When good intentions go bad (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Confession time. A couple of weeks ago I spoke to you all about my integrity. Specifically about a surprise party my family and friends and I had thrown for my mother. I was so focused on my integrity, that I failed to 'hear' the rest of what I said. I was engrossed in the guilt of lying so well and thinking about the hardest lies I told, and that, even those, I told so well. One of them was about my brother coming from Ohio. Everyone who knows my mom knows that he is the light of her life. Everything is better if my brother is present. When he does wrong, it smells like lilacs. He was the hardest lie. The second was his two babies. Now, I have to say, my mom has four grandchildren that she adores equally. She loves them equally, spends time and thought on them equally. She has two older grandaughters - one 21 and one 7 - and I've never seen her realize that they do anything wrong. Ever. There's always a reason why it wasn't their fault. And then...there are the two babies. Babies that came to my brother and his wife when they were in their forties. We thought our tiny family was all done growing and then, out of the blue we had not one, but two babies, one right after the other. There's something special about babies. We all get our baby time. Well, this is Bubby and Claire's baby time. And keeping their arrival a secret was HARD. Mostly because the two of them had never been to our homes or even in our part of the country. I had to get baby paraphenalia, cribs and things and was having them delivered, for my mother's use, without even knowing where she'd want me to get them. She'd rented before, for the seven year old. I didn't know from where.

So... my ability to keep those two secrets scared me. I told you all about it. And I inadvertantly hurt the feelings of people who also were a part of the party, of the surprise, people who mean as much as I do in the whole scheme of things, or as my brother or my daughter, or anyone else dear to my mom. And I didn't mention them. As if their presence didn't matter. I hate that I did that.

Today, in keeping with this, and in keeping with Lynn Kerstan's post, also of a few weeks ago, about caregivers, I want to tell you a little about someone who I love, admire, and respect. Someone who goes through her days very quietly, giving every ounce of energy and then some. I never had a sister. I always wanted one. My brother waited a long time to give me one. But finally just over ten years ago, he finally got married and I finally had that sister. It takes a while, bonding with someone you don't know, but over the past few years, I've grown to love this woman as more than just my sister. She is one of God's chosen. At the age of forty two, she was blessed with an unexpected and unplanned pregnancy. This while she was still getting to know the three month old baby she'd just had. And just weeks after finding out the news, she found out that this new little unexpected angel, our first boy!, had Down Syndrome. After the initial shock and before the adjustment period, my sister in law's reaction is one that showed the woman I'd been wanting to know. That baby was her son. Period. There would be no talk of terminating the pregnancy, of ANYTHING, other than a healthy pregnancy and a happy child. With a five year old, and a newborn, she set forth, when most of us are looking toward menopause, to bring another baby into the world. And to do so without her other two precious children losing out. And after this baby came, she continues to nourish that family in miraculous ways. She didn't just birth that boy, but continues to help him grow and develop as she did when he was still in the womb. She takes him to therapy. But it doesn't stop there. She listens and learns and every minute of every day, in an overwhelming number of ways, she tends to his development with little games and exercises, even learning basic sign language so that as his throat muscles are slow to develop, his ability to communicate is not - all the while, tending to her other children. She is a brownie leader. She drives to swim lessons and music lessons, and toddler play day. She keeps a clean house and she's a fabulous cook and has dinner on the table every night. Good dinner. I actually eat when I'm there. Homemade soups and casseroles and a pumpkin log that is sinful. She carves pumpkins (by the 20) and puts food out for the reindeer. She carts the kids to watch my brother play softball. I know this sounds like I'm embellishing, when, in truth, I'm leaving out a whole lot.

The world is filled with people like my sister in law - and people like me who mean well but get so focused we don't see what we aren't doing. Today, I'd like to challenge all of you to take just a second from the schedule and responsibilities and rush and look outside the business of living to see who's there beside you. And to let them know that you see them. And that you care.

High School Confidential (Suzanne Forster)

I’ve never been to a high school reunion. That might not seem too remarkable, except that I went to school in the Jurassic period, so it’s been a lonnng time and a lot of missed reunions.

If I’d stayed in my hometown and lived anything resembling a normal life, it’s possible that I might have gone to at least some of the reunions. But things didn’t work out that way. I left high school and got married in my senior year, an adventure that warrants an entire series of blogs, or better yet a television mini-series called The Perils of Suzanne, but should probably be saved for my memoirs.

To summarize, the marriage to my high school sweetheart didn’t work out, and it quickly became apparent that one of us had to go. Our bucolic hometown wasn’t big enough for the both of us, as they say. With equal parts apprehension and anticipation, I moved to California with my son, a toddler at the time, got a job and enrolled in night school, where I finished the requirements for my high school diploma. From there I went on to college, also at night. It was tough sledding with a little one, but Kenny and I got through it, and we both turned out all right. He’s now a successful contractor, very happily married, with three children of his own. Me, I’m a hard-working writer—and a work in progress.

But, back to all those missed reunions. I’d dropped off my classmates’ radar, first by leaving school and moving away, and then by remarrying. While I was in California, working, raising my son and going to night school, I also fell in love with my boss. How did I have time? Heaven knows, but he was a single parent too, so we had much in common, and not only was he great with our mixed bag of kids, he was very encouraging and respectful of my goals and dreams.

In those days, I wanted to be a psychologist, a goal that required graduate studies and licensing. I plunged into it, headlong, but in the middle of my first year of an accelerated doctoral program, I had a car accident that changed the course of my life. It was a serious accident, and I wrote an entire book during the long recovery period. That book eventually became my first published novel, Undercover Angel.

Years went by, the kids grew up at what now seems like an alarming rate, my husband made his mark at aerospace engineering, and many more books were written and published by Suzanne Forster, my married name, all without a thought of high school reunions. It wasn’t until last year, February of 2006, when I was going through my mother’s things after she passed away that I found my old high school yearbooks. As I looked through the yellowing pages, I barely recognized anyone, including me. Honestly, it felt as if I was looking at someone else’s distant past. Who was that girl? How did she feel? What did she want? Was she as self-conscious as she looked?

The answer to the last question is yes. We didn’t use the word nerdy in those days, but it’s certainly apt, in my case. I was shy, quiet and bookish. If I had opinions, I kept them to myself, and I was constantly mortified by one thing or another, but mostly by my total lack of allure to the opposite sex. Being called bird bones, four eyes and Olive Oyl did nothing for my self-confidence. Our high school lockers were pretty good size, and I can remember wondering if I’d fit inside. In fact, I was obsessed with the idea, lol.

I did have a few close girlfriends, but they weren’t so close that I ever shared my darkest fears or brightest dreams with them. I was probably afraid of being laughed at. Or maybe kids didn’t share fears and dreams in the Jurassic period. My parents certainly didn’t encourage a lot of opening up and sharing, so I had no role models. Still, somehow I caught on. Now look at me. I spill my guts all over the place—in my books, my Yahoo group, my various online lists, as well as my brainstorming group, which also serves as group therapy, and right here in this blog. People probably wish I’d stop already.

I doubt if many of can get through our high school annuals without some mixed feelings. The teenage years are turbulent even for the most popular and outgoing students, I imagine. Mine were nothing I’d ever want to revisit, but I was in a particularly vulnerable place when I found the yearbooks. I’d been commuting from California for several years to care for my mother, and as much as I’d loved being able to help her, it was a difficult, lonely time. I’d needed a break occasionally, lunch or an evening out with friends, but as I said, I’d lost track of everyone. And now, my mom was gone, too. But the yearbooks gave me an idea.

A writer friend suggested I try classmates.com, and it worked like a charm. I found two girlfriends on my first visit to the website, and they were still living right there in Olympia, where we all went to school. Plus, they were on the reunion committee. Can you see where this is going? I was thrilled to have found them and fired off enthusiastic emails. The responses I got back were a bit restrained. I’m not sure they believed it was me, especially since even the spelling of my first name was different. I’d changed it from Suzan, which no one knew how to pronounce, to Suzanne, for the books. It took me a couple emails to explain all that, but I wasn’t daunted. I had enough excitement for all three of us.

