Ho-Ho-Heatwave (Maggie Shayne)

Welcome to the holiday season! It's in full swing, folks, and while I know darn well I'm probably going to curse myself with a blizzard by saying this, I'm going to say it anyway. What the hay is up with this weather? Okay, November 30th, 6 a.m. in central New York state should NOT bring you a temperature of 60 degrees. It's just wrong. I mean, I love it. I'm enjoying it. I can go running, in shorts, and still get too warm. The predicted high today is 67. That's almost 70. On December Eve!
Yesterday it hit 60, the day before 59, and tomorrow, on December 1st, it's supposed to get that warm again.

However, there is sanity in the near future. Late Friday afternoon the change will come swooping in, in the form of a cold front, bringing heavy, possibly damaging winds, plunging temperatures, and maybe even some snow flurries. It's supposed to be pleasantly miserable for the entire weekend, highs in the 30's, snow, ice. Now THAT'S more like it. I mean, okay, it'll be uncomfortable, but I gotta tell you, it's tough to go Christmas/Solstice shopping, or get excited about the hunt for the perfect tree while dressed in shorts, a tank top, and flip flops, and wondering if you applied enough sunblock. Yeah, I'll complain and moan about the weather and the snow, as loud as anyone else and maybe louder. But griping about the weather is just one more of those wintry traditions I've come to know and love. I'd miss it if it were gone, so we really need to do something about this global warming thing.

Despite the tropical climate of late, though, I have managed to do some holiday shopping. Almost 100% of it online. I love the convenience of it. I can finish my pages for the day, hit the reclining chair with a cup of coffee, turn on Comedy Central, crank up the air conditioning, and buy holiday gifts all at the same time. Although, again, there's something off about it. Like the gorgeous weather, it's great, but it's not tradition. Tradition is crowded malls, no place to park, rude shoppers with screaming babies, guys in Santa suits ringing bells for the Salvation Army, and not being able to find the item you need in the right size or color.

So here's my plan. As soon as it snows, I'm going to spend a day in the mall, shopping. I'm going to buy a toy for the Toys for Tots barrel, empty my change into the Salvation Army kettle, hand a five spot to the homeless guy on the corner, and buy presents for people who aren't even on my list. The second snowy day we have, I'm going to head to the cut-your-own Christmas Tree farm, and spend an hour, maybe several hours, trekking through the place in search of the perfect tree. And while they're bundling it and loading it for me, I'm going to grab a cup of hot cocoa and take it with me while I browse the gift shop and find the perfect special ornament to mark my first Christmas in my new house.

On the way to and from these journeys, I'll have my favorite holiday CDs playing in the car; John Denver and the Muppets being number one among those. I just cannot sing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" without adding Miss Piggy's trademark "Ba-dum-bum-bum" to the "five golden rings" part. Although I have a minor complaint about that too. My old CD wore out, and I bought a new one, and it's missing two songs; Little Saint Nick and When the River Meets the Sea, two of my faves. So if anyone out there knows where I can get a version of that CD that includes those songs, let me know, send me a link. It's not Christmas without the full CD.

I need some wreaths and wreath hangers for my doors. I need some decorations. So far I haven't done a single thing to decorate for the holidays. I've been a regular humbug. But okay, it's time to get in the mood. So that's my goal for the week--work up some holiday spirit and show it. And I'll do it, too. Even if it kills me.

Now, since I've cursed myself to a certain snowstorm, I need to go get oil and gas in the snowblower, and I think the instructions said something about a spark plug wire that needs to be attached. Hmmmm......

Merry, Merry, everyone!

Maggie

Ho-Ho-Heatwave (Maggie Shayne)

Welcome to the holiday season! It's in full swing, folks, and while I know darn well I'm probably going to curse myself with a blizzard by saying this, I'm going to say it anyway. What the hay is up with this weather? Okay, November 30th, 6 a.m. in central New York state should NOT bring you a temperature of 60 degrees. It's just wrong. I mean, I love it. I'm enjoying it. I can go running, in shorts, and still get too warm. The predicted high today is 67. That's almost 70. On December Eve!
Yesterday it hit 60, the day before 59, and tomorrow, on December 1st, it's supposed to get that warm again.

However, there is sanity in the near future. Late Friday afternoon the change will come swooping in, in the form of a cold front, bringing heavy, possibly damaging winds, plunging temperatures, and maybe even some snow flurries. It's supposed to be pleasantly miserable for the entire weekend, highs in the 30's, snow, ice. Now THAT'S more like it. I mean, okay, it'll be uncomfortable, but I gotta tell you, it's tough to go Christmas/Solstice shopping, or get excited about the hunt for the perfect tree while dressed in shorts, a tank top, and flip flops, and wondering if you applied enough sunblock. Yeah, I'll complain and moan about the weather and the snow, as loud as anyone else and maybe louder. But griping about the weather is just one more of those wintry traditions I've come to know and love. I'd miss it if it were gone, so we really need to do something about this global warming thing.

Despite the tropical climate of late, though, I have managed to do some holiday shopping. Almost 100% of it online. I love the convenience of it. I can finish my pages for the day, hit the reclining chair with a cup of coffee, turn on Comedy Central, crank up the air conditioning, and buy holiday gifts all at the same time. Although, again, there's something off about it. Like the gorgeous weather, it's great, but it's not tradition. Tradition is crowded malls, no place to park, rude shoppers with screaming babies, guys in Santa suits ringing bells for the Salvation Army, and not being able to find the item you need in the right size or color.

So here's my plan. As soon as it snows, I'm going to spend a day in the mall, shopping. I'm going to buy a toy for the Toys for Tots barrel, empty my change into the Salvation Army kettle, hand a five spot to the homeless guy on the corner, and buy presents for people who aren't even on my list. The second snowy day we have, I'm going to head to the cut-your-own Christmas Tree farm, and spend an hour, maybe several hours, trekking through the place in search of the perfect tree. And while they're bundling it and loading it for me, I'm going to grab a cup of hot cocoa and take it with me while I browse the gift shop and find the perfect special ornament to mark my first Christmas in my new house.

On the way to and from these journeys, I'll have my favorite holiday CDs playing in the car; John Denver and the Muppets being number one among those. I just cannot sing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" without adding Miss Piggy's trademark "Ba-dum-bum-bum" to the "five golden rings" part. Although I have a minor complaint about that too. My old CD wore out, and I bought a new one, and it's missing two songs; Little Saint Nick and When the River Meets the Sea, two of my faves. So if anyone out there knows where I can get a version of that CD that includes those songs, let me know, send me a link. It's not Christmas without the full CD.

I need some wreaths and wreath hangers for my doors. I need some decorations. So far I haven't done a single thing to decorate for the holidays. I've been a regular humbug. But okay, it's time to get in the mood. So that's my goal for the week--work up some holiday spirit and show it. And I'll do it, too. Even if it kills me.

Now, since I've cursed myself to a certain snowstorm, I need to go get oil and gas in the snowblower, and I think the instructions said something about a spark plug wire that needs to be attached. Hmmmm......

By the way, since there was no winter wonderland to photograph, I included a jpg of my new book, which just went on sale this week. If you click on the title of this piece, it'll take you to the book at Amazon. For those who've been waiting, it's the newest in the Brand series, Selene's story. Enjoy!

Merry, Merry, everyone!

Maggie

What Life Tells Us (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I sat down to blog this morning - in time to get here for the east coast early morning people - and I fell asleep. Not just a little asleep, but deeply, dreaming asleep with my head on the desk. And when I woke up I had a choice to make - listen to what life was telling me, or ignore it and probably pay a larger consequence. I listened, went upstairs, laid down and rested for another half hour.

I feel much better now - still with a list too long to get through, but I feel more in tune with the things that matter more than lists, the gifts and messages and help we get along the way, everyday, if we'll only stop and listen, or see.

I'm stressing over a booksigning I have at noon today. It's in a store that tracks (reports for NYT bestselling status) and while it's a month too late for this book to hit, it's the first time I've ever been in a tracking store. And what if I don't sell books? What are the chances that they'll order my next one? Have me back? What are the chances that I'll ever hit that list?

