary.

Directions are the bane of my existence. I can manage left and right pretty well, but north and south are almost impossible. Forget east and west. I’m always getting on freeways going the wrong way, always taking the wrong exit. I don’t read freeway signs the way other people do. What’s logical to them isn’t logical to me. Every Christmas the dh tells me Santa’s bringing me GPS. I’d be happy with Rudolph.

Rumor had it that my first agent, who was local, told her other authors that Suzanne wasn’t allowed to go to group events without a designated driver. She later admitted it was true, but that actually happened nearly twenty years ago. This has been a problem all my life.

Airports are dangerous for me too. More than once, I’ve boarded planes going to places that weren’t on my ticket. Once I almost ended up in Anchorage, Alaska. I was a little disappointed when they kicked me off that plane. Traveling back to southern Caliornia via Anchorage would have been quite a trip.

So, have you figured out this medical mystery? You’re probably thinking Attention Deficit Disorder, right? That was my guess, but recently in my Yahoo group, we were chatting about having problems with directions, and a member, who’s given me permission to share, mentioned knowing someone who could tell left from right only by looking at the back of her own left hand with the thumb out, which forms an L. She has problems very similar to mine with directions and even more interesting, she could never ride a bike. She wasn’t able to get the rhythm right and often pedaled backward. However, she was, and is, an incredibly bright woman who’s a wizard with computers and technology.

Well, a wizard with computers, I’m not. But I could sure relate to her symptoms. And others in the group described symptoms that also sounded eerily familiar. The one thing they had in common? DYSLEXIA.

Wha? How could I have dyslexia and be a writer? Honestly, I don’t have an answer for you, but the aforementioned folks are all avid readers and it doesn’t seem to have stopped them from devouring the written word. Possibly there are different kinds of dyslexia? I’m not aware of transposing letters, but I’ve been transposing numbers for years. I look right at them, but flip them when I write them down. 01 becomes 10. Seems as if that could be enough to send me into directional spin cycles.

All I can tell you is I don’t feel quite so much the odd duck now. There are others out there like me! Obviously, I don’t wish dyslexia on anyone. I know it’s a heartbreaking problem for millions, especially children struggling with reading and focus difficulties. But I have to admit, it was a relief to hear of symptoms even more exotic and bizarre than my own—and to know that people are not only coping, but achieving great things and having successful lives.

So, do I need medication? People who know me well would probably love to give me a reality pill, lol. Since I’ve made it this far, odds are I won’t be taking anything for the dyslexia, if that is what I have. However, if I don’t show up for a book signing, you’ll know why. I’m probably driving north when I should be going south—and if nobody stops me, I may end up in Alaska after all.

Suz

The Usual Suspects (Anne Stuart)

We were talking about movies on our question of the week, and it reminded me of how often popular culture inspires my books. People always ask writers where they get their ideas, and you can never come up with a straight answer. Sometimes (a lot of times) it’s a line from a song, a beer commercial, a book that ends the wrong way and you need to fix it, the scent of a flower on a spring night or the water on the lake.

But just as often it’s movies, television and theatre, so I thought I’d list some books and where they came from.

Some are really obvious. THE HIGH SHERIFF OF HUNTINGTON, a novella in an old Avon collection, is one of my favorites, and no one would have any trouble recognizing a variant of Alan Rickman’s Sheriff of Nottingham from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. I got to take a roaring bad boy and give him a happy ending (I gave him a nun and made sure he never got totally redeemed) and had the most wonderful time doing it.

And there’s DARK JOURNEY, a Silhouette Shadows novella, inspired by the most obscure version of Death Takes a Holiday. Not the Frederic March version, or the Brad Pitt one that ends the wrong way (the heroine’s supposed to go off with Death and live happily ever after in a house with a two hearse garage), but an early-seventies version with Melvyn Douglas and Monte Markham. I only saw it once but the mood stuck with me, and it was something I had to translate on my own.