We exchanged some pertinent information about our lives, and I was hoping we might all be able to get together while I was in Olympia, but for a variety of reasons, it never came to pass. I left to return home to California, somewhat dejected about what seemed to be a cool reception, and trying to figure out why I hadn’t been embraced with open arms.

An author friend of mine patiently explained that not all people live on the Internet the way we writers do, and they don’t all respond to their email immediately or with multiple exclamation points. It’s a different life we writers live, she reminded me. We’re alone a lot. Our lifestyles aren’t typical, especially when we’re on deadline, and we rely heavily on email communication. Normal people don’t, apparently.

Turned out she was right. My classmates began to respond to what must have seemed like a barrage of rapid-fire emails. At a slow but steady pace they wrote back, and I discovered that one of them was caring for a parent who was ill and the other had a demanding business to run. They brought me up to date on some of our other classmates, a few of whom I remembered well, but many who’d disappeared without a trace from my gray matter. In some cases, not even their yearbook pictures could jumpstart my memory. Eventually I realized why. I’d never met them! It was a class of five hundred, after all.

My friends also told me about the upcoming class reunion and invited me to visit the website and sign the guest book. I immediately heard from a friend I’d known since grade school. She wrote rapid-fire emails with multiple exclamation points!! That was fun. And reassuring. But she doesn’t live in Olympia and there’s little chance she’ll make it to the reunion. I guess the big question is, will I?

I’m ready for it. I think. It sounds like fun more than anything else, but I guess there’s this question of how I’ll be perceived. And how I’ll react. Perception is powerful, especially when it comes from the most vulnerable of your formative years. They’ll remember me exactly as I was, shy and skittish, a mouse, when in many ways today, I feel more like a lioness. Will I regress? When I’m surrounded by people expecting me to be quiet and shy—who might even want me to be that way so their expectations won’t be challenged—will I become that?

Probably not. It’s been a lot of years, and I’ve been tested in many ways. I’ve grown into the woman I am now, and I’ve earned the sense of confidence and accomplishment I feel. But the teenager is still very much alive inside me, which is rather scary and wonderful. She was a great kid. She was just too spooked to let anybody know.

This should be interesting. Have any of you been to your reunions? Or even thought about it? I could use some feedback here. Should a high school reunion virgin take the plunge after all these years?

Suz

The Sexiest Men Alive(Anne Stuart)

OK, so I don't tend to go along with People magazine and their particular choices. It's not that I don't find George Clooney meltingly delightful, but he still hasn't managed to inspire me, so instead I'm going to show you pretty pictures and tell you what books they turned into. That's Gerard Butler as The Phantom of the Opera, and of course I wrote Night of the Phantom years before he played the part, but he captured it to an essence. That dreamy, sexual, romantic, broken-hearted yearning. Christine regretted her choice for the rest of her life.

And then there's Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans. He inspired just about everyone of my historicals -- I mean, who could resist that hair? That chest? That lean animal grace running through the forests. Sigh.

And then there's Yoshiki, found of X-Japan and all around Japanese rock God. He went through a period where he looked like a drag queen, but now he's into his inner sex god look, to which I enthusiastically say "Hurray!" Hero fodder for Blind Date from Hell, musical inspiration for Into the Fire, and just all around fun.

Then there's the sexiest man alive, Senior Division. David Carradine must be in his seventies by now, and I still lust after him, almost as much as I did when I was still a teenager. Then again, I was a very precocious child. He was the model for my hero in BARRETT'S HILL, back in 1974, and he pops up every now and then. Ah, but you shoulda seen him in his prime.

That's him in Shane, the short-lived western tv series that saved my life (that story later).

You want more lusciousness, you say? Hell, yes. Clive Owen, cigarette and all, did double duty in COLD AS ICE and ICE STORM.

Etushi Toyokawa works as Takashi O'Brien, with a touch of Yoshiki and Gackt thrown in .

And that's just the beginning. There's Alan Rickman in a thousand books (you can hear his sarcastic drawl in any number of my characters).

And Frank Langella in his prime as Dracula gave me THE DEMON COUNT.

And then there's anime. Reno (above) from Advent Children, who'll have his own book and destroy my career. And Howl from Howl's Moving Castle, appearing as a snarky wizard in THE UNFORTUNATE MISS FORTUNES.

It's a lovely job, living in a fantasy world with all these luscious men. And I get paid for it as well.

Life is extremely good to me.

Who do you guys lust after? Do you use any actors as mental stand-ins when you read? Is there on type you like more than others?

Try uploading pictures of your favorite hotties in the reply section. The more manly beauty we share with the world, the happier everyone will be.

Back to deadline hell with me! Enjoy the pretties!

And the Winner Is . . . ?

Here comes the hype. Oscar nominees have been announced, and some of us haven't seen many (or any!) of the candidates. Guidance, please. Which films or performances should we go see? When should we save our money? Tell us what you loved . . . and what you didn't.

Blogus Interruptus (Lynn Kerstan)

P.S. (Can that stand for pre-script, too?)

I’m preempting my previously scheduled blog topic to recount an altogether new experience I had today. From the checkout line at PetSmart, where one does not expect transforming events, I was witness to a cat being shaved.

It was fascinating to watch the process, rather like seeing a very small Marine at boot camp getting a buzz-cut. The procedure left just enough base-line fur to show the black-and-white pattern and keep the cat from looking grey-pink and naked. And I have a question.

Why would anyone have a cat’s fur removed? Not being critical here! The cat didn’t mind, even when the electric shaver got perilously near to private parts. Mellowest cat I ever saw. But it’s winter, and the nights get cold. Yes, maybe the owners have allergies. But it’s dander, not fur, that causes allergies.

On the other hand, shed fur is a freaking nuisance. Exhibit One: my vacuum cleaner bag, currently swollen like an overcooked sausage because it’s packed with cat fur. Exhibit Two: my clothes. Especially the fancy black attire I’ll be wearing for my one-among-many-others performance in the chorus singing Haydn’s Creation on this Saturday night. Oh, well.

For a time, I stood at the glass window to watch the shaving and figured this shorn cat was owned by a snooty La Jolla doyen making sure her pet never deposited a detectable cat-hair on her vintage Chanel suit or Armani Charity Ball Gown. But as I was leaving the store, I saw a Social-Security-aged couple wearing frayed sweat suits enter the glassed-off grooming room and claim their pet. So much for my diagnostic skills.

As the can-opener of an easily spooked feline, I can say that moments after a buzzing electric shaver was turned on in his vicinity, Lymond would have scampered halfway to Yuma. This cat goes into hiding when I pull out the noiseless, harmless curling iron. A good thing he didn’t wind up in the custody of someone who needed him virtually denuded.

Mind you, I’d love to have a denuded pet. Specifically, George Clooney.

Anyway, if you can enlighten me about the rationale for shaving cats, please do so in Comments.
And, how do your pets’ habits change in winter? Mine uses my bed as a temporary warm-up station. It never gets terribly cold here in San Diego, which makes us both over-react to a chilly night. Except that I don’t invade his territory.

He, of course, knows no boundaries. The wretch waits until I am asleep. Jumps up at pillow level to be sure of waking me before slipping under the goosedown covers. Purrs to be sure I let him stay. Then he curls up beside me and remains perfectly still, lulling me into compliance and sleep. All is well.

Then he leaves. I know that because he comes back later. Wakes me up. Replays the ritual. Several times on cold nights. Dratted cat.

Moving on. What I meant to talk about was tribes, and how we form them on the internet. But I seem to be entirely scattered tonight. Probably because I’m still a little shaky from a close call on the drive home a couple hours ago.

Fortunately, I noted an SUV in the lane next to me and a little ahead, going 50 in a 65-mile zone and not holding quite steady on the road. The driver, talking on a cell phone, was clearly distracted. I slowed a little, preparing to drop a safe length behind, just in time to be a whisker-length clear when he veered into my lane. And wobbled. And kept right on talking as he speeded up again, swerved around the car in front of him, and sailed ahead.