I've made myself sick in the past six weeks, stressing over these kinds of things. I have three books to write in a very short period of time and every one of them have a significant impact on my career - my future - the life I need and want to live. I can't give this up. But I can't do it sick, either.

This morning it occurred to me that I can have it all. We come into this world with dreams and desires and talents and needs. What I'd forgotten was that we also come with the help necessary to achieve, accomplish, survive. This morning, it was a reminder that I needed to rest.

And as I was getting ready for the booksigning, I thought about all of the people who were going to be there - not the ones I'm hoping show up to buy a book, but the ones who've already told me they will be there, supporting me. There are half a dozen of them. And yes, they're the same ones who yell at me and expect things from me and get disappointed in me. But when I need them, there they all are, lining up, a wall of strength and energy to get me through, no matter what happens there. I was so busy worrying about the people who might not come, I was missing all the strength and encouragement that were already there.

I got in the car and my usual radio station is playing Christmas songs from now until January. The first one was by Manheim Steamroller. It brought me such peace I had to stop driving for a moment and just listen. The second was a country song about a little girl who had nothing but a bedragled bird to give, but somehow that bird with a broken wing was suddenly able to fly. Life told her that what she had to give was enough - plenty enough.

And Taylor Marie - my little four pound, red darling baby girl. There she is day in and day out, jumping up to go to the office with her mama, jumping up every time I move, asking to be held if I forget to take a break. This morning, while I was busy lolling in the doldrums of not feeling my best, this little girl took on the world. At least her world. First she pounced on the forty pound mutt lying asleep on the floor. She took her little bone and climbed up on the big dog and started chewing. I had to laugh out loud. I just couldn't help it. Next she took on the ADD ten pound papillion. He screamed at her, but unfazed, she went up and stuck her nose right up to his mouth, smelling, as though inspecting it to see if it was as broken as it had sounded. I laughed again. Next it was on to try to tie shoes, to steal a bone from another one of her friends, and to try to bury it in her mama's pants - that mama was already wearing. Life gave Taylor enough energy today to share. By the time I was dressed and ready to leave the house, I was ready to conquer my world again.

These little gifts - these helps - are with us, surrounding us, speaking to us every single minute of every day - if only we'll listen to what life has to tell us. I guess I've been a little hard of hearing lately. I'm going for a hearing aid just as soon as I'm done with this signing...

The Mute Button (Suzanne Forster

Is this the best invention of the modern age or what? Last week I was complaining about technology. This week I’m drunk with power. My only complaint is that the mute button on my new remote control is way too small. Why didn’t they make it huge? Obviously making mute buttons tiny and hard to find is a conspiracy to keep viewers from muzzling obnoxious commercials, certain TV weathermen and American Idol contestants. That’s probably smart on the manufacturer’s part. I use the mute button more than any other button on the remote.

Once I found it, it didn’t take my brain long to zero in on the exact location and lock it in like sonar. Left side, center, directly under the Volume toggle and right above the Help button. I can now locate the little bitty thing in total darkness. I can do it in my sleep! The other night I grabbed the remote and muted Craig Ferguson in the middle of his monologue.

I actually discovered the mute button a couple years ago, but for some reason I only realized recently how empowering it is. I can stop anyone, mid-word, no matter what they’re saying. Icons like Barbara Walters can be silenced at my whim. Diane Sawyer better watch her step too. Bill Gates? Warren Buffett? The President? Poof. One click and they’re gone. At times that feels so darn good I turn them back on again just so I can turn them off.

Also, Mute buttons are the perfect antidote to brain fatigue, an occupational hazard for writers. When the words dry up, I turn on the television, pick a program I’d love to watch (if I wasn’t on deadline), and let the well fill back up again. When the commercials come on, I mute them and return to my book, but the rule is when the commercial’s over, I turn the sound back on, no matter what. I’m supposed to be watching TV, not writing. I don’t know why it works. Maybe it’s reverse psychology, but before the TV show is over, I’m so absorbed in my book that I’ve forgotten to turn the sound back on. It happens every time. I missed the finals of Dancing With the Stars that way. I actually thought Mario won.

Another great thing about the mute function. Advertisers thought they were so clever when they designed commercials to come on several decibels louder than the regular programming. Ever notice how loud commercials are? How you always look up and wince? The plan is that the noise will get our attention, and we’ll stop whatever we’re doing and watch. I definitely stop what I’m doing, just long enough to hit that blessed mute button. It’s a natural reaction to all the noise. So, their plan backfired. Suzanne--one. Madison Avenue marketing geniuses—zero. Hee.

Mute buttons may be the perfect, non-confrontational form of rejection. The rejectee doesn’t know it’s happening, so nobody gets hurts, but the rejector feels good anyway. At least she’s in total control of something in her life. How often does that happen these days? In my life, darn little. Apparently, there are even mute buttons for the telephone. I don’t have one, and I’m not quite sure how they work, but it opens up new realms of possibilities. If you’re trapped by a long-winded telemarketer, who won’t let you get a word in even to say no thanks, you could simply mute them, carry on with whatever you were doing, and let them exhaust themselves talking. Cool.

So, do we need a Mute button for real life? I wouldn’t mind clicking the dh off when he drones on about computer gadgetry, money, and politics that I don’t agree with. I’m sure he’d love to click me off when I start talking about redecorating the condo, story plotlines, and politics he doesn’t agree with.

But I’m probably too curious by nature. Commercials are one thing, but I’d always be wondering what I missed if I clicked off a real person. And I hope whoever clicked me off might be a little curious too. Taken to the extreme, would we all become drunk with power and keep clicking until the entire world had been silenced? It seems like a possibility, in which case, we’d either have to come up with subtitles or learn to read lips. Hm, I think I like conversation better, even conversation about computer gadgetry.

Maybe it’s enough that I can silence those American Idol contestants? You know the ones I’m talking about.

Suz

Oooops

So I'm an idiot. I'm still down in New Jersey, looking after my mother who just got out of rehab (no, not that kind of rehab. Most of my family goes to that kind of rehab, but my 92 year old mother goes to the bones and operations and accidents kind of rehab. She just got a new knee.)
And I've been runnign around so much I forgot it's my day to post.

OK, Christmas music. New ones this year -- the Sarah Maclachlan and the James Taylor one (though that apparently was out earlier). I have approximately 100 Christmas cds, so I try to keep it under control, but here are my favorites. I'll try for the more obscure ones.

First, the more obscure:
The McGarrigle Christmas Hour. (I'm in love with Rufus Wainwright)
The Jethro Tull Christmas Album (favorite -- Solstice Bells)
We Three Kings by the Roches
Christmas Songs (love the Stewart MacLean monologue but definitely skip The Cat's Carol unless you want to end up sobbing and driving off the road as you weep)
Loreena McKennitt -- A Winter Garden (the version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman inspired one of my historicals)
Medieval Babes
Maddy Prior and the Carnival Band -- Evening of Carols and Capers

Then of course there are the necessities: A Very Special Christmas (all of them), Mannheimer Steamroller, Windham Hill.

The J-rock (which are hard to find). B'z and "Itsuka no Merry Christmas" (Gackt and Ayumi sing it as well). TM Revolution and "Burning Xmas." Gackt and "December Love Song." Plus some even more obscure ones, like Chisato ("December Snow").

And the oldies but goodies: Phil Spector (pretend he died young), John Denver and the Muppets (the 12 Days of Christmas is a favorite), the soundtrack to "Scrooged", the Beach Boys and Elvis is you lean that way.

The other important thing is to sing, very loudly, with any of the songs you know. Singing brings air into your lungs and fills your body with energy, and it doesn't matter whether you're tone deaf or not. Maddy Prior has another cd of hymns called "Sing Lustily and with Good Measure."

I advice you all to do the same!

Anyone got great Christmas/holiday cds they can recommend? 100 Christmas cds are not enough.

StoryBroads Anniversary: This is Post #100!