Sometimes it’s less clear – Alan Rickman (there’s a theme here) inspired my first Silhouette Shadows novella, MONSTERS, but that was from Truly, Madly Deeply. An old thirties screwball comedy called Theodora Goes Wild inspired THE SPINSTER AND THE RAKE (and early regency), and for some reason Last of the Mohicans gave me bad boy heroes for A ROSE AT MIDNIGHT and TO LOVE A DARK LORD.

Then there’s the theatre – two of my best books were born from trips to Broadway. First, I got to see Frank Langella soon after he opened in Dracula, and ended up with THE DEMON COUNT (aided by a photo shoot in Vogue Pattern Magazine) and Michael Crawford a few weeks into his New York Phantom of the Opera run (NIGHT OF THE PHANTOM). The interesting thing about Broadway as opposed to movies is you can’t go back time and time again to wallow in the glory of it (at least, not if you live 400 miles away). So the initial inspiration really takes on a life of its own.

Sometimes it’s soap operas (Frisco and Felicia on General Hospital in the early ‘80s inspired the first Maggie Bennett novel, ESCAPE INTO DARKNESS). Sometimes it’s primetime (Don Johnson in LONG HOT SUMMER gave me two lovely books, HEAT LIGHTNING and BLUE SAGE).

Which brings me to Miss Tatlock’s Millions, the movie I love most in the world, the movie that very few people have seen. It was filmed in 1948, written by Billy Wilder’s longtime collaborate, stars Wanda Hendrix and John Lund and a cast of character actors including Barry Fitgerald and Monty Wooley. It gave me two books (TANGLED LIES and CRAZY LIKE A FOX), one of my favorite compliments (“it has a certain jungle charm”). You can sometimes find copies of it on eBay – it’s never been on DVD and the copyright’s presumably long gone, but it’s worth hunting down for the charm and black humor and perfect, longing romance.

The one thing I’ve learned is that inspiration from movies/tv etc. is like looking for love – if you go searching it tends to elude you. You have to be open to unexpected treats.

I went off to see Witness the moment it opened, expecting vast story ideas from Harrison Ford in a romance. Instead it was Blade Runner, a bloody sci-fi noir thriller that made me run to the typewriter (yup, it was the typewriter back then).
The Terminator is intensely romantic, Somewhere in Time is not (to my admittedly twisted muse).

So if you’re looking for story ideas, stay away from the usual suspects (though frankly, I could get a romance out of The Usual Suspects – I could get a romance out of the darkest movie). Look for something unexpected, and you just might find your next book.

Sunday Question of the Week

What is your one-and-only, desert-island-with-electricity-and-a-vcr, mostest favorite movie? And why?

Also, because we show extraordinary taste when choosing best of the best, let us also sink down to the nitty and the gritty. 'Fess up to your Guilty Pleasure movie, the one that would never make anyone's Best List, even your own. And yet, you love that movie and can't help watching it.

Everyone in our community--StoryBroads and blog readers--Talk Among Yourselves.

Bad Movies and Guilty Pleasures

Since there are only six Story Broads and seven days of the week we decided that each Sunday we'd talk about piffle (not that we wouldn't talk about piffle on the other six days -- I certainly intend to). The question for this Sunday is what is your favorite movie and/ or favorite guilty pleasure movie.
Well, I could talk forever about my favorite movies, so I'll just stick to bad Nicolas Cage movies. I love them. Gone in 60 Seconds and Con Air got the most abysmal reviews, and I couldn't even pretend to defend them. And yet every time they're on tv I'm riveted. I love the silly cars with their names, and Angelina Jolie in blonde dreadlocks, and Christopher Eccleston being slimy, and most of all I love Nicolas Cage. Even when he uses a dreadful accent in Con Air and talks about his "hummingbird," there's a sort of divine cheesiness to him that's irresistible.
That doesn't mean he can't make fabulous movies. "Moonstruck" is one of my all-time favorites, and his lovelorn baker has one of the best movie speeches of all time. I imagine he's brilliant in Leaving Las Vegas, even though I have no intention of ever seeing it, and Adaptation is a fabulous writer's in-joke.
There are all sorts of wonderful movies, lauded and honored, that make you think, make you feel, change you, and you watch them once, nod sagely, and forget all about them.
And then there's bad Nicolas Cage movies. To be savored, insulted, enjoyed with popcorn and Tab and your teenage son. And sometimes that's the best thing in the world.