Close call. Mostly likely, he never noticed.

But it left me feeling out in the cold and shivering this evening, somewhat like a shorn, furless cat. So I’ll let go my plans for this post and dive under the covers. And pretty soon, a densely furred Abyssinian cat will probably join me there. Safe. Warm. Alive.

It’s all good.

The Best Dog I Ever Had

THE BEST DOG I EVER HAD . . .

A friend came over recently and took some photos of my dogs. I really wanted to introduce everyone to them, since they are quite exceptional. They are, left to right, Ting Ting, the elderly Shih Tzu, and the Wild Indians: Katie (staring suspiciously at you ) and Allie (relaxing before springing into a frenzied run around the house).

I adopted Katie and Allie, Australian Shepherd sisters, last year. I only wanted one new dog, or maybe I didn’t really want a new one at all at the time. I had just lost two Shelties within two months of old age and had a needy, elderly Shih Tzu anxious to receive double attention.

But I was reluctantly -- yet irresistibly -- drawn to a pet rescue adoption and immediately noticed a black and white dog with one blue eye and one brown eye that willed me to stop. She sat patiently in her small cage, looking over the humans approaching her. She saw me and for the first time, said her foster mother, wagged her tail enthusiastically.

I’ve always believed that you don’t adopt animals, they adopt you. They somehow KNOW you are their person and they mentally will you to take them home. In any event, I was a goner.

I had a new dog. But then I learned Allie had a sister. Both had been unceremoniously dumped at the local pound where dogs live only a few days if not claimed. A rescue person happened to be there at the time and took them.

They were about nine months old. The sister wasn’t at the adoption site because she was judged too shy – and too afraid of people -- to make a good impression on possible adopters. In a moment of madness, I said I could take both. The shy Katie came into the house, jumped in Ting Ting's bed and refused to leave.

The next three months were hell. You see those eyes? It’s not all the light. A bit of the demon was in both of them. I quickly learned why their former owner dumped them. They ate my carpet. They ate my computer and telephone cords. They ate my dining room set – table legs and chairs. They ate the woodwork around the window. They terrorized poor Ting Ting. They dug holes under my fence and escaped when they were left out for more than a few moments. Katie, the pessimist, would cringe when anyone bent over her. It was obvious she’d been abused. Allie, the optimist, wanted to smother you with great lunges and endless kisses.

No sleeping on the bed, I told them. Katie said okay. Not Allie. I spent three entire nights tossing Allie off the bed. Off she would go, on she would come. Finally gave up. Now I share bed with three dogs. The one really worrying thing was Katy’s bullying of poor Ting Ting. I had to keep them apart. Worried about Ting Ting, I called the rescue group about ten times to tell them to come pick them up. Then Allie with unerring instinct would come over and put her head on my knee, and look up at me, and I was putty in her paws. I called back and said forget it.

One night I had to go out. In desperation, I put them in a bathroom. Nothing there to get them in trouble. Person of little faith, me. I arrived home and went to the bathroom. Door wouldn’t open. They’d locked themselves in. Had to call a locksmith at midnight and tell them my dogs had locked themselves in the bathroom. The locksmith laughed his way throughout the $200 call.

Ready to tear out my hair, I would remember Ben. Ben was just like the Wild Indians. He was a Benji type dog and had grown up totally ignored in someone’s back yard. A friend of mine lived next door to Ben and fell in love with him. My friend finally convinced the owner to give the dog to him after Ben ate her porch. He, in turn, foisted Ben off on me. Ben didn't eat my computer cords. He ate my sofa. He also ate all my shoes. Shoe companies love my dogs. He was a demolition machine. Then one day he finally decided he had a real home and a real person, and the destruction stopped. Suddenly. Never another chewed shoe. Never another chewed carpet. Never a bathroom mistake. He became the best dog I ever had. After the last best dog I ever had.

I know people who have lost a beloved dog or cat and won’t get another because no other can ever take their companion’s place. I’ve found that no, they don’t take their place. They make their own place. A heart can stretch in all different directions.

But back to my tale. Like Ben, the Wild Indians suddenly and without warning became very good dogs. No more shredded shoes. No more rummaging in the garbage. No more mistakes in the house. No more digging under the fence. No more bullying of Ting Ting. Like Ben, they apparently decided they finally had a home.

And now they, like Ting Ting, are the best dogs I’ve ever had.

And so, I wanted to introduce them to you. Especially since I’ve just discovered how to post a photo on the blog.

I really think it's the best photo ever.

Living Single, Maggie Shayne

“I can do it myself, I don’t need any help, and I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

Famous last words, right? But they've become my mantra. This living single thing is giving me some challenges, but I’m stubbornly sure I can face every last one of them.

In preparation for the winter, I bought a snow thrower. Spent a lot on it. Waited for the snow to come, sure I could handle it all by myself. Well, the snow finally came.

First, I shoveled off the back deck, because the dogs refused to tromp through the snow to go do their business unless I dragged them out. So I figured they’d like it better without six inches to wade through. I shoveled and swept and did a fantastic job. It was tiring. The snow was pretty deep and pretty heavy, and the wind was blowing like crazy. But it wasn’t all that terrible.

Great. Feeling wonderful about my independent tackling of the snow situation, I headed out front to begin working on the driveway. I cleaned off my car, first. There was a lot of snow on it, and it had drifted on both sides.

Next, I went to the shed to get out the expensive snow thrower I bought. I had to wheel it to the house from the garden shed, plug it in via extension cord, and then start it up. (You can also start it via ripcord, but this seemed the easiest bet.) I’d already gassed it up and filled it with oil and practiced running it, so I was ready. However, I’d never used it on any actual snow.

So I began, wading into the drifts, and aiming the spout toward the side of the driveway. But the wind was blowing so hard that almost all the snow blew directly back into my face. That was no fun. I tried blowing it another way, but it didn’t make much sense to blow the snow up against the house. It took a long, long time to blow the snow out of the driveway, especially with the wind blowing it right back in. And it started snowing again while I worked on it. I got most of one side done, then moved the car, and started on the other side. The machine was heavy and difficult to turn around and manipulate. The blowing device just didn’t blow far enough.

Finally, I took the snow thrower back to the shed, shut it off and put it away. Then I went and got the snow shovel and finished up with that, scraping up the places where the snow thrower (or its operator?) had been ineffective.

I was worn out and freezing and still not done, when a pick up went by, stopped and backed up. Two men sat there. I went over, asking what they wanted, thinking they were probably some chivalrous farmers who were going to offer to plow me out or help shovel. Of course, I had my answer on my lips before they spoke. I was going to say, “No thanks. I can do it myself, don’t need any help.” But they only leered at me for a minute, then asked if I knew whether “Shelly” was home. I was like, “huh?” and they said, “Shelly. Your neighbor. Is she home?”

Suddenly there was the voice of a harridan in my head, muttering, "how the hell would I know if Shelly is home? You apparently just drove by her house, where no doubt her driveway is full of snow. She probably couldn’t get out if she wanted to, but did you bother to stop and see if she needed any help? Of course not! You couldn’t even go up and knock on the door, because it was easier to stay in your warm, cozy truck and ask the next person you spotted if Shelly was home."

Out loud, though, all I said was, “I don’t even know Shelly.” And then I went back to work, and they drove away. Not back toward the possibly snow-bound Shelly’s place, either. (And why was I feeling so hostile toward men at that moment? I don’t know, but I’m jotting a note to take to therapy next month.)

When I finally finished, I was frozen, tired, and achy. I went back inside, hung up my snowy clothes, and glanced out the back door at the deck I had shoveled first. It was already covered in a couple of inches of new snow. And the wind was rapidly forming new drifts in the driveway. I had spent roughly two and a half hours and accomplished almost nothing. And my back was killing me and I was exhausted and my face was blotchy and chapped and raw from the wind, which wasn’t pretty. My face, I mean. The wind wasn't pretty either but, oh, hell you get the point.