Question: What would you like to ask the StoryBroads? We're willing to talk about Life, the Universe, and (almost) Everything. What topics do you suggest we take up in the next 100 posts?

We would love to hear from you!

The Price of Happiness . . . (Lynn Kerstan)

. . . is set by forces beyond our control. And because happiness is a treasure, we ought never to count the cost.

It will exact itself soon enough. Specifically, when the credit card bill arrives.

Because I’m happiest when traveling, I long ago learned to grit my teeth, go to the website, ignore the bottom line, fill in the method of payment, close my eyes, and click on "Pay Now." Why ruin wonderful memories with cold, hard facts? The money is gone. Time to live on peanut butter and day-old bread. Time to stash away money for the next trip.

It’s the unexpected costs that grill my liver, particularly those I accumulated through my own carelessness. I speak here of manicure scissors. In the last five years, by various means, in assorted countries, I have contributed eleven delicate and pricey pairs of little pointy scissors to the cause of airline security.

We won’t count the tweezers confiscated, or the toenail clippers. It’s the scissors that haunt me, especially when I have to fork them over at the beginning of a trip to a location where they won’t be easy to replace. Oh, and when I’m standing in front of the "implements" display in the drug store after a trip, calculating what I’ll be paying (for the umpteenth time) to pare my nails and trim my cuticles. Nails and cuticles do not, I have noticed, see fit to stop growing while I wait for an "implements" sale.

I’m a good traveler. I do my homework. Make lists. Pack with care. But the fact is, scissors have it in for me.

The first rogue pair was confiscated in Ireland. My alarm clock, clearly in league with the scissors, failed in its duty, so I wound up groggily throwing everything into my suitcase while a van-load of fellow travelers waited and griped. Ryan Air relieved me of the scissors. I offered the clock as well, but they wouldn’t take it.

I’ve lost four pairs of manicure scissors, at different times, in New York. My fault. Forgot to pack them in the checked baggage. What comes of last-minute rushes to New Jerusalem Pizza and Falafel for a dozen soft, sesame-seed-crusted bagels. I don’t begrudge the loss of scissors in the cause of the world’s finest bagels.

Never mind my other sordid tales. Tragic packing accidents. Until last week, that is, when I did everything right. Three visits (count ‘em) to the TSA website for the updated rules, which I can practically recite by heart. Leetle bottles of moisturizer and foundation, chapstick and lip gloss, teensy toothpaste tube, all the potential offenders neatly packed in a clear, one-quart-size plastic bag.

Best of all, my practically new manicure scissors and cuticle scissors were snugly nestled in my carry-on bag. That’s right. It is now legal to trot onto a plane with those suckers. "Free and clear," I thought. No more surrendering of the scissors.

But I didn’t count on Canada. Oh, they welcomed me warmly enough. Snow, glittering in the sunlight, lightly frosted the trees and ground. That’s a real treat for a San Diego gal. I was speaking at a writers conference in Calgary, where the hospitality, the professionalism, and the friendliness of the participants couldn’t have been bettered.

So I was feeling mighty fine when time came to return home. US Customs whisked me through right there at the airport. But then came Security–Canadian Security–and . . . you guessed it.

Yeah, I shoulda checked Canadian restrictions. It just never occurred to me. And today, at the drug store, I once again paid the implementary price of happiness.

No regrets. But in future, I think I’ll leave the scissors at home and wear gloves everywhere I go. On the other hand, the inevitably bare hand, when did I ever manage to hang on to a complete pair of gloves for more than a day?

Gloves, manicure scissors, and socks. C’mon, guys. What did I ever do to you?

The Cover Made Me Do It (Patricia Potter)

I had an entirely different blog in mind until I read Maggie’s Tofurkey piece.
After my grin faded away, I decided I would make my own confession.
The turkey she saved might be in my fridge.

I start by saying this has not been a good month professionally. I am losing an editor I love to another job. And Monday I received a copy of my new cover (April). I opened it, and horror! It’s – you know – the kind of career-ending cover. My agent’s opinion: it’s a candidate for the Worse Cover Ever Hall of Fame.

The problem was not the publisher not trying. Then I could rail and rage, but part of it was my fault. The cover was a painting by a famous Scottish painter who had done a fantastic job on my last cover. My editor sent me a sketch a month ago, but my AOL would not open it. I went on faith. Big mistake.

So everyone – my agent, my editor and me --spent Tuesday and Wednesday rushing around to see what could be done. At this point, though, it is difficult and expensive to change a cover.
I became frustrated.
When I get frustrated, I become compulsive.

This time I became compulsive about turkeys.
Since I am single with only three critters as dependents, some other member of the family always hosts Thanksgiving dinner. They have family coming from near and far to help with the preparation. But I truly love turkey, and I never cook one just for me. I mean who can eat a complete turkey by oneself?
But I also love leftovers. I especially love leftover turkey sandwiches. Huge big chunks of meat, not the overly processed kind found in the deli.

So four years ago, I discovered smoked turkeys at my favorite barbecue restaurant. They smoke them only at Thanksgiving. They are amazingly inexpensive and pure succulent delight. So for years, I quietly bought a smoked turkey, gorged for three, four, five days, made a pot of soup, made my mom turkey sandwiches which she loves, and shared some of the remainder with the aforementioned critters who were more than willing to indulge in my guilty pleasure.

I ordered my smoked turkey two weeks in advance and picked it up Tuesday. A whole smoked turkey just for me. Well, me and my mom and the dogs. Days and days of turkey sandwiches. I gorged on Tuesday and Wednesday, sliced some meat for future sandwiches and started preparations to make a pot of soup. But something was nagging me as I started my soup. I began to wonder whether one turkey was enough. That compulsive gene again. If one turkey was wonderful, two would be better.

And those smoked turkeys were only available once a year.
More turkey, more sandwiches. More soup.
How better to soothe a cover disaster?

So I trotted off the barbeque place and asked whether they had any extras. They never do.
They did. Two.

I thought for a moment. My once-a- week housekeeper was cleaning my house and she’d mentioned several days earlier she was short of money. I was pretty sure she was going to use that day’s salary on groceries for Thanksgiving. By golly, I would get one of those wonderful smoked turkeys for her. But when I drove back home, I thought maybe, perhaps, I should have asked her first. So I went inside and asked if she had done anything about a turkey. She gave me the broadest, proudest smile and said she had found a 21-pound turkey for practically nothing. I said nothing about that third turkey in the trunk.

I now had three smoked Thanksgiving turkeys at five p.m. on Wednesday evening, and I was due for my evening visit to Mom’s nursing home. My mother and I had planned to have Thanksgiving dinner at my niece’s who, I knew, had already bought a turkey her brother planned to deep fry, as well as a turkey breast to be roasted. Didn’t need more turkey. It was too late to find anyone to donate it to.

Nothing to do but make more soup. And so make soup I did upon return from the nursing home. All night. A frenzy of soup making with mushrooms, onions, wild rice and squishy tubes of oregano and parsley. Two huge kettles of soup. My freezer soon had no more room, and I still had platters and platters of turkey in the fridge section.

Drugged from lack of sleep, I went to Thanksgiving dinner the next day. My niece wanted to know whether I wanted to take any leftovers home. I declined politely, not admitting I had a fridge bulging with turkey.

I now have forty pounds of smoked turkey and turkey soup. Enough, I think, for the next year. Maybe for the next two.
And still a terrible cover.

Even worse, Maggie made me feel very, very guilty about my gluttony.
She cooks a tofurkey and here . . . well, I am awash with turkey.

Anyone want to visit? I have turkey, turkey hash, turkey pie. Turkey soup. Lots and lots of it.

I am only mildly comforted that I have an excuse. My cover made me do it. Gobble. Gobble.

Maggie Shayne--Tofurkey Day!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

This will be short as I'm expected to gather with the whole clan bright and early this morning. This year Thanksgiving is very different for our family, but it can still be good, and fun, and I'm hoping and expecting both. But I can't help but think back on the year of the dreaded tofu turkey. See, two of my daughters are vegetarians. So one year, we decided to get a tofu bird for them. We bought a Tofurkey. My son in law Ben, not a vegetarian, but married to one, vowed to eat the tofurkey. A grand gesture of love for his bride. So we prepared it, and cooed about how sweet he was.