What's in a (hero's) name?

When I was a kid, this was my favorite verse in the Bible:
"And out of the ground the Lord God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof."

Oh, man, I wanted that gig! What a trip, to choose just the right word to capture the nature of each animal. Panther. Shark. Wildebeest. Naked Mole Rat. None of this "emu" nonsense. No "least terns." I would have nailed them and done it in English, which Adam probably didn’t use back in the day.

Anyhow, I’ve always believed that to name a child, or a pet, or a car, is to embrace its uniqueness and infuse it with something of ourselves. It’s no accident that my pets have all been named for literary figures. In a small way, I am honoring my favorite authors and characters.

Fact is, names have been important to humans since God delegated the task of choosing them to one of us. In some cultures, people have even used false names and kept secret their true ones, believing that anyone who possessed their identity held power over them. But the real secret to the power of names is this: the creature reveals who it is, and the namer must discover the word or words that evoke its essence.

Authors relearn this every time we start a book and confront the vague entities that waft in to populate our newly created world. We have a few practical guidelines, to be sure. Historical accuracy, more or less. No Beyonce in the Renaissance. A name shouldn’t sound like another character’s name. Don’t start too many names with the same letter. After that, we’re pretty much on our own.

Hanging monikers on secondary characters is purely fun. Sometimes we hat-tip a friend or take revenge on someone who done us wrong. But things get serious and meaningful when the hero and heroine begin to materialize in our imaginations. Only the precise name will do, and in the early going, we usually have no clue what it is.

Relatively speaking, heroines are easy. All names are up for grabs, even really ugly-sounding ones. A heroine can get stuck with a name she hates (Hortensia), or one that is the polar opposite of her true nature (Prudence), or something plain (Jane) that belies the complexity of her character. The mostly female readers of romance novels identify with a heroine’s name challenges.

But when it comes to the hero, only the real name will do. The name that helps readers connect with the mysterious otherness of a powerful, competent, dangerous, and ultimately loving male. This male, because cookie-cutter heroes are a dime a dozen, and nobody’s buying them these days.

For starters, we must toss out half the listings in those "Traditional Male Names" books. Especially if we are wrestling with an alpha hero who refuses to be called Lloyd or Melvin or Bert. What’s more, we can’t give this guy the same name we gave the hero of an earlier book. That would be, like, incestuous. And I for one am up to my eyebrows with names like Wolf, Hawk, Raven, and all their fellow nest eggs or litter-mates.

Most of us wind up making lists of names that "feel" something like the character who is taking shape in our imaginations. We try them out during the fermenting stage, when we start to visualize the hero entering the story and relating to the other characters.

We test the sound of the name. Does it fit his body? His attitude? The way others perceive him? Is it redolent of myths and legends, symbols, heroic deeds? Is it warm, protective, strong without being too edgy? When we hear the name, do we sense the vibration of danger? Comfort? Brilliance? Kindness? Sexual power? Worldliness? Loneliness? Despair?

We try names on our hero. Sometimes one fits straightaway. But more often we watch him sluff off one after the other, which means we don’t really know him at all. The key, we eventually learn, is to let him reveal himself by what he says and does. He will lead us to the name that belongs to him.

And when he claims it, he becomes His Own Self, a completed individual who partners the author (or runs roughshod over her) as the story is written. Yes, the name has that much power. He is not some generic romance hero moving through the plot. He is who he is, and he helps create that plot, and sometimes, the lucky author just has to write down what he’s saying and doing. The same applies to the heroine, to be sure. It’s just that naming her is rarely such an ordeal.

If you’ve stuck with this post so far, you’re probably wondering why I’m blathering on about all this. Call it a case of Good Names Gone Bad. Or me having a Tragic Naming Accident. It can happen.