I sat down feeling utterly defeated. I was so determined to be able to do this myself. But I realized that this was only the first snowstorm of the season, I might not want to repeat this all winter long. Would I have to find someone who plows driveways—probably a man—and hire him to plow mine? I’d feel terrible about that. Like I had failed.

Now that feeling doesn’t make a lot of sense. I could have written at least a few hundred dollars' worth of words in the same amount of time it took me to wrestle with the stupid snow. I can probably get it plowed for fifty bucks. Honestly, I’m much farther ahead to spend my time writing and pay someone else to deal with the snow. But it still felt like a failure. I don’t want to have to have someone else do it. I want be able to do it myself. Logic doesn’t even enter into it.

So clearly I’m something of a neurotic basket case here. What would kill me would be admitting that I just simply can’t. I hate saying that. I can’t do it. So there it is. I can do it, and I will do it, and that’s that.

I mentioned at a gathering with my daughters what a hard time I had with the snow clearing. Daughter number one says, “Gee, Mom, my husband’s grandmother plows her own driveway,” and daughter number two says, “So does my mother in law.”

Great. So now my pride is on the line as well. Thanks, girls.

Day two of the real winter: I woke up to frozen water pipes.

Okay, yeah, it hit me a little hard after the day of snow nonsense. But fortunately, the former owner had pointed out which pipe tends to freeze, and left me a propane tank, nozzle thingie, and a lighter. So, I found the frozen pipe, lit the little propane torch, and thawed it out all by myself. And I was so proud you’d have thought I’d invented the wheel. I felt as capable and independent as freakin’ Wonder Woman. All I needed was the sequined red, white and blue body suit. (And the little tiara. No way am I doing without the tiara, babe.)

As I looked outside after the pipes were thawed, I saw that the driveway was covered again. But this time, the snow had stopped falling, there was no wind, the sun was shining. So, feeling freshly empowered and singing "I am woman, hear me roar," I bundled up and went out, deciding to try again. I scraped the driveway clean in half the time--maybe less--that it had taken me before, and this time the snow didn’t blow back in. It was much easier. Afterward I spread salt on the slippery spots. I did the deck too, and the front steps, and it looked fantastic.

Okay, so here’s what I’ve learned. You learn about cleaning snow out of driveways as you go along. Like everything else in life. I learned to wait until it’s done snowing, for sure, and the weather is calm. I also learned the guy wasn’t kidding about the pipe that tends to freeze, and that instead of waiting for that to happen and then thawing it out, it would be better to be pro-active and prevent it. Steps have been taken, heat tape applied, and yes, I accepted help this time, and it didn’t bother me. It kind of felt nice, as a matter of fact. Maybe it’s easier for me to let someone give me a hand when I’m feeling like Wonder Woman, than it is when I’m feeling like—I don’t know, Little Bo Peep, I guess. It’s also easier to accept help when someone, especially your best friend, just shows up with heat tape in hand, and offers. Way easier than asking.

Yeah, that same best friend is probably making a list of the things I've been revealing about myself lately.
She’s neurotic.
She’s moody.
She’s damn stubborn.
She will not ask for help.
You have to be a freakin’ mind reader with that one.
And what in the name of God is the deal with the sequined red, white and blue body suit?

The driveway is, of course, snowy again this morning. Where are my mittens and tiara?

Maggie

Thank Goodness for Little Girls (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I've tried several times to write this blog today and have come to the conclusion that I must spare you all. I want to tell you about the need for integrity, not game playing, in politics - except that I don't know enough about politics to fill a paragraph, let alone a blog. I want to tell you about illegal alien crime and financial statistics. I know far too much and you don't want to know. I'm compelled to tell you about the four profiles of rapists, how to determine almost immediately if you're in a dangerous situation what kind you've got and how best to protect yourself. But that's not early morning material, either. And so, as I sit here, I'm forced to recognize that I'm at that time when I have to put myself on house arrest. I'm not allowed to talk to anyone today.

I'm in that part of the book. The part where I'm in so deep I can't get out. When the book's a love story, that part of the book isn't so bad. When it's a psychological thriller, watch out. This one's a psychological thriller. And I know things, factual things, that are chilling. These aren't things I'd ever ever seek to know myself. But my characters know them, so I must. Not only do I know them, I'm living with the people who have suffered from them. I'm feeling their feelings, seeing the world through their perspective. If all goes well, they'll bring me back to a place where we can all move on - a place where hope and joy can thrive again.

I find that during this stage, I'm more vulnerable. Who wouldn't be? The things I've lived through the past week, experienced emotionally if not physically, would flatten a lot of us. This time, though, I have something else going on simultaneously. Earlier this week I had communication from someone I knew back before - before abuse and then tragedy struck, before love and success came along - and then more pain - all of which taught me and made me stronger. I was eighteen, a sophmore in college - still wearing my little girl heart on my sleeve, still completely, purely the child who came into this world. And while engaging in this conversation, I came face to face with her again. The great thing is, she wasn't a stranger. She's been here inside me all along, guiding me, pushing me, driving me to listen to my heart, to not forget her as I make my choices, forge my way through this lifetime. It's her lifetime, she tells me. The rest of me is just product, results. She's the core, the heart and soul, the lifeblood.

Thank goodness for her. Now that I see her clearly again, I see that she's been at work in my life - every step of the way. I have a corner of Raggedy Ann in my office. I've mentioned it here before. I knew they were there because they made me feel good. I've had a few theories over the year about why that was. Never really settled on anyting. And now I know. During the couple of years I was living through an abusive relationship my little girl survived by holding a Raggedy Ann doll every single night, sleeping with her head on the dolls face, or, when things were really bad, with her face on the painted on red heart on the dolls chest. Funny thing is, I didn't remember that consciously until this week. But every single time I pick up a Raggedy Ann doll, I check to make sure she has that heart on her chest. I always thought it was because I was a snob and wanted only the authentic ones. Ha. Ha. No, it was because my little girl needed that heart.

I see evidence of her everywhere, now that I'm looking. I won't bore you with all the spaces and places, the choices, but I want to tell you how thankful I am. How blessed I am. I want to stop living and play with this child, take her out and let her fly, but she tells me no, Mom says we have to work. So maybe we'll take some sugar smacks (they aren't called that anymore, but we don't care) to work with us. Or have french fries for lunch. And when the book is done, we have a date. We're going to wear whatever feels good, play games and not worry about the time, put on lots of jewels and get flour all over the kitchen. We're going to lick the bowl. And let the dog lick us.

I can't wait!!!!

Everything Bad Is Good Again (Suzanne Forster)

Turns out we’ve been doing it all wrong. The very stuff we swear off every New Years is actually good for us. It’s healthy. Yes, you read that right. Our bad habits may be extending our lives.

The dh, who’s retired, gets the American Association of Retired People’s (AARP) magazine. I’ve been ignoring it all these years, because, well, I’m not retired, so what could this publication possibly have to say to moi? Turns out, lots. There are golden nuggets of wisdom on every page, including a sidebar in the current issue that debunks some of the myths we hold dear about what’s good for us.

EATING CANDY. You’re not going to believe this. A Harvard study says that sweets-eaters live a year longer than people who never touch the stuff. If you’re thinking a year, that’s no big deal, may I gently suggest that you’re missing the point. Sweets are supposed to be BAD for you. Sweets are poison. White sugar? White flour? Corn Syrup? They’re the devil and his disciples. Every time I pop an M&M, I wonder how many minutes I’m taking off my life, how many brain cells I’m killing, how much damage I’m doing to my immune system. Now I find out I shouldn’t have been tormenting myself as I finished off the entire bag. I should have been patting myself on the back.

But there is a catch. It may not be just any old sweets. Scientists think it’s the chocolate factor. Dark chocolate is loaded with antioxidants. According to the article, another recent study has shown that after eating just one and a half ounces of dark chocolate the study subjects had “improved arterial flow and elasticity”.