It was sort of a gelatinous mass, colored and shaped to resemble a turkey, although turkey shouldn't jiggle, should it? It didn't taste like turkey. I think the effort to make tofu taste like turkey was a mistaken, though well intended effort on the part of the manufacturer. Tofu that tastes like tofu is probably better. (It couldn't be worse.) Even the vegetarians wouldn't eat it. But Ben did. Like a trooper (or a soldier, which is what he is) he chowed down on the stuff.

I think maybe that's the meaning of true love, right there. A man who'll eat tofurkey for you is one you can depend on.

No tofurkey is on the menu for today. Over the years, we've found lots of great recipes the veggie lovers adore. Candied Pecans, sweet potato casserole, vegetarian stuffing that I actually like better than the in the bird type. It's all good.

Wish me luck today. And have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I promise next week's blog will be longer!

And now, let the holidays roll in! It's time!

Maggie

Letting Go (Tara Taylor Quinn)

"Happiness is as a butterfly try to capture it and it flies away, but if you let it go it may come back to alight upon you."

I don't know who said that, and it might not be those exact words, but when I grew up, this was framed in a pretty piece of art on a wall in my house. It's been on the guest bathroom wall in my mother's bathroom in her current home for as long as I can remember her having the home. I grew up reading it. I read it still. And every single solitary time I read it I know that I'm supposed to find peace there and all I can find is a feeling of being unsettled. I mean, really, what are the chances of a butterfly alighting upon me? Are my chances at happiness as slim as that?

A long time ago I wrote a tribute to the person I was most connected to in the world - my year older than me brother. I could go to him anytime day or night - and did - and he opened his door. When we were younger it was his bedroom door. In our early twenties it was the apartment door right downstairs from my apartment door. And then he was killed in a car accident - on a holiday. Maybe this is why I struggle so much at holiday time. Anyway, I apologize for the digression (but I just had an ah ha moment so thank you). After he died, I wrote this tribute to Chum. In it I talked about the security that set free.

Yesterday I was reading a spiritual post on the internet. It talked about letting go. I get that this is a good thing. That there is so little we can control that there isn't much point in trying. And I agree. It makes no sense to try to control that which you can't control. Like many aspects of the future. Other people's choices. Your health. Accidents.

And yet, even then I am uncomfortable. I'm a huge Stephen Covey's Highly Effective People advocate. I really believe, down to my core, the principals he teaches. He says we have a circle of control. There are things that we do have the ability to control. He suggests that if we concentrate only on those things within our circle, we don't waste time and energy on the fruitless activity of controlling that which we can't - AND we live more effective and happier lives because we DO control that which we can. For instance. I can't control my future, but I can make choices in my now that will have a good effect on my future. I can choose to sit at my computer and write and that might see me on the NYT list in my future. It's provided me years of financial security. If I'd chosen to give up my dream to be a writer, I'd be working at McDonalds right now. (I'm a certified English teacher but I was horrible at it.) I can't control other people's choices, but I can choose and control how I treat them and that will have some effect on their choices (good or bad.) I can't control whether or not I get some illness or other, but I can exercise every day, watch my weight and what I ingest and get enough rest so that I can have a positive effect on my future health.

I've been accused of being controlling. This always stops me in my tracks as I don't even try to control most of what goes on in the world. Anything that is outside my circle of control or my circle of influence, I don't even consider. (Politics for instance. Until last year I didn't even know what right and left were and two of my closest friends are a rightie and a leftie!) But I guess I can see how someone who exists in my close circle could think I was controlling. Because I carefully consider and conciously control the decisions I can so that I don't react (blow in the wind) but, instead, act in the ways that are true to what I want. I'm merely trying to apply what I know and have a positive effect on my life, my future, and on the lives of those I love. (Guess I'm not doing too good a job of that when I seem to be controlling! Always, always, always more that needs work!)

Anyway, all of this came together for me yesterday. I can't just blow in the wind with the butterflies, hoping that one alights on me. And yet, there's a huge truth in letting go. To me, the answer was the security that sets free. We have to recognize our circles of control. We have to make decisions within them. (And if you believe in a spiritual connection, as I do, that comes to play here, too.) If we do this, if we believe it, we will feel secure enough to let go of that which we can't control. That's the security that sets free.

We don't have to blow in the wind. Thank goodness.

(I'm off to make pies now. Lots of them. Pumpkin and Apple and Pecan and these I do well!! And by the way, the apple jelly turned out GREAT!!! I've since made a second batch and soon will be giving it out on street corners!)

The Single-Breath Test (Suzanne Forster)

I just read an article by John Maeda, an MIT professor of computer science, who swears that he, too, is overwhelmed by all the bells and whistles of today’s technology. I can’t tell you how much better that made me feel. Not only am I not the only one, I’m in pretty good company.

I’ve blogged about some of my technology woes, such as my Vaio laptop taking pictures of me without my knowledge or permission. (I apparently fell asleep at the keyboard and hit the Capture button.) This is the same computer that sends my emails before I can get them written. If only it would write them for me! But that’s kid stuff compared to what happened to my voice mail system a couple weeks ago. It literally vanished into thin air, taking all of my saved messages with it. For several days, people thought they were leaving me messages, but they were talking into a void—and this while I was traveling and relying totally on the cell phone for both personal and business calls.

The customer service person I spoke with had no clue what had happened and neither did the tech support person, although he promised they would send it to their Fix-It Team. For all I know that could have been a magician with a hat and a rabbit. Ringing in my ears was the bad news that the messages couldn’t be retrieved, and I would have to set up a new voice mail system. I set up the system, but still haven’t recorded my welcome message. That’ll show ‘em.

Are you ready for the good news? Apparently the Fix-It Team has been busy because now the system is saving calls for me, whether I want them or not. I have no idea how it’s choosing which calls to save, but there were twenty and counting last time I checked. Oh, joy.

In another example of technology run amuck, Allan recently removed a beloved virus program that he’d been updating and upgrading for many years. He said it was causing his computer to run at the speed of a glacier. He and I both have AOL, but he’s never trusted their security, so he went for some extra protection. Me, what do I know about computer security? I took what came with the machine. When I asked him why he’d decided to part with the program, he pointed out that I’d had no viruses, and my computer ran light years faster. Hey, I did something right. He also allowed that less might be more where computers are concerned.

Actually, that’s the MIT professor’s point. In the article, Maeda says that “hi-tech gadgets should make life easier, not more complicated.” That seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it? But exactly the opposite is happening. New technology is getting more complicated—and the professor claims it’s our fault. Us, the American consumer. He says we can’t resist a bargain, and I think he may have a point. Most of us want all the bang we can get for our buck. Why else did I buy a Sony laptop with a camera and a video recorder that I’ve never used, except by accident.

He points out how much easier a simple a pocket knife is to operate than a Swiss Army Knife, but we go for the latter, even though the odds are we’ll never use all the extra stuff. And it’s the same with cell phones. He claims that instead of “buying a simple cell phone, we eagerly purchase the deluxe model that comes with a camera, calendar, clock, digital music player and date book. We buy features we don’t need for the ‘just in case’ scenario that almost never happens, then spend a great deal of time stumbling over those extra features to get to the ones we really want.”

Professor Maeda’s had his own embarrassing problems with hi-tech gadgetry, including his cell phone. It seems he thought he’d turned off the ringer for an important meeting when mid-way through the speaker’s talk, his phone erupted. Everyone turned to look at him as if he’d done it on purpose—because he couldn’t be dumb enough not to know how to turn off the ringer, right? Hey, I’m still trying to find the section in my cell phone manual on ringers. My ringer’s gone off every place you could imagine, and a few you probably couldn’t. I now take no chances and turn off the phone altogether, which pretty much negates the purpose for which I bought it—emergency calls. Sheesh.