My hero-in-progress has arrived on the planet from a distant star system. That should make things easy for me. I can make up a name that sounds exactly right for this guy. Well, it can’t sound or look too weird if he runs up against Homeland Security, but there’s some flexibility here.

Even so, it was a long time before I got hold of his name. And it fit the image of the actor set on my computer as wallpaper, not because he is physically a replica of my character, but because he conveys the power and intensity I’m looking for.

Whenever I turned on the computer, I greeted the character by name and sent him down to the Girls in the Basement (my subconscious) to work on the story. And all was well and good, until I mentioned his name to a couple of fellow authors.

"You mean like that repellent little Draco from the Harry Potter books?"

"No!" declared I, plunging immediately into denial. "It’s Draeko. I spell it different. So there!"

But when I heard the same thing from the next author I spoke with about my splendid Draeko ji Kaya, I knew I was doomed. J.K. Rowling had hijacked my hero’s name. Authors can’t ignore the connotations that attach themselves to certain names, and I had not paid enough attention to the Potter series to notice Draco Malfoy.

So now I am bereft. And my alpha alien is wandering aimlessly through the dirty draft of my book, tagged with a temporary marker (jiK) while I seek to learn his true name.

If any of you have an inkling what it might be, please let me know!
Darkstar.jpg

Nervous Nellie Pat

Did I mention I have a new book coming out?
Did I mention I was nervous?
Did I mention that a normally well balanced (well, pretty well-balanced) easy-going, optimistic person becomes a raving maniac at this time?
For instance, I become a compulsive personality.
I start calling the Ingram's (book distributor) number to find out how many of my books are in stock. How many have left the warehouses today, etc.? In the last thirty minutes? I don’t call once. I call all day. Five. Six times. Maybe more. If there is no change, I become inconsolable.
I turn on my computer and check my position on the Amazon list. Not once, but about five times daily. Has anyone written a review yet? They have? Ouch! I check every online review site, and either smile and hope everyone read it or grimace and hope everyone hasn’t.
But enough whining. . .
Yet since I am consumed at the moment with the subject, I thought I would share some of my more positive feelings during other times of the process. I compare writing a book to having a baby.
The first gleam in the eye: the seed of an idea and the excitement, the anticipation of creating a new world.
The test proves positive: the contract. Wow. Champagne time.
The first internal stirrings: the characters -- thank the writing gods --are come alive and beginning to take over the book.
Four months: the end is a very long time away. The characters are running wild in different directions. They do not wish to behave. A disaster! My career is over!!!!
Six months: sagging middle and worry. Is the baby growing properly? Will he/she be healthy?
Eight months: Going downhill now. Expectancy. Excitement.
Birth: The END. It’s a book!!! Happy. Happy. More champagne. Didn't believe it would ever come.
Aftermath: Nagging worry. Can I properly care for it? Give it the promotion it needs? Will the publisher treat it well?
And through all the process, you're tending the other kids. Reading galleys of the upcoming book and promoting it. Planning for the next addition to the family.
It's a never-ending cycle of excitement, frustration, pain, anxiety, and, well, on occasion, triumph. A good review, someone says they love your book, and you've reached heaven.
Until the anxiety returns.
There’s an old movie called “Lonely are the Brave.”
There should be a new one for novelists: Insecure is the Writer.

Home Again

Whew! I can't believe I made it - she said, screeching in with a red face and a cloud of dust behind her! I have lots of energy and determination and sometimes believe I can move mountains, and then a little thing like people needing to get where they want to be stops me in my tracks! I left an hour and a half to make a 45 minute drive! Really I did! No matter that my lunch at this quaint little chateau here distracted me! Or was it the bottle of fruity Reisling that did it? Regardless, wine country was beautiful - tasting my way through it for four days was a wonderful way to spend (or forget?) a birthday - and if missing my plane was the price I had to pay, it was worth it! Good news - the three cases of wine I had to check because I couldn't carry liquid on the plane made it home just fine.