HAVING A DRINK OR TWO. This is a direct quote from the article: “Those who drink one or two servings of alcohol per day have a 30% lower heart attack risk than nondrinkers,” says Arthur Klatsky, M.D., chief of the division of cardiology at Kaiser Permanente in Oakland, California.

More is not better, however. When you get into the four or five-drink range, you’re actually damaging the very organs the smaller amount helps. And you can’t save up and drink all your servings on a Saturday night, either. Sorry, that could be a problem for more than your heart. Can you spell hangover? I don’t even need to mention the risks of driving a car.

Red wine has been much in the news lately for its health benefits, but Klatsky didn’t specify wine. Apparently any kind of liquor has beneficial effects. Ole! Margaritas, anyone? The article does recommend that you take your drinks in tall glasses to make them last longer, which is supposed to help you stick to your limit. I think that’s a great idea. BTW, that noise you hear in the background is me and the blender. It takes a lot of ice to make a tall margarita.

STAYING UP LATE. Wow, so far I’m three for three. I eat sweets, I drink margaritas, and I’m an insomniac. I must be the healthiest woman in the world. Actually, the article touts staying up late as a heartburn cure. Apparently the more time you give your meal to digest after dinner the less likely you are to suffer from heartburn and acid reflux. The important thing is staying upright, and even an extra hour is good. A recent study found that you’re seven times more likely to suffer heartburn if you go to bed within three hours of eating dinner.

No heartburn here. Thank you, insomnia.

SLEEPING IN. Okay, this one is truly weird. It goes against everything logical and rational. Scientists are now saying that plenty of sleep will keep you skinny or help you get that way. Wha? How could we possibly be burning as many calories when we sleep as when we’re awake? It’s counter-intuitive. But that’s not the way it works, according to a Columbia University study. It’s all about appetite-regulating hormones, which are disrupted by lack of sleep. Being awake may burn more calories, but it also makes you hungrier. The study claims that people who sleep only six hours a night are 23 percent more likely to be obese than people who sleep seven to nine hours.

Actually, I’m a pretty good sleeper, or was, until I inherited my mom’s beloved tabby, Mandy. Mandy sleeps like a trooper during the day when I’m wide awake—and perks up the second I lay my head on the pillow. But that’s to be expected. Like all cats, she’s nocturnal. However, Mandy has a quirk. She’s never met a closed door she didn’t want opened. And I can’t sleep with the bedroom door open. This has to do with watching too many scary movies as a kid, but try telling Mandy that. If she’s in the bedroom and I close the door, she wants out. If she’s out, she wants in.

So, Mandy’s up all night—and so am I, letting her in and out. It hasn’t affected my poundage yet, but guess what—Miss Mandy has a bit of weight problem. Somebody needs to tell her she’d be much better off staying up with me during the day and get a solid eight every night. Possibly someone could direct her attention to this blog.

BEING A BUSYBODY. This one I love. Gossip is good for you. The Brits have done some research, and they say “dishing strengthens social bonds.” That correlates with a Harvard study that found social connections are a more reliable predictor of longevity than either blood pressure or cholesterol.

So, brew up some coffee and invite the neighbors. You can talk about whoever doesn’t show up. Or get on the internet. It’s one big scandal sheet these days.

PLAYING VIDEO GAMES. They’re claiming that one hour a day improves visual and attention skills. Sorry. You couldn’t pay me to play video games, no matter what the health benefits. I have enough problems from being on the computer night and day for my work. However, good news for you gamers.

So, that’s the list. I think the scientists did good, don’t you? I’m just tickled about the news on sweets and sleeping, but I do have a couple other bad habits I’d like them to get to work on . . . say, procrastinating. Couldn’t we please find out that putting off the things we don’t want to do makes us smarter, richer. skinnier? And how about clutter? If cluttering turns out to be a good thing, my place is heaven is assured.

Oh, and one more thing about the chocolate. I’ve been taste testing to save all of you some time. Lindt chocolate at 70% is very good. They also have 85%, but it’s a little too reminiscent of unsweetened baking chocolate for me. That healthy I don’t need to be. Ghiradelli at 72% is even better than Lindt, and somehow creamier, but possibly it’s higher in butterfat and therefore, calories. Valor, a chocolate bar made in Spain, sounds intriguingly exotic, but at 70% it’s a bit chalky. Still, I forced myself. It’s a sacrifice, but I want that extra year!

Suz

Writing Rituals (Anne Stuart)

I'm in the midst of a huge writing tear -- I have to write 250 pages in the next three weeks. Fortunately the story is wonderful, all sorts of rich things are popping up, and the worst problem will be to pare them all day. But because I've got to be so focused I'm very aware of my rituals, and what will help me get the most done.

First, I gotta kiss Gackt. Who's Gackt, do you ask? The prettiest, most deliciously androgynously sexy J-rocker. It's kind of like kissing the Blarney Stone -- it's for luck, not for lust (and there are even a series of funny Japanese commercials where a tiny old lady chases him around, trying to kiss him). He's just eminently kissable. I have to have the 2' by 3' calendar on my office door (this year's has a lot of shots of him lying bloody in the snow with white wolves all around him but a ritual's a ritual). I've been doing this for years --close the office door, shutting out the world, kiss Gackt, and start writing.

Then I put my headphones on and fire up High Focus, an audio program on my mp3 player. (Search for it on Amazon if you're curious -- I left a review). It's an audio cd (I bought it in tape form three times, but finally it came out in CD form so it doesn't get worn out) that at the very least provides white noise if you don't believe in the whole brain wave thing. For me, it helps me focus and turn out pages like crazy. Love it!

Sometimes I'll light a candle, depending on how paper strewn my office is. Right now I think it might be too dangerous -- I don't want to go up in flames -- but it's a good focusing method. I've got a musician's drink holder hooked to my standup lamp so I always keep cold Tab nearby, and whole grain goldfish are the food of choice. I have to have my recliner, my lap desk so the laptop doesn't weigh down on me (I have a couple of great ones by intrigo -- they don't make them any more), a quilt to wrap around my legs, and I'm set.

For maybe five minutes, when I'll get up and get something new to eat.

On a normal day I start when I get up. On a deadline it's any time of the day or night.

So those of you who are writers -- what are your rituals? Do you have any thing you absolutely have to do? Kissing Gackt is kind of like a Hail Mary or clapping twice at a Japanese shrine. A way to call the writing gods.

What do you guys do?

Brrrrr. Winter. Reader Season!

Nothing keeps away the cold like a hot story. So . . . What are you reading? Any recommendations? We all love to hear about good books.

What We Do For Love (Lynn Kerstan)

Let’s talk about the angels among us.

According to the National Family Caregivers Association, "More than 50 million people provide care for a chronically ill, disabled, or aged family member during any given year." That statistical number is six years old. I’d bet it is higher today, and that it will grow higher with every tomorrow to come. And more than likely, you have been, or are, or will be among those millions.

I’m a "have been," and yes, those years were a struggle. I had to leave the travel career I loved. My sparse savings were quickly eaten up. But my smart, funny mother was a blessing throughout her life, and that didn’t change when the darkness came. Always, she worried more about her children than about herself. And during the years of her illness, on every Friday afternoon, my sister left the high school up north where she teaches and made the seven-hour drive to visit Mom and give me some breathing room. On Sunday afternoon, she drove north again and was back at work the next morning. She was the real hero.

Unfairly, I got the reward. It was during those years, unable to manage a "real job," that I first tried my hand at writing fiction. Mom was so pleased. She didn’t live long enough to see my first book published. But she did read the exceedingly long Book of My Apprenticeship (never published, for good reason). Poor thing. I still remember her attempts to praise me. But mostly I remember the blue eyes turned up to mine and the gentle question: "Does it have a plot?" A former journalist, she clearly saw that I needed to get back to the drawing board.

Sorry for the digression. The reason I’m thinking about caregivers has nothing to do with my own past. Right now, two friends are deep in the lair of the dragon, each wrestling with an awful illness that afflicts the person they most love. Both of them have been faithful, dedicated, uncomplaining heroes for many, many years, and I admire them so much that I’m shaking as I type this.