Maeda’s article, entitled “How To Keep It Simple” can be found in the November 19th issue of Parade. I thought his guidelines for the technologically challenged, which seems to be most of us, were nothing short of brilliant, and I’ll share one here that’s particularly relevant:

“Administer the single-breath test. If the sales clerk can’t explain how to use a gadget in a single breath, it’s probably too complicated. Say ‘thank you’ and walk away—you’ll save yourself a lot of misery down the road.”

The single-breath test. What a concept. It’s so zen you could almost meditate on it. I don’t see why it couldn’t be expanded into a general rule of thumb for living, and maybe even for novel-writing. If the hero can’t express his desire for the heroine in a single breath, it’s probably too complicated. As in actions speak louder than words? As in shut up and kiss me, you little fool? Mm, I like that. But maybe the best example of single-breath communication was Bacall’s legendary line to Bogie: “You know how to whistle, don’t you? Just put your lips together and blow.”

Suz

Thanksgiving (Anne Stuart)

So, okay, maybe I jumped the gun a bit about Christmas, forgetting the Thanksgiving part. Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays, and not just because it's about food. For one thing, it's the official start of the Christmas season, which is my favorite time of year. For another, I get to see all my family and I don't have to drive (they all come to me).
But most of all, it's because it's about joy and gratitude. Everything positive, nothing negative. I have a very hard time with negativity when the world's full of such wonderful things, and I'm a great believer in celebrating.
So let me tell you what I'm grateful for. I'm grateful for the people in my life who are clean and sober after hard times. Hell, I'm grateful for the people in my life who are relatively clean and sober (progress, not perfection). I've had a number of people in my life who died from addictions, and I can't afford to lose any more.

I'm grateful to the most wonderful friends in the world. People close to me -- Jenny Crusie the fierce and fabulous, Maggie Shayne, Lynn Kerstan. And people I don't know that well, like Deb Smith and Patricia Rice. Anything that makes me realize what good friends I have is a Good Thing.

I'm grateful to my fabulous agent, Jane Dystel, who goes to battle for me, soothes my wounded soul and always keeps one step ahead of things.

I'm very grateful to the hardworking editors, press people, marketing people, bookstore workers, etc. Anyone who toils in the publishing/bookselling industry. They're usually overworked and underpaid and put up with it because they love what they do, and we couldn't survive without them

And I'm most grateful to people who read. To those who read my books and love them, to those who read any books and love them. Reading is a joy and a lifesaver, a cure for cancer or a tough day at the office. And if people didn't read I'd be saying "you want fries with that?"

In fact, what I'm most grateful to is my Higher Power, sometimes referred to as God, among other things. My higher power gave me talent and the ability to work hard and persevere. God gave me luck and timing. It was the readers who put me on the New York Times list at looooong last, it was God's grace that let it happen.

So I'm thankful, and grateful for all the many good things that have happened, and even thankful for the bad things, which make the good things all the sweeter.

And I hope you all have as many things to feel thankful about as I do, because I've been truly blessed.

Warrior Women (Lynn Kerstan)

Between my mother the Human Lie Detector ("The cat did not knock over that lamp") and Sister Mary Conrad, the Verbal Sledgehammer ("Don’t give me any guff about the cat peeing on your homework"), I was forced to accept at a very early age that the life of crime was not for me.

I invariably got caught. Always paid the price, plus interest. The cat, on the occasions he was actually guilty, got away scot free.

So whenever I stagger up the foothills to the moral high ground, it’s purely Fear of Consequences put me there. I do not say that with pride.

Worse, though, is a phenomenon I have watched and sometimes, to my shame, been part of. It’s frightfully easy, almost irresistible, to be wicked in a group. Especially if there are powerful or charismatic people to stake out a position and draw the others to accept and promote it. That’s true in history, which features some truly loathesome examples (Nazi Germany, Rwanda, the Ku Klux Klan), but it operates on a small scale as well. Even a partnership of two can get sucked into a deep hole.

Years ago, a potential friend and I were working with someone who gave us lots of problems. No, we didn’t gang up against her. No, we didn’t bad-mouth her to other people. The first rule of self-indulgence is "Do No Harm." But we griped endlessly to one another. Wrote long, savagely witty emails about the situation. It was fun. Sharing our grievances drew us closer. We bonded.

And for the first time, I understood what Jean Paul Sartre meant when he said–I’m paraphrasing here–"Love is two people mutually hating a third."

We all want to "belong," to be one of the kewl group, to be accepted. And way too often, tribes are rooted in the demonization and persecution of a chosen enemy. Think back to junior high school, the Mean Girls, and their victims.

I’ve seen this group-bonding and tormenting of the Other play out from kindergarten through graduate school and at most of the jobs I’ve worked. From car-hopping to college teaching, I saw it. Was occasionally a part of it. Every organization I’ve belonged to was rife with it.

And once this sort of thing gets started, it escalates. Mind you, no one is without flaws. The victim might well have said or done something unwise, or made a mistake. Don’t we all?

As for the persecutors, we’re not talking about evil people here. Most of us have unfortunate tendencies or psychological deficiencies that remain fairly inert until the dark allure of a group supporting our "cause" stirs them to action. Then it’s Katy, bar the door.

Talk radio and blogs and e-mail loops have created even more ways for mean-spirited people to band together and beat up on the enemy du jour. From the safety of their homes, just about anyone can join a mob. And because what they write or say reflects more on their own characters than on the people they are trashing, they generally protect themselves with the shield of a pseudonym or the classic "Anonymous."

What about the bystanders? That would be most of us. Even if we don’t jump in, we enable the bad actions by keeping our heads down and our mouths shut. We’re afraid that if we take a contrary position, we’ll be attacked. We’ll wind up in the scarred ranks of the persecuted. We forget that our silence is alliance. It gives consent.

Which is why I so admire the fearless people who speak truth to power, who stand up when most people back away. The ones who open their hearts and express their feelings so that others can imagine themselves being free to do the same. I aspire to be one of them.

Every once in a while, circumstances leave me no choice. There’s a sword hanging on my wall, a well-crafted "fantasy" sword that wouldn’t cut butter. But it is unutterably precious, because it was given me for being, during a year-long struggle, a "Warrior Woman." That title really belongs to the gallant Teresa Hill, who has a sword of her own. But I managed to do my small part, which goes to prove that even the weakest among us can be strong.

Here on StoryBroads, I have the privilege of blogging with five strong, independent, outspoken women whose integrity is diamond-bright. They unite with others to help and support, not to cause pain or ruin reputations. They always lead from the heart.

Some of you may be wondering why several of us have been writing this week about controversy and personal attacks. Best you seek the answer from a writer who never pulls her punches in a good cause. Jenny Crusie is one of my favorite people on the planet, not to mention one of the most entertaining. Head over and read what she has to say about Clue Cake and the current kerfuffle.
http://jennycrusie.blogspot.com/

Of Letters and Memories (Patricia Potter)

One of the most powerful letters I’ve ever read was one featured on Ken Burns’ Civil War series on PBS several years ago. If you do not remember, it starts, “Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love for country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.”
It finishes, “If the dead can come back to the earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by . . .”
The letter was written by Sullivan Ballou, who died a week later in the Battle of Gettysburg.

I was thinking about that incredibly moving letter today as I went through some boxes of letters, notes, news clippings, etc., that belonged to my Uncle Phil. Phillip Potter was a foreign correspondent for the Baltimore Sun for many years and was regarded by the paper with the same awe as H. L. Mencken, according to the newspaper’s history.

He was a war correspondent during World War II and was present at the signing of the Japanese surrender. He was Washington correspondent during the MacCarthy hearings and was one of several credited with bringing him down. He wrote a devastating piece about Nixon which the then vice president blamed as one of the reasons he was defeated in 1960. He was asked to be press secretary for Lyndon Johnson but turned it down and instead covered those tumultuous years as chief Washington correspondent.