So...out of breath and embarrassed, I'm glad to be here with such talented and fine women. Life has challenges. Traffic happens. And it's all good!

Oh, and Happy Birthday to me!!! My HP exec brother called while I was 'tasting' yesterday to tell me about my present! He designed a brand new TTQ website and launched it yesterday! I haven't even seen it yet (I was racing to get here!) but from what I hear, it's worth taking a look at! www.tarataylorquinn.com.

Thanks for allowing me to come in late. I promise, from now on, I'll be In Plain Sight!!

Tara Taylor Quinn - who is still just a storybroad without her own sign in...

The Chicken-Heart Diaries

Maggie, here. Well, this is my first day to blog, and as promised (or threatened) I'm going to talk about my new life. I'm kind of in limbo right now. Separating from my husband, and in the process of buying a to-die-for new home. Limbo (or Pergatory as our resident nuns would probably call it) is a log cabin on my former property, just until the closing on the new house. The cabin sits in the middle of a Children of the Corn field, bordered by state forest. You know, like in every good horror novel. No turrets or gargoyles or rocky cliffs above a jagged shore and pounding surf, but aside from that, this spot could have been designed by Stephen King.

Now, I'm used to being alone. In my old life, I was usually alone all week. But something about being alone in a place I'm not used to is a little--um--different. And I've only been here a week. Okay, so confession time. I may write these dark, edgy, often scary, paranormal novels, but deep down, I am the biggest chicken you've ever seen. Sometimes, when I'm writing a really goosebumpy scene, someone will walk into my office or the phone will ring, and I'll jump out of my chair with a shriek fit for a Halloween sound effects CD.

I was fine for the first few nights here at the cabin, which is the place where my parents stayed until my mom died, right here in what is now my living room, in January. I wondered if it would bother me, being in that space, but instead of being weird, it seems to give me a warm sense of comfort. In fact, they day I moved in, I opened the door and said, "Hi, Mom. I'm home!" So anyway, I was fine the first few nights. But then, Sunday night, things got a little odd.

About midnight, my faithful companion, Wrinkles--the aging, nearly blind, mostly deaf English bulldog who might try to bite a burglar, but would probably miss--started staring at the front door and growling. She just sat there, by my bedside, staring toward the door and growling, way down deep. She's not a very vocal dog, and she often does this very thing to say, "give me a bit of that sandwich, and give it to me now!" but there was no sandwich at play here. Hmm.

I got up to investigate, like any gothic novel heroine about to get herself into Big Trouble. Unlike said heroines, however, I was not wearing a long white negligee and spike heels, and I did not go poking around in the dark. My first move was to flip on every light in the house, and my second was to grab my car keys and put something on my feet in case I had to run for it. Granted, big black furry gorilla slippers were probably not the most practical choice, but I was in a hurry and they had to be better than stilettos. Those gothic heroines are always running away and breaking a heel or an ankle, only to lie there helpless while the killer monster from hell descends.

::shiver::

I never worry about attacks by actual humans, you understand.

Anyway, I turned on the outside light, made sure the doors were locked, peeked out the windows, phone clutched in my hand (useless, because who do you call for non-human midnight creepers? Oh, yeah, I forgot. Ghostbusters. Anyone have the number?) I didn't see anything or hear anything, so I had a few cups of strong coffee to help me sleep, gave the dog a snack, and went back to bed. A half hour later, I hear her growling again. This time she's stitting beside my bed staring intently at the wall. The wall! There was nothing there by the wall. And yet she's sitting there growling at it.

Naturally, I realized, as any sane, logical person would, that whatever, apparently invisible entity had been lurking outside the front door, was now in my bedroom standing by the wall. Ooooookay. Either that, or Wrinkles was doing her usual impression of Mr. Magoo, and talking to what she thought was me, demanding another snack. Right now she's growling at the back door, but it's daylight as I compose this, so it's perfectly okay. Everyone knows spooks only come out at night.