One is presently in crisis because her beloved husband, a diabetic who has suffered many terrible effects of this pernicious disease, had seemed to be doing better and then, unexpectedly . . . not. As I write this, the family is gathered around them both, helping to make difficult decisions. Julia (not her real name, but part of her pseudonym when she wrote some excellent Regency romances) has been a full-time caregiver since before I met her on-line. On the few occasions we’ve met in person, she is just as sweet, personable, thoughtful, and fun. No surprise that she has lots of friends and supporters.

But in all the years she has been part of our extended community, I have never once heard a complaint. Her life has been hard. We all know it. But she never burdens others with her problems. Instead, she enters discussions on every sort of topic. Offers help and advice when we ask for it. Lets us share her joys, and takes us–through pictures and commentary–to family celebrations.

And always, like the murmur of an underwater river, there sings the love she has for her husband. And back comes the echo of what she does, selflessly, for love.

The stats say that 60% of caregivers are women. That’s probably because we live longer. But another friend, Chet Cunningham, proves that a manly man can be just as devoted to a spouse. Chet is a working writer, the author of more than 300 published books of every sort. I met him a dozen years ago when I joined his critique group. And of course, his wife Rosie was there in her wheelchair, a victim of MS, not much able to speak but very much a part of things.

And so she still is. As she declines, ever so slowly, he does all that he can to help her enjoy life. Not long ago, much weaker than when we first met, she came to our Christmas party and played our gift/steal game. Chet isn’t a young fella. He can no longer lift her or manage the ordeal of getting his bride in and out of the chair, let alone the van that takes her from place to place. He’s had to hire a live-in aide, and it’s clear that devotion to Rosie is a job requirement. Like Julia, he never complains or draws attention to how difficult his life has been for so many, many years. Like Julia, he does what he does for love.

I have many other caretaker friends, and some of them are dealing with troublesome relations. Parents who were lousy and neglectful to their kids. Bitter, nasty people who whine and complain to those who are trying to help them. But the caregivers soldier on, without love or gratitude in return, because of who they are.

I don’t know if it’s harder to care for someone you love, with all the suffering you witness and feel like a knife in your own heart, or to care for someone not very loveable because there is no one else to do so. But for sure, caregiving is a test of character. And I have lots of friends who have earned an A+, including several of my fellow StoryBroads. Including as well many of those who read our blog.

You are the true heroes. You are the angels among us.

The Grass Is Always Greener

As promised, here’s my reply to Maggie’s blog yesterday, my poor pre-prepared blog she so rudely pre-empted(g). Then again it might fit in well, almost as if we'd planned it. No such organization here. That would be, well, dull.

I’m in the midst of writer’s block. When I get that way, I start looking for an escape. E-mail. Blogs. Newspapers.

Then flash. Bang. Two things happened the other morning. I read a column in the paper, and I thought of a game I often play while in the presence of strangers at a luncheon or dinner table (it makes a great icebreaker when no one is interacting).

The game: what would you be if you had your heart’s desire as to occupation? Talent? Profession? It cannot be what you are doing now. No cheating by saying I would rather be writing than anything else. (Secret confession: sometimes I would rather be digging ditches when I’m beset by the dreaded block.)

But back to the game. I’ve always wanted to be a symphony conductor. I love music. I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than directing an orchestra and coaxing from it the magnificent sounds that stir the soul.

I must admit now I’m tone deaf. Though I can hear others and know whether or not they are on key, I cannot do the same for myself. I sing like the worst hopeful in American Idol auditions.
In the first grade, there was a music class that branded me forever. The teacher divided students into two groups. One for good singers. One for average voices. I was placed, by myself, in a third category: the never to be heard voices. It was traumatic since I loved music and desperately wanted to be a part of it. Humiliation mixed with despair.

But I’ve always been an optimist. Some day my fairy Godmother would scatter fairy dust about me, and I would be, well, tolerable if not superb. Okay, I couldn’t sing, but maybe, just maybe I could do something else. Right after the singing debacle, I decided to take piano lessons. If I couldn’t sing, well, by golly, I could play. My parents said no, I was too young. So at seven I took myself off to a music teacher in the neighborhood, negotiated terms (a dollar a lesson), took two lessons before telling my parents. My parents, grudgingly impressed with my initiative, decided to make good my illegal contract. We soon discovered my choice was probably the most incompetent piano teacher in Detroit (which explains why she accepted my offer) and found a reasonably talented one. Unfortunately I was not. Talented, I mean. I continued lessons for many a year and became fairly adept at playing a tune with music in front of me, but I bitterly resented my brother who could sit down and play by ear any melody that caught his fancy. The injustice was shattering.

Undaunted and with the fairy Godmother still in mind, I took up the cello in grade school. I wanted to play in the school band and the only instrument available was the cello, which was bigger than I was. Still, at eight, I lugged it home every day and practiced faithfully. Never became very good.

We moved south, probably to the delight and relief of the band teacher, and I landed at a new school. Once again, I sought an instrument to play. Only thing available was cymbals. Okay. I could do that. The band director raised his hand, and I went BANG. Again not very good, but at least I was part of an orchestra, such as it was. Happy, happy, but oh, I envied those who made their instruments sing.

Changed schools again. A French Horn was available. Joy. I grabbed it. Now playing a French horn is difficult for someone with a good ear, but when you’re tone deaf . . .
But I tried with all my music-loving heart. I was fourth French horn in a four-horn section. My one claim to fame was when we went to state contest. One of the judges praised the fourth French horn as the only one in tune. Believe me, it was the first time and totally by accident. But I treasured those words.

Meanwhile, I also loved writing. I was good at writing. I usually got all a’s in English and related classes. I was not tone deaf in words. But I yearned to make music. To me, writing was unexceptional. An ordinary skill. Something that came naturally. Anyone could do that.
But music? That was magical.

Irony of ironies, when I went to the Atlanta Journal from college, I was made music and art editor. That – in effect – also made me the music critic (shows the state of music appreciation by newspapers). Ability was not involved here. It was just that no one else would do it, and I was the cub reporter who couldn’t say no. So tone-deaf me reviewed visiting operas and the Atlanta symphony. I loved it. Not so sure that the music community shared my enthusiasm.

So here I am, longing always for the grass on the other side of the fence and never quite believing in the talent I’d been given. Especially not believing that it was anything special. Music is special. Writing? Ordinary.

I’m always surprised then when someone seems to be in awe of meeting "a real writer." I’m in awe of meeting "a real musician." Then I wonder whether musicians feel the same way about writers? Do those who paint wish they could make music or create canvases of words? Do architects who build wonderful buildings wish to be any of the above? Engineers who design internet sites that bring the world to millions? Teachers who awaken and excite minds? I’m in awe of all of them more than I am of my profession.

Do we all think OUR talents are ordinary and those of others extraordinary? Or do we sometimes yearn to have what we cannot have? Hmmmm.

But try it some day. Next time you’re sitting with a group of people play my game. Afterwards, you usually appreciate your own choices, your own abilities. Maybe writing is special after all. Afterall, now I can be anything I want to be, at least for a while. I can be an outlaw, or an ice skater, or an attorney. I can battle bad guys and save the world, at least a small piece of it. I can travel in a covered wagon, or own a newspaper.

But would I trade it all to have a musician’s ear?

Do musicians get music block?

Now that I’ve indulged my own writer’s block by rambling, I’ll return to that column I mentioned way up high in the third paragraph. It hit me like a sledge hammer.
The columnist was talking about an advanced English high school class he visited in Washington D.C. The guest speaker was E.L. Doctorow, author of "Ragtime.

After being grilled on a number of topics ranging from point of view to finding the right voice, a student asked, "What do you do when you get writer’s block?"

"Hummm," replied Doctorow. "That’s a writer’s question. You can get it when you’re writing the wrong thing. The right thing flows."

Oops!

Back to the drawing board.

Maybe I really would rather be a musician.