He died a decade or more ago, and his wife some months ago. My cousins, knowing my great interest in his career and in history, asked whether I would like his memorabilia. I didn’t have to think twice. Send them, I said.
Boxes arrive day by day. Boxes and more boxes. Every day brought new treasures. Then came two stuffed file cabinets. Uncle Phil apparently threw very little, if anything, away. There were clippings of stories he wrote, ranging from the MacCarthy hearings to the China/Indian war to World War II and great events through the sixties. Included in those boxes was personal correspondence with the great and near great during the forties and fifties and sixties.

I’d always revered him. He was the reason I went into journalism. I had always loved writing, but when I met him my interest went from fiction to reporting. At fifteen, I was visiting him and he took me up to the National Press Club where I met Art Buchwald. I decided then to be a reporter and at twenty became a reporter with The Atlanta Journal. In later years he introduced me to two presidents.

But I digress.

The point here -- I think -- is letters. Due to deadlines and my own mother’s illness, I’ve had only sporadic forays into this treasure but during those brief visits I found not only historical treasures but family treasures as well.
One box included a letter from a woman whose direct connection to me is still a mystery, but it’s there. She is a great, great, great, great aunt or grandmother. Haven’t figured out exactly which yet, but I think further exploration will tell me. Her life would had made a great historical romance. She was a nurse during the Civil War and after the war married a military surgeon. She was one of the first woman to attend medical school and became a doctor herself, then ended up in a gold mine camp in the Yukon.
The letter was written by her to a relative back home in Minnesota. Her description of life in the mining camps is pure magic, particularly about the part that everyone had difficulty sleeping. Since it was night twenty-four hours a day, no one knew what time it was, and visitors were was likely to knock on the door at 3 a.m. in the morning as five p.m. in the afternoon. Just a quick examination of some boxes tells me there are many more discoveries to be made, more intimate glimpses into legendary times.

The art of letter writing seems to be disappearing. There’s email, of course, but how many emails are kept and preserved? They disappear with the click of a button. And there’s something almost holy about reading a letter written a hundred years earlier in that person’s own hand rather than produced by an impersonal electronic device. They never quite convey the same emotion, the power of words.

People seem not to have the time today to sit down and pen a missive. I know I do not, and yet I am ever so grateful when someone take the time to actually write me a letter. Business people tell me that young people today are not taught pensmanship in school. It is assumed that that everyone will use computers. And I wonder if future generations will lose a wonderful legacy. Will people actually keep those emails wrapped carefully and tied by ribbons for future generations to see?

Note: If anyone is interested in the complete Sullivan Ballou letter, search Ken Burns/Civil War, then historical documents.

UPDATE ON WORK IN PROGRESS

Bring out the wet noddles. Very little progress since I was finishing reading the edited manuscript of a book scheduled for publication in April(I always make changes). Also had twenty entries to read for my chapter’s contest(some really terrific ones). My bathtub cracked and flooded my bathroom, my car died and my 96-year-old mother had a few emergencies. And then there are all those lovely boxes to open.
I know. Excuses. Excuses.
Hopefully will do better during Thanksgiving Week.

Maggie Shayne--Bad Days

You know, no matter how well you think you're doing, there are always going to be days when people let you down, or bad things happen, or you get overwhelmed, and you just feel like crap.

I'm having one of those. Actually, I'm having several in a row. The writing hasn't gone well this week, I nearly wrecked my car, it's done nothing but rain, I'm feeling a lot of unrealistic expectations put on me, and I'm worried I won't be able to pull them off, and then I turn around and put unrealistic expectations on others and feel like crap when they let me down. It's a vicious cycle. I need to let it go and get back to my normal, bubbly, optimistic, sickeningly cheerful self.

I need to make some changes, get a little bit stronger and clearer, more self sufficient (I mean, I am totally self sufficient about most aspects of my life, but I still tend to need other people to make me feel happy and complete and loved, and that's not a very dependable source of happiness.) So I'm taking a 40 day course called Destination Transformation, which can be found at www.effortlesshealing.com. It's free, and it's supposed to be life altering. (Link in the title of this piece, I think.)

Now I already know most of the principles this course espouses. That we create our own destiny, that what we most fear is what we draw to us, that what we most focus on becomes our experience, that everything happens the way it's supposed to, and that no one's in charge of our lives, feelings, emotions and experiences but us. But knowing these things and living them are two very different things. I figure by doing the daily exercises and meditations I might get a little better at living this way on a daily basis.

I invite everyone to join in and try the course with me. Heck, it can't hurt, right? And we all have room for improvement.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Are We Basically All Good? (Tara Taylor Quinn)

WARNING: Heavy material. Handle with care.

I'm wondering about people. We're all made up of many levels, moods, feelings. We can each be kind and mean, grouchy and patient and sometimes funny. Some of us are more prone to some of these characteristics than others, but we all have the potential for most or all of them. But we're basically, at our core, good, right? Or at least, the majority of us are. (There's always the exception to prove any rule.)

I have a friend who's kind, and successful and funny and generous and because she told the truth in a public arena, she's being blasted in places that hurt her. To the effect that she's questioning her own talents and gifts and abilities. Why do these people do this? What prompts them to be mean - and to think that they have the right to be mean? Do they thrive on negative energy? Do they feel powerful because they can tear someone else down? How on earth does this bless their lives? Make them happy?

Over the past two years I experienced much of this same thing myself. I couldn't go on the internet without reading ugly things people were saying about me. People who have never met me before in my life, people who have never had a personal conversation with me were downgrading my character. And they seemed to thrive on the practice. They'd blog with authority about things they had no personal knowledge of - and, as in the game of telephone so many of us played as kids - by the time the stories got told and re-told, they rarely even resembled the truth. Back when we were kids, when the final story was told, we all laughed at how screwed up it was. I'm not laughing anymore. My friend was hurt yesterday. I've been hurt. So have others.

For what? Not for truth. She'd spoken the truth. (As had I but that's another story.) Not for knowledge - the information was merely opinion about another's character, choices, talent. What good was to be gained?

And yet people flock to these sites. They read them and some flag the fires with comments - giving their own opinions about people they've never met and situations they've only heard about through a game of telephone.

I had another friend tell me yesterday that she liked a softer Tara. She opened my eyes to what I can so easily become when I allow myself to be buffeted by the winds of people who seem to think nothing of spewing negative energy out into the world. I become hard to withstand the gale.

Last night I was driving on the winding mountain road by my house and a girl/young woman came sailing down the middle of the road - dressed all in dark colors - on a skateboard. She had no lights or reflectors. I could so easily have hit her. It was only by her angels watching over her that I didn't. I thought, what an idiot. I started on a mind journey denigrating the girl for her stupidity. And then, outloud, I said, I'm sure she has a good heart. But it took me conscious thought to get there. Yet is was so easy to start mentally beating her up for her stupidity. I hear other people do this kind of 'cutting down' people all the time. Why??? Why do we do this? We're all basically good, right? We band together when our nation is attacked, we give to charity and help at the polls, we write books about love and hope and forgiveness, we rally when someone is sick or needs items for auctions for a cause. We care when someone is hurt. Yet, how many times a day do we, either mentally or, worse, verbally, attack those very same people for something as innocent as speaking the truth? Or riding a board down a hill?

Today I am challenging myself - and anyone else who got this far with me - to be who we basically are - good. Kind. I'm going to look at every girl coming down the road in the dark as someone with a good heart - and then learn from her actions that I don't ever want to ride a skateboard down a dark mountain road in the dark with dark clothes on. I'm going to assume that she doesn't mean to offend anyone with her actions. I'm going to think about how open and free her heart must feel as she sails down that road - and maybe wonder what's going on her life that she chose to do something not quite safe in order to get the feeling of freedom and joy.

I don't want to thrive on, or contribute to, the needless hurting of others. I hope you don't, either.

The Month of Living Dangerously (Suzanne Forster)

As I write this post I’m still fighting off the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning from a leaky furnace here at the condo in Olympia, so if I’m making even less sense than usual, you’ll know why. A friend called yesterday afternoon and woke me from a deep nap. She mentioned that I’d been sleeping a lot lately and had complained of feeling tired. That was true, but I had been dismissing it as the kind of battle fatigue that comes from years of commuting to care for my mother, while trying to keep up with deadlines and all of the other stresses of being chief cook, bottle washer, and breadwinner, at home.