At any rate, I got up, muttered a few incantations, drank more coffee, and spent the rest of the dark hours puttering around on line and listening to Stevie Nicks, signing at the top of my lungs (a surefire method to scare away ANY predator, human or otherwise) while trying to get the hairs on the back of my neck to lie back down. When the sun rose, I collapsed in bed and slept for a couple of hours.

Why is it I can spend night after night alone in a familiar place without a light on in the entire place, forgetting to lock the doors half the time, but one little thing in a strange place gets my liver quivering? Who knows? I personally blame the dog. Wrinkles is a great pal, but not much of a protector. And if you're not going to EAT the beastie, don't bother letting me know it's there, okay?

That was the only scary night so far. The others have returned to peaceful and serene, thank goodness. Let's hope they stay that way. Meanwhile, I think I'm going to unpack my Katana sword (from the Highlander collection, no less) and sleep with it beside my bed. You know, just in cast. In this cabin, folks, there can be only one. Well, two if you count Wrinkles.

The photo up top is of my aforementioned sidekick, by the way, in her former favorite spot in front of the fireplace, scratching her back. Looks menacing, doesn't she?

Hugs,
Mags

Our Missing Broad

From the answering machine, a phone message from our absentee blogger. Tara Taylor Quinn reports that she got stuck in a traffic jam and missed her plane and blah blah blah.
Do you suppose the fact that she and friends have spent the last five days touring wineries in Sonoma and Mendicino had something to do with this? TTQ, you got some 'splainin' to do!
Anyway . . she'll introduce herself and start blogging soon as she makes her way home. And maybe she'll even give us some wine recommendations.

VIRGIN VOYAGE!

Be gentle with me, folks. I’ve never done this before. I’m a virgin blogger. I don’t even read blogs, though I’m loathe to admit that. I feel like I must be the only one! It’s never been about lack of desire, just lack of time. I’ve had serious family commitments over the last several years that required travel, and everything other than that had to be put on hold, including a few book deadlines. But now, life has settled down, fate has intervened—and here I am, part of this excellent blogging adventure called Storybroads.com!

Does it get any better than this? I’m in the company of five fabulous, feisty writers like Lynn, Tara, Krissie, Pat and Maggie, and I get to share my innermost secrets and unburden myself as if I were in a confessional? That should give me plenty to talk about, LOL—and get me in lots of trouble!! But for now, maybe I’d better stick to a quickie description of what I write.

When it comes to writing, I’ve taken the advice of Joseph Campbell to heart: Follow your bliss. I love writing dark romantic suspense. My family will tell you that I disappear into the mist when I’m working on a book, especially during those very intense last weeks of a deadline. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse that I’m drawn to haunting gothic concepts that suck me into their vortex and don’t let go until they’ve had their way with me. But I also love writing sexy romantic comedies, and I get to do that too. I started in the Desire line in 1985, moved to Loveswept for several years, and wrote what I thought was my last category romance in 1993. Wrong! Here I am again, writing romantic comedies—for Blaze this time—cracking myself up, and I hope, giving others a smile too.

It does seem as if I write on opposite ends of the spectrum--dark suspense and romantic comedy. I’ve even done an erotic novel. But I believe variety allows us to express all the different facets of our personality and creativity, so, as the motto for Storybroads goes, IT’S ALL GOOD.

Suz

P.S. The picture was taken in Maui. The caption, courtesy of the dh, reads: "The woman is never far from a bookstore, even on vacation!"

Broad Strokes

Let’s get this one thing out of the way.
I live alone with a cat.
"Poor dear," murmur the unenlightened. "Dotty and dull. Probably tats."
Okay, the jury’s still out on the "dotty" part. Has been for years. But women who live alone with cats can so be creative, fascinating, and mysterious.

I’m just saying.

It’s not as if I haven’t trotted around a few pretty interesting blocks in my time. In addition to all the weird scut-work jobs I worked while putting myself through school, I’ve been a college teacher, a folk singer, a professional bridge player, a travel manager, and a nun.

That’s right. A nun. A real one, unlike a certain impeccably demure faux nun running loose on this blog. (Hi, Sister Krissie!)