A New Kind of Working Vacation, Maggie Shayne

I was watching the news the other day, when who should show up on my TV screen but romance author Eloisa James! The odd part was, she wasn’t there to talk about a book. She was the subject of a story about a new kind of vacation; one where you get to spend your “downtime” working at your dream job.

Now for most romance authors, we’re already doing our dream job. But we dream BIG. It’s an occupational hazard. So there are always fantasies running around in our heads, of other kinds of lives it might be fun to lead. Mostly, we live them vicariously through our characters. But Eloisa took things to a whole other level.

She wanted to know what it would be like to be a songwriter. So she signed up for this gig where she actually got to work with a country singer to write a country song, which was then performed in public—and it was a really GOOD song, too!

The full story is in More Magazine, and you can find a link to it from Eloisa’s website at www.eloisajames.com

All of this got me to thinking about what I might be doing if I wasn’t in my current career. Now my first choice, and most of my readers know it, would be rock star. I’d love to belt out songs on a stage in front of a stadium full of screaming fans. The closest I get is when I have too much vodka and a karaoke machine within reach. The audience is entirely optional. My son in law Ben has a certain videotape to prove it. (And he refuses to hand it over, in case he ever falls out of favor and needs a blackmail device, I guess. Thank goodness I’m GOOD. And thank goodness I adore him. He bought me a pony to win my favor, after all, but that’s another story.)

But what else might I dream of doing? Archaeologist is at the top of my list. As I kid, that was what I wanted to be when I grew up. Can you imagine being the guy who dug up the stone tablets that held a flood story pre-dating the biblical one by centuries? I’d lead an expedition into Iraq (which would be blessedly peaceful in my fantasy, of course) and dig up the cities and temples of ancient Sumer. It would be so awesome.

Or how about a professional dancer? I piddle around with belly dance some, and I’d love to be really great at it, like the amazing women on the how-to videos, who show you simple routines, which you do, and feel so good about—until the end when they perform a demonstration in which they gyrate while balancing swords--on edge--on their bellies! That’s so cool.

Or how about a tour guide in someplace like Hawaii? Or a private investigator? Or a forest ranger? Or a veterinarian, or wildlife rehabilitator, either of which would be so gratifying. I love animals. Except rats. My practice would definitely discriminate against the rodent population. Yeah, I know, I’m a bigot, an anti-rat-ite, but what can I say? We all have our flaws. And frankly, I don’t think rats like me much either.

I’ve created characters who do nearly every job I’ve mentioned, so I’ve lived them in fantasy. But darn, it might be fun to do them in reality.

I applaud you, Eloisa, for going out and living a dream. What a great example! Life is short. We should definitely do the things we dream about. Some of the things on my list are actually attainable. There are groups that you can join to go on archaeological digs right in my own area. And, in fact, I know an author who is also a wildlife rehabilitator--Kristin Madden—so it can be done. Maybe I should pursue some of the more attainable dream jobs on my list.

What about you? Share your dream jobs with me! Is there any way you can get a taste of them in real life? Dare to consider it. Once you convince yourself that something is possible, the main obstacle to attaining it is obliterated. I’m living proof of that. So consider the possibilities. Dare to dream big. You’ll never regret it.

Maggie

Honesty (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I had a surprise 70th birthday party for my mother over the weekend. I've been planning it since October. My brother and his babies came across the the country for the event. My mother's best friend from high school came to town. Fifty four of her friends were here. I must have told a hundred lies over the course of three months. I did it well. She was completely surprised.

I know someone who is afraid of conflict. She misleads people into believing things to be other than they are if she thinks the way things really are will cause conflict. She neglects to tell people information, withholds facts, if she believes telling those facts will cause conflict - even when she knows the people are going to find out the facts eventually anyway - thus causing greater conflict.

I say what I think. When people ask my opinion, I give it. And sometimes people take offense because what I say is not what they expected to hear. When asked if I liked my daughter's new shorter hair I told her I liked it better longer. But she knew that when she asked the question. had I said anything different then she would have known I wasn't telling the truth. And then when I did like something and said so, she wouldn't believe me because I'd already gone down on record as saying I liked something when I didn't. My word is worth nothing when I lie.

Yet I offend people when I speak the truth.

I have another friend - one who happens who to be a Storybroad, but I'll leave you to guess which one - who speaks her mind. I love being with her because I know that there are no games, no guessing, no hidden pieces of information that will later come back to hurt me. If she likes something she says so. If she doesn't, she says so. If she thinks I'm wrong about something she tells me so. And when she praises me, that praise goes up on my bulletin board, or stays in my inbox, as a reminder and a pick me up. Not because she does it infrequently, but because it carries that much weight. I know it's true, not a nicety. And always, I know that she cares. When she disagrees, she cares about me still. She likes me for some reason that is there whether I'm right or wrong, attractive or not.

If I had one wish in relationships, it would be this kind of honesty. Yet it seems that our society as a whole frowns on it. We placate and hand out niceties and are thought of as kind and sought out socially. We speak our minds and we're alone a lot of the time.

Why is this? I don't get it. But I've been pondering it a lot since I found out over these past three months that I'm such a good liar. I don't want to be a good liar. I'd rather be honest and alone .

No more surprise parties. This is one talent I don't want to practice and hone.

ISO My Inner Road Warrior (Suzanne Forster)

I’m a modern woman, right? I have an inner child, an inner bitch, and even an inner vixen. I probably have an inner wise woman somewhere. Not so sure about an inner road warrior, though. I know some women have them. I’m on email loops where some of my compatriots have taken the most righteous road trips, and I’ve read their lavishly detailed trip reports with great admiration and more than a little envy.

Waaah. I wanna take a road trip!

Hm, that sounded suspiciously like an inner child, did it not? Make that an inner brat. See, that’s the problem, all my other inners want to take a road trip, but none of them have the ojones, which is the feminine for cojones, otherwise known as ovaries, to do it. I definitely have a huge inner chicken who seems to be running the show lately. Whenever I fantasize about gassing up the roadster and heading for San Jose or Galveston or the redwood forests, I start thinking about all the reasons I shouldn’t, all the reasons why it’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had.

Safety is my Number One concern—and probably the most reasonable of my fears. Ever notice how often people tell nervous fliers that they’re much more likely to be killed in a car than on a plane? It’s enough to make you nervous about driving. And then there’s that thing about women traveling alone. We’re bombarded with reminders that women are targets, although none of my road warrior women friends have been attacked on their trips, so possibly I’m watching too much Court TV.

The price of gas also figures in there somewhere. And car repairs, of course. Also, huge among my concerns is the sad fact that I can’t read a map, have no sense of direction and was born without the benefit of right-brain spatial relations. I’ve been known to have trouble finding my way around the neighborhood.

And then you have the staggering personal logistics of road tripping. Where would I go? Do I make the trip alone or with a friend? Several friends? A caravan? There’s safety in numbers, but oh, the quibbling over routes and lodging.

So many daunting questions. It’s amazing they haven’t totally drowned out the road trip tunes that play in my head. I Drove All Night, by Cyndi Lauper, On the Road Again by Willie Nelson. You know the songs. There is a nomad locked up inside me who won’t be squelched. Even Oprah’s trip with Gayle this summer didn’t totally discourage me, although it probably should have. They seemed to be having a terrible time finding their way around, and as I mentioned, that’s my personal bete noir. I’m map and direction-challenged. I also have a weird problem with road signs.

Maybe it’s the dyslexia I wrote about awhile back. There must be a name for it. No doubt it’s somewhere in the manual of psychiatric disorders. Probably the best way to explain is with an example. My problem is most pronounced with freeway entrance and exit signs. Why is the road they’re pointing to never the road you’re supposed to take? Did the road move? Did the sign? Is there such a thing as ten-second time-delay eye blinks? I wouldn’t have to be on Vicodan like Nicole Ritchie to enter a freeway exit lane. I’ve almost done it several times. It’s those crazy damn signs.