Really, it was plenty of reason to feel tired. I explained to my friend that the well had run dry and it was going to take some time to fill back up. I don’t think she was entirely convinced—and well she shouldn’t have been. Even as we spoke, I was being exposed to levels of CO that registered at 2000 parts per million, twice the limit considered dangerous, but I had no idea.

There’s no way to smell or detect CO. At first, you feel almost pleasantly sleepy and drugged and all you want to do is sleep, at least that was my experience. After my friend called, I decided to get up and go out. I knew I didn’t feel quite right, but I didn’t seem to be sick. I had no fever, but I was groggy and felt achy, and getting dressed took enormous effort. Once outside I recovered very quickly and began to feel like myself again.

I was still doing okay when I got back home an hour and a half later. I talked on the phone to another friend and to Allan, my husband, and by the time I was done, I felt tired again. I fell asleep almost immediately, on top of the bed, fully dressed, and woke up at midnight thinking I must have come down with something. I could hardly drag myself up to get ready for bed. Somehow I must have managed it, because I put my nightgown on, but I don’t remember most of it. I do remember that the back of my neck was throbbing and I was extremely lethargic and achy, and all I wanted to do was sleep.

At four in the morning I woke up with a sense of dread. I knew something was terribly wrong, but didn’t have any idea what it could be. It was hard to focus my thoughts, and I didn’t have the strength to get up, but my mind wouldn’t let me go back to sleep again, as much as I wanted to. I actually felt like one of the protagonists in my suspense novels, whose mind was forcing her to go over the suspects again and again, until she figured out which one was out to get her.

I can remember thinking I may have been drugged at dinner at the little Mexican place I love and frequent quite often when I’m here. Or maybe it was the decaf coffee I’d picked up afterward at a Starbucks. Could it have been laced with something? Could one of the sampler lotions I’d tried at the department store have a deadly substance that absorbed through the skin? Was this a several allergic reaction? Had I breathed in something bad?

I’m amazed I was able to think at all, but my mind kept coming back to that last thing. Was it something I’d breathed? And that’s when it hit me—not that I was inhaling carbon monoxide, that never occurred to me, but somehow, in my delirium, I told myself to go open a window, that fresh air might help. I remember groping my way to the window in total darkness and struggling to get the blinds out of my way. I only opened the glass a crack and went straight back to bed. There was a storm blowing outside, and it was freezing, but I suspect that icy current of air probably saved my life.

When I woke up this morning, I felt somewhat better and was greatly relieved. Maybe it was nothing serious. I shut the windows, turned up the heat and got busy trying to write my blog for Storybroads, although it was a completely different subject at that time. But I couldn’t concentrate at all. I was getting a headache and struggling to stay awake when another friend called. Thank God for my friends! I told her my symptoms, and she immediately mentioned CO poisoning, which she’d had some experience with. I didn’t take her too seriously, although I did open a window.

I also got up, thinking I might be able to shake off the lethargy with some physical activity. I put in a load of laundry, did the dishes in the sink and fixed myself some breakfast. But I was much too sick to eat anything. By the time I sat down at the table, I was overcome with nausea and my head was splitting. All I wanted to do was lie down, but I got myself to the computer, looked up CO poisoning, and there I was, a textbook case.

After fifteen minutes of detox on the back deck, breathing brisk, rain-washed air into my lungs and flushing out the nasty carbon monoxide, I went back inside and called the gas company. They have an emergency service for leaks, and a man was there within minutes. As he approached the furnace, his monitor went crazy. It reminded me of a Geiger counter.

When he was done with his investigation, he told me in technical terms what I already knew—that the furnace was trying to kill me. He suggested I go to a 24-hour clinic and get checked out because carbon monoxide replaces the oxygen in your blood stream and can cause permanent neurological dysfunction at moderate levels and death at higher levels. I didn’t go to the clinic because my symptoms had already begun to clear up after airing out the condo and taking a walk around the block.

As you can imagine it’s a little chilly here in the condo. The furnace has been off all day, and I’m holed up in the bedroom with a space heater, which the gas guy promised was 100% electric and would not try to kill me. I’m telling myself it’s going to be okay because I’m leaving for Newport Beach tomorrow, where it’s in the high seventies, if I don’t freeze before then.

I’m not sure how to sum up this particular trip to Olympia, home of my youth, except as one dicey experience. The day after I got here, I barely escaped a blowout in my mom’s intrepid old Honda. All four tires had to be replaced because one had a bulge as big as an orange, according to the mechanic who looked at it. I also had my credit card numbers stolen, was mistaken for the thief, surrounded by the store’s management and security and grilled for what seemed like hours. And just this morning, I almost bought the farm because of a faulty furnace. I can tell you I’d much rather write about brushes with death than experience them.

Still, my visit here had moments I wouldn’t have missed, even given the scares.
Those of you who read my last post know about some of the treasures we discovered hidden among my mom’s things. Also, about the wonderful times I had with family and friends, imaginary and otherwise.

Next week, from the relative warmth of my home in Newport and the safety of a working furnace, I’ll share more about the 135-year old document I found in my mom’s lingerie drawer. It has turned out to be quite a rare and unusual find, and has opened up tremendous curiosity about my family’s history. Apparently some of my ancestors were as scandalous as others were accomplished.

And now, let me sign off with some words of caution. If you value your life and the lives of your loved ones, please have your furnaces checked and get yourself a CO detector. The gas company rep told me this is the dangerous season. Furnaces have been off all summer and they need to be checked out and ducts cleaned for heavy winter usage. He also mentioned that carbon monoxide causes more deaths than any other kind of poison. Please don’t become one of those statistics!!!

Love and good health to all,
Suz

Christmas!!!!!!!!!!! (Anne Stuart)

OK, the truth is I'm an insane Christmas junkie. I do wait a decent interval till after Halloween, and I don't put anything Christmas-y out until after Thanksgiving, but once I start I don't stop until everything, including me and the dog, is decorated. No Christmas tree until about a week before Christmas, because we always cut our own, but everything else ...

For some reason I'm particularly fond of paper products and china. I have two different sets of Christmas china (down from three) not to mention probably twenty Christmas mugs, Christmas glasses, napkins, tablecloths, sheets, paper towels, plastic bags, plastic wrap, wax paper, paper plates, etc. I had a Christmas toilet seat (it finally bit hte dust) and I made a Christmas shower curtain. Christmas rugs and wastebaskets. Christmas towels and candles. And enough holiday themed clothing that I don't have to do laundry from Thanksgiving until New Year's Day.

But I need some new ideas. New traditions, since I'm losing some of my old ones. My kids are out of the house (though they'll be home for Christmas) so no one's going to be baking cookies with me. I'm down in Princeton watching over my 92 year old mother while she has knee surgery and I think I'm not even going to be home for Thanksgiving, so no ritual watching of the Macy's parade while the turkey cooks. And my million and one Christmas cds are back in Vermont (which, trust me, is the state made for Christmas).

So I need some suggestions to get me Christmas-y down here. Something that doesn't include insane shopping (trust me, the opportunities for retail therapy around here are monumental). Something that doesn't include baking (I'm starting on a diet today, because along with the shopping there's endless food and I've already gained about ten pounds).

Because I'm ready to party! Fa la la la la and all that jazz. Anyone got any suggestions?

Guest Blog: Sweating the Business Stuff

Let me begin by saying that I don't think I am stupid. Really. I just feel stupid sometimes. Mostly I feel that way when it comes to the writing business. Not writing itself, mind you. The writing business.

If readers on this blog have ever attended one of my workshops on the industry, they may now be thinking "Jeesh, woman, do you mean you were just winging it?" No, I wasn't. I started working hard at learning about the business because I often feel so stupid.

For example, it takes me forever to figure out what the latest buzz word means in this industry. "High concept" began being thrown around about six years ago. I think maybe I've finally figured out what it means. By finally I mean, like, yesterday.

About eight years ago everyone got all obsessed about "voice." I was unpublished at the time and I panicked. Do I have a voice? What if I don't? I actually called my agent (a kind soul with enormous patience for my off-the-wall phone calls, God bless her), and demanded to know what kind of voice I have. It was a conversation with lots of pauses. I think in the end she just made something up so I wouldn't get depressed.

For about four years now I have been trying to wrap my brain around "branding." I understand the basics here. I can relate it to branding in other areas. McDonald's, for example. But as with voice, I have no idea if I have a brand or even the makings of one. Actually, I haven't decided if I even want one.

See, McDonald's began with a very narrow brand. You young 'uns won't remember, 'cause most of you weren't even alive, but it was the "home of the 15-cent hamburger." Hey, I grew up with the birth and expansion of one of the greatest branding successes in history. This I can get. A key to their branding was that all those hamburgers tasted the same. You knew exactly what you were getting.

But I don't want to be the home of the 15-cent hamburger in writing. Readers get to decide to only eat one a year if they choose, but if I am making those hamburgers I am stuck with a steady diet of them. In the least, I asked my agent (a kind soul, etc.), can't I be like today's McDonald's? Can't I add some salads to the menu? Maybe a chicken sandwich?

Well, of course I can. My agent will let me and so will my publisher. But. . . .I really do think that the writing business will be nicer to me if I just make those hamburgers. I'm not blind. In publishing the brands are getting narrower, not broader. The narrower a brand, the more effective it is.

So I set out to define my brand, to figure out what was promised by a Madeline Hunter story. I engaged in the process with a p.r. specialist. I conducted a fascinating self-study that ended up being valuable in ways that had nothing to do with my brand. Actually, it was most valuable in ways that got in the way of identifying a brand. And as we narrowed down to my "brand", I could not help but notice that it wasn't very narrow at all. I mean, how do you describe McDonald's today, with its menu variety? Not with a cute jingle about hamburgers.

I recently made a breakthrough in grappling with all of this. I have been learning some interesting things about reader expectations. I have been collecting and studying the reactions of readers to my chicken sandwiches when I write one, and the reactions when I bring out a version of my hamburger. Like McDonalds at mid stage, in turns out I can make alterations in that hamburger so they are not all the same, but readers are happiest when a book with my name on it has beef inside that roll.

While letting me know they don't think of me as a salad or chicken sandwich writer, they have also articulated what it is about a one of my stories that makes it a hamburger. My current release, The Rules of Seduction, is a hamburger in their opinion. The feedback has been very useful. Common denominators are showing up. A type of definition is forming. The essential ingredients are emerging. I think. . . could it be?. . .that maybe I have a brand after all.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to distill this down to one of those clever, five-word, branding phrases. Unfortunately, trying to do that makes me feel stupid again. Every other author seems to be so good at devising those punchy, perfect turns of phrase, but my brain go blank.

The way I sweat this business stuff, I'll have my brand all figured out in about five more years. Maybe.

Madeline Hunter
http://www.MadelineHunter.com

The Great American Mixing Pot

We have a rule here about politics. None are tolerated.
Good reason. We come from all over the political spectrum.
But I think this is legal. I know everyone is sick of politics but I just have to make some observations.

I was a poll worker this past Tuesday. I am a great believer in the political process. Haven’t missed a vote since I was eighteen, not even a minor skirmish on the town council. I am fond of anyone who votes, be they red, blue or polka-dotted.

So there I was at the polls on election day. All day. (And it wasn’t entirely an excuse to keep from writing.) Anyone who doesn’t believe in the process should be a poll worker. It’s certainly a priceless experience for a writer.

There was the man who came in, signed in, presented his voter’s card, took a ballot, went to the machine, then refused to vote.

“No one here I want to vote for,” he said.

Poll workers – bless their hard-working, dedicated souls – asked him why he bothered to come to the polls.

Well, he’d always voted before.

They offered to cancel out his ballot.

No, he wanted to vote. He just didn’t want to vote for anyone on the ballot. Nor did he want to write in.

But he did want to do his civic duty. He finally left, never having cast a ballot for one candidate, and having presented the poll workers with a big problem. What to do with the ballot he took but never used, and which is logged in the registration book? It messed up their count, a sacred responsibility.
But by golly, he would be on the registration rolls of having voted.

Then there were the families that came in. Fathers who brought their
six-year-old son or daughter to show them what it was to vote. They would stand in the partition together. Big feet. Little feet. And there were, of course, the caretakers. The many women who brought in their elderly parents and waited patiently while a poll worker just as patiently explained new-fangled machines to them.

You learn stuff, too. There was the man in painter’s overalls who came in with puzzles. He’d cut out two pieces of construction paper and placed them both on the table, one above the other and asked which was the longest. The bottom one, said all the poll workers cajoled into playing the game. Then move the bottom piece to the top and the new bottom piece is larger. Turns out both were the same size. An optical illusion. Try it. One of the poll workers was a teacher and she would include the exercise in her lesson plan the next day. He also had a sketch of a magical frog that turned into a horse if you turned it slightly. He was absolutely joyful at entertaining the poll workers.

After that entertaining break came someone who had moved from one precinct to another, though it was only an across-the-street- journey of maybe a hundred feet. She had been back and forth three times between precinct locations all afternoon trying to straighten it out. Four hours later she voted. That’s how much she cared.

People talked to each other at the polls but they were very careful, I noticed, not to talk about politics. They were there to vote. And vote they did, but as they waited they talked about families, the weather, the wait. A great American mixing pot. The striking thing was that in a precinct that was politically mixed, not one harsh word was heard. Not one angry complaint about having to go to another precinct or wait the thirty minutes or more it took to discover why a name wasn't on the list.

And the poll workers? Some worked seventeen straight hours and more, and the esprit de corps they have is awe inspiring. It gave me a new appreciation of something that so many of us take for granted. I think I’ll volunteer again next time, especially if there's a work in progress.

UPDATE ON WORK IN PROGRESS

I promised to keep a writer's diary on the new work in progress. I reluctantly report I failed the first week. Miserably.
Goal was to write forty pages. Progress was fifteen. My excuse is partly the above, and partly because the copy-edited version of the book I just finished came in the mail and must be reviewed, corrected and sent back by next Tuesday. Another chance to tinker. It is the third time I have read the book beginning-to-end in a month. Will have to read it again in another two or three weeks when the galleys comes in. (For those non writers out there, the manuscript usually goes through the following processes: submission, revisions, approval (or disapproval) of copy and line editing changes, then a final review after page proofs. Still time to make changes but they are frowned upon at this latter stage.

It is at this time when you (at least me) are sick of the book and honestly believe it is complete junk and will end your career forever. One more read and I’ll burn it.

But the good news is I really love the people in the new, new book. There’s excitement when I sit down at the keyboard. The characters are beginning to take over already, something that usually doesn’t happen until farther into the book. In fact they are chafing at the bit, wondering why I'm not paying more attention to THEM.

Will update you next week.

Maggie Shayne--One Crazy Night!

Okay, so I’m sitting home alone, in my safe, wonderful house, one particularly dark night, just two days after Halloween. It’s late, I’m relaxing, watching TV, and suddenly, my burglar alarm goes off.

After calmly peeling myself down from the ceiling, I went to the alarm panel to see what was happening, punched in the code to make it stop shrieking, and read the alert on the screen, which told me that one of my locked doors was open. Now this wasn’t like the day when I burned the pancakes and set off the fire alarm. That day, I knew what was wrong. This night, I had no rational explanation. The only possible thing that came to mind was that my door really was being messed with, and that meant someone had to be messing with it. I went through the house, checking each door, including the one that was allegedly open. None were. All were still locked. Maybe, I thought, someone had tried to open one, and set off the alarm, which had probably scared them away. God knows it scared me plenty!

By this time I was wondering why the alarm company hadn’t yet phoned me to verify that it was a legitimate alarm. I decided to check the phone.