This is a picture of me as Sister Michael Damien on the day I received the holy habit and acquired my new name. That’s my mom sitting beside me, pretending to be happier than she was about the whole convent thang.


But that was then. Now I’m happily ensconced in Coronado, California, with all I really need to be happy: sunshine, a beach close by, a computer, lots of books, the aforesaid cat, and many friends. I’ll be blogging here with five of them, and there’s no telling what we’ll get up to.

Oh, yeah. I also write books. Only sixteen so far (nine Regencies and seven historical romances), along with a few novellas. I’ve won some awards, including the RITA, and whenever possible, I present workshops on the craft of writing popular fiction.

As you can tell from my biography, I reinvent myself every few years. There’s nothing like a new adventure to get the blood fired up. So a few months ago, I opened all the doors of my imagination and took flight into science fiction/fantasy romance. Still love the historicals, though, and hope I get to write a lot more of them.

‘Nuff for now. I gotta go tat.

Pat's Nonsensicality

Hi to all. . .
I’m delighted to be here and share with you fun and laughter, perhaps even tears at times, but especially the oft nonsensicality (my word - do not look up in dictionary) of every day living. The latter includes, of course, the joys and tribulations of the writing life.

As it happens, this is tribulation week. I have a new book – "Tempting the Devil" --coming out next week and, as usual, I am a trembling wreck. It always happens thus. Even after more than forty books, I agonize every time a book is released. The cover won’t attract readers. The type too small. The cost too great. And it’s absolutely the worst book I ever wrote.

I make that sad judgment every time I finish a book. Familiarity, apparently, really does breeds contempt, or is it just so difficult to judge your own work? So I wait anxiously for reviews and any kind of feedback to tell me I'm wrong. Wrong. WRONG. Waiting anxiously? Too mild a term. More like waiting in the anteroom of the netherworld to learn whether you are going to heaven or hell.

But this is the subject for a later blog. In the meantime, I want you to know a little more about me. I have great passion for books, flowers and anything with four legs and a tail. (I am also very fond of frogs which, I suppose, also qualify as four-legged beasties). I currently have three rescue dogs: a well behaved, loveable and ancient Shih Tzu and two young part-Australian shepherd sisters I call the Wild Indians. The latter are also loveable and loving but – apropros to their name – not yet fit for civilized society. We go swimming together (I swim, they watch) which is my much loved form of exercise.

And about books. I grew up on books by Mary Stewart, Elswyth Thane (if you haven’t read her Williamsburg series, try to find it especially if you have teenage daughters), Victoria Holt, Frank Yerby, Frank Slaughter, Daphne du Maurier, Margaret Campbell Barnes -- among others -- during the fifties, sixties and seventies. They were all, of course, romance writers, though not called that then. But they influenced my love for writing romances. During the next months, I would dearly love to know the books that made you love reading, and why.

I currently write a mixture of romantic suspense and historicals, though I've written a few short contemporaries as well. I love them all (after some distance), and I truly appreciate those readers who try both. I've been a RITA Finalist five times, twice in romantic suspense and thrice in historicals.

In the next months, I hope to know you better, even as you learn more about us. I can't wait for you to come play with us.

And then I hope you stay and become a part of a very special circle of friends.

Welcome to Maggie's Madness!

Hi, everyone! I'm here ready to party with some of my best friends, and I like to think that includes you. I'm so excited to be a Storybroad, and I think this site is going to become a favorite for a lot of you in record time. It's already my most visited place on the web.

I'm Maggie Shayne, and I've published 40 some-odd novels. Only my Grandma could tell you the exact number--I kind of stopped counting, but she knows every last one of them. The books include lots of paranormals, (my vampire and Witch series being the most widely known of those,) lots of category romances, several romantic suspense novels, tons of anthologies and a few other things thrown in for good measure. I love writing, can you tell? I've garnered lots of awards, including (finally!) the RITA, after only fourteen nominations. I added a fifteenth this year, but got skunked again. Rats! I need another statue so they can be bookends, you know? My books have hit a bunch of bestseller lists, thanks to you readers; NY Times, USA Today, Waldens, Ingrams, etc. (I love when that happens. One thing you'll learn about me here, is that I thrive on praise of any sort, and weep at a hint a criticism. Sensitive type? You got it!)

I live in the most beautiful area I can imagine, way out in the country in central New York state. Rolling hills and farmland and state forests as far as the eye can see. It's the perfect place for writing. I'm a modern day Witch, and I practice spells and charms, and do rituals under the moonlight just about as often as I bathe. It's an everyday thing for me. So naturally I'm also into herbs and gemstones and tarot cards and alternative healing methods and just about anything else you can think of that would be termed "odd." (Odd is my middle name. Honest. Maggie Odd Shayne. What, you think I'm kidding?) My only pet right now is a 12 year old English bulldog named Wrinkles, who is my most loyal pal. She can barely see or hear, and has breath that would stop a truck, but I love her anyway.

Other things I enjoy are running, (so that I can eat whatever I want and not worry about it!) music, movies, TV, the outdoors, and family. I'm a water junky, love the water, swimming, boating, just sticking my feet in, dancing in the rain, you name it. My musical tastes run the full range from hardcore stuff like Godsmack and old-school Metallica, to mellow new age artists like Enya and Dar Williams, to really good country (though I'm fussy about what constitutes "really good,") to Stevi Nicks and Sheryl Crow and the Eagles and a bunch more. In movies, well, I can't help it, I like stupid comedies. The dumber the better. Oh, I enjoy other films, too, but the dumb stuff (which is really brilliant stuff) is my favorite. To list a few, Airplane, Young Frankenstein, Men in Tights, A Brief History of the World, Monte Python's Holy Grail, Dracula: Dead and Loving It, and so on. I watch them over and over, know them by heart, and still laugh until I tear up. I'm a big fan of The Princess Bride, too. Not much is thrilling me on TV lately, but I have a few "must see" choices: Lost (when they deign to show a new episode), House, Psyche, Monk, and, okay, I have to admit to a couple of reality shows--America's Next Top Model and Rock Star, Supernova. I know, I know. But they're so FUN.

Anyway, my life has been in a state of total, turn-me-inside-out transformation lately, and that's what I'll likely be blogging about. New house, new life, brand new chapter to the vampire series, empty nest, (emptier than I had planned, actually) and a bunch of other changes. I'm a single adult for the first time in--well, ever.

So I hope you'll join me here to share in my
(mis?)adventures. And give me advice! Goddess knows, I need it.

Hugs,
Maggie

Sister Krissie the Impeccably Demure

So here I am, among the best of friends, ready to blather on about life, love and the exquisite joy and torture of writing for a living.

I've been writing romance since the dawn of time -- my first book, a gothic, came out in 1974 when I was twenty-five years old. Since then I've written more gothics, regencies, series romances, historical romances, thrillers, romantic adventure, novellas, and always romantic suspense. I've won three RITA awards, the Romance Writers of America Lifetime Achievement Award, numerous Romantic Times awards, been on the USA Today bestseller list countless times (but never the New York Times, alas). I've made a thousand mistakes in my long career, and I'm happy to confess to them all.

I love my family, sewing, Japanese Rock, cooking, music, Vermont, my cats, my dog, quilting, Alan Rickman, androgynous Japanese rock stars, Clive Owen, Russell Crowe (who'd eat one of those afore-mentioned androgynous Japanese rock stars for breakfast), Hiyao Miyazaki, fabric, old movies, nuns, absurd clothing, food (unfortunately), my writing friends, and all sorts of interesting things. Life is a banquet, as Auntie Mame once said, and for me, starving to death was never an option.

And I have a longterm love-hate relationship with writing. Mostly it's glorious, except when it's not, and I whine and scream and yell when it's going badly. Chances are you'll find me entertaining, annoying, or endearing. Or maybe all three.

The one thing I'll never be is boring.