Also, Gayle and Oprah, though best friends, were wildly incompatible. Gayle liked to talk, Oprah didn’t. Gayle wanted to listen to the radio and sing along. Oprah didn’t. They also picked on each other’s driving skills, with some justification. That much incompatibility in one small space can ruin a trip fast unless you find ways to compromise, which they did. But how much compromising would I want to do? When does the negotiating end and the fun begin?

Last but not least, the list of places I want to go is endless. It includes a long and leisurely trip up the Pacific Coast Highway to Canada, as well as a tiny hop to and through the local vineyards in Temecula. I’d love to visit the caves of Oregon and explore anything anywhere in New Mexico. Las Vegas, of course. Yellowstone has to be crossed off the list. Apparently it’s a major volcano ready to blow at any time. So much for educational television.

And those are just a few of my dream destinations. The complete list would run me out of blogging space.

So, has anybody out there taken a road trip? Was it a dream come true or a nightmare? Did you go alone or with a friend? I’m looking for information and inspiration. And yes, ojones. One of my favorite movies was Thelma and Louise, but look how that ended.

Meanwhile, maybe I’ll just listen to some more road trip tunes.

Where the Streets Have No Name by U2
Life is a Highway by Tom Cochrane
Every Day is a Winding Road by Cheryl Crowe
Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen
Freeway of Love by Aretha Franklin
Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight
Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan
Anything by James Taylor
And, of course, Bad Motor Scooter by Montrose.

Happy trails,
Suz

CRANKY (Anne Stuart)

No, I'm not cranky. We're in the midst of our first heavy snowstorm this season, I'm wrapped in a down throw, drinking Tab, about to work on a book that's coming very well indeed. My children are safe. My husband loves me. I've got cats and dogs wanting to cuddle with me, and even if money is scarily tight, sooner or later more will come in (I don't get paid until I turn things in, alas). I'm fat as a hog, but if the snow tapers off enough I'm going to join Weight Watchers tonight, my house is a disaster but I'm slowly working on it, I've got wonderful friends (mostly living far away but c'est la vie). In other words, I'm peaceful, content, life is life, good sometimes, bad others.
However .... people like cranky stuff. People like snark. It's so much easier to be witty and clever if you're dissing something. Look at Andy Rooney -- whine whine whine. Bitching is interesting, entertaining, amusing, and life is definitely worthy bitching about. You can always find something to go off on if you just look.
The thing is, I'd rather not look. I haven't had the easiest of lives -- stuff I take for granted, bad stuff, is absolutely foreign to many of my friends. People die. People get strung out on alcohol and drugs and break my heart. Childhood stinks, cruelty abounds, life is hard.
But there are all sorts of splendid things along the way, and you can focus on the bad or you can celebrate the good. And I'm a celebrate the good kind of person.
It might make me boring. It might make my blogs less entertaining when I'm not going off on a stranger to get a few chuckles. But as the immortal Popeye said, "I yam what I yam and that's all what I yam."
I dump my darkness into my books. That's where it belongs. I can take all the hurt and crankiness and rage and put it into fiction and then work it out. It's a very healthy way to live.
A few years ago there was a wonderful book by Sarah Ban Breathnach called SIMPLE ABUNDANCE, and it was both soothing and empowering. Bad things happen in this life. You gotta notice the good.
So just for day, think of three things you're grateful for. Three things you love. Three positive things in this world. Just pick three good things. It would be nice if you posted them, because it would help others remember that those good things are out there, but at the very least think about them yourself.
I'll pick three. A nice big snowstorm when I (and most people) don't have to go anywhere. Icy cold Tab. Sleeping well last night for the first time in days.
What about the rest of you?
Krissie

Question of the Week

What is your favorite book ever? And yes, we know it's nearly impossible for a Book Lover to choose just one! But give it a try, and tell us why that book sings to you.

Laws of Attraction--The Early Days (Lynn Kerstan)

Not long ago, I saw again the man I first loved.

I think he was the first. The time-line is a little vague. But this man, and all the others that preceded or followed—ah, yes, I remember them well. Even though I never met a one of them in person.

So, maybe it wasn’t True Love. Call it a "crush." An "infatuation." We’ve all had them. I still have them. I may be a cool-headed, analytical female, but under this shell of sophisticated detachment writhes a hot-blooded woman who runs with the wolves. Why else would I write romance novels? And just lately, I’ve been thinking about the magnetic males who first caught and held my attention.

Sadly (at least for my wispy hopes of a future together), they were all actors playing fictional roles. Then again, I create men out of thin air and cast them into fictional roles. But why did I choose the men I longed for in my girlhood? Or for that matter, yesterday. And are they anything like the men I conjure from my imagination and put into my books?

The history is long, the blog space is short. So I’ll tell you only about my firstest infatuations. And I won’t mention, this time, any of the real-life men who have also inspired me as I carved out heroes for my books. To talk about those guys, I’d need a lot of wine and a large jolt of indiscretion.

For now, let’s start with the ur-hero I encountered t’other night on NCIS, looking considerably older and pudgier than when we first didn’t meet. At that time, he was playing Illya Kuryakin, sidekick to hero Napoleon Solo in TV’s The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Blond, weedy, taciturn, and usually clad in black, he was the ideal Beatnik-y-but-Exotic hero for an adolescent Good Girl with aspirations to be a flower child and/or nun.

I have no recollection of him ever smiling on that show. He was focused. Dedicated. Ethereal. Lethal. And, I have to admit, somewhat asexual. Rather like Orlando Bloom playing the elf Legolas in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Both Illya and Legolas were lithe, light-haired, light-footed, gorgeous, and absolutely unthreatening as love interests for young girls on the precipice of discovering their own sexuality. They didn’t smoulder, but they were the cause of much longing, giggling, and private smouldering.

Reflecting on them now, I think some of my soldier or otherwise duty bound heroes—e.g Alex (Marry in Haste), Varden (The Silver Lion), and Cordell (Dangerous Passions)—have something of Illya Kuryakin in them. Um, not the asexual attributes, let me hasten to add! But they haven’t considered love, or have been thwarted in love, or haven’t had time for love. So when love comes at them—this type of man usually requires an intrepid, stubborn, and deeply vulnerable heroine— it cuts off all their preconceptions at the knees.

Back to me. Round about the same time as I chastely lusted for Illya Kuriakin, another man—a quite different one—took hold of my fantasies. I confess that in my infatuations, I have always been promiscuous. Besides, what red-blooded woman could resist Bret Maverick?

Even now, my fingertips tingle as I type his name. All my life (including my Real Life), I’ve been an absolute sucker for a handsome, sharp-witted, silver-tongued, glint-in-his-knowing-eyes rogue. As played by James Garner in his prime, Maverick was a wild rover archetype on the lookout for a good time, easy money, and a quick way out of town. Also a quick way out of entanglements of the emotional kind.

But hard as he tried, he kept finding himself called to good deeds and kind but dangerous actions. He kept risking everything to help strangers. Resistant, grumbling, nearly always getting hurt in the process, he couldn’t stop himself from doing the right thing. And then he moved on, with little to show for his heroism. Not even self-satisfaction, because Maverick never saw himself as a hero.

In my own books, I often find myself creating similarly reluctant, resistant, grumbling . . . heroines. Lucy (Lucy in Disguise) is a prime example. But then I paired her with an aristocratic rogue-smuggler who forms the other half, it seems, of the Bret Maverick persona in that book. He haunts me still.

As it turned out, I wound up spending many years of my life in company with actual rogues, gamblers, and charming ne’er-do-wells, so it’s no surprise I’ve conjured up a number of romance heroes who fit that profile. My favorites are Duran (The Golden Leopard) and Lord Dering (Dangerous Deceptions), but there are plenty of others. This seems to be a role model I can’t escape. Nor do I want to. Love always hits these slippery guys hard and fast and where it hurts. And that’s when their real troubles begin.

Some later time, I’ll write about other devastating men (fictional and otherwise), and tell you how and why they have inspired me.

Meantime, which TV or movie fictional fellows have tickled your fancy or plucked your strings? What is it about them that called to you? What kind of hero do you most like to read